. Russian portraits . hen Icame back and waited and waited for Kameneffto come and tell me where I was to go. As theday passed by I felt more and more lonely. Forlack of another book I read de Maupassants Yvette, but hated it, and thanked God thatBolshevism had at least wiped out that vile worldof idle men. At sunset I sat on the ledge of theopen window, and listened to the bells that wereringing from all the domes in Moscow. Below mewas an avenue of trees that reached up to me withautumn colours. I thought of Dick and thatto-day is his birthday. I knew he must be asking, Where is Meema ; why
. Russian portraits . hen Icame back and waited and waited for Kameneffto come and tell me where I was to go. As theday passed by I felt more and more lonely. Forlack of another book I read de Maupassants Yvette, but hated it, and thanked God thatBolshevism had at least wiped out that vile worldof idle men. At sunset I sat on the ledge of theopen window, and listened to the bells that wereringing from all the domes in Moscow. Below mewas an avenue of trees that reached up to me withautumn colours. I thought of Dick and thatto-day is his birthday. I knew he must be asking, Where is Meema ; why doesnt she come ?How long will she be ? When it was dark I was still looking out, andAnna Anrevna, the little maid, came in softlyin her string soled shoes and put her arms roundme. She told me in broken German that I mustnot traurig sein. Kameneff came in at half-past ten, he wasvery tired and precluded all further discussionby saying that it was too late to go anywhereelse, and that I must stay for the night. THE KREMLIN, SHOWING ENTRANCE TO THE KAMENEFFS APARTMENTS. p. 65. RUSSIAN PORTRAITS Kameneff came in from her work a little sank into a chair and drew her hand acrossher brow in the most approved way to betokenphysical exhaustion. I was given Alexandresroom, through which they have to pass to getto theirs, and I have to pass through theirsto get to the wash-room, as there is no washstandin my bedroom. I suppose Alexandre slept ona sofa. Kameneff went back to his Soviet meetingat eleven, and I heard him pass through my roomwhen he came home at 4 September 2ist. I awakened, feeling much better. The sun-shine was too wonderful. Both the Kameneffswent off to their respective work, she at 10,and he at 11. I went out into the Kremlingrounds with Alexandre, and while he playedfootball with Serge Trotsky I sat among thecolumns of the Alexander Memorial and indulgedin a kaleidoscope of thought. Serge is the twelveyear old son of Trotsky, and is a fine littl
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