Until the lights went on I read the leading article on Bolshevism in
_The Times_ of, I think, October 4th. He had several English papers on
his desk and we read together with much amusement that he (Trotsky) had
been wounded, and that General Budienny had been court-martialled. There
were even descriptions of barricades in the streets of Moscow: someone
must have mistaken the stacks of fuel that the tramcars are bringing in
and unloading every day. When the lights went on I worked hectically
until half after midnight, with the desperation of knowing it was the
last sitting.
At midnight he was standing by the side of the work, rather tired and
very still and patient, when suddenly I had the thought of asking him to
undo his collar for me. He unbuttoned his tunic and the shirt
underneath, and laid bare a splendid neck and chest. I worked like a
fury for half an hour which was all too short. I tried to convey into my
clay some of his energy and vitality. I worked with the desperation that
always accompanies last moments. When I left he said to me: “_Eh bien!
on ira ensemble au front?_” But something tells me that we shall never
meet again. I feel that it is almost worth while to preserve the
impression of our hours of individual work, collaboration and quietude,
silently guarded by a sentry with fixed bayonet outside the door. To let
in the light of day would be to spoil it.
There is a French saying: “_On n’est pas toujours né dans son pays_.” It
equally follows that all are not born in their rightful sphere. Trotsky
is one of these. At one time, in his youth, what was he? A Russian exile
in a journalist’s office. Even then I am told he was witty, but with
the wit of bitterness. Now he has come into his own and has
unconsciously developed a new individuality. He has the manner and ease
of a man born to a great position; he has become a statesman, a ruler, a
leader. But if Trotsky were not Trotsky, and the world had never heard
of him, one would still appreciate his very brilliant mind. The reason I
have found him so much more difficult to do than I expected, is on
account of his triple personality. He is the cultured, well-read man, he
is the vituperative fiery politician, and he can be the mischievous
laughing school-boy with a dimple in his cheek. All these three I have
seen in turn, and have had to converge them into clay interpretation.