I vividly remember 27 October 1932.

My appointment as ambassador in London came as a complete surprise to me. True, I had read in the Manchester Guardian in Helsingfors [i.e. Helsinki] that Sokolnikov

Grigorii Yakovlevich Sokolnikov (Grish Yankelevich Brilliant) was, like Maisky, the son of a Jewish doctor in the provinces. He was a signatory of the Brest-Litovsk peace agreement with Germany in 1918 and excelled as a minister of finance during the New Economic Policy (NEP), a post he lost after demanding the removal of Stalin from the position of general secretary and criticizing collectivization. He was ambassador in London, 1929–32, and deputy people’s commissar for foreign affairs, 1933–34. Arrested in 1936, he was convicted of Trotskyite activities and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, but on Beria’s orders was murdered by prison inmates in 1939.

would soon be leaving and I had often wondered who might succeed him. But, running through the candidates in my mind, I for some reason never considered myself. I felt I was as yet ‘unworthy’ of such a lofty and responsible post. Yes, rumours had reached me that NKID

Narkomindel, People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs. By the early 1930s, it was being referred to (though not officially) as the Soviet Foreign Ministry, and the polpreds were more often than not referred to as ambassadors.

considered me one of the most successful ambassadors and that I would probably be transferred soon from Finland to some other place (this, at least, is what First Secretary Pozdnyakov told me in August 1932, when he returned from his holidays in Moscow), but my imagination stretched no further than Prague or Warsaw.

Then suddenly, on 3 September, I received a notification from M.M. [Litvinov]

Maksim Maksimovich Litvinov (Meir Moiseevich Vallakh), member of the Russian Social Democratic Party from 1898; Soviet diplomatic representative in London, 1917–18, and in the USA, 1918; deputy to the people’s commissar for foreign affairs, 1921–30; people’s commissar for foreign affairs, 1930–39; Soviet representative at the League of Nations, 1934–38; deputy minister for foreign affairs, 1941–46; ambassador to the USA, 1941–43 (frequently referred to as M.M. in the diary).

that I had been appointed ambassador to Britain. I could hardly believe my eyes. The telegram arrived early in the morning. I went to the bedroom, where Agniya

Agniya Aleksandrovna Maiskaya (née Skipina), wife of I.M. Maisky (frequently referred to as A. or A.A. in the diary).

was still sleeping, woke her up and said: ‘I have some important news.’

‘What? What has happened?’ she asked, immediately worried. ‘It’s about N., isn’t it?’

We were having great difficulties at the time with one of our staff, and I was expecting a decision any minute from Moscow.

‘Forget N.!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is a lot more serious.’

I told Agniya about my new appointment. She was no less astonished than me. There, in the bedroom, we began to discuss the new situation from every possible angle and to draft our plans for the immediate future.

I was greatly touched by the trust that M.M. and the ‘high instance’ [Stalin]

Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin (Dzhugashvili), general secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) from April 1922 and member of its Politburo (Presidium) 1919–53; concurrently chairman of the USSR Council of People’s Commissars from May 1941. During the Great Patriotic War, served as people’s commissar for defence, supreme commander-in-chief, marshal of the Soviet Union in 1943, and generalissimo of the Soviet Union in 1945.

had shown in me and I expressed my feelings in a return telegram. The news of my transfer to London astounded our Helsingfors colony, especially the trade representative, the late Stokovsky. They congratulated me, shook my hand, and wished me every success and happiness. We took several photographs of the whole colony and in various groups. The colony gave us a warm send-off.

I dropped in at the Foreign Ministry a few days later and told Yrjö-Koskinen,

Aarno Armas Sakari Yrjö-Koskinen, foreign minister of Finland, 1931–32; ambassador to the USSR, 1930–39.

then minister of foreign affairs, that I was leaving Finland for good.

‘How do you mean, for good?’ Koskinen asked in bewilderment. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘My government has appointed me ambassador to London.’

‘To London?’

Koskinen’s slow Finnish mind just couldn’t take in the meaning of my words. So I explained to him in detail that I had been appointed ambassador to Britain, that my work in Helsingfors would naturally come to an end, and that I would soon be leaving Finland forever. I uttered a few polite words of satisfaction concerning my three and a half years in Helsingfors and expressed my pleasure at working with him for a year and a half. Only then did it dawn on Koskinen what had happened. He was silent for a moment, then said: ‘I would express my deep regret at losing you, were I not aware of how great a promotion this is for you. Let me therefore congratulate you.’

Then the wait began for the British agrément. London did not hurry to reply: nearly three weeks passed before a response finally arrived from England.

M.M. wrote to say that I must be in London by the second half of October at the latest and suggested, therefore, that I immediately take a month’s leave. But I was finishing my editing of the second edition of Contemporary Mongolia

Maisky reissued an updated version of his book Sovremennaya Mongoliya under the title Mongoliya nakanune revolyutsii (Moscow, 1959).

and I understood that I would have no time in England for literary activity, especially in the first six months, so I declined a holiday in order to stay in Finland to complete the work (unfortunately, the second edition of my book on Mongolia has still not appeared for various reasons).

