I have had four inactive days, but the sense of work completed is a
great relief. I am prepared to enjoy the holiday. I have drifted about
with Andrev, and in his spare moments with Maxim Litvinoff. On his way
to work at midday he first takes me in his car to the place I want to
photograph. At 5 o’clock he comes back and has tea with me, brings his
portfolio and works in my room till 7. Then he starts out again to
meetings. I have interesting talks with him and learn a good deal. He
smiles tolerantly when my bourgeois breeding breaks out. But he says I
am getting better. Even Rothstein has grown to treat me more seriously.
To-day my fourth day of rest began to rouse in me a fresh energy. I long
to fill in this interim of waiting with some new work. I have offered to
do Litvinoff, and he suggests that I should work in his office; this is
so difficult that I have asked him to let me do it at home, in odd
moments when he is free. Between the two, nothing gets decided.
Meanwhile the sentries at the Kremlin gate have fired my enthusiasm.
They are magnificent, wrapped around in goatskin coats with collars that
envelop their entire heads. My efforts to get such an one to sit to me
have at last been successful.
Andrev and I wandered from building to building this morning to
accomplish this purpose. Andrev is great fun to explore with; with a
“_Je m’en fiche_” air, he opens all the doors he comes to, and walks in
everywhere. I see all sorts of places that I would never dare to
investigate alone.
We walked boldly into the barracks; I doubt if a woman had been in
before, but I did not attract much attention. A few soldiers gathered
round us to hear our explanation to the officer in charge. One or two
smiled, the rest looked at me blankly. What Andrev said of course I do
not know, except that I understood the officer to ask if we were
Bolshevik. Apparently if we were not Bolsheviks we must get permission
from the Commandant of the Kremlin before a soldier could be sent to me.
Off we went in search of the Commandant. Oh! the dark passages and the
stuffy offices; they smelt as if the air belonged to bygone ages. I am
sure no fresh air ever leaks in. From there to the military store to
obtain an overcoat. They lent me a new one; it was an enormous goatskin.
More smells! No living goat ever could have smelt stronger. Andrev,
staggering under the weight and the unwieldy size, carried it to my
studio to await the soldier’s arrival to-morrow. The room reeks of it.
My idea is a statuette--only in Russia could one find such a silhouette.
It was still early and I did not want to go home, so we wandered to the
Palace, opened more doors, and after a little conversation with some men
in an office, one of them took us to see the Museum and the Armoury.
This was a great revelation, and I regretted not having seen it before
so that I could have had time to go often again. Our guide spoke French,
and knew all the things intimately. He talked of them with pride and
almost with love. Everything was beautifully arranged. There were glass
cases full of Romanoff crowns, jewel studded, and sceptres and harness
and trappings set with precious stones. One really got quite dazzled by
them. The armour is very fine, I believe, but that I know nothing about
and it does not interest me. What I loved were the old coaches. There
was one given by Queen Elizabeth of England, the most beautiful bit of
painted carving I have ever seen. The French Louis XV and XVI coaches
looked vulgar next to it. There was a room full of silver and gold cups.
I believe that this contains the finest collection of English Charles II
silver in the world. Moreover so many cups had been collected recently
from the churches that there were long wooden trestles covered with
them, and they were in process of being catalogued. In the last room
were exhibited all the old costumes, church vestments and beautiful
brocades. The Coronation robe of Catherine the Great was there, and
others that had been wedding and Coronation robes of various other
Tsarinas. It is wonderful that these things should have remained unhurt
throughout the Revolution.
It is acutely cold, and the river is completely frozen over. Children
skate and toboggan everywhere. The side walks have become slides, and
are very difficult for the pedestrian who is not equipped with skates.
Children here seem to be born able to skate. They strap skates on to any
kind of footgear, even on to big, loose felt boots, and they skate
everywhere at breakneck speed.
It is a relief not to see people wearily carrying their bundles over
their shoulders. Now everyone seems to have put his burden on to a
little wooden sledge, and grown-up people look like big children pulling
toys on the ends of strings. I have borrowed clothes and Jaegers from my
friends. One’s nostrils freeze and the breath crystallises on one’s fur
collar.
The town with its white pall is indescribably beautiful. At dusk the sky
is darkened by a flight of grey-backed crows. They settle on the bare
tree branches with the effect of great black leaves silhoueted against a
coloured evening sky.
At 8.30 this evening, Kameneff unexpectedly walked into my room. It is
nearly three weeks since he went to the front. I had almost forgotten
about him. He was in tremendous spirits, much thinner, quite unshaved,
and with his hair long. He was interesting about the spirit of the Red
Army. He says they are wonderfully enthusiastic, and anxious to finish
Wrangel and have peace. It is just possible there may be a big _coup_
which would obviate a winter campaign.
More than ever do I regret not having gone with Trotsky. They met at
Kharkof, and I could have come back with Kameneff.