Red love

By Alexandra Kollontay

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Red love
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Red love

Author: Alexandra Kollontay

Release date: February 25, 2025 [eBook #75463]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Seven Arts Publishing Company, 1927

Credits: Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RED LOVE ***





                               RED LOVE

                        By ALEXANDRA KOLLONTAY

                               NEW YORK
                              SEVEN ARTS
                          PUBLISHING COMPANY

                          COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY
                       SEVEN ARTS PUBLISHING CO.

                         _All rights reserved_

                      First Printing, March, 1927
                     Second Printing, March, 1927

                        AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION

             _Printed in the United States of America by_
                J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK




                               FOREWORD

                        TO THE ENGLISH EDITION


This novel is neither a study in "morals," nor a picture of the
standard of life in Soviet Russia. It is a purely psychological study
of sex-relations in the post-war period.

I have chosen the environment of my own country and made my own people
protagonists, for I know them better and could give a more vivid
picture of their inner life and characters. Many of the problems
presented are not exclusively Soviet-Russian; they are world-wide
facts, which can be noted in all countries. These silent psychological
dramas, born of the change in the sexual relations; this evolution,
especially, in the feelings of women, are well known to the younger
generation of Europe.

Do we ever judge a man for his conduct in love-affairs? Generally, if
he does not overstep certain, very flexible limits, we say that his
sexual life is his own "private affair." The character of a man is
evaluated not by his conduct in family morals, but by his efficiency
in work, by his intellect, his will, his usefulness to the State and
Society. As long as the majority of women had no direct duties to the
State or to Society, as long as their whole activity was concentrated
within the family limits, civilized nations demanded no other qualities
in woman than that she display "good morals" in sexual and family life.

Now, when more than half of the grown-up women-citizens in most
countries toil and struggle, just as the men do, Society puts new
demands on the women. Their ability to respond to the social duties
of a citizen begins to have more value than their "goodness" and
"stainlessness" in family morals. Family life is not the unique field
of activity for women nowadays; often enough her family duties come
into bitter conflict with her out-of-home work and her public duties.
It is only natural, therefore, that the method of evaluating a woman
today is different from that of our grandfathers and grandmothers.

Though a woman may, at the present time, attain "perfection" in the
current bourgeois standard of family morals, and be "esteemed" by her
own people, she may neither receive the real appreciation of society
nor the "respect" of the State. She will merely be "overlooked." On
the contrary: a woman may not be "spotless" from the point of view
of current bourgeois sex morals, but if she is an outstanding figure
in politics, art, science, etc., one will not even "whisper" about
her behind her back. Were one to put into the balance two women: one
with "good morals," but who never did any useful work for the country
or humanity, and the other, whose "family morals" are not free from
criticism, but who is an efficient public worker--there would be no
doubt about the choice.

Our criteria in sex morals are always changing. There is never a
standstill. There are merely periods in human history when the
evolution of morals goes on more rapidly, other periods (with a
general stagnation in all fields of life) when change seems to relax.
Only half a century ago Dumas-fils wrote of a "divorcée" as of a
"fallen" creature, while today France openly discusses the question
of equalizing the rights of non-legal mothers with those of legally
married women. There remains less and less of the old bourgeois
hypocrisy in our way of thinking and judging of sex morals.

I do hope that this book will aid in combating the old, bourgeois
hypocrisy in moral values and show once more that we are beginning to
respect woman, not for her "good morals," but for her efficiency, for
her ingenuity with respect to her duties toward her class, her country
and humanity as a whole.

Mexico City, March 10th, 1927




                               CONTENTS


                               PART ONE

                                 LOVE


                               PART TWO

                                MENAGE


                              PART THREE

                                FREEDOM




                                 LOVE




                               CHAPTER I


Vassilissa was a working-girl twenty-eight years old, a knitter by
trade. Thin, anemic, a typical child of the city. Her hair, cut short
after typhus, grew in curls. From a distance she looked like a boy.
She was flat-chested, and wore a shirtwaist and a worn-out leather
belt. She was not pretty. But her eyes were beautiful: brown, friendly,
observant. Thoughtful eyes. Those eyes would never pass by another's
sorrow.

She was a Communist. At the beginning of the war she had become a
Bolshevik. She hated the war from the first. Collections had been made
in the shop for the front; people were ready to work overtime for the
Russian victory. But Vassilissa objected. War was a bloody horror. What
was the good of it? War brought hardships to the people. And you felt
so sorry for the soldiers, the poor young fellows--like sheep being
led to the slaughter. When Vassilissa met a detachment on the street,
going to war in full military array, she always had to turn away. They
were going to meet death, but they shouted and sang at the top of their
lungs! And how lustily they sang, as if they were out for a holiday.
What forced them? They should have refused: We won't go to our death;
we won't kill other men! Then there would be no war.

Vassilissa was able to read and write well; she had learned from her
father, a compositor. She read Tolstoy and liked his work.

In the shop she was the only one "for peace." She would have been
discharged, but all hands were needed. The manager looked askance at
her, but did not let her go. Soon Vassilissa was known throughout the
district: she is against the war, a follower of Tolstoy. The women
stopped speaking to her: she doesn't want to have anything to do with
her country; she doesn't love Russia. She is lost!

Reports of her reached the local organizer, a Bolshevik. He became
acquainted with Vassilissa, and talked with her; soon his opinion was
formed: "A girl of character; knows what she's about. The party could
use her."

She was drawn into the organization. But Vassilissa did not become a
Bolshevik immediately. She quarreled with the members of the Party.
Asked them questions, and went away furious. After long deliberation
she came back of her own accord, saying: "I want to work with you."

During the Revolution she helped in the work of organization, and
became a member of the Workers' Council. She liked the Bolsheviki and
admired Lenin because he opposed the war so uncompromisingly.

In her debates with the Mensheviki and the Social Revolutionists she
spoke skilfully, heatedly, tempestuously, never at a loss for words.
The other women, working-women, were timid, but Vassilissa always spoke
up without hesitation whenever it was necessary. And what she said
always was clear and to the point.

She won the respect of her comrades. Under Kerensky she was a candidate
for the municipal Duma. The girls in the knitting-shop were proud of
her. Now her every word was law. Vassilissa knew how to manage women,
speaking amicably, upbraiding them, as the case required. She knew
everyone's troubles, for she had been in the factory herself since her
girlhood. And she defended their interests. Her comrades sometimes
rebuked her: "Can't you forget your women? We have no time for them
now--there are more important things."

Vassilissa flared up, gave the Comrades a good berating, and quarreled
with the district secretary. But she did not withdraw her demands. "Why
are women's affairs less important? This idea is a habit with all of
you. That's why women are 'backward.' But you can't have a revolution
without the women. Woman is everything. Man does what she thinks and
suggests to him. If you win over the women, half your work is done."

Vassilissa was very belligerent in '18. She knew what she wanted; and
she did not compromise. The others relaxed a bit in the last few years,
lagged behind and stayed at home. But Vassilissa carried on. Always
fighting, always organizing something, always insisting on a definite
point.

She was tireless. Where did she get her energy? She was delicate,
with not a drop of blood in her face--only eyes. Sympathetic eyes,
intelligent and observant.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vassilissa received a letter, the long and hungrily expected letter
from her man, her comrade, her lover. They had been separated for
months. There was nothing they could do about it. First the civil war,
and now the "economic front." The party was mobilizing all its members.
The Revolution was no game; it demanded sacrifices from everybody. So
Vassilissa, too, brought her sacrifice to the Revolution. Nearly always
she had to live without her lover, far away from him. They were torn
apart, at opposite ends of Russia. Her friends said: "You're better off
this way. He'll love you longer, because he won't get tired of you."
Perhaps they were right; but life was sad without him. True, Vassilissa
had little free time. From early morning until late at night she was
overwhelmed with work for the Party and for the Soviet, one crowding
out the other. Important, urgent, fascinating work. But when she came
to her little room her heart was convulsed with longing for her lover.
She felt an icy draught. She would sit down to drink tea and to think.
It seemed as if no one needed her. As if she had no comrades, although
she had worked with them all day--as if she had no goal for which she
was striving. What was the use of it all? Who wanted it? Mankind? Men
couldn't appreciate it. Today, again, they had spoiled something,
called one another names, made complaints. Everyone was working for
himself alone. They refused to understand that they must live for
society. They could not understand.

Even Vassilissa had been insulted, rudely abused, reproached for her
worker's _payok_ (ration-card). The devil take it--she didn't need it!
Her comrades had persuaded her. Now her strength was leaving her; she
felt dizzy. There she sat, leaning on the table, and drank her tea,
nibbled rock-candy, and brooded over all the affronts of the day. Now
she could see nothing good or splendid in the Revolution. Only failure,
vexation and struggle.

If only her lover had been there. Then she could have talked and
unburdened her heart. He would have caressed her tenderly.

"Why so dejected, Vasya? A tomboy like you, afraid of no one,
challenging everybody, overlooking nothing--and now look at her: there
she sits with ruffled feathers, like a puffed-up sparrow under the
gable!"

He would pick her up; he was strong, would carry her about the room
like a child and sing a lullaby. They would laugh--her heart ached
with joy. Oh, how Vassilissa adored her lover, her man and comrade. A
handsome fellow, tender and loving--so tender.

Thinking of him, Vassilissa felt even more wretched. Her attic was so
desolate, so lonely. She sighed. Clearing away the tea things, she
scolded herself. What in the world do you want? Do you expect only joy
from life? You love your work. You have the esteem of your comrades.
And then you have your lover. Isn't that more than enough, Vassilissa
Dementyevna? The Revolution is no holiday; everyone must sacrifice.
"Everything for the commonweal; everything for the triumph of the
Revolution."

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus Vassilissa in the winter. But now it was spring. The sun shone so
gayly, the sparrows chattered under the gables. Early in the morning
Vassilissa watched them, smiling as she remembered her lover calling
her a puffed-up sparrow. Spring sounded a call to life. It was more
and more difficult to work. Vassilissa was anemic, and her lungs were
affected.

Vassilissa had organized a community house, a task she had taken over
of her own accord, and which was entirely independent of her general
Party and Soviet work. This community house was dearest of all to
her. She had long had the idea of organizing a model house, where the
Communist spirit should prevail. Not an ordinary community house,
where everyone would live for himself, where no one cared for his
neighbor, where squabbling, bickering, and dissatisfaction were the
rule, where no one was willing to work for the common good, where
everyone was constantly making demands. No, Vassilissa had planned
something quite different. Patiently, almost secretly, she had got the
house ready. How many difficulties she had had! The house had been
taken away from her twice. It had involved her in innumerable disputes.
But finally she had succeeded. Had organized it: a community kitchen, a
laundry, a nursery, a dining-room--Vassilissa's pride, with curtains at
the windows, and geranium plants--and a library, furnished like a club
room.

At the beginning everything went well. The women who lived in the
house covered Vassilissa with their moist kisses; "There's our little
darling. Our guardian angel. You've made everything so easy for us.
It's too wonderful."

But then the trouble began. The house rules were broken. It was
impossible to teach the women cleanliness. They fought over the pots
and pans in the kitchen. They let the washtubs overflow, almost
flooding the house. And every mistake, every quarrel, every disturbance
brought complaints against Vassilissa, as if she were the "landlady,"
as if she had been at fault. Punishments became necessary. The tenants
grew angry, felt offended; some of them moved away.

Matters went on in this fashion, growing worse and worse. Constant
quarrels and differences. There were a couple of real trouble-makers,
the Fedosseyevs; nothing could please them. Always nagging and nagging,
though they didn't know themselves what they wanted; never satisfied.
And they stirred up the others. Chiefly because they had been the first
to move into the house, and felt as if it belonged to them. But what
did they want? What didn't they like? Vassilissa couldn't understand.
And they embittered her life, caused trouble every day.

Vassilissa was weary, vexed to tears. She saw the failure of her plan.
Then, a new order: everything must be paid for with cash on delivery.
Water and electricity. Taxes must be paid, assessments must be covered.
Vassilissa was beset on all sides. There was no use! The new exchange
rate. Nothing could be done without money. Vassilissa worked like
a slave. It might have been better to drop the whole business. But
she was not that sort. Once she put her hand to anything, she saw it
through.

She went to Moscow, visiting various bureaus day after day. She
approached the highest authorities. Her reports and accounts were
received very favorably; finally she won her community house. They even
assisted her with an allowance for repairs. But in the future she would
nevertheless have to make the house self-supporting.

Vassilissa returned delighted. The Fedosseyevs, however, were sulky.
They were cross with her, as if she had harmed them by winning her
fight for the community house.

Now new worries began. The rumor spread that Vassilissa did not keep
her house accounts straight, that she made a little profit on the side.

It was hard, then, without her lover. She needed a close comrade. She
wrote to him, called him. But important affairs prevented his coming.
He had a new position of great responsibility. He had to systematize
and reorganize the affairs of the firm in which he had formerly been a
clerk. He had been complaining all winter; it was a difficult task. It
was impossible for him to get away. Everything rested on his shoulders.

So Vassilissa remained alone in all her difficulties, drained to the
dregs the cup of man's unfairness. And who was unfair? Her own people,
her comrades, the workers! This hurt more than anything else. If it had
only been the _burshui_!

When the Fedosseyevs were to be put out, the two of them begged
Vassilissa to forgive them, assured her that they had always esteemed
her. But she could not enjoy her victory. She was tired, worn out, too
exhausted to be glad. She fell ill.

Then she returned to her work. But in her soul something had died.

She no longer loved the community house. It was as if her child had
been violated. Like an incident of her childhood: her brother, Kolyka,
showed her a piece of candy. But when she reached out for it he laughed
spitefully, saying: "Now I'll make it disgusting for you."

And he spat on it. "Why don't you eat your candy, Vassilissa? It's
good."

But Vassilissa turned away in tears. "You dirty thing! You bully! You
good-for-nothing! Why did you spoil my candy?"

This was how she felt about the community house now. She was sick of
it. True, the management was still in her hands, but her heart wasn't
in it. If only she could get away! Her relations with the tenants had
been spoiled. Were they not against her? Didn't they side with the
Fedosseyevs? And why? Why?

On the whole, she lost her interest in people. Before, Vassilissa
had been much more warm-hearted. She had thought of everyone, pitied
everyone, worried about everyone. Now she wanted only one thing: leave
me alone. Don't touch me! I'm tired.




                              CHAPTER II


Spring was peeping through the window of Vassilissa's attic, high up
under the roof. The warm sun peeped in, and the spring sky, with its
fleecy clouds, white, delicate, melting away. Next door was the roof
of what had been a gentleman's house, and now was used as the Mothers'
Home. Behind it lay a garden; the buds were beginning to swell. Spring,
beloved spring was late, but it had come at last.

Today there was spring in Vassilissa's heart also. It had almost
frozen in the winter; always lonely, always alone. Constant worries,
struggles, irritations. But today was a holiday, a real holiday. There
was a letter from her lover, from her dearest Volodya. And what a
letter! It was a long time since she had got a letter like that.

    "Don't torture me, Vasya; my patience is at an end. How often
    you've promised to come to me for a visit! But you always
    disappoint me, you hurt me, you tireless tomboy of mine. Have
    you been fighting with everybody again? There were rumors about
    you even among the comrades here. They say you even got into the
    papers. But since you came out on top in this business, come to
    your beloved Volodya now. He can hardly wait for you.

    "You'll see, we'll live like fine people. I have a horse and a
    cow of my own, and an automobile always at my disposal. I have
    servants, so that you will have no work to do in the house, but can
    take a good rest. Spring is at its height here; the apple trees are
    in full bloom. Vasya, darling tomboy--we've never spent a spring
    together. But our life must always be like the spring.

    "Anyway, I need you very much just now. I'm having trouble with the
    Party Committee here. They have it in for me. They can't forget
    that I was once an anarchist. It started on account of Savelyev, as
    I wrote you. You'll have to straighten out this business. I'm sick
    of all these meddlers. They don't let you breathe! It's hard for
    them to find anything against me. I'm doing my duty well. But all
    the same, I need you very much now.

    "I kiss your brown eyes.

                                                        "Yours forever,
                                                             "Volodya."

Vassilissa sat beside the window, watching the white clouds in the sky,
and thinking. Her eyes were smiling. A good letter! Volodya loved her,
very much. And how she loved him! She laid the letter on her knees
and stroked it as if it were Volodya's head. She didn't see the blue
sky, the roof, the clouds. She saw only her handsome Volodya with his
mischievously twinkling eyes. Vassilissa loved him, loved him so that
it hurt. How had she ever lived through the entire winter without him?
She hadn't seen him for seven months. And it seemed to her that she
had little thought of him, little longing for him. She had no time to
think of her man, or to yearn for him. How much trouble and worry she
had had during the winter! The child of her heart, the community house,
was safe; but she had had to quarrel with stupid, uncomprehending,
uncultured people. And she had hidden her love and longing for Volodya
in the innermost corner of her heart. Her love for him dwelt in her
heart, unchangeable. Thinking of him, Vassilissa felt that he was
there, in her heart. A sweet burden, she actually felt the weight of
her love. Probably because she always had to be worrying about him.
If only nothing happened to him. He did not maintain discipline. The
comrades were right. Vassilissa knew it. They accused him of being an
"anarchist." He didn't like to follow instructions, preferred to do
things in his own way. But he made up for this with his work.

This was why they lived separately, so that they wouldn't disturb each
other; for she too was in her work with all her heart and soul. But
when Volodya was around, she would be drawn to him, and her work would
suffer.

"First our work, and then our love, don't you think so, Vasya?" said
Vladimir, and Vasya agreed. Their ideas were the same. And it was so
wonderful that they were not merely man and wife, but comrades as well.
Now, again, he summoned her to help him like a comrade, to overcome his
difficulties. What sort of difficulties? Vassilissa read the letter
again.

A mist seemed to form before her eyes. If it was on account of
Savelyev, it would be a nasty affair. This Savelyev was a speculator;
he was crooked. Why did Volodya have anything to do with him? A
manager, such as Volodya was now, had to be as blameless as a saint,
had to avoid all rogues. Volodya, however, was a trusting soul. He felt
sorry for Savelyev, stood up for him. Still, no one should feel sorry
for such men, who were stealing the property of the people. Let them
suffer the penalty for their misdeeds.

But Volodya was kind-hearted; and the others could not understand him.
They would have other explanations for this friendship. Volodya had
many enemies, for he was hot-headed, unable to control his tongue. If
only matters wouldn't develop as they had three years ago. If only no
action were brought against him. It was easy to lose one's reputation.
A charge could be trumped up against anyone. Vassilissa's experience
had taught her that. Hadn't people been stirred up against her all
winter long? Now it was Volodya's turn.

She would have to go to him, and help him. She had to stand by him, so
that his comrades there would be ashamed of themselves. What was there
to think about? She would get ready and go.

But the house? She didn't care. There was nothing to salvage now.
Everything was going to ruin anyhow. Even though Vassilissa had won the
fight, the Fedosseyevs were the actual victors. It was impossible to
save anything. Vassilissa sighed. Going to the window, she looked down
into the court. As if she were bidding the house farewell. She stood
there for a long time. Gravely, sadly.

Suddenly it struck her. "Soon I'll see Volodya again!" Her cheeks
flushed, her heart beat with joy. My beloved, my dearest. I'm coming,
coming to you. My Volodya.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vassilissa was sitting in the coach, sleeping. It was her second day of
travel. Another twenty-four hours lay ahead of her.

This trip was different from her others. She was provided with every
comfort, like a _burshuika_. Vladimir had sent her the money for the
trip, (everything had to be paid for nowadays), and had asked that she
go in the sleeping-car. Besides, he had sent her a piece of cloth for a
suit. A manager's lady had to be well dressed. Vassilissa had to laugh
when a comrade came from Vladimir Ivanovitch, the director, and brought
her the money and the cloth. He praised the quality like a true
salesman. Vasya laughed and teased the Comrade. But he seemed offended.
He had not been joking; the material really was excellent. Vasya said
nothing more. These new Comrades, the economists, were beyond her
comprehension.

For a long time Vasya turned the cloth over and over. She was not used
to thinking of clothes. But if Volodya wanted it, so that his wife
would not be too conspicuous--all right. She would have a fashionable
suit made, such as everyone was wearing.

She went to a friend, the seamstress Grusha, and told her the story.
"Make it nice and stylish, Grusha, like the clothes others wear."

Grusha pulled out some fashion magazines that a comrade had brought
her from Moscow the previous fall. She had sewed according to it all
winter, to the satisfaction of all.

"That's fine, Grusha. You select something. I don't understand such
things. If it's neat and not torn, I'm satisfied. I know nothing about
the styles."

Moistening her finger-tips, Grusha spent some time in turning over the
leaves of the much-used magazine. At last she found her choice.

"There! This'll be good for you. You are thin, you need something to
make you seem fuller. This is just the thing for you. A little fullness
in the sides, and pleats in front, then you won't look so flat. I'll
fix it so that your man will like you."

"Then that's settled."

They agreed on a price, and kissed. Vassilissa went away happy. It was
a good thing there were dress-makers in the world. She would never
have been able to make a dress by herself. Volodya, however, was a
connoisseur of women's clothes. Of course, for in America he had been
employed in a fashionable women's wear shop. And now his knowledge
was useful to him. The Red merchants must know something of women's
clothes; they were a form of merchandise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vassilissa was sitting at the window of her sleeping compartment. She
was alone. Her neighbor, a "Nep" girl, very loud, dressed in silks,
heavily perfumed, her ears weighed down with rings, had gone into the
next compartment, where she was laughing loudly with her "cavaliers."

She had given Vassilissa the cold shoulder, curling her lips
contemptuously. "Beg pardon, dear, but you're sitting on my shawl.
You'll crease it." Or, "Won't you go out into the corridor, dear, while
I get undressed for the night?" As if she, the perfumed Nep-girl, owned
the compartment, and had let Vassilissa in only out of the kindness of
her heart. Vassilissa didn't like the Nep-girl's calling her "dear."
But she didn't want to start a quarrel. Let her go to the devil!

Night was falling. Bluish gray shadows covered the young fields. Over
the distant purplish-black strip of woods the sun hung like a red ball
of fire. The rooks had risen from the fields, and were circling in the
air. The wires were rising and falling between the telegraph poles.

With the twilight an unaccountable anxiety and longing crept into
Vassilissa's heart. Not sadness, but longing. She had prepared for the
journey, settled her affairs. And suddenly everybody had been sorry to
see her leave. Perhaps she would never return.

The Fedosseyev woman had come to her, had embraced her, had wept and
begged her pardon. It had been painful. In her inmost heart Vassilissa
was not angry with Fedosseyeva; but she had no respect for her, as she
was unable to respect others of her kind.

Vassilissa's comrades had accompanied her to the station. The children
of the community house had brought paper flowers they had made
themselves. And Vassilissa realized that she had not given her strength
and energy in vain. The seed was sown; something would grow.

When the train began to roll out, the tears rose to her eyes. They were
waving their caps. Suddenly she loved them all so much. It was hard to
leave them.

But hardly had the city dropped behind her, hardly had the wooded
strips and suburban settlements begun to approach her and then hasten
away, as if they were running a race, than Vassilissa forgot her
community house, the joys and sorrows of the winter. Swifter than the
train, her thoughts rushed far ahead to him for whom she longed.

Why was Vassilissa so melancholy now? Whence the longing that had crept
into her heart? It was as if a cold vise were gripping her heart.
What was she longing for? Perhaps it was because with the community
house a piece of her life had dropped into the past, never to return,
had disappeared like those narrow fields that shone like amber in the
spring sun.

She began to cry. Softly, imperceptibly. She wiped away her tears, and
felt relieved, as if the cold little lump of yearning that had tortured
her heart had dissipated together with the tears on the skirt of her
new dress.

The lights were turned on in the car, the shades pulled down. It
suddenly became cozy, and her loneliness disappeared.

Vassilissa's heart, not her mind, knew very clearly: two more nights
and then she would see Volodya, would see him, embrace him. She felt
his burning lips and strong arms, heard his voice.

A sweet languor throbbed through her body, her eyes were laughing. If
it hadn't been for the Nep-girl, who was fussing before the mirror,
Vassilissa would have sung with joy. Loudly, as the birds sing of
spring.

The Nep-girl was gone, the door banged. Stupid woman! Closing her eyes,
Vassilissa thought of Vladimir, her lover. Dreaming, she read page
after page of the story of their love. They had been in love for five
years. She could hardly believe it--five years.

She felt as if they had met only yesterday.

She settled down more comfortably in the corner of her compartment, her
feet drawn up, her eyes closed. The gentle rocking of the car relaxed
her entire body. Her thoughts, however, hurried on and on.

The voice of memory. What was it like? Their first meeting?

It was at an assembly, shortly before the October days. A time
of restlessness. They were only a handful of Bolsheviki--but how
they worked! The Mensheviki were in power, and the noisy Social
Revolutionaries. The Bolsheviki were attacked from all sides, people
almost used physical violence against them, the "German spies," the
"traitors." Yet the group increased from day to day. They did not know
themselves exactly what was to be, but they knew one thing: there
must be peace come what may, and the "patriots," the "traitors," must
be thrown out of the Soviets. This was certain, and they fought.
Obstinately, ardently, uncompromisingly, full of faith. An unspoken
resolve shone in the eyes of all: We will die, but never compromise. No
one thought of himself. Did anyone consider the individual then?

Remembering this time, Vassilissa saw not herself, but only the group.
The Social-Revolutionary and Menshevik papers had printed some items
about her--pure fiction, lies, slander. But let them revile her. It
couldn't be otherwise. Anyway, people didn't read everything in the
papers. They simply believed that justice was on the side of the Party,
of the Bolsheviki.

"Have you no pity for your mother? You're disgracing the entire family!
Getting mixed up with the Bolsheviki! You're selling your country to
the enemy!" wept the old woman.

Unwilling to listen to such reprimands at home, Vassilissa went to live
with another girl. She could not sympathize with her mother's tears.
Strangers seemed closer to her. Only one goal stood clearly before her:
the victory of Bolshevism. She seemed to be urged on by some force. It
was impossible to stop. Though this force might hurl her into an abyss
she would go on nonetheless, would struggle. She would fight....

The controversy became more acute, the air more sultry. A storm was
inevitable. There was news from Petrograd. The resolutions of the
Congress. Trotzky's speeches. The proclamations of the Petrograd
Soviets.

Then they met. The assembly was crowded, the hall was packed. People
were standing on the window sills, sitting on the floor in the aisles.
There was hardly room to breathe. What sort of meeting was it?
Vassilissa had forgotten. For the first time a Bolshevik was elected
chairman, and the committee, too, consisted of Bolsheviki and left-wing
Social Revolutionaries. Among them was an Anarchist, an Independent,
known in the city as "the American"--Vladimir.

It was the first time she saw him. But she had heard much of him. Some
were delighted with him, and said: "He's a real man. He knows how to
make people listen to him." Others found fault with him. "A braggart."
But he had the union bakers and the commercial clerks behind him.
He had to be reckoned with. The Bolsheviki were glad when he scored
against the Mensheviki, and were angry when he said something against
them. What in the world did he want?

The Party secretary couldn't endure him. "He's crazy, we're better off
without such friends." But Stephen Alexeyevitch, the most esteemed
Bolshevik of the city, laughed into his gray beard as he said: "Wait a
bit, be patient. He will yet become a splendid Bolshevik. He's anxious
to fight. Just wait until he's lost his American spleen."

So Vassilissa had heard of him; but she paid no attention to him. So
many people would pop up without anyone's knowing the least thing about
them. It didn't pay to bother with them. She came late to the meeting,
all out of breath. She had been speaking at the "brick-yard." There
were meetings everywhere; it had to be so in those days.

She was an orator then. People liked to listen to her. Her speaking
won general commendation because she was a woman, a working-girl.
Vassilissa spoke objectively, was neither wasteful nor sparing with
her words. She had mastered this manner of speaking, terse, but lucid.
She could hardly meet all the demands made on her.

When she came to the meeting she went directly to the platform. It had
been announced that she would speak. Comrade Yurotchkin--he was dead
now, killed at the front--pulled her sleeve. "We've won! The Bolsheviki
won out in the election of the chairman. Two left-wing Social
Revolutionaries, and the American besides. He's almost a Bolshevik now.
He's going to speak in a minute."

Vassilissa glanced at the American, and something about him surprised
her. So that is how an Anarchist looks! She would have thought him a
gentleman. He wore a stiff collar and a tie, and his hair was parted. A
handsome fellow. Long eye-lashes. His turn was just coming. He stepped
forward, cleared his throat, and held his hand before his mouth. Like a
gentleman, she thought, and could not help laughing.

His voice was pleasant, engaging. He spoke for a long time, frequently
making his audience laugh. Vasya laughed, too. He was a smart fellow,
after all, the Anarchist. Vasya applauded. When he returned to the
speakers' table, he accidentally bumped against Vasya. When he turned
to apologize Vasya blushed. And, embarrassed at blushing, she colored
even more. It was annoying. But the Anarchist didn't notice it. He sat
down, leaned back carelessly in his chair, and smoked a cigarette.

The chairman turned to him, pointed to the cigarette. "We're not
accustomed to smoking here." Shrugging his shoulders, Vladimir
continued to smoke. "I want to smoke, and I will. Your rules don't
apply to me." He took a few more whiffs, and, seeing that the chairman
was busy with something else, threw the cigarette away.

Vasya had forgotten nothing of all this. Later she had teased Vladimir
about it. But at that time he had not yet noticed her. He became aware
of her only when she began to speak.

She spoke very well that evening; and though he was behind her she felt
the American's eyes on her. She deliberately lauded the Bolsheviki
as opposed to the Mensheviki, the Social Revolutionaries, and the
Anarchists, although she didn't even know then what the Anarchists
were. She wanted to strike the American; he acted too much like a
gentleman.

