On our first evening in New York we were disturbed by its poverty and wealth. Here in Chicago one is overcome with anger at people who, in their chase for the almighty dollar, have reared on a fertile prairie on the shores of the full-watered Michigan, this horrible town. It is impossible to accept the thought that this city arose, not as a result of poverty, but as a result of wealth, of extraordinary development in technique, of agriculture, and of cattle raising. The earth gave man all that he could take from it. Man applied himself with admirable skill. So much, grain was grown, so much oil was drilled, and so many machines were built that there was enough of all to satisfy nearly half the globe. Yet, on this amply fertilized soil, instead of gleaming palaces of joy, there sprang up, in defiance of all reason, a huge, ugly, poisonous fungus, the city of Chicago in the state of Illinois. It is a kind of triumph of absurdity. Here one begins to think quite seriously that technique in the hands of capitalism is a knife in the hands of a madman.

One might say that we were too impressionable, that we are overstating our case, that Chicago has an excellent university, a Philharmonic orchestra, presumably the best water system in the world, a wise radical intelligentsia, that here was a grandiose world's fair, that Michigan Avenue is the most beautiful street on earth. That is true! There are these things in Chicago. But all of it emphasizes more than ever the depth of the poverty, the ugliness of the buildings, and the lawlessness of the racketeers. The fine university does not teach youths how to fight poverty, the water system" does not give people soup, the radical intelligentsia is powerless, the police shoot not so much at bandits as at strikers reduced to despair, the world's fair brought happiness only to the proprietors of hotels, and the most-beautiful-in-the-world Michigan Avenue loses a lot by being the neighbour of slums.

Kind people in Chicago decided to entertain us and took us to a student club in Chicago University, where a ball was held to celebrate the granting of independence to the Philippines. After seeing pictures of Chicago life, we wanted a little diversity.

The student ball was sober, gay, and pleasant in every respect. In a large hall danced broad-nosed, black-eyed, beautiful Filipino girls; across the hardwood floor also glided Japanese boys and Chinese girls; and above the crowd towered the white silk turban of a young Hindu. The Hindu was in a swallow-tail with a white shirt front—a lean seducer with ardent eyes.

"Excellent ball, gentlemen!" said Mr. Adams, tittering mysteriously.

"Don't you like it?"

"No, gentlemen! I told you: very good ball."

And he suddenly attacked the Hindu, took him aside and began to cross-examine him about his life in his dormitory, how many rupees a month his mother sends him, and to what line of work he intends to dedicate himself after graduating from the university. The Hindu politely answered all the questions, and with inexpressible boredom looked in the direction of the crowd of dancers from which he had been so suddenly dragged away.

From the ceiling were suspended Philippine and American flags. The orchestra on the stage was flooded with violet light. Musicians raised their saxophones. There it was—a harmless, quiet family ball, without drunkards, without anyone being hurt, without scandal. It was pleasant to be aware of the fact that we were present at a historic occasion. After all, the Filipinos were being liberated; independence was being given to the Philippines. It need not have been given, yet it was granted! And granted willingly! That was honourable!

All the way back to the hotel, Mr. Adams muttered something.

"Seriously, gentlemen!"

"What, seriously?"

"I want to ask you: why did we suddenly give independence to the Philippines ? Seriously, gentlemen, we are good people. Just think of it, we gave them independence of our own free will! Yes, we are good people, but we don't like to have anybody stretch out his hand for our purses. These devilish Filipinos produce very cheap sugar, and, of course, they ship it here to our country without any duty. They were part of the United States until today. Their sugar was so cheap that our sugar manufacturers could not compete with them. Now that they have received from us the independence they have been hoping for so long, they will have to pay duty for sugar, like other foreign merchants. At the same time, we really don't lose the Philippines, because the good Filipinos consented to take their independence from us only on condition that we leave with them our army and our administration. Now, tell me, gentlemen, could we deny them this request? No! Truly, I want you to appreciate our honourableness! I demand it!"

18 The Best Musicians in the World

IN THE evening, having carelessly left our automobile in front of the hotel entrance, we went to a concert by Kreisler.

Rich America has taken possession of the best musicians in the world. In New York, in Carnegie Hall, we heard Rachmaninoff and Stokowski.

Rachmaninoff, according to what a composer told us, before coming out on the stage sits in his dressing-room and tells anecdotes. But as soon as the bell rings, he rises from his seat and, assuming the expression of a Russian exile's great sorrow, goes forth to the stage.

The night we went to hear him he appeared, tall, bent, and thin, with a long, sad face, his hair closely clipped; he sat down at the piano, separated the folds of his old-fashioned black swallow-tail, adjusted one of his cuffs with his large hand, and turned to the public. His expression seemed to say: "Yes, I am an unfortunate exile and am obliged to play before you for your contemptible dollars, and for all this humiliation I ask very little—silence."

There was such dead silence, as if the thousand auditors in the gallery lay dead, poisoned by some new, hitherto unknown, musical gas. Rachmaninoff finished. We expected an explosion. But in the orchestra only normal applause resounded. We did not trust our ears. We sensed cold indifference—as if the public had come, not to hear remarkable music remarkably played, but rather to discharge a dull duty. Only from the gallery did we hear several enthusiastic exclamations.

All the concerts we attended in America produced the same impression. All of fashionable New York was at the concert of the famous Philadelphia Orchestra, conducted by Stokowski. It is incomprehensible what guides fashionable New York. The fact is that it does not go to all the concerts. Meat and copper kings and princes of chewing gum in swallowtails, railroad queens, and simply dollar princesses in decollete and diamonds, took their places in the dress circle. Stokowski evidently knew that music alone was not enough for this public, that it needed also the outer trimmings. So the talented director devised for himself an effective entrance, almost a circus entrance. He no longer abided by the traditional striking of the baton against the music rack. Prior to his appearance the orchestra tuned its instruments, and then there was utter silence. He came out from behind the curtains, slightly bent, looking like Meyerhold. Without so much as glancing at anyone, he walked to his place in front of the stage, flung up his arms suddenly, and just as suddenly began the overture to Die Meistersinger. It was a tempo purely American. Not a second of hesitation. Time is money! The performance was faultless. It stirred no emotions in the hall.

Meat and copper kings and railroad queens, princes of chewing gum and dollar princesses were interested at the time in Bach, Brahms, and Shostakovich. Why they were drawn at the same time to the profound and abstruse Bach, to the cold Brahms, and to the stormy, ironical Shostakovich, they did not know, of course, did not wish to know, and would never know. A year hence, just as madly ("Oh, what a strong, all-embracing feeling!"), they will be carried away at the same time by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Prokofiev.