in no way different from the small suburban houses of
well-to-do members of the "intelligentsia" which we already had the
opportunity of visiting. Alone the huge agglomeration of books on long
shelves--quite unusual for an American home--and the beautiful
pictures on the walls revealed that the owners of this house had a
passion for literature and an artistic taste which could enable them
to discriminate between works of genuine art and the militant
flatness, which under the mask of innovationism has impertinently
seized the key positions in American art. There were canvasses and
drawings which not only prompted one to wonder on passing by, but
which induced a desire to stop, to admire and to think.

The people who had gathered at the house were interesting too--journalists
who had traveled a great deal, who had witnessed many events, who were
able to think. A unionist leader was also present--an observing,
aggressive, skeptical man.

At the outset--as it is the custom in the United States--the host
showed us around his house. The five of us were jammed in for quite a
while on the second floor in the tiny bedrooms of his two sons. David,
the eldest, a fair-haired, healthy looking youngster, had his little
room in a state of complete disorder. The radio was roaring, the gay
green parakeets were screaming. Some radio parts together with books,
screwdrivers, tubes of glue, bookbinders and knives were heaped on the
table. The little occupant, apparently ready to go to bed, was sitting
on his bed without his shirt and was reading something. At the sight
of strangers he felt bashful, grabbed his shirt, started putting it on
and when his head eventually emerged through its collar, his face and
his ears were flushed and his brow pearled with sweat. However, having
dressed, he immediately regained his composure and, as though nothing
had happened, stretched out his hand with earnest poise. David--he
introduced himself.

His younger brother, Mikey, had an artistic temperament. His table was
all smeared with water-colors and pictures were hanging on the
walls--fantastic tanks, ships, sinister profiles of Indians,
noble-featured cowboys wearing hats of incredible dimensions. Mikey
was evidently successful in this hobby of his and, after looking at
his drawings, one could tell him without false flattery that he was an
artist of the realist school and that many of his pictures were more
accurate and perfect as to form than whatev