Part 9

I have had four inactive days, but the sense of work completed is a great relief. I am prepared to enjoy the holiday. I have drifted about with Andrev, and in his spare moments with Maxim Litvinoff. On his way to work at midday he first takes me in his car to the place I want to photograph. At 5 o’clock he comes back and has tea with me, brings his portfolio and works in my room till 7. Then he starts out again to meetings. I have interesting talks with him and learn a good deal. He smiles tolerantly when my bourgeois breeding breaks out. But he says I am getting better. Even Rothstein has grown to treat me more seriously.

To-day my fourth day of rest began to rouse in me a fresh energy. I long to fill in this interim of waiting with some new work. I have offered to do Litvinoff, and he suggests that I should work in his office; this is so difficult that I have asked him to let me do it at home, in odd moments when he is free. Between the two, nothing gets decided. Meanwhile the sentries at the Kremlin gate have fired my enthusiasm. They are magnificent, wrapped around in goatskin coats with collars that envelop their entire heads. My efforts to get such an one to sit to me have at last been successful.

Andrev and I wandered from building to building this morning to accomplish this purpose. Andrev is great fun to explore with; with a “_Je m’en fiche_” air, he opens all the doors he comes to, and walks in everywhere. I see all sorts of places that I would never dare to investigate alone.

We walked boldly into the barracks; I doubt if a woman had been in before, but I did not attract much attention. A few soldiers gathered round us to hear our explanation to the officer in charge. One or two smiled, the rest looked at me blankly. What Andrev said of course I do not know, except that I understood the officer to ask if we were Bolshevik. Apparently if we were not Bolsheviks we must get permission from the Commandant of the Kremlin before a soldier could be sent to me. Off we went in search of the Commandant. Oh! the dark passages and the stuffy offices; they smelt as if the air belonged to bygone ages. I am sure no fresh air ever leaks in. From there to the military store to obtain an overcoat. They lent me a new one; it was an enormous goatskin. More smells! No living goat ever could have smelt stronger. Andrev, staggering under the weight and the unwieldy size, carried it to my studio to await the soldier’s arrival to-morrow. The room reeks of it. My idea is a statuette--only in Russia could one find such a silhouette.

It was still early and I did not want to go home, so we wandered to the Palace, opened more doors, and after a little conversation with some men in an office, one of them took us to see the Museum and the Armoury. This was a great revelation, and I regretted not having seen it before so that I could have had time to go often again. Our guide spoke French, and knew all the things intimately. He talked of them with pride and almost with love. Everything was beautifully arranged. There were glass cases full of Romanoff crowns, jewel studded, and sceptres and harness and trappings set with precious stones. One really got quite dazzled by them. The armour is very fine, I believe, but that I know nothing about and it does not interest me. What I loved were the old coaches. There was one given by Queen Elizabeth of England, the most beautiful bit of painted carving I have ever seen. The French Louis XV and XVI coaches looked vulgar next to it. There was a room full of silver and gold cups. I believe that this contains the finest collection of English Charles II silver in the world. Moreover so many cups had been collected recently from the churches that there were long wooden trestles covered with them, and they were in process of being catalogued. In the last room were exhibited all the old costumes, church vestments and beautiful brocades. The Coronation robe of Catherine the Great was there, and others that had been wedding and Coronation robes of various other Tsarinas. It is wonderful that these things should have remained unhurt throughout the Revolution.

It is acutely cold, and the river is completely frozen over. Children skate and toboggan everywhere. The side walks have become slides, and are very difficult for the pedestrian who is not equipped with skates. Children here seem to be born able to skate. They strap skates on to any kind of footgear, even on to big, loose felt boots, and they skate everywhere at breakneck speed.

It is a relief not to see people wearily carrying their bundles over their shoulders. Now everyone seems to have put his burden on to a little wooden sledge, and grown-up people look like big children pulling toys on the ends of strings. I have borrowed clothes and Jaegers from my friends. One’s nostrils freeze and the breath crystallises on one’s fur collar.

The town with its white pall is indescribably beautiful. At dusk the sky is darkened by a flight of grey-backed crows. They settle on the bare tree branches with the effect of great black leaves silhoueted against a coloured evening sky.

At 8.30 this evening, Kameneff unexpectedly walked into my room. It is nearly three weeks since he went to the front. I had almost forgotten about him. He was in tremendous spirits, much thinner, quite unshaved, and with his hair long. He was interesting about the spirit of the Red Army. He says they are wonderfully enthusiastic, and anxious to finish Wrangel and have peace. It is just possible there may be a big _coup_ which would obviate a winter campaign.

More than ever do I regret not having gone with Trotsky. They met at Kharkof, and I could have come back with Kameneff.

