right in saying that the bulk of the matches used in the north
came from factories in Finland. In these new Bolshevik
matches neither wood nor paraffin is used. Waste paper is a
substitute for one, and the grease that is left after cleaning
wool is a substitute for the other. The little man, Berg,
secretary of the Presidium of the Council of Public
Economy, gave me a packet of his matches. They are like
the matches in a folding cover that used to be common in
Paris. You break off a match before striking it. They strike
and burn better than any matches I have ever bought in
Russia, and I do not see why they should not be made in
England, where we have to import all the materials of which
ordinary matches are made. I told Berg I should try to
patent them and so turn myself into a capitalist. Another
Communist, who was listening, laughed, and said that most
fortunes were founded in just such a fraudulent way.


Then there was Steklov of the Izvestia, Madame
Kollontai, and a lot of other people whose
names I do not remember. Little Bucharin, the editor of
Pravda and one of the most interesting talkers in Moscow,
who is ready to discuss any philosophy you like, from
Berkeley and Locke down to Bergson and William James,
trotted up and shook hands. Suddenly a most unexpected
figure limped through the door. This was the lame Eliava of
the Vologda Soviet, who came up in great surprise at seeing
me again, and reminded me how Radek and I, hungry from
Moscow, astonished the hotel of the Golden Anchor by
eating fifteen eggs apiece, when we came to Vologda last