Текст книги "Little Golden America"

Автор книги: Евгений Петров

Соавторы: Илья Ильф
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Mr. Ripley's little house is not an advertising house. It is a scientific house. Here the grey-haired gentleman, day in and day out, month in and month out, calculates the cost of exploiting this or that electric appliance. By the side of each, one of them hangs a meter. Mr. Ripley carries on experiments and tests the new machines from the point of view of economy. Then he writes a book. He is an author. And in that book there are no chauvinistic cries to the effect that the products of General Electric are better than the products of Westinghouse. On the contrary, when we asked Mr. Ripley whether Westinghouse refrigerators are good, he told us that they are very good. In his book he explains how convenient it is to use electricity in everyday life, and proves with the aid of authentic figures that electricity is cheaper than gas, oil, and coal. In his book there is precise information about the cost of an electric stove per hour, per day, per week, and per month. In conclusion he informs you that the exploitation of the entire electric house costs seven dollars a week. He knows well that this is the best method of persuading the consumer.

Contemporary American technique is incomparably higher than American social conditions—that of a capitalist society. While that technique produces ideal things which make life easier, social conditions do not let the American earn enough money to buy these things.

Deferred payment is the foundation of American trade. All things in the home of an American are bought on the instalment system:" the stove on which he cooks, the furniture on which he sits, the vacuum cleaner with which he cleans his rooms, the house itself in which he lives—everything is acquired on the instalment system. For all this he must pay money over a score of years. Essentially, neither the house nor the furniture nor the wonderful gadgets of an almost ideal life belong to him. The law is very strict. If out of a hundred payments he makes ninety-nine and does not have enough money to make the hundredth payment, the thing he is paying for will be taken away. For the vast majority, property is a fiction. Everything, even the bed on which this desperate optimist and enthusiastic defender of property sleeps, belongs not to him but to the industrial company or to the bank. It is enough for a. man to lose his job, and the very next day he begins to understand clearly that he is no kind of proprietor at all, but the most ordinary slave, like a Negro, only white in colour.

Yet it is impossible to refrain from buying.

A polite ringing of the door-bell and in the room appears an utter stranger. Without wasting time on any introductory speeches, the visitor says:

"I have come here to place a new electric stove in your kitchen."

"But I already have a gas stove," replies the astonished proprietor of the little house, the washing machine, and the standardized furniture, which he must still pay for over many years.

"The electric stove is much better and more economical. However, I'm not going to argue with you. I will install it and I shall return in a month. If you don't like it, I will take it away. But if you like it, the terms are very easy: twenty-five dollars the first month, and then . . ."

He installs the stove. In a month the master of the house has had time to assure himself that the stove is really remarkable. He is already accustomed to it and cannot part with it. He signs a new agreement and begins to feel as rich as Rockefeller.

You will agree that this is much more convincing than an electric sign.

It would seem that in the life of the average American—or, in other words, of the American who has a job—there must come the moment when he will pay up all his debts and really become a proprietor. But that is not so easy. His automobile has become old. The firm offers him a new excellent model. The firm takes the old machine back for a hundred dollars, and for the remaining five hundred it gives him wonderfully easy terms: the first month so many dollars, and then .. .

Then the happy owner somehow loses his job, and his new automobile, with its two signals, electric lighter and radio set, is returned to its real owner, the finance company which gave him the easy terms.

That's the trouble! They don't sell him trash, but really fine things. In recent years the production of objects of mass consumption has reached perfection in America. Well, now, how can you restrain yourself and refrain from buying a new vacuum cleaner in spite of the fact that the old one is good enough to use for another ten years?

Not long ago in New York a new method of advertising was begun.

Into the apartment of a New Yorker who has been through the mill and knows all the ropes enters a man and says :

"Hello. I am a chef. I want to cook a good nourishing dinner for you and your guests—with my groceries."

Noticing a sardonic smile on the face of the New Yorker, the newcomer adds hastily :

"It will not cost you a single cent. I make only two conditions. In the first place, the dinner must be cooked in my pots, which I will bring with me, and, in the second place, you must invite no fewer than seven ladies to the dinner."

