She led me to a seat and said rapidly in a voice that sounded like fine tinkling glass: "Why did you refuse to kiss my hand? Do you think it is degrading for a Communist to kiss a lady's hand?" She spoke lovely English.
"No, Tovarish—"
"Please don't call me by that disgusting name," she interrupted. "I am a barishna."
"Well, Barishna, then, if that is your preference, I did not kiss your hand simply because I don't know how to do it well. Nobody I know kisses hands in America."
The Barishna conceded an indulgent smile. "Tell me," she said, "do you like our Russia—Moscow and Petrograd?" I said that I did.
"As much as London and Paris and Berlin?" she asked.
I said, "More than London and Berlin. But I do not know Paris."
"I believe you," she said. "I know London and Paris and Berlin, but I love Petrograd more. Now there is no Petrograd." "But you have Moscow. Moscow is more beautiful," I said. "Oh, but Petrograd was magnificent before the revolution." I could never imagine Petrograd being more beautiful than Moscow, but so many Russians said it was.
Said the barishna, "I tell you, I don't like the foreign Communists. You come here to gaze at us as if we were strange animals in a zoo, to mock at and insult us in our distress. That is hateful."
"Barishna," I said, "I don't understand. What do you mean? The foreign Communists come here bringing greetings from the workers abroad to the workers of Russia. They do not come here to mock and insult, but to praise and learn about the revolution."