The Russians were named Boris and Soso (which is the Georgian diminutive of Joseph). They’d both lived in the United States for quite a while and they seemed kind of sinister to me. Soso had brought along a girl friend. She was named Masha and had once danced in the corps de ballet at the Bolshoi theatre. Masha was pretty and demure, except that her legs looked like totem poles.
In her red boots, full skirt and embroidered peasant blouse, there was a certain Muscovite chicté about Auntie Mame. In fact, she looked like a show girl from one of the Nikita Balief revues of the Twenties. Compared to her Slavic splendor, the rest of the followers of the Mother Bloor Communal Farm seemed seedy and ill-assorted, carsickness being their only common bond.
Auntie Mame stretched her lovely, long arms ecstatically and gulped in the mountain air. “Just smell it, Comrades! Isn’t it intoxicating? Well, first a good hot tub and then to work!”
Natalie-Natasha snorted contemptuously.
“But, Auntie Mame,” I said, “the drains don’t work.”
Auntie Mame looked as if she’d been slapped. “Nonsense, darling!” She smiled encouragingly. “Well, with all of us on the Project, we’ll have the pipes working again in no time, won’t we! We’re not going to be dependent on the village artisans, are we?” The men looked a little dubious, but no one said anything. “It’s a simple thing to do,” Auntie Mame said, with a little less self-assurance than usual. “You just pour a little Drano down the pipe.”
Boris, who never bathed anyhow, said it wasn’t important. “What we must first do is assign the rooms and then hold a general meeting,” he said. Some anonymous mutineer in the crowd said, “when do we eat?” There was a rustle of general unrest. Gradually, however, Boris got everyone organized and satchels and suitcases, duffle bags and boxes began to cascade from the top of the second-hand bus. It had been agreed that each person could bring one piece of luggage and the rain from the night before had not treated the travelers’ possessions gently. One pasteboard suitcase burst soggily open and Soso’s balalaika was badly warped. Auntie Mame, true to her word, had come with just one piece: a large custommade Gilmore trunk, snug in a canvas slipcover, rakishly adorned with labels from smart hotels all over the world. It took three men to get it down. Natasha sneered unpleasantly and slouched into the house.
There was a lot of confusion about rooms and, even in so big a house, there didn’t seem to be enough of them. The main floor was to be used for the Mess, Meeting Room, Library and Executive offices. The next two floors were for sleeping. Auntie Mame had her heart set on the upstairs drawing room, which had a stunning view of the hills, but Boris earmarked that for himself. The old nursery, her second choice, was taken for a six man dormitory on the grounds that it was so large. I could tell that she wasn’t pleased to draw one of the servants’ rooms across the hall from me, but she preferred it to sharing the college girls’ dormitory.
Auntie Mame, who was always strong for atmosphere, had packed a lot more into her trunk than peasant smocks.
She’d brought an elaborate ikon; a hand-tinted lithograph of Trotsky, framed in passe partout; her Fabergé Easter egg, studded with semi-precious jewels; a big samover and a gay Ukranian shawl.
Ralph, the decorator, was only too happy to lend her a hand at arranging the bleak liver-colored room and by the time the votive lamp was lighted under the ikon, he was shrill with delight. “But it’s too divine, Mame, dear! It’s perfect, pure Casino Russe!”
She and Ralph were still ebulliating over her decor when Natasha’s sullen face appeared at the door. Eyeing the triptych and the ikon, Natasha grumbled. “The opiate of the People! ” But when she saw the picture of Trotsky, she gasped and went to tell Boris.
Lunch was the first square meal I’d eaten since I left Moscow. The placid Mrs. Johnson, still wearing her hat, had unpacked the kitchen utensils and enough of the supplies to lay on a glorious spread. No one had asked her to, she just did. There was a big cold ham, stuffed eggs, hot biscuits, two kinds of pickles, jam, a wonderful salad and fruit for dessert. At that moment communal living looked pretty good. I was embarrassed to go back for a third helping, but when I finally summoned up the courage, Mrs. Johnson’s pretty face split into a big, wide smile. She said she loved to see boys eat and she was going to try to fatten me up on this here com-mu-nal farm.