Vasya remembered how her hair came undone as she spoke. At that time
she had beautiful long hair, which she braided and wound about her
head. She was speaking with all her heart, passionately, and the pins
fell out of her hair. It was unpleasant, her hair was in her way, she
tossed it back. She didn't know that her hair had cast a spell over
Vladimir.

"I didn't see you while you were speaking. But when your hair fell over
your shoulders I saw clearly that you were no orator, but Vasya, my
tomboy! A woman! And such a funny one. She was embarrassed, but held
her ground. She waved her arms, and abused the Anarchists, then her
hair came undone, curly little snakes were coiled on her back like
threads of gold. Then, Vasyuk, I realized that I would have to know
you."

Vladimir told her that later, after they had fallen in love. But she
didn't know it at the meeting. After her speech was finished she began
to braid her hair. Yurotchkin picked up the hair-pins for her.

"Thank you, Comrade."

It was very embarrassing; everyone was staring at her. She was afraid
to look at the American. He had surely noticed, and had his own opinion
of her. Something or other annoyed her; she was angry at the American.
But why did she bother about him?

The meeting was over. Everybody was going away. The American stood
before her.

"May I introduce myself?" He told her his name and explained who he
was. He pressed her hand; praised her speech. And again Vasya flushed.
They began to talk, to argue. She was for the Bolsheviki, he in favor
of the Anarchists. Going with the crowd, they reached the street. It
was a rainy and windy night.

A cab belonging to the Party was waiting. The American suggested that
he take Vasya home. She agreed, and they climbed into the cab. It was
dark in there, and the cab was narrow. They sat close together. The
horse shied, and splashed in the mud-puddles with its hoofs.

Vassilissa and Vladimir stopped disputing, sat there quiet and silent.
Both grave and yet happy.

They talked about trifles, about the rain, about the meeting that would
take place the next day in the soap works, about the assembly at Party
Headquarters. But their hearts were full of gladness.

They were at Vasya's house, and bid each other good-night. Both were
sorry that they had to part so soon, but neither said so.

"Are you sure your feet didn't get wet?" Vladimir asked anxiously.

"My feet?" Vasya was amazed, but happy about something. For the first
time in her life someone had thought of her, had been concerned about
her. And Vasya laughed, her regular white teeth shining. Vladimir would
have liked to take her into his arms then, to kiss those moist, white,
regular teeth.

The door opened; the watchman let Vasya into the house.

"Good-bye until tomorrow, at headquarters. Don't forget. The meeting
opens at two sharp. We do things in the American way."

Vladimir raised his soft hat, and took his leave with a profound bow.
Vasya turned in the doorway as if she were expecting something more.

The door banged, Vasya was alone in the dark little court. And suddenly
the happy mood was gone. Her heart was uneasy, sick with longing.
Something grieved her; something hurt her.

She seemed so small to herself. So useless.




                              CHAPTER III


Vasya was sitting in the car, her head pillowed on her woolen shawl.
She was not sleeping, but she saw the past as in a dream, as in a
moving picture: reel after reel, scene after scene, joy and misery, all
her life with Vladimir, with Volodya. Beautiful memories. And as she
remembered them even her sorrows seemed pleasant. She settled down more
comfortably. The car rocked soothingly, luxuriously.

In her mind's eye, Vassilissa saw the meeting of the union, a noisy,
shouting, restless assembly. The bakers were an obstreperous,
stiff-necked, unruly crowd. Vladimir was in the chair; he alone knew
how to manage them. It was difficult, but finally he succeeded. The
veins of his forehead were swollen with the effort, but he had carried
his point. He hadn't noticed Vasya's coming. She sat modestly beside
the wall, and watched.

It was resolved to present the government with a vote of lack of
confidence, and to put the union in the hands of the workers. An
administrative committee of their own was elected immediately.
Shareholders, members of the municipal Duma, and _burshui_ were struck
off the list, and their contributions cancelled. Thenceforth the union
would no longer be a municipal affair, but would belong only to the
bakers and the employees of the union.

But the Mensheviki were not to be caught napping. They sent their
confidential agents to notify the proper parties.

The assembly was beginning to disperse, only the administrative
committee was remaining for a meeting, when suddenly, to everybody's
consternation, there appeared in the doorway the Menshevik Commissar,
the highest authority in the city, a follower of Kerensky. Behind him
the leaders of the Mensheviki and the Social Revolutionaries. When
Vladimir saw them his eyes twinkled craftily.

"Comrades, the meeting is adjourned. Only the administrative committee
of the Revolutionary Bakers' Union will remain for a session. Tomorrow
there will be a general meeting to discuss current affairs. Now,
everybody go home!"

Vladimir's voice resounded, calm and resolute. The audience rose
noisily.

"Stop, Comrades, stop!" came the irate voice of the Commissar. "I beg
you not to adjourn the meeting."

"The Commissar is too late. The meeting has already been adjourned.
But if you wish to acquaint yourself with our resolutions, you are
welcome to them. Here they are. We had intended to send a delegation
to you. But now you have come in person. So much the better. This is
as it should be in times of revolution. It's high time for the people
to learn that it is not the duty of the organizations to run to the
government officials with their reports, but that the officials must
come to the workers' organizations for their news."

Vladimir stood there unmoved, gathered up his papers, and in his eyes,
under the long lashes, the little devils were laughing and dancing.

"He's right! He's right!" cried the crowd. Many laughed. The Commissar
attempted to protest. He went up to Vladimir, became excited, and
shouted. Vladimir remained entirely calm, only his eyes laughed; his
voice was loud and clear. His answer to the Commissar was audible
throughout the hall. The public laughed and applauded. They were
delighted to hear Vladimir invite the Commissar to a supper where
the passage of the union from the _burshuis_ to the bakers would be
celebrated.

"A smart fellow, this American. He has a tongue in his head."

The Commissar had to leave without accomplishing his purpose. He
threatened to use force.

"Just you try it," cried Vladimir, his eyes flashing. And the entire
hall repeated. "Just you try it! Try it!" The atmosphere became
threatening. The Commissar and his Mensheviki beat a hasty retreat
through a side door.

But the tumult in the hall continued. The administrative session
was postponed for the evening. People had to eat first. They were
exhausted, for the meeting had been going on since morning.

Vasya went toward the door, with the crowd.

Suddenly Vladimir stood before her. Calm, his eyes laughing. How
different he seemed from the others in his neat blue suit. But now she
no longer saw him as a "gentleman." Today she had felt: "He belongs to
us." After all, how did he differ from a Bolshevik? And he was brave,
afraid of nothing. He would face bullets if necessary, in spite of his
stiff collar. Suddenly there rose in Vasya not merely the thought, but
the desire to lay her hand trustingly into Vladimir's strong hand.
She would like to go through life with him, side by side, happily and
confidently. But what was she to a man like Vladimir? Comparing herself
to him, Vasya sighed. He was handsome, had seen much, had been in
America.

And she? Not much to look at, ignorant; and she had never been outside
her province. How could he pay any attention to her! He hadn't noticed
her today either.

However, Vasya had hardly formulated these thoughts when she heard
Vladimir's voice beside her: "Delighted to see you, Comrade Vassilissa.
Didn't we put that Commissar's nose out of joint, though? He won't try
these tricks again. He'll never come back here. You can bank on that.
Besides, we tell him of our resolutions merely as a matter of form."

Vladimir was excited, enthusiastic. Vasya caught his spirit. They began
to talk, both laughed and were happy.

If his comrades hadn't come for Vladimir they would have stayed much
longer in the ante-room, talking of the Commissar and the resolutions.

"Well, I must go now, I can't stay any longer, Comrade Vassilissa."
Vasya heard regret in his voice. Her heart beat joyfully; she raised
her tenderly observant eyes to his. Vasya's soul was mirrored in her
eyes.

Vladimir looked into them. Silently, as though he were lost in them.

"Why don't you come, Comrade Vladimir? Don't keep the people waiting.
We're up to our ears in work."

"I'm coming."

Hastily he pressed her hand, and left.

Vasya wandered through the city, not knowing where she was going,
seeing neither streets nor people, only Vladimir.

This was something new for her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A clear, frosty winter's night. Stars, countless stars, twinkling in
the sky. The freshly fallen snow still white and spotless. It covered
the streets, had settled down on the roofs and barns, had bespangled
the trees with its loose flakes.

Vassilissa and Vladimir were coming from a meeting. The "October Days"
had come and gone. Now the power was in the hands of the Soviets.
The Mensheviki and the right-wing Social Revolutionaries had been
dislodged. Only the "internationalists" remained. The power of the
Bolsheviki was growing. The Party ruled over all. All the workers
were for the Bolsheviki. Only the _burshuis_, the popes and the army
officers opposed them. The Soviet was waging a campaign against them.
Life had not yet taken its proper course, the waves of the Revolution
had not yet calmed down. The streets were patrolled by Red Guards;
there were occasional clashes. But the worst seemed over.

Vassilissa and Vladimir were talking of the days when they had seized
the power. Vladimir's bakers had stood in the gap then. Fine, resolute
fellows. Vladimir was proud of them. And they had put him in the Soviet.

Vladimir and Vassilissa were walking side by side, through the quiet
streets. The Red Guard patrols demanded the password. Vladimir, too,
had a narrow red band on his sleeve. He was wearing a fur cap; he had
enlisted in the Workers' Guard, and had been under fire. A bullet had
passed through one of his cuffs; he showed it to Vasya. Though they had
seen each other a good deal during this time, they had never had a
chance to talk. There was no time for that.

That day, however, they had gone out together, without any previous
arrangement. They had so much to tell each other; they felt as if they
were old friends meeting again to talk things over. Yet, suddenly, both
were silent. They felt closer to each other. They had gone past Vasya's
house without noticing it; they had reached the end of the suburb,
where the truck gardens began. Where in the world had they landed!
Stopping, they laughed in amazement. They looked up to the sky, where
the stars were twinkling and sparkling.

"We had no clocks in our village, so we had to tell time by the stars.
My father knew them particularly well. He could always tell exactly
what time it was."

Vladimir spoke of his childhood. They had been a large family in a poor
peasant's household. There was too little of everything. Volodya wanted
to go to school, but it was too far away. So he made a bargain with the
pope's daughter. He watched her geese, and she taught him to read.

Vladimir recalled his village, the fields and woods of his home. He
grew tender and melancholy.

"So that is what he's like." Vassilissa was surprised.

And he became even dearer to her.

He told her about America, how he had come there as a boy, having
resolved to make his own way in the world. After spending two years
on board a transport, he had worked in the dockyards. Finally he was
driven away, forced to go to another state. He was starving, took
any work he could get. For a time he was a waiter in a great palatial
hotel. How many rich people he did see there! And as for the women! All
dressed up in silks, and laces and diamonds.

Then he was a porter in a large fashionable store, where he was well
paid. He wore a gallooned uniform; and he was liked because of his good
figure. But he soon became sick of it. All these wealthy customers
got on his nerves. He tried being a chauffeur, traveled through
America with a rich cotton dealer, covered hundreds of miles in an
elegant auto. However, this too became tiresome. After all, he was
little better than a serf. The merchant introduced him into the cotton
business, where he became a salesman, and learned bookkeeping.

And then--the Revolution. Dropping everything, he hurried back to
Russia. He had belonged to the organization even in America. He had
been arrested once after a clash with the police. But the cotton
merchant had come to his aid, for he liked him as a chauffeur, and held
him in esteem although he knew him to be an Anarchist. He always shook
hands with him, too. America was different from Russia!

Vladimir loved America in his way.

On and on they went, through the streets. Vasya listened; Vladimir's
flow of words was inexhaustible. He seemed to be confessing his entire
life to her. Again they reached the door of Vasya's house.

"Won't you invite me in for a glass of tea, Comrade Vassilissa?" asked
Vladimir. "I'm parched with thirst. And I really don't want to sleep
yet."

Vasya was doubtful. Her friend surely was in bed by this time.

"That doesn't make any difference. We'll wake her up. The three of us
will have a real party."

And why shouldn't she ask the American to come in? She didn't want him
to go away, for they had become friends.

They went in, put up the samovar, Vladimir helping.

"One must always help the ladies. That's what we do in America."

They lingered over their tea, joking, teasing Vasya's friend, whom they
had pulled out of bed, because she blinked her eyes so sleepily.

And again Vladimir talked about America, about the beautiful
silk-stockinged ladies who came up in their autos to the great store
before which he stood in his gallooned doorman's uniform, with a
feather in his three-cornered hat. One of them had slipped him a note,
fixing a rendezvous. But he didn't go. He didn't care for women. They
could only cause trouble. Another had given him a rose....

Listening to Vladimir's stories of the beautiful American women with
their silk stockings, Vasya felt more and more insignificant and
unattractive.

The joy in her heart died, and the world seemed dark.

"And I suppose you fell in love with these beauties?"

Vasya's voice sounded hollow. She was chagrined at having let the
question slip out.

Vladimir looked at her attentively and tenderly. He shook his head.

"All my life, Vassilissa Dementyevna, I have guarded my heart and my
love. I am keeping them for a pure girl. But these fine ladies? They're
much too fast, all of them. Worse than prostitutes."

And again joy flooded her heart, only to ebb again without filling
it. He was keeping his heart for a pure girl? But Vasya was no longer
undefiled. She had had an affair with Petya Razgulov, of the machine
department, until he went to the front. Then there had been the Party
organizer; she had said she was engaged to him. He, too, had gone away,
had stopped writing. And she forgot him. But what to do now? Only a
"pure girl"?

Vasya was looking at Vladimir, was listening to his voice, but she did
not hear what he was saying. Her heart was aching so. Vladimir thought
she was bored with his stories.

He stopped talking, and rose. Hastily, coldly he took his leave.

Vasya struggled against her tears. She wanted so to throw herself into
his arms. But he didn't need her! He had seen so many beautiful women.
And he was keeping his heart for a "pure girl."

Vasya cried all night. She determined to avoid this American. What
could she mean to him?

Vasya had firmly made up her mind to keep out of the American's way,
but Fate had decided to bring them even closer.

Coming to a Committee meeting one day, Vassilissa found a violent
dispute in progress. A new City Commandant was to be appointed. Some
proposed Vladimir, others refused to consider him. The Secretary of the
Partcom was especially antagonistic. It was not to be thought of. The
entire city was up in arms against the American. His _papacha_ pushed
to the back of his head, he rode about the town in the union cab, as
though he were a governor. He irritated the people; he recognized no
discipline. Fresh complaints had come in about him. He didn't follow
union regulations.

Vasya defended Vladimir. It hurt her to hear him spoken of in that way,
to hear him called an Anarchist. Stupid, this suspicion. Didn't he do
better work than the Bolsheviki? Stepan Alexeyevitch also was in favor
of Vladimir. The vote was cast.

Seven against Vladimir, six for him. Well, there was nothing to be
done. After all, Vladimir was a bit to blame too. He tried to show off
too much.

But Vladimir was angry. Why didn't they trust him? Wasn't he with
the Revolution with all his heart and soul? When he learned of the
Committee's vote he became furious. He deliberately began to insult the
Bolsheviki.

"Partisans of the state! Centralists! They want to institute another
police régime!"

He spoke of America, mentioned his I. W. W. wherever he could. The
Committee grew excited, and demanded that Vladimir comply with the
regulations. The breach widened from day to day. Vasya worked hard in
Vladimir's defense, disputed till she was hoarse.

The matter was brought before the Soviet. The union had again failed to
follow orders.

Vladimir, however, repeated over and over: "I don't recognize your
police ordinances. Every institution is its own master. Discipline? I
don't give a damn for your discipline. We didn't make the Revolution,
shed blood, drive out the _burshuis_ to let ourselves be chained again.
Why do we need Commandants? We can command ourselves!"

Wrangling, shouting.

"If you refuse to submit we will expel you from the Soviet," threatened
the presiding officer.

"Just you try it!" yelled Vladimir, his eyes flaming. "I'll recall all
my bakers' boys from the militia. Who'll defend you then? Soon you'll
be in the hands of the _burshuis_ again. And that's where your Soviet's
heading! It's no Soviet--it's a police district!"

Vassilissa's heart missed a beat. Why had he said that? Now all of
them would pounce upon him. She was right. The meeting stormed with
indignation. What? He had called the Soviets names? Vladimir stood
there, white-faced, defending himself. But there was a tempest round
about him. People were pushing forward.

"Expel him. Arrest him. Throw him out. The blackguard!"

Thanks, Stepan Alexeyevitch. He helped him. He asked Vladimir to go
into the next room. The Soviet would discuss the incident in his
absence.

Vladimir went, and Vasya followed. She felt mortified. It had been so
stupid of him. And she was angry at the Soviets, too. How could they
condemn a man for his words? They should judge by his deeds. Everybody
knew that Vladimir was on the side of the Soviet. If not for him the
Bolsheviki might not have come out ahead in the October Revolution. It
was he who had disarmed the officers. It was he who had forced the head
of the city to flee, who had led the most obstinate of his opponents
out into the street. There, shovel the snow! Why was he to be expelled
from the Soviet? Because of a hasty word?

Greatly perturbed, Vasya went into the back room. Vladimir was sitting
at the table, brooding, leaning his head on his hand.

As he looked up at her she saw pain, chagrin and distress in his eyes.
Suddenly he seemed small and helpless as a child.

Vassilissa's heart filled with compassion. She would do anything to
spare him suffering.

"Well, are the 'partisans of the state' alarmed?" Vladimir asked
pretentiously. "Did I frighten them with my threats? Things have not
yet reached such a pass...." He stopped short.

Vasya looked at him affectionately. There was reproach in her gaze.

"You are in the wrong, Vladimir Ivanovitch. You're harming yourself.
Why did you say that? Now it looks as though you were against the
Soviet."

"And I will be against it, if the Soviet is to be another police
department." Vladimir still was stubborn.

"Why do you say something you don't believe yourself?" Vasya came very
close to him, looked at him like a mother, gravely, tenderly. Raising
his eyes to hers, Vladimir was silent.

"Admit that you lost your temper."

Vladimir bowed his head.

"I couldn't keep it back. I was furious."

And again he looked into Vasya's eyes, like a boy confessing a fault to
his mother.

"Nothing to be done about it now. It's all over."

He motioned her away. But Vasya came even closer to him. Her heart was
full of sorrow and tenderness. He had become so dear to her. She laid
her hand on his head, stroked it.

"Don't, Vladimir Ivanovitch! Why do you lose heart? Aren't you an
Anarchist? That's not the way, Vladimir! You must believe in yourself,
mustn't let others bother you."

Vasya was bending over Vladimir, stroking his head as if he were a
little boy. And he leaned his head trustingly on her heart, as though
he sought support in her. So big, and yet as woebegone as a child.

"I'm having such a hard time. I thought the Revolution, the
Comrades--everything would change."

"And it will. But you must try doing things in a friendly, brotherly
way."

"No; good will won't help now. I don't know how to deal with people."

"You'll learn. I'm sure you will."

Vasya raised Vladimir's head and looked in his eyes. His gaze, however,
was anxious and troubled. Bending down, Vasya gently kissed his hair.

"We'll have to straighten out this matter. You'll have to apologize,
say that you were hasty, that they misunderstood you."

"All right," Vladimir agreed obediently, seeking support in her eyes.
Suddenly he threw his arms about her, crushed her to his heart until it
hurt. And his burning lips clung to Vasya's mouth.

Vasya ran back to the platform, to the executive committee, directly to
Stepan Alexeyevitch. Matters stood thus and thus. Vladimir Ivanovitch
had to be helped out of the mess.

The incident was closed.

But the hostile attitude against Vladimir did not disappear. The Soviet
was divided into two camps. The happy days of peace were over.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya didn't want to remember more. But her thoughts flew on. There was
no stopping them.

How had they come together? It was soon after the episode in the Soviet.

Vladimir was escorting her home. They always left together in those
days. They were seeking each other. When they were alone their
conversation was tenderly intimate.

Vasya's friend was out. And Vladimir, taking Vasya into his arms,
kissed her ardently, passionately. She still remembered those kisses.
But she released herself, stepped back, and looked him straight in the
eyes.

"Volodya, you mustn't kiss me. I won't stand for any deception."

Amazed, he failed to understand.

"Deception? Do you think I want to deceive you? Can't you see that I've
loved you ever since I've known you?"

"That's not it! That's not it, Volodya! Of course, I believe you. But,
you see, I ... I ... No, don't kiss me. You're keeping your heart for a
'pure girl.' And I'm not a virgin any more, Volodya. I've had lovers."

As she spoke she thought, trembling: Now, my happiness is shattered.

Vladimir interrupted her. "What do I care for your lovers? You belong
to me. No one can be purer than you, Vasya; your soul is pure."

Passionately, he pressed her to him.

"You love me, Vasya, don't you? Don't you love me? Don't you belong
to me? To me? And to no one else. And look here--don't you ever again
mention your lovers. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know
anything. I don't want to. You belong to me, and that's the end of it."

This was the beginning of their union.




                                MENAGE




                              CHAPTER IV


The compartment was dark. The Nep-girl had gone to bed, after perfuming
the entire car with Eau de Cologne. Vassilissa was lying quietly in
her upper berth. If only she could fall asleep. But memories of the
past insisted upon coming up. As if she were settling her accounts. But
why settle them? All her life was still before her. Love and happiness
awaited her. Yet somewhere, in an obscure corner of her heart, Vasya
felt that things weren't as they used to be. The happiness of four
years ago was gone. Their love had changed, and Vassilissa, too, was
different.

Why? Whose fault was it?

Her hands folded beneath her head, Vassilissa lay there, thinking.
In all these years she had never had time to think. She had lived
and worked. But now she had a feeling of having forgotten or
neglected something. Why? Dissension within the Party; trouble in the
institutions.

Everything had been different then. Volodya, too, had been different.
True, she had had her hands full with him. He would fall out with the
authorities. But Vasya always was able to reason with him. He trusted
her, and always followed her advice.

The Whites commenced their offensive; the city was in danger. Vladimir
decided to enlist for the front. And Vasya did not hold him back.
She only tried to persuade him to join the Party before he left. He
resisted at first. But finally gave in.

Thus he became a Bolshevik, and went away.

They corresponded very little. Now and then he would come back for a
day or two. And then more weeks and months of separation. As if it had
to be so. They didn't even miss each other very much--there was no time
for such things. Then Vasya learned, at a Committee meeting, that a
charge was being pressed against Vladimir. What could that mean? He was
working for the artillery, and they said he wasn't managing his affairs
properly, that he wasn't entirely straight and aboveboard.

Vasya flared up. That wasn't true. She didn't believe it. It was a
conspiracy, or slanderous gossip.

She rushed out to find out more. It seemed a serious affair. The case
had not yet been brought into court, but he had been removed from his
post. She begged Stepan Alexeyevitch to bring about her transfer to a
transport train bearing gifts to the front. And in three days she was
on her way.

It was very hard to get through. Delays everywhere. The trains
missed one another. There was something wrong with the papers. The
gift-bearing car wasn't coupled on. She was exhausted and worried. The
case might already have come to court.

Only then did Vasya realize how she loved Vladimir, how much he meant
to her. And she trusted him, as much as it was possible to trust
anyone. The more others suspected him, for they felt that an Anarchist
was capable of anything, the more vigorously she defended him. No one
knew his heart as well as she, Vasya. And his heart was tender as a
woman's. His harshness and obstinacy were only on the surface. Vasya
knew that kindness and gentleness could always lead him on the right
path.

But it was true that he had become embittered. The life of the
proletarians was hard.

Finally Vassilissa reached headquarters, where, after much difficulty,
she learned where Vladimir lived. She was forced to walk all the way
across the town, in a pouring rain. It was a good thing that a Comrade
went with her. She was tired, shivering with the cold. But she was
glad, for now she knew that the investigation was not yet over. There
was no evidence; opinions varied within the army itself. Rumors and
denunciations were current. Vasya was confused only by the disagreeable
smile with which people looked at her, by their air of hiding something
when she openly called herself his wife. She had to try to understand
everything. And then she would have to go to Comrade Toporkoff, of the
Central Administration. He knew Vladimir and his work. This prosecution
would have to stop. Why did they harass him? Others, too, had once been
Mensheviki or Social Revolutionaries, but no one hounded them. Why was
an Anarchist worse than they?

They reached the little wooden house where Vladimir lived. The windows
were lighted, but the door was locked. The Comrade knocked. No answer.
Vasya's feet were soaked to the ankle; her clothes were wet, and she
was cold. She was thinking not of the joy of seeing Vladimir again, but
only of getting into the warm room as soon as possible to change her
dress and stockings. She had been sitting in the heated baggage car for
five days, had had practically no sleep.

"Let's knock on the window," suggested the Comrade.

He broke off a birch rod, tapped on the window with it.

Someone pulled back the curtain, and Vasya saw Volodya's head. He
seemed to be wearing only a shirt. As he strained his eyes to see in
the dark, a woman's head bobbed up from behind his shoulder, only to
disappear again.

Vasya felt her heart sinking. A sharp, sickening pain.

"Why don't you open the door, Comrade? I've brought you your wife."

The curtain was drawn, hiding Volodya and the woman. Vasya and her
companion mounted the steps leading to the door. They waited. Why did
it take so long? To Vasya the time seemed endless.

At last the door opened. Vladimir took Vasya in his arms, pressing her
to him and kissing her. His face was radiant, his eyes wet with tears.

"You came! You came to me! My friend, Vasya! My comrade!"

"Take her things, at least," grumbled her escort. "What'll I do with
them?"

"Come right into the house! We'll have some supper. You must be soaked
through and freezing."

They entered the house. It was bright and clean. A dining room, with a
bedroom behind it. At the dining room table sat a nurse with a white
kerchief about her neck and a red badge on her sleeve. She was pretty.
Vasya felt another stab at her heart. Volodya introduced the two.

"This is Sister Barbara. My wife, Vassilissa Dementyevna."

They shook hands and looked at each other searchingly, as if each
wanted to sound the other.

"What's the matter, Vasya? Take off your wraps. Aren't you the lady of
this house? See how well I live here. Better than in your little room.
Let me have your coat. How wet it is. We must hang it up next to the
stove."

The nurse had remained standing.

"Well, Vladimir Ivanovitch, we'll let our business discussions go until
tomorrow. I don't want to disturb your domestic bliss tonight."

She shook hands with Vasya and Vladimir, and went out together with
Vasya's escort.

Vladimir picked up Vasya and carried her about the room. He fondled
her, kissed her, was beside himself with joy.

Vasya's heart felt less heavy, and she was ashamed of herself. Still
she asked, casually, between kisses: "Who was that nurse?" And she bent
back her head the better to look into Vladimir's eyes.

"The nurse? She came to see me about the provisioning of the hospital.
Deliveries must be made more quickly. There are delays along the line.
They can't get along without me, though they made me stop my work. As
soon as something goes wrong, they come to me."

He turned the conversation to the charges against him, spoke of the
thing that worried them both. He set Vasya down, and they went into the
bedroom. Once more Vasya felt that stab. The bed was untidily made, as
if someone had hurriedly thrown the covers over it.

She glanced at Vladimir. Placing his hands on his back, a gesture Vasya
knew and loved, he paced up and down the room. He told her of his case,
what had happened, how it had begun.

Listening, Vasya suffered for him. She felt clearly that it was all
envious gossip. Her Volodya's hands were clean. She was convinced of
that; it could not be otherwise.

She took a pair of stockings from her suit-case. But she had no other
shoes. What to do?

Vladimir noticed it.

"That's how you are! You haven't even an extra pair of shoes. Of course
I can get some leather, and our cobbler will make a pair for you, as a
special favor. But now let me take off your shoes. How wet they are."

He drew off her shoes, threw Vasya's wet stockings on the floor, took
her cold feet into his warm hands.

"What tiny feet you have. Like a doll. Oh, Vasyuk mine, my darling."
Bending down, he kissed her feet.

"What are you doing, Volodyka? You silly boy." She laughed; her heart
was joyful again.

       *       *       *       *       *

They drank tea, talked and held council. Vladimir told her everything.
How he had been rude at the wrong time, how he had disregarded
instructions and had done things his own way. He couldn't stand orders.
He told her of the times when he had furthered the cause, and of the
"undesirables" he had employed. But as for being light-fingered, Vasya
surely could not believe that of him. Vladimir stood before her,
choking with rage.

"So you, too, could think that of me? You, Vasya?"

"No, no, Volodya. I was only afraid that your accounts might be a bit
muddled. They're so strict nowadays."

"You needn't worry about my accounts. Those who started this business
will find their finish in it. My accounts are clear as crystal. The
bookkeeping I learned in America has come in handy."

Vassilissa felt a load off her heart. All that was necessary now was to
meet the Comrades, consult with them, and explain the how, when, and
where.

"It was so clever of you to come here," said Vladimir. "I didn't dare
expect you. I know how hard you work, and assumed you'd be too busy for
your husband, for your Volodyka."

"Why, don't you know that I have no peace when you're not with me?
I'm always worrying: what's he doing? How does he feel? Has anything
happened to him?"

"You're my guardian angel, Vasya. I know that." He spoke very gravely,
and kissed Vasya. His eyes became sad and thoughtful. "I'm not worthy
of you, Vasya. I love only you. I love you above all things. You
believe me, don't you? I love you, love you. No one but you. Anything
else is absurd...."

Here Vasya didn't understand him. His unusual vehemence, his agitation
puzzled her.

They went into the bedroom. It was time to go to sleep. Intending to
make the bed, Vasya threw back the covers. What was that? Her temples
pounded, her knees trembled. A woman's bandage--a blood-stain on the
sheet.

"Volodya! What's that?" Her voice faltered. She moaned.

Vladimir rushed to the bed, savagely threw the bandage to the floor.

"That hussy, that landlady of mine. She lay down here again when I was
out. Soiled the bed." He threw the sheets on the floor.

"Vladimir."

