She had no suggestion, it would have been obviously out of place to suggest re-marriage, which in fact is the only way of ending it, of ending everything, liberty, work, and my happiness, which is dependent on my work. AUGUST 28TH. I left the studio in a state of chaos, Smith being in the midst of casting the busts of Kameneff and Krassin. I felt a wonderful sensation of relief at these being finished, and the Victory also. Everything for the moment is finished, until I begin something new. And who will that be, I wonder? Kameneff picked me up at 12.15 and we caught the 12.50 from Waterloo to Portsmouth. Sydney met us at the harbour and escorted us to his house on the Isle of Wight, near Newport. A very attractive journey across, as it was warm and calm weather. A motor met us at Ryde and took us to his house, seven miles. On arrival we flung ourselves down in the sun on the grass of the tennis-court. And after tea, as we lay full length on rugs, our heads leaning on the grassy bank behind us, and the sun gradually sinking lower and lower, Kameneff for over an hour told us the history of the Russian Revolution. He told it to us haltingly, stumbling along in his bad French, wrestling with words and phrases, but always conveying his meaning and above all conjuring up the most graphic pictures, making us see with his eyes, live over the days with him, and know all the people concerned. He is amazingly forceful and eloquent. We sat silent and spellbound. He began as far back as twenty years ago, with the first efforts of himself and Lenin, Trotsky and Krassin. He described their secret organisations, their discoveries, their secrets, his months and years of prison, first in cells, then in Siberia--but long before he had finished, our dinner was announced, and we went in just as we were, to eat. The spell for the moment was broken, and though Kameneff did not again that evening resume the tale of the Revolution, he did most of the evening’s talking. He described to us shortly, but vividly, the individuality and psychology of Lenin. There were others also whose names I cannot recall. One I remember was Dzhirjinsky, the President of the Extraordinary Commission, a man turned to stone through years of _traveaux forcés_, an ascetic and a fanatic, whom the Soviet selected as organiser and head of “La Terreur.” This is the man of whom Maxim Gorky wrote, that one could see martyrdom crystallised in his eyes. He performs his arduous task, suffering over it, but with the conviction that he is helping towards an ultimate reign of peace and calm, towards which end every means is justified. This man sleeps in a narrow bed behind a curtain in his “bureau,” has few friends, and cares for no women, but he is kind to children, and considerate towards his fellow-workers when they are overworked or ill.