Dr. Whipple said there’d be a general meeting at four and we could do as we liked before then. Auntie Mame grabbed my arm and said, “ dushka, do let me show you around.”
She put on a big straw hat, which she’d had copied from a photograph of Ukranian wheat threshers in the National Geographic, and off we went. Auntie Mame was a vivacious and fascinating talker, and as wearing and irritating as she can be, I’ve always been spellbound in her company. She showed me all over the place: the formal garden, which had long lost all traces of ever having been laid out in any pattern, and where a marble Pan lay pathetically on his side, as though he’d just been shot; the old kitchen gardens; the stables; the orchard. Her constant babble of commentary almost made the old place come to life again. After we’d walked and talked for a long while, she looked at her fragile diamond watch. “Goody,” she trilled, “it’s just two o’clock. We’ll still have time for a walk in the woods.” We headed into the forest and walked for a long way.
“You do like it here, don’t you, dushka?” she asked anxiously.
“Y-yes,” I said, avoiding her eyes, “it’s very nice, now that you’re here.”
“I’m so glad you think so, my little love,” she sighed. “Oh, Patrick, it’s going to be wonderful! Dr. Whipple and I and all of these people, too, have worked so hard planning and figuring. It’s cost me an awful lot of money. But it was worth it, darling, worth it! The farm is going to be an ideal Socialist community, all of us out here living together, building together, producing together! Everyone happy, everyone equal! Work together, play together, share together! There are going to be no rich people, no poor people, everyone just alike; rich in each other! Dushka, do you know that you’re living a little bit of history at this very moment! This tiny experiment of ours, this little handful of people, will soon show America what it’s been missing. Do you follow me, dushka?”
I wasn’t sure, but I said, “yes, Auntie Mame.”
“Child, someday you’ll be sitting here in this very spot with your own children and you’ll be able to say, ‘why, in 1937 I helped Auntie Mame and Dr. Whipple start the Cooperative Farm that showed the world the way!’ Oh, Patrick, I’ve always wanted to come to Russia to see how they were doing it, and here we are!”
Her face took on a look that I always associate with the visions of saints or with cataleptic seizures. “And, dushka, don’t you think our community is made up of just about the most wonderful people? Don’t you think it’s a grand bunch?” Again her eyes sought out mine.
“They seem okay,” I lied.
“You know, we’ve got all sorts of people here, some from well-to-do homes, others who are very poor; some extremely well educated, others with almost no learning; some who toil with their hands, others with their minds. Oh, the true blending of the worker and the intellectual, that’s what makes a movement go!”
We wandered idly through the woods for a long time.
“Well, dushka, Dr. Whipple set the meeting for four. I guess we’d better start back to be on time. If there’s anything that can throw a cog into this wonderful experiment, it’s . . .” Her face went ashen. “My God! This watch has stopped. It still says two o’clock.”
We raced back to the house, but we needn’t have bothered. By the time we got back, the first General Meeting was over.
Dr. Whipple was most upset that Auntie Mame had missed the meeting. “Dear, ah, Comrade Mame,” he said, fidgeting with his goatee, “it had, ah, been, ah, my clear, ah understanding that I, ah, that is, ah, that you and I would be in, ah, complete, ah, authority. But now it seems, ah, that Comrade Markov . . .”
“You mean Boris?” Auntie Mame asked.
“Exactly. Well, ah, it seems that, ah, Comrade Markov, ah, also feels that, ah, he, ah, is in charge and, ah, well, really, ah, Mame, it’s, ah, most embarrassing and I do wish you’d, ah, just have a word with him.”
“Oh, certainly, Euclid, darling,” Auntie Mame said, very much the Little Miss Fix-it. “Now don’t you worry your dear gray head about a thing. I’ll put Boris straight in a jiffy.”
In the end it was Boris Markov who put Auntie Mame straight. He was most displeased that Auntie Mame had missed the meeting. He said that, in Russia, people who went about mooning over a rotten and dead past were exiled and instead of meandering around the countryside with some capitalist brat, (it gave me quite a start when I realized that he was talking about me), Auntie Mame should have had her shoulder to the wheel, with the rest of the Steering Committee. He also said that she had been unanimously voted o f the Steering Committee because it was feared that a stream of decadence still flowed strongly in her. Dr. Whipple had also been voted out and the Steering Committee now consisted of Boris and Soso, with Natalie-Natasha as head of the Ladies Auxiliary.
