I went up to London and drove straight to the Bolshevik office in Bond
Street, and left my luggage waiting outside in the taxi. Unlike the
previous occasion, I was not shown straight in to Kameneff. I sat down
and waited in the outer room which was full of men, six or seven of
them, and they began discussing me in Italian, French, German and
Russian! I tried to look dignified and aloof, and was, I am sure, a
great failure as a Bolshevik. All my English conventional breeding took
hold of me. Then later Peter came to fetch me, thinking that I had
finished my interview, and then, having him to talk to, I felt better.
Later an eighth man appeared with a number of papers and the garrulous
crowd became of a sudden serious, placed themselves round a table, and
seemed to hold a sort of council.
At this moment Klyschko passed by the open door, and espying me called
Peter and me into his room to wait. I asked him why there were so many
people in the other room, but he only shrugged his shoulders.
At last I was told that both Kameneff and Krassin wanted to see me, and
I was shown into Krassin’s office. I learnt in a moment what I had
feared, that our journey is not for to-morrow. Moscow has answered his
application too late. There was just a faint chance left, for a telegram
from Moscow was being deciphered at that moment, but it was almost too
slight to count upon.
Krassin asked if he might bring his wife and daughters to the studio at
4 o’clock, and then Kameneff took me up to his office. He held out real
hopes of starting next week.
As soon as Krassin and his very attractive family, but slightly alarming
wife, had left, I went to see X---- whom I thought was in a position to
get the visa I want for Reval. My passport is all in order to Stockholm,
but Klyschko has failed to get the Esthonian visa, because it is
necessary to get the Foreign Office approval to do so.
After three-quarters of an hour’s talk with X---- I realised that it was
hopeless; he merely shared the general prejudice. It confirms me in my
decision not to take any one else into my confidence, except Sydney and
S---- L----. They are the only two who have got the spirit to
understand.
But how I want that Esthonian visa--it is worth an effort to get it,
instead of starting with an uncertainty.
X---- explained to me at great length, and kindly, why he did not want
me to go. He said that he believed a complete change of Government
policy was impending, which would make my position in Russia untenable,
and moreover that I should be in great danger of being shot as a spy. He
told me what he thought of Lenin and Trotsky (it seemed very much what
other people think), he said that Kameneff was no better than the rest,
and that a Russian was capable of turning even upon a friend. Finally he
asked me _why_ I wanted to go? I claimed an artist’s zeal in wishing to
do a bust of Lenin and to bring his head back in my arms!
He then wanted to know why “they” wanted to take me? to which I could
give no clear answer, having wondered somewhat myself. He then tried to
draw me on the subject of Bolshevism, and asked me: “What do you gather
is the final and ultimate object of the Bolsheviks?”
It was a difficult question--I thought for a moment, and then I said:
“They are very great idealists; it may be an unpractical and unworkable
idealism, but that does not alter it.”
He was surprised at this, and said in a low voice, almost more to
himself than to me: “Are they as clever as that”--by which I suppose he
meant, had they really been clever enough to take me in!
At the end of it all I said to him: “You have seen in the papers that H.
G. Wells is going to Russia?”
He said that Wells could look after himself. I claimed to be equally fit
to do so, to which he replied: “So you still want to go?”
I explained that I was prepared for anything. He seemed surprised, but
practically assented to try and get my passport put in order for me, and
asked me to go and see him again next week.
I got back in time to dine with Kameneff at “Canuto’s.” After dinner, it
being a lovely warm evening, we took an open taxi, and I suggested
driving to Hampstead Heath. Arrived there, we left the taxi on the main
road, whilst we went on foot off a side road on to a rough sandy track,
quite away from people and lights.
On a bank I spread my white fur coat, and we sat there for an hour or
more. It was very beautiful. The tall pine stems stood out against the
glowing sky of distant, flaring London. The place was full of depth and
distance, and night mystery. I talked to Kameneff about my conversation
with a friend, who was a serious, intelligent man, and told him of his
opinion that I should be in danger of my life. I added that I was
prepared to take the risk, but that I should regret my children being
orphans. Kameneff answered me half amused, half irritated.
He said it was such nonsense that he felt a great desire to start
immediately, so as to show me the truth, and so that I might come back
and prove to all and sundry how ignorant they are of real conditions.
He considered that no matter _what_ line the Government adopted here
(and he was prepared for Lloyd George to do anything at any moment), it
would not affect me. I should be regarded purely as an artist,
international and non-political.
Then laughing, he said that he would have me put against a wall, arms
crossed on breast (not blindfolded, that was a convention of the
aristocrats), with a firing party before me, and then he would save me
at the last moment. Then I should have lived through every thrill, and
my friends would not be disappointed.
He told me, incidentally, that Wrangel is defeated and discredited.
(X----, having just told me that Wrangel had won the peasants over to
him, and that he had a scheme of moderate Government, and was likely to
rouse a counter-Revolution and depose the present lot).
So I said to Kameneff: “Where is truth?”
And he answered: “There is no truth in the world, the only truth is in
one’s own heart.”