On the appointed day the chef comes with his pots and prepares a palatable dinner. Toward the end of the banquet he solemnly appears in the dining-room, asks whether the guests are satisfied with the dinner, and writes down the addresses of the women present. Everybody is delighted with the dinner. The chef modestly tells them that a dinner like that can be cooked by any housewife, if she will only use his special pots. The entire company goes into the kitchen and examines the pots. Every one of them is divided into three sections. They have some kind of special bottom which presumably aids the preservation of vitamins. However, there is very little untruth here. The pots are really good, and the conditions of purchase are easy. The next day the chef goes to the various addresses and closes his deals. The enchanted housewives purchase full sets of pots. Again—deferred payments. The pots are actually better than the old. But it is no easier to live. On the contrary, it is harder, because there are additional debts.

No! Electric signs and newspaper advertisements are merely the preparatory work.

Every year in America an interesting event occurs. A building company, having united with the society of architects and electric firms, builds a house. It is something like Mr. Ripley's house. But there, in addition to the electric novelties, everything is a novelty—the architecture, the building materials, the furniture, even the yard. Having built this house, the entrepreneurs, consolidating on a commercial basis, announce a national competition for the description of this house. Any citizen of the United States is free to describe this house, in verse or in prose. The author of the best description receives the best-described house as his premium. This event does not fail to arouse tremendous interest. The last time the house was received by a poor sixteen-year-old girl. The newspapers were glad to print her biography and portrait. She was offered a job in the advertising department of a large enterprise—but the girl is, of course, beside the point. The point is that, carried away by her startling happiness, the readers were carried away at the same time with projects for perfecting their own lives. In the evenings fathers of families put on their spectacles and, pencil in hand, calculated that the purchase of such a house on very easy terms was not such a terrible thing at all: the first payment would come to so many dollars, and then ...

Leaving the hospitable Mr. Ripley, we thanked him and in farewell we asked:

"Now you have lost several hours because of us. You knew very well that we would not buy a refrigerator or a stove, didn't you?"

"But maybe some day you will write about my little house," replied the grey-haired, pink-cheeked gentleman. " Good publicity is never wasted."

14 America Cannot Be Caught Napping

WHEN WE had driven thirty miles away from Schenectady, Mrs. Adams said to her husband:

"It's getting cold; put on your hat."

Mr. Adams fidgeted for some time, rose a little and searched his seat with his hands. Then, groaning, he bent over and began to look under his feet. Finally he turned to us.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a tearful voice, "will you look and see whether my hat is back there?"

There was no hat.

Mrs. Adams drew up to the side. We got out of the machine and began to search systematically. We examined the baggage rack, we opened all the suitcases. Mr. Adams even slapped his pockets. The hat had disappeared.

"And yet," remarked Mr. Adams, "I remember quite distinctly that I had a hat."

"Do you really remember it?" asked his wife with a smile that made Mr. Adams quake. "What an excellent memory!"

"It is quite incomprehensible!" muttered Mr. Adams. "An excellent hat. . ."

"You forgot your hat in Schenectady!" exclaimed his wife.

"But, Becky, Becky, don't talk like that—forgot in Schenectady! Oh, no! It hurts me to hear you say that I forgot my hat in Schenectady."

"Well, then, where is it?"

"No. Becky, seriously, how can I tell you where it is?"

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to mop his head with it.

"What is this?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"This is a handkerchief, Becky!"

"This is not a handkerchief. This is a napkin. Let me have it. That's just what it is—a napkin with the initials of the hotel. How did it get into your pocket? "

Mr. Adams squirmed. He stood beside the machine, the collar of his coat turned up, and impatiently stood first on one foot, then on the other. Drops of rain fell on his bald head.

We began to consider the newly arisen situation with some heat. We decided that we had seen the hat for the last time in the hotel restaurant. It lay on a chair beside Mr. Adams. During luncheon there was a great argument about the Italo-Abyssinian War.

"Evidently it was then that you shoved the napkin into your pocket instead of your handkerchief!" Mrs. Adams conjectured.