Auntie Mame found it difficult to disguise her disappointment. After all, the farm had been started on her money and it had been largely her idea, inspired by Dr. Whipple, so she felt that she should have some voice in the way things were run. But she was a good sport about it and said that, as long as we were all going to be equal, it didn’t really matter. Dr. Whipple, for all his degrees, lacked Auntie Mame’s philosophical air.
The Group had got a lot of things down on paper during that first meeting. One of the school teachers was chalking the Community Rules, there were no laws, in neat Palmer Method handwriting on a big blackboard in the Meeting Room. Boris was Supreme Commander; Soso in charge of the men; Natalie-Natasha in charge of the women. Mrs. Johnson had been appointed Mess Sergeant and Cook. Ito was head of K.P. Masha, the unemployed Russian ballerina was in charge of Recreation and Calisthenics. Sid, the English anarchist, was appointed head of the Ways and Means Committee. Desmond McLush, the defrocked priest, would see to trading our farm produce with outside merchants for things like light bulbs and salt that we couldn’t create ourselves. As a sop, Auntie Mame was put in sole charge of the Community Loom, which wouldn’t start till fall. Some of the garment workers were rather bitter about that, too.
Religion would play no part in the community, but everyone had to take one day off a week and, since the next day was Sunday, they decided that that would be the day of rest. “The habit pattern is so strongly entrenched in us, anyway,” Desmond McLush said, with a pitying sneer.
Mrs. Johnson, singlehanded, got a sumptuous dinner on the table that night, which was marred only by having the electric system go off, but after a maximum of confusion, candles appeared everywhere and Natasha said it looked just like Ma Bloor’s old cell. After dinner a lot of gin appeared as if from nowhere. Auntie Mame was famous for her homemade gin in the Twenties and her hand hadn’t lost its touch. The entire colony sat on the verandah, watching the fireflies while Soso played his balalaika. Masha danced, and Auntie Mame regaled everyone with an account of her trip through a tractor factory.
At eleven, when I went off to bed, I noticed that Ito and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and their kids were still in the kitchen washing up the dinner dishes. It seemed to me that if we were all to work together, maybe I’d better lend a hand, so we all spent a pleasant half hour drying and putting away.
The house was awfully noisy the first night and it struck me that the group was made up of the thirty most restless sleepers in history. All night long there were doors opening and closing; footsteps in the corridors and a lot of whispering and giggling.
At seven the next morning a wonderful smell of panckes drifted up to the third floor and I hurried downstairs. In the kitchen Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were alone, cooking griddle cakes on the big wood stove. They let me help and we had a lot of fun flipping flapjacks. All morning long, members of the community sauntered down for breakfast and the Johnson kids and I were kept busy making griddle cakes and frying bacon, while Mr. and Mrs. Johnson started putting up a huge picnic lunch.
At noon Auntie Mame awoke and Ito took her breakfast up to her.
The picnic was a great success. Mrs. Johnson had baked four big cakes and all the bread for the sandwiches and everything was delicious. We all lolled around on the fragrant meadow while Boris and Soso and Natasha made speeches about “Shoulder to the Wheel,” “What’s Mine is Yours,” “All for One and One for All,” and “Share and Share Alike.” About three o’clock Auntie Mame was urged to go in and make some more gin, which she said wouldn’t be a bit good if they all drank it right away; but nobody seemed to mind. At dinnertime they were still rolling around in the grass and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson took their kids and me into the kitchen and cooked supper. The house that night was even noisier and someone got very sick in the third floor bathroom.
The next morning almost everyone was ill. Boris was confined to his bed and Ralph had mysteriously acquired a black eye. But by lunchtime everyone appeared, including Auntie Mame, still in her Russian-cut pajamas.
Boris tapped his water glass and said that, owing to unforeseen circumstances, the Project had got off to a late start but everybody shoulder a hoe and off to the fields! There was a terrible moment when one of the garment workers asked what they were supposed to plant and where and a solemn girl from Bryn Mawr said that she was perfectly willing to do her level best, but there weren’t any farm implements of any sort.
