Part 2
This is the man of whom Maxim Gorky wrote, that one could see martyrdom crystallised in his eyes. He performs his arduous task, suffering over it, but with the conviction that he is helping towards an ultimate reign of peace and calm, towards which end every means is justified. This man sleeps in a narrow bed behind a curtain in his “bureau,” has few friends, and cares for no women, but he is kind to children, and considerate towards his fellow-workers when they are overworked or ill.
It is useless to try to tell any of Kameneff’s stories, they require his individuality, and would lose in repeating. I only felt that it was a great waste that his audience should consist only of us two, when so many might have been enthralled.
AUGUST 29TH.
When I came down from breakfast I found the two men sitting over a fire. I accused them of “frowsting,” and carried them out to the garden, where Kameneff restarted his unconcluded tale of the Revolution, until we could bear the cold no more, so he finished it indoors in front of the fire. It is a marvellous narrative, pray God I may never forget it.
At 2.30, the afternoon having mended, we started off in an open car for the south of the island. On a hill overlooking the sea, with a lonely beach, we stopped, and made a long arduous descent. It was heavenly on the undulating beach of tiny rounded pebbles by the sea edge. Sydney and I paddled and Kameneff, who watched us, became thoroughly laughing and happy. When Sydney and I sat down on the beach and buried our feet in the pebbles, Kameneff began to write verses to me on the back of a five pound note.
I don’t know what happened to the bank note, but Kameneff wrote four lines, and Sydney the other four, in French. Kameneff likened me to Venus, but Sydney was flippant, and said that the part of me that he liked best was my feet!
The scenery and the climb recalled Capri, but a faded Capri, without colour. Nevertheless, one recalled the feeling of joy that one had at Capri, and Kameneff was much impressed by the beauty and the peace of it, and said how distant politics seemed, and how non-existent Mr. Lloyd George!
After awhile we regretfully went on, stopping only for a tea-picnic on a common by a lonely road.
SEPTEMBER 2ND. _Brede Place._
I have been here since Monday. Papa is away in Ireland fishing, Mamma is here and believes that I am still going yachting and that a telegram will call me away at any minute. As no wire has yet come and I cannot bear the suspense, I have decided to go up to London for the day, and shall go straight to Kameneff’s office from the station so that I shall know soon whether we start for Russia on Saturday or not. If we do I shall not come back here.
I wonder what it will be. To-night, when I said good night to him, Dick clung to me more even than usual, and we talked together for a long time. He held me tight. I was kneeling on the ground beside his bed with my arms round him. He said that he could not bear to let me go to-morrow, and that he would tie me up to a wall. He was so very sweet, and I felt a great reluctance at leaving him.
SEPTEMBER 3RD.
I went up to London and drove straight to the Bolshevik office in Bond Street, and left my luggage waiting outside in the taxi. Unlike the previous occasion, I was not shown straight in to Kameneff. I sat down and waited in the outer room which was full of men, six or seven of them, and they began discussing me in Italian, French, German and Russian! I tried to look dignified and aloof, and was, I am sure, a great failure as a Bolshevik. All my English conventional breeding took hold of me. Then later Peter came to fetch me, thinking that I had finished my interview, and then, having him to talk to, I felt better. Later an eighth man appeared with a number of papers and the garrulous crowd became of a sudden serious, placed themselves round a table, and seemed to hold a sort of council.
At this moment Klyschko passed by the open door, and espying me called Peter and me into his room to wait. I asked him why there were so many people in the other room, but he only shrugged his shoulders.
At last I was told that both Kameneff and Krassin wanted to see me, and I was shown into Krassin’s office. I learnt in a moment what I had feared, that our journey is not for to-morrow. Moscow has answered his application too late. There was just a faint chance left, for a telegram from Moscow was being deciphered at that moment, but it was almost too slight to count upon.
Krassin asked if he might bring his wife and daughters to the studio at 4 o’clock, and then Kameneff took me up to his office. He held out real hopes of starting next week.
