under which he had tried to do Lenin in his office, and while he was working. He said that portraiture was not Art. I could not but agree with him, as the difficulty always in doing portraits is that sittings are always too few and too short, but said that one had to put up with it, and do the best one could, breaking one’s heart over it all the time.
He said he had given up sculpture for the time being because of the difficult conditions, and had taken to drawing instead. I said that for the present I was intent on portraits, and that Art would have to wait until later. His attitude is characteristic of the sculptor species. They are all so d—— d proud, and if they cannot get all the sittings they need and work under ideal conditions, they do not think it worth while trying. I consider that there are a few people in the world who are worth any effort to do, even if they do not give one a chance to do one’s best work. Andrev laughed and said that that was journalism in Art.
When I got home I found that the water had been heated for baths. This was a great joy: I had not had one for eight days. Once a week is our allowance, and it should be on Saturdays, but something went wrong with the pipe, and we have been disappointed each evening, so that in fact I had given up hope. How one has learned to appreciate the most ordinary things that one never thought of being thankful for before. But since I have been here I have had to wash in cold water; nor am I called, but I wake up quite mechanically every morning at eight. It will be wonderful to have scrambled eggs one day for breakfast, but I am getting used to just black bread and butter, and sometimes cheese.
I wonder a good deal about my family and friends. It is so strange to have left them without a word, and to get no letters and not to be able to write any. Mamma especially—bless her, who always says “good-night” as if it were “good-bye-for-ever”—I wonder what she feels about my going off without telling her. I wonder if Papa is anxious about me, or indifferent and resentful! When I think about Dick and Margaret I feel a sadness. I can get on without most people in the world, but not without those two, and they must wonder why they do not get letters from me. It it rather dreadful to think that they might believe that my silence means forgetfulness.
This evening we went to the “Coq d’Or.” I thought I was back in London until I looked away from the stage.
Marcus Adams.
MARGARET AND RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.