H. G. had an hour’s interview with Lenin. He told me that he was
impressed by the man, and liked him. Lenin apparently told him all about
the Vanderlip business, the Kamschatka concessions and the Alliance
against Japan. This will greatly upset Vanderlip, who did not want the
news to leave the country until he did. But I expect Lenin’s
indiscretion is the indiscretion of purpose. H. G. talked to me at some
length about the advisability of my going home. He, too, is discouraging
about my prospects of doing Lenin or Trotsky. He says that Kameneff has
“let me down” badly. I could only say in Kameneff’s defence that he has
not “let me down” yet. But H. G. had something else in the back of his
head that he did not tell. I gathered that he thinks there will be
trouble here in a few weeks. What the conditions are in Petrograd I do
not know, but here one feels as safe as a mountain and as immovable. H.
G. may learn a lot of facts about schools and factories and things, but
it is only by living a life of dull routine and work, even of patient
inactivity and waiting, that one absorbs the atmosphere. Inactivity is
forced upon me, I _have_ to wait. I am waiting neither patiently nor
calmly it is true, but all the while I realise that I am gaining
something, and that some understanding is subconsciously flowing to me.
I see no danger signals. A winter of hardship and sacrifice for these
people, yes, but no disorder. The machine is slowly, very slowly,
working with more competence and freedom. Of course one dislikes cold
baths in cold weather, and bad food, and all the discomforts to which a
pampered life has made one unaccustomed, but these need not blight one’s
outlook. They are not necessarily indicative of a disruption.
After the Ballet “Sadko,” I walked home with Michael Borodin. We had
supper together of cabbage-soup and tepid rice, and talked until 2 a.m.
Michael always says that the food is eatable, even if it is not. He
never complains, he just pretends to eat it, sometimes I see his
pretence. This evening he talked to me about my work. He wants me to
think about a statue interpreting the Soviet idea, and told me a good
deal about the Third International, as representing a world brotherhood
of workers. The plan of the Third International is very fine: “Workmen
of the world unite.” If they did unite they could hold the peace of the
world for ever. But unity is hard to attain; I wonder if it is not
unattainable. Everything that one hears and sees here stirs the
imagination--my mind is seething with allegories with which to express
them, but they are so big that I should have to settle for life on the
side of a mountain, and hew out my allegories from the mountain side.
To-night, in his big Gothic room, I paced back and forth, my arm through
Michael’s, talking abstractedly, until his calmness calmed me. He knows
that I have been going through a period of waiting, not unmixed with
despair and anxiety. I understand so little about the Russian
temperament, and hear such conflicting reports, that it is difficult to
know what to expect. He has encouraged and cheered and tolerated me. He
reminds me sometimes of Munthe,[6] in his adhesion to his convictions,
and his demand that one should live up to one’s idealism.