Colonel William Boyce Thompson sent his car for me at twelve, and
I drove out to his place in Yonkers on the Hudson. There I found a
Russian gathering! Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Robbins, Colonel Thatcher and
the Wardwells. The house is beautiful, full of pictures. I wonder if
Botticelli could have had any premonition that he was painting to
decorate the stately homes of America. I keep wondering why there are
enough Botticelli’s to go round.
We lunched in a room that had six French Windows facing the garden that
slopes down to the Hudson River. At least, so I discovered afterwards,
but the windows were thickly and tightly and most carefully curtained
so that one could not at all see out. All during lunch I longed to
pierce the veil. Immediately afterwards we went out into the sun on the
terrace, and I begged that we might sit out, and not in. Conversation
on Russia was very stimulating, but as I was none too sure of my host’s
exact sentiments, I talked rather guardedly. He may be labelled “the
Bolshevik millionaire,” but it does not mean that he is Bolshevik.
Almost any unprejudiced person is labelled Bolshevik in this country!
Colonel Thompson told us that when he got back from Russia, the papers
published his photograph between Lenin’s and Trotzky’s! When Thatcher
got back, Col. Thompson told him there was might little difference
between hero and zero, as it is understood here; and having experienced
certain things, they went to meet Raymond Robbins on his arrival to
prepare him.
Never had I heard three more hearty laughters, than these three men
reminiscing over their reception in this country on their return from
Russia. I said to them, “It’s all very well to laugh, but knowing what
you do, mightn’t you go to the rescue of the floundering stranger,
landing in equal plight on your shores?” They laughed the more, “We
like to see it ... we like to watch, and then gather the sufferer to
our fold!”
Later they talked about Wilson, to which I listened in silence with
awe. It interested me to hear that Wilson is the author of a work
entitled “The New Freedom” which was discovered at the headquarters of
the I. W. W. and declared to be seditious literature! Lansing’s book
did not pass unmentioned--there seems to be but one opinion about it.
Someone in Washington described it as the “vituperations of an enraged
white mouse.” Raymond Robbins gave an imitation of Lansing leaning
forward in his chair, wiping his glasses, and with sly glances at the
clock, whilst he, Robbins described in fifteen minutes what happened
in Russia in one year. Col. Thatcher boasted that he had been given an
audience of twenty-five minutes! But in either case the result was the
same!
Raymond Robbins is a very ill man. He looked desperately tired, and he
was, as I understood, going off to a rest cure somewhere. I like him
and I liked very much Mrs. Robbins, she has a keen, searching, restless
face, almost hawk’s eyes. She is head of a Women’s Labor Organization.
She was awfully nice to me (everybody was), about my book, and about
my adventure. It is overwhelming, and I feel undeserved. The book is so
humble and unpretentious, the adventure so obviously worth doing.
I got home at six o’clock and an hour later dined with a compatriot,
Frank McDermott, and having nothing planned we drove to Broadway.
This is a marvelous place at night. The whole locality is illuminated
with electric advertisements. They baffle description. The American
advertiser, not content with lighting up his advertisement, must needs
have movement in those lights. All of them dance, twinkle, rain, run,
sparkle, circulate. It is metaphorically a shrieking competition. There
are even a pair of dogs pulling a sleigh, the man in the sleigh flicks
his electric whip in the air, and the dogs just gallop! Far fewer
lights on a Coronation or a Peace night in London, bring forth crowds
into the streets, walking arm in arm “to see the illuminations.” In
Broadway it seems to be a perpetual Coronation Night!
We went into the “Capitol” film palace. The first time I had been to
one. It is gigantic, and the house was packed. An opera sized orchestra
started off by playing Wagner to us. The house listened intently. The
American public is very musical, even if it has gone expecting to see
a film, it will listen to Wagner without whispering. I believe the
American people are as appreciative of music as the Russian people.
After that, the orchestra accompanied a choir that sang southern songs.
There is great character and a good deal of romance in these songs, one
never fails to be stirred. When “Dixie” was sung a large proportion of
the audience burst forth into spontaneous applause. I have never heard
“Dixie” played in this country without its arousing applause. Finally
we sat through a rather dull film play--they can be dull sometimes!