OCTOBER 31ST.

I went to the Kremlin, and tried to work on my soldier who came to sit to me, but the clay gets so cold and my fingers so numbed, I find I cannot do anything. I built up such a big fire in the stove to keep myself warm, that the unfortunate soldier in the overcoat got nearly apoplectic. Moreover, the hot goatskin smells stronger and stronger. Even the soldier seems to be affected by it. We cannot open the windows and let the cold in. These conditions make work very discouraging. Andrev fetched me at 12.30, and we went to the house of Shucken, who was a cotton-king, and who had the biggest collection of modern French pictures in existence. It is now taken over by the Government, and open on several days a week to the public. Madame Shucken is, I believe, allowed to occupy her rooms in the house. There is no such modern collection in France. There were represented all the artists I have been wanting to see. The first room was full of Claude Monet, and there were three little Whistlers in the doorway leading to a room full of Dégas, Renoir, and Cézanne.

To-day for the first time I can appreciate Mattisse; there were twenty-one in a room. Next to this was another room containing twenty Goguins. In a further gallery there was a motley collection, including a couple of Brangwyns, which held their own well. There was also the big William Morris tapestry of Burne-Jones’ “Nativity,” which one could hardly bear to look at after the modern French.

Coming out, we passed by a doorway in the snow, rudely painted in blotches of green and yellow; a sentry stood by, and I pointed it out to Andrev who agreed that it was pure Mattisse. One has but to borrow the eyes of another and the same old world appears quite different. I remember that when I had been in Florence a few days, everyone looked like a painted Madonna.

This evening Litvinoff gave a banquet for the departing Chinese General. It was a great event. The dishes as they appeared were like things we have seen in dreams. The party consisted, besides the General and three of his staff, of two interpreters (one being the professor of Chinese at the University of Petrograd), Tchicherin, Karahan, his secretary, Mrs. Karahan, Vanderlip, Rothstein and myself.

We were invited for 9 p.m., but it was half-past eleven before we began, true Russian fashion, two hours and a half late. It was for Tchicherin we had to wait: he has no idea of time.

The hours preceding were rather tedious, as conversation through an interpreter is not a success. One Chinaman talked French. He was the President of the Union of Chinese Workers.

Karahan is Armenian; he speaks some strange Eastern language, but nothing that I understand. His wife can only talk Russian. They live in our house, but one seldom sees them as they have their meals in their own apartments. His face is very beautiful, like carved ivory. He is a great mystery; he lives in a better way than anyone else, smokes the best cigars, drives to his office in a limousine, and looks like the most prosperous gentleman in Europe in his astrachan coat and hat. He must do some very good work for the Government, or he would not be tolerated. I believe Lenin once asked what was the use of him, and he was told that Karahan was most important, for was he not the only man amongst them who could wear evening clothes? Mrs. Karahan was on the stage and is the prettiest woman I have seen in Moscow.

At dinner I sat between the President of the Union of Chinese Workers and Litvinoff, who did host extremely well, and was clever in placing us all. He created so many places of honour that everyone was gratified. He put Tchicherin at the head of the table, so that the General and Vanderlip on either side of him felt that they were guests of honour. He put me on one side of him and Mrs. Karahan at the end of the table opposite Tchicherin.

I ate so many excellent _hors d’œuvres_, thinking I was never going to eat again, and that nothing else was coming, that I had little room left for what followed. It was a joy even to look at a fresh salad and a cauliflower.

Our old manservant was awfully happy. He had on a collar and tie and was washed, and had organised everything beautifully. He had got out the Sèvres salt-cellars, and the cut-glass decanters, and I suppose he just felt that he was back in the old pre-Revolution days and serving his master’s friends. He took intense pride in it all.

We had our jokes with him as he went by. Handing me a dish of _bœuf à la mode_, he said: “_Magnifique!_” Litvinoff was reprimanded by him for using his knife for his vegetables, and was told that he would not get another. When the apple dumplings came round I was done. I said to the old man: “_Zafter_” (to-morrow). I do hope we shall get some remains. I asked Litvinoff where all the food had come from. He explained to me that there is some food to be had, but that the best is sent to the hospitals and the children.

Then followed speeches. Anything more deplorable to listen to without understanding than Russian being translated into Chinese and _vice versâ_ is hard to imagine. Tchicherin spoke for quite a long time. The Chinese General’s face was immovable. After the Professor had translated, the General replied with much the same sort of face.

After dinner we adjourned to the Karahans’ big rooms opposite. Tchicherin was evidently embarrassed at meeting me again. I had no feeling on the subject, and merely laughed.

I said jokingly, “Comrade Tchicherin, you have treated me very badly.”

