He is an abnormal man, living month after month in that Foreign Office with closed windows and never going out. He insists on having a bedroom there, as he says he has not time to go home to sleep. He works all night, and if a telegram comes in the day he has to be awakened. His nights are days and his days are not entirely nights. He has no idea of time and does not realise that other people live differently. He will ring up a Comrade on the telephone at 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning for the most trivial information. He does all his own work, and will not ring for a secretary or messenger, but runs himself with papers to other departments. He lives on his nerves and the slightest thing throws him off his pivot.
I had been told he was an angel and a saint. What I found was a fluttering and agitated bird. The joke is that he is looked upon as the “gentleman” of the party. He is by origin well-born and propertied. His property he gave away to the people. To-day was a particularly unfortunate one for me. It happened to be the first day for months that Tchicherin had gone out. He went to the dentist. Someone watching him from an office window described to me the phenomenon of Tchicherin in the street. He did not go in a car, but on foot. He stood at the corner of the kerb, looked at the street hesitatingly, much as one might look into a river on a cold day before plunging in. When he did finally decide to get across, he got half way and then ran back. What with the traffic, the fresh air, and the dentist, it must have been a thoroughly unnerving day for him, and no wonder he received me so ill!
October 26th.
Tchicherin sent me a message through Litvinoff, inviting me to start at 4 o’clock in the morning, as that is his quietest time, but it is unfortunately my quietest time too.
October 29th.
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.