"Ach, Becky, you must not talk like that—put a napkin in my pocket! No, no, no!It is cruel of you to talk like that!"

"What shall we do, then? Go back to Schenectady to get your hat?"

"No, gentlemen," said Mr. Adams, who by this time had managed to recover from the shock, " that would be a silly thing to do—to return to Schenectady. Would it be a wise thing to do? My hat cost four dollars in 1930, plus cleaning in 1933, fifty cents: altogether, four dollars and fifty cents."

Mr. Adams took a pencil and a notebook out of his pocket and began to calculate.

"In its present condition my hat is worth no more than a dollar-fifty. It is sixty miles to Schenectady and back. Our car makes on an average of sixteen—well, let us say, fifteen—miles per gallon of petrol. Altogether we would have to spend four gallons at sixteen cents per gallon; total, sixty-four cents. Now we must take into consideration the amortization of the automobile, expenses for oil and grease. Seriously, it would be silly to return to Schenectady for my hat."

Mrs. Adams suggested that we return the napkin by mail, asking the management of the hotel to send the hat to General Delivery, say in Detroit, where we would be two days later.

While we were lunching at a small cafe in the next little town, which was either Springfield or Geneva, Mr. Adams went to the post office. He soon returned with the proud and independent air of a man who had fulfilled his duty.

This was the third day of our journey. The month in New York had brought many impressions, but the more we saw of people and things the less we understood America. We tried to generalize. Scores of times we exclaimed:

"Americans are as naive as children!"

"Americans are excellent workers!"

"Americans are sanctimonious!"

"Americans are a great nation!"

"Americans are stingy!"

"Americans are senselessly generous!"

"Americans are radical!"

"Americans are stupid, conservative, hopeless!"

"There will never be a revolution in America!"

"There will be a revolution in America within a few days!"

It was an awful muddle from which we wanted to extricate ourselves as soon as possible. And then gradually this deliverance began. One after the other various phases of American life, which had hitherto been hidden in the clatter and tinsel of New York, began to disclose themselves to us.

We knew. There was no need to hurry. It was too soon to generalize. First of all, we must see as much as possible.

We glided over the country, as over the chapters of a long, entertaining novel, repressing in ourselves the legitimate desire of the impatient reader to take a look at the last page. And it became clear to us: the main thing was order and system.

In the electric house of Mr. Ripley we understood the meaning of publicity. Let us call it advertising. It did not desert us for a single minute. It dogged our footsteps.

It so happened that for about five minutes we did not run across a single advertisement on either side of the road. This was so surprising that one of us exclaimed over it:

"Bill-boards have disappeared. Look: here are fields, trees, but no bill-boards!"

But the rash speaker was punished for his lack of faith in the power of American publicity. He had scarcely pronounced the last word of his sentence when from around the curve droves of large and small advertisements flew to greet our machine.

No! Americans cannot be caught napping!

Advertisements have penetrated American life to such an extent that, if upon waking some amazing morning Americans were to find all advertisements gone, the majority of them would be in the most desperate of plights. They would not know:

What cigarettes to smoke?

In what store to buy ready-made clothes?

Which cooling drink best quenches thirst—Coca-Cola or ginger ale?

Which whisky to drink—White Horse or Johnny Walker?

Which petrol to buy—Shell or Standard Oil?

Which god to worship—the Baptist or the Presbyterian?

It would be utterly impossible to decide whether it was worth while to chew gum!

Or which film was remarkable and which simply a work of genius!

Whether one should enlist in the Navy!

Whether the climate of California is beneficial or harmful?

In short, without advertisements, the devil alone knows what might happen!

Life would become incredibly complex. One would have to think for oneself at every step.

No, it is much easier with advertisements. Americans don't have to think about anything. The large business houses do the thinking for them.

There's no use bothering your head when selecting a cooling drink.

Drink "Coca-Cola!" Drink "Coca-Cola!"

"Coca-Cola" refreshes the dry throat!

"Coca-Cola" stimulates the nervous system!

"Coca-Cola" benefits the organism and the fatherland!

In brief, he who drinks " Coca-Cola" will be well off!

