We arrived at 8.30 a.m., and were met at the station by Frederick Ström,
head of the left wing Socialist party of Sweden. It was an interesting
contrast to my arrival in former years when the Crown Prince himself
used to meet me and take me in a royal car to the Palace. I felt a great
sadness as I passed that old Palace, and the windows of Princess
Margaret’s rooms which I knew so well. The days when I used to stay
there seemed very long ago and of another world.
We drove to the Grand Hotel which, however, proved to be full, but we
were not at a loss: we drove off to a perfectly charming apartment
belonging to the Krassins, but which in their absence is inhabited by a
Comrade Juon.
There we were most courteously received, and given a splendid breakfast.
Juon is about six feet and a half high, and broad in proportion, with a
black beard and a kindly expression. His eyes have exceptionally big
pupils, which give a curious gleam and keenness to his expression. His
brother in Russia is a well-known painter.
Conversation between the two was mostly in Russian. I am beginning to
cultivate a detached feeling, and I do not expect to understand much
during the next few weeks, except through my eyes.
While we were breakfasting the Grand Hotel telephoned to place a suite
of rooms at our disposal, so we returned there, and the hotel
authorities were most civil.
From that moment there ensued a hectic period. Series of newspaper
reporters arrived, and had to be given interviews. Comrades came, and
stayed--there seemed to be people revolving perpetually. Some of them
only understood German, others struggled in bad English, yet others in
French; the whole conversation was mixed up with Swedish and Russian, so
that one’s head reeled.
Among all these people, one figure stands out more clearly than the
rest. This is Rjasanoff, a man about seventy, with a Greek profile, a
beard that sticks out defiantly and hawk’s eyes. He has a dominating
personality. He has done five years of solitary confinement in a cell
for the cause. He was charming to me, and his expression lost some of
its battle and became even kindly when he looked at me.
Another man who stands out in my mind is a Communist poet called Torré
Norman, who has translated Rupert Brooke.
Mr. Ström accompanied me to the Esthonian Consulate to get my Reval
visa. There were, as I expected, endless difficulties, and nothing was
[Illustration: LITVINOFF AND HIS SON MISHA AT KRISTIANIA.
_p. 45._]
settled, and to-morrow the boat leaves at 4 o’clock so that there is not
much time. I feel pretty confident that all will end well. It is not
possible that there can be any other ending.
We were a big party lunching in the restaurant and attracted a good deal
of attention. After lunch we all went to Skansen and had tea there.
In the evening, Kameneff had to go out and keep an appointment, and
while he was away I wrestled on the telephone with reporters, trying to
ward off interviews until the morrow. At 10 p.m., Kameneff came back and
we dined in the sitting-room; he was pretty dead beat. Even then a
reporter came to the door and asked for an interview, but I insisted
that he _must_ be put off until the next day, and Kameneff, rather
willingly I think, gave in.