I have been five days out of work. It seems much longer. I am told that
there are people in Moscow who have been waiting six months to
accomplish the business they came for. Lenin seems to me further away
than he did in London. There is nothing to do here unless one has work.
Never could one have imagined a world in which there is absolutely no
social life and no shops. There are no newspapers (for me) and no
letters, either to be received or written. There are no meals to look
forward to, and comfort cannot be sought in a hot bath. When one has
seen all the galleries, and they are open only half a day, and some of
them not every day, and when one has walked over cobblestones until
one’s feet ache, there is nothing more to be done. One _must_ have work
to do. Perhaps I should be calmer if I had already accomplished Lenin,
but my anxiety is lest I should have to wait weary weeks. Return to
London without his head I cannot. Michael took me for a walk, and it was
extremely cold. We went to St. Basil, as I wanted to see it inside, but
it is locked after 3 o’clock. Outside it is wonderful, painted all over
in various designs and colours. I cannot understand how it stands the
climate. Inside I am told that there is not much to see; Napoleon
stabled his horses in it. One has heard so much about Bolshevik
outrages, but they have done nothing like that. Napoleon distinguished
himself in several ways while he was here. For instance, he ordered the
destruction of the beautiful Spassky Gate of the Kremlin; the barrels of
powder were placed in position and the matches were lit as the last of
the French rode out. The Cossacks galloped up in time to put the
matches out at the risk of their lives.
On our way home we passed by St. Saviour’s church and looked in, really
impelled to seek refuge from the cold. In a side chapel where the light
was dim, a priest, with his long hair and beard and fine features, was
preaching to a congregation which sat fervently absorbed. The heads of
the women looked Eastern in their shawl swathings. I listened for some
time to the strange musical tongue, of which I could not understand a
word. The priest looked so amazingly like the traditional pictures of
Christ that I felt I was listening to the great Master teaching in the
Temple.