and vomiting, and the flow of orange liquid fire burst forth with a great rush. As the stream proceeded along its course fire-work stars rose up and danced in the air above it, stars that burst, fairy-like, and illusive, and almost insolently flippant. At night it must be very spectacular. But I had been refused admittance at night, and even as a day visitor I was told I was the first woman admitted in ten years——!
We proceeded to follow the liquid through its other processes—though not all, for at the end of three hours we were not through. But my head was swimming with sounds and sights, it was as though one had spent half a day in Dante’s Inferno. Moreover my legs were as weary as my head, and though I had meant to be back at five, it was six when I walked through the William Penn Hotel! The attention I seemed to draw made me wonder whether in those few hours fame had overtaken me in the press, but when I reached my room and saw my black face in the glass, I understood the stir I had created in the elevator!
The press resolutely seemed to have a parti-pris against me. In spite of all my efforts to be agreeable and interesting to the reporters who came to interview me, nothing of sufficient importance ever appeared to attract the faintest notice of my existence or my lecture. Either it was an anti-British feeling, or more likely, that industrial capitalistic Pittsburgh had not the faintest desire to hear anything whatever about Lenin or Trotzky that was not vituperative.
With great weariness, and great discouragement and some fear of my audience, in fact in totally the wrong frame of mind I was driven in the Robinson’s car, and escorted by the father and son to the Carnegie Institute at eight o’clock.
The charming Professor of History, James, of Pittsburgh University, introduced me to a half empty, cold and unresponsive hall!
I prefaced my lecture by asking my audience to allow me, for my own satisfaction, to express a few words of appreciation of Pittsburgh before I began my narrative of Moscow. I said:
“I have only been in this country two weeks, but I have had a wonderful time. As for Pittsburgh, I have only been here three days, but I have been so hospitably received that I have crammed a great deal into that space.
“I have seen things in Pittsburgh that the usual Pittsburgher takes for granted and does not see the beauty of. I have seen a town by day and by night that looked like a Whistler picture. I have heard in the night sounds like the sea breaking on the shore, and this was the sound of never ceasing machinery. I have seen the furnaces and the red hot steel; I have seen machines with hands and fingers that seemed to have the reasoning power of humans.
“I worship force as an element, force and energy in humans, force and power in machinery. You will think me emotional and stupid if I tell you that I came away from the deafening sound of the steel mill, with the same feeling I have after listening to Cathedral music. Have you ever, when you have seen something very beautiful, felt that it was almost too beautiful to take in? There are moments of happiness too, when one feels not big enough to contain them.
“The Pittsburgh mills are like Bolshevism, something so tremendous that my mind cannot grasp it. And this leads me back to my subject: after all, you have come here not to hear my impressions of Pittsburgh, but to form your own impressions of Moscow. …”
I then proceeded to tell a cold small audience, in halting tones, forgetting much by the way—the story of my trip to Moscow. And because it was like talking to a reserved unresponsive person, I felt paralyzed—I wanted to stop, I stumbled over my sentences and had lapses of memory! There was no life in my lecture. Moreover, I was tired, and my head was full of the sound of blast furnaces. … It was an awful ordeal and I was glad when it was over.
With Ruth Djirloff, I caught the train, Mr. Robinson seeing us off at the station. He has been so kind.
The train was awful. At last I have something to complain of! How the luxurious, pampered American can stand his night travelling car is a wonderment to me. Here at last is something they might copy from Europe. In England, France, and Italy, it is far more comfortable. My night is indescribable. The bed behind a curtain is all one gets, not a square foot of privacy to stand up and undress in. I had to struggle out of my clothes as I sat or lay on my bed. Then, whenever anyone passed down the car (and they did pass), they brushed my curtains which parted enough (in spite of being buttoned), to let in a streak of electric light that waked me. Moreover, people passed down the car whistling, and at an early hour in the morning, when the stars were still in the heavens, passengers who were about to alight at the next stop got together and talked loudly, … not a wink of sleep could I get while two men discussed business matters. Weary as I was, sleep could not combat the conditions.
Friday, February 18, 1921. New York.
A weary wreck, I arrived at midday at New York, and to my surprise and joy, Hugo Koehler had brought Dick to meet me at the station. I then went up to the Numesmatic Society, where I found my exhibition all arranged, and ready to open at two o’clock. Some press people were already there.
Very little re-arranging had to be done. The “Numesmatic” staff must have worked like super-men. Mr. Bertelli, the bronze founder, had retouched the pattines and done wonders. I was delighted.
It is very thrilling to see one’s own exhibition—
Saturday, February 19, 1921.
Hugo and I went to lunch with Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney at her studio. I sat next to Mr. Bob Chanler, whom I hadn’t met before. He has the head of a great French savant, and a voice like the roar of a bull. He was once married to Cavalieri! On my other side, Mr. Childe Hassam, the painter; opposite Mr. ——and Jo Davidson. There were lots of people I didn’t know, and among them I met a Sheridan cousin called Pittman. Good looking and nice, I was glad to claim him. Paul Manship came in afterwards, he and I and Davidson and Bob Chanler, unable to bear the noise or the absence of air, at the end of lunch went upstairs to the studio and danced to the gramaphone. Mr. Chanler, rather mad, and attractive accordingly, kissed me in a moment of expansion! That is very American. They may kiss in public——!
After lunch Ruth Draper did some imitations. It is pure genius.
It was difficult to drag oneself away from such an attractive party. I like Mrs. Whitney and her breakaway from the conventions. She seems to achieve the real Bohemian spirit. I remember John Noble telling me about her years ago—she is the fairy godmother of struggling artists.
Jo Davidson and Paul Manship came down to my exhibition in Hugo’s car. It was nice of them to come, sculptors are not as nice to each other in England as those here have been to me. There seems to be a different spirit here. I had a hectic time, wanting to talk to all my friends who turned up.
I came home in time to dress and Jo Davidson called for me and took me to the Manhattan Opera House. We had not time to dine. It was the first time I had been to the opera since Moscow. The house was a full one and very enthusiastic. The stalls seemed to consist mostly of alien music-lovers, and for the most part not evening dressed. It was very democratic and harmonious. I liked it.
Afterwards, Hugo fetched us and we went to Guardiabassé’s flat for supper. He made the macaroni himself and I helped him. He sings and he paints, and he seems to be a useful person to have about the house!
We were a noisy crew, and there were repeated requests from below that we should make less noise! Which seemed to me curious for a studio flat. An American party is always noisy. I can’t make out why one should be unable to hear oneself speak. I think it is that they talk in a key higher than we do. They have a great sense of camaraderie, and when they get together to have a “good time” it is bewildering. I wonder what they think of us? I should think they find us deadly.