As soon as Krassin and his very attractive family, but slightly alarming wife, had left, I went to see X---- whom I thought was in a position to get the visa I want for Reval. My passport is all in order to Stockholm, but Klyschko has failed to get the Esthonian visa, because it is necessary to get the Foreign Office approval to do so.
After three-quarters of an hour’s talk with X---- I realised that it was hopeless; he merely shared the general prejudice. It confirms me in my decision not to take any one else into my confidence, except Sydney and S---- L----. They are the only two who have got the spirit to understand.
But how I want that Esthonian visa--it is worth an effort to get it, instead of starting with an uncertainty.
X---- explained to me at great length, and kindly, why he did not want me to go. He said that he believed a complete change of Government policy was impending, which would make my position in Russia untenable, and moreover that I should be in great danger of being shot as a spy. He told me what he thought of Lenin and Trotsky (it seemed very much what other people think), he said that Kameneff was no better than the rest, and that a Russian was capable of turning even upon a friend. Finally he asked me _why_ I wanted to go? I claimed an artist’s zeal in wishing to do a bust of Lenin and to bring his head back in my arms!
He then wanted to know why “they” wanted to take me? to which I could give no clear answer, having wondered somewhat myself. He then tried to draw me on the subject of Bolshevism, and asked me: “What do you gather is the final and ultimate object of the Bolsheviks?”
It was a difficult question--I thought for a moment, and then I said: “They are very great idealists; it may be an unpractical and unworkable idealism, but that does not alter it.”
He was surprised at this, and said in a low voice, almost more to himself than to me: “Are they as clever as that”--by which I suppose he meant, had they really been clever enough to take me in!
At the end of it all I said to him: “You have seen in the papers that H. G. Wells is going to Russia?”
He said that Wells could look after himself. I claimed to be equally fit to do so, to which he replied: “So you still want to go?”
I explained that I was prepared for anything. He seemed surprised, but practically assented to try and get my passport put in order for me, and asked me to go and see him again next week.
I got back in time to dine with Kameneff at “Canuto’s.” After dinner, it being a lovely warm evening, we took an open taxi, and I suggested driving to Hampstead Heath. Arrived there, we left the taxi on the main road, whilst we went on foot off a side road on to a rough sandy track, quite away from people and lights.
On a bank I spread my white fur coat, and we sat there for an hour or more. It was very beautiful. The tall pine stems stood out against the glowing sky of distant, flaring London. The place was full of depth and distance, and night mystery. I talked to Kameneff about my conversation with a friend, who was a serious, intelligent man, and told him of his opinion that I should be in danger of my life. I added that I was prepared to take the risk, but that I should regret my children being orphans. Kameneff answered me half amused, half irritated.
He said it was such nonsense that he felt a great desire to start immediately, so as to show me the truth, and so that I might come back and prove to all and sundry how ignorant they are of real conditions.
He considered that no matter _what_ line the Government adopted here (and he was prepared for Lloyd George to do anything at any moment), it would not affect me. I should be regarded purely as an artist, international and non-political.
Then laughing, he said that he would have me put against a wall, arms crossed on breast (not blindfolded, that was a convention of the aristocrats), with a firing party before me, and then he would save me at the last moment. Then I should have lived through every thrill, and my friends would not be disappointed.
He told me, incidentally, that Wrangel is defeated and discredited. (X----, having just told me that Wrangel had won the peasants over to him, and that he had a scheme of moderate Government, and was likely to rouse a counter-Revolution and depose the present lot).
So I said to Kameneff: “Where is truth?”
And he answered: “There is no truth in the world, the only truth is in one’s own heart.”
SEPTEMBER 9TH.
My birthday, and the most hectic day of my life!
In the morning I worked more or less calmly. The “Victory” was just being finished, Smith was chipping away the last remains of mould. Rigamonti, under my direction was punching the block of Princess Pat., so that marble chips flew like shrapnel in all directions. Meanwhile, Hart came to get my last orders about marble pedestals for unfinished bronzes, and on top of all Fiorini turned up.
