Dzhirjinsky came at 10 a.m. for an hour. He is leaving Moscow for a
fortnight, so that I can get no more sittings, but seeing how keen I
was, he stayed on and on, doling out ten minutes and quarter-hours as
so much fine gold. He sits so well that two sittings are worth four of
Zinoviev’s.
When the Savonarola of the Revolution left, I felt a real sadness that I
may never see him again. Zinoviev sat again in the afternoon, and
brought with him Bucharin and Bela Kun. They seemed to approve of
Dzhirjinsky’s bust, and insisted on looking through all the photographs
of my work. The “Victory” is what really interests them.
I was frightfully disappointed in Bela Kun. I had imagined a romantic
figure, but he looks most disreputable. Bucharin is attractive with his
trim, neat little beard and young face.
This afternoon, after all had left, three soldiers brought a gilt Louis
XVI sofa and a Turkestan carpet to my workroom. These had been ordered
to help to make it more habitable and to dispel the severity. I had to
laugh, the sofa looked so absurdly refined and out of place. I wondered
whose drawing-room it once furnished, and to what little tea-time
gossips it had listened. At that moment a sculptor called Nicholas
Andrev came in and introduced himself to me. He was sent by Kameneff and
mercifully speaks French. A big man with small laughing eyes and a
red-grey beard, typically Russian. After we had talked for awhile he
described to me the difficulties
[Illustration: BUST OF DZHIRJINSKY.
_p. 87._]
under which he had tried to do Lenin in his office, and while he was
working. He said that portraiture was not Art. I could not but agree
with him, as the difficulty always in doing portraits is that sittings
are always too few and too short, but said that one had to put up with
it, and do the best one could, breaking one’s heart over it all the
time.
He said he had given up sculpture for the time being because of the
difficult conditions, and had taken to drawing instead. I said that for
the present I was intent on portraits, and that Art would have to wait
until later. His attitude is characteristic of the sculptor species.
They are all so d---- d proud, and if they cannot get all the sittings
they need and work under ideal conditions, they do not think it worth
while trying. I consider that there are a few people in the world who
are worth any effort to do, even if they do not give one a chance to do
one’s best work. Andrev laughed and said that that was journalism in
Art.
When I got home I found that the water had been heated for baths. This
was a great joy: I had not had one for eight days. Once a week is our
allowance, and it should be on Saturdays, but something went wrong with
the pipe, and we have been disappointed each evening, so that in fact I
had given up hope. How one has learned to appreciate the most ordinary
things that one never thought of being thankful for before. But since I
have been here I have had to wash in cold water; nor am I called, but I
wake up quite mechanically every morning at eight. It will be wonderful
to have scrambled eggs one day for breakfast, but I am getting used to
just black bread and butter, and sometimes cheese.
I wonder a good deal about my family and friends. It is so strange to
have left them without a word, and to get no letters and not to be able
to write any. Mamma especially--bless her, who always says “good-night”
as if it were “good-bye-for-ever”--I wonder what she feels about my
going off without telling her. I wonder if Papa is anxious about me, or
indifferent and resentful! When I think about Dick and Margaret I feel a
sadness. I can get on without most people in the world, but not without
those two, and they must wonder why they do not get letters from me. It
it rather dreadful to think that they might believe that my silence
means forgetfulness.
This evening we went to the “Coq d’Or.” I thought I was back in London
until I looked away from the stage.
[Illustration:
_Marcus Adams._