Wide-eyed, Vasya stood before him. Her look said everything.

Vladimir gazed at her and remained silent.

"Why that, Volodya? Why?"

Wringing his hands, Volodya threw himself on the bed.

"It's all over. It's all over. But I swear to you, Vasya, I love only
you, only you."

"Why did you do it? Why didn't you think of our love?"

"I'm young, Vasya. All alone for months. And they're forever running
after you, these common hussies. I hate them all. All of them. These
filthy women."

He stretched out his arms toward her. Tears were rolling down his
cheeks, large, burning tears.

"You must understand, Vasya. You must. Or I can't live. You must pity
me. Life is so hard."

Vasya bent down and kissed his head, as in the Soviet, long before. And
again she pitied him, again she was filled with compassion for this
big, helpless, childlike man. Who would understand him if not she?
Even now everyone was ready to throw stones at him. Should she really
drop him because he had hurt her? Had she not once been ready to bear
the brunt of every blow destined for him? A poor thing, her love, if
she would leave him the first time he had made her suffer.

Bending over Vladimir, Vasya silently stroked his hair, seeking a way
out.

Someone knocked at the door, a harsh, commanding knock. What was that?

They exchanged a glance, and both understood. A hurried embrace, a
passionate kiss, and they went into the hall. They had guessed right.

The investigation had been closed, and Vladimir was arrested. The
ground seemed to be trembling beneath Vasya's feet.

Vladimir remained calm. He collected his things, told Vasya where
to find his papers, whom to summon as witnesses, who could give her
information. Then they took him away.

That was years ago, but Vasya would never forget that night. She had
never lived through anything more dreadful than that night.

Her heart was racked with twofold pain. The century-old, insurmountable
suffering of woman, and the distress of the friend, the comrade, at the
wrong done her beloved, at the malevolence of men, at the injustice of
the world.

Vasya walked about the bedroom as though she were mad. She could not
rest.

Here, before she came, in this room, on this bed Vladimir had loved,
kissed, embraced the other woman. That pretty woman with the full lips
and the voluptuous bosom. Might he not love her? Might he not have lied
to Vassilissa, out of pity?

She wanted the truth, the truth only. Why had they taken away
Vladimir just then? If only he had been there she would have found
out everything, would have asked him. If only he had been there, she
would have freed herself of her own agonizing thoughts, would have been
consumed with pity for him.

Her woman's heart was aching. And she grew furious at Vladimir. How had
he dared do such a thing? He would never have taken another woman if he
had loved her. And if he didn't love her, he should have told her so
frankly, instead of torturing her with his lies.

Vassilissa paced from one corner to the other. She could not rest.

And suddenly a new thought pierced her heart. Suppose the charges
against Vladimir really were to be taken seriously? Suppose there
really was a reason for his arrest? Suppose the "undesirables," the
scoundrels, had got him into trouble, leaving the entire responsibility
on his shoulders?

Her heartache was forgotten, forgotten the red-lipped nurse. Now
she was only trembling with an agonizing fear for Vladimir, racked
and crushed by her suffering for him. They had robbed him of his
reputation, had ruthlessly arrested him. Those were his Comrades.

Compared to that, what was her feminine grief? What had they done to
her beloved Vladimir--his own Comrades? She felt hurt not at his having
been with the woman, but at the failure of even the Revolution to bring
an era of truth and justice.

Vassilissa forgot her weariness as if her body had disappeared. Only
her soul remained, her heart, torn by the sharp claws of her harrowing
thoughts. She waited for the morning, and with the morning came the
resolve to fight for Vladimir. They should not touch him. She would
liberate him from those envy-filled schemers. Single-handed she would
convince everyone that he was stainless. Their slanders were false,
false their libelous attacks on his good name.




                               CHAPTER V


Early that morning a Red Guard brought her a note from Volodya.

"Vasya, my wife, my beloved comrade. I don't care about the case
against me now. Let them ruin me. Only one thought torments me, maddens
me--that I might lose you. I can't live without you, Vasya. You must
know that. If you no longer love me, make no efforts in my behalf. Let
them shoot me. Yours, only yours----Volodya."

And on the side, diagonally, "I love only you. Whether you believe me
or not. And I will insist on it until I die."

Another sentence, in a corner, "I've never reproached you with your
past. Try to understand and forgive me now. Yours, with all my heart
and soul."

Vasya read the note over and over, and felt happier. He was right. He
had never reproached her that she had not been a virgin.

After all, men were like that. What could he do when that hussy threw
herself on his neck? Act like a monk?

She read the note again, kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it in
her pocket. And now to get busy, to get Volodya out of trouble.

She wore herself out, rushing from pillar to post, growing excited,
running afoul of bureaucracy and the indifference of men, giving up,
losing all hope. Then, summoning all her strength, she began to fight
with renewed courage. She would not permit the triumph of the wrong,
she would not let those scheming slanderers worst Volodya.

She gained her most important point. Comrade Toporkov took the matter
in his own hands. And after looking into it he made the following
decision: "As the charges are groundless, the case is to be dropped.
Zviridov and Malitchenko are to be arrested."

The next morning Vasya could not leave her bed. She had contracted
typhus. In the evening she recognized no one, not even Volodya, when he
returned.

In her memory Vasya's illness seemed a dull dream. It was night when
she regained consciousness. She looked about. An unfamiliar room,
medicine bottles on the table, a nurse with a white neckerchief sitting
beside her bed. Wiry, no longer young, a severe expression on her face.
As Vasya looked at her, it bothered her to see a nurse sitting there.
The white kerchief irritated her. Why? She hardly knew herself.

"Would you like a drink?" Leaning forward, the nurse held a glass to
her lips.

Vasya drank, and lost consciousness again. Vaguely, as in a dream, she
felt Volodya bending over her and adjusting her pillow. She became
entirely unconscious. She had a dream; perhaps it was real? There were
two shadows in the room; no, not shadows--women, but not real women.
One white, one gray. Turning, twisting, their arms entwining. Not a
dance, but a struggle. And now Vasya understood. Life and Death had
come to her, were fighting for her. Which would win?

Vasya was frightened, so frightened that she wanted to scream. But she
could not utter a sound. This frightened her even more. Her heart beat,
pounded, as though it would burst any moment. Ping. Ping. Ping. There
was shooting on the street.

She opened her eyes. In the feeble light of the night-lamp she saw that
she was alone. It was night. She listened. A scratching--mice--as if
they were rolling something under the floor. Ever nearer, ever closer.
And now Vasya was torn by a new fear. She felt that the mice were
trying to get on her bed, on her. And she would not be able to drive
them away.

Beginning to cry, she called feebly: "Volodya. Volodya. Volodya."

"Vasya darling. My little sweetheart. What's the matter?"

Volodya was bending over her, anxiously peering into her eyes.

"Volodya, are you alive? Really?" Her strengthless hand felt about
Volodya's head.

"I'm alive. We're both alive, my dearest. Why are you crying? What's
the matter with my Vasyuk? Were you dreaming? Are you delirious again?"

Tenderly he kissed her hands and stroked her damp short hair.

"No, no, I wasn't dreaming. The mice were scratching so...." she
defended herself, with a faint smile.

"The mice?" Volodya laughed. "My Vasyuk has become so brave that it's
afraid of mice! I told the nurse that you shouldn't be left alone. It's
a good thing I came home just now."

Vasya would have liked to ask him where he had been. But she was so
weak that she couldn't talk. A delicious weakness, however, a sort of
drowsiness. And the nicest part of it all was his sitting beside her.
She held his hand in her feeble grasp, would not let go.

Her smiling lips whispered: "He's alive."

"Of course, I'm alive," laughed Vladimir. Gently he kissed her forehead.

Vasya opened her eyes. "But what happened to my hair? Did they cut it
off?"

"That's nothing. Don't worry about that. Now you're a real boy, a real
Vasyuk."

Vasya smiled. She was happy.

Volodya did not leave her. As she dozed he sat on the chair beside her
and watched over her sleep.

"Sleep, Vasya, sleep. You musn't look at me with your big eyes. You'll
have plenty of time to look at me when you're well again. If you don't
sleep now you'll be sick again, and the doctor'll scold me. He'll tell
me I'm a poor nurse."

"You won't go away?"

"Where would I go? I sleep here every night, on the floor beside you.
I'm less worried when I'm able to see you. In the daytime I'm working
hard."

"Working? In the commissariat?"

"Yes, indeed. Everything's all right again. Those rogues have been
arrested. But you're not to talk, you impossible Vasyuk. Sleep. If you
don't go to sleep, I'll go away."

Her helpless fingers tightened their hold on his hand. But she closed
her eyes quite submissively.

It was so wonderful, so sweet to fall asleep with Volodya sitting
beside her, looking at her so anxiously and tenderly.

"My darling...."

"You must sleep, you bad, naughty boy."

"I'm asleep. But I love you."

Volodya bent over her and kissed her eyelids, long, very gently,
tenderly.

And Vasya could have wept with joy. She was willing to die right then
and there. No greater happiness could ever be hers.

       *       *       *       *       *

The memory of what she had felt then made Vasya start. Was such a thing
impossible now? Had her heart been right when it told her that she
could never know greater happiness?

And now that joy, that happiness would be no more. She was going to
him, to her beloved. He had asked for her, was waiting for her. He had
sent a comrade to tell her to hurry. And he had sent her money for the
trip. And a dress. So he must love her. Why, then, would she never be
so happy again? Vasya wanted so much to believe in her happiness; but
doubt rankled in her breast. She had no real faith.

In a brown study, Vasya again thought of the past. They had parted
quite suddenly that time. The front was shifted. When Vladimir went
away, Vasya still was so weak that she could hardly walk. They parted
on the best of terms. The nurse was not mentioned again. Vasya had come
to understand that the nurse had meant no more to him than a glass of
whiskey. "You drink it, and it's forgotten."

Vasya had gone back home, and immediately returned to her work.

At that time she believed that everything was as it had been, that
everything was all right again. Now Vasya remembered that even then
there had been a load on her heart. Something, somewhere, was raising
its head. Was it bitterness because of the red-lipped nurse, or was it
suspicion? Yet Vasya loved Volodya. The fear they had shared, and her
illness had bound them even closer together. They had loved each other
before, too; but they had not felt so near to each other. Now, after
the distress they had gone through together, their hearts were more
united. Still, Vasya could no longer find the joy of a bright spring
morning in her love. It had become gloomier, overcast with clouds. Yet
it had grown deeper and stronger.

Besides, how could one have been in the mood for love and joy?

There were the fronts, the partings, the conspiracies, the mobilization
of the Communists. They were threatened from all sides, were head over
heels in work. Working in the Housing Bureau of the Soviet, Vasya had
to take care of the refugees. It was there that she had developed her
idea of organizing a community house to conform with her views. Stepan
Alexeyevitch had helped her with word and deed. And Vasya had plunged
into her work.

She lived thus for months. Of course she thought of Vladimir, always
had him in her heart. But she did not have much time to yearn for
him. And he too had his work. Everything seemed to be running along
smoothly. He had stopped trying to show off so much, and was at peace
with the "Executive."

Suddenly he surprised Vasya in her attic. Quite unexpectedly. He had
been wounded in a skirmish during the retreat. Nothing dangerous, but
he needed a rest. He was given leave, and had come to board with his
wife.

Vasya was glad. Yet she could not help thinking: Why just now? Could it
not have been two months before, or a month later? Vasya was so worried
just then, and overwhelmed with work. A Congress was in session at the
moment, and the Housing Bureau was being reorganized. She was fighting
for her community house. Impossible to tell when the work would be
finished. She had almost had to tear herself in two. And now Volodya
was there, wounded, in need of care. How would she manage?

Troubled, she could not be really happy.

Vladimir, however, was delighted as a child.

He had brought her a pair of shoes, keeping the promise he had made on
her first day in his house.

"Put them on, Vasya. I want to see how your little doll's feet look in
them."

Vassilissa had no time. There was a meeting of the Housing Bureau. But
she did not want to hurt Vladimir.

She put them on, and felt that she saw her feet for the first time.
They really looked like a doll's.

Radiant with joy she looked at Volodya--she even forgot to thank him.

"I want so much to pick you up, Vasyutka. But I can't, on account of my
hand. I love your little feet. And your brown eyes."

Vladimir was content, excited and happy. He talked and joked.

But Vasya, who should have been at the meeting long before, listened
only half-heartedly. She glanced at the alarm clock beside the little
mirror on her dresser. The minutes were slipping away. They were
waiting for her at the meeting. They would be angry. She was keeping
everybody waiting, and it wasn't proper for the chairman to be late.

Vassilissa came back home late, toward evening. She was tired. There
had been unpleasant incidents. She was worried.

Climbing the stairs to her attic she thought, "It's nice, after all, to
have Volodya there. I'll talk over my troubles with him."

But when she entered the room Volodya wasn't there. Where might he be?
His cap was there, his coat was hanging in its proper place.

He had probably gone out for a moment. She cleaned up the room, and put
the teakettle on the petroleum burner. But Volodya had not come back.

Where could he be? She went out into the hall--he was not in sight. She
waited, grew worried.

Again she went into the hall. There was Vladimir, coming out of the
Fedosseyevs' apartment. They were laughing, parting like the best of
friends. Why had Volodya gone to them? He knew of their duplicity.

"At last you've come back, Vasya. Your cage depressed me so, I was
ready to hang myself. All alone the livelong day. I was glad to meet
Comrade Fedosseyev. He took me along with him."

"Don't have anything to do with them, Volodya. You know they're always
scheming."

"You wouldn't ask me to die of boredom in your cage? Don't run away for
the whole day, then I won't go to the Fedosseyevs."

"But I have work to do. I'd be only too glad to come home to you
earlier, but I can't. It's impossible."

"Of course, you're busy. But how did I manage to sit beside you at
night when you had typhus? And I used to get away in the daytime too,
to look after you. I came to you on sick leave, Vasya. I still have
some fever."

Vasya heard the reproach in his voice. He was offended at her having
been away all day. But what could she do? There was the reorganization
of her department, the coming Congress.

"I believe you're not overjoyed to have me here," Vladimir said. "I
didn't think I'd find you like this."

"How can you say such a thing? I'm not glad? I? My dearest. My beloved.
My sweetheart."

She threw herself into his arms. They almost upset the petroleum burner.

"There, there. And I was ready to think you had stopped loving me. That
you might have someone else. You seemed so cold, so indifferent. Even
your eyes were strange. Not at all tender."

"I'm so tired, Volodya. I've no energy left...."

"You're my tireless little tomboy!" Pressing Vassilissa to him,
Vladimir kissed her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus they lived together in their "cage" in the attic. In the beginning
they managed. Although Vasya found it hard to devote herself to both
her work and her man, she was happy nonetheless.

There always was someone to talk to, to advise her, to sympathize with
her when she was disappointed, to help her plan for the future.

But the housekeeping was a nuisance. Vladimir had become accustomed
to good food at the front. But Vasya's household? She brought her
dinner from the public kitchen. She had no sugar with her tea, but only
rock-candy. For the first few days they lived on the groceries Vladimir
had brought.

"I've brought you some food: flour, sugar, sausage. For I know how you
live, like a sparrow under the gables, without a bite to eat in the
house."

When they had used up Volodya's provisions, however, they were
dependent on the public kitchen. And Volodya didn't like it. He
grumbled: "Why are you forever feeding me millet and millet gruel? I'm
no rooster."

"There's nothing else to be had. I have to live on my ration."

"What are you talking about! The Fedosseyevs have no more than you, but
yesterday they served me a real dinner, and a wonderful one at that.
Fried potatoes and herring and onions."

"Fedosseyeva has the time for housekeeping. But I--don't you see that
I'm wearing myself out without attending to anything but my affairs?"

"You've undertaken too much. That's the trouble. Why do you bother
about this community house? The Fedosseyevs were saying...."

"I know what the Fedosseyevs are saying!" exploded Vasya. She was hurt
at Vladimir's associating with her enemies. "And you're not acting like
a comrade when you listen to them, and join them against me."

They quarreled. Both lost their tempers. Then both were ashamed of
themselves, and they made peace. Vasya, however, grew more worried
over her inability to take better care of her man. He had come to her,
wounded, and she had offered him food from the public kitchen. He had
taken better care of her the other time, and he had brought her a pair
of shoes.

It grieved her to see Volodya eating nothing. He would swallow two or
three spoonfuls of soup, and would push away the plate.

"I'd rather go hungry than eat this dishwater. Make some tea, and try
to get some bread somehow or other. I'll send you some flour later,
from the front, so you'll be able to return it."

Impossible to go on that way. She had to find some way out.

Vasya hurried to the meeting. But her head was a jumble of resolutions
and millet gruel. What could she give Volodya for dinner?

If only she had time she would find a way, would think, and prepare
something.

She was delighted to meet her cousin on the way. Just at the right
time. The cousin had a daughter, a lively, capable girl just out
of school. Now she was living with her parents, had no definite
occupation, but was helping her mother with the housework. Her name was
Styosha.

There was no difficulty about the arrangements. Styosha would spend
the day with them and keep house. In exchange, Vasya would share her
_payok_ with her cousin. A load off her mind, Vasya hurried on to her
meeting. Tomorrow Volodya would have decent meals.

Styosha proved to be capable. And she got along well with Volodya. They
kept house together, exchanged some of their supplies, while Volodya
received a number of things from the union for old times' sake. Vasya
was content. Volodya no longer complained about the food. But now he
had another grievance against her.

"You take care of everybody, but I mean nothing to you."

Again Vasya was distressed. Thus was she torn back and forth between
Volodya and her work. But why had he come at such a feverish time?

She tried to explain to Vladimir. But he was angry, pretended not to
understand.

"You've grown so cold, Vasya. You've even forgotten how to kiss."

"I'm so tired, Volodya. All my energy's gone," was her excuse.

But Volodya was angry. Vasya herself realized that things couldn't go
on that way. Here her lover had come to visit her, after an endlessly
long time, and she was gone all day, working, returning only late at
night, dead tired, scarcely able to tumble into bed. How could she
think of kissing!

There were painful incidents. One evening Volodya began to caress her.
But she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

The next morning Vladimir teased her. Where was the fun in petting a
lifeless body? He was laughing, but she saw that he was offended. She
too felt unhappy about it, felt that she was to blame. He could really
believe that she no longer loved him. But where was she to get the
energy for everything?-

One day Vasya came home earlier than usual.

Vladimir was preparing the dinner for himself.

"What's the matter? Where is Styosha?"

"Your Styosha is a little devil. I threw her out. If she dares to show
her face here again I'll throw her down four flights of stairs."

"Why, what happened? What did she do?"

"Take my word for it, she's a devil. I wouldn't have chased her away
for nothing. I don't have to tell you the whole story. You'll only get
excited. She's a vulgar, filthy creature. I don't want to see any trace
of her here."

Vasya saw that he was furious at Styosha, and determined to ask no more
questions. She probably had stolen something, she thought. Such things
often happened. And Vladimir was very strict about his things. Though
he was very liberal otherwise, and always glad to share what he had
with his comrades, yet he had that possessive instinct. Let anyone dare
take something of his without his permission. He'd never forgive him.

"What'll become of our household?"

"Let the house go to the devil! I'll go to the hotel. And I've found
some friends. I won't starve!"

Styosha went to see Vasya in the Housing Bureau, demanded her _payok_.

"What happened between you and Vladimir Ivanovitch, Styosha? What did
you do?"

"I didn't do a thing." Styosha's eyes flashed as she pushed her comb
more firmly into her hair. "Your Vladimir Ivanovitch always was fresh
to me, so I slapped his face good and hard for him. He spit blood for
quite a while. And he won't try it again."

"How silly you are, Styosha. Vladimir Ivanovitch was only playing with
you."

Vasya was trying to remain calm, but her head was swimming.

"A nice sort of play that was. Why, he had me down on the bed! It's a
good thing that I'm strong. No one can have me against my will."

Vasya tried to convince Styosha that it had all been meant playfully,
as a joke, and that now Vladimir Ivanovitch was really cross with her.
But Styosha looked more stubborn. What was the difference what it was
all about. She would never cross that threshold again.

Gloom enveloped Vasya's heart. She didn't blame Volodya, didn't even
feel hurt. It was her own fault, after all. Why was she so cold? She
had offended Volodya. He might actually believe that she no longer
loved him. But this was nasty. Why had he touched the girl? Styosha was
barely out of her childhood. It was a good thing that she knew life.
What might not have happened otherwise? The incident preyed on Vasya's
mind. She was undecided as to whether she should tell Vladimir that she
knew everything, or whether she should remain silent.

But Vasya had no more opportunity of talking with Vladimir.

A new order was inaugurated. Vladimir hunted up his old friends, the
employes of the union. He disappeared for days at a time. They never
saw each other. In the morning, when Vasya went to the Housing Bureau,
Volodya was still sound asleep. When she stopped in during the day he
wasn't there. When she came home at night the attic was still empty.

Vasya would be nervous. She didn't know whether she should go to bed
or wait to have tea with him. She heated her supper on the petroleum
burner, arranged her papers for the morning, listened to the steps in
the hall.

That wasn't Vladimir.

She put out the fire, for economy's sake, and took up her papers again.
She looked over reports, sorted petitions. Someone was hurrying up the
stairs. Was it he? No, it wasn't Vladimir.

Vasya would go to bed alone, would soon be sleeping the sleep of
exhaustion. But even in her sleep she would listen. It was so cold and
dreary without him.

Sometimes he would be merry when he came home; he would wake up Vasya,
and make love to her. He would be burning to tell her everything, would
have thousands of plans up his sleeve.

Then Vasya would feel so happy, so content. All her troubles would
disappear.

Sometimes, however, Vladimir wasn't entirely sober when he came;
walking heavily, he would look about him scowling, with watery eyes.
He was full of self-reproach on these occasions, but he blamed
Vassilissa too. What a life! In a cage, under the roof! No pleasure,
no diversions--a woman, and yet not a woman! And they had no child.

This, particularly, stabbed Vasya. Although she had not wanted a
child, she would have liked to have one for his sake. But it seemed
impossible. She never became pregnant. Other women wept and wailed
because of their inability to avert the flood of children. But it
seemed that she, Vasya, was to be denied the joys of motherhood.

"Anemia," was the doctor's opinion.

In order to cheer up Vasya, Vladimir decided to take her to the
theatre; he procured the tickets.

Vasya came home at the appointed time. Vladimir was preening himself
before the mirror. He had put on fine clothes, and looked like a
"gentleman" again. Laughing, Vasya teased him. She loved her handsome
man.

"And what'll you put on?" He looked at her anxiously. "Haven't you a
Sunday dress?"

Vasya laughed again. What in the world was a Sunday dress? He must have
learned that in America, where people dress up in a different outfit
every day. She would put on a clean blouse, and the new shoes Volodya
had brought her. That was all her finery.

Vladimir looked cross. He scowled at her so that she grew frightened.

"Do you think people will look only at your feet in the theatre? And
the rest of your clothes can be sackcloth?"

"I don't understand why you're angry, Volodya."

"How can one help being angry at these organizers of ours! They've
arranged our lives as if we were in prison. Here you've no real
amusement, no real home, no decent dress! You have to live in a cage,
drink water, eat garbage and wear coarse clothes! Why, I was better off
when I was out of work in the United States!"

"But you can't expect everything at once. You know--the collapse."

"Don't talk to me about the collapse. What sort of organizers have
we, anyhow? They've torn down everything with their own hands, but if
anyone wants to do something constructive they shout: 'Do you want to
become _burshuis_? Hands off!'

"No, you don't know how to live! That's why everything goes to pieces.
I'm sure I didn't go through the Revolution to lead such a life!"

"Why, the Revolution wasn't for us!"

"For whom, then?"

"For everybody."

"The _burshuis_, too?"

"Don't be silly! Of course not for the _burshuis_! For the workers, the
proletariat!"

"And what do you think we are? Not workers, not proletariat?"

They disputed and disputed, almost coming late to the theatre.

Through the streets they went, through the slush of spring. Vladimir
walking ahead silently, with huge steps, so that Vasya barely could
follow.

"Don't run so, Volodya. I'm all out of breath."

Suddenly he stopped and waited. After that he walked more slowly, but
still refused to say a word.

In the theatre, Vladimir met some friends, with whom he spent the
intermissions. And Vasya had to sit alone.

The theatre gave her no pleasure. Why had she wasted the evening? Now,
she would have to work twice as hard in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Congress opened shortly before Vladimir's departure. He attended
it, although he was not a delegate. There was wrangling; antagonistic
groups were formed. Vladimir was on Vasya's side. Leaving his friends,
he worked for her group wholeheartedly. Now Vasya and Vladimir became
inseparable. They went to and from the Congress together, discussed
their stand at home. The Comrades of her group crowded Vasya's room.
They drew up resolutions. Vladimir wrote on the typewriter they had
procured. Everyone was working swiftly, hurriedly; they seemed welded
together. They would become agitated, would quarrel. Then they would
laugh again, for no reason but their youth. They liked the battle for
its own sake. It kept their minds off their troubles.

Stepan Alexeyevitch was there too, sitting at the table and stroking
his fine gray beard. His genial, animated eyes watched youth.
Vassilissa was always whispering about something with him. He spoke
very highly of her, said she was above the average. But he seemed
rather cool toward Vladimir. Vasya was sorry to see it. Why this
attitude? Vladimir, too, was distant in his manner.

"Your Stepan Alexeyevitch is too oily for me. He smells of incense.
He's no Communist fighter. Just a toady, that's all."

Vasya's faction was defeated. But she had received more votes than she
had expected. That, too, was a victory.

As the Congress was drawing to a close, the time of Vladimir's
departure approached. Again Vasya was torn in two. She had to equip him
for his trip, and the Congress was still going on.

But deep down in her heart Vasya was glad. Once more she had felt that
her man was not only her lover, but her friend. She was proud of him,
for he had been a great help to her group. The Comrades wouldn't let
him go.

"Now good-bye, my Vasyuk. My little sparrow will stay all alone under
its gable. Now it won't have anyone to tell its troubles to. But to
make up for that no one'll disturb you in your work."

"Did you ever bother me?" She embraced him, fondled him.

"Didn't you say yourself that your man was taking up your time? Didn't
you complain about the housekeeping?"

"Oh, don't talk of that. It's much worse without you."

And she hid her head against his breast.

"You're not only my sweetheart, but my comrade, too. That's why I love
you."

They parted tenderly, on the best of terms.

After seeing off Vladimir she hurried back to the Congress, thinking:
no matter how nice it is to be together, you're better off alone.
The presence of your lover distracts your thoughts, makes your work
progress too slowly.

Now she could again devote herself entirely to her work. Work and rest.
She had never had enough sleep when he was there.

"Did you see your husband off?" Stepan Alexeyevitch asked her at the
Congress.

"Yes, Vladimir has gone."

"That's better for you. He only got you into debt."

Vasya was amazed. How had Stepan Alexeyevitch known? But she did
not answer. If she had admitted it her lover's prestige might have
suffered.




                              CHAPTER VI


The train was to arrive in the morning. And Vassilissa was up with the
first pale light of dawn. She had to collect her things, and dress, to
please her beloved Volodya. They had been hard, those seven months of
separation.

Vassilissa was happy, gay, joyful. She felt the spring in the air.

The Nep-girl was still in bed, lying on her back, and gazing at her
reflection in a hand mirror. But Vasya had already washed herself,
carefully brushed her curls, and put on the new dress Grusha had made
for her. Vassilissa looked into the mirror on the wall. She saw only
her eyes. They sparkled so that her entire face looked beautiful.

Everything seemed to be all right. This time Volodya wouldn't lecture
her for running around in "rags."

A station. Vassilissa looked out the window. It was early in the
morning, the sun was shining. In the North one could hardly see that it
was spring, but here everything was in bloom. The trees, too, were full
of flowers. Strange, very odd trees. Leaves like those of the black
alder, but more delicate in color; and the boughs covered with white
blossoms, resembling lilac blossoms; but they were not lilacs. Their
perfume, sweet and very strong, was pouring in through the window.

"What sort of tree is that?" Vasya asked the conductor. "We don't have
them in our country."

"White acacias."

"White acacias? They're pretty." The conductor broke off a few branches
and gave them to Vasya.

How sweet their scent was. And Vasya was so happy that she was almost
in tears. Everything about her was so beautiful, so fascinating. But
the most important thing: "In another hour, I'll see Volodya."

"Will we be there soon?" Again Vasya turned to the conductor. To her it
seemed that the train wasn't moving at all. It had stopped again, at a
siding. At last it moved on.

Now the city was in sight. The cathedrals. The barracks. The suburbs.
The platform of the station. But where was Volodya? Where?

Vasya looked out of the open window. Volodya, however, had come in
through the other end of the car, and took her into his arms.

"There you are, Volodya. How you frightened me."

They kissed.

"Quick, let me have your things. This is our secretary. Please take
the things, Ivan Ivanovitch. We're going to the auto. I have a couple
of horses now, Vasya, a cow and a car. And I am intending to get some
little pigs. We have a lot of room; it's a regular farm. You'll see for
yourself. You'll live like the lady of the manor. Things are getting
along well. Not long ago we opened a branch in Moscow."

Vladimir talked on and on. He could not tell her quickly enough of the
things he was busy with, which filled his thoughts. Sitting in the
auto, Vasya listened. And although she was very much interested in what
Volodya had to say she would have liked to talk about her own affairs,
to find out how he had got along without her. Had he longed for her
very much? Had he waited very anxiously for her?

They drew up before the house. A one-family house with a garden. A
half-grown youth, an errand-boy in a gallooned cap, was standing guard
at the door. He helped them out of the car.

"Now, Vasya, we'll see how you like our house. Whether you'll find it
better than your cage under the roof."

Carpet on the stairs. A mirror. A reception hall. Vasya took off her
hat, dropped her coat. They went into the living-room. Sofas, rugs.
A huge clock in the dining room. Some still lifes in gilded frames.
Antlers on the wall.