The average American, despite his outward show of activity, is really a passive person by nature. He must have everything presented to him in finished form, like a spoiled husband. Tell him which drink is the best, and he will drink it. Tell him which political party suits him best, and he will vote for it. Tell him which god is the true god, and he will worship him. But one thing you must not make him do. You must not make him think after working hours. He doesn't like it, and he is not used to it. And if you want him to believe your words you must repeat them as often as possible. This is the foundation on which is built a considerable portion of American advertising, political as well as commercial and every other kind.

And everywhere you go an advertisement lies in wait for you: at home and while calling, on the street and on the highway, in the taxi, in the subway, on the train, in the airplane, in the ambulance, everywhere!

We were still aboard the Normandie in the harbour of New York, when two objects attracted our attention. One of them was small, greenish—the Statue of Liberty. But the other was huge and impudent– an advertising. shield propagandizing Wrigley's Chewing Gum – a chewing gum! From that moment on the flat green little mug with its huge megaphone, drawn on the advertisement, pursued us all through America, arguing, pleading, persuading, begging, demanding that we chew Wrigley's—the aromatic, inimitable, first-class gum.

The first month we resisted it. We drank no "Coca-Cola." We held out almost to the end of our journey. A few more days and we would be on the ocean, out of danger. Yet the advertisement won out. We could not hold out, but succumbed to that drink. We can testify truthfully: Yes, Coca-Cola really does refresh the throat, stimulates the nerves, soothes health disturbances, softens the torments of the soul, and makes a man a genius like Leo Tolstoy. We defy ourselves not to say that, after it has been driven into our heads for three months, every day, every hour, and every minute.

Even more frightful, more insistent, and more screaming is the advertisement of cigarettes. "Chesterfield," "Camel," "Lucky Strike," and other tobacco products are advertised with a hysteria which can be equalled only in the dances of the dervishes or at the celebration of "Shakhsei-Vakhsei," which no longer exists, and the participants of which were wont to stab each other with daggers in sheer abandon and drench themselves in blood for the glory of their divinity. All through the night over America flame the electric inscriptions and all through the day the eyes are stabbed with the coloured bill-boards: "The best in the world! Toasted cigarettes! They bring luck! The best in the solar system!"

As a matter of fact, the more widespread the advertising the more trivial the object designated in it. Only the sale of utter trifles can pay for this mad advertising. The houses of America, the roads, fields, and trees are mutilated by the boresome bill-boards. It is the purchaser who pays for these bill-boards. We were told that the five-cent bottle of "Coca-Cola" costs the manufacturer one cent, but that three cents are spent on advertising it. Where the fifth cent goes there is no need to say. That is quite clear.

The manufacturers of the remarkable and useful objects of technique and comfort with which America abounds cannot advertise their merchandise with the abandon indulged in by some trashy chewing gum or some brown whisky with a strong drug-store odour and utterly repellent taste.

Once, passing through a little town, we saw behind a wire grating a white plaster-of-Paris horse standing on green grass among the trees. At first we thought this was a monument to the unknown horse which heroically fell in a war between the North and the South for the liberation of the Negroes. Alas, no! This horse with the inspired eyes silently reminds those who drive by of the existence of that inimitable whisky, White Horse, which fortifies the soul, refreshes the brain, feeds learning to youths and brings delights to the old. More detailed information about this truly miraculous drink the consumer can find in the "White Tavern," located right there in the garden. Here he can learn that one can get drunk on this whisky in five minutes, that the wife of him who drinks it will never deceive him, and that his children will grow up without any mishaps and will even find good jobs.

The peculiarity of this type of advertising consists of grotesque exaggerations calculated to bring out a smile in the purchaser. It is important that he should read the advertisement. That is sufficient. In due time it will act upon him like a slow Oriental poison.

On the road we happened to notice a wandering circus wagon with gilt trimmings. Beside it, right on the highway, danced two large penguins and distributed Christmas candy to children. Seeing our machine, the penguins raced after it on roller coasters. They gave each of us a long stick of candy, although we had long since outgrown our childhood. Deeply moved, we drove on, but when we began to examine the gift, we saw that it had nothing to do with Christmas of with love of children. On the candy was printed the advertisement of the Shell Company, which sells petrol.

