pers about on his
little platform like a monkey on an organ.

Always in this life of restaurants and gilt and roubles I am reminded of
the fact that the only authentic picture we have of hell is of a man
there who all his life had eaten good dinners.

[Page Heading: STAGNATION]

I have been busy seeing all manner of people in order to try and get
work to do. I hear of suffering, but I am never able to locate it or to
do anything for it. No distinct information is forthcoming; and when I
go to one high official he gives me his card and sends me to another.
Nothing is even decided about Mrs. Wynne's cars, although she is
offering a gift worth some thousands of pounds. I go to Lady Georgina's
work-party on Mondays and meet the English colony, and on Wednesdays and
Saturdays I distribute soup; but it is an unsatisfactory business, and
the days go by and one gets nothing done. One isn't even storing up
health, because this is rather an unhealthy place, so altogether we are
feeling a bit low. I can never again be surprised at Russian "laissez
faire," or want of push and energy. It is all the result of the place
itself. I feel in a dream, and wish with all my heart I could wake up in
my own bed.

_21 November._--Sunday, and I have slept late. At home I begin work at 6
a.m. Here, like everyone else, I only wake up at night, and the "best
hours of the day," as we call them, are wasted, a la Watts' hymn, in
slumber. If it was possible one would organise one's time a bit, but
hotel life is the very mischief for that sort of thing. There are no
facilities for anything. One must telephone in Russian or spend roubles
on messengers if one wants to get into touch with anyone. I took a taxi
out to lunch one day. It cost 16 roubles--_i.e._, 32s.

Dear old Lord Radstock used to say in the spring, "The Lord is calling
me to Italy," and a testy parson once remarked, "The Lord always calls
you at very convenient times, Radstock." I don't feel as if the Lord had
called me here at a very convenient time.

I called on Princess Helene Scherbatoff yesterday, and found her and her
people at home. The mother runs a hospital-train for the wounded in the
intervals of hunting wolves. Her son has been dead for some months, and
she says she hasn't had time to bury him yet! One assumes he is
embalmed! Yet I can't help saying they were charming people to meet, so
we must suppose they are somewhat cracked. The daughter is lovely, and
they were all i