"Well, how do you like it?" Vladimir was radiant with pride.

"I like it," Vasya replied uncertainly, looking about. She didn't
know herself whether she cared for it. Everything was so strange, so
unfamiliar.

"And this is our bedroom." Vladimir opened the door wide. There were
two windows opening on the garden. This pleased Vasya at once.

"Trees," she cried, delighted. "White acacias." She hurried to the
window.

"Look around the room first; you'll have plenty of time to run around
the garden. Isn't it nice, what I've prepared for you? I picked out
and arranged everything myself. I've waited for you since the moment I
moved in."

"Thanks, darling." Vasya stretched to kiss Volodya. But he seemed not
to see it, took hold of her shoulders and turned her so that she faced
the long mirror in the wardrobe.

"See how convenient it is. When you dress you can see yourself from top
to toe in the mirror. There are shelves inside: for your underwear, for
your hats, for all sorts of gewgaws...."

"Why, how many hats and gewgaws do you think I have? You've hit the
nail on the head." Vasya laughed.

But Volodya went on: "Will you look at the bed? A silk quilt--I had
a hard time finding it. It belongs to me; I didn't get it among my
supplies. And here's a pink lamp to light at night."

Vladimir showed Vasya around, pointing out every trifle, delighted as a
child.

"Didn't I feather a cozy little nest for my little girl?" Vasya
listened, smiling at his happiness, but still not quite at ease. She
couldn't deny it, the rooms were nice, splendid. Rugs, curtains,
mirrors! But not familiar. As if she had come into somebody else's
house. The things were not what Vasya needed. There were no tables
where she could spread her books and papers. Only one thing really
pleased her. That she could see white acacias from the windows facing
the garden.

"Get ready, now, and wash up; then we'll have some breakfast," said
Vladimir, going over to the window to let down the shades.

"What are you doing that for?" objected Vasya. "It's so nice to look
out into the garden."

"But it won't do. The shades have to be down by day, or the upholstery
will fade."

Down sank the gray shades; like heavy eyelids they hid the green of
the garden shining in through the window. And the room became gray,
monotonous, even less familiar. Vasya washed her hands, and combed her
curls before the mirror.

"What's that you have there? Did you have a dress made of the material
I sent you?"

"Why, yes ...," expecting a word of praise, Vasya looked up at Volodya
inquiringly.

"Let's have a good look at you." He turned her about. She could tell
from his expression that he wasn't pleased.

"Where in the world did you get the idea of piling all that stuff on
your hips? You've a narrow figure, just the thing for the new fashions.
Why did you get this monstrosity?"

Vasya was confused, flushed to the roots of her hair. She felt guilty.

"Why a monstrosity? Grusha says that's stylish now."

"What does your Grusha know about it? She made a mess of the material.
You look like the wife of a pope. You'd do better to take off that
dress and put on your every-day skirt. You'd look more like yourself.
This way you're neither fish, flesh, nor fowl."

Volodya did not see the disappointment in Vasya's face. He went out
into the dining room to see about breakfast.

With a heavy heart Vasya pulled off Grusha's handiwork, and hastened to
put on her old skirt and the blouse with the leather belt.

She was not at all happy. Two little tears dropped on the old blouse.
They dried quickly. And there was an unpleasant coldness in Vasya's
eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

The "manager's housekeeper" came to pay her respects during breakfast.
Marya Semyonovna. A robust woman of middle age and respectable
appearance.

Vasya shook hands with her.

"That wasn't necessary," said Vladimir after Marya Semyonovna had left
the dining room. "If you don't act like the lady of the house you'll
have them all on your neck."

Vasya looked at him in amazement. "That's something I simply can't
understand."

Vladimir served Vasya. But she had no appetite, felt ill at ease.

"Here, look at the tablecloth, Morosov linen. The napkins have the same
design, too. But I didn't have them put out, it costs too much to wash
them."

"Where did you get all these things? Did you really buy everything?"
Vasya looked searchingly at Vladimir.

"Such an idea! Why, do you know what these furnishings would cost
nowadays? Billions! Do you really think that my manager's salary
enables me to buy such luxuries? All these things were supplied to
me. I was lucky enough to come at the time when it was possible, with
the assistance of some friends, to obtain such furnishings from the
authorities. Now they've put a stop to all this. No one can have his
house furnished like this today. Not unless he pays cash. Besides, I
bought several things on my own account during the winter; the wardrobe
with the mirror, in the bedroom, the silk quilt, the drawing room
lamp...." Vladimir enumerated everything, happily, contentedly.

Vasya's eyes grew colder and colder, shone with wrath. They no longer
seemed brown, but green, like a cat's eyes.

"And how much did all these splendid things cost you?" Vasya's voice
trembled. Vladimir did not notice, but continued eating his chop and
drinking his beer.

"Well, if you calculated the total, including what I've taken on
credit, on the instalment plan, it amounts to...."

Slowly, so as to impress Vasya, Vladimir mentioned a very considerable
sum. Raising his laughing eyes to her face, he seemed to say: now do
you see what a fine fellow I am?

"Why, Vasya, what's the matter with you?"

She had jumped to her feet, was standing over him with angry green eyes.

"Where did you get the money? Tell me at once--where?"

"What's the matter, Vasya? Calm yourself. You surely don't believe that
I got it dishonestly? Or don't you know anything about money values?
Compare it with my salary, and you'll see." He told her the amount of
his monthly drawing account and bonus.

"That's your salary? Your monthly salary? But how dare you, a
Communist, spend it for such trash, for such nonsense? Poverty's
increasing! Misery and famine are round about! And the unemployed? Have
you forgotten them? Was there nothing irregular about your becoming the
manager?"

The furious green eyes came closer to Vladimir. "Well, Sir Manager,
will you be good enough to answer?"

Vladimir did not give up, but wanted to bring Vasya to reason, to
convince her good-naturedly. He laughed at her. "You live like a
sparrow under the gables, and have no idea of what money is worth.
Others are earning even more, and live quite differently. They make a
really elegant appearance."

But Vasya was not the sort to be defeated with words. She had made up
her mind to demand an account. Why didn't he live as a Communist? Why
did he throw away his money on foolish trifles while poverty and famine
held sway round about him?

Vladimir realized that he couldn't get at her by this means. He
would have to try another way. He would have to attempt a political
explanation. That it was all a part of the manager's task. Instructions
from headquarters. The main thing was to do all he could to make the
undertaking flourish, to increase the earnings of his company. And this
was his strongest point. Vasya must wait until she saw what he had
accomplished in a year. He had built up everything in a deserted place,
had increased the output, so that now the entire trust was dependent
on his supervision. She would see for herself. Though he lived "like
a human being" he was none the less concerned with every one of his
employes, with the most humble shipping clerk. Let her only get an
insight into the matter, then she would think differently. But he had
not expected that his friend, Vasya, his wife, his comrade, would come
there to join in the chorus of his enemies. It was so hard to work that
way. He gave all his energy to the cause, and these were his thanks.
Even his wife was against him, wanted to condemn him.

Vladimir was offended and furious. His eyes were those of an angry
wolf. They flashed fire at Vasya, as though to burn her. Because of her
suspicion and condemnation.

Vasya listened thoughtfully. He might be right. Everything was
different now. The most important thing was that his accounts were
straight and the work done. The national wealth must be increased. She
was not disputing that.

"Because I get some things, establish my own household? Am I to live in
community houses forever? And why are we worse than American laborers?
You should see how they live there. They have their own piano, their
own Ford, their own motorcycle."

In the meantime the worthy Marya Semyonovna had looked into the dining
room several times. She wanted to serve the fritters; and she saw that
these two quarreled the moment they met. That's how it had been with
the "real gentlefolk" whom she had served before the Revolution. They,
or the Communists--they were all alike. Only, it was too bad about the
fritters, they would spoil with the standing.

Vladimir took Vasya everywhere, showed her the offices, the warehouses
and the homes. He took her to the bookkeeping department, too. "Just
take a look at our books, you won't find such a system of accountancy
anywhere else. See how wonderfully I've arranged things, and then tell
me that I'm wasteful."

He asked the bookkeepers to explain to Vasya the principle of their
system, which was simplified, but accurate. It had received special
commendation from headquarters.

Vasya listened carefully. Although she couldn't understand everything
she saw that they were trying hard and loved their work. Volodya, too,
was in it with all his heart and soul. He took her to the homes of the
employes, purposely asked their wives whether they were satisfied. He
looked at Vasya triumphantly. Everyone said the same thing: Were they
satisfied? Nowadays it was impossible to be better off. "We owe our
lives to your providence, Vladimir Ivanovitch."

"There! And you say I'm a spendthrift! Believe me, I took care of our
employes first. I got as much as I could for them. And only then did
I think of myself. You see how they live. The workingmen are just as
well off as the office force. I made special efforts in their behalf.
Really, I did everything I possibly could."

"Very well, you did all that. But what about them? What did they do for
themselves?"

"What peculiar ideas you have, Vasya. Don't we have the same interests,
they and I? Before, of course, the manager stood on one side, and the
workers on the other. But not now, not here. You've become moss-grown
in your little bog."

He was joking, yet Vasya felt that Vladimir wasn't pleased, that she
had offended him. He spent the entire day taking her about the various
buildings of the works. Vasya grew tired. Her temples began to throb;
she had a stitch in her side, a backache. If only she could go home,
lie down and go to sleep. Her head was still buzzing with the noise of
the train-wheels. But Volodya had just told her that there would be
guests for dinner. She was to receive them.

They came home, entered the hall. The errand-boy opened the door, and
remained standing, as though expecting a command. Looking at him,
Vladimir took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few words, and
gave the note to the boy.

"Now hurry, Vasya, so there'll be no delay. You'll bring the answer to
me personally. Understand?"

He turned to Vasya again, looked at her with an odd expression on his
face, half guilty, half inquiring.

"What's the matter with you, Vasyuk? Why do you stare at me so?" His
voice sounded uncertain.

"Nothing's the matter. But--the errand-boy's name is Vasya, too?"

"Yes; don't you like the idea of there being two Vasya's in my house?
Can you imagine! She's jealous! But you needn't worry. There's not
another Vasya like you in the world."

Gently he put his arm about her, gazed into her eyes, and kissed her.
It was the first time he had caressed her all day. They went into the
bedroom arm in arm.

       *       *       *       *       *

The dinner-guests arrived: Savelyev and Ivan Ivanovitch, the secretary
of the administration. Savelyev was a tall, lean man, in a light gray
suit. His thin hair was neatly combed, and he wore a seal-ring on his
index-finger. Clever, rather crafty eyes, an unpleasant smile on his
smooth-shaven face. As though he were watching everything, and as if
everything were the same to him as long as he was well off. That's how
it seemed to Vasya.

When he met Vasya he raised her hand to his lips. She pulled it away.

"I'm not used to that."

"As you say. But I never object to kissing the hand of a young woman.
It's pleasant, and the husband can't be jealous. You must be very
jealous, Vladimir Ivanovitch? Confess!"

As he spoke he slapped Volodya's back. Vladimir laughed.

"Vasya is a model wife, there's no need of being jealous of her."

"So she doesn't follow her husband's example?" Savelyev winked at
Vladimir. And Vladimir's eyes suddenly grew big and frightened.

"I don't think I've ever done anything to...."

Savelyev interrupted. "Never mind. We know how you are, you married
men. I've been through it myself. But now I'm leading a bachelor's
life."

Vasya didn't like Savelyev. Didn't like him at all. But Volodya talked
with him as with a friend. About business, about politics. Vasya
wouldn't have discussed politics with this "speculator," wouldn't have
laughed with him at the Chairman of the Executive Committee. She would
have to reason with Volodya, persuade him to drop this friendship.

They had wine for dinner. The secretary, Ivan Ivanovitch, had brought
it in a basket. They were worried about some large shipments that had
failed to arrive, and which they were afraid would come too late for
the fair.

Vasya listened, trying to grasp the meaning of it all. But it seemed to
her that these things weren't so very important, as if the main point
were not being mentioned. The throbbing and hammering of her temples
bothered her, and her eyes hurt. If only the meal were over.

Vladimir ordered the auto right after dinner. He had to attend an
important meeting concerning the shipment.

"Are you really going to the meeting today? The day your wife came? You
ought to stay with her. It's not nice of you, Vladimir Ivanovitch."
Savelyev looked at Vladimir with a crooked smile.

"Impossible," interrupted Vladimir, carefully lighting a cigarette. He
would have been glad to stay--business, you know.

Savelyev could not refrain from saying, "There are two sides to
everything."

And again Vasya thought he was winking at Vladimir, laughing at him. A
disgusting speculator.

"If I were in your place I'd drop everything else today, and spend the
first evening with your wife. Your business won't run away."

Vladimir didn't answer, but picked up his cap angrily.

"Well, Nikanor Platonovitch, are we ready to go?"

They drove off, Ivan Ivanovitch going with them. Vasya was left alone.
Alone, in the great empty house that was so strange to her. She went
through the rooms. Dreary, lonely, cold. She stood beside the window.
Then she lay down on the bed with the silk quilt, and fell asleep at
once.

She awoke with a start. It was dark. Lighting the lamp, she glanced at
the clock. A quarter past twelve. Had she really slept so long? Past
midnight. And Vladimir had not come in.

Getting up, Vasya bathed her face and went into the dining room.

The supper-table was set, the light was burning. The room was empty and
still, the rest of the house dark. She went into the kitchen, where
Marya Semyonovna was straightening things.

"Hasn't Vladimir Ivanovitch returned?"

"No. Not yet."

"Does he always come back so late from his meetings?"

"It depends."

Marya Semyonovna was sullen, and sparing with her words.

"How about you? Are you waiting up for him? Aren't you going to bed?"

"Vasya and I take turns. One day he stays up, the next day I do."

"Will Vladimir have supper when he comes?"

"If he brings any guests I guess he'll have some. Otherwise he goes
straight to his room."

Vasya stayed a little while longer, silent. She saw that Marya
Semyonovna was busy with her own affairs, and paid no attention to her.

Going back to the bedroom, Vasya opened the window. A cool, quiet
spring night. The air was filled with the strong perfume of the
acacias. The frogs croaked loudly, curiously. At first Vasya thought
they were night birds.

The sky was dark, and dotted with many, many twinkling stars. Vasya
gazed into the dark garden, looked up at the sky and stars. Her heart
became calmer. She forgot the speculator, Savelyev, forgot the pain
Vladimir had involuntarily caused her during the day. Now she felt
with all her soul that she had come to him, to her beloved, to help and
guide him. One who associates with Nep-people cannot help leaving the
right road. That was why he had summoned her, his friend and wife.

Remembering how Vladimir had arranged everything, Vasya was proud of
him. How energetic he was. Now she saw things in a different light.
Everything seemed clearer, more intelligible, more cheerful than during
the day.

Vasya was so absorbed with her thoughts that she failed to hear either
the car drawing up or Vladimir walking over the rugs and carpets to
her. The sound of his voice made her start.

"What were we thinking about so hard, little Vasyuk mine?"

As Vladimir bent over her, his eyes seemed anxious and loving.

"Have you really come, dear? I've been waiting so long."

She threw her arms about his neck.

Vladimir picked her up as in the first months of their love, and
carried her through the room like an adored child.

Vasya felt happy and gay. Volodya loved her, loved her as always! How
silly she had been! Why had she felt hurt in the morning?

They drank tea together, had an intimate and affectionate talk. Vasya
pronounced her opinion of Savelyev. "It's better not to be a friend of
his."

Vladimir did not deny it. He admitted that he, too, had no respect for
him; but he was useful; the whole business would have been impossible
without him. He had many connections from before, and enjoyed the
confidence of the merchants; it was possible to come in contact with
them through him. Volodya, too, had learned much from him. Frankly
speaking, he was not worth much as a man. A genuine _burshui_; but in
business he was indispensable. That was why Volodya had defended him
when the highest authorities, the "super-clever fellows," had arrested
Savelyev. And he was highly esteemed in Moscow. The local authorities
had been given a good calling-down on his account.

"Yes, but didn't you write me that his hands aren't clean?"

"How can I make it clear to you? He's our representative. Of course
he doesn't neglect himself. But he's no worse than the others.
Besides, the other fellows dawdle about and do nothing, while he works
conscientiously. And he knows his work, likes it."

All this notwithstanding, however, Vladimir promised to see less of
him. Business was business, but it didn't necessitate a friendship.

Having finished their tea, they returned to the bedroom arm in arm.
Vladimir pressed Vasya's head to his breast, kissed her curls, and
spoke thoughtfully, tenderly. "Such a dear little head. It'll always
be mine, won't it? Another friend like you, Vasya, doesn't exist. I
love only you, my Vasya, my little tomboy."

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya woke up late. Vladimir had gone to work long before.

She didn't feel well. She had shooting pains in her side, felt
feverish, and was beginning to cough. Had she caught cold on the trip?
Although it was a beautiful sunny day she wrapped a shawl about her.
She didn't want to move, and didn't want to get up. Marya Semyonovna
came into the room, stood in the doorway, folded her hands before her,
and looked at Vasya as though she were expecting something.

"Good morning, Marya Semyonovna."

"Good morning," was the dry response. "What will you order for dinner?
When he left, Vladimir Ivanovitch said you'd attend to everything.
You're having guests."

Vasya was at a loss. She had no idea what she should order. At home, in
the community house, she had had only such food as the State supplied.

Seeing that Vasya knew nothing whatever about such matters, Marya
Semyonovna suggested various dishes. Vasya agreed to everything.
But she inquired as to the cost. Wouldn't it be very dear? Marya
Semyonovna's mouth snapped shut.

"Well, if you want a good dinner, you can't save on it. You can't
have anything without money. The Communists have done away with the
_payoks_."

"Do you have any money?"

"There's a little left from yesterday, but not enough for today. Meat
is expensive, and we'll have to buy butter, too."

"So Vladimir left you no money?"

"He left me nothing. He only said: 'Go to Vassilissa Dementyevna and
discuss everything with her.'"

What should she do now? Marya Semyonovna stood there, waiting for
the money, and would not go. Vasya had a little money left, but the
household would soon eat it up; and she would be left without a kopek.
She didn't like that idea.

"Why don't you advance some of your money to me, and then have Vladimir
Ivanovitch give it back to you?" suggested Marya Semyonovna.

"Really, that never occurred to me!"

And the matter was settled.

When Marya Semyonovna had gone Vasya went out into the garden. She
walked up and down the paths for a long time, until she was tired. She
felt so exhausted. Lying down, she took up a book, and fell asleep over
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya lay stretched on the bed. Her cheeks were burning, her sleep
was disturbed by dismal, tormenting dreams. Waking, she looked about
fretfully. Why had she gone to sleep? It would have been better to see
the sights of the city. She hadn't come to Vladimir to be sick. Yet she
hadn't the slightest desire to raise her head. She closed her eyes, and
her thoughts immediately became confused. It was no proper sleep, not
even a doze. But she wasn't fully conscious, either.

"Vassilissa Dementyevna, Vladimir Ivanovitch will come in for dinner
any moment; you should get dressed. Then I could make the bed. He hates
to see disorder in the house."

Marya Semyonovna was bending over Vasya as though, being the elder, she
wanted to correct her.

"Is it that late?"

"Almost five. And you haven't even had breakfast. I wanted to wake you
before, but you were so sound asleep. That's from the trip. You haven't
got over it yet."

"It might be the trip, or I may have caught cold. I feel chilled."

"You should put on your woollen dress; it'll be warmer. The little rag
you're wearing isn't any good."

"My suit turned out badly. My husband didn't like it at all."

"Why do you say that? It's not so bad. There may be too many pleats on
the hips, and the waistline isn't just where it should be. Nowadays
they're wearing the waistline ... I've been a dressmaker, too. I know
all about clothes. Just you let me remodel the skirt. We'll change that
dress so Vladimir Ivanovitch won't recognize it."

"Will it be ready by dinner-time?"

"That's asking a little too much. No, we'll do it slowly; we won't rush
it. Now you put on your black skirt and wear the coat of your suit over
it. That'll look very well."

Never before had Vasya spent so much time before the mirror. Marya
Semyonovna was forever finding something to change. Here she fastened
something with pins, there she made some long stitches. She found a
lace collar, too. The effect was quite good. Simple, yet elegant. Even
Vasya liked it. What would Vladimir say about it?

Almost as soon as she was finished Vladimir came with his guests: an
employe of the G. P. U. (what had been the Cheka) and his wife. The
ends of his mustache had been waxed to needle points; he was foppishly
dressed, with tan boots that reached to his knees. And that called
himself a Communist!

Vasya didn't like him at all. And his wife--dressed up like a
street-walker! She wore a thin dress, white shoes and a fur scarf
across her shoulders; her fingers were glittering with rings. Vladimir
kissed her hand, jested with her. What were they talking about? She
couldn't understand it. It was all nonsense. Vladimir was bending over
her gallantly, his eyes flirting with hers.

Vasya sat beside the man from the G. P. U. He was a Communist. But she
had no idea of what to say to him.

They had wine again. Vladimir touched glasses with the lady; she
whispered something to him, and both laughed. It annoyed Vasya. But he
paid no attention to her. As if she didn't belong to him. Queer! She
didn't like it.

Jokingly they mentioned the fasts. The lady said that she was religious
and went to confession, even though she did not fast. How could that
be? A Comrade of the G. P. U. married to a believer? Vasya scowled. She
was out of humor. Because of Vladimir, too. What sort of friends did he
have? Toward the end of the meal, Ivan Ivanovitch came in to tell them
that Savelyev had taken a box in the theatre, and had invited them.

"We'll go, won't we, Vasya?" asked Vladimir.

"With Savelyev?" Vasya tried to catch his eyes; but he pretended not to
understand.

"Yes, of course, with Nikanor Platonovitch. With the whole crowd.
They're giving a new operetta. It'll amuse you."

"No, I won't go."

"Why not?"

"I don't feel quite well. I must have caught cold on the trip."

Vladimir looked closely at her.

"Really, you don't look well, Vasya. Your eyes are quite sunken. Let me
have your hand. Why, it's terribly hot. Of course you can't go. And I
won't go either."

"But why not? Do go!"

The guests, too, persuaded Vladimir, and he gave in.

In the hall Vladimir embraced Vasya in the presence of the others, and
whispered in her ear: "You look unusually pretty today, Vasya."

He asked Marya Semyonovna to take care of Vassilissa Dementyevna.

"Go to bed right away, Vasya. I'll be back soon. I won't stay to the
end."

They drove off.

Vasya wandered about the rooms, quite forlorn.

She didn't like this life. She couldn't say just what was wrong with
it. But everything was new and unfamiliar. And she was a stranger here;
no one had need of her. Vladimir might love her, but he thought of her
so little. He had put his arms around her, kissed her and gone away. It
was different when he had to go to a meeting, to work. But this time it
was the theatre! Why had he gone without her? Hadn't he seen enough of
the theatre during the winter? Something was troubling Vasya, haunting
her. She couldn't express it. She felt ill at ease.

"I'll stay here a week," she decided. "I'll see how things stand with
Volodya, and then I'll go."

But there was the rub. Where would she go? Back to the community house?
Her room there, her attic under the roof was gone. Her friend, Grusha
the seamstress, was living in it. Besides, the Fedosseyevs were there;
there would be gossip and worry. Once more she would have to fight
everybody for the house. And she felt too worn out for that. Besides,
she had lost faith in the soundness of the proposition. And that was
the most important point.

No, she had no place where she could go.

This thought made her heart even heavier, stabbed it as with a steel
blade.

Vasya was cold. Shivering, she drew her hands into her sleeves. She
wandered through the dark, empty rooms. She felt as if this strange
house were preparing sorrow for her. A lurking disaster.

A premonition?

Could a Communist believe in premonitions? But it must be that. Else,
why this melancholy? This infinite, nameless, fruitless melancholy?




                              CHAPTER VII


Vladimir came home early, as he had promised. Vasya was in bed.

He sat down beside her, and inquired how she felt. He looked into her
eyes as he spoke, and his grave, sad gaze puzzled Vasya. His eyes
seemed to bespeak suffering.

"What's the trouble, Volodya? You're so gloomy."

Burying his head in the pillow beside her, Volodya spoke in a
despondent tone. "Life isn't a bed of roses, Vasya. You don't know how
hard it is for me. You see only one side of my life. And you refuse to
understand. If you could read my heart, how hard I tried all winter,
you wouldn't condemn me. You'd pity me. You're so good, Vasya."

She stroked his head, quieted him. And though she felt sorry for him
her heart was full of joy. She felt that they had the same thought, had
suffered the same pain. It wasn't easy for a proletarian to act like a
manager. She told him so.

But Volodya shook his head mournfully.

"It's not only that, Vasya, not only that. There's something else that
torments me, that lets me have no peace."

"Are they plotting against you?"

Volodya remained silent; it seemed that he wanted to say something, but
couldn't make up his mind.

Vasya put her arms about him. "Tell me what's bothering you, dear."

She laid her head on his shoulder.

"What smells so of perfume? When did you put on perfume?" Raising her
head she looked at him.

"Perfume?" Volodya seemed embarrassed. He withdrew a bit. "I probably
got it with my shave today. The barber must have put it on."

Vladimir got up, lit a cigarette, slowly, carefully, and left Vasya. He
absolutely had to look through some papers that evening.

Vasya coughed a little. She felt rather ill and feverish, had shooting
pains in her side. Vladimir noticed it, although she tried to control
herself in his presence. Her coughing disturbed him, and he had his bed
made on the sofa in the drawing room.

The days dragged on. It was so dreary. She had nothing to do. Only
little household worries now and then. Vladimir was trying to save, but
insisted on everything being "just as it should be." Vasya gave her
little reserve to the household, for she didn't like it when Volodya
rebuked her:

"Have you really used up all your housekeeping money? It's impossible
to get enough for you women."

As if it were Vasya who invited guests and wanted three courses for
dinner! However, she had no cause to complain of Vladimir. He was very
solicitous in other ways. He was worried about Vasya's health and had
gone for the doctor himself. The diagnosis was general debility; and
the right lung was affected. She was ordered to lie in the sun as much
as possible, and to eat nourishing food. Vladimir was always inquiring
whether she was doing everything the doctor had ordered. Marya
Semyonovna was to see to it that Vasya had her meals at the proper
time. He had procured cocoa for her, and had brought a chaise longue
for the garden, so that she could warm herself in the sun. Vladimir
seemed very anxious about her.

When he came home he went to her immediately. They didn't see much of
each other, for Vladimir was very busy just then. It was a time of
feverish work; the fair was to open soon. Vladimir seemed worried,
thoughtful and rather depressed.

Lying on her chaise longue on the little lawn, Vasya sunned herself
like a lizard, and enjoyed life. She turned over from one side to the
other, grew tanned as a little gypsy. A queer life. No work. No cares.
But no joy, either. Like a dream. She was always thinking: Now, now
I'll wake up and I'll be back home, in the community house. She thought
once more of the Housing Bureau, the Comrades, Stepan Alexeyevitch,
Grusha. Even of the Fedosseyevs. It had been a trying life, but it had
been happier.

She was waiting for Vladimir. He had promised to come home earlier
that day. Vasya had the feeling that today she would be able to talk
with him. To have a good heart-to-heart talk. But day passed after day,
and they never had that talk. There were always guests, or pressing
work.

Savelyev no longer visited them, nor the usual guests, but members of
the administration, who were strange and uninteresting to Vasya. Their
conversation consisted only of consignments and unloadings, of packing
and invoices, of sales and rising prices.

Vasya knew that all this was essential for the Republic, that the
national economy could not be built up without an exchange of goods,
but it bored her to listen to it. When she turned the conversation to
Party matters, to Bucharin's article, or the newspaper reports about
the German Communists, they listened to her, and returned to their
subject: shipments, consignments, net and gross. Vladimir wasn't bored.
The Comrades brought him to life. He debated with them, let them
advise him. Only when he was alone with her, with Vasya, did he grow
downcast. He would sigh, pat her hands, and look at her unhappily. He
didn't ask for her help, didn't complain. What could be bothering him?
The intrigues against him seemed to have come to an end. She had heard
nothing of them since her arrival. But what gave him such low spirits?
He surely didn't think that Vasya might die? This idea gladdened her.
So he must love her? True, he spent little time with her; but she
hadn't spoiled him, either, when he had been her guest. She, too, had
been on the go all day, had hardly had time to think of her man. But
she loved him no less for all that.

Lying on her chaise longue, Vasya was delighted with the treetops
standing out against the blue sky. The summer breeze gently swayed
them, as with a caress. The crickets were chirping in the grass, the
birds were singing loudly in the bushes.

Getting up, Vasya walked along the grass-covered path to a lilac-bush
in full bloom. How sweet it smelled. She plucked a branch. Buzz-z-z,--a
bee flew past her, settled down on a purple mass, and dusted off its
wings.

"Well, well, how brave you are. Aren't you afraid of people?" laughed
Vasya. And suddenly she felt happy, so free, that she was amazed at
herself. She looked around as if she were seeing the garden for the
first time. The green grass, the strong perfume, the purple lilacs--the
little pond covered with duck-weed, full of frogs croaking, calling to
one another.

Vasya didn't dare move. She was afraid that this sudden joy, this
bright, light-winged joy might fly out of her heart. It was as if she
had never known or felt or understood the meaning of life before. But
now she had grasped it. No despondency, no rushing about, no work, no
joy, no pushing toward a goal, but life pure and simple. Life, like the
life of the bee circling over the lilacs, like the life of the birds
singing in the trees, like the life of the crickets chirping in the
grass. Life! Life! Life! Why couldn't one spend all one's life among
the lilacs? Why couldn't man be like all of God's creatures? "God's?"
She was angry with herself. Since when was she thinking of God? That
was the result of her idleness, of her _burshui_ life, of Volodya's
good food. She might easily become a real Nep-girl if she continued
this way.

