At Finse, the highest point, where we were on a level with the mountain summits, and where snow lay round us and below us, the train stopped for ten minutes. We got out and walked about, and I took my kodak. Beyond the platform on the sloping bank a granite monolith stood up grimly against the snow-patched distance and, to my surprise, engraved upon it were the names of Captain Scott and all his party, with the date, and the announcement that they had started from Norway for the South Pole. It was rather _émotionant_ finding it so unexpectedly, and so remote. At 10 p.m., we steamed into Kristiania, where we were met by Litvinoff. I had visualized a small, sharp-faced, alert man. Instead I found a big, square, amiable, smiling man. He informed us that there was not a room to be had at the Grand Hotel, and turning to me, added in English: “If you want rooms in the Grand Hotel you will have to secure them through the British Legation.” We all laughed, and I said: “We are not making much use of the British Legation on this trip.” As we entered the Grand Hotel and stepped into the lift, I caught the sound of string-band music, which characterises the Grand Hotels and Ritz-Carltons of Europe, and suggests all that side of life with which we on this trip are not quite in harmony. Litvinoff accommodated me in the room of one of his secretaries. I felt rather strange, lonely, and lost, especially when questioned by one of them as to my work and plans. Had I been working in the Soviet office in London? I felt rather at a disadvantage, having to explain that I was merely an artist who had done portraits of Kameneff and Krassin (who, by the way, they spoke of as Comrade), and that I hoped to get through to Russia with Kameneff to do some portraits there. I felt, as they looked at me, that I did not look much like a sculptor. They proceeded to tell me that no British passports were being issued, and that any amount of people were being held up here. Very cheerful! By this time I had drunk three cups of excellent tea out of a tumbler, and it was nearly midnight, so I suggested bed, apologising at the same time for making use of their room and necessitating their discomfort. It being now 1 o’clock, I propose to sleep, though I am only wrapped in my rug, for the bed is not made up for me, and I do not like sleeping in other people’s sheets! The noise in the street is perfectly infernal and Kameneff and Litvinoff are still talking in the next room on my other side. SEPTEMBER 14TH. _Kristiania._ Slept very well, wrapped in my rug. Woke up at 9 o’clock, and had breakfast in bed. Had looked forward to a bath, but the sour-faced hotel maid says there are too many gentlemen who want it, and so I cannot have one. This does not seem an adequate reason for denying it to me, and I rather suspect it is part of a general boycott of Bolsheviks.