We were frightened.
Without opening his eyes, Mr. Adams began to knead his head in his hands and to mutter:
“Gentlemen, everything is lost! You don’t understand anything!”
And then what we did not understand became clear. Mr. Adams had come here with his wife and, having left her in their automobile, had run up to see us for just a second in order to ask us to his house for lunch. He had run in for just a second!
We raced down the corridor, frightening the old ladies who always populate American hotels. In the elevator Mr. Adams jumped with impatience, so eager was he to reach the protective wing of his wife.
Around the corner from Lexington Avenue, on Forty-eighth Street, in a neat but no longer new Chrysler sat a young lady who wore the same kind of protruding spectacles as did Mr. Adams.
“Becky!” groaned our new friend, stretching forth his fat little arms toward the Chrysler.
In the confusion his hat flew off and his round head glistened in the reflected light of New York’s autumn sun.
“And where is the umbrella?” asked the lady, smiling wanly.
The sun went out on the head of Mr. Adams. He forgot the umbrella in our room, he forgot his wife in the street, the umbrella was upstairs. Under such circumstances occurred our meeting with Mrs. Rebecca Adams.
With bitterness we noticed that it was not Mr. Adams, but his wife, who took the wheel. We again exchanged glances.
“No, evidently this is not the hybrid we need. Our hybrid must know how to drive an automobile.”
Mr. Adams regained his calm and normal state and talked about things as if nothing untoward had happened. On the entire trip to Central Park West, where his apartment was located, old man Adams assured us that the most important thing for us is our future travelling companion.
“No, no, no, you don’t understand! This is very, very important!”
We became sad. We ourselves knew how important that was.
The door of the Adams’s apartment was opened to us by a Negress to whose skirts clung a two-year-old girl. The little girl had a firmly moulded little body. She was a little Adams without spectacles.
She looked at her parents, and said in her thin little voice:
“Papa and Mamma.”
Papa and Mamma groaned from sheer satisfaction and happiness.
We exchanged glances for the third time.
“Besides, he has a child! No, this is most decidedly not the hybrid!”
7. The Electric Chair
THE AMERICAN, Ernest Hemingway, author of the recently published Fiesta, which evoked much discussion in Soviet literary circles, happened to be in New York while we were there.
And another American writer, John Dos Passos, who is even better known among us and who provoked even more discussions in connection with the polemics on formalism in art, came in to see us and introduced us to Hemingway.
Incidentally, whenever mention was made some years ago of a soulless formalist, he was always understood to be some house manager by the name of Nezabudkin who had insulted an old lady for no good reason or who did not provide needed information on time. Nowadays no one thinks of house managers, and the words “a soulless formalist” do not fail to call forth in memory the figure of some writer or composer or of some other hairy votary of the Muses.
The round-headed, broad-nosed Dos Passos stutters a little. He begins every sentence with a laugh, but he ends it seriously. He looked at us benevolently and said:
“I am writing a new book. It is called Big Money. I wonder how it will fare. Every one of my succeeding books has had a smaller circulation than its predecessor: 42nd Parallelled a circulation of twenty thousand copies; 1919, fifteen thousand; this one will probably have ten thousand.”
When we told Dos Passos that ten thousand copies of his 1919 disappeared from Soviet book counters in several hours, he replied:
“In your country people have been taught to read books, but with us here… Listen, we’ll have to get together some time and have dinner in the Hollywood Restaurant on Broadway. There you will see what occupies the average American while in your country people read books. You will see the happiness of a New York counter-jumper.”
Hemingway came to New York for a week. His permanent home is at Key West, a small town at the extreme southern tip of Florida. He proved to be a large man with moustaches and a peeling sunburnt nose. He wore flannel trousers, a woollen vest which did not come together on his mighty chest, and his bare feet were in house slippers.
We stood together, in the middle of one of the hotel rooms in which Hemingway lived, engaged in the usual American occupation. In our hands were high and wide glasses of highballs – whisky mixed with water. So far as we have been able to observe, everything in America begins with a drink. Even when we came on literary business to our publishers, Farrar and Rinehart, the gay, red-headed Mr. Farrar, publisher and poet, at once led us into their library. He had many books there, but also a large icebox. From that box the publisher took various bottles and cubes of ice, asked us whether we preferred Manhattan,Bacardi or Martini cocktails, and at once began to mix with such skill, as if he had never in his life published books, had never written verse, but had always worked as a barman. Americans enjoy mixing cocktails.
We happened to talk of Florida, when Hemingway at once passed to what seemed to be his favourite theme:
“During your automobile journey, don’t fail to visit me at Key West. We’ll go fishing there.”
And with his arms he showed us the size of fish one can catch at Key West. That is, like every fisherman he spread his arms as far apart as he could. The fish must have been about the size of a sperm whale.
We looked at each other in alarm and promised, come what might, to drop in on him at Key West so that we might go fishing and have a really serious talk on literature. But we were unreasoning optimists. If we were to carry out everything we had promised during our meetings and interviews, we could not have returned toMoscow before 1940. We wanted very much to go fishing with Hemingway. We were not even embarrassed by the problem of managing spinning and other involved tackle, especially since Dos Passos declared that by the time we arrived in Florida he would also be living in Key West.
Then we talked of what we had seen in New York and what else we wanted to see before going west. We happened to mention Sing Sing. Sing Sing is the prison of the state of New York. We had heard of it since childhood, having been then ardently interested in the adventures of two famous detectives, Nat Pinkerton and Nick. Carter. Suddenly Hemingway said:
“Do you know, my father-in-law happens to be here with me. He is acquainted with the warden of Sing Sing. Maybe he can arrange it for you to visit the prison.”
He went to the adjoining room and returned with a neat little old man whose thin neck was encased in a very high and old-fashioned starched collar. Our wish was explained to the old man while he impatiently chewed his lips and at last said vaguely that he would see what he could do. Then we returned to our previous conversation about fishing, journeys, and other excellent things; Hemingway and Dos Passos wanted to go to the Soviet Union, to the Altai. While we tried to find out why they had chosen the Altai and praised also other parts of the Union, we quite forgot the promise about Sing Sing. People are likely to say anything in the course of a pleasant conversation, highballs in hand.
But a day later we learned that Americans are no idle talkers. We received two letters. One of them was addressed to us. Hemingway’s father-in-law informed us respectfully that he had discussed the matter with the warden of the prison, Mr. Lewis E. Lawes, and that we might examine Sing Sing any day we chose. In the second letter the old man recommended us to Mr. Lewis E. Lawes.
We noted this American characteristic and more than once had convincing confirmation that Americans never say anything they