Vasya hurried into the house. She was afraid of becoming soft.

But the joyful feeling stayed with her. She was in high spirits. Had
she grown stronger, regained her health?

Hardly had Vasya come into the bedroom and put the lilacs into the vase
when Vladimir drove up in the car.

He hurried over to her.

"Now they've begun. They've let me alone long enough, these gossiping
schemers. Now they've found new energy to dig up old matters. They've
just summoned me before the Supervisory Commission. They're bringing an
action against me. But we'll see. We'll see who'll come out ahead."

Vladimir was running about the room, one hand at his back, a sign of
agitation.

His Anarchism had been thrown up to him, too, and lack of discipline
and the devil alone knew what more!

Here he was, killing himself with work to get things going, but instead
of helping, those fellows of the Executive Committee were only putting
spokes in his wheels.

"If they keep on with this persecution, I'll leave the Party. I'll
leave it of my own accord. They needn't threaten me with expulsion."

Vasya saw it as a serious matter. She felt anxious, oppressed. Was this
the lurking disaster? But she gave no sign of her thoughts. Instead,
she tried to calm Vladimir, to bring him to reason.

"And your beloved Stepan Alexeyevitch--he's a fine fellow! They asked
him about me. And, if you please, he could think of nothing better
than to praise my work and say that for the rest I'm afflicted with
self-complacency and moral instability. What sort of priests are they,
judging a man not by his work and actions, but by his morals? I don't
live as a 'Communist'! Do they want to order me to become a monk?
Are they any better? Now look! They're not dragging the head of the
propaganda division into court, although he deserted his wife and three
children and married a common street-walker. Do you think that's right?
Should a Communist act like that? Why do they expect me to live like an
ascetic? What business of theirs is my private life, anyway?"

Here Vasya no longer agreed with Vladimir. The C. P. was right. It
was not in keeping with the dignity of a Communist to imitate the
_burshuis_. A Communist, and a manager besides, must lead an exemplary
life.

"But where the devil do you find me to blame? Of what does my
non-Communism consist? Of my refusing to live in filth? Of my work
forcing me to know every muckworm? Why don't they prescribe whom one
may invite into one's house, how many chairs one may have, how many
pairs of pants a Communist may own?"

Vladimir was raging. He disputed with Vasya, but she was grateful for
the opportunity to speak out everything she had been keeping in her
heart. She didn't know herself just what was wrong, but it seemed to
her that Vladimir's life and actions were not those of a Communist.
Vladimir was trying to say that business would not go as well if there
were no mirrors or rugs in the manager's home; but she didn't believe
it. She wasn't convinced that it was necessary to be good friends with
Savelyev, or that business went better because Vladimir kissed every
woman's hand.

"So you agree with them? I knew it. I thought so. You didn't come as my
friend, but as my judge. You join in the chorus. And now I know that
you despise me as the others do. Why don't you say so openly? Why do
you suppress your rage? Why do you torment me?"

Vladimir was livid, his eyes were flashing. His voice was full of fury
and indignation. Vasya did not understand. Why did he flare up so?
Wasn't it permitted to contradict him nowadays? Such conceit! If only
he wouldn't have cause to regret it later.

"Oh, Vasya, Vasya. I didn't think that of you. I didn't suppose you'd
desert me in my need. But I see I was mistaken. So let everything go
to the devil! If I'm destined to perish, all right. Then, at least,
everything'll be over."

He brought down his fist on the table, upsetting the vase. The fragrant
purple masses fell to the floor; a shining rivulet of water flowed over
the silk scarf.

"Now, look what you've done."

Waving her away, Vladimir went to the window. He stared out sullenly.
Looking at him, Vasya felt great pity for him, as usual. It wasn't easy
for him. But things were hard for every proletarian. It was difficult
to see one's way, to know what was right, what was permissible.

"Let's stop, Volodya. Why are you so discouraged? It's too soon for
that. This matter still has to be investigated. And you've committed no
crime. So it's only a question of your insubordination. Just you wait,
I'll go to the Committee myself and try to find out what the trouble
is. Everything'll be set to rights again."

Standing beside Vladimir, she laid her hand on his shoulder and tried
to look into his face. But he seemed not to notice, stood there
gloomily, absorbed in his thoughts. He hadn't heard her at all. What
was the matter with him? Why were they so strange to each other, so
little like "comrades"? Vasya brooded silently. All the joy had gone
out of her heart. There remained only anxiety, dull, oppressive anxiety.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day Vasya went to the Party Committee. The more she had
questioned Vladimir the more alarmed she had become. Though the
accusations seemed biased they were not to be taken lightly. How would
the matter turn out?

Vasya hurried through the strange city, asking the way of passers-by,
but wasting not a glance on the sights. She wanted to get to the Party
Committee as quickly as possible. She couldn't get rid of her alarm.

It was in a separate large building. The red flag flying over the
entrance. The sign beside the door seemed so familiar, made her feel as
if she were at home, in her own province. And suddenly she was happy,
yearned to see "her own people." She didn't consider the Comrades who
visited Vladimir members of the Party.

She asked for the Chairman's office. The boy at the information table
gave her directions.

"Write down your name and why you've come. It's possible that he'll see
you today, but you might have to wait till Thursday."

What sort of bureaucracy was that? Vasya didn't like it, but there was
nothing she could do about it. Sitting down at a table, she filled out
the blank. "Here, take this to the secretary," the information clerk
handed the paper to the office boy. "Go up the stairs, turn to your
left. That'll bring you to the waiting room. Just take a seat there."

He uttered these directions in a bored voice.

Suddenly he woke up: "Manyka, Manyka, how did you get here?"

She was a half-grown girl, wearing a short skirt and fashionable hat.
Her eyes sparkled coquettishly.

"I'm going to see some friends. Why shouldn't I come to your Party
Committee?"

Disapprovingly Vasya appraised her as a street-walker. "In the old days
such a creature wasn't allowed to visit friends in Party Headquarters."

Vasya walked through the long, bright hall; employes, male and female,
hurried past her. There was no inactivity. Everybody was busy. Only she
was superfluous.

In the waiting room she was received by the attendant clerk, a
beardless youth. With an important air he asked for her name, and
looked it up in a record book kept by a hunchback.

"It's long before your turn. Your business isn't urgent. You'll have to
wait."

Vasya sat down in the back. There were others waiting too. Among them
several laborers with peaked, miserable faces and threadbare coats.
They were engaged in an animated discussion. Evidently a delegation. A
tall, well-dressed gentleman with glasses--a specialist, of course--was
absorbed in the reading of an old newspaper. A little old woman, a
working woman--with a waterproof shawl, was sitting there patiently,
sighing.

Then there was a Red Guard, a jolly young fellow in the pink of health.
A peasant in a short jacket, and, beside him, a pope in his cassock.
Why might he be there?

"It's your turn, Father," said the attendant, showing him into the
Chairman's office. "He belongs to the Living Church," he explained to
the rest. "A very clever fellow. He can be useful to us."

Various clerks came in, bob-haired Communist girls in short, worn-out
skirts, bustling back and forth, bringing papers to sign, making
inquiries of the attendant. They whispered to him, and ran away again.

A very fashionably dressed woman came in. She behaved like a "fine
lady," but actually she was the wife of a prominent Party worker,
and didn't belong to the Party herself. Vasya knew her. She asked
to be shown in before her turn. She had a note from a member of the
Central Committee. Having come from Moscow, she had no time to wait.
The attendant was firm. But the letterhead of the C. C. seemed to
shake him. Finally he said he could not break the rules. If it was a
personal matter she would please wait her turn. The "pseudo-lady," as
Vasya thought of her, was indignant. She couldn't understand these
provincial regulations. In Moscow she would have been given an audience
immediately. In Moscow they were fighting against bureaucracy, but
here! Forever inventing new rules! "Officials!"

She sat down, deeply offended, and carefully smoothed her dress.

A corpulent man rushed in noisily, his cap on the back of his head, his
overcoat unbuttoned. "A Nep-fellow," thought Vasya.

"I say, Comrade, what sort of system do you have here? My time is
valuable; we're just making a shipment, and they're delaying me
with all sorts of nonsense. Want me to fill out blanks! Announce
me--Konrashev."

And he threw back his head with a self-satisfied air, as though he were
Lenin himself. Vasya felt all her old hatred of the _burshuis_ boiling
up in her. That fellow ought to be arrested, to be brought to court.
That monkey-face, that impudent monkey-face!

The attendant apologized. But it couldn't be done. Rules. The
Nep-fellow refused to listen. He became insistent in his demands, and
won his point. The secretary went into the other room to announce him.
But he returned with fresh apologies.

"The Chairman asks that you take a seat. He has to see two others
before you on urgent business."

"What the devil sort of system is this! And they want a fellow to do
business with them! They demand everything of us, and make threats
besides. Call us saboteurs. I'd like to know who is committing
sabotage here!"

He wiped off his perspiration with his handkerchief. The "pseudo-lady"
nodded in approbation. The bespectacled gentleman peered disapprovingly
at her from behind his paper. The laborers were busy with their own
affairs, as if they hadn't noticed the noisy Nep-fellow.

They were the next to be called in. After them the "specialist" with
the glasses had his turn.

It was a tiresome wait. Going to the window, she looked down into a
garden, where two children were running about, chasing a dog. Their
high clear voices were audible upstairs.

"Pull Bobka's tail. Then he'll howl. But he doesn't bite. Here, Bobka!
Catch him, catch Bobka!..."

Now it was Vasya's turn. The Chairman was a small man, hardly visible
behind his big desk. He wore a pointed beard and glasses. He was so
emaciated that his shoulder bones stood out through his coat.

He glanced ungraciously at Vasya, and gave her his hand without looking
up.

"What do you want? Something personal?" He spoke briefly, dryly, as if
she had made a plea.

"I've come to report at headquarters." It would be better not to
mention Volodya's affair at first, thought Vasya. He'd never meet her
half way.

"I came here a little while ago."

"So I have heard. Are you here for any length of time?"

"I have a two months' leave of absence, but I may stay here longer,
because of my delicate health."

"Are you simply resting, or do you want some work?"

As he spoke he didn't look at Vasya, but arranged his papers. As if to
show her that he had no time for idle talk.

"I wouldn't accept any regular position. But you could use me in your
propaganda work."

"I could use you, yes. We're beginning the work of transition to a
local budget next week. Didn't I hear that you have specialized in
housing problems?" Again he glanced at Vasya, only to return to his
papers.

"I've worked in the Housing Bureau for two years. I've organized some
community houses."

"Ah! That sounds interesting. You must teach us how to make the
community houses self-supporting."

Vasya shook her head. "I can't do that. When we wanted to become
self-supporting everything went to pieces. A community house is on the
order of a school to develop the Communist spirit."

"But, you see, this isn't the time for such things. Give us a
reasonable idea of the cost, a financial estimate, to take the burden
off the state budget. But how can you want to combine the housing
question with education? We have schools and universities for that."
The Chairman smiled a very superior smile that irritated Vasya.

Suddenly she rose.

"Good day, Comrade."

"Good-bye."

This time he looked more carefully at her. Vasya, too, looked coolly
into his eyes.

"You might go to the propaganda department, and register there. Then
you could stop in the women's division, they always need workers there."

"I also wanted to ask you how the matter of Vladimir Ivanovitch
stands." As she asked this she looked keenly at the Chairman. He, too,
had his finger in the pie.

"Why, what could I tell you?" Wrinkling his forehead, the Chairman
shifted his cigarette to the corner of his crooked mouth. "It's quite
serious. I've heard of you, that your standing in the Party is very
good. But I'm not the right man to tell you anything about Vladimir
Ivanovitch."

"Of what do you accuse him? Vladimir Ivanovitch has done nothing
criminal, couldn't do anything of that sort."

"What do you mean by criminal? But I've nothing to do with this
business. Try to find out something from the S. C. Good-bye."

He nodded to her, and again buried himself in his papers. Don't bother
me, I'm busy.

Scowling, furious, Vasya left the Chairman. Even a non-Communist
wasn't given such a reception in her province. She had come to her
people, and had been treated like a stranger. Vladimir was right. They
had become officials, with the manner of military governors.

Vasya walked on thoughtfully, without even noticing that she had come
on a man from home, Michailo Pavlovitch, a worker in the machinery
division of the factory where Vasya had been employed.

"By all the saints, what do I see! The fair Vassilissa! Good morning."

"My dear Michailo Pavlovitch."

They embraced and kissed.

"Are you visiting your husband?"

"And what are you doing here?"

"I'm cleaning up the Party. I'm a member of the S. C. and we're forever
cleaning up, but we can't get rid of all the muck."

He laughed into his red beard. His eyes were warm, cordial. Still good
through and through, as he always had been.

Both were delighted, asked and answered questions. Michailo Pavlovitch
took Vasya to his cell beside the main entrance. In the good old days
the janitor had lived there. Michailo Pavlovitch had settled there
temporarily on his arrival, and had stayed there. An insignificant
little room: a bed, a basket containing his personal belongings, two
chairs, and a table covered with newspapers, glasses and tobacco.

They were glad to have met each other, and their conversation flowed on
smoothly. They spoke of friends and comrades. Provincial questions came
up; they discussed what was sound and what rotten. They spoke of the
Nep, too. Michailo Pavlovitch was thoroughly sick of the Nep. Nor could
he stand the Chairman of the provincial Committee.

"A little man, but very proud of himself. 'I, Me and Company.' Of
course, he's a hard worker, energetic and not stupid. But he wants
to be everything. He'd like to be Chairman of the light that comes
in through the window. The workers can't stomach that. They say that
the Congress has decided on democratization, but that our bureaucracy
has only increased. There is more fawning and a great deal of gossip.
They're forming cliques that disturb our work, and undermine the
authority of the Party. It's the Chairman's job to hold them all
together impartially, like a father. But he drives people apart."

"By the way, Michailo Pavlovitch, how do Vladimir's affairs stand? What
is he accused of? Is it serious? Tell me, as a friend."

Michailo Pavlovitch stroked his red beard. He thought for a while
before he answered. "In itself the matter isn't worth a straw. If our
Communists were to be brought to court for such things almost all of
them would have to be condemned. The whole trouble is that Vladimir
Ivanovitch couldn't agree with the Chairman from the very beginning.
Each insisted on his rights. The Chairman issued orders which Vladimir
Ivanovitch did not follow, saying that they were the business of
the Party, and did not concern him. 'I'm not your subordinate, I'm
connected with the economic organization only. Let that judge whether I
do my work properly.' There were conflicts, and the matter was taken up
in Moscow, where some supported the Chairman while others defended the
manager. No definite decision was reached. Both were right.

"So matters went from bad to worse. Neither would give in. Both would
send denunciatory letters to Moscow at every opportunity. After things
had gone on that way a while there came a commission from Moscow to
smooth over the quarrel. They worked out a strict agreement. But the
moment the commission had gone the squabbling began all over again."

Now the matter was before the S. C. Michailo Pavlovitch would try to
settle it peaceably. The manager was working in his own domain. The
Central Committee was satisfied. And there really was nothing with
which he could be charged. There couldn't be. Michailo was convinced of
that. Didn't he know the "American," the Anarchist? He still remembered
how they had established the Soviet together in '17, how they had
worked together. And as for his living in great style, his unexemplary
conduct, and his uncomradelike manner--were any of them without blame
in this respect?

However, the Chairman and the other members of the Commission were
all for going into the matter, for making an example of the manager,
and for showing that the Party didn't take such things lightly. To
discourage others from doing the same.

"But what does Vladimir Ivanovitch do? Is it because his house is
nicely furnished? But that isn't his own; it belongs to the State, and
has been put at the disposal of the manager."

"It's not only the furnishings. People are wondering where he gets the
means to support two households."

"How has he two households? Do you think that Vladimir has been
supporting me? How could you imagine such a thing? If you really want
to know, I've even contributed my own money to the household. Because
Vladimir can't manage with his. His work compels us to receive people,
to have dinner-guests."

As Michailo Pavlovitch listened to Vasya she thought she read pity of
some sort in his eyes. She didn't like that. Why should he pity her?
Because she was defending the "Anarchist"? Long ago, when she had first
become associated with Vladimir, Michailo Pavlovitch had opposed her
election.

"Why are you against me? Don't you believe me? How could you think that
I would press him for money?"

"I'm not speaking of you, my darling. But it's not proper for him to
have such objectionable friends."

He looked searchingly at Vasya as he spoke.

"Are you alluding to Savelyev?"

"Yes, Savelyev, too. And the others...."

"Savelyev doesn't come to us any more. Vladimir has promised me not
to have any but business relations with him. And as for the others,
it's all in his work. There are a great many people he doesn't like,
who are strangers to us. But what can he do? They're in the business,
shareholders or technicians."

"Ye-e-es!" drawled Michailo Pavlovitch, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

Vasya told him that she, too, couldn't understand many things.
Sometimes she didn't know herself what was right and what was wrong.
What was permissible, and what should a Communist not do? People had
changed and so had the work.

She would have liked to stay longer with her friend, but Michailo was
sent for to go to the S. C.

As they parted they arranged that Michailo Pavlovitch would acquaint
Vasya with his factory boys. As for the question of the manager, he
would think it over. But she should understand this: if Vladimir would
go on that way he would run the risk of expulsion.




                             CHAPTER VIII


"At last my tomboy's come back! Where were you fighting? At Party
Headquarters? What did they say there?"

Vladimir met Vasya on the stairs. He must have been waiting for her at
the window.

He listened to Vasya's report, walking up and down the room and
smoking. His face was worried. "You say they're accusing me of keeping
up two households. And suppose I had five households. What business
is it of theirs, the hypocrites? My accounts are in order, I'm not
stealing any goods or accepting any bribes; what in the world do they
want?"

And again Vasya didn't bother about the significance of "two
households."

She remained firm concerning Savelyev. That would have to stop. Let
him go to the office, but keep him out of the house. She also inquired
about the workingmen: Was it really true that Vladimir was foul-mouthed
and abusive?

"That's fiction pure and simple. Nonsense. Defamation. Of course, it
happens that I shout at them, or even curse them. But it's all for the
cause and never without a reason. They can't be left to themselves.
Especially the shippers--a lazy, dull-witted group."

Vasya didn't tell Vladimir that he was threatened with expulsion. He
was sufficiently depressed without that. But now she determined to
organize the household properly. Simpler food, no more unnecessary
guests. Vladimir would have to get rid of the horse he had bought. Why
did he need a horse when he had the car?

Vladimir flared up again. It was a well-broken saddle horse, would even
take a side-saddle! "It's impossible to get such a thing nowadays.
It was a special opportunity, and a great bargain. Today a horse
represents capital."

"Capital? Have you any intention of becoming a capitalist? Don't joke
that way, Vladimir! You may have to weep over it later."

"Do you think they'll throw me out of the Party? What's become of the
Party, that it's expelling people for 'moral' reasons? Let them do it.
I'll work with the economic organization."

Seeing that his temper was running away with him, Vasya did not
contradict. She only insisted that everything would have to be changed.
Everything would have to become simpler, quieter. And, most important
of all, they would have to avoid all objectionable relationships. She
promised to speak with Michailo Pavlovitch again. If it came to the
worst she would go to see Toporkov in Moscow.

Sitting there on the window sill Vasya looked so pale and thin. Nothing
but eyes. And even her eyes were not happy.

Vladimir looked at her. Throwing his cigarette to the floor, he walked
over to her, put his arms about her, and pressed her close, close.

"Vasya, you dear friend of mine. Don't desert me, Vasya, not now. Help
me, advise me. I know that I'm to blame. Not before them--before you!"

He laid his head on her knee, like a little boy.

"How are you to blame, Volodya?"

He hesitated.

"Don't you understand, Vasya? Don't you feel it?"

"Because you're harming yourself? Because you're betraying your
proletarianism? Don't accuse yourself before me, but before yourself."

"Oh, Vasya, Vasya." Vladimir turned away, as though he were
disappointed. Abruptly changing the subject, he asked: "Is dinner
ready? I want to eat. I haven't had a bite since morning."

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya was returning from a meeting. She was working with the girls
of the hemp-binding works, and was helping the woman in charge of
the organization work to get the factory going. She was working with
the crowd again, quite naturally, as if she were at home. Michailo
Pavlovitch saw a good deal of her, and she had become friends with his
"boys." The group was not exactly homogeneous, but they stuck together,
"fought" against the Chairman of the Provincial Committee, and objected
to the policy of the "economists." Their admiration was centered on a
former workingman who had become the manager of the steel foundry. He
was one of their "own people." He hadn't dissociated himself from the
crowd or taken on "the manner of a military governor."

Vladimir's case had not yet come up for trial. Michailo Pavlovitch
said that new material had come in, and that it wasn't favorable. He
advised Vasya to warn Vladimir. He really must be more cautious, must
avoid Savelyev. Savelyev's reputation wasn't of the best. Let the
"economists" protest as much as they wanted, the G. P. U. wouldn't
permit him to run about at large much longer.

Vasya's mind was troubled. She was suffering for Vladimir. Particularly
just now. He was working from morning to night. And as soon as he came
home he would settle down with his accounts. The Central Administration
had ordered him to reorganize the bookkeeping system. He had taken on
a specialist, a bank employee, to help him; and the two of them would
be bending over the books till three o'clock in the morning. Vladimir
had grown thin, and did not sleep well. It was only natural, with his
twofold cares. He held a responsible post, and had the intrigues and
gossip to worry about besides. Vasya's heart ached for him. It was
overflowing with tenderness for him.

They received no more guests. Nor was anything heard of Savelyev. He
must have gone away. It was better thus. Vladimir had stopped going to
the theatre, no longer visited his friends. He spent all his evenings
at home. Troubled, silent, gloomy.

Vasya didn't know how to take his mind off his worries, how to make his
work easier for her man, her friend.

She could forget him only in the hemp-binding works, while she worked
for the Party. The factory girls led a wretched life. They earned very
little. There had been no time to look over the rates, and the pay was
in arrears. The administration was not able to manage. Silly fools!
Vasya besieged them, stood up for the interests of the shop girls. She
had set their union going, and had brought the matter as far as the
accounting department.

She was kept very busy at the factory. She would forget everything
else, and the day would be over before she realized it. One evening
Vasya was walking home with the organizer, Lisa Sorokina. Lisa was
a working-girl, young and sensible. Vasya liked her. As they walked
they worked out a plan. Whom should they arouse to action, so that the
accounting department would be given a push forward in the matter?

They reached Vasya's house almost before she knew it. As she went in
Vladimir came to meet her. He was quite different now. Gay, his eyes
shining, sparkling with delight.

The moment Vasya came in he put his arms around her.

"Congratulate me, Vasyuk. There's a letter from Moscow. I'm getting
a new position. An advancement. I'm to be at the head of an entire
district. We'll have to stay here about two months longer, until I've
finished up everything. And then we'll see what our S. C. will do. What
will the Chairman say?"

"Don't be too happy about it. The action against you might come in
between."

"Nonsense. The Central Administration wouldn't let them insult me any
more. You don't realize that I've become a most important personality."
Elated as a boy, he fondled Vasya and kissed her. "You tireless tomboy
of mine, I'm so happy that I've brought a present for you, too."

He took her into the bedroom. Some blue silk and white batiste lay on
the bed.

"Here's some blue silk for a dress. Dress yourself nicely, sweetheart.
That grayish-blue will become you. And here's some batiste, for
underwear."

"For underwear? What in the world are you thinking of, Volodyka?" Vasya
laughed. "This material for underwear?"

"It's just the right thing for that. Soft white batiste for ladies'
underwear. You ought to stop wearing that sackcloth stuff. It makes you
look like a bag of flour."

"No, I'd rather have some blouses made of it. But as for the silk,
you might just as well have not bought it, though it's pretty. And I
suppose you paid cash for it? Why are you such a spendthrift?"

Vasya shook her head. Volodya's presents gave her no joy. And they
would accuse him of extravagance again. But she didn't want to hurt his
feelings.

"Don't you like it?" asked Vladimir.

"The material's pretty, of course. But what can I do with it? Use your
judgment. Is it for the theatre? Do you want me to go to the theatre
with you as the 'manager's lady'?" Vasya laughed as she tried to
picture herself in this blue dress. "But I thank you, anyway--thank you
for your kindness and your love."

Rising to her toes, she embraced Vladimir, and kissed him long,
fervently.

"At least you haven't forgotten how to kiss, Vasyuk! And I was
beginning to think you had stopped loving me. You've exiled me from the
bedroom. You never come to me, never make love to me."

"But we haven't time for such things, and you aren't in the mood for
them."

"And you still love me?"

"I? You?"

"Do you want me to remind you how we used to love each other?"

They laughed, the two of them, as if they had been separated and now
had found each other again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya was hurrying to the factory. On the stairs it occurred to her
that she had forgotten Bucharin's "A B C of Communism." It was in
Volodya's book-case. Hurrying back to the study, she opened the glass
door. A package fell on the floor, the paper came undone. Vasya stooped
down, and felt as if her heart would stop beating. It was a piece of
the silk Vladimir had given her, a piece of the same batiste. And a
bundle of lace and inserts besides. Why? For whom?

Dimly she remembered: "He's keeping up two households." Impossible.
Vasya was afraid to think of it, afraid to look the truth in the face.
But her jealousy was aroused.

"He's keeping up two households." He was so variable. Now he would
be distant, would hardly look at her, then, again, he would be
inordinately affectionate, as if to make good a fault. She remembered
that Volodya always smelled of perfume when he returned from the
theatre. She recalled how he would always preen himself before the
mirror when he went out in the evening. And she thought again of the
long-forgotten nurse with the full lips--of that bed....

Vasya's eyes grew dim, her hands seemed petrified. Her heart was
heavy with unspeakable pain. Volodya, her beloved, her comrade, was
betraying her, his friend, his Vasyuk. He had other women--behind her
back--while she was there. It would have been different if they had not
been together. She would ask him no questions then. But this way! He
caressed Vasya, and she felt that they were one, felt it with all her
heart, with all her love and tenderness.

What could it mean? Didn't he love her any more? That was impossible!
Vasya's heart couldn't believe in such anguish. She sought for a straw
to which to cling. If he no longer loved her, how could he be so loving
and solicitous? Would he have called her? Anyway, how could such a
thing happen? How could Volodya stop loving her? They were so close to
each other, so intimately bound up with each other. They were friends,
comrades. What hadn't they gone through together! And now, again,
disaster was looming. Vasya didn't believe in it, refused to believe in
it. But the serpent of jealousy dripped its venom into her heart.

Why had he spent so little time at home? Why was he so melancholy, so
gloomy? Why didn't Vasya delight him as before? Why had he sought an
excuse--her cough--to sleep alone?

The serpent's fangs were sharp, so sharp that Vasya almost moaned
with pain. She didn't want to hear its hissing. Vladimir loved her,
loved Vasya! He loved her! Otherwise would he caress her as he had
yesterday? And this material might be intended for someone else.
Volodya might have bought it for somebody. How did she know that the
package belonged to him? There was no evidence. She had simply imagined
it.

Vasya was ashamed of her suspicion, of having tried to check up on her
husband like an old woman.

But the serpent of jealousy still was gnawing at her. Keep still, you
evil snake! When Vladimir would come back she would ask him, would have
a long talk with him, so that everything would be explained and she
would know the truth.

Taking up the "A B C" she hastened to the hemp-binding works, for it
had become very late.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya was hurrying homeward. She was afraid she would be late for
dinner. At the factory the serpent in her heart had remained still. But
hardly had she reached the street when it stirred again.

"He's keeping up two households." Two pieces of silk, two pieces
of batiste. How did Volodya know that this material was used for
underwear? And who used it? Girls of easy virtue, and Nep-women
with easily earned money. What had he called Vasya's things?
Sackcloth--flour-bags. But what difference could underwear make? Hadn't
he loved her in this underwear? And in the old days he wouldn't have
left her alone the day she came. A meeting, he had said. But why had he
dressed so carefully before the mirror? Why had he smelled of perfume?
Why did he no longer look at Vasya with tenderly mischievous eyes? She
would ask him when she got home: This is how matters stand. Tell me the
truth. For whom is the material? Why did you hide it in the book-case?
If it had been bought for someone else he would have thrown it on the
table. No evasions! No lies! That I'd never forgive!

Vasya ran up the steps, and rang the bell. She was in a hurry.

The automobile was standing before the door, so Vladimir must be at
home. She would go to him at once, and demand an answer. She wouldn't
forgive deception. She wouldn't permit him to play with her as husbands
played with their unloved, lawfully-wedded wives.

Vasya became flushed with her anger. Why didn't someone open the door?

She heard the bolt being pushed back. At last!

"There are guests from Moscow," Marya Semyonovna told her. "Six people.
And they're all supposed to get enough to eat. That's not so easily
done!"

"Guests? Who are they?"

She heard voices in the drawing room. Animated conversation. Vladimir
was there too, playing the host. He introduced his wife, Vassilissa
Dementyevna. The guests were members of the syndicate; they had
brought a new program for the work.

Vassilissa would have liked to ask them for news from Moscow, and
about the political litigation that everybody was interested in
at the moment. But Marya Semyonovna was in the doorway, beckoning
mysteriously, calling Vasya. She must need help. Vasya, the boy, had
been sent for wine; Ivan Ivanovitch had gone to fetch entrées. And the
worthy Marya Semyonovna was in despair. She had to cook and to set the
table. Vasya would have to help her, for Vladimir wanted everything to
be just so. The table should look well.

Both the women worked hard. It was a good thing that Ivan Ivanovitch
returned, and also helped.

Vasya had no time to think of the blue silk. And the serpent in her
heart gave no sign of life, seemed to be gone. Vasya wanted only to
help her man so that he would make a good impression on the members of
the syndicate.