He was again quite flustered. Litvinoff told me à propos of Tchicherin that he had advised him to get someone extra into his office to help to get his papers straight. Tchicherin agreed, and said that he had already heard of a young man who would do very well because “he works during the day, so that he is free at night.” Litvinoff asked when the man should sleep; Tchicherin looked surprised, he had forgotten about that.

NOVEMBER 2ND.

Felt ill. Symptoms of abdominal typhus. Panic on the part of my friends. They say they do not want to lay my body under the Kremlin wall. If they do, I have told them I don’t mind speeches, but I would like a prayer. The answer to that was: “Are you really _croyante_?”

“Well,” I said, “there are two children praying every night that I may return safe and soon, and the thought of that gives me a certain security.”

“What, you teach your children to pray?”

“But surely they must have something to guide them as they start life?”

“You should teach them reality, and not fantasy.”

“It is not fantasy to believe in a Divine power.”

“You should believe only in your own power.”

That is a conversation I have had as a result of my slight indisposition. It was a conversation that confirms the general idea I have met in others since I have been here. I know these men are idealists and selfless. I did not know these qualities could go hand in hand with atheism.

On this point, Litvinoff corrected me. He did not even want to be regarded as an idealist. That was too unpractical. “We are idealistic materialists,” he said. To prove their tolerance of religious thought, the churches are all open. But to enter the sacred gateway which leads to the Red Square it was necessary, in pre-Revolution days, for men to pass uncovered. A tablet has now been inserted in the wall engraved with the inscription, “Religion is the opiate of the people.” Hardly ever have I passed that by without having it pointed out to me with great pride. I never quite understood the spirit of it.

As for the people, they seem to disregard it, to judge by the many who cross themselves as they pass. The shrine seems to be always full of devotees, who pause to pray. The religious feeling of the people will not easily be obliterated and, after all, they need all the comfort and hope they can get, even if the intellectuals do not.

My stay in Russia is nearing its end. Already I see my departure in the near distance. People at home will think I am a Bolshevik, on account of my associations, but I am much too humble to pretend that I understand anything about it.

The more I hear, the clearer it seems to me that economics are the basis of all these arguments, and when it is a question of political economy something happens to my mind, just as it used to when I was a child and had to learn arithmetic. A Bolshevik who can be defeated by argument is not worthy of the name. Therefore I am not a Bolshevik.

But I have tried to understand the spirit of Communism and it interests me overwhelmingly. There are little incidents I like to recall that in no way lessen my love of the people. For example, when the weather began to get cold, before Borodin went away, being unable to explain in Russian what I wanted, I went myself to the back garden to fetch an armload of logs for my fire.

I had to make a long journey through the kitchen, down the corridor and finally through the drawing-room. I have never minded carrying my own wood, but I did think that one of the two men--Borodin who was telephoning, or Boris, who was idling in a Louis XVI chair as I passed through the drawing-room, might have opened the doors for me.

Because they did not I most unforgivably lost my temper, and said I was glad that I was an English woman and not a Russian man. The effect of my attack was different on each of them.

Boris said, “But it is quite right you should carry your own wood. Communism means that each should help himself.”

I replied that that was nothing new, that self-help was the oldest deep-rooted feeling in the world, and that if Communism wanted to be original, it must teach the doctrine of helping one another.

Borodin followed me to my room in a state of apology and distress. He brought me two apples and a cigarette, and told me that if I peeled the birch bark off the logs, it made an excellent substitute for kindling. With his advice he did much to help me light my fire. I have never quite made out in my own mind if they were typically Russian or typically Communist. I am still wondering.

I was much laughed at once because I made Vanderlip in the street shoulder a woman’s burden and carry it for her to her house. She was a frail well-dressed woman, obviously exhausted by a long walk over cobblestones, and was utterly incompetent to carry the bundle containing her rations. I would have taken it for her myself if I had been alone, but as Vanderlip was champion-in-chief of the frail and the well-dressed, I thought he might as well do it. Litvinoff was amused when he heard about it, and said that one might really find a good deal of work to do in Moscow on those lines.

Vanderlip has told me with great concern that a weak little bourgeoise friend of his, once rich, but now a stenographer, has received a paper ordering her to enlist her services among those who are to shovel the street clear of snow in front of their doors.

“Terrible,” he said.

“Why, terrible?” I asked.

“Terrible that a woman, well-bred and unused to manual labour, should be called upon to shovel snow.”

“But,” I argued, “she had better food and care when young than the working classes, and ought, therefore, to be physically stronger and more able to do this work than many another.” (I thought of some of my friends in England who made most efficient railway porters during the strike a year ago.)

I said that I should take a pride if I were a Russian bourgeoise in showing people here that I could do as good a day’s work as anyone else, and that I was not just useless and helpless as they imagined.

