Mrs. Robinson fetched me at ten A.M. and took me first for a drive
in the town and then to the Heinz factory. The town is built at the
junction of two rivers, so it can only spread up and not out. The sun
was struggling to break through the mist of grime caused by the factory
smokes. Mrs. Robinson apologized for the lack of beauty of the town.
She was wrong, it was terribly beautiful. Everything looked like a
Whistler picture, but of course there is no color, no nature, and one
longs for these things after a time.
When we drove to the Heinz factory we went in first to the
Administration Building; the hall of which is lined with marble, has
marble columns, a fountain in the middle, marble busts on pedestals all
around, and a frieze by an English artist, representing the various
Heinz processes. Mr. Robinson came and appointed a guide to show us all
over. It is the first factory I have ever seen that was interesting. It
really is wonderful to see the flat piece of tin go into the machine,
become round and soldered, move along to have its bottom put on, and
without stopping, go careering along overhead and down to the next
floor to be mechanically filled with baked beans, and have its lid put
on. From the moment the flat piece of tin gets into the machine to the
moment when it is sealed up full is four and a quarter minutes. The tin
manufacturing room was delightful, little bright, glistening, shining
tins, ran, rolled and leapt, as it seemed, overhead and all round,
dancing fairy-like to the music and hum of the machinery. The space
over one’s head was full of them, impelled in different directions at
different speeds on different levels, on little iron ways. The process
itself interested me, but when I had grasped the process, I just
stood in the middle of the hall and gave way to the impression of the
whole, and it had the effect of making me laugh outright, it was so
ridiculously joyous.
Mr. Robinson’s son, who is foreman in one of the departments, led me to
a window and pointed out a little one-storied house in which Trotzky
had lived and had a newspaper plant. Trotzky must have been a long time
over here to have inhabited all the houses that claim him!
It was now twenty of one o’clock A.M. I have just returned from a
marvelous evening at the Chalfont Steel Pipe works. I dined with
Miss Chalfont. She had asked me whether I’d like a big party or not.
I said I’d like to go to see the works, so she arranged that no one
should dress for dinner and we went, a party of seven, first to
the “residence” where the welfare workers live--a very nice house
indeed--(there were three reproductions of Gainsborough and Reynold’s
pictures of the “Beautiful Mrs. Sheridan”). Then to the cinema which is
for the workers, and then to see the mill.
I have come away with a feeling of bewilderment ... the noise, the
power, the heat, men who did not seem to count worked machinery that
seemed human.
It was terrible when a lever opened the furnace door and a giant red
hot tube like a gun barrel was gently but firmly impelled along by
iron fingers and pushed into the fire mouth upon which a door closed.
It was relentless--like the hand of Destiny. When the cylinder came out
at the other end and passed through a fountain of cold water, the cold
on the heat produced explosive noises like great guns in a battle and
we had to dodge the shower of sparks.
Strange looking men were the workers, mostly Slovaks, and Italians. The
Chalfonts are rather proud of the good feeling that exists between them
and their workers. I saw no faces of disaffection, but I minded being
looked upon by them as a curious idler--did they but know ...!
FEBRUARY 16, 1921. _Pittsburgh_.
Went to the Carnegie Museum where the curator, Mr. Douglas Stuart,
took me a quick rush through. It was terribly American of me to make
such a hustling tour, but un-American of me not to be more thorough.
Truth to tell, I had an appointment for three-fifteen with the Women’s
Press Club, where I was to be the guest of honor. The museum was very
interesting and I longed to stay longer. Chiefly I noticed a marble
vase carved with figures, by Barnard. This is the sculptor who did the
Lincoln there was so much controversy about in England. There were some
fine pictures. A Whistler (The Man with the Violin), an Orpen which
took a gold medal! The Duchess of Rutland, by Blanche, à propos of
which Mr. Stuart was rather amusing: He had been away on vacation and
knew nothing of the Society’s purchase of pictures abroad; imagine his
bewilderment when he received a cable, “Duchess of Rutland completely
covered--Lloyds.” I saw some magnificent casts of French cathedral
fronts, in the architecture room, but I _had_ to leave and go to my
Women’s Press Club. It was a terrifying moment when I walked into
McCreery’s restaurant and found what seemed to me to be about forty
women sitting in a solemn circle. I was introduced all round, and then
told that “a few words” were expected of me.
For nearly two hours after that I was questioned, and I answered to
the best of my ability. Sometimes the questions interested me,--almost
always they were intelligent.
I dined with Mr. Robinson who took me to see the Heinz glass factory
afterwards.