The errand-boy, Vasya, came back, all out of breath, with the wine.
Ivan Ivanovitch uncorked the bottles. The table looked splendid enough
for Easter. There were appetizers, wines, flowers, Morosov napkins,
silver cutlery.

The guests were asked to come in. Vladimir glanced anxiously at the
table, and seemed content. But why didn't he at least look gratefully
at Vasya? She had tried so hard. She felt hurt, offended.

Vasya conversed with her guests. But she could not stop thinking of
that blue silk. For whom was it intended? For whom?

She glanced at Volodya. She saw him with different eyes, as though he
were a stranger. And if he were close to her, if he belonged to her, he
would have pitied her. He would never have let that accursed serpent
enter her heart.

Vasya was tormented throughout the evening. At night she had to put
up the visitors. She sent the errand-boy for pillows, and arranged a
dormitory in the study. There she couldn't help looking at that damned
book-case again and again. The blue material was lying there. For whom?
For whom?

She was exhausted. She had served tea. The guests spoke only of their
own affairs, of various kinds of goods, of different methods of
packing, of specifications and calculations.

They were business men. They had been merchants. Among them were
two Communists who were seeking their salvation in trade. Real "Red
merchants".

Vladimir grew animated. He was proud of his business, of being ahead
of all the others. His business was barely a month old, but it was
developing. The merchants' respect for him was evident. Everybody
listened to him. No one paid any attention to the other members of the
administration.

Vasya watched them. Under ordinary circumstances she would have been
happy for Vladimir. But today he seemed a stranger. Business, nothing
but business, not a thought of her. Nor did he see how weary her spirit
was after this day. And if he had deceived her, lied to her, might he
not be a little crooked in business? Might not the Party Committee be
justified in calling him to account?

And what didn't these syndicate people discuss! If only she could be
alone with Vladimir. If only she could find out something about the
blue material.

Vasya undressed for the night, and waited for Vladimir. He was to sleep
with her that night, for the syndicate people had taken possession of
all the other rooms. She listened for his steps. The guests had already
said good-night. Now he was only giving Ivan Ivanovitch instructions
for the morning.

He was coming. Vasya's heart pounded, her knees trembled. She sat down
on the bed. She would ask him as soon as he came in.

But Vladimir gave her no chance to ask her question; he was too full
of news himself. He wanted her advice: how should they reorganize the
machine so as to strengthen the Communists, so that the members of
the Party would prevail over the members of the syndicate, over the
_burshui_?

"Advise me, Vasya. Think it over carefully. Tomorrow we'll go over the
new project together. But first you read over the program by yourself,
and think about it. These 'bay-windows' would like to get the power;
they're secretly plotting against us proletarians. Let them plot! We
weren't born yesterday, either. It's our job to construct the machine
so that nothing can be done without the Party, without the Communists."

"Then why don't you follow the Party regulations? Don't you often say
that expulsion from the Party isn't the worst thing that can happen to
you, that you can live without the Party?"

"Oh, one can say so many things without meaning them," laughed
Vladimir. "You understand that. But how can one live without the Party?
Will we ever leave it?"

Vladimir spoke thoughtfully, pulling off his shoes the while. "If
only I had this stupid case off my chest. And how we'll live,
Vasya--wonderfully. You'll see what a model Communist I'll be as soon
as I'm transferred to another district. And I won't have any more
fights with the Chairman. I'll be so good they'll canonize me."

Volodya was happy, not sulky as he had been so often in the last few
days. His eyes were again laughing mischievously.

"Let's go to sleep."

Vladimir wanted to put out the light, but Vasya held his hand.

"No, wait.... I have to ... I want to ask you something...."

She raised herself on her elbow, the better to see his face. Her heart
pounded, her voice sounded curiously unfamiliar. Vladimir started.

"Go ahead. What is it?"

He was looking not at Vasya, but at the wall.

"I wanted to ask you. Why do you have material lying in your book-case?
Silk--and batiste?"

"Silk? Do you mean the samples?"

"No, not samples. A piece, a big piece, exactly the same as the one you
gave me.... For whom?..."

She stared into Vladimir's face.

"You want to know for whom it is? Can't you guess, really?"

"No."

"Ivan Ivanovitch asked me to get the same stuff for his fiancée. He
wants to have everything I have, you know. He copies me in everything."

He explained it so simply, so calmly, that the blood rushed to Vasya's
face. She was ashamed of herself.

"Ivan Ivanovitch? His fiancée? And I thought...."

"What did you think?" laughed Vladimir, turning to face her.

"You dear sweet darling of mine! My Volodyka."

Vasya kissed him. How could she have thought of such a thing? How could
she have doubted him? Suspected her friend?

"Why, what did you think? Oh, you little detective! Such a
cross-examiner."

Volodya put his arms about Vasya. But his eyes seemed worried.

"And now to bed, no more kissing. We'll have a hard time getting
through with our work tomorrow anyway, on account of the guests. We'll
have to get up early."

He put out the light.

Vasya felt a load off her heart. But the moment he was asleep the
serpent stirred again. Why did he call me a little detective? And a
cross-examiner? There must be something to be found out!

Vladimir slept soundly. But Vasya lay there curled up like a porcupine,
wide awake, staring into the dark.

To believe or not to believe? To believe or not to believe?

       *       *       *       *       *

The syndicate people had gone. Now Vladimir's work was doubled. The
work of reorganization caused him endless worries. But there had
been a joyful compensation. Michailo Pavlovitch had called Vasya
to his room, and told her of some secret instructions from the
Central Administration. As the manager could not be accused of any
real offense, and as the whole thing practically amounted only to
insubordination and improper behavior, the matter was to be hushed up
as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.

Vasya drew a breath of relief, almost fell back into her old habit of
saying "Thank God." She barely succeeded in controlling herself.

Michailo Pavlovitch was glad, too. On Vasya's account. He liked her,
and felt sorry for her.

Vasya, however, was unsuccessful. The accounting department had
decided in favor of the management. The girls of the hemp-binding shop
grew restless. A strike seemed imminent. Working under the cloak of
Bolsheviki unaffiliated with the Party, the Mensheviki were doing their
best to fan the flames.

Although she coughed and felt feverish, she was at the works every day.
She fought against the management, insisted, demanded concessions.
Then, again, she sought to calm the shop girls. And her work absorbed
her so completely that she forgot the blue silk entirely. She had no
time for it. Only once did the serpent in her heart give a sign of
life; it had gained a firm foothold there and wasn't easy to drive out.

This time it was the dog, the white poodle.

Vasya, the boy, had brought it home. It wore a silk bow between its
ears.

"Whose dog is that? Why did you bring it here? Where does it come from?"

Vasya replied that Vladimir Ivanovitch had given him orders to keep the
dog in the house for the time being. It belonged to Savelyev, who had
gone out of town, leaving the poodle alone and neglected in the empty
house.

Surprised, Vasya wondered about Vladimir's sudden liking for dogs. Did
he want to do Savelyev a favor? And her resentment against Savelyev was
aroused again. Why did Vladimir continue being friends with him, with
this speculator, this thief?

When Vladimir came, the poodle rushed to meet him as though it had
found a long-lost master. Petting it, Vladimir began to talk to it.

"Where does the dog come from, Volodya? Is it Savelyev's?"

"Why, no! It belongs to Ivan Ivanovitch's fiancée. She's gone out of
town and Ivan Ivanovitch asked me to keep it here for a while."

"But Vasya said it belongs to Savelyev."

"Nonsense! It's true that the dog was in Savelyev's house for the past
few days. Vasya took it from there. That's why he thinks it belongs to
Savelyev."

Vasya listened as if she understood everything clearly.

But the serpent stirred, gripped her heart in its coils. Should she
believe him?

The moment Ivan Ivanovitch came Vasya flew at him. Whose poodle was it?

With great detail, Ivan Ivanovitch told her of his fiancée, who had
asked him to care for her poodle. But how could he do it? He never was
at home. So he sent it to Savelyev. There, however, there were only the
servants, who would go away and lock the poodle in the house.

It might have been true.

But Vasya didn't like the poodle.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vladimir Ivanovitch had gone away for a few days. Something about the
syndicate. Vasya was alone. She had thought she would be lonely and
sad. But it was different. Though she was alone she seemed to feel
happier, more free. She was relieved of the burden which, in Vladimir's
presence, weighted her down like a stone. And she no longer felt the
depressing disregard of Volodya, who ignored her as if she didn't exist
at all. She knew he was busy, that his head was full of other things;
but her heart, her silly woman's heart was sad, longed for affection.

She was better off without Vladimir. When she was alone there was
nothing to do about it. She expected nothing, listened for nothing,
didn't feel hurt.

She invited her friends to her house: Lisa Sorokina, the factory boys,
Michailo Pavlovitch. She gave a supper party. She was happy when she
entertained her friends.

After supper they discussed Party affairs, went into the garden, sang
together. It was beautiful. Everyone was gay, but Vasya most of all.
Quite different, this, from the conversations with the syndicate
people, or with Savelyev, in the drawing room. She hardly noticed how
quickly the days of Vladimir's absence passed.

He came home on an early morning train, and found Vasya at the tea
table.

Jumping to her feet, Vasya hurried to meet him. He didn't kiss her, but
he pressed her hand to his lips for a long time. When he raised his
head she saw tears in his eyes. Her heart grew heavy.

"What's the matter, Volodya? Has something happened again?"

"No, Vasya, nothing's happened. It's only ... life is so hard for me,
Vasya. I'm so tired of it all."

He sat down at the table, leaned his head on his hand, and let his
tears flow freely.

"But what's the trouble, Volodya? What is it? Please tell me, dear,
you'll feel better."

"Will I, Vasya?" he asked wretchedly. "I've been turning it over and
over in my mind; I've been wondering ... I've gone through so much,
Vasya. No, things can't become better. There's no way out."

And again Vasya's heart was convulsed in an agony of fear.

"Don't torment me, Volodya! Tell me the truth. I can't go on this way
any longer. I'm tired--I can't rest...."

She could not go on, for she began to cough.

"There! You're coughing again! How can I talk to you?" Was it a
reproach or was it sorrow that she heard in Volodya's voice?

And Vasya coughed. His annoyance plainly showing in his face, Vladimir
lighted a cigarette.

"Why don't you drink some tea? That might stop it," he advised her.

"No, I'll take some of my medicine."

Her fit of coughing over, Vasya gave Vladimir some tea, and he told her
again, in his ordinary tone, how difficult it was to keep things going.
The shipping clerks had just raised a row. They demanded higher pay for
overtime, although their usual wages had been reduced. The syndicate
was losing money on their account, but they were threatening to strike
if their pay was not raised. Possibly it was the work of agitators.
After all, one could not see everything.

"Ivan Ivanovitch came with his report the moment I stepped out of the
train, and you expect me to be happy! I go away for a couple of days,
and I come back to find a fight on my hands. What in the world do the
other members of the administration do? They shouldn't have let the
matter go so far. Now there'll be trouble. And the Chairman has found
something new, too."

"So that's why you said life was so hard, and that there's no way out?
On account of the shipping clerks?"

"Why, of course! What did you think?"

Puffing at his cigarette, Vladimir slowly stirred his tea, and spoke
of the dispute again. How could it be smoothed over without a public
scandal? But Vasya listened only half-heartedly. Should she believe
him? Had he really wept only on account of the shipping clerks? It
wasn't like him. He had something else on his mind. The blue silk ...
Vladimir might really be tired. The S. C. had tormented him so that
now every little thing could make him lose control of himself. She was
trying to convince herself, to believe that Vladimir's worries were of
a purely business nature. It was the members of the administration who
were to blame for this business of the shipping clerks.




                              CHAPTER IX


At last Vasya had carried her point at the hemp-binding works. She had
succeeded in obtaining concessions from the management. The shop girls
were jubilant, escorted Vasya to her door. But she knew that matters
would never have turned out so well without the Chairman. She had come
to esteem him. He was inflexible, and anything but indulgent toward the
economists.

When she reached her house Vasya found the entire courtyard full of
shipping clerks. A babel of voices, disputing, shouting. "The highest
rates! No concessions! Or we'll stop work! Let the managers and office
clerks do the loading!"

Vasya mingled with the crowd, listening, asking questions.

They recognized her, surrounded her, drowned her voice. Everybody
wanted to tell her all about it at once. Their pay was too low,
and they got nothing for overtime. The accounts were not drawn up
correctly. They crowded about Vasya, uttered threats against the
management. Wasn't she the manager's wife? Let her explain the whole
business to him. There could be no family considerations in a case of
this sort.

Vasya listened and asked questions. She knew and understood their
grievances well. The managers and office employes were well treated
and well fed, but the shipping clerks were slaves. Their children had
nothing to wear. Things couldn't be permitted to go on that way; the
union would have to exert pressure on the management. Nothing could be
done without organization and a program. The leaders came forward to
arrive at an understanding with Vasya. They would state their demands
on paper. And if the management were to refuse all concessions, they
would appeal directly to the accounting department.

Vasya's blood was up. Forgetting her position as the manager's
wife she took the shipping clerks' cause as her own. How could she
help supporting "her own people" with word and deed? They were an
inexperienced mob, inefficiently led.

She asked the leaders into the house, there to formulate their demands.

They went in, the shipping clerks looking askance at the manager's
house furnishings as they went through the reception rooms into Vasya's
bedroom. Only then it occurred to Vasya that she should not have
brought the men into the house. But it was too late to turn back.

They sat down at Vasya's table and drew up their demands.

There was less noise in the courtyard, no more shouting. The men had
separated into groups, were talking and smoking.

Then suddenly the uproar began again. An auto had stopped before the
house. The manager. He was entering the courtyard.

"What sort of business is this? You're holding a meeting here? You've
come here to make threats? You're dissatisfied?" Vladimir's voice
rumbled like thunder. "I haven't the slightest intention of negotiating
with you here! This is my private residence. Go to the office. You
don't like the accounting? Go to the union! The management has nothing
to do with that. It has other things to worry about. You're going to
strike? That's your affair. Go ahead and strike, if the union says so.
But get out of here this very moment. I won't listen to you. I'll see
you in the office!"

Vladimir banged the door, and, going through the house, went directly
to Vasya, to the bedroom.

When he came in he stopped as though paralyzed. Vasya was sitting at
the table with the shipping clerks, "drawing up" demands.

"And what's this? Who let you in here? How did you dare come in here
without permission? Get out of here! Get out!"

"But Vladimir Ivanovitch, we didn't come in on our own hook.... Your
wife...."

"Get out, I say, or...."

Vladimir was white as a sheet; he was raising his arm. The men
retreated toward the door.

"Are you crazy, Vladimir? How dare you! I called them in! Stop,
Comrades! Where are you going?"

Vasya ran after them, but Vladimir stepped in her way and grasped her
arm so tightly that she cried out.

"You invited them? Who gave you permission? Who asked you to meddle in
my affairs? You're not responsible to the syndicate! If you want to
start any strikes, go to your hemp-binding works!"

"Oh! So you're driving me away? Because I'm siding with my brothers.
Because I want the truth. Because I don't consider your managerial
interests, because I lower your bonus."

"You should be ashamed of yourself. You disgusting hypocrite."

Vasya felt as if he had lashed her with a whip. Disgusting? She, Vasya,
was disgusting?

They faced each other furiously, like enemies. But her heart was filled
with agonizing, excruciating pain. Was her happiness gone forever?

The shipping clerks had dispersed, and Vladimir had gone to the office.
Lying across the bed, her face buried in the quilt, Vasya was letting
her tears wet the silk. But her sorrow could not be relieved by tears.

She was heart-broken, not at his having called her disgusting, but at
their estrangement, their inability to understand each other. Like
enemies, in two hostile camps.

The days that followed were dismal, cheerless. Vladimir spent much time
at home. But what good did that do? They were just like strangers,
spoke only when it was absolutely necessary. Each lived his own life.
Vasya was ill again. Ivan Ivanovitch had gone for the doctor, who had
ordered a complete rest for her, and had forbidden all excitement.

Vladimir was very busy with his work. He would sit up half the night
in his study with Ivan Ivanovitch and the bookkeeper. They would come
out for supper, but their thoughts were wrapped in their business; they
were taciturn and in bad humor.

Occasionally Lisa Sorokina would visit Vasya to tell her about the
hemp-binding works. The girls were sorry that she was ill.

Yet her illness did not distress Vasya as much as the knowledge that
she and Volodya had become estranged. Neither could forget the quarrel
about the shipping clerks. Neither could forgive the other.

Vasya thought of going home to her province. She wanted to be back
home. But where could she go? Grusha was living in her attic under the
roof; it would be very crowded for two. She could not think of going to
her parents to recuperate, for they would weep over her, and would rail
against the Bolsheviki. Where, then? Vasya wrote to Grusha, asking her
to get a room for her. And she wrote to Stepan Alexeyevitch, asking
him to procure some work for her, with the Party, with the masses. She
would go as soon as she heard from them. Why should she stay here? No
one needed her. Volodya would get along without her. The days dragged,
slowly, heavily.

It was midsummer. The cherries in the garden were ripe; the plums were
covered with a purplish bloom. The lilies, white and delicate, shone
on their tall, dewy stalks. But nothing delighted Vasya now. As she
wandered through the garden she would remember how she had lain in the
chaise longue in the spring, how glad she had been that she was alive.
And the memory made her heart even heavier.

She felt as if she had been quite another Vasya then, a young,
confiding Vasya. Something had gone out of her. What was it? She didn't
know exactly. But this much was certain. It had gone out of her, and
would never come back.

Sometimes Vladimir would stand at the window and watch Vasya walking
about the garden, indifferent, drooping. He would stand at the window a
while; then, turning away abruptly, would return to Ivan Ivanovitch and
his work.

Then Vasya would sigh with fresh disappointment. She had expected him
to come down to her, to the garden. And he hadn't come. There it was.
It was clear that he had no more feeling for her. To him business was
more important than the anguish of a woman's heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some noise woke Vasya. It was morning. Vladimir was rummaging in his
wardrobe, taking out something.

"What are you doing there so early, Volodya?"

"I have to meet a train, there's a consignment coming in."

"Must you go yourself?"

"I have to supervise."

Vladimir was standing before the mirror, putting on his new tie; but he
couldn't quite manage it. As Vasya looked at him she suddenly felt once
more that he was so close, so deeply bound to her.

"Come here, Volodya. Let me help you."

He came obediently, sat down on the bed. Vasya made his tie. They
looked at each other, and suddenly, without a word, they were in each
other's arms.

"My little Vasyuk! My darling. It hurts so to live beside you, and yet
so terribly far away. Can't it be different?" he asked plaintively,
pressing Vasya's curly head to his breast.

"Do you think it doesn't hurt me? I don't want to live any more."

"But why do we quarrel, Vasyuk?"

"I don't know. There's some barrier between us."

"No, Vasya. No, nothing can stand between us. My heart is all yours,
only yours."

"And you haven't stopped loving me?"

"You silly little thing." He kissed her. "Come, let's stop quarreling.
It's stupid, and makes both of us suffer. And I can't afford to lose
you, Vasya. I can't live without you. So now we won't hurt each other
any more?"

"You won't try to play a managerial rôle any more?"

"And you won't set the shipping clerks against me?"

They laughed.

"But now you go to sleep. If you don't sleep you'll be sick again for
the day. I'll be back in about two hours."

Covering her, he kissed her eyes and went. Vasya felt happy, light of
heart. She fell asleep as if all her joy had come back to her, as if
she had lost nothing.

Vladimir didn't come back from the station, but telephoned that he
would have to go to the office. He would be back for dinner. Vasya was
feeling better, but she didn't go to the hemp-binding works. Instead,
she busied herself about the house, helping Marya Semyonovna to
straighten up the house.

Not long before dinner the telephone rang. Vasya answered.

"Hello."

"Is Vladimir Ivanovitch at home?"

"No, not yet. Who's speaking?"

"The administrative office."

"But why do you call here? He's still in your office."

"No, he's not here; he left the office some time ago. Please forgive
me."

That woman's voice again. Who was it? Vasya didn't like that voice.
During the first few days of her stay it had called often. Then it had
stopped. Vasya once asked Ivan Ivanovitch, quite casually, who it might
be that was forever telephoning from the office, and during working
hours at that. Ivan Ivanovitch explained that it was the clerks. Queer,
that their voices should be so much alike. And again Vasya felt the
serpent's fangs.

Vladimir brought home two members of the administration for dinner.

They discussed the morning's consignments. Nevertheless he found time
to ask how Vasya was feeling, whether she had been sunning herself, as
the doctor had ordered.

"No, I didn't lie in the sun."

Dryly Vasya brought the conversation to a close, adding carelessly:

"The young lady who's forever phoning you from the office called again."

"What young lady?" Vladimir looked surprised. "From the office, you
say? Then it must be the Shelgunov woman--some young lady, that one! A
venerable materfamilias. You've seen her, Vasya--the fat woman with the
wart on her face."

He spoke so simply, so naturally. But Vasya felt uneasy.

No. Something was wrong there.

After dinner the gentlemen of the management went away. Vasya was
glad. She wanted to be alone with Vladimir, to warm her spirit. The
morning's promise of joy would be fulfilled.

But the guests had hardly left when the telephone buzzed in the study.
Vladimir went to answer it.

"Yes, it's I." Curtly, "Didn't I ask you not to telephone?"

A short laugh. "Family matters, of course." Reproachfully, "By no
means, I forbid it most decidedly." Vehemently, "All right, all right."
Relenting, "But not for long. Good-bye."

Vasya was in the next room, listening.

With whom was he speaking? Whom did he promise: "But not for long?" To
whom could he say: "I forbid it."

Vladimir went from the study straight into the bedroom, passing Vasya
as though he didn't see her. She followed him. He was standing before
the mirror, combing his hair.

"To whom were you speaking, Volodya?"

"To Savelyev."

"To Savelyev? Has he come back?"

"This morning."

"Did you meet him?"

"Look here, what sort of cross-examination is this? You know I was
supervising the unloading of a shipment this morning." He seemed
disturbed.

"And you're going to him right away? Did you promise?"

"Yes, I'm going there."

Silence.

Vasya felt her heart hammering, pounding. As if it would burst. If only
it would. She could endure this agony no longer. She went quickly over
to Vladimir, gently took his hand. "Don't do that, Volodya. Don't start
that business again...."

"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously, uneasily.

"Don't have anything to do with that crooked speculator. I've been
warned. After all, that's the principal thing they have against you,
your association with objectionable people."

"Ah. There you go again. Talking like one of your Supervisory
Committee. Do you insist on tormenting me? Tyrannizing me? Do you want
to tie me to your apron strings?"

Flushed, he pushed Vasya's hand away.

"Stop, Vladimir. Stop. What did you say? Did I ever attempt to chain
you to me? Try to keep your head. I'm talking about you, not myself.
Don't dig a pit for yourself. You have enemies enough. And if you
resume your friendship with Savelyev...."

"What has Savelyev to do with this?"

"What do you mean? What has he to do with this? Aren't you going to
him?" Vasya's eyes were troubled.

"Of course I'm going to him. But what of it? Can't you understand that
I'm going to him on business? It can't be helped."

"I don't believe you," she cried hotly. "Postpone it for tomorrow, tell
him to come to the office."

"What a child you are, Vasya," he said, altering his tone. "All right,
I'll tell you the truth. It's true that Savelyev didn't call me over to
discuss business. That can be attended to in the office. He's simply
having a jolly little crowd at his house. And he asked me to come over
for a game of cards. You know yourself, Vasya, that I went nowhere for
almost a month. I was at home, and taken up with business, all the
time. Let me get a breath of air for a change, Vasya. I'm young. I want
to live. I can't be a hermit."

"I understand, Volodya," she said sadly. "Yes, everything's as you
say. And your getting a little diversion is no calamity. But you must
understand one thing. You mustn't start up again with this Savelyev,
this speculating scoundrel. You have no respect for him yourself. What
do you need him for? People will be saying right away that Vladimir
Ivanovitch and Savelyev are hand and glove again. And then the whole
business'll start all over again. Volodya darling. Please don't go
there today. Cancel it."

"What nonsense!" Volodya was losing his patience. "If the Provincial
Committee has nothing to do but take legal action against a fellow
because of his acquaintances, then it's no Provincial Committee but a
cesspool. You're exaggerating, Vasya."

"But I don't like to see you go there. I know he can't stand me. He
asks you over only to hurt me. Didn't I hear you say over the phone
that you couldn't come on account of your family? And then you laughed.
Volodya...." She was becoming agitated. "It hurts me to see you
laughing with a stranger about me, and with Savelyev at that. As if I
didn't let you go."

"Well. You don't."

"So that's how you put it. Very well, then, go! But remember ...," her
eyes flashed. "Remember that my patience is at an end. I've helped
you, suffered for you, stood up for you. That's enough. Go if you want
to. But then I'll know what I have to do." Her voice rose to a shrill,
hysterical shriek.

"I'm sick of your hysterics! Why do you nag me--what do you want of me?"

"Volodya!" There were tears in Vasya's voice. "I've never asked you for
anything. But today I beg you to stay. For your sake, and mine."

"Oh, you women. You're all the same. Disgusting." Rushing past her, he
hurried through the hall; the front door banged. The motor purred.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I've come to you, Lisa. Take me in. I've gone away from him forever."

Her voice failed her, but her eyes were dry. Her misery was too great
for tears.

"You've come away from him? You should have done it long ago! We've all
been wondering that you've stood it so long...."

"We've become estranged, Lisa. That's the terrible thing," wailed Vasya.

"Of course. How in the world can you love him?"

Vasya ignored the question. She could hardly believe what had happened.
She could never forgive, never forget this indignity. It had been the
first time she had begged him for something. And what had he done? He
might just as well have walked over her dead body. And why? Why? To
play cards with that thief, that speculator, Savelyev, and a crowd of
his filthy fellows! It was all the same to him that Vasya was dying of
grief. As long as he was having a good time, as long as he was getting
the entertainment he wanted. Was that love? Was that her friend and
comrade? Was that a Communist?

Lisa was unable to make head or tail out of Vasya's incoherent speech.
What had happened? What did Savelyev have to do with it?

"What does he have to do with it? Why, it was all on his account, on
account of that crooked speculator. Vladimir went to him."

"You think he went to him?"

"Why, to whom do you think? Don't you believe it?"

"But what is there to believe? The whole town knows it; only you seem
to be blind. Or do you refuse to see it? Do you refuse to realize it?"

"See what, Lisa? Tell me!"

"Why, that your Vladimir has a friend!"

"A friend?"

Vasya did not understand at once, but stared at Lisa. She was neither
shocked nor grieved, but only surprised.

"A friend you say. Who is it?"

"Not one of us, not a working-girl. One of the office employees."

"Do you know her?"

"I've seen her. The whole town knows her."

"Why?"

"She's always so dressed up. That's why the Comrades are so angry at
your Vladimir. Michailo Pavlovitch told you of this friendship, too.
How could you help knowing about it? You're not so stupid otherwise.
But in this affair you've acted like a real goose!"

Vasya, however, was concerned with something quite different.

"Does he love her?"

"How should I know? He must love her; he's been running around with her
for so many months. People thought the affair would stop when you came.
But nothing of the sort. He's forever going to her in his car."

"Does she have a home of her own?"

"The chances are it's more elaborate than yours."

So that's what it was. "He's keeping up two households."

Now Vasya understood everything. Everything but one point. Why had
Volodya lied to her, tormented her, deceived her?

"What do you expect? Was he to come to you as the contrite sinner?
Or was he to beg you for permission to visit his friend? It was your
business to see it. If you didn't, you were a fool, and have only
yourself to blame."

"Why do you insist on talking about my being a fool, Lisa? That's not
important. The question is this: Does he really love her, or does it
only look like it?"

"How do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about! He must love
her. Doesn't he support her entirely, and give her expensive presents?"

"Do you think so? But, you see, I don't know...."

"You surely don't believe that he loves you? Don't fool yourself,
Vasya. It'll only hurt you all the more. He likes and esteems you, of
course. You're his wife and comrade. But as for loving you. That was
over long ago. I know."

Vasya shook her head. "But, you see, I don't agree with you."

Her stupidity annoyed Lisa, who now told her about Volodya's friend.
Beautiful as a picture. And her clothes. Always dressed in silks and
always surrounded by admirers. Savelyev was one of them; knew her well.
It was very gay there in the evening. And there were rumors that both
Vladimir and Savelyev were keeping her.

For some reason or other this idea was particularly distasteful to
Vasya.

Had Vladimir actually changed so? Could he really love a woman like
that? Vasya didn't believe the stories she heard. She didn't believe
them. Something was wrong there.

Lisa, however, was offended. "All right, don't believe me. It's your
own affair. Ask anybody; everyone'll tell you the same thing. She
was in the office as Savelyev's secretary, until she let the manager
keep her. But it's possible that others are making use of her, too.
They're talking about Ivan Ivanovitch, too. And some members of the
administration visit there occasionally. She's a real one, only not
registered. Her luck that they don't have to have permits nowadays."

"But Vladimir would never have fallen in love with a woman like that,"
objected Vasya.

"Why do you think that? Men like that kind, especially men like your
Vladimir. You can see it in his face: the worse the woman, the better
he'll like her."

"Be still, Lisa! How dare you! You don't know him. How can you judge
him like this?"

"Why do you stand up for him? Didn't he make you the laughing-stock of
the town? But you, you defend him like a fortress!"

"Made me a laughing-stock! And how, if you please? What have Vladimir's
actions to do with me? I'm not responsible for him. You don't
understand, Lisa. That isn't why I'm suffering. That's not it at all."

"I know. You're suffering because he doesn't love you any more."

"No, Lisa, that's not it, either. It hurts, of course. But it's not the
most important thing. I know what I mean, but I can't find the words.
What is it? We were such comrades, so close and intimate and suddenly
you say: Vladimir turned away from me, lied to me, was afraid of me. Of
me! How could he? Would I have stood in his way? Would I have kept him
from his love? He couldn't, Volodya couldn't think that! There must be
something else. He can't love that girl so much."

