Soviet newspapers are bitter about the insincerity of American
visitors to their country. While in the USSR, they say, Americans
are lavish with their praise, but on returning home, they speak
quite differently of Russia to their fellow Americans. Our
newspapers in turn maintain that Soviet delegations to this
country wear a mask of friendliness but once back in Russia
present a hostile and unrecognizable picture of the United
States.
Do visiting Soviet delegations present a true picture of their
travels here to their own people? The editors of _The NR_ have
been given an opportunity to test this question. A delegation of
leading Soviet writers visited the United States in October, 1955,
under the chairmanship of Boris Kampov-Polevoy, a Soviet novelist
and Secretary of the Union of Soviet Writers. Mr. Polevoy and four
members of his delegation spent one evening at the house of the
_NR_ editor-at-large. In the third of his articles on his journeys
through the US published in the March issue of the Soviet monthly,
_Oktyabr_, Mr. Polevoy describes the occasion as he remembers it.
A translation of his article, and our comments follow.
In the evening we were invited to be the guests of Mr. Michael
Straight, editor of the magazine _The New Republic_, at his
out-of-town villa bearing the poetic name of "Green Spring Farm." This
tiny villa was in no way different from the small suburban houses of
well-to-do members of the "intelligentsia" which we already had the
opportunity of visiting. Alone the huge agglomeration of books on long
shelves--quite unusual for an American home--and the beautiful
pictures on the walls revealed that the owners of this house had a
passion for literature and an artistic taste which could enable them
to discriminate between works of genuine art and the militant
flatness, which under the mask of innovationism has impertinently
seized the key positions in American art. There were canvasses and
drawings which not only prompted one to wonder on passing by, but
which induced a desire to stop, to admire and to think.
The people who had gathered at the house were interesting too--journalists
who had traveled a great deal, who had witnessed many events, who were
able to think. A unionist leader was also present--an observing,
aggressive, skeptical man.
At the outset--as it is the custom in the United States--the host
showed us around his house. The five of us were jammed in for quite a
while on the second floor in the tiny bedrooms of his two sons. David,
the eldest, a fair-haired, healthy looking youngster, had his little
room in a state of complete disorder. The radio was roaring, the gay
green parakeets were screaming. Some radio parts together with books,
screwdrivers, tubes of glue, bookbinders and knives were heaped on the
table. The little occupant, apparently ready to go to bed, was sitting
on his bed without his shirt and was reading something. At the sight
of strangers he felt bashful, grabbed his shirt, started putting it on
and when his head eventually emerged through its collar, his face and
his ears were flushed and his brow pearled with sweat. However, having
dressed, he immediately regained his composure and, as though nothing
had happened, stretched out his hand with earnest poise. David--he
introduced himself.
His younger brother, Mikey, had an artistic temperament. His table was
all smeared with water-colors and pictures were hanging on the
walls--fantastic tanks, ships, sinister profiles of Indians,
noble-featured cowboys wearing hats of incredible dimensions. Mikey
was evidently successful in this hobby of his and, after looking at
his drawings, one could tell him without false flattery that he was an
artist of the realist school and that many of his pictures were more
accurate and perfect as to form than whatever is being exhibited by
quite adult "uncles" at the opening of exhibitions of the so-called
"new art."
Mikey dressed, too, and we came down in a group to the living room
where Gribatchov was having an argument with our American colleagues.
The topic was familiar, I should even say a classical one--the freedom
of the press. In the heat of the dispute the _NR_ publisher proposed
to Gribatchov an exchange of articles on important international
topics under reciprocal terms--once a week the editor of _The New
Republic_ would publish an article in the _Literary Gazette_
presenting the American viewpoint on some specific problem and once a
week a representative of the _Literary Gazette_ would give the Soviet
point of view in an article in _The New Republic_. Apparently this
idea seemed very attractive to our American colleague, and he was
attacking Gribatchov with quite a lot of energy.
