"You know, gentlemen, to think that up is a work of genius! It takes a subtle knowledge of the peculiarities of American character. Americans love figures. It is easiest of all to convince them with figures. They would not have given money just like that. But a penny a pound— there's something boundlessly convincing and businesslike in that! Besides, it is an engaging occupation. The farmer will return to Iowa, and all through the week he will be weighing his neighbours and his relatives. There will be a lot of laughter!

"Yes, yes. The attendants again ran down the aisles, this time with large trays. They collected trayfuls of money in a few minutes. The average American weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds. My fat neighbour from Nevada gave two dollars. Yet he was clearly not rich. He was convinced with the aid of idiotic arithmetic. I tell you quite seriously, the religion of all these sects is somewhere halfway between the multiplication table and the music-hall. A few figures, a few old anecdotes, a little pornography, and quite a lot of gall. Write that down in your little notebooks, gentlemen!"

39 God's Country

AIMEE McPHERSON exceeded the limits of Mr. Adams's patience.

"No, seriously, gentlemen," he was saying to us, pacing up and down our hotel room. "Becky and I decided to go away. No, no, I understand you excellently. You are writers, you want to learn all you can about American motion pictures. It is very necessary for you. But Becky and I have nothing to do here. We shall go to Mexico."

With these words Mr. Adams spread on the bed a large map torn at the folds and fell on it with his stomach.

"We shall go to Mexico and rest up at the seashore. Becky and I have already gone to the Chamber of Commerce and have got information there. Besides, we shall go at once to the A.A.A., and there we shall get more information. Is that right, Becky? Right near the American border is an excellent place, the village of Encinada—a marvellous beach, a good road. Then, later, we shall meet in San Diego. From there our return trip to New York will begin. What do you think of it, gentlemen? "

Although the journey had been a great source of pleasure to the inquisitive Adamses, they now began to fear that we might not return to New York on time. They were homesick without their baby. Days on end they would seek out little children, press them in tight embraces, stifle them with kisses. The delay in Hollywood beyond the schedule frightened them.

"If we start from San Diego by the twenty-sixth of December, we shall manage to return home on time," Mr. Adams was saying, drawing with a red pencil on the map our return journey. "Along the Mexican border we shall travel to El Paso, then by way of San Antonio we shall reach New Orleans, and, there, cutting across almost all of the Black Belt states, we shall make our way to Washington."

Regrettable as it was to part with our fellow travellers, we were obliged to do it, because getting acquainted with Hollywood required a few more days. We did not wish to torment Mr. Adams by making him tag along with us to various studios. It would have been too inhuman. We agreed to meet on the twenty-fifth of December in San Diego, a city situated on the shores of the Pacific almost on the Mexican border. In case we should not arrive by that date, the Adamses were to proceed on the journey without us, and we would have to catch up with them by train. We had become so accustomed to the Adamses that, standing at our newly washed car shining with freshness, we bade farewell time without end yet could not really part from them. As a matter of fact, at the very last minute the Adamses again disappeared in the Chamber of Commerce for additional information and did not reappear for so long that, unable to wait for them any longer, we set off on our own affairs.

We met numerous people in Hollywood and learned much that was interesting. But one sin lies on our conscience. We were in Hollywood and did not meet Chaplin, although that could have been arranged and we desired it fervently.

It all happened because the meeting with Chaplin was undertaken by a person who simply could not do it even if he had worked on it a whole year. To our regret, we lost many days before we learned that. When we undertook the matter from another end, Chaplin had finished the music for Modern Times and had gone away for a rest. Then came that cheery commercial holiday—Merry Christmas. Then we had to leave. And thus our meeting with Chaplin came to naught.

Conversations with Milestone, Mamoulian, and other directors, among the ten best, convinced us that these excellent craftsmen were sick and tired of the senseless plays which they had to produce. Like all big men in art, they want to produce significant things, but the Hollywood system will not let them do it.

We saw several Russians of the many found in Hollywood. They work a lot, are sometimes successful and sometimes not successful, but feel themselves guilty because they stick around here instead of being in Moscow. They don't say anything about it, but it is evident by every indication.

When the Art Theatre was in America, one very young actor decided to remain in Hollywood for a while to work in films. He stayed behind for three months, but has been there more than ten years. He is one of those who are successful. His affairs are constantly improving.

What is the nature of his success? He receives five hundred dollars a week. He has a seven-year contract with his firm. Don't think that a seven-year contract is a great streak of luck. The essence of such a contract is that the actor who signed it is actually obliged to serve the studio with which he is connected for seven years. The studio itself, however, has the right every half-year to reconsider the contract and to decline the actor's services. Thus, it is a seven-year contract for the employee, while for the employer it is only a semi-annual contract.

He has a lot of work. Early in the morning he drives out to be filmed, and returns home late in the evening. He is filmed in one picture, gets a week's rest, and then he begins filming in another picture. There is no stop. He has time only to change his make-up. Since he is a foreigner and does not speak very pure English, he plays foreigners—Mexicans, Spaniards, Italians. All he has to do is to change his sideburns from Spanish to Italian. Since he has a stern face and black eyes, he plays mostly villains, bandits, and the most primitive boors.

"It's a fact!" he cried to us. "The interval between one picture and another is so short that I almost have no time to learn my role. Word of honour!"

Having shown us his house (a good American house with electric appliances, gas heat in the floor, and a silver Christmas tree), his automobile (a good American car with cigar lighter and radio), and his wife (a good Russian wife with grey eyes), the actor turned to what evidently concerned him most of all.

"Well, and how is it in the Union?"

Having received a substantial answer as to how it was in the Union, he asked with even greater interest:

"Well, and how are things in Moscow?"

Having received a no less substantial reply about that too, the actor cried out:

"And at the Art Theatre, how is it? How is it in our theatre?"

We told him about that too.

"Mishka Yanshin is an honoured artist of the Republic?" he groaned joyously. "But Mishka is a mere boy! We played together in silent roles. And Khmelev? Is it possible that he is playing Tsar Fedor? Simply miraculous! But Khmelev and I. . . we were children in 1922! It's a fact that we were children! Well, I know everything about Ilyinsky! He's become a famous artist, yet we studied in the studio together. It's a fact that we studied together! Igor and I!"