Part 6

After the Ballet “Sadko,” I walked home with Michael Borodin. We had supper together of cabbage-soup and tepid rice, and talked until 2 a.m. Michael always says that the food is eatable, even if it is not. He never complains, he just pretends to eat it, sometimes I see his pretence. This evening he talked to me about my work. He wants me to think about a statue interpreting the Soviet idea, and told me a good deal about the Third International, as representing a world brotherhood of workers. The plan of the Third International is very fine: “Workmen of the world unite.” If they did unite they could hold the peace of the world for ever. But unity is hard to attain; I wonder if it is not unattainable. Everything that one hears and sees here stirs the imagination--my mind is seething with allegories with which to express them, but they are so big that I should have to settle for life on the side of a mountain, and hew out my allegories from the mountain side. To-night, in his big Gothic room, I paced back and forth, my arm through Michael’s, talking abstractedly, until his calmness calmed me. He knows that I have been going through a period of waiting, not unmixed with despair and anxiety. I understand so little about the Russian temperament, and hear such conflicting reports, that it is difficult to know what to expect. He has encouraged and cheered and tolerated me. He reminds me sometimes of Munthe,[6] in his adhesion to his convictions, and his demand that one should live up to one’s idealism.

OCTOBER 6TH.

Spent the morning darning my stockings and reading Rupert Brooke. I was depressed to the point of resignation. It is always blackest before dawn: at 2 o’clock the Commandant of the house walked in with a telephone message: “Greetings from Comrade Kameneff, and all is prepared for you to go and do Lenin in his room to-morrow, from 11 till 4 o’clock.”

It was marvellous news. I went directly to the Kremlin, and with the help of someone from the Foreign Office, got my stands and clay moved from my studio to Lenin’s room. I happily had him built up, ready to work on as soon as the order should come.

OCTOBER 7TH.

Borodin accompanied me to the Kremlin. On the way he said to me: “Just remember that you are going to do the best bit of work to-day that you have ever done.” I was anxious, rather, about the conditions of the room and the light.

We went in by a special door, guarded by a sentry, and on the third floor we went through several doors and passages, each guarded. As I was expected, the sentries had received orders to let me pass. Finally, we went through two rooms full of women secretaries. The last room contained about five women at five tables, and they all looked at me curiously, but they knew my errand. Here Michael handed me over to a little hunchback, Lenin’s private secretary, and left me. She pointed to a white baize door, and I went through. It did not latch, but merely swung behind me.

Lenin was sitting at his desk. He rose and came across the room to greet me. He has a genial manner and a kindly smile, which puts one instantly at ease. He said that he had heard of me from Kameneff. I apologised for having to bother him. He laughed and explained that the last sculptor had occupied his room for weeks, and that he got so bored with it that he had sworn that it never should happen again. He asked how long I needed, and offered me to-day and to-morrow from 11 till 4, and three or four evenings, if I could work by electric light. When I told him I worked quickly and should probably not require so much, he said laughingly that he was pleased.

My stand and things were then brought into the room by three soldiers, and I established myself on the left. It was hard work, for he was lower than the clay and did not revolve, nor did he keep still. But the room was so peaceful, and he on the whole took so little notice of me, that I worked with great calm till 3.45, without stopping for rest or food.

During that time he had but one interview, but the telephone was of great assistance to me. When the low buzz accompanied by the lighting up of a small electric bulb, signified a telephone call, his face lost the dullness of repose and became animated and interesting. He gesticulated to the telephone as though it understood.

I remarked on the comparative stillness of his room, and he laughed. “Wait till there is a political discussion!” he said.

Secretaries came in at intervals with letters. He opened them, signed the empty envelope, and gave it back, a form of receipt I suppose. Some papers were brought him to sign, and he signed, but whilst looking at something else instead of at his signature.

I asked him why he had women secretaries. He said because all the men were at the war, and that caused us to talk of Poland. I understood that peace with Poland had been signed yesterday, but he says not, that forces are at work trying to upset the negotiations, and that the position is very grave.

“Besides,” he said, “when we have settled Poland, we have got Wrangel.” I asked if Wrangel was negligible, and he said that Wrangel counted quite a bit, which is a different attitude from that adopted by the other Russians I have met, who have laughed scornfully at the idea of Wrangel.