The Finns were surprised and upset that I was leaving. True, I’d had my share of fights with them. In the very last weeks before leaving Helsingfors, I’d bloodied their nose once again following the absurd behaviour of a police officer in Salla, who thought it would be a good idea to arrest both me and my car (in truth, he hadn’t known who was in the car) just because I’d overtaken him. Nonetheless, the Finns sensed that rather than desiring to aggravate our relations, I was working to improve them. Besides, it flattered them that I was interested in Finland, her people, history and art… In a word, the Finns were upset. They arranged a ‘friendly send-off’, at which Koskinen’s wife (he was in Geneva) had a few too many. The Finnish journalists, for whom I arranged a farewell reception, showered me with compliments. I left Helsingfors on 2 October and, after a short stop in Leningrad, finally arrived in Moscow.

I have vague memories of my stay in Moscow. We spent a fortnight in the capital and we were always in a hurry. I had several meetings with M.M., and familiarized myself with the materials. Before leaving, I visited V.M. [Molotov]

Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov (Skryabin), member of the Politburo, 1926–52; chairman of the USSR Council of People’s Commissars, 1930–57; people’s commissar for foreign affairs, 1939–49 and 1953–56.

He gave me the following instruction: ‘Develop as many contacts as possible, in all strata and circles! Be au fait with everything that happens in England and keep us informed.’

I followed this advice during my work in London. And, I may say, not without success.

I left for my new post in London on 20 October or thereabouts. I travelled with the late Dovgalevsky

Valerian Savelevich Dovgalevsky, Soviet ambassador in Sweden, 1924–27; in Japan, March–October 1927, and in France, 1927–34. Signed the protocol restoring Anglo-Soviet relations in 1929.

and his N.P. They were returning to Paris after their holidays. I spoke a lot with G.S[okolnikov]. He gave me a detailed account, among other things, of his talks with Henderson

Arthur Henderson, general secretary of the Labour Party, 1911–34; led the government mission to Russia in 1917; secretary of state for foreign affairs, 1929–31; president of the Geneva Disarmament Conference, 1932–33; Nobel Prize for Peace in 1934.

on the resumption of Anglo-Soviet relations. We made a stop in Berlin. Dovgalevsky left for Paris the same day, while Agniya and I spent about two days in Berlin. We also stopped for a few days in Paris, where Agniya stocked up on essentials – when a woman decides to replenish her wardrobe, it always takes a good deal of time. In fairness, though, Agniya is a rather modest person in this respect.

We left Paris for London on the morning of the 27th. I had phoned London beforehand to ask Kagan

Sergei Borisovich (Samuil Bentsionovich) Kagan was first secretary at the Soviet embassy in London in 1932–35, but on Maisky’s recommendation was raised to the rank of counsellor, 1935–36, and served as his right-hand man. Banished from Narkomindel in 1939 and employed as a financial worker in the party’s municipal committee in Moscow.

to meet me in Dover. Our journey between the two Western capitals passed without incident.

Maisky was always bemused when he recalled how, exactly 20 years earlier, he had almost been denied entry at Folkestone, arriving on the ferry from France with a third-class ticket and failing to possess ‘an immigrant’s minimum’ – the sum of £5. Only after producing from his pocket a crumpled letter from Chicherin, attesting to his status as a ‘political refugee from Tsarism’, was he grudgingly allowed to proceed to London; G. Bilainkin, Maisky: Ten years ambassador (London, 1944), p. 13; RAN f.1702 op.4 d.282 l.17, Maisky to Chicherin, 25 May 1934.

The sea was fairly calm. On the way from Dover to London, Kagan briefed me on matters at hand. Nearly the whole colony was waiting for us at the station in London: some 300 people. Monck

John B. Monck, vice-marshal of the diplomatic corps, 1936–45.

was also there, representing the Foreign Office. There was an awful commotion on the platform. Our comrades crowded around us, cheering loudly, and there was a terrible crush. Newspaper photographers unleashed their own bombardment. Poor Monck was pushed far aside. I managed to find him and say a few polite words. Monck had not changed one bit: he was just as I’d found him seven years ago when I paid him my first visit in 1925 after being appointed counsellor.

Led by a few gallant policemen, we inched along the platform to the exit, surrounded by a noisy crowd of comrades. A moment later and we were in a stylish embassy car, speeding along familiar London streets towards our ‘home’ at 13 Kensington Palace Gardens, W8…

We slowly ascend the stone steps to the entrance hall… We climb to the first floor… Open our apartment doors, marked ‘Private’… Walk around the rooms… Look out the windows…

A new home, a new country, a new job. Five years have passed since then. What years they were! A thought runs through my mind, like lightning: ‘How much time have I to spend here? What will I see? What will I live through? And what will the future bring me?…’

After his return to Russia, Maisky recalled in his diary, on 18 November 1943, the first visit he paid to the prime minister, Ramsay MacDonald,

James Ramsay MacDonald, prime minister of the first and second Labour governments of 1924 and 1929–31; prime minister of the National Government, 1931–35; lord president of the council, 1935–37.

following his appointment. During the First World War, Maisky had been ‘particularly close’ to MacDonald in their unorthodox opposition to the war. MacDonald welcomed the Russian Revolution, expecting it to ‘free mankind from the horrors and sufferings of war’. He ‘walked in daze’ and kept repeating to Maisky: ‘Ex Oriente lux.’ Bidding farewell to Maisky, who was hastily leaving for Russia, MacDonald, who ‘fell into a solemn, sentimental mood’, said: ‘If only the Provisional Government would send you back to England as ambassador!… You and me… How much we would achieve here…’ Fifteen years later, Maisky was received by MacDonald at 10, Downing Street: