Madame Kameneff’s secretary fetched me at 10 a.m. and we found a Comrade
waiting for us at the Kremlin gateway. He was a painter, young and
bearded, who could speak only Russian. We got our passes to get into the
big round building which used to be the Courts of Justice, and where the
conferences are now held. It is the chief building, and the Red flag
flies above it. Once inside we walked for ever as it seemed, along stone
corridors full of busy people. We went to the room of Comrade Unachides,
one of the most magnificent men that I have ever seen, a real Mestrovic
type, strong features and bushy red hair. Unfortunately he also could
only speak Russian. He showed me the room which is placed at my
disposal. It is big and nearly empty, semi-circular in shape, with bare
white-washed walls. In one corner a formidable iron door with round
peep-holes in it leads into a small cell which contains a safe. The safe
is sealed up with Soviet seals. The cell, I was told, was a disused
prison. This probably accounted for the atmosphere of depression and
grimness which persisted in spite of the sunlight which in the afternoon
flooded my three big windows. Opposite, across the courtyard, is the
Arsenal, and all along the Arsenal walls are ranged the masses of cannon
with their “N” surrounded by the laurel wreath, which leaves one in no
doubt as to their origin.
[Illustration: BIG GUN AT THE KREMLIN.]
While I was looking round, Kameneff turned up; he told me to make a list
of my requirements, and then carried me off in a car and was able to
stay with me until 2 o’clock. These moments together snatched in between
work are so rare that one almost values them. He told me I was to go to
a meeting at the theatre in the evening, and promised that I should be
in a box near the stage so that I could see well. He was to address the
meeting on the subject of his visit to England.
The party from our house were late in starting. We got to the theatre
after the meeting had begun, and were put in the Tsar’s box. This was
already crammed full to overflowing, and all the chairs were occupied by
Turks, Chinese and Persians. No one attempted to offer me a place. Mr.
Vanderlip and I stood for some time, while people moved in and out and
Turks and Persians (I shall never want to smell geranium again) pushed
us about in their impatient efforts to get past or over us. All my
British blood was boiling, and I realised that for the time being, at
all events, I could not regard the Turks and Persians and Chinese as my
brothers.
After awhile Mr. Vanderlip and I were moved to the stage box. This too
was full, but not of the same kind of people. Anyway, it was nearer, and
one got a better view. Clara Zetkin, the German Socialist, was
speaking, spitting forth venom, as it sounded. The German language is
not beautiful, and the ferocious old soul, mopping her plain face with a
large handkerchief, was not inspiring. It sounded very hysterical and I
only understood an outline of what she was saying. Then Trotsky got up,
and translated her speech into Russian. He interested me very much. He
is a man with a slim, good figure, splendid fighting countenance, and
his whole personality is full of force. I look forward immensely to
doing his head. There is something that ought to lend itself to a fine
piece of work. The overcrowded house was as still as if it were empty,
everyone was attentive and concentrated.
After Trotsky Mme. Kolontai spoke. She has short dark hair. Perhaps she
spoke well, but of that I could not judge. Tired of standing and of not
understanding I left the theatre at the moment when a great many
repetitions of Churchill’s and Lloyd George’s names were rocking the
house with laughter.