"Now you're beating about the bush," said Lisa, waving her away
angrily. "It's impossible to talk to you. You're still in love with
Volodya: 'Strike me, wipe your feet on me--it's all the same to me, I'm
still your obedient wife--I'll lick your boots'--I'm not like that. I'd
have got even with him long ago. I'd have given him something to think
about."

Vasya didn't deny it. But the more Lisa condemned Vladimir, the more
ardently Vasya defended him. She wanted to convince Lisa that he was
wrong not in taking a friend, not in loving another woman, but only in
his not having told her, Vasya, about it. As if she weren't his friend
and comrade, but a stranger. What was more, she meant less to him than
a stranger, for he had no faith in her. Did he think that she would
fight for her rights like a legitimate wife?

"You must fight for them," shouted Lisa. "Of course you must fight for
them. How dared he make you ridiculous? Then you surely must leave him."

Vasya objected. It was always like that. In her heart she often
condemned Vladimir, disagreed with him entirely. But the moment some
one else attacked him she took his side and grew indignant. People
didn't understand him. She alone knew Vladimir, the American. Only when
she said "The American" did the tears come. She remembered Vladimir,
the American, leading the members of their group, fighting for the
Soviet.

Weeping, she fell in Lisa's arms. She was not thinking of Vladimir, the
manager, but she was mourning for the "American," was suffering for him
inconsolably, mortally.

"It's so hard for me, Lisenyka. I'm exhausted."

"I know, darling. Only be patient. It'll pass. I went through the same
thing last year. But when we meet nowadays it doesn't bother me at all."

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya was unable to sleep, although Lisa had given her her own bed,
sleeping on a couple of chairs herself. Lisa had worked all day; now
she was sleeping soundly. Vasya turned restlessly from side to side,
now sitting up, now lying down again. She couldn't rest. Countless
thoughts raced through her head, tortured and broke her heart. It was
like that dreadful night when she had found the bandage, when Vladimir
had been arrested.

It wasn't jealousy that was tormenting her. But Volodya's lack of
confidence hurt her. If not for that, she would forgive everything. Man
cannot control his heart. But Vasya did not believe that he loved the
other girl. She did not believe it. It was only a "liaison." For months
he had lived alone, he of the ardent temperament. (She remembered
Styosha.) He had begun an affair with her, and it went on. She probably
wouldn't let him go. Lisa, too, said he was a ladies' man. And if it
was that, it couldn't be a case of love. Therefore she was looking out
for her own advantage. Volodya would have liked to tear himself away,
but he could not. Vasya remembered how moody, how variable he had been;
now loving, now distant. He had suffered agonies. How could one live
with the person one loved while the other was sharpening the knife
behind his back? She remembered how frequently Vladimir had tried to
confess something, how he had always stopped short. He had been about
to say something on the morning of the clash with the shipping clerks.
Vasya had felt he had it on the tip of his tongue. She, too, had been
frightened, and unfortunately had begun to cough. Then Vladimir said
nothing more; did he, therefore, pity her? And if he pitied her, he
loved her. But did he love her? It was easy to say he did. But what
about the blue material? The same for both of them?

"I have bought you a present, my beautiful sweetheart; and I haven't
forgotten that wearisome wife of mine. Here, take the silk, and say
nothing."

Damn him! Vasya clenched her fists as though she wanted to fight with
Vladimir. She thought: so he didn't go to Savelyev yesterday? And
Savelyev had nothing to do with it. He had been only a screen. Had she
known that he had a friend who pretended to love him, she would not
have been angry with Vladimir. She would have been unhappy; still,
she would have understood. But to humiliate Vasya for that vulgar
speculator, Savelyev! She would have understood the affair with his
friend; yet, would she have forgiven? As she had forgiven him for the
nurse, for Styosha? Would she have been able to like the white poodle,
to forget the blue silk?




                               CHAPTER X


Lisa had hardly left for work in the morning when the door opened and
Marya Semyonovna appeared, a black lace shawl wrapped about her head.
She was gasping for breath. It was hot--midsummer.

"Good morning, Vassilissa Dementyevna. I'm bringing you a letter from
your husband. He wanted me to take a cab, to get here faster. But where
can one be found nowadays? I'm all out of breath."

As Vasya tore open the envelope bearing the address of the office, her
fingers seemed petrified.

    "Vasya! What does this mean? What are you doing to me? Why do
    you torture me so unmercifully? Do you want a scandal throughout
    the district to give my enemies new material to ruin me? You've
    often said you were my friend; but you've joined my foes. You've
    destroyed my soul. I can't go on with this life. If you no longer
    love me, say so openly. Why do you stab me from behind? You
    know I love only you. Everything else everyone says about me is
    nonsense, ephemeral. Listen to me! I swear to you that I was not
    with Savelyev yesterday! I swear to you that I kept faith with you
    where I was yesterday. My heart beats for you only. I'm all worn
    out, Vasya. Have pity. Come to me, let me look into your dear eyes
    and tell you everything. The whole truth! If you're my friend and
    comrade, you'll come. If not--then, good-bye. But this you must
    know: that I won't live without you.

                                               "Your wretched Volodya."

Vasya read the letter twice. Now her heart was filled with tenderness,
and the tears welled up in her eyes. "Ephemeral." "I love only you."
Then again she raged: She had "tortured" him! He asked her to pity him!
Had he had pity with her? Had he not tormented her? Her eyes were dry,
her pale lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Wretched!" You don't say! Wretched! All night long he had made love
to another woman; he had given her blue silk. How she had begged him
yesterday: Stay! She had put all her soul into her eyes. But he had
pushed her away; had shouted at her like a real lawful husband, and had
gone. Now he wrote: "I love only you!" He was lying. He did not love
her. A fine sort of love, that! Only pain and bitterness! Yet why had
he written "Good-bye! But this you must know: that I won't live without
you." Surely he wouldn't...? Nonsense. It was merely a threat, to make
her relent, to make her come to him at once, like a fool.

She read the letter once more.

In the meanwhile Marya Semyonovna sat there quite unconcerned, wiping
off her perspiration, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

"Vladimir Ivanovitch came home yesterday almost as soon as you had
gone. He asked where you were. He went into the study and began to
write. About midnight he came into the kitchen to ask whether you had
come back. 'No,' I said, and he went away. Then he took Ivan Ivanovitch
to the door, and went into the bedroom. He must have seen your note
there. I heard him crying like a heart-broken little child. And he
didn't lie down all night, but walked around all the time. This morning
he didn't even drink tea. 'I don't want anything,' he said to me. Go
and look for Vassilissa Dementyevna. Go to all her friends, till you
find her. Don't you dare come back without her!'"

Vasya listened, aching with the old love for Vladimir. He had waited
for her alone through the night, had wept and suffered, had called
her, Vasya. And how hard it had been for her. How she had yearned for
him. She had been jealous. So the threads that had bound their hearts
together were not broken; their love was not gone entirely! Why prolong
the agony? Should she go back? Back to him for a good talk?

"What was Vladimir Ivanovitch doing when you left? Was he going to the
office?"

"When I left? Why, he was just telephoning to the 'little lady,'
probably wanted to tell her his troubles. Or maybe he wanted her to
share in his joy. Who can understand these men? If only there'll be no
scandal!"

He had called up the "little lady"? Now? At such a time? He had written
a letter to Vasya, and then telephoned to his lady? Lisa might be
right. He was clinging to Vasya only to avoid a scandal. If his wife
had not been held in such high esteem he would not have bothered about
her. And he was calling her only to humiliate her again. No! She had
had enough. She would not go to him, would not fall into the trap. Her
head was reeling.

"Tell Vladimir Ivanovitch that there's no answer. That's all. And
hurry. Please go!"

"I can't go any faster. And it doesn't pay to hurry in such things. You
should have thought of this before, Vassilissa Dementyevna. Of course,
Vladimir Ivanovitch did wrong by you, for you're his wife; but you
aren't altogether in the right either. Who would leave such a young man
all alone for months? And if you think about it, Vladimir Ivanovitch
is a good husband after all. Always worrying about you. Always wanting
to know whether you're drinking your cocoa, whether I've fetched fresh
eggs for you. He cares more for your clothes than you do. He's never
refused you anything. And where women are concerned--who is blameless
there? You're his wife; people respect you. But on the other side? He
pays her and gives her presents--that's all."

As Marya Semyonovna spoke Vasya's heart was growing heavier. How simple
everything would be if she, too, could think that. But Marya Semyonovna
did not understand just what had hurt her. Vladimir was no longer her
friend. She had lost faith in him; and how could they live together
without faith?

"Don't you think you ought to wait till evening, Vassilissa
Dementyevna? Couldn't I go home and tell your husband that you want to
think things over, and will give your answer in the evening? That'd
be more sensible. But to talk this way, deciding on the spur of the
moment----. It's easy to make a mistake when you're angry. I want to
save you regrets and tears."

"No, Marya Semyonovna. Don't try to persuade me. It'll be as I've said.
I'm never coming back. It's all over."

Her lips trembled as she spoke, and big tears rolled slowly down her
hollow cheeks.

"Well, it's your own business. I've said enough. You have to do the
deciding!" And Marya Semyonovna went.

Again Vasya wanted to moan like a wounded animal, to sob loudly so that
she could be heard throughout the house and on the street; for it was
all over. There was no going back. Farewell, Volodya. Farewell.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya wept inconsolably, until finally she fell asleep, buried in
Lisa's pillow. For she had not closed her eyes all night.

She was awakened by the sound of an auto chugging away under her window.

Whose car? She jumped to her feet. Was Vladimir coming for her? Hope
and joy awoke in her heart. She pushed the window open--Vasya, the boy,
was standing at the door.

"Vassilissa Dementyevna, something terrible has happened. Vladimir
Ivanovitch has taken poison."

"How? What?" Vasya flew over to the boy, seized his hand. "Is he dead?"

"No, not yet. He's still alive. But he's writhing; he's in agony. He's
calling for you. Ivan Ivanovitch sent me in the car."

Hatless, barely dressed, Vasya entered the auto. Her teeth were
chattering, she was trembling as from a fever.

She had killed him! Had hurt him mortally! She had refused her pity and
her help. And he had begged for her in the morning--how he had begged
for her!

She stared before her with wide-open eyes. They expressed not sorrow,
but death, the inevitable.

Vasya didn't see her eyes. He was telling, with an important air,
just what had occurred. He liked the idea of such interesting things
happening.

Vladimir Ivanovitch had gone to the office in the morning; then, after
half an hour, he had come home. He had gone into the study, and Vasya
had seen him going to the closet where he kept samples of dyes that
were being tested for their stability. Then Vasya was busy sweeping in
the courtyard. When he had finished and returned to the house, he heard
someone groaning in the study. He went in to see what was wrong. There
was Vladimir Ivanovitch lying on the sofa, only the whites of his eyes
showing, his mouth open and foaming. And then the fun began....

Vasya had run for the doctor, who lived around the corner. He was just
eating. But Vasya told him how matters stood: "The man's dying, you can
eat later." Vasya had to make two hurried trips to the druggist in the
car. Ivan Ivanovitch came over. The whole house was turned upside down.

Vasya listened without hearing a word. She herself was more dead than
alive. Nothing remained but Vladimir and his sufferings. They filled
her mind completely. If Volodya should die her life would be at an end,
too. There would be only emptiness, an emptiness more dreadful than the
grave.

She entered the house with the boy. Ivan Ivanovitch was just taking the
doctor to the door.

"Is he alive?"

"We're doing everything possible. We won't be able to know anything
definite before the morning."

She tiptoed into the bedroom. Vladimir's groans became more and more
distinct. She seemed to be moaning herself. Could Vladimir be detached
from her, from Vasya? The bedroom was changed, different. The rug was
rolled up, the bed had been moved. But the bed was empty. Where was
Volodya? Something big, white, long lay on the divan. Its face was a
bluish gray, its eyes were closed. The moaning stopped.

What was that? Was he dead?

"Volodya! Volodya!"

The physician turned on her furiously.

"Silence! No hysterics!"

Assisted by a white-capped nurse, the doctor was busy with Vladimir.
Both looked grave and severe; they did not let Vasya come near Vladimir.

He opened his eyes and breathed more rapidly; he was alive!

"Doctor," Vasya whispered pleadingly, "tell me the truth. Is there any
hope?"

"There's always hope as long as the heart is beating," the doctor
answered angrily, as if she were asking silly questions.

What did that mean? "As long as the heart is beating?" And suppose it
should stop?

But she asked nothing more. The doctor was busy; he and the nurse were
raising Vladimir's head, pouring something into his mouth.

Once more Vladimir began to moan. Short, plaintive cries. Vasya
listened. She no longer felt anything, but was absolutely numb, as if
grief had paralyzed her senses, as if her being had stopped.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twilight, and darkness. The night-lamp burning in the bedroom. Other
physicians came, consulted. The errand-boy was rushed to the Health
Bureau for special medicine.

Vasya was not permitted to see Vladimir; nor did he ask for her. He
seemed unconscious, occasionally uttered short, sobbing moans. She
thought that as he moaned his spirit was leaving him, that his soul was
struggling against his body; but the body refused to liberate the soul.

Helplessly superfluous, Vasya walked among the physicians, knowing of
nothing she could do.

Suddenly it struck her like a thunderbolt: there must be rumors afloat
in the city. People would say: A Communist--and a suicide! Why? And the
gossiping would begin. She would have to hurry, hurry, to forestall
gossip. She would have to think of something. What happened and why? An
inspiration: mushrooms! He had had mushrooms for breakfast, and now he
was near death. She remembered such a case in her grandmother's village
while she had visited there. A tailor, who had come from the city to
visit his brother, had gathered some mushrooms himself, had cooked
them, eaten them, and died.

Vasya began to telephone. Michailo Pavlovitch came first. She would
tell him the details when she saw him; now she merely wanted to tell
him of the tragedy. Briefly, it was this: Vladimir Ivanovitch had
been poisoned by mushrooms, and lay on the point of death. Then she
telephoned the Chairman, and other Comrades.

She had prompted Ivan Ivanovitch, who was explaining matters to the
members of the administration, advising the office. And very minutely
she told Vasya, the errand-boy, and Marya Semyonovna what they would
have to say. Vasya, keen and quick-witted, curled his lip, shrugged his
shoulders, and said nothing. Let it be so! It was all the same to him.
Marya Semyonovna, however, was offended, pressed her lips together and
folded her hands over her apron. She refused to agree to the mushroom
story.

"How can a man be poisoned so badly by mushrooms? Everybody'll say:
'Why wasn't the cook more careful?'"

But Vasya insisted. The story had been told to everybody: he had eaten
mushrooms, and they had made him ill.

"Have it your own way! But it wasn't a very clever idea. If it had been
something else--but mushrooms! Who would cook bad mushrooms?"

Vasya left the kitchen. Marya Semyonovna, however, couldn't regain her
composure, banged about furiously with the pots. "Here they make a mess
of things, get everything all mixed up, and now I'm to blame. First
they make a bed the devil himself couldn't sleep in, and now I have to
lie in it, if you please! Marya Semyonovna is responsible! I can't tell
the difference between good and bad mushrooms! How can they insult a
person like that? I've been in the kitchen for twenty years--there's
no other cook like me; I'm as good as a chef! You should see my pile
of references. Even the late Madame Gollolobova, the general's wife,
who always was so proud, never called me anything but Marya Semyonovna;
and the Pokatilovs, the millionaires, gave me a gold watch and chain
for Christmas because my sauces were so good. And now just look at
what they've thought up! 'Marya Semyonovna gave the manager poisonous
mushrooms!' I didn't think such an outrage was possible. Didn't I do
everything I could? I felt sorry for this Vassilissa, never breathed a
word to her about her husband's sweetheart. But that's how people are!
Nothing but injustice! And they're Communists...!"

"Why are you angry, Marya Semyonovna? Why do you feel offended?" Vasya
spoke thoughtfully, eating his soup the while with great relish.

"Does it make any difference what they tell us to say? The truth will
out. You won't be held responsible; they've invented the story about
the mushrooms only to keep down the scandal. But I like it. It's an
interesting business! There's passion for you! What are the movies
compared to this?"

"And you're having a good time, you silly boy! A person's dying, and
you think it's fun! What has the world come to! Nobody cares about
life. The least little thing happens, and--bing, bang--they've shot the
fellow. That's why people don't really want to live any more. It's all
because they've forgotten God!"

"Oh, forget about God yourself! I'm not a Communist, but I don't
believe in God, either."

"And it's wrong of you not to believe. There he sits and chatters
without doing any work. Why don't you help me clear away the plates?
These fellows, these doctors use up so many dishes. They're forever
wanting tea and everything else. God's will be done. That's what I told
that dressed-up minx, the maid of Vladimir Ivanovitch's sweetheart. I
was just finished with serving supper for the doctors when she comes
running in by the back door, rustling her skirts, wearing a little
batiste apron, sporting a butterfly on her head, and wagging her tail.
'My lady sent me to find out how Vladimir Ivanovitch is getting on.'
'He's getting on so well,' I said, 'that I guess he'll be standing
before his God pretty soon, for God punishes everyone for his sins.
But as for your mistress, that hussy, just tell her she'd better go to
church and do penance. After all, she's the only one who's to blame.'"

In Vassilissa's presence, Marya Semyonovna was very silent. But the
moment she found someone else to talk to there was no stopping the
torrent of her words.

       *       *       *       *       *

The house grew still. People had come during the day: members of the
administration, fellow workers; the physicians had been consulting.
Lisa shared the night-watch with Vasya, so that she would not be alone
as she suffered and waited for the end. Lisa felt that she, too, was
partly responsible; for she had aroused Vasya against Vladimir.

"Don't say that, Lisa. I worked myself up against him. It took mortal
danger to make me realize that nothing in the world is dearer to me
than he. How can I live without him? His blood will be on my head."

Her curly head supported on her hand, Vasya sat beside Vladimir's bed,
thinking. Suppose Volodya should die, so that she could no longer live
with him--what then? The Revolution? The Party? The Party could use
only those who had no crime on their conscience. But Vasya would never
be able to forget that she had killed Vladimir. If there had been
some good reason.... But because of a woman's jealousy. If he had had
crooked dealings with thieves like Savelyev, if he had acted against
the interests of the people, there would have been a reason. But to
make her friend die because of a woman! And such a friend! She had
thought he did not love her. But he must have loved her, since he had
gone to his death. So life without her meant nothing to him? In spite
of her sorrow this realization moved her to tears, to sweet, penitent
tears. Gazing at her beloved man, Vasya whispered tenderly: "Will you
forgive me, my darling? Will you be able to forget, my dear friend?"

He stirred, moved his head restlessly.

"Water.... Water...."

Gently Vasya raised his head from the pillow, as the nurse had shown
her, and gave him water.

Vladimir drank. His eyes opened and looked at her, but seemed not to
see her:

"Do you feel better, Volodetchka?"

She bent over him anxiously.

He didn't answer. He opened his eyes and closed them again.

"Is Ivan Ivanovitch here?" he asked feebly.

"No, he's gone. Do you want him?"

He nodded. "Call him--phone him."

"But the doctor forbade you to bother about business."

Vladimir looked impatient and fretful.

"Please don't torment me, now at least. Get him." His eyes closed.

Vasya felt a dagger. Why had he said that? "Please don't torment me,
now at least!" So he had not forgiven her for causing him this mortal
agony.

She summoned Ivan Ivanovitch.

When he came, Vladimir asked Vasya to leave him alone with Ivan
Ivanovitch. She went into the garden.

The red roses had withered away, but the dahlias were in full bloom.
The sun was blazing down on her hands, her shoulders, her head. It no
longer caressed her as in the spring, but burned painfully. The garden
was neglected, the honeysuckle vines entwined the lilac bushes like
ivy. The sky was not blue--the heat made it look like molten silver.

Vasya walked over the baking ground.

No. Vladimir wouldn't forgive her! He would not forget. If she had come
when he called her that morning, nothing would have happened. Now she
had lost him--lost him forever. Not her adored lover, but her friend,
her comrade. Volodya would not trust her any more, would not lean on
her again. Vasya was standing beside the acacia tree that had been so
full of white blossoms in the spring. She closed her eyes. Why hadn't
she poisoned herself? Why did she still live?

"Vassilissa Dementyevna, Vladimir Ivanovitch wants you," Ivan
Ivanovitch called to her as he entered the car and went away.

Where was he going? Was he taking a message to Vladimir's friend? But
Vasya no longer cared.

The past would never return.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was hot. The scorching sun of summer was exhausting. The shades had
been lowered. Vladimir was sleeping; Vasya knelt at the foot of his
bed, driving away the flies.

He had to sleep, to regain his strength. He had suffered enough.

Vasya and Volodya were alone in the house; Marya Semyonovna had gone
shopping. Vasya, the boy, had been sent away.

Vasya liked being alone with Volodya. She felt as if he belonged to
her, as if he were her property. He was so weak and helpless.

If only he could understand, if only he could read her heart. He would
see how ardently she loved him, how she was suffering, how she longed
for his caresses, how her loneliness starved her. Why was Volodya
always so taciturn, so hostile toward her? He never looked into her
eyes. When she did not arrange the pillows quite properly he would say
irritably: "And that calls itself a nurse! She doesn't even know how to
fix the pillows."

Of course, one can't expect much from a sick man; still--why was he
like that? Could he really not forgive her? Never? And if they stayed
together would it always be as now, lonely, dismal, bleak?

She looked at Vladimir, at the dear, familiar face with its long
eye-lashes. Vasya had fallen in love with them at the very beginning.
And he had been captivated by her hair. But her hair was gone....

It was like the old fairy-tale. Her hair had bewitched him; when it was
cut off her lover left her. How they had loved each other then, in '17.
And later, when the White offensive began. The night when, together,
they arrested the conspirators. "If I fall, Vasya, don't lose a single
hour of your work; your tears can wait till later." "And the same goes
for you, Volodya. We promise each other." They had held each other's
hands, had looked into each other's eyes, and had gone to their work,
without delay. It had been cold then, the stars had been shining, the
snow had creaked under their feet as Vasya and Vladimir had gone with
their men.

At the memory Vasya's heart grew tender; as if the warmth radiating
from her lost happiness were melting it. Vasya had not wept when
the disaster had come upon her; she had not lamented, had forgotten
herself. But now the tears were running down her cheeks. Not bitter,
scalding tears, but gently sorrowful ones. She was weeping for the
happiness of long ago.

"Vasya--why--Vasya!--what is it?"

Volodya had raised his head from the pillows, and was looking at her.
His eyes were distant no longer, no longer seemed to look past her.
They weren't cold. They were "his" eyes, Volodya's loving, sympathetic
eyes, although their expression still was sad.

"What is it, Vasyuk? Why are you crying, poor child?"

He laid his hand on her curls lovingly.

"Volodya, my darling. Will you forgive me? Will you forgive?"

"Silly Vasya. What do you want me to forgive? Now, stop crying, so we
can talk. Sit down here, closer to me. Here we live our lives side by
side, saying nothing and suffering so."

"But you must not get excited now--I'm afraid for you, dear. Some other
time."

"No, it wouldn't go so well some other time. Let me talk, Vasya. I'm so
wretched. That's why I wanted to die. And even now, though I want to
live, I see no way out...."

"We'll look for it together, Volodya. After all, I'm not a stranger to
you."

"Are you sure you know everything, Vasya?"'

She nodded. "I know."

"Now you understand what was hurting me? And you were always
reproaching me with silly things, forever harping on Savelyev."

"I know, Volodya."

"And you made another mistake. Did you think that was love? Did you?
No, Vasya, I love only you, you, my guardian angel, you, my faithful
friend. But there, Vasya, it's different, entirely different. Call it
whatever you want, call it lack of self-control, whatever you want,
only not love! But you were jealous of me, you suspected me, spied on
me."

"Never, Volodya. Never."

"How can you say that? Think of the blue silk! Think of your
cross-examinations: 'Why do you smell of perfume?' And 'Where does
Savelyev live? Show me!'"

"I didn't spy on you, Volodya; no, I didn't. But I was imagining
all sorts of dreadful things. I wanted to drive away those fancies,
Volodya. I wanted to believe in you, to keep my faith in you."

"Oh, don't talk about your fancies! You were jealous all the same. You
didn't say so openly, but you tormented me, tortured me. Why go over
all that? We're both to blame!"

Silence. Both were thinking.

"Is our life to go on like this, Volodya?" Vasya asked mournfully.

"I don't know, Vasya. I'm lost myself. I don't know what to do."

Again both were silent. Both had much to say; but they could not reach
each other.

"Might you not really be happier with the other girl, Volodya?" Vasya
asked cautiously. She was surprised that the question did not hurt her.

"Vasya, Vasya! I see that you don't trust me. Can't you see whom I
love? Didn't I try to kill myself because I had lost you?" There was
reproach in both his voice and his eyes.

Her heart was trembling with joy.

"Volodya!"

They embraced; their lips sought each other.

"No, not like that, Vasya! Calm down, Vasyuk! My strength hasn't come
back yet, you see--I can't even kiss you...."

Smiling, Vladimir patted Vasya's head; but his eyes were sad again. No;
the wall between them could not be broken down. They could not find the
path that led through the thorny hedge of misunderstanding from one
heart to the other.




                              CHAPTER XI


Vladimir had returned to his work for the first time, had gone to the
office. Vasya was rejoicing in her freedom. In the morning she rushed
to the Party Committee, and thence to the hemp-binding works. Lisa was
asking for help, preparations had to be made for the meeting of the
union.

On the way to the Party Committee Vasya smiled. She felt as though
she had escaped from a cage. Everything delighted her. She felt as if
she had not seen her Comrades for an incredibly long time; and they
were glad, too. They had missed her. Vasya was a general favorite. She
did so much, gossiped not at all, and sympathized with everybody's
troubles. The moment she reached Party headquarters she was given work
to do--she had to determine what was to be discussed at the meeting,
and to classify the material with the speakers.

Vasya looked at the clock. Impossible! It was almost eight! Vladimir
must have waited for her impatiently. Had they given him a dinner
conforming with the doctor's orders? Vasya had forgotten all about it.

She walked with Lisa, discussing the news that a Comrade of the Central
Administration had brought from Moscow. Many peculiar things were
happening in the Party these days. Lisa was in complete disagreement
with the new policy; she stood with the boys of the factory. They were
going to put up their own candidates at the Party Conference--there
would be another fight against the Chairman.

Vasya envied her. Since her arrival she had taken no really active
part in anything, as if she were not a member of the Party, but only a
"sympathizer."

"That's because you're a manager's wife. If you had been living by
yourself you would have come back to work very soon."

Vasya sighed. Lisa didn't have to tell her that; she knew it herself.
But she had no time to think of such things. As soon as Vladimir should
have completely recovered she would go back to her province.

"Oh, you won't go! You're much too fond of your Vladimir Ivanovitch.
You're only a wife nowadays," Lisa objected irritably.

Vasya remained silent. What could she say? Lisa was right; but she did
not complain. She had gone through too much. Let Volodya only live,
live without suffering.

When Vasya came home he was not there.

"Where is Vladimir Ivanovitch? Hasn't he come back yet?"

"Of course he came back. He was here from three o'clock, and waited for
you to come for dinner. But he couldn't wait so long. When you didn't
come he ate with Ivan Ivanovitch. They went away not long ago," Marya
Semyonovna told her. "But there's a note for you on the table."

Vasya took it up.

"Dear Vasya, we've agreed always to be frank with each other; and you
said you'd always understand me. I absolutely must be there today. I'll
tell you why later. Then you'll understand that I couldn't help it. I
beg you to stand by our agreement, and not to grieve. Your Volodya."

When Vasya had read the note her hands dropped on her lap.

Again? So it was not over. But why had she thought it was over? Had
Volodya ever said so? Hadn't she known that Ivan Ivanovitch was always
going back and forth, forming the connecting link between Vladimir
and the other woman? Volodya was honest, as she had begged him to
be. Frankness, only frankness! Why did it hurt so? Why did bitter
resentment and indignation rise in her heart, as if Volodya had
deceived her again?

Marya Semyonovna was setting the table and looking disapprovingly at
Vasya.

"Do you want to eat?" she asked. "Are you starting this business
all over again? Nobody eats, and a person is expected to cook! Then
there'll be more of your endless quarrels and tears. You may resent it
or not, Vassilissa Dementyevna, but I must tell you the truth; you're
not the woman for Vladimir Ivanovitch. Now you're broken-hearted over
his letter, and you're crying because he's gone to his mistress. But I
tell you that you're to blame, too. The man just rose up from the dead,
so to speak. He took poison on account of you. But the moment he walked
out the door you were gone yourself. If it were your work, it would be
different. Business demands its rights. But you just run around from
one meeting to another, enlightening our silly women. Why don't you
clean up your own house before you try to teach others? It's a disgrace
to work for you!"

Banging the door, she disappeared into the kitchen. But after a few
minutes Marya Semyonovna returned, a little gentler, with a hot omelet
and a cup of cocoa.

"Eat, Vassilissa Dementyevna, and stop thinking. You can't think of
everything, after all."

Marya Semyonovna sat down at the table beside Vasya and recounted her
own experiences. Something of the sort had happened in the house of
the late Madame Gollolobova, the general's wife. All on account of the
French governess. But then the general and his wife were reconciled and
lived together very well until she died. What was more, they even were
happy.

Vasya listened half-heartedly, but did not interrupt. She had come to
know Marya Semyonovna during Vladimir's illness. Marya Semyonovna
pitied Vasya, and recognized one of her own people in her. She hated
the specialists, the doctors, and the managers, thought them all
_burshuis_. But now Vasya had to listen to Marya Semyonovna's endless
stories of how the millionaire Pokatilovs had lived; and what the
general's wife used to like for dinner. They bored Vasya; but she
didn't want to hurt Marya Semyonovna's feelings. She was a kindly old
soul, though she seemed rather sulky at first glance.

