I lunched with “The Kingfisher” as we call Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt
in London! I was rather disappointed with her Fifth Avenue Palazzo,
it does not compare with the Otto Kahns and has not the atmosphere.
There was a beautiful Turner in one of the drawing rooms, and a gallery
full of Corots and Millets, but they were not very interesting or
decorative, or else there were too many of them. I sat next to my host
whose trim beard and uncommunicative, rather unsmiling countenance
reminded me of a Bolshevik type that I used to see at the Kremlin table
d’hôte. He only needed shabby clothes and his beard a little less trim.
It made me think how good looking some of the Bolsheviks would be if
they were millionaires.
After lunch when the women left the dining room some one hazarded a
remark to the effect that the big rooms were pleasant with nobody in
them. Our hostess said that was not an idea with which she was in
sympathy, that she thought a big house should be full of people and as
many enjoy it as possible, “whatever I have I want to share,” she said,
and then turning to me, “Please tell that to the Bolsheviks--” I asked
her why I should convey any such message,--she evidently mistook me
for a messenger of the gods. Then suddenly, conversation drifted onto
me and my plans. I was asked if when I returned I was going to live in
Ireland, hadn’t my father got a place there? I answered that I lived
where there was work, and, therefore, I might remain where I was, or go
to Russia. Mrs. Vanderbilt looked rather surprised, and asked whether
Russia paid better than any other country. That I did not know, but
certain it is that any country pays more than England! This subject of
payment seemed suddenly to excite her--, in a tremulously querulous
voice, whilst the other women sat silently, I stood up in front of the
fireplace and was cross-questioned, and nagged as to that payment. Who
had paid me? Had Lenin and Trotzky paid me? What did I call government
money? Whose money was it and where did it come from? I said I did not
know, indeed I felt a great longing to be able to explain as she seemed
so keen--but how could I tell where the money came from for which I had
to give a receipt to the “All Russian Central Executive Committee of
Soviets ...” for a cheque signed Litvinoff, (whose bust I had _not_
done) for payment through at Stockholm bank?
Mrs. Vanderbilt thought it was dreadful, and said that I upset her
very much. She said that Mr. Wilson’s government did not and could not
do things like that! It occurred to me that probably there is very
little similarity between the methods of Mr. Wilson’s government and
those of the Russian Soviet, but who can prove that the Wilson form of
government is right anyway?
Altogether it was rather unpleasant, and I left as soon as I could, and
wondering, as I walked home, why she had asked me to her house.
I fear I must have irritated her from the start, because when she asked
me to lunch there was no address on her card, and no telephone number
in the book; so when I answered I addressed it as best I could to:
Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, New York, adding a little message: “Please,
postman, deliver this somewhere in Fifth Avenue.”
FEBRUARY 14, 1921. _William Penn Hotel,
Pittsburgh_
Ruth Djirloff, my secretary, waked me up by telephoning to me that it
was twenty of seven. I do dislike that Americanism “of” especially when
I am not awake and I have to make a special effort to remember if “of”
means before or after. Having roused myself to the realization that it
was twenty to seven, I waked Louise, who got some breakfast for me.
I did not wake Dick and was rather glad that his sleeping gave me an
excuse not to say goodbye to him. It is easier so. I have left them
all alone in the flat, just those two. If Louise died in the night how
would anybody know, and how would Dick get out or make anyone hear?
These are not things to think of. Providence will, I know, take care of
me to the end.
We drove to a railway station that was like an opera house and heated.
What civilization--! I should think the poor would come in there to
get out of the cold. Perhaps they’re not allowed; or perhaps like me,
they prefer air. We caught the 8:05 train to Pittsburgh. A ten hour
journey. The train was very comfortable and I slept most of the way
and ate nothing, being thankful for the rest from food. I read most of
“Men and Steel” by Mary Heaton Vorse, published by my publisher. It is
very powerful, and conveys its force through its great simplicity and
crispness of style. It impressed me tremendously but I wished I had not
read it as it forms my judgment for me before I even arrive.
These are some of the facts: “72% of all steel workers are below the
level set by government experts as minimum of comfort level set for
families of five,” which means that three-quarters of the steel workers
cannot earn enough for an American standard of living. “In 1919 the
undivided surplus was $493,048,201.93, or $13,000,000 more than the
total wage and salary expenditures” of the U. S. Steel Corporation.
I cannot take in economics; if I discussed this with a capitalist I
should have refuting statistics thrown at my head and I wouldn’t take
it in. But I wonder why it is, that, crudely and ignorantly, I always
feel the workers’ point of view, rather than the employers.
At 6:50, on my arrival, I was received by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson and
their son, who are managers in the firm of Heinz Pickles, 57 varieties!
Emil Fuchs, who is doing a Heinz memorial, told them I was coming.
They had a car and drove me to the William Penn Hotel. I refused
their invitation to dinner as I felt rather tired. After dinner some
reporters came to see me in my room. Oh, I am so weary of the same
questions about Lenin and Trotzky! I wish I dared tell them what I
really think.