The advertisement spoiled the journey somewhat. No matter where the traveller's glance is directed, he will inevitably stumble on some invitation, demand, insistent reminder.

"If you want your words to be believed, repeat them as often as possible." In the East, in a small town we passed, all the telegraph poles of the main street were pasted over with exactly the same placards– a portrait of a minor Republican candidate for Congress.

Not only clothes, candidates, drinks, and petrol are advertised, but entire cities. On the road you will pass a colossal bill-board twenty times the size of an automobile. The city of Carlsbad, state of New Mexico, says of itself:

"Twenty-three miles to Carlsbad. Good roads. Famous mineral springs [the American might really-think that this was the real Karlsbad], good churches, theatres [evidently they are thinking of two motion-picture theatres showing gangster pictures]. Free beach. Fine hotels. Drive to Carlsbad!"

The city is interested in having the traveller drive into it. Even if he is not enticed by the famous springs, he will undoubtedly buy a little petrol on the way or will dine in the city. Thus, a few dollars will be shown to the benefit of Carlsbad tradesmen. It is at least some small benefit. Moreover, the traveller might ever! look into one of Carlsbad's good churches. Then God, too, will be pleased.

Church people are not far behind laymen. Neon signs are alight all night in America, informing the parishioners about entertainments of spiritual and unspiritual character awaiting them in the temples of worship. One church attracts with a school choir, another with an hour devoted to social service work. To that is added a sentence right out of the vocabulary of a grocery store: " Come in! You will be satisfied with our service!"

We have already remarked that the word "publicity" has a broad meaning. It is not only direct advertising, but also every kind of mention of the advertised object. When, let us say, publicity is arranged for some actor, then even the notice in the newspapers that he recently had a successful operation and that he is now convalescing is regarded as advertising. One American told us with a good deal of envy in his voice that the Lord God has excellent publicity in the United States. Fifty thousand priests talk about him every day.

There is still another form of advertising. In a certain sense it is scientific and educational. Suddenly along the road appears a series of advertising placards stretched out for several miles. It is something in the nature of a " Victorine." The same kind of yellow boards with black letters ask questions of the travellers. Some hundred feet later they themselves answer these questions. Bible texts, anecdotes, and various information of a geographical nature are cited. Finally, on exactly the same kind of yellow board from which the bored traveller hopes to derive a few more bits of useful information, he finds the name of the warmly recommended shaving soap, and realizes with disgust that that name is now lodged in his memory for the rest of his life.

No matter where the American looks—forward, backward, to the right, or to the left—he sees announcements. Even when he raises his eyes to the sky he notices an advertisement. Airplanes deftly inscribe on the blue heavens words which are publicity for someone or for something.

Our grey car rolled farther and farther across the State of New York.

"Stop!" Mr. Adams suddenly shouted. "You must see it and write it down in your notebooks."

The machine stopped.

We saw quite a large yellow bill-board inspired by no mere commercial idea. Some American philosopher, with the aid of a press agency, had placed on the road the following declaration: "Revolution is a form of government possible only abroad."

Mr. Adams gloated.

"No, gentlemen," he said, in his joy forgetting about his hat, "you simply don't understand what is advertising in America. The American is accustomed to believe in advertisements. You must understand that. Revolution is simply impossible in our country. You are told that on a highway as infallible truth by this press agency. Yes, yes! No use arguing! The agency knows exactly what it says!"

Here was the very original and daring affirmation that revolution is "a form of government." On the other hand, the very fact of the appearance of such a bill-board would indicate that there are people in America whom it is necessary to persuade that there can be no revolution in America.

"When you see twenty-five out of every thirty-five columns of a Sunday newspaper occupied with advertisements, don't think that no one reads them. It would be foolish to think that. There is no advertisement that does not have its reader!"

Toward evening we arrived at Niagara Falls.

Drenched with spray, we gazed for a long time at the Falls, which from the height of a skyscraper dropped thousands of tons of water that had not yet been poured into little bottles to be sold as the most refreshing, the most healthful drink, of benefit to the thyroid gland, which aids in the study of mathematics and helps to consummate successful deals on the stock exchange.

