Started work again in Lenin’s room. I went by myself this time, and got
past all the sentries with the pass that I had been given. I took my
kodak with me, although I had not the necessary kodak permission. I put
a coat over my arm, which hid it.
I don’t know how I got through my day. I had to work on him from afar.
My real chance came when a Comrade arrived for an interview, and then
for the first time Lenin sat and talked facing the window, so that I was
able to see his full face and in a good light.
The Comrade remained a long time, and conversation was very animated.
Never did I see anyone make so many faces. Lenin laughed and frowned,
and looked thoughtful, sad, and humorous all in turn. His eyebrows
twitched, sometimes they went right up, and then again they puckered
together maliciously.
I watched these expressions, waited, hesitated, and then made my
selection with a frantic rush--it was his screwed-up look. Wonderful! No
one else has such a look, it is his alone. Every now and then he seemed
to be conscious of my presence, and gave a piercing, enigmatical look in
my direction. If I had been a spy pretending not to understand Russian,
I wonder whether I should have learnt interesting things? The Comrade,
when he left the room, stopped and looked at my work, and said the only
word that I understand, which is _carascho_, it means “good,” and then
said something about my having the character of the man, so I was glad.
After that Lenin consented to sit on the revolving stand. It seemed to
amuse him very much. He said he never had sat so high. When I kneeled
down to look at the glances from below, his face adopted an expression
of surprise and embarrassment.
I laughed and asked: “Are you unaccustomed to this attitude in woman?”
At that moment a secretary came in, and I cannot think why they were
both so amused. They talked rapid Russian together, and laughed a good
deal.
When the secretary had gone, he became serious and asked me a few
questions. Did I work hard in London? I said it was my life. How many
hours a day? An average of seven. He made no comment on this, but it
seemed to satisfy him. Until then, I had the feeling that, although he
was charming to me, he looked upon me a little resentfully as a
bourgeoise. I believe that he always asks people, if he does not know
them, about their work and their origin, and makes up his mind about
them accordingly. I showed him photographs of some of my busts and also
of “Victory.” He was emphatic in not liking the “Victory,” his point
being that I had made it too beautiful.
I protested that the sacrifice involved made Victory beautiful, but he
would not agree. “That is the fault of bourgeois art, it always
beautifies.”