We talked about H. G. Wells, and he said that the only book of his he had read was “Joan and Peter,” but that he had not read it to the end. He liked the description at the beginning of the English intellectual bourgeois life. He admitted that he should have read, and regretted not having read some of the earlier fantastic novels about wars in the air and the world set free. I am told that Lenin manages to get through a good deal of reading. On his desk was a volume by Chiozza Money. He asked me if I had had any trouble in getting through to his room, and I explained that Borodin had accompanied me. I then had the face to suggest that Borodin, being an extremely intelligent man who can speak good English, would make a good Ambassador to England when there is Peace. Lenin looked at me with the most amused expression, his eyes seemed to see right through me, and then said: “That would please Monsieur Churchill wouldn’t it?” I asked if Winston was the most hated Englishman. He shrugged his shoulders, and then added something about Churchill being the man with all the force of the capitalists behind him. We argued about that, but he did not want to hear my opinion, his own being quite unshakable. He talked about Winston being my cousin, and I said rather apologetically that I could not help it, and informed him that I had another cousin who was a Sinn Feiner. He laughed, and said “that must be a cheerful party when you three get together.” I suppose it would be cheerful, but we have never all three been together!

During these four hours he never smoked, and never even drank a cup of tea. I have never worked so long on end before, and at 3.45 I could hold out no longer. I was blind with weariness and hunger, and said good-bye. He promised to sit on the revolving stand to-morrow. If all goes well, I think I ought to be able to finish him. I do hope it is good. I think it looks more like him than any of the busts I have seen yet. He has a curious Slav face, and looks very ill.

When I asked for news of England, he offered me the three latest “Daily Heralds” he had, dated September 21, 22 and 23. I brought them back and we all fell upon them, Russians and American alike. As for me, I have spent a blissful evening reading about the Irish Rebellion and the Miners’ dispute, as if it were yesterday’s news, and the Irene Munro and Bamberger cases. Goodness, one feels as though one had looked through a window and seen home on the horizon.

How tired I was; I had eaten nothing since 10 a.m. and dinner was not until 9 p.m. In between I ate some of my English biscuits.

OCTOBER 8TH.

Started work again in Lenin’s room. I went by myself this time, and got past all the sentries with the pass that I had been given. I took my kodak with me, although I had not the necessary kodak permission. I put a coat over my arm, which hid it.

I don’t know how I got through my day. I had to work on him from afar. My real chance came when a Comrade arrived for an interview, and then for the first time Lenin sat and talked facing the window, so that I was able to see his full face and in a good light.

The Comrade remained a long time, and conversation was very animated. Never did I see anyone make so many faces. Lenin laughed and frowned, and looked thoughtful, sad, and humorous all in turn. His eyebrows twitched, sometimes they went right up, and then again they puckered together maliciously.

I watched these expressions, waited, hesitated, and then made my selection with a frantic rush--it was his screwed-up look. Wonderful! No one else has such a look, it is his alone. Every now and then he seemed to be conscious of my presence, and gave a piercing, enigmatical look in my direction. If I had been a spy pretending not to understand Russian, I wonder whether I should have learnt interesting things? The Comrade, when he left the room, stopped and looked at my work, and said the only word that I understand, which is _carascho_, it means “good,” and then said something about my having the character of the man, so I was glad.

After that Lenin consented to sit on the revolving stand. It seemed to amuse him very much. He said he never had sat so high. When I kneeled down to look at the glances from below, his face adopted an expression of surprise and embarrassment.

I laughed and asked: “Are you unaccustomed to this attitude in woman?” At that moment a secretary came in, and I cannot think why they were both so amused. They talked rapid Russian together, and laughed a good deal.

When the secretary had gone, he became serious and asked me a few questions. Did I work hard in London? I said it was my life. How many hours a day? An average of seven. He made no comment on this, but it seemed to satisfy him. Until then, I had the feeling that, although he was charming to me, he looked upon me a little resentfully as a bourgeoise. I believe that he always asks people, if he does not know them, about their work and their origin, and makes up his mind about them accordingly. I showed him photographs of some of my busts and also of “Victory.” He was emphatic in not liking the “Victory,” his point being that I had made it too beautiful.

I protested that the sacrifice involved made Victory beautiful, but he would not agree. “That is the fault of bourgeois art, it always beautifies.”

I looked at him fiercely. “Do you accuse me of bourgeois art?”

“I accuse you!” he answered, then held up the photograph of Dick’s bust. “I do not accuse you of embellishing this, but I pray you not to embellish me.”

He then looked at Winston. “Is that Churchill himself? You have embellished him.” He seemed to have this on the brain.

I said: “Give me a message to take back to Winston.”

He answered: “I have already sent him a message through the Delegation, and he answered it not directly, but through a bitter newspaper

article, in which he said I was a most horrible creature, and that our army was an army of _puces_. How you say _puces_ in English? You know the French _puces_? Yes, that is it, an army of fleas. I did not mind what he said; I was glad. It showed that my message to him had angered him.”

“When will Peace come to Russia? Will a General Election bring it?” I asked.

He said: “There is no further news of a General Election, but if Lloyd George asks for an Election it will be on anti-Bolshevism, and he may win. The Capitalists, the Court, and the Military, all are behind him and Churchill.”