I did not have a chance to hear the argument to its end. The
fair-haired David, with whom I had become quite friendly, dragged me
away to the next room. We conversed in the manner of cavemen, using
dramatic gesticulations and incoherent sounds, and yet we somehow
managed to understand each other. David even managed to convey that he
had built that radio himself, and that he likes to listen to Russian
music. In proof of this he even sang, with boyish diligence and with a
broken juvenile "basso," a melody taken out of _Swan Lake_. However,
he rendered it with a foxtrot rhythm.
I really liked that lively American youngster with his tall build, his
curly fair hair, his rooster-like voice and his absent-minded
disposition which strongly reminded me of my eldest son.
David showed me his favorite books, and then he suddenly produced a
peculiar-looking magazine printed with a multigraph. He prodded his
chest in a self-satisfied manner to demonstrate to me that this was
his own magazine. He showed me a caricature drawing with his finger
and then pointed his finger at Mikey, thus making clear that his
brother was the artist.
Then the children ran back to the living room and came back dragging
their father with them and M. M. Lopuchin, whom they had literally
abducted out of an interesting conversation with the ladies. It was
then that I came to hear the story of the magazine, which bore the
romantic name _The Green Spring-Menemsha Gazette_.
* * * * *
Michael senior, the children's father, evidently liked their
undertaking. He sat down on the carpet next to us and as he was
turning the pages of the magazine, he told us that out of a wish to
imitate their father, the children had decided to start a publication.
They wrote articles and other items, prepared illustrations and
caricatures and arranged the whole material inside a copybook. They
kept quiet so long that their parents wondered what their rowdy boys
were doing. The parents went upstairs and found the boys busy over a
heap of papers; the _Gazette_ was already being "paged up."
David, the editor of the publication, knew from his father's
experience that every printed organ must have readers. The children
begged their father to give them a typewriter and when they got it,
began to type patiently, with one finger, one page after the other,
learning the art of typing in the process of their work.
Seeing that the children's interest did not abate, the father gave
them a present--a cheap toy "Shapirograph"--to print their magazine.
Having secured production equipment, the editorial staff began to work
with renewed energy. David, who up to that time was sharing his
interest among many pursuits, forsook his former preferences. Even the
little green parakeets, whom he loved dearly, were left without food
quite often and sadly chattered in their cage. David had the jobs of
editor, author of articles and typographer. The sturdy Mikey was the
publisher, artist and supplier of funny stories. A neighbor's little
girl, Xandra Babel, was responsible for the news and special
events--indispensable departments of every American editorial unit
worthy of this name.
At any rate, no matter how, the magazine eventually appeared. It was
even printed in 75 copies, diligently bound and, the following year
when the family left for the beach during the hot season, to the
mother's great dismay, the whole issue and even the typographic
equipment consisting of the typewriter and the multigraph as well as
the paper stocks were taken along.
[Illustration: Boris Kampov-Polevoy]
During the summer the children made friends with a certain Mr. Zur, an
original character and owner of the Menemsha store. The old man liked
children and whenever they came to his shop to buy candy, salted nuts
or a bag of popcorn, they always used to stay there for a while and
discuss the weather, politics and all sorts of events with him. Mr.
Zur used to talk to children as though they were grownups, and this
contributed a lot to his popularity. When they arrived at the summer
resort, the first thing the children did was to run to their old
friend's shop and there, as they were eating fresh cracking popcorn,
they told him the staggering news--they had published a magazine.
"A magazine? And how much costs one copy of your magazine, gentlemen?"
inquired Mr. Zur in a businesslike manner.
The children exchanged quick glances. Somehow they had not arrived at
the thought that their magazine could be sold.
"It costs nothing, sir," David started saying.
"No, no, it costs one dollar," the quick-witted Mikey interrupted his
brother as this new aspect of their hobby began to dawn upon him. "One
dollar."
"It's rather expensive, gentlemen. However, I enjoy reading, and so I
will buy one copy," replied the old shopkeeper and handed over a dirty
green bill to the journalists. They were left quite speechless by this
development.
