Trotsky’s car came for me punctually at 11.30 a.m. (usually the cars
that are ordered are an hour late, and people keep their appointments
two hours late. Trotsky and Lenin are, I hear, the only two exceptions
to the rule). I made Litvinoff come and tell the chauffeur that he was
first to go to the Kremlin with me to fetch my things. When we got to
the big round building in the Kremlin in which I have my studio, I took
the chauffeur to the pass office and explained by signs by showing my
own pass that I required one for the chauffeur. This was done. It is
satisfactory to have arrived at the stage when I get the pass for
someone else, instead of someone else getting it for me. Kameneff told
me the other day that I walk into the Kremlin with the air of one who
belonged to it.
Trotsky’s chauffeur, myself, and the plaster moulder who was there
working, carried the things down to the car, and I was driven to a place
some way off, the War Ministry, I think. Getting in was not easy, as I
had no pass, and there was an altercation with the sentry. I understood
the chauffeur explaining: “Yes, yes, it’s the English sculptor,” but the
sentry was adamant. He shrugged his shoulders, said he didn’t care, and
made a blank face. I had to wait until a secretary came to fetch me. He
took me upstairs, through two rooms of soldier-secretaries. In the end
room there was a door guarded by a sentry, and next to that door a big
writing table from which someone telephoned through into the next room
to know if I could come in. Unlike Lenin’s, not even his secretaries go
in to see Trotsky without telephoning first for permission. It was not
without some trepidation, having heard how very intractable he is, and
knowing his sister,[7] that I was ushered in--I and my modelling stand
and my clay together.
I had instantly the pleasurable sensation of a room that is sympathetic,
big, well-proportioned and simple.
From behind an enormous writing table in one corner near the window came
forth Trotsky. He shook hands with me welcomingly, though without a
smile, and asked if I talked French.
He offered courteously to assist me in moving my stand into the right
place, and even to have his mammoth table moved into some other position
if the light was not right.
The light from the two windows was certainly very bad, but although he
said: “Move anything and do just whatever you like,” there was nothing
one could do that would help. The room, which would have made a
beautiful ballroom, loomed large and dark. There were huge white columns
which got in my way and hampered the light. My heart sank at the
difficulties of the situation. I looked at my man, who was bending down,
writing at his desk. Impossible to see his face. I looked at him and
then at my clay, in despair. Then I went and knelt in front of the
writing table opposite him, with my chin on his papers. He looked up
from his writing and stared back, a perfectly steady, unabashed stare.
His look was a solemn, analytical one, perhaps mine was too. After a few
seconds, realising the absurdity of our attitudes, I had to laugh, and
said: “I hope you don’t mind being looked at.” “I don’t mind,” he said.
“I have my _revanche_ in looking at you, and it is I who gain.”
He then ordered a fire to be lit because he thought it was cold for me.
It was not cold, it was overheated, but the sound and sight of the fire
were nice. A matronly peasant-woman with a handkerchief tied round her
head came and lit it. He said he liked her because she walked softly,
and had a musical voice. Curious that he should admire in another what
is so characteristic of himself; his voice is unusually melodious.
[Illustration: NICHOLAS ANDREV.]
Seeing that he was prepared to be amiable, I asked him if I could bother
him with measurements. “_Tout ce que vous voudrez_,” he said, and
pointed out to me how unsymmetrical his face is. He opened his mouth and
snapped his teeth to show me that his underjaw is crooked, and as he did
so he reminded me of a snarling wolf. When he talks his face lights up
and his eyes flash. Trotsky’s eyes are much talked of in Russia, and he
is called “the wolf.” His nose also is crooked and looks as though it
had been broken. If it were straight he would have a very fine line from
the forehead. Full-face he is Mephisto. His eyebrows go up at an angle,
and the lower part of his face tapers into a pointed and defiant beard.
As I measured him with calipers, he remarked: “_Vous me caressez avec
des instruments d’acier._” He talks very rapid, and very fluent French,
and could easily be mistaken for a Frenchman. I dragged my modelling
stand across the room to try for a better light on the other side. He
watched me with a weary look, and said: “Even in clay you make me
travel, and I am so tired of travelling.” He explained to me that he is
not as desperately busy as usual because there is Peace with Poland, and
good news from the South. I told him that I had nearly gone to the
Southern front with Kalinin, who wanted to take me, but that Kameneff
wouldn’t let me go because it was a troop train. Without hesitating a
moment he answered:
“Do you want to go to the front? You can come with me.”
He was thoughtful for awhile, and then asked me: “Are you under the care
here of our Foreign Office?”