He was terribly hurt because I have given the heads of Kameneff and Krassin to Parlanti to cast. He had dreamed of doing them--he had a Bolshevik workman in his foundry, who asked every day when those heads were coming. He would have cast them, he said, for nothing, just for the honour and glory of doing them. I felt terribly badly about it. The little Italian man is such an enthusiast, and he met Kameneff here, who shook hands with him, and Fiorini felt about it as most other people would about their King.
Moreover, on that occasion, he hid behind a pedestal, and remained so quiet for a quarter of an hour, watching me and my sitter, that I forgot that he was there. But because I understood from him that he had as much work as he could get through for me in time for my exhibition, I had given the heads to Parlanti, who promised them in time.
I hope that I comforted him by promising to give him duplicates to cast, as presents for Kameneff and Krassin, the which I had had no intention of doing, and can ill afford, but to cheer up Fiorini, I will do it.
Then the telephone went and Klyschko announced to me that it was all decided--Kameneff is starting on Saturday morning, has reserved places, and I have nothing to do but get my ticket. I said that I was having difficulties over my passport, and he explained to me that all I need is the visa via Christiania to Stockholm, and that at Stockholm the Esthonian Legation would see me through.
I dined with Sophie Wavertree and F. M. B. Fisher. He walked home with me; he it was who originally brought me into this wonderful new world.
SEPTEMBER 10TH.
Kameneff telephoned at breakfast. He is really starting to-morrow.
At 10.15, a wire from Sydney to say that he is arriving from Scotland, at 5 o’clock.
11.30, to Barclays Bank, cashed £100.
11.40, to Cooks’, bought my ticket.
12 o’clock, to Bond Street Office, saw Kameneff. He says it doesn’t matter about a passport, that he can push me through from Stockholm.
1 o’clock, bought a hat in South Moulton Street.
2 o’clock, back at studio. Wrote letters all afternoon.
4.30, hair washed and cut.
7 o’clock, back to studio, packed and dined.
10.30, Sydney came, and while we were talking Kameneff rang up to say he had a few short hours ago had his interview with Lloyd George, and that he gathered from the interview that he, Kameneff, leaves to-morrow, not to return--this was to warn me--but he told me to come all the same.
I rang up S---- L----, who could hardly believe that I am really starting. He came round to see me, and we talked far into the night.
SEPTEMBER 11TH.
Mr. Krassin, and most of the 128 New Bond Street staff, were at St. Pancras to see us start. Krassin presented me with a big box of chocolates tied up with red ribbons. We were rather a conspicuous group on the platform, and I feared every second to meet someone whom I knew travelling, possibly to York, on the same train.
S---- L---- was there to wish me God-speed, and Sydney, who is staying with friends near Newcastle, and came down yesterday to spend my last evening with me, travelled back to Newcastle with us. Rigamonti turned up unexpectedly, which touched me very much.
Sydney, fulfilling his reputation as an organiser, discovered that there were two trains going to Newcastle, and that the next one which left a little later had a restaurant car, so we transferred our luggage from the one to the other, and in the process I lost my handbag, which had a hundred pounds in it in bank notes, all I possess in the world. It caused me some agitation, but Kameneff was quite calm and seemed to think that money was not very important, and that I should not have much need of it in Russia.
To my intense relief, however, Sydney found the case at Newcastle, in the lost property office, it travelled ahead of us on the other train.
Sydney came to the ship with us, I don’t think he believed in the reality of my journey until he saw me safely past the passport officials.
I certainly felt no sense of security until the steamer left the quay-side. There was something indescribably exciting and clandestine about slipping away without anyone knowing.
For some time Kameneff and I stood on deck to see the last of England, with her Turner sky. The sunset was golden haze, and Kameneff said: “It looks mysterious, that land, doesn’t it?” But to me it was just the old world wrapped in a shroud. Mystery lay ahead of us in the new world that is our destination.
Now for the first time I had leisure and calm in which to think over what I am doing. There persist in my mind faint echoes of warnings, but I must have no misgivings, it seems to me unlikely that Kameneff would invite me to go to his country if I were likely to be either unhappy or in danger there. He must know what he is doing, and what he is taking me to. There are moments in life when it is necessary to have blind faith.
