We sat silent and spellbound. He began as far back as twenty years ago, with the first efforts of himself and Lenin, Trotsky and Krassin. He described their secret organisations, their discoveries, their secrets, his months and years of prison, first in cells, then in Siberia—but long before he had finished, our dinner was announced, and we went in just as we were, to eat. The spell for the moment was broken, and though Kameneff did not again that evening resume the tale of the Revolution, he did most of the evening’s talking.
He described to us shortly, but vividly, the individuality and psychology of Lenin. There were others also whose names I cannot recall. One I remember was Dzhirjinsky, the President of the Extraordinary Commission, a man turned to stone through years of traveaux forcés, an ascetic and a fanatic, whom the Soviet selected as organiser and head of “La Terreur.”
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.