The business was continued. Realizing that there were quite a few
funny people among the dwellers in that summer resort and wishing to
please his little friends, old Zur took over the newsstand sale of
their publication on a commission basis. He even displayed the
magazine in his shop window. To his astonishment, the whole of the
first issue was sold out. Four more followed. By the end of the
summer, the boys' income, after deduction of expenses and commissions,
amounted to roughly $50. The children gave this money--not without
some regret, to be truthful--to the local fishermen whose boats had
been shattered against the rocks of the coast by a passing hurricane.
Inspired by the unexpected success of their first year's operations,
the editorial staff resumed publication in the following summer at
that same resort. It proved even more interesting. It contained
interviews with fishermen and lobstermen and a story told by an old
captain of a fishing schooner, who was spending his declining years in
a dilapidated shack by the seashore. That huge, hoarse, bearded giant
was always drunk. But in his rare moments of sobriety he was kind,
used to give candy to the children and nobody could tell fascinating
sea adventure stories better than he did. Mikey managed to catch him
in such a mood and the magazine was adorned, as a result, with a
powerful story by the old captain about a hurricane that threw ships
around like bits of paper and about the rescue of a beautiful lady
passenger who had been thrown into the ocean by the roaring gale, by
the captain himself, who saved her out of the waves at the risk of his
own life.
* * * * *
The children's hobby, which so clearly demonstrated their propensity
toward journalism, greatly interested us. During our visits with
various American families our attention had been drawn more than once
to this good trait--if indeed it is not a tradition--which makes the
children familiarize themselves with the profession of their father,
or their grandfather, or some close relative. In the apartment of an
auto-mechanic we saw a small lathe and a block on which a little
fellow was filing something. In the family of a musician, little girls
played on the violin. The little son of a well-known Hollywood
scenario-creator told us excitedly how he and his little brothers and
sisters were making a film. A child's game gradually develops into an
absorbing interest, and maybe in these games which are treated
seriously, not only by the children but as a rule by the adults too,
the seed of his future profession is planted in the child's brain.
I expressed the wish to become a subscriber to the _Green Spring-Menemsha
Gazette_ for a full year and took out a $5 bill. The editor and the
publisher exchanged glances. They obviously wished to get a foreign
subscriber. But what if this should create trouble of some kind? Were
they entitled to mail their magazine abroad, and moreover, to a country
like the USSR? What would their father and mother say? And how would Mr.
John Foster Dulles react?
[Illustration: Green Spring-Menemsha Gazette]
David carefully pushed the bill away, back to my end of the table. I,
of course, felt offended. Could it be that I had no right to subscribe
to an American magazine? Why such discrimination? The editor whispered
something to the publisher who ran out of the room and came back
dragging Michael senior in once more. The father laughed. He
apparently had no objection to the mailing abroad of the magazine
which was being published under his sponsorship. All the periodical
publications of good standing always have foreign subscribers.
However, Michael senior had objections against any monetary
transaction with countries abroad. It was agreed that the subscription
would be handled on a clearing basis: the _Green Spring-Menemsha
Gazette_ would be mailed to the USSR in exchange for our children's
magazine _The Pioneer_. We shook hands on this transaction, concluded
to the mutual satisfaction of the "high contracting parties."
When we returned to the living room, the debate about the freedom of
the press was still continuing. But the two sides had exchanged
places. Gribatchov was the one who led the attack now; the idea of
exchanging articles with _The New Republic_ had gradually excited him.
Publisher Harrison, on the contrary, was taking a defensive stand: he
was already foreseeing numerous difficulties obstructing the
materialization of his project. The unionist leader was sitting on the
sofa next to them. He was a tall man with a pale face with an ironical
expression, and he was gently mocking the discomfited publisher.
"Really, why shouldn't there be an exchange of articles with a Russian
paper?"
So finally they came to no conclusion at all.
We were taking our seats in the car when David manfully shook hands
with me and suddenly asked: "Maybe you will write from Moscow a
contribution for publication in _The Green Spring-Menemsha Gazette_?
Our magazine will gladly publish it, I can promise you."
My negotiations with the editors of the _Gazette_ appeared to be more
fruitful than the ones Gribatchov had had with _The New Republic_.