Kameneff came in at half-past ten, he was very tired and precluded all further discussion by saying that it was too late to go anywhere else, and that I must stay for the night. Mrs.
THE KREMLIN, SHOWING ENTRANCE TO THE KAMENEFFS’ APARTMENTS.
Kameneff came in from her work a little later. She sank into a chair and drew her hand across her brow in the most approved way to betoken physical exhaustion. I was given Alexandre’s room, through which they have to pass to get to their’s, and I have to pass through their’s to get to the wash-room, as there is no washstand in my bedroom. I suppose Alexandre slept on a sofa. Kameneff went back to his Soviet meeting at eleven, and I heard him pass through my room when he came home at 4 a.m.
September 21st.
I awakened, feeling much better. The sunshine was too wonderful. Both the Kameneffs went off to their respective work, she at 10, and he at 11. I went out into the Kremlin grounds with Alexandre, and while he played football with Serge Trotsky I sat among the columns of the Alexander Memorial and indulged in a kaleidoscope of thought. Serge is the twelve year old son of Trotsky, and is a fine little boy with a broad chest and a straight back. He looks like the heir to a throne in the guise of a peasant.
At 1 o’clock a cousin of Leo Kameneff’s who can speak French and English came to fetch me. Outside the Kremlin gate an old man, who looked like a peasant, stopped me and asked in English if I were Sylvia Pankhurst.