ABSTRACT
Soviet Russia is neither the heaven of which the Red communist brays so loudly (and all the more confidently if he himself has never been to Russia) nor is it the hell which some die-hard capitalistic journals would have us believe. Rather is it a curious sort of purgatory, with an indescribable joyless atmosphere about it, different from that in any civilized country. This atmosphere begins to make itself felt from the first moment when one steps on board a Soviet ship at London Bridge, and the sailor who eagerly carries one’s baggage to the allotted cabin refuses, sadly but firmly, to accept a tip, remarking “nye pologayet” i.e. “we don’t have that sort of thing.”