I asked him if he were not mistaken in his estimate of the power and popularity of Winston, and the importance and influence of the Court.

He got fiery. “It is an intellectual bourgeois pose to say that the King does not count. He counts very much. He is the head of the Army. He is the bourgeois figurehead, and he represents a great deal, and Churchill is backed by him.” He was so insistent, so assured, so fierce about it, that I gave up the argument.

Presently, he said to me: “What does your husband think of your coming to Russia?”

I replied that my husband was killed in the war.

“In the capitalist-imperialist war?”

I said: “In France, 1915; what other war?”

“Ah, that is true,” he said. “We have had so many, the imperialist, the civil war, and the war for self-defence.”

We then discussed the wonderful spirit of self-sacrifice and patriotism with which England entered upon the war in 1914, and he wanted me to read “Le Feu” and “La Clarté” of Barbusse, in which that spirit and its development is so wonderfully described.

Then the telephone gave its damnable low buzzing. He looked at his watch. He had promised me fifteen minutes on the revolving stand and given me half an hour. He got down and went to the telephone. It did not matter: I had done all I could. I had verified my measurements, and they were correct, which was a relief, and so, it being 4 o’clock and I mighty hungry, I said good-bye.

He was very pleased, said I had worked very quickly, called in his secretary and discussed it with her, said it was _carascho_. I asked him to give orders to have it removed to my studio, Room 31. Two soldiers arrived and carried it out. I asked Lenin for his photograph, which he sent for and signed for me.

I hurried after the two panting soldiers with their load. We passed through the rooms of the astonished secretaries, out into the corridors, past the bored and surprised sentries, and got through to the main building. Two or three times they had to pause and deposit “Lenin” on the floor, to the interest of the passers-by. At last he was safely in Room 31, and they returned to Lenin’s room for the stands. It was a good long way, and they were tired and dripping with sweat when their job was done.

To my intense embarrassment, they refused money, though I offered them stacks of paper notes. They refused very amiably, but firmly. I made signs of imploration and signs of secrecy, but they laughed and just pointed to their communist badges, and offered me their cigarettes which were precious, being rationed.

At 4 Kameneff walked in, very surprised at Lenin being finished and already back in my room. He had come in from a conference next door. He went back and fetched in the Conference; eight or more men came in, some with interesting heads, others just ordinary-looking workmen.

They all talked at once. One was Kalinin, whom I had seen in Lenin’s room at an interview. Kalinin is the President of the Republic, and is a peasant elected by the peasants. He was charming and promised to sit for me, but is off to the front to-night for ten days, and offered to take me with him. He told Kameneff that as I worked so rapidly I should find some interesting heads to do there, especially General Budienny.

I said I thought it would be wonderful to do this work within sound of the guns. Kameneff promised to ring me up at 9 o’clock to tell me if I was to start at 10. Alas! It turned out to be a troop train, and not possible for a woman.

OCTOBER 9TH.

Started off in a motor with Mr. Vanderlip and someone from the Foreign Office. We went to a textile factory, a huge place, and pronounced by Mr. Vanderlip to have the best and latest machinery, but there were 240 workers where there had been 2,500, and there were acres of machinery lying idle, the reason being lack of fuel. Mr. Vanderlip, with that unfailing American “spread-eagle,” said that 50 experienced American workers could have done the work of those 240. It is true there was a good deal of idling going on. This may have been due either to lack of sufficient work, or to the Communist system by which each man or woman is as good as another, and there is none to oversee the work. But what had been done was well done.

From there we went to one of the big fur stores which before the Revolution belonged to a private firm, but to-day is the property of the Government. There were rooms full of huge hampers packed with sable skins for export, and of course, as I was the only woman present, they dangled bunches of sable skins before me. Now sables don’t say much to me if they are not made up, but silver foxes are different, and they cruelly put round my neck some silver foxes.

OCTOBER 10TH.

Kameneff came at midday to say good-bye to me; he is off to the front to-morrow for an indefinite time. He brought with him a young man with close-cropped hair and clear-cut features, calling himself Alexandre. Kameneff thinks Alexandre may be able to take care of me during his absence. I certainly need someone, as Michael Borodin goes to Madrid on Tuesday, and then I do not know what will become of me. Kameneff discussed with me about the Government buying the Russian copyright of my heads. He then asked me to make a list of things I wanted, and that he could do for me before he goes. I had several wants: for one thing, I am extremely cold. The coat I arrived in is only cloth--now there is snow on the ground, and the river begins to freeze. I have to wrap my rug round my shoulders when I go out. The peasants are far better off, they have all appeared in sheepskin coats, the fur they wear inside, and the leather, which is usually stained deep orange or rust colour, is a very decorative exterior. The bourgeois women have brought out their former remains of splendour, and although they may have only felt or canvas shoes on their feet, and a shawl over their heads, some of them wear coats that one would turn round to look at in Bond Street. I headed my list of requirements with the request for a coat--as well as caviare, Trotsky, and a soldier of the Red Army whom I want to model. Trotsky is expected back from the front in a few days. It is a bore that Kameneff is going away, but Alexandre promised to arrange sittings for me.

