That is a conversation I have had as a result of my slight indisposition. It was a conversation that confirms the general idea I have met in others since I have been here. I know these men are idealists and selfless. I did not know these qualities could go hand in hand with atheism. On this point, Litvinoff corrected me. He did not even want to be regarded as an idealist. That was too unpractical. “We are idealistic materialists,” he said. To prove their tolerance of religious thought, the churches are all open. But to enter the sacred gateway which leads to the Red Square it was necessary, in pre-Revolution days, for men to pass uncovered. A tablet has now been inserted in the wall engraved with the inscription, “Religion is the opiate of the people.” Hardly ever have I passed that by without having it pointed out to me with great pride. I never quite understood the spirit of it. As for the people, they seem to disregard it, to judge by the many who cross themselves as they pass. The shrine seems to be always full of devotees, who pause to pray. The religious feeling of the people will not easily be obliterated and, after all, they need all the comfort and hope they can get, even if the intellectuals do not. My stay in Russia is nearing its end. Already I see my departure in the near distance. People at home will think I am a Bolshevik, on account of my associations, but I am much too humble to pretend that I understand anything about it. The more I hear, the clearer it seems to me that economics are the basis of all these arguments, and when it is a question of political economy something happens to my mind, just as it used to when I was a child and had to learn arithmetic. A Bolshevik who can be defeated by argument is not worthy of the name. Therefore I am not a Bolshevik. But I have tried to understand the spirit of Communism and it interests me overwhelmingly. There are little incidents I like to recall that in no way lessen my love of the people. For example, when the weather began to get cold, before Borodin went away, being unable to explain in Russian what I wanted, I went myself to the back garden to fetch an armload of logs for my fire. I had to make a long journey through the kitchen, down the corridor and finally through the drawing-room. I have never minded carrying my own wood, but I did think that one of the two men--Borodin who was telephoning, or Boris, who was idling in a Louis XVI chair as I passed through the drawing-room, might have opened the doors for me. Because they did not I most unforgivably lost my temper, and said I was glad that I was an English woman and not a Russian man. The effect of my attack was different on each of them. Boris said, “But it is quite right you should carry your own wood. Communism means that each should help himself.”