Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: Part V   By Rebecca West  WE were
going to see the village outside Sarajevo where the Austrians
built a race course and where Franz Ferdinand stayed the night
before he died. The road was so extravagantly bad that we
bounced like balls, and Constantine had a star of mud on his
forehead as he told us, 'Sarajevo has a soul like a village,
though it is a town. Now, why has it the sort of soul that it
has? In Sarajevo,' he continued, as the car lifted itself out of
a rut with a movement not to be expected from a machine,
credible only in a tiger leaping out of a pit, 'Slavs —and a
very fine kind of Slav, endowed with great powers of perception
and speculation —were confronted with the Turkish Empire at its
most magnificent, which is to say Islam at its most magnificent,
which is to say Persia at its most magnificent. Its luxury we
took, its militarism and its pride, and above all its conception
of love. The luxury has gone. The militarism has gone. You have
seen what has happened to th