Mr. Adams was shouting, but the noise of the waterfall drowned out his voice.

In the evening, departing from the city of Niagara, Mrs. Adams stopped the automobile at the kerb in order to find out about the road to Cleveland, which was on our way to Detroit. The street was deserted, not counting two elderly men, workmen in appearance, who stood by a street lamp. Mr. Adams was still lowering the window on his side, when they ran up to the machine, pushing each other aside, in order to find out as soon as possible what we wanted. Mr. Adams asked about the road to Cleveland. They began to talk together. For a while we could not understand anything, but one of them finally took the initiative, pushed his companion aside and began to explain to us:

"My God! The road to Cleveland!" He spoke with ardour. " Why, I was born in Cleveland! I should certainly know the road to Cleveland ! Why, of course! You may rely on me! The road to Cleveland! You certainly are lucky that you ran into me"!"

He was so happy to help us, explained with such enthusiasm where we were supposed to turn to the right and where to the left and where we could buy supper cheaply, that his companion nearly wept with envy. All along he tried to enter into the conversation, but the native of Cleveland would not let him make a peep. He would not even let Mr. Adams say a word. He was sorry to see us go. He was ready to go with us to Cleveland itself, just to make sure that we would not get off the road. They finally saw us off with mighty "good nights," as if we were their kinsmen departing for the wars.

15 Dearborn

OUR CAR drove triumphantly into the very place where it had been manufactured only a few months before, into the city of Dearborn, the centre of Ford's automobile industry. Good God! How many mouse-coloured cars we saw here! They stood aside, waiting for their masters, or rolled along the wide concrete alleys of Dearborn Park, or quite new, just off the assembly line, they rested on passing trucks. Yet we had thought we bought an automobile, unique and inimitable in colour! True, on the road we had already met a number of little automobiles of the same mouse colour, but we had comforted ourselves with the thought that those were shades of the same colour, different shades, or they did not have the same flowing lines as ours, and did not really resemble it as two drops of water are alike. We were determined in our belief that our automobile was unique. Then suddenly this blow!

If cities could select their weather as man selects his necktie to match his socks, Dearborn would have undoubtedly selected, to match its two-storied brick houses, an inclement day with a greyish-yellow stripe of rain. The day was awful. A cold mist was in the air, covering with its repulsive sheen the roofs and sides of automobiles and the low buildings on Michigan Avenue, which connects Dearborn with Detroit. Through the rain could be seen drug-store signs lighted since early morning.

"On just such a day," said Mr. Adams, turning to us, "a certain gentleman, as Dickens tells us, put on his top-hat as usual and departed for his office. I must tell you that the business affairs of this gentleman were in excellent order. He had a beautiful wife, blue-eyed children, and he was making a lot of money. That was evident at least from the fact that he wore a top-hat. Not every man in England goes to work in a silk hat. Yet suddenly, one day, while passing the bridge across the Thames, the gentleman silently jumped into the water and drowned. Gentlemen, you must understand this: A happy man on the way to his office throws himself into the water! A gentleman in a top-hat flings himself into the Thames! Don't you think that in Dearborn one is also inclined to put on his top-hat ?"

The street came to an end. From the height of the embankment could be seen a sombre industrial vista. The signal bells of engines coursing between shops rang out. A large steamship glided down the canal, whistling, going toward the middle of the creek. In brief, here we saw everything that distinguishes an industrial district from a kindergarten– a lot of smoke, steam, clatter, few smiles and little happy chatter. Here one sensed a special kind of seriousness, as in a theatre of military action in the region of the front-line trenches. Somewhere near by people participate in something significant—the manufacture of automobiles.

While Mr. Adams and Mr. Grozny, who was not at all a mister, but was Comrade Grozny, representative of our Avtostroi in Dearborn, were getting permission for us to visit the factory we stood in a hall of the information bureau and examined the new model Ford on the hardwood floor. In the hall it seemed larger than on the street. It seemed incredible that Ford's factories produce each day seven thousand such complicated and beautiful machines.