I went to the Kremlin, and tried to work on my soldier who came to sit
to me, but the clay gets so cold and my fingers so numbed, I find I
cannot do anything. I built up such a big fire in the stove to keep
myself warm, that the unfortunate soldier in the overcoat got nearly
apoplectic. Moreover, the hot goatskin smells stronger and stronger.
Even the soldier seems to be affected by it. We cannot open the windows
and let the cold in. These conditions make work very discouraging.
Andrev fetched me at 12.30, and we went to the house of Shucken, who
was a cotton-king, and who had the biggest collection of modern French
pictures in existence. It is now taken over by the Government, and open
on several days a week to the public. Madame Shucken is, I believe,
allowed to occupy her rooms in the house. There is no such modern
collection in France. There were represented all the artists I have been
wanting to see. The first room was full of Claude Monet, and there were
three little Whistlers in the doorway leading to a room full of Dégas,
Renoir, and Cézanne.
To-day for the first time I can appreciate Mattisse; there were
twenty-one in a room. Next to this was another room containing twenty
Goguins. In a further gallery there was a motley collection, including a
couple of Brangwyns, which held their own well. There was also the big
William Morris tapestry of Burne-Jones’ “Nativity,” which one could
hardly bear to look at after the modern French.
Coming out, we passed by a doorway in the snow, rudely painted in
blotches of green and yellow; a sentry stood by, and I pointed it out to
Andrev who agreed that it was pure Mattisse. One has but to borrow the
eyes of another and the same old world appears quite different. I
remember that when I had been in Florence a few days, everyone looked
like a painted Madonna.
This evening Litvinoff gave a banquet for the departing Chinese General.
It was a great event. The dishes as they appeared were like things we
have seen in dreams. The party consisted, besides the General and three
of his staff, of two interpreters (one being the professor of Chinese at
the University of Petrograd), Tchicherin, Karahan, his secretary, Mrs.
Karahan, Vanderlip, Rothstein and myself.
We were invited for 9 p.m., but it was half-past eleven before we began,
true Russian fashion, two hours and a half late. It was for Tchicherin
we had to wait: he has no idea of time.
The hours preceding were rather tedious, as conversation through an
interpreter is not a success. One Chinaman talked French. He was the
President of the Union of Chinese Workers.
Karahan is Armenian; he speaks some strange Eastern language, but
nothing that I understand. His wife can only talk Russian. They live in
our house, but one seldom sees them as they have their meals in their
own apartments. His face is very beautiful, like carved ivory. He is a
great mystery; he lives in a better way than anyone else, smokes the
best cigars, drives to his office in a limousine, and looks like the
most prosperous gentleman in Europe in his astrachan coat and hat. He
must do some very good work for the Government, or he would not be
tolerated. I believe Lenin once asked what was the use of him, and he
was told that Karahan was most important, for was he not the only man
amongst them who could wear evening clothes? Mrs. Karahan was on the
stage and is the prettiest woman I have seen in Moscow.
At dinner I sat between the President of the Union of Chinese Workers
and Litvinoff, who did host extremely well, and was clever in placing us
all. He created so many places of honour that everyone was gratified. He
put Tchicherin at the head of the table, so that the General and
Vanderlip on either side of him felt that they were guests of honour. He
put me on one side of him and Mrs. Karahan at the end of the table
opposite Tchicherin.
I ate so many excellent _hors d’œuvres_, thinking I was never going to
eat again, and that nothing else was coming, that I had little room left
for what followed. It was a joy even to look at a fresh salad and a
cauliflower.
Our old manservant was awfully happy. He had on a collar and tie and was
washed, and had organised everything beautifully. He had got out the
Sèvres salt-cellars, and the cut-glass decanters, and I suppose he just
felt that he was back in the old pre-Revolution days and serving his
master’s friends. He took intense pride in it all.
We had our jokes with him as he went by. Handing me a dish of _bœuf à la
mode_, he said: “_Magnifique!_” Litvinoff was reprimanded by him for
using his knife for his vegetables, and was told that he would not get
another. When the apple dumplings came round I was done. I said to the
old man: “_Zafter_” (to-morrow). I do hope we shall get some remains. I
asked Litvinoff where all the food had come from. He explained to me
that there is some food to be had, but that the best is sent to the
hospitals and the children.
Then followed speeches. Anything more deplorable to listen to without
understanding than Russian being translated into Chinese and _vice
versâ_ is hard to imagine. Tchicherin spoke for quite a long time. The
Chinese General’s face was immovable. After the Professor had
translated, the General replied with much the same sort of face.
After dinner we adjourned to the Karahans’ big rooms opposite.
Tchicherin was evidently embarrassed at meeting me again. I had no
feeling on the subject, and merely laughed.