enameled, inlaid with gold, and upholstered with the finest of silk.
The ball-room presented a truly revolutionary scene. Its former aristocratic revellers were gone and the useful workers were come in their stead to enjoy themselves. Many of the peasant girls, who had come in from the surrounding villages, were dressed in their gay national costumes. Across the walls were strung great red banners bearing revolutionary watchwords. In front, on the lawn, stood an enormous bust of Karl Marx, flanked by several more of Engels, Liebknecht, and other fighters in the cause. I wondered what the assembled workers thought of it all. Here just a few years ago they were talking in whispers of the masters in the big mansion on the hill and gazing respectfully from afar at their brilliantly lighted festivities. But now they had risen up, driven away these masters, divided up their lands, and were using the sacred ball-room for their own enjoyment. To me the whole incident seemed to bring the revolution very close.
As always with Russian working class concerts, the program was excellent. The artists—a pianist, a singer, and a violinist from Moscow—were superior performers. The work of the pianist particularly interested me. He interspersed his playing with short talks explaining the theory, evolution, history, and technique of music. The hearers were entranced. On that beautiful Sunday afternoon, with all outdoors calling to them, they sat through three hours of classical and folk music and enjoyed every minute of it. The concert wound up by everybody singing "The Internationale."
Tired out, but delighted beyond measure by our experience at the rest home, our party reached Moscow at midnight—after an automobile drive at the breakneck pace habitual to Russian chauffeurs.
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