I don’t know how I got through my day. I had to work on him from afar. My real chance came when a Comrade arrived for an interview, and then for the first time Lenin sat and talked facing the window, so that I was able to see his full face and in a good light. The Comrade remained a long time, and conversation was very animated. Never did I see anyone make so many faces. Lenin laughed and frowned, and looked thoughtful, sad, and humorous all in turn. His eyebrows twitched, sometimes they went right up, and then again they puckered together maliciously. I watched these expressions, waited, hesitated, and then made my selection with a frantic rush--it was his screwed-up look. Wonderful! No one else has such a look, it is his alone. Every now and then he seemed to be conscious of my presence, and gave a piercing, enigmatical look in my direction. If I had been a spy pretending not to understand Russian, I wonder whether I should have learnt interesting things? The Comrade, when he left the room, stopped and looked at my work, and said the only word that I understand, which is _carascho_, it means “good,” and then said something about my having the character of the man, so I was glad. After that Lenin consented to sit on the revolving stand. It seemed to amuse him very much. He said he never had sat so high. When I kneeled down to look at the glances from below, his face adopted an expression of surprise and embarrassment. I laughed and asked: “Are you unaccustomed to this attitude in woman?” At that moment a secretary came in, and I cannot think why they were both so amused. They talked rapid Russian together, and laughed a good deal. When the secretary had gone, he became serious and asked me a few questions. Did I work hard in London? I said it was my life. How many hours a day? An average of seven. He made no comment on this, but it seemed to satisfy him. Until then, I had the feeling that, although he was charming to me, he looked upon me a little resentfully as a bourgeoise. I believe that he always asks people, if he does not know them, about their work and their origin, and makes up his mind about them accordingly. I showed him photographs of some of my busts and also of “Victory.” He was emphatic in not liking the “Victory,” his point being that I had made it too beautiful. I protested that the sacrifice involved made Victory beautiful, but he would not agree. “That is the fault of bourgeois art, it always beautifies.” I looked at him fiercely. “Do you accuse me of bourgeois art?” “I accuse you!” he answered, then held up the photograph of Dick’s bust. “I do not accuse you of embellishing this, but I pray you not to embellish me.” He then looked at Winston. “Is that Churchill himself? You have embellished him.” He seemed to have this on the brain. I said: “Give me a message to take back to Winston.”