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.