[1] This final title has been altered since the printing of the Table
of Contents.
It was lately my good fortune--and I so term it advisedly--to
entertain a budding Bolshevist in my midst.
He was an excellent young man and a fellow writer, who had been
discharged as an officer of the nation's armed forces. Not knowing
him intimately, I invited him, with his brother, to spend a part of
the summer in a cottage which I maintained as an office.
In due time the twain arrived and were heartily welcomed. They were
made quite at home in my studio, which was furnished to my own fancy
with books, rugs, tools of the trade, rare and curious objects from
foreign parts, and, what occasioned much interest, an amount of
correspondence filed away.
The young gentlemen made themselves very much at home, and, in the
course of a few days' intimacy, confessed to a boyishly intense
sympathy with the Bolsheviki. They reveled in a white-collar
abstinence, oblivious that the hated uniforms were vastly more
becoming than their present garb, and took a keen delight in tearing
to shreds the integrity of the press and the administration. One
must admit that the latter was rather silly; but to think the press
of the world in a vast conspiracy of lies against Lenine et al.,
savored too much of a de Quincy phantasy.
Political creeds, of course, could not mar the pleasure of the visit.
But in course of time it gradually dawned upon me that my guests were
rather exacting in their way of taking things for granted.
They acquired a happy faculty of letting me run their errands, or of
utilizing my services as chauffeur. The only argument against this
was its matter-of-course air. I presume that the Bolsheviki, like
the Arabs, feel any expression of gratitude to be unworthy them.
Still, this was but a small cavil against great writers--men of
genius who had accomplished high things in their profession and were
attaining a worthy place in literature!
It was with some misgivings, however, that I observed certain very
odd tendencies; such as, for example, plying the gentle arts of
Munchausen upon the despised caste of editors.
When one delicately hinted that this might hardly be considered as
strictly ethical, the notion was greeted with roars of scornful
laughter. Ethics were individual things entirely, much beneath the
consideration of free artists. And what was an editor compared with
one who wrote literature? Less than the dust!
However, the suggestion that it was the editor who wrote the checks,
proved to be sobering--amazingly sobering.
The days wore breezily on, with much writing and earnest endeavor,
and much discussion of why no man in the writing game today deserved
the place he held; that is, no man at the top. One or two had some
facility; a little plot, perhaps, a gift of words, a lilt to
paragraphs--but this was "all they had." The heroic dead, happily,
possessed virtues.
There began to be a Bolshevik atmosphere about the place, a vague and
unsatisfied air of much begun and little finished. Oddly enough, my
friend were working on anti-red propaganda; excellent work, too, if
it did come but slowly. Curious how antipathy to white collars seems
to involve in its anathema all forms of hard labor!
The visitors found the country lonely. One evening I dropped in
unexpectedly at the office, and my presence seemed to excite an odd
embarrassment. It developed that my friends were giving a party, so
of course I at once withdrew gracefully.
Some time later, a young man about town informed me, grinningly, that
them letters I got from editors were suttinly rich! Upon inquiry I
found that my guests kindly elucidated the art of writing, to their
local acquaintance, by means of my correspondence.
Nor did they deny the matter. They were so puzzled at my objections
that anger could not exist; since I did object, of course it would
occur no more. In the face of so charming a simplicity, what could
the ruffled course of hospitality do but resume the even tenor of its
way?
But little things, as is their habit, in time grow onerous. Around
the books, the rare and curious objects, the writing tools, climbed
filth and squalor unbelievable. In despair, seeking the kindliest
way out of the impasse, I was summoned away for a month or so. Not
without some misgivings--quite justified by events.
When I returned to the office, I found that my guests had departed.
So had many of my books and things. In their stead remained castoff
raiment and much misplaced matter.
I have now adopted the firm rule of invariably inquiring into the
politics of a friend before erecting him into the status of a guest.