OCTOBER 11TH.

In the morning I accompanied Michael Borodin to the headquarters of the Third International. It is a beautiful house, formerly the German Embassy, and where Mirbach was murdered.

I came away in a car with Madame Balabanoff, of whom I had often heard. She is small, past middle age, with a crumpled-up face, but intelligent. I did not find her any too amiable on our way to the Kremlin, where she dropped me.

She told me that it was absurd that any bust

of Lenin or any one else should be done, the theory being that the cause, not the individuals, should count. The humblest person who suffers privation for the cause is equally as important as any of the legislators, she explained, and proceeded to assure me that no picture or bust of herself existed, nor ever should. Happily I had not asked her to sit for me. She practically told me that I was doing Lenin’s head to take back to England to show to the idle curious. I corrected her by saying that, so far as the public was concerned, I only wished to enable those who had him at present represented by a photograph, to substitute a bust. She was equally vehement about the photograph. Perhaps she expects to alter human nature.

Before I got out of the car, she assured me that her tirade was in no way personal and would I, please, not misunderstand her.

OCTOBER 14TH.

Michael Borodin found me after breakfast, miserably wrapped in my rug, shivering with cold and depression, and with tears irrepressibly streaming down my face. I had several grievances which had been accumulating for some days, and at last my patience had come to a head. The fact is I had heard of a courier having arrived yesterday from London, and no one had taken the trouble to find out if there were any letters for me. Ever since I left England on September 11th I have not had one word of news, nor answers to two telegrams that Kameneff sent for me asking after the children. Secondly, I had not been given the coat that Kameneff had ordered for me, so it was impossible to go out as it was too cold.

Michael for the first time seemed really moved. He wrapped me round in his fur coat, went off to the garden and fetched up a load of wood for me (I had never known him do such a thing before), and lit my fire himself. Then he telephoned to the Foreign Office. There were no letters for me, but some bundles for Kameneff. He also got hold of Comrade Alexandre on the telephone to know when I was going to have the promised coat, and altogether was very helpful. His journey to Madrid has been delayed daily, but he is to start to-morrow. It seems to me that in Russia one only knows about ten minutes beforehand what one is going to do! They are divinely vague.

OCTOBER 15TH.

I went to the Kremlin to meet Comrade Alexandre there at midday: he was to bring me a soldier as a model. Not feeling brave enough to go and review a platoon and make my own selection, I had described exactly what I wanted: not the bloodthirsty savage Bolshevik of English tradition, but the dreamy-eyed young Slav who knows what he is fighting for, and such as I passed every day on the parade ground. I waited in my studio impatiently till 2 o’clock, and then Alexandre arrived accompanied by a soldier who was typically neither Russian, nor military, nor intellectual, nor even fine physically. He was small, white, _chétif_, and had a waxed moustache. It was a bad moment. I tried to hide my disappointment and my amusement. I missed lunching in order to work on him, and began something that was not in the least like my model, but was the product of my imagination. At 5 I came home tired and hungry and cold. I lay down on my sofa and watched the dusk crawl up behind the Kremlin. At 8.30 I was called down to the telephone, which is in the kitchen. It was Borodin speaking from the Foreign Office. He said “good-bye” in his abrupt manner. “This is the right way,” he said. “This is the way it should be.” The maid was throwing her broom around the kitchen, making as much noise as possible, and a strange man glared at me out of the gloom. I found it difficult to concentrate my attention. Michael knows that I do not believe in “futures,” but nevertheless we said “someday,” and I wonder very much if that strange Communist-Revolutionary, with his mask-like face and deep voice, will ever cross my path again. To-night I regret him, but then I am lonely for the moment--friendless, and this is a place where one needs friends.

At 9 o’clock, not having eaten since 10 a.m., I went downstairs to round-up some food. There, to my surprise, I met Litvinoff, who had been in Moscow since the day before yesterday. Our pleasure at seeing each other again was mutual and spontaneous. He is coming to stay at our house, and will occupy the vacated room of Borodin.

OCTOBER 16TH.

Comrade Alexandre came to see me at 9 p.m., to tell me that he could not arrange with Trotsky for sittings. I gathered that Trotsky had been emphatic and brusque in his refusal, but after all, I have done Lenin, and he is the one who counts most. I can go back to England without the head of Trotsky, but I could not have gone without the head of Lenin. I _have_ accomplished what I came for, and so to hell with Trotsky!