SEPTEMBER 12TH. _S.S. “Jupiter,” Bergen, Norway._
It is 9.45 pm. We have just this moment come along the quay-side at Bergen. We are not to land until to-morrow morning. The crossing has been wonderful; as calm as a lake the whole way.
I have a cabin for three all to myself, there are very few people on board. It is as comfortable as a yacht. The only fellow traveller with whom we have spoken is an American, calling himself Comrade Costello. He reports for the Federated Press. A very keen journalist, typically American, and one who does not allow the grass to grew under his feet.
For an hour this afternoon I acted as interpreter between him and Kameneff. I had to ask about strange people and strange things, that I knew nothing about. I had not even heard of Debs before.
I expect that I shall have a pretty good knowledge of all the Revolutionary Leaders in all countries before long.
Kameneff had a cigarette in my cabin this evening, and we discussed Philosophy, Religion, and Revolution. It surprised me very much that he does not believe in God. He says that the idea of God is a domination and that he resents it, as he resents all other dominations. He talked nevertheless with great admiration of the teachings of Christ, Who demanded poverty and equality among men, and Who said that the rich man had no more chance of the Kingdom of Heaven than a camel of passing through a needle’s eye.
SEPTEMBER 13TH. _Grand Hotel, Kristiania, Norway._
To-day might have been many days, and we might have been crossing the world.
The train left Bergen at 8.15 a.m. We had a compartment to ourselves with big windows.
Slowly from Voss the train climbed higher and higher. The higher we went the less vegetation there was. Big trees became smaller trees, and then dwarf trees, and then shrubs, until finally there was only the little low creeping juniper.
There were rocks and boulders, falling torrents and cold, still lakes, and in the shadow of the mountain great patches of eternal snow that never melt.
This morning in the breakfast car we eagerly asked for news, being unable to read Norwegian. The man who was reading the paper informed us, in broken English, that the coal situation was exactly the same, and the Lord Mayor of Cork not dead yet, and with that summary we had to rest content.
Later in the morning, the dining-car attendant sought us out, and armed with a newspaper said: “Have you heard the news?” he then made a bow and asked: “Mr. Kameneff--yes?” and showed him a photograph of K. in the morning’s paper, and the information that he had left England, and was on his way to Russia. That settled it, Kameneff was recognised, and the car attendant spread the information. After that, whenever we walked the platform of a station we were the cynosure of all eyes.
At luncheon Kameneff asked the car attendant, who spoke Russian so well, where he had learnt it. The answer was that fifteen years ago he had spent two years as a waiter in Petrograd. Kameneff told him that Russia had changed considerably since then, and that he ought to go and see it. The attendant with a deferential smile said that he would be afraid to.
At Finse, the highest point, where we were on a level with the mountain summits, and where snow lay round us and below us, the train stopped for ten minutes. We got out and walked about, and I took my kodak. Beyond the platform on the sloping bank a granite monolith stood up grimly against the snow-patched distance and, to my surprise, engraved upon it were the names of Captain Scott and all his party, with the date, and the announcement that they had started from Norway for the South Pole. It was rather _émotionant_ finding it so unexpectedly, and so remote.
At 10 p.m., we steamed into Kristiania, where we were met by Litvinoff. I had visualized a small, sharp-faced, alert man. Instead I found a big, square, amiable, smiling man. He informed us that there was not a room to be had at the Grand Hotel, and turning to me, added in English: “If you want rooms in the Grand Hotel you will have to secure them through the British Legation.” We all laughed, and I said: “We are not making much use of the British Legation on this trip.”
As we entered the Grand Hotel and stepped into the lift, I caught the sound of string-band music, which characterises the Grand Hotels and Ritz-Carltons of Europe, and suggests all that side of life with which we on this trip are not quite in harmony. Litvinoff accommodated me in the room of one of his secretaries. I felt rather strange, lonely, and lost, especially when questioned by one of them as to my work and plans.