Vanderlip disagreed. He said (and I wonder if it is the American point of view) that women ought not to work at all, they ought to be worked for.

It was quite useless to talk to him about co-operation or the economic independence of women. Besides, it was not about women, it was about Communism that I wanted to talk.

How long and how rambling this is as the result of no occupation and an enforced stay within doors! It is useless to write letters home, and this is a sort of unburdening. I often wonder about my family--whether they are anxious about me (knowing nothing of the peaceful truth), or whether they are too disapproving to be anxious.

I love the bedrock of things here, and the vital energy. If I had no children, I should remain and work. There may be no food for the body, but there is plenty of food for the soul, and I would rather live in discomfort in an atmosphere of gigantic effort, than in luxury among the purposeless. I find I no longer dream of home, and have grown used to conditions which at first seemed hard. I am thankful for the peace which I once mistook for dullness, and appreciate the absence of all the pretty tyrannies of civilised life. My mode of living suits me very well. I am glad not to have to take any part in the management of a house. I prefer bad food than to be consulted about it. What the housemaid breaks is not mine, nor any concern of mine. There are no boredoms such as gas bills, taxes, rent and rates, nor Income Tax returns. I never have to sign a cheque, nor to go out with a purse. The obliteration of all social life is a boon. There are no invitations by telephone to accept, refuse, or make decisions about. There is no perplexity about the choice of apparel, nor letters by post that have to be answered. There is leisure to read, leisure to think, leisure to observe. The big ideas, wide horizons and destruction of all the conventions have taken hold of me. Of course I realise that, as a guest of the Government, I am judging things from a personal point of view, and not the point of view of the Russian people. (Few of us are big enough to be purely impersonal.) I like living in this way. It may seem a strange taste to those people who have the sense of possession, the collectors’ instinct, or the love of home. I have none of these; so long as I have a place to work in, and plenty of work to do, and leisure in which to think about it, I ask little more.

My ear has accustomed itself to the language of Communism, I have forgotten the English of my own world. I do not mean that I am a Communist, nor that I think it is a practical theory, perhaps it is not, but it seems to me, nevertheless, that the Russian people get gratis a good many privileges, such as education, lodging, food, railways, theatres, even postage, and a standard wage thrown in. If the absence of prosperity is marked, the absence of poverty is remarkable. The people’s sufferings are chiefly caused by lack of food, fuel and clothing. This is not the fault of the Government. The Soviet system does not do it to spite them, or because it enjoys their discomfiture. Only peace with the world can ameliorate their sufferings, and Russia is not at war with the world, the world is at war with Russia. Why am I happy here, shut off from all I belong to? What is there about this country that has always made everyone fall under its spell? I have been wondering. My mind conjures up English life and English conditions, and makes comparisons. Why are these people, who have less education, so much more cultured than we are? The galleries of London are empty. In the British Museum one meets an occasional German student. Here the galleries and museums are full of working people. London provides revues and plays of humiliating mediocrity, which the educated classes enjoy and applaud. Here the masses crowd to see Shakespeare. At Covent Garden it is the gallery that cares for music, and the boxes are full of weary fashion, which arrives late and talks all the time. Here the houses are overcrowded with workers and peasants who listen to the most classical operas. Have they only gone as someone might with a new sense of possession to inspect a property they have suddenly inherited? Or have they a true love of the beautiful and a real power of discrimination? These are the questions I ask myself. Civilisation has put on so many garments that one has trouble in getting down to reality. One needs to throw off civilisation and to begin anew, and begin better, and all that is required is just courage. What Lenin thinks about nations applies to individuals. Before reconstruction can take place there must be a revolution to obliterate everything in one that existed before. I am appalled by the realisation of my upbringing and the futile view-point instilled into me by an obsolete class tradition. Time is the most valuable material in the world, and there at least we all start equally, but I was taught to scatter mine thoughtlessly, as though it were infinite. Now for the first time I feel morally and mentally free, and yet they say there is no freedom here. If a paper pass or an identification card hampers one’s freedom, then it is true. There may be restrictions to the individual, and if I were a Russian subject I might not be allowed to leave the country, but I seem to have been obliged to leave England rather clandestinely.

Freedom is an illusion, there really is not any in the world except the freedom one creates intellectually for oneself.

My work is ended, but I am loth to go. I love this place and all the people in it. I love the people I have met, and the people who pass by me in the street. I love the atmosphere laden with melancholy, with sacrifice, with tragedy. I am inspired by this Nation, purified by Fire. I admire the dignity of their suffering and the courage of their belief.

I should like to live among them for ever, or else work for them outside, work and fight for the Peace that will heal their wounds.

NOVEMBER 5TH.