Trotsky’s car came at 6.30. Nicholas Andrev had been having tea with me,
and I offered to give him a lift, as he lives somewhere near the War
Ministry. It was snowing hard and there was a driving wind, which lifted
up the frozen snow and blew it about like white smoke. The car had a
hood, but no sides. In the Red Square we punctured. For some time we sat
patiently watching the passers-by falling down on the slippery pavement,
and the horse-carts struggling up the hill. Winter has come very
suddenly and one month too soon. The horses have not yet been shod for
the slippery roads, consequently they can hardly stand up. This morning
I counted four down all at the same moment. In London a fallen horse
attracts a good deal of attention, and a crowd collects, but here no one
even turns his head to look. I have been much laughed at because I stop
to watch, but the method of getting the horse up amuses me. The driver
(man or woman, as the case may be) gets behind and pushes the cart. The
horse, so weak that he has no resisting power, impelled forward by the
shafts, struggles to his feet in spite of himself. No unharnessing is
necessary. This evening, when I became too cold to be interested any
longer by the passers-by falling in the square, I asked the chauffeur if
he had nearly finished. He answered “_Sichas_” which literally
translated is “immediately,” but in practice means to-morrow, or next
week! So I pulled up the fur collar of my inadequate cloth coat, put my
feet up lengthways on the seat, and let Andrev sit on them to keep them
warm. I arrived at Trotsky’s at 7.30. He looked at me and then at the
clock. I explained what had happened. “So that is the reason of your
inexactitude,” he said; an inexactitude which could not in the least
inconvenience him as he did not have to wait for me. He kissed my frozen
hand, and put two chairs for me by the fire, one for me and one for my
feet. When I had melted and turned on all the lights of the crystal
candelabra he said: “We will have an agreement, quite businesslike; I
shall come and stand by the side of your work for five minutes every
half hour.” Of course the five minutes got very enlarged, and we talked
and worked and lost all track of time. When the telephone rang he asked:
“Have I your permission?” His manners are charming. I said to him: “I
cannot get over it, how amiable and courteous you are. I understood you
were a very disagreeable man. What am I to say to people in England when
they ask me: ‘What sort of a monster is Trotsky?’” With a mischievous
look he said: “Tell them in England, tell them----” (but I cannot tell
them!) I said to him: “You are not a bit like your sister.” The shadow
of a smile crossed his face, but he did not answer.
I showed him photographs of my work and he kept the ones of the
“Victory.” Among the portraits he liked “Asquith” best, and said that
that one was worked with more feeling and care than any of the others.
He took for granted that Asquith must like me, which is not necessarily
the case, and said half-laughingly: “You have given me an idea--if
Asquith comes back into office _soon_ (there is a rumour that he might
bring in a Coalition with Labour, and recognise Russia) I will hold you
as a hostage until England makes peace with us.” I laughed: “What you
are saying humorously is what a British official told me seriously, only
he said it à propos of Winston. As a matter of fact, I’d be proud if I
could be of any use in the cause of Peace. But if you said you would
shoot me, Winston would only say ‘shoot,’”--which is, to my mind, the
right spirit, and exactly the spirit that prevails among the Bolsheviks.
They would not hesitate to shoot me (some of them have told me so) if it
were necessary, even if they liked me as a woman. Winston is the only
man I know in England who is made of the stuff that Bolsheviks are made
of. He has fight, force and fanaticism.
Towards the end of the evening, as Trotsky said nothing more about the
project of my going to the front, I asked him if he had decided to take
me or not. He said: “It is for you to decide if you wish to come--but I
shall not start for three or four days.” It was getting late and he
looked very tired. He was standing in front of the clay with his back to
it, so that I had the two profiles exactly in line. His eyes were shut
and he swayed. For a moment I feared he was going to faint. One does not
think of Trotsky as a man who faints, but anything may happen to a man
who works as he does. My thought was of my work, and I said to him: “Do
not fall backward, or you fall on my work.” He answered quickly: “_Je
tombe toujours en avant!_” I asked him to order the motor, having
realised that unless he sends for it I have to wait outside in the cold
or look for it in the garage. While the car was coming round he sent for
a reproduction of a portrait of himself by an artist friend of his, to
show me that the same difficulties that I am having with his jaw and
chin, were experienced also by the draughtsman who only succeeded in
this, the last of a great many sketches. It is evidently one that
Trotsky likes, for it is reproduced in colour in almost every office one
goes into. I told him I wanted it and he wrote upon it “Tovarisch,”
which means Comrade “Clare Sheridan,” and signed it. This has its effect
on the Bolsheviks who have been into my room and seen it.