Michael Borodin found me after breakfast, miserably wrapped in my rug,
shivering with cold and depression, and with tears irrepressibly
streaming down my face. I had several grievances which had been
accumulating for some days, and at last my patience had come to a head.
The fact is I had heard of a courier having arrived yesterday from
London, and no one had taken the trouble to find out if there were any
letters for me. Ever since I left England on September 11th I have not
had one word of news, nor answers to two telegrams that Kameneff sent
for me asking after the children. Secondly, I had not been given the
coat that Kameneff had ordered for me, so it was impossible to go out as
it was too cold.
Michael for the first time seemed really moved. He wrapped me round in
his fur coat, went off to the garden and fetched up a load of wood for
me (I had never known him do such a thing before), and lit my fire
himself. Then he telephoned to the Foreign Office. There were no letters
for me, but some bundles for Kameneff. He also got hold of Comrade
Alexandre on the telephone to know when I was going to have the promised
coat, and altogether was very helpful. His journey to Madrid has been
delayed daily, but he is to start to-morrow. It seems to me that in
Russia one only knows about ten minutes beforehand what one is going to
do! They are divinely vague.