Should an American say in the course of a conversation, even incidentally, "I'll do that," it is not necessary to remind him of anything at all in the future. Everything will be done. The ability to keep his word, to keep it firmly, accurately, to burst, but keep his word—this is the most important thing which our Soviet business people must learn from American business people.
We wrote about American democracy, which in fact does not give man freedom and only masks the exploitation of man by man. But in American life there is a phenomenon which should interest us no less than a new machine model. That phenomenon is democracy in intercourse between people, albeit that democracy, too, covers social inequality and is a purely outward form. The outward forms of such a democracy are splendid. They help a lot in work, deliver a blow to bureaucracy, and enhance human dignity.
We drove out of Washington to New York. In a few hours, and our journey over the American land would come to an end. We thought about America during those final hours. We think that in our book we have told everything that we have thought.
Americans are very angry with Europeans who come to America, enjoy its hospitality, and later scold it. Americans often told us about this with annoyance. But we do not understand such posing of the question: to scold or to praise. America is not the first night of a new play, and we are not theatre critics. We transmit to paper our impressions about that country and our thoughts about it.
What can be said about America, which simultaneously horrifies, delights, calls forth pity, and sets examples worthy of emulation, about a land which is rich, poor, talented, and ungifted?
We can say honestly, with hand on heart, that we would not like to live in America. It is interesting to observe this country, but one does not care to live in it.
47 Farewell, America!
THE WEATHER was crisp in New York. The wind blew. The sun shone.
New York is amazingly beautiful! But why does one feel sad in this great city? The houses are so high, the light of the sun lies only on the upper stories, and throughout the day one does not lose the impression that the sun is setting. Sunset begins in the morning. Probably that is why one feels so sad in New York.
We again returned to the city where live two million automobiles and seven million persons who serve them. Oh, it is a remarkable sight — automobiles driving on a promenade through Central Park! One cannot get rid of the thought that this immense park located in the middle of New York was built so that automobiles might breathe fresh air there. There are only automobile roads in the park—little place is left for pedestrians. New York has been captured by automobiles, and in the city the automobiles behave like genuine troops of occupation. They kill and cripple the natives, deal with them strictly, and won't let them complain. People deprive themselves of much in order to fill their oppressors with petrol, quench their eternal thirst for oil and water.
Besides automobiles, New York has still another frightful sovereign. He is Noise. Noise is manufactured here in enormous quantities. Underground bays the subway, overhead thunders the elevated railroad, hundreds of thousands of motors roar simultaneously on the streets. And at night, when the noise quiets down somewhat, one can distinctly hear the long and alarming sirens of the police, fire department, and gangster automobiles. The roar approaches, passes by, and is lost somewhere in the distance. Someone has been shot for love's sake, someone else out of hate, someone else simply for not sharing the spoils. Or maybe someone has hanged himself, or poisoned himself, or shot himself through his heart, unable to endure the life in the city of automobiles, noise, and headaches.
"Bromo-Seltzer," a drink for headaches, is sold everywhere, along with orange juice, coffee, and lemonade. Soon Bromo-Seltzer will find a place on the menu. The dinner will then be something like this: First, "Bromo-Seltzer"; in the second place, "chilli," which is a Mexican soup; in the third place, a fish called "sole"; and for dessert, again "Bromo-Seltzer." New York alone may have more telephones than all England, but undoubtedly in New York alone in the course of a day more headache powders are used than in all England in half a year. In the more quiet districts of New York apartments cost more, not because they are better, but because there is less noise there. In New York, quiet is an object of trade—and it is costly merchandise. It is in the same class with an English suit of clothes. It is expensive—but then, it is good.
In New York one can never be rid of a feeling of alarm. Down the busiest street there will suddenly drive an armoured bank car painted in bright red. The machine-guns of the armoured car are directed right at a crowd of young men in light hats who promenade with cigars in their teeth. Thus in New York money is transported. It can be carried only in armoured cars; otherwise, these same young men in light hats would make off with it. They seem to be smiling too suspiciously and anxiously, their hands in the pockets of their sleek overcoats.
It took us several days to bid farewell to our New York friends, streets, and skyscrapers.
On the day of our departure we went to Central Park West and up to the Adams's apartment. A Negress opened the door, disclosing shining African teeth that lighted up the vestibule.
In the dining-room we saw Mr. Adams pressing the baby to his chest. Beside him stood Mrs. Adams, who was saying:
"You have already held the baby for five minutes. It's my turn now!"
"No, no, Becky, don't talk like that! It hurts me to hear you talk like that."
On the table and on the floor lay unwrapped packages. Among the strings and wrapping paper lay a great variety of things: an old blanket, a plaid, binoculars, collars, several keys, with large hotel disks, and many other tilings.
"There, there, gentlemen!" said Mr. Adams, eagerly pressing our hands. "My things are beginning to come in little by little. All I have to do now is to return the keys to the various hotels and everything will be in order. Only my hat has not come yet."
"It would have been better to have got it in Washington, after all," Mrs. Adams said reprovingly, deftly taking the baby out of her husband's hands.
"But, Becky," Mr. Adams groaned, "you must not act like that! We have left instructions with the Washington post office to send the hat here. Let go of the baby! You have been holding her too long! It's harmful for the baby. Let her run around the room."
But scarcely had Mrs. Adams dropped the girl to the floor, when Mr. Adams with a cry caught the baby and pressed her to his chest.
A bell rang, and a postman came into the room with a package.
"This time it is the hat!" cried Mrs. Adams.
Yes, it was the hat. Mr. Adams solemnly pulled out of a box his old favourite hat and at once put it on his head.
"Let's go!" he cried in his ringing voice. "You are going away today, gentlemen, and until now you have not been on top of the Empire State Building! It would be foolish not to do that. If you want to know what America is, you must go up the Empire State Building!"
When the baby saw that her parents were again being led away by the unknown gentlemen who had already dragged them off for two months, 'she began to howl. She stamped her little feet and cried, tears flowing down her face, " No more trips!"
The parents swore to the baby that they were going away for only five minutes, but she continued to wail and to remind them that" that time they also said that they would go away for only five minutes and did not come back for a very long time."