As Vera had said last night we had, none of us,
much faith in Russian revolutions.
I went up in the lift to the Propaganda office and found it a very nice
airy place, clean and smart, with coloured advertisements by Shepperson
and others on the walls, pictures of Hampstead and St. Albans and Kew
Gardens that looked strangely satisfactory and homely to me, and rather
touching and innocent. There were several young women clicking away at
typewriters, and maps of the Western front, and a colossal toy map of
the London Tube, and a nice English library with all the best books from
Chaucer to D.H. Lawrence and from the _Religio Medici_ to E.V. Lucas'
_London_.
Everything seemed clean and simple and a little deserted, as though the
heart of the Russian public had not, as yet, quite found its way there.
I think "guileless" was the adjective that came to my mind, and
certainly Burrows, the head of the place--a large, red-faced, smiling
man with glasses--seemed to me altogether too cheerful and pleased with
life to penetrate the wicked recesses of Russian pessimism.
I went into Bohun's room and found him very hard at work in a serious,
emphatic way which only made me feel that he was playing at it.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306