Had I been working in the Soviet office in London? I felt rather at a disadvantage, having to explain that I was merely an artist who had done portraits of Kameneff and Krassin (who, by the way, they spoke of as Comrade), and that I hoped to get through to Russia with Kameneff to do some portraits there.
I felt, as they looked at me, that I did not look much like a sculptor. They proceeded to tell me that no British passports were being issued, and that any amount of people were being held up here. Very cheerful! By this time I had drunk three cups of excellent tea out of a tumbler, and it was nearly midnight, so I suggested bed, apologising at the same time for making use of their room and necessitating their discomfort.
It being now 1 o’clock, I propose to sleep, though I am only wrapped in my rug, for the bed is not made up for me, and I do not like sleeping in other people’s sheets! The noise in the street is perfectly infernal and Kameneff and Litvinoff are still talking in the next room on my other side.
SEPTEMBER 14TH. _Kristiania._
Slept very well, wrapped in my rug. Woke up at 9 o’clock, and had breakfast in bed. Had looked forward to a bath, but the sour-faced hotel maid says there are too many gentlemen who want it, and so I cannot have one. This does not seem an adequate reason for denying it to me, and I rather suspect it is part of a general boycott of Bolsheviks.
While I was breakfasting, Kameneff looked in with the morning papers, which have come out with headlines and photographs of him. One describes him as having arrived “with a lady, tall and elegant, who carried in one hand a “Kodakaparat” and in the other a box of sweets--she does not look Russian, and was heard to speak in French.”
At luncheon I met Mrs. Litvinoff, and was surprised to find that she is English, a friend of the Meynells and of H. G. Wells. She has short black hair, and is unconventional. She did not seem to be very political or revolutionary. The third baby is imminent.
After luncheon, we made an expedition outside Kristiania to the wireless station, which is on the top of a wooded hill from which there is a magnificent View. Misha, the eldest child, a boy of four, accompanied us. He is unruly, wild-eyed, and most attractive, the embodiment of Donatello’s “laughing boy.” He says: “What for is my father a Bolshevik?” and tells his mother to ring the bell for the maid, and not to do any work herself.
Litvinoff adores him and throws him about and makes him stand on his head. Coming home Litvinoff and I, hatless, ran races down the hill. To my great humiliation he outran me. He is a heavy man and I run well, but he was not even out of breath.
On the way back in the open car, they all sang Russian folk songs in a chorus. Bolsheviks are a very cheerful species.
We reached the hotel just in time to pick up our luggage and catch the train for Stockholm.
There were real cordial good-byes all round. Litvinoff said that if I did not get through from Stockholm, I must come back to Kristiania and he would send someone with me to take me through Murmansk, but Mrs. Litvinoff said that I should get through from Stockholm. “That sort of person always gets what she wants” she said, but gave no further comment, and I am wondering what sort of person I am.
The two secretaries gave me messages for friends in Moscow, and seemed very envious of anyone going back. One of them (with most beautiful chestnut hair), held forth to me on the great difference the Revolution had brought in the position of women. She is an ardent Communist, and works 10 hours a day with a willing heart and little pay. She added as a last appeal: “Go and see for yourself, and then say nice things about us when you get back to England.”
SEPTEMBER 15TH. _Stockholm, Sweden._
We arrived at 8.30 a.m., and were met at the station by Frederick Ström, head of the left wing Socialist party of Sweden. It was an interesting contrast to my arrival in former years when the Crown Prince himself used to meet me and take me in a royal car to the Palace. I felt a great sadness as I passed that old Palace, and the windows of Princess Margaret’s rooms which I knew so well. The days when I used to stay there seemed very long ago and of another world.
We drove to the Grand Hotel which, however, proved to be full, but we were not at a loss: we drove off to a perfectly charming apartment belonging to the Krassins, but which in their absence is inhabited by a Comrade Juon.
There we were most courteously received, and given a splendid breakfast.
Juon is about six feet and a half high, and broad in proportion, with a black beard and a kindly expression. His eyes have exceptionally big pupils, which give a curious gleam and keenness to his expression. His brother in Russia is a well-known painter.