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.
Litvinoff adores him and throws him about and makes him stand on his
head. Coming home Litvinoff and I, hatless, ran races down the hill. To
my great humiliation he outran me. He is a heavy man and I run well,
but he was not even out of breath.
On the way back in the open car, they all sang Russian folk songs in a
chorus. Bolsheviks are a very cheerful species.
We reached the hotel just in time to pick up our luggage and catch the
train for Stockholm.
There were real cordial good-byes all round. Litvinoff said that if I
did not get through from Stockholm, I must come back to Kristiania and
he would send someone with me to take me through Murmansk, but Mrs.
Litvinoff said that I should get through from Stockholm. “That sort of
person always gets what she wants” she said, but gave no further
comment, and I am wondering what sort of person I am.
The two secretaries gave me messages for friends in Moscow, and seemed
very envious of anyone going back. One of them (with most beautiful
chestnut hair), held forth to me on the great difference the Revolution
had brought in the position of women. She is an ardent Communist, and
works 10 hours a day with a willing heart and little pay. She added as a
last appeal: “Go and see for yourself, and then say nice things about us
when you get back to England.”