[Illustration: SAINT SAVIOUR’S.
_p. 82._]
very beautiful. The masses seemed to be very fervent, one could see
Faith and Hope in all their faces. It is surely the deep religious
feeling in Russia that has sustained these people through all their
years of privation, and prevented a greater chaos.
After church we walked along, rejoicing in the sun, to the
Tretiakovskaya Gallery, full of various schools of painting. Among the
pictures is the famous one of Ivan the Terrible killing his son, but
everything that I saw was obliterated by the memory of three modern
busts, the work of Konenoff, the sculptor I met at the Strogonoff
School. These busts are carved out of blocks of wood. They are
indescribable masterpieces in conception, composition and carving. I
remained for sometime in admiration and wonderment over this modern
work, and then went away, as I could not look at anything else.
At 3 o’clock I hurried to the Kremlin, as Kameneff had telephoned
telling me to expect Zinoviev. I waited until four and then he arrived,
busy, tired and impatient, his overcoat slung over his shoulders as
though he had not had time to put his arms through the sleeves. He flung
off his hat and ran his fingers through his black curly hair, which
already was standing on end. He sat restlessly looking up and down,
round and out and beyond; then he read his newspaper, every now and
again flashing round with an imperative look at me to see how I was
getting on. He seemed to me an extraordinary mix-up of conflicting
personalities. He has the eyes and brow of the fighting man, and the
mouth of a petulant woman.
Little by little he became more tractable, and when he had finished
reading we talked a little. At moments he threw his head back and seemed
to be dreaming. Then he looked like a poet. He is only thirty-eight. It
is amazing how young all these Revolutionaries are. I gleaned from him
the news that Millerand is the new President of the French, to which he
shrugged his shoulders and said that it made no difference, and that the
British strike fixed for to-morrow has been postponed for a week. Before
he left he said he was pleased with the start of his bust, and that I
must do Lenin.
I walked home in face of a lovely sunset; the fiery ball was reflected
in the gold dome of St. Saviour’s. I sang as I walked, because I have
begun work at last, but people looked at me, although they had never
looked at me before. I suppose it was peculiar to hear anyone sing.
[Illustration: BUST OF ZINOVIEV.
_p. 83._]