Everyone jabbered at once and another General Meeting was called while Mrs. Johnson cleaned up the luncheon dishes. Despite all the highflown ideals that went into founding the Mother Bloor Communal Farm, it was soon made painfully evident that nobody in the group had ever worked on a farm before, although Dr. Whipple had read a great deal about it. Mr. Johnson, however, had had some agricultural experience back in America with cotton, peanuts and tobacco; but he wasn’t at all sure that such things would grow in Russia. Dr. Whipple, when pressed, was unable to remember just what ever had been grown in Georgia, if anything.
There was a lot of wrangling and some rather unpleasant name-calling, but around dusk Mr. Johnson had made up a list of essential farm implements and guessed as to their prices in rubles. It was unanimously voted that Auntie Mame be driven into the village of Psplat to cable her bank.
The next day, while Dr. Whipple led a discussion group on “The Collective Farm Movement in the Volyn Area,” Mr. Johnson took his kids and me in the truck to Psplat and placed a staggering order with the Kolkhozni Ploshad or Collective Farm Plaza. Delivery on everything but a few rakes and hoes and pitchforks would take six weeks. The bill came to a terrifying total and it looked as though Auntie Mame or somebody would have to cable the National City Bank again. Then we went to a seed store and laid in a huge supply of future carrots, lettuces, radishes, cabbages and potatoes.
When we got back, everyone had finished lunch and was sunbathing while Mrs. Johnson and Ito scrubbed the kitchen floor. At an informal get-together that evening it was decided that the Johnson kids and I would manage the truck garden. “Every hand, no matter how little, doing a job!” Auntie Mame said, while the others would busy themselves in intellectual pursuits until the heavy equipment arrived.
Clearing the vegetable garden was backbreaking work. The soil was full of big rocks, the sun was blistering, and within a week I turned as dark as Carver and Aida Ward Johnson. Mr. Johnson stayed with us and did the really heavy work. Once Sid, the anarchist, came out and watched for a while. He said that it wasn’t fair for us to be doing all the work and we ought to go on strike.
Meanwhile the two able-bodied seamen and the girl from Bennington discovered a springfed swimming hole with a real sand bottom and the adults mostly amused themselves with nude bathing, fashionable in Russia at the time, while we planted the truck garden. Otherwise the whole farm stood paralyzed waiting for the equipment.
Mrs. Johnson and Ito worked in the kitchen fro
m six every morning until midnight. Mr. Johnson and we kids lent a hand whenever we thought about it, but otherwise they worked alone. Her meals were always superb, but finally she reached the bottom of the larder.
“Mistah Mahkov,” she said to Boris, (it was a general rule that first names were to be used, but somehow Mrs. Johnson and her family could never bring themselves to that intimacy), “they’s no more eggs, no more flour, no more condensed milk, no more coffee and no more cans of nothin’. All the things Mrs. Burnside ordered from New York and London has been et.”
A general meeting was called and there was a lot of talking and arguing and doctrine. Auntie Mame finally got the floor and said, “but it was my distinct understanding that we were to raise our own food and be independent of the outside world.” Dr. Whipple took the pipe out of his mouth and backed her up.
“In all, ah, history it has been, ah, definitely proven that any cooperative, ah, movement that begins to, ah, weaken, that begins to spend money with outsiders is, ah, doomed.” He bit his pipe dramatically. There was a lot of rowing and discussion and finally it was put to a vote. The Independent Spirit was high in those early days and the Group decided that, since there was no money anyway, it would be a bad idea to go out and buy food.
“Very well,” Mrs. Johnson said calmly, “I jes’ wanted to know.”
Dinner that night was toasted stale bread; stale crackers; stale bridge cookies in the shape of spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs; a few slivers of canned tongue and some canned fruit salad. There was no breakfast the next morning and no lunch. Auntie Mame slept later than usual the next day and when she came downstairs in her Manchurian robe, she was confronted by thirty hungry colonists, more quarrelsome than usual. There was no dinner that night, although Mr. Johnson took us kids in to Psplat on the truck and bought us borscht.
Around the World With Auntie Mame Page 20
