In New York they told me Philadelphia was “slow.” I came to
Philadelphia on Saturday. It has not been “slow.” It has been
breathless. I am staying with friends outside Philadelphia, in an area
which seems to be known as the “Chilten Hills.” Perhaps the Chilten
Hills are more energetic than Philadelphia, and that may explain the
breathless haste. I do not know. I have not been given time to analyze
it.
I came to Philadelphia because the “Arts Alliance” club offered me an
exhibition and asked me to open it (to-night) with a lecture.
Sunday was one uninterrupted twelve-hour rush in which one met over
and over again (at places miles apart!) the same friendly faces that I
had learned to know on Saturday night. This is the way the overworked
American rests on Sunday:
At 10 o’clock I was taken out riding. Only once before in my life--and
that a year ago--had I ever ridden astride. I was mounted on a
thoroughbred hunter, but mercifully it was as quiet as a lamb. We rode
in the sun for two hours. Going through peoples’ private grounds seems
to be no offense in this country. Some time ago--at Bernardsville,
New Jersey, I walked for miles unmolested through peoples’ woods and
gardens, enjoyed their fountains and their flowers and their lawns.
Yesterday was much the same. We rode peacefully, not “across country,”
but across property. Honorably sticking to the paths, of course.
People don’t surround their grounds with walls and hedges and ditches
here as in England. There appear to be no lodges and gates, and furious
people. A gateless entrance is a great temptation, it looks to me
like an invitation. No Communist could war against these conditions.
It really gives one a sense of fraternity. I need no garden of my own,
if I may walk in my neighbor’s. His azaleas look just the same as mine
would look, and his fountain sings the same song.
Returning from our ride late, we jumped into a 12-cylinder two-seater,
in our riding clothes, and drove at a speed of fifty to the house of
friends who had invited us for cocktails at midday! I felt rather as if
we were film playing! At the friend’s house I also got an order to do a
bust. Thus stimulated, we returned at a speed of sixty. Got home barely
in time to bathe and change and start off again for a luncheon party.
After luncheon the entire party motored over to Mr. Stotesbury’s
house. This incident deserves comment. Mr. Stotesbury’s house is just
completed. It is a sort of Versailles. In reply to comment I heard
someone say: “It was not really built so very quickly. It was begun
five years ago.” Five years in which to begin and complete an American
Versailles! Complete and perfect inside as well as the shell. Five
years ago the site on which it stands was a wild countryside which
harbored the fox. To-day it is levelled, terraced, planted and planned.
Fountains tumble and splash arrogantly. Neatly trimmed box hedging
pursues its Italian design, big trees brought from a distance thrive.
It seems that you can bribe quite aged trees to survive transplantation
that otherwise would die, and altogether one realizes that money can
remove mountains or create them. Only--I discovered one rebel. My
friend the orange tree, recognizing no King but the sun, had refused to
grow oranges to order, and had to submit to having these wired on, but
had produced no blossom!
The house was immense; faultless in architecture, and full of beautiful
pictures and furniture. Nothing seemed to have been omitted in the
planning. There was nothing to criticise. But like those people one
meets occasionally, whose souls are still very young, the house lacked
everything that time alone could bring. But Versailles was new once.
I suppose it gave lots of employment, and I wonder who earned the most,
the designer, the contractor or the worker.
To-night I did the really brave thing. I stood up to an audience in
Rittenhouse Square and talked about Lenin and Trotzky!
Everyone listened most politely, but of course I could not expect them
to be really sympathetic. They were cold, though attentive. I don’t
believe they were really interested about Russia at all. However, they
knew it was about Russia I was going to talk, and the room was crowded
to overflowing. In the dim remoteness I caught sight of Kenneth’s
keen archaic face. I met it while I was in the middle of my lecture.
It rather paralyzed me. I was not talking my best, I cannot, to an
unresponsive audience, and I felt ashamed that Kenneth should hear me
for the first time, and in such a way. He told me afterwards that I had
done all that was possible, but asked if I understood his reaction. He
was bred in Rittenhouse Square!
Later someone in the crowd asked me rather excitedly if I had heard
the news, that “the Soviet Representative was here among us this
evening....” My informant said it half incredulously, not knowing in
the least who the Soviet Representative could be, and wondering if I
would not be rather frightened at the idea of having been listened to
by an official!
Someone else said to me: “I know what your political views are, you’ve
entirely given yourself away....” “Explain,” I said. “Why of course you
are a Bolshevist, because at the end of your lecture when you offered
to answer questions you said they must not be economic questions,
because at the mere thought of economics your mind becomes a perfect
blank. That is exactly the case with all Bolshevists!”