Her stories were particularly disagreeable to Vasya just now. She
wanted to weigh everything, to clear up matters in her own mind, to
think things over from beginning to end.

"Thanks for the supper, Marya Semyonovna. Now I'll have to go to my
papers."

"Is that all you ate? If I'd known that I wouldn't have cooked anything
for you. You'll kill yourself, Vassilissa Dementyevna; and the whole
business isn't worth that. For, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't give
a kopek for Vladimir Ivanovitch's sweetheart! She isn't worth your
little finger."

Lisa had said the same thing.

"Why do you say that, Marya Semyonovna? She is supposed to be so very
beautiful."

"What's beautiful in her? She's painted and powdered like a clown. She
isn't interested in anything but clothes, so that she can get more and
more out of the men."

"Do you know her? Did you ever see her?"

"Of course I know her. How often didn't she sleep here before you came,
the dressed-up hussy! She has all sorts of notions. She has to have hot
water at night, needs this, that, and the other. She pretends she's
a lady, and says she's been used to this life since she was a child.
But she's lying--she doesn't look like that. Real gentlefolk are more
polite. They always say 'Please' and 'Thank you' to the servants. But
this hussy can only give orders: 'Bring me this! Do that! Clear these
things away!'"

"What's her name?"

"Her name? Nina Constantinovna. I can't remember her last name.
Everybody in town calls her just Nina Constantinovna."

"I'd like to see her sometime," Vasya said thoughtfully, turning
Volodya's note in her hands.

"Nothing could be simpler. She goes walking in the City Park every day
when the band plays. Let's go there tomorrow, and you can take a look
at the minx. In the old days that kind used to walk the streets of
Moscow at night."

"When the music plays, you say? All right, Marya Semyonovna; let's go
there. Maybe I'll feel better after I've seen her."

Marya Semyonovna shook her head doubtfully; but she made no attempt to
dissuade Vasya. She was anxious to see how the two rivals would look at
each other.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya went through the dark house. She didn't want any light; she felt
that the darkness soothed her. She could not sleep.

In the morning everything seemed fine; Volodya was well and working
again, and she, too, was busy. For she would soon return to her
province. She didn't want to be the "manager's lady". Since she and
Vladimir had agreed always to be frank, she felt better. But the pain
was still there. It was not jealousy. Nor had Vladimir broken his word;
he had told the truth to Vasya as to a friend. Still, she did not feel
quite happy.

She scolded herself: what in the world did she want? Surely she had not
thought that Vladimir had come back to her altogether, that he had torn
the other out of his heart. But that was just it. That was what Vasya
had thought, hoped for, longed for.

And what was the upshot of it all? They had suffered so much, and had
progressed not an inch. Vladimir was again spending his evenings with
the other woman while Vasya wandered alone through the dark house.
He had no pity for her. Whom did he love? Her, Vasya, his friend and
comrade, or the other? He said he loved Vasya; but it wasn't true.
These thoughts only increased her suffering. If she knew that he had
stopped loving her she would go away. But as matters stood, how could
she go? Suppose she was mistaken. Suppose he should attempt suicide
again. Vasya could not leave Vladimir. How could she live far away
from him with this agony in her heart? It was more bearable when he was
there.

Come what might, she loved Vladimir. If she didn't love him could she
suffer such torment because of him?

She loved him: but she understood him less every day. As if they had
entered a forest by two divergent paths. The farther they penetrated
into the forest the greater the distance between them. She loved
Volodya; but in her heart she condemned him more and more. Why had he
had anything to do with such a creature? If it had been one of her
own people, a Communist girl, she would not have felt so hurt. But
this was a real _burshuika_. Volodya himself had told Vasya that she
was a stranger, a young lady of the aristocracy. Spoiled. She could
not understand the Bolsheviki and the Communists, but longed for her
old life. She had been brought up in luxury. There had been seventeen
servants in her home. She had had a horse of her own, accustomed to
the side-saddle. Her father had been a White soldier. Her mother had
died during the Revolution. Her brother, an officer, had been reported
missing. Only she was left. She had looked for work. As she knew
many languages she was taken on in the administrative offices as a
secretary. Volodya met her there; she fell in love with him, wrote him
letters.

Vasya was far away, Volodya was always alone. So their affair began.
It was soon noticed in the office; Nina Constantinovna was frowned
upon, and had to give up her position. Savelyev made her his secretary.

"Only his secretary?" Vasya couldn't hold back the question. For one
thing, she wanted to irritate Vladimir; besides, she wanted to learn
the truth about the other.

"What sort of gossip are your repeating there?" Vladimir flared up.
"Aren't you ashamed to say such vile things? I didn't think you would
sling mud at her, like any other woman. Why, Vasya? It doesn't become
you!"

He told Vasya that Savelyev was a sort of father, or guardian, to Nina
Constantinovna. He had known her parents; and when Nina stood alone in
the world he took care of her, gave her advice and material assistance,
procured the position in the administrative office for her. Then,
when she left, he helped her again. She had to vacate her room. Where
could she go? To Vladimir? That couldn't be done. Savelyev offered to
take her into his house. But Nina Constantinovna didn't want that. Was
she to be left on the street? Savelyev found a small house where he
arranged to have his office, and offered Nina a home there. "For he is
something like a guardian of hers. He feels sorry for her, takes care
of her...."

"And makes love to her!" Again Vasya could not control herself. She
was angry; Volodya spoke too favorably of her. He always had been a
trusting soul. Vasya, however, was suspicious of the girl. Everybody
said she was a regular one....

"It's a lie, a slanderous lie! Why do you find pleasure in repeating
such filth? If you want to know the truth, ask me. Nina thinks of no
one. Nina loves only me. And even if it were true, Savelyev would not
be the only one to make love to her. Do you know Maklezov, of the
Foreign Trade Office? He offered her a life of luxury, but Nina showed
him the door. I won't deny that Savelyev may like Nina. Maybe his love
for her isn't purely paternal. But Nina can't stand him--as a man, that
is. There's nothing doing there. It's not to be thought of. I know
Nina, you can be sure of that."

She saw that he was growing quite excited, as if he wanted to convince
not Vasya, but himself. But what hurt her most was Savelyev's
connection with everything. She had disliked him from the first day.
There had been a reason for the S. C. telling her that Vladimir
Ivanovitch ought to keep away from him.

"But I don't see why Savelyev has to be mixed up with it. That's why
they say that you keep her together, share and share alike."

"If anyone dares say that to you, spit in his face! You must understand
me, Vasya. That's the terrible part of it, that Nina was a virgin when
I took her. She was pure...."

"Pure?"

Vasya felt a stab in her heart, as if a fine needle were piercing it.
Long ago, in '17, at that evening tea in Vasya's room, he had said:

"I'm keeping my heart for a pure girl." And then, that first night, he
had caressed her and said: "No one in the world can be purer than you."

"Pure? What nonsense are you talking there, Vladimir? What has the body
to do with purity? You're beginning to think like a _burshui_!"

"Try to understand me, Vasya. I don't think so, but she does. It's a
great tragedy for her that I took her without marrying her. Now, she
thinks, she's 'lost.' You can't know what she suffers. She cries all
the time. Try to understand, Vasya. She thinks differently than we
proletarians do. The first man who has her has to marry her, too."

"Why didn't you tell me that before? Who's preventing you from marrying
her? I?"

"Oh, Vasya, Vasya. You're so clever--but when it comes to love
you're a woman, like all the rest. How can I marry her, Vasya? We're
strangers--we're different in every respect. It's not love. It's rather
pity. You can see it yourself."

Only pity? Really? She wanted to believe it was only pity.

"If you don't love or understand each other, why don't you separate?
It's tormenting both of you!" Vasya didn't mention herself.

"How can I leave her? It's not such a simple matter, Vasya. Where can
she go if I leave her? On the street? Should Savelyev keep her? Or
should she register as a prostitute?"

"Why all this fuss? Let her look for work!"

"Work! That's more easily said than done nowadays, when everybody's
laying off. Besides, what sort of work? After all, Nina can't go into a
factory!"

Vasya wanted to say: Why not into a factory? Why not, that hussy? But
she wanted to spare Vladimir. He was not yet well, and the doctor had
ordered him to avoid all excitement. He was already visibly affected by
their conversation.

Later, as she roamed through the dark house, Vasya was sorry. Why
hadn't she cried out the truth? Why hadn't she told Vladimir everything
she thought of the woman? She didn't believe that Nina Constantinovna
loved him. She was merely ensnaring him, to gain a double advantage.
Vasya hated her, not because she was reputed to be of loose character,
but because her heart was not pure. Plenty of prostitutes were better
than the so-called decent women. Vasya remembered the curly-haired
Sinka, who had been shot by the Whites, and who cried, as she died:
"Long live the Soviet Government! Long live the Revolution!" She had
been on the streets, the lowest of the low; but when the Revolution
broke out she revealed herself, undertook the most difficult and most
dangerous tasks. She had worked in the Cheka with all her heart and
soul. Vasya could have understood Vladimir's falling in love with a
woman like that. But this "lady," this _burshuika_! She was a stranger,
after all. And she had no heart, she was simply fooling Vladimir. He,
trusting soul, believed in her. That was what hurt so badly. Vasya
would never be able to reconcile herself to that.

What was her hold on him? His pity for her? I'm so weak, so helpless!
He said she had been pure! Pure! But now there remained not the tiniest
trace of that purity. She had exchanged it long ago for presents from
men. He, however, still believed in her. Vasya was furious at the other
woman.

"How long are you going to run around the house this way, Vassilissa
Dementyevna?" grumbled Marya Semyonovna, breaking Vasya's train of
thought. "You ought to take care of yourself; you need your strength
for your meetings. Why don't you try to sleep? There's no sense in your
staying up for your husband. You won't want to have him in your room
anyway, when he comes from the other one. I'll make his bed in the
drawing room."

Vasya threw her arms about Marya Semyonovna. But she felt even more
sad. A stranger was sorry for her. But he, her lover, her husband, her
friend, pitied only the other, the heartless, wily woman who wound
herself about him like a serpent.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Are you asleep, Vasyuk?" Coming into the bedroom, Vladimir lit the
lamp. Vasya lay in bed, her eyes wide open. How could she sleep with
this agony in her heart?

"No, I'm not asleep."

"Is Vasyuk angry with me?"

He sat down on the bed and tried to kiss Vasya. She pushed him away
vehemently.

"So you are angry with me. What about our agreement? I told you the
truth as I would a friend. You asked me to, yourself. And now...? Is it
better to lie?"

Vasya did not answer.

"It's not good for us, darling, to begin our squabbles and reproaches
all over again. Why are you angry? Because I visited Nina? Just think
it over, Vasya. I was together with you all the time; and she is alone.
Do you think she didn't worry and suffer enough when I was ill?"

Vasya wanted to scream: "What has that to do with me?" But she pressed
her lips together. She said nothing; only her heart was beating
furiously.

"You must not think that anything happened, Vasyuk. I wasn't alone
with her. Savelyev was there, too, and Ivan Ivanovitch came in. We had
something to discuss. Would you like to know why I was there today?
Well, Vasya--I went there to say good-bye. Why do you stare so? Don't
you believe me? Ask Ivan Ivanovitch. That's why I had him come here,
so that he would arrange everything. Help Nina Constantinova to get
away from here, pay her rent, and all the rest of it."

"Where is she going?" Vasya's voice sounded hollow.

"To Moscow. Savelyev will take her there; he has relatives there, with
whom Nina will live. And she will look for a position. It'll be easier
for all of us that way."

Vasya remained silent. There was suspicion in her eyes.

Why the sudden change? What had happened? Didn't he love her any more?

"Let's not talk about love. That's quite another question. But Nina,
too, understands that things can't go on this way. She's fully made up
her mind to go to Moscow; she decided that long ago. She told me she
would go the morning you went away from me. She telephoned me, and said
she would not go on with this life. Either the one thing or the other.
Or she would go to Moscow...."

"Ah, so that's it. That's why you took poison! One woman had gone,
and the other was threatening to leave if you didn't marry her. Now I
see it all. You were afraid you'd lose her! What a fool I am. What a
silly fool. I thought it was because of me that you were despondent and
wanted to die." Vasya laughed bitterly, hysterically.

"How you twist everything, Vasya. How spiteful you've become. You're
not the Vasyuk you used to be," Vladimir said sadly, getting up from
the bed. "There's really no sense in our talking. I wanted to tell you
everything, so there would be no secrets between us. But now I see
that the more truthful I am the worse matters become. You've become
different, cruel."

"Oh, no! Stop, Volodya!" Vasya's voice was like breaking glass,
quivered with all the despair of her heart. "If we're going to talk
things over, let's do it. Why do you send her to Moscow? You love her,
not me. If you loved me you would have stayed with me today. But you
consider only her, you pity only her."

"Vasya, Vasya. How unjust you are. If you only knew what Nina has gone
through in these months. She is so young--almost a child. She hasn't
a single close friend. Everybody slings mud at her. And why, Vasya?
Because she had the misfortune of falling in love with me. You, Vasya,
have your Party, your friends. But she has only me. I'm her only
protector, her only supporter."

Walking up and down the room, his hand on his back, Vladimir told Vasya
that Nina had expected a child. His child--his dream! So much joy, and
so much sorrow.

"Where is the child?" Vasya asked, trembling.

"You surely don't think Nina could have kept it! The scandal! And how
you would have suffered! We thought of you. Nina cried her heart out.
But for your sake, Vasya, we decided to do even that."

For her sake? He had discussed it with a strange woman, had "thought of
her" with a strange woman, of her, Vasya, as if she were not his friend
and comrade, but some enemy. He had not come to her with his troubles,
but to the other, to Nina. So she was nearer to him--she, not Vasya,
belonged with him now.

"The day you came I found out that Nina was pregnant. Now you know what
was tormenting me, Vasya."

She nodded silently.

Vladimir went on, telling her that Nina had gone to another city, to
prevent gossip. Savelyev had found a place for her to live there. And
she had had her abortion there. But the operation had not gone off
smoothly. There had been complications. Vladimir had gone to see her.

"Was that when the shipping clerks were going to strike?"

"Yes, about that time."

Hm.... So that was why he had wept in the dining room that day. On
account of Nina. Not because of the shipping clerks, of course.

"And she came back the morning Savelyev arrived, didn't she?" Vasya
went on.

"Yes."

"I understand."

Neither spoke; both waited. Now the hard, cruel words would come again.
Later they would regret them; but they could not be taken back. They
distorted love, mutilating it until it was like a pock-marked face. No
more beauty, no more heart-warming happiness.

"Vasya!" Vladimir broke the oppressive silence. "Why all this
heartache? Who's to blame? I swear to you, I spared you, spared you as
long as I could."

"That wasn't necessary, Volodya. I only wanted you to believe that I'm
your friend."

Sitting down again beside her, Vladimir took her hand.

"Yes, Vasya, I know you're my friend. That's why it's so hard for me."
He laid his head on Vasya's shoulder, as he had always used to do.
Stroking that head, Vasya felt a sweet joy tempering her pain. In spite
of everything he was there, with her! He still loved her, in his way.

"Mightn't it be better, Volodya, if I go away, and she stays?" she
asked cautiously.

"Don't start with that again, Vasya. Don't torture me. Instead of
helping me you drive me off the right path. I've revealed my soul to
you as to a friend. I'm keeping no secrets from you. And here you say
you want to go away."

"For your sake, Volodya; if you love her."

"What do you mean by love, Vasya? Love must be returned; and I feel it
so clearly, that Nina and I have nothing in common, that she isn't
a comrade, that she can never be a friend like you to me. I'm sorry
for her, I take care of her. What would become of her if I were to
leave her, if we were to part? I feel responsible for her. Can't you
understand? After all, she was a virgin when I took her."

"That's nonsense, Volodya. Why are you responsible for her? She wasn't
a child; she must have known what she was doing. Besides, who bothers
about such things nowadays?"

"You have proletarian ideas; but Nina is different. It's a real tragedy
for her."

"I know. That's why I say I'll go away, and you should marry her."

"There you go again, Vasya! Didn't I beg you not to torment me? Besides
it's too late. Everything's been decided. Nina Constantinovna goes to
Moscow Thursday. That's all there's to it! Let's stop talking about it."

Vladimir spoke so calmly, with so much assurance, that she had to
believe him.

"But you be patient, Vasya, for another few days. Don't do anything
rash. She'll go away, and we'll live as before. No, it'll be better
than ever before. Now we have suffered together, and that'll bring us
closer to each other."

Volodya put his arms around Vasya, and kissed her eyes.

"I'd like to sleep with you tonight, Vasyuk. Do you mind? I'm so tired,
my head's reeling."

Lying down, he laid his head on Vasya's shoulder, and fell asleep at
once.

Vasya, however, did not sleep. If he loved her, he would have caressed
her. If he loved her, he would have understood her grief. She gazed
at him. That familiar head, hiding such strange, incomprehensible
thoughts. Those long lashes, veiling tender glances not meant for her.
Those warm lips, covering another woman with yearning kisses, arousing
her passion.

She pushed Voldya's head from her shoulder. He was a stranger to her!

"Why do you drive your precious Volya away?" Vladimir whispered in his
sleep.

"Your precious Volya?" Whose pet name was that? Not Vasya's. He had
confused them. He thought of the other even in his sleep.

Vasya scowled at her sleeping husband. Was that her lover? Had he once
been her friend and comrade? Was he the man whom she had loved when,
together, they had fought for the Soviet?

He was a stranger. A stranger.

She shivered. She was so lonely.




                              CHAPTER XII


The Park. Dusty, withered by the oppressive heat of the summer. The
long and anxiously awaited rain did not come; it would have washed the
dust of the city from the trees, would have quenched the thirst of the
grass.

The band was playing before a small audience. Children were running
about; a few Red Guards were there, sitting in groups, or walking along
with their sweethearts. On a shady bench sat a priest in a monk's gown,
leaning on his staff, lost in thought. Beside him was a nursemaid,
watching a little child.

Vasya and Marya Semyonovna sat down on the bench; although they were a
trifle to one side they could see everything.

They waited for Nina Constantinovna.

"Why hasn't our little lady come yet? Generally she's here the moment
the music begins, to show off her clothes. All the fine ladies
come here to see what's stylish this year. They find out from Nina
Constantinovna, because she's always dressed up to the minute."

Vasya listened absent-mindedly. She was eager to see Nina. How would
she be? At the same time she was afraid. How could she bear to look at
her?

"Is that she, Marya Semyonovna? On that bench there, to the right of
the band? The one in the pink dress?"

"How in the world could you think that? Nina Constantinova isn't like
that. You'll see the difference between her and the others right away.
She's a real fashionable lady."

They sat there, waiting. But Nina did not come. Only when they were
about to go home, intending to return the next day, did she appear. She
was coming from the other end of the park, and stopped before the band.
She was talking to Savelyev and two members of the Red Committee, and
seemed unconscious of the eyes that stared at her.

So this was how she looked! She was wearing a thin white dress that
enveloped her body in soft folds, and revealed the curve of her
breasts. She had on long sand-colored gloves and a hat to match, pulled
down over her eyes. Vasya could not distinguish the features, but saw
only the lips, shining red as blood.

"What red, red lips!"

"That's the rouge," explained Marya Semyonovna. "You should see her
eyes. They look as if she'd smeared soot over them. Somebody ought to
take a sponge and wash the dirt off her face. And then you ought to
look at her! I could be beautiful too, if I used powder and rouge."

Nina Constantinovna was leaning on her white parasol, tapping the
ground with the point of her white shoes. She laughed, throwing back
her head a little. The members of the Red Committee laughed too.

Apparently bored, Savelyev had stepped to one side, and was tracing
figures in the sand with his cane.

"Her hat hides her whole face," Vasya complained.

"Come, let's walk past her. Then you can get a better look at the
hussy. But I advise you not to look her way. She isn't pretty. When I
was working for Madame Gollolobova, that's when I saw real fine ladies
and real beauties. Compared to them, she's nothing!"

But Vasya's curiosity bothered her. She had to know why Volodya loved
the other girl.

Just as Vasya and Marya Semyonovna were getting up to walk past Nina,
she said good-bye to the members of the Red Committee, exclaiming
loudly enough for Vasya to hear: "We'll meet again in Moscow." Turning
she went on toward the gate, Savelyev following.

"You surely don't want to run after her? You mustn't do that,
Vassilissa Dementyevna. You'll have to let her go, that bird. People
know you--and that's no way of stopping gossip."

Though she slackened her pace, Vasya kept her eyes fixed on the other.

She was tall, slender; her shoulders swayed a little as she walked. Her
head was bowed as she went away from the bandstand. Vasya thought Nina
was crying. Savelyev bent toward her, seemed to be trying to persuade
her. But Nina shook her head. No, she said, raising her tan-gloved hand
to her face, as if to wipe away a tear. Could she weep? Had she come
to bid the music farewell? Or--or did she love Volodya? Was she not
merely trying to get something from him? Vasya was disturbed. She felt
no better now that she had seen Nina Constantinovna. It was no longer
jealousy that bothered her, but another, new feeling. Something like
pity for Nina. Why had she cried? Why had she come to hear the music?
To bid her happiness good-bye?

A new load on Vasya's heart. She was furious at herself. That was all
that was needed! To suffer with the other woman, with the one who had
got in her way. A fine state of affairs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nina had gone to Moscow. Almost two weeks had passed since she and
Savelyev had left the city. Logically, Vasya should have enjoyed life
now. The interloper was gone. Vladimir had stayed behind with Vasya; so
she surely was dearer, more precious to him, and the other affair was
merely temporary?

Vasya smiled. Vasya laughed. She coughed less and visited the Party
Committee regularly. Vladimir was working, too; he was reorganizing
the business according to the plans of the syndicate people. When that
would be finished he and Vasya would go to Moscow, whence he was to be
transferred to his new district. Vladimir was happy, entirely taken up
with his work.

But the real, heart-felt joy of other days was lacking. There was
nothing to be done about it. Vladimir was not exactly cool; but he had
changed. Frequently he would be moody, would lose his temper.

Why did Vasya come home so late from the Party Committee? It was
annoying for their guests, for they would not have dinner without the
hostess. Again, he would flare up about the collars: not a single one
was clean. Then Vasya, too, would be cross. She wasn't responsible for
that; let him take care of it himself. Let him go to Marya Semyonovna.
Vasya was no laundress. Both would be furious when they parted--and
why? On account of a stupid collar! One day Vasya came home in the
rain. To save her hat, she had left it at Party Headquarters, and had
put a shawl on her head. When he saw her Vladimir frowned, and snarled:
"How you dress! Your shoes are run down at the heels, your skirt is
filthy, you come in with a shawl on your head like a peasant woman.
Slovenly!"

Again she lost control of herself.

"We can't all strut around like fashion plates. But I don't have to
accept any favors from Savelyev."

Vladimir looked daggers at her; he said nothing. Vasya thought he would
strike her.

But he restrained himself.

Something was wrong here. Vasya and Vladimir wanted to be friends;
but the slightest provocation filled them with hatred for each other.
Vladimir was always dreaming of his new position. How he could furnish
the house, how he could arrange everything.

This was boring for Vasya. Why furnish a house? What was the pleasure
in that? It would be different if it had anything to do with the
common good. Vladimir disagreed with her, reproached her with
narrow-mindedness.

Vasya told of a dispute in the Marxists' Club on whether history was
determined by economic questions alone or by ideas also. She grew
animated, wanted Vladimir to hear everything that had been said. But
he was bored. All this was empty talk. Increasing the profits of his
enterprise--there was something worth doing! And they quarreled again.

When the two of them were alone together they had nothing to talk
about. What could they do? They telephoned Ivan Ivanovitch. His
presence made them feel more at ease.

Vasya was expecting letters from her province. But none came. Neither
Grusha nor Stepan Alexeyevitch wrote a line. What could be the matter?

Although Vasya did not want to admit it even to herself, she suspected,
deep down in her heart, that she would be called back to her province
to work. Should she go? Should she stay?

       *       *       *       *       *

A registered letter from home. From Stepan Alexeyevitch. Short, and to
the point. He proposed that Vasya take over the group of the textile
factories, and organize the work there in a new way, as the Central
Administration would prescribe. Vasya would live there, not in the
city. He asked for an answer.

Vasya's heart pounded. She longed for her own people. For what was her
life here? No work, no joy, only one worry: if only nothing happens!
She seemed to be bound hand and foot. She remembered a jackdaw her
brother Kolyka had owned. He had caught it in the woods, and had bound
its wings so that it couldn't fly away. The bird hopped about on the
floor, opened its beak, and turned its bright black eyes toward the
window. It tried to flap its wings, but they were bound fast. It tried
again, a third time, cawed with distress and--resumed its solemn
walk on the floor as if it had never attempted to fly. This was what
was happening to Vasya now. Her wings were bound, too, and it was
impossible for her to fly. But what was binding her wings? Joy, or
love? No; neither of these. She was fettered by apprehension, by the
fear that again something might happen to Vladimir. By her gratitude
to him for staying with her, for sending away the 'hussy.' Slender
threads. But they were bound tightly about Vasya. She seemed hopelessly
entangled in the net.

Lisa said: "I don't understand you, Vassilissa. I tell you, you're
becoming a real 'manager's lady.' You can't get away from it."

How could she break these threads, tear the net?

Vasya held Stepan Alexeyevitch's letter in her hand. She felt loath to
put it away. It seemed to be a talisman that would help her find her
way, as in the fairy-tale.

"Vassilissa Dementyevna, the beer is all gone. You'll have to tell
Vladimir Ivanovitch to have some more sent out from the factory.
Otherwise we'll get unexpected guests for dinner and we won't know
where to get it from. You can't make it out of the air."

Marya Semyonovna looked disapprovingly at Vasya.

"You're always glum, Vassilissa Dementyevna. And why, if I might ask?
That dressed-up minx has finally landed in Moscow, thank God, and
Vladimir Ivanovitch is with you now, never goes out anywhere. Why do
you sulk so? The men don't like that. They want their wives to be
jolly, want to hear them laugh, want to have some pleasure at home
after the day's work and worries."

As she listened, Vasya smiled and thought: Perhaps she's right. Perhaps
I ought to rouse myself and again become the tomboy Vasya of '18.
There was a lot of work in those days, but a lot of laughter, too.

Should she go to see Volodya in the office? An unexpected visitor? Tell
him about the letter--and, laughingly, say that she would refuse, that
she could not leave her Volodya! He would see how she loved him. He
would be glad, would put his arms around her joyfully, would kiss her
brown eyes. He would call her Vasya, his tomboy.

She chose a white blouse and put on a blue tie. She stood before the
mirror as she put on her hat and arranged her curls. She wanted to
please Volodya today. For she was bringing him a gift--a priceless
gift! Her refusal of Stepan Alexeyevitch's offer! She would go with
Vladimir to his new position, and would undertake some work there.

When she reached the administration building Vasya went to the
manager's office. It was empty. The manager was at a conference. But it
would soon be over; he would probably be back in about ten minutes.

Vasya waited, looked through the Moscow papers. She had to smile at
herself. Now she would make up to Volodya for everything--for his
parting from the other, for his greater devotion to herself.

Someone brought in the mail, laid it on the manager's desk. Might there
not be some letters for Vasya? She looked over the business envelopes.
There--suddenly her heart throbbed wildly, then seemed to miss a beat.
A narrow, tinted envelope--a delicate handwriting, as though engraved.
That could only be the other woman: Nina Constantinovna.

Everything was not over? Everything was as before? Lies? Vasya felt as
though she were flying, soaring--long, long, endlessly.

She must have lost her balance, for she knocked down the ashtray that
stood on the desk.

As she looked at the narrow, tinted envelope, Vasya felt that it
contained her destiny. There! It disappeared in her pocket. Now she
would learn the truth. Now there would be an end to the lies.

Vladimir entered together with a member of the administration.

"You're here, Vasya? Did you want something, or are you just visiting
me?"

"There's no more beer. You'll have to order more from the factory."

"Will you look at that! You're becoming a housewife! I can't recognize
my tomboy, Vasya," laughed Vladimir, quite happily.

Laugh. Just you laugh. But I'll tear through the net in which you have
caught me. I'll go to the root of this deception.

"What's the trouble, Vasya? Can't you stay longer? Must you go?"

She nodded silently. She was trembling with a fury that might break
loose any moment.

She could not wait until she got home to read the letter. Going to the
City Park, she sat down on a bench and impatiently tore open the tinted
envelope.

    "My precious Volya! My king, my beloved tormenter! Again, not a
    word from you. The third day without a line. Can you have forgotten
    me--don't you love your capricious Nina any more? Your little
    Egyptian monkey? I don't believe it! I don't believe it! But
    it's terrible, nevertheless. You're with her, and I'm all alone!
    Your 'mentor' will be able to change you, she'll convince you
    that our love is a 'sin against Communism', that you must fast
    Communistically, give up everything that might delight you, and
    live only for the fanatics. I'm afraid of her. I know the power she
    has over you. But, my God! I'm not taking anything from her. I want
    so little. After all, she's recognized as your wife. You're with
    her always, all the time. And I'm begging only for a few hours for
    our love. I only beg you to pity me--I have only you, no one else
    in all this world!

    "I wake up at night, trembling: he doesn't love me any more; he's
    going to leave me. What will become of me then? I'm afraid to think
    of it. You know that Nikanor Platonovitch is lying in wait for me
    like a spider. Of course he still plays that fatherly rôle--but we
    know what he's hoping for. He's waiting anxiously for the day when
    you'll leave me, when I'll be alone, with no one to protect or help
    me. That'll be a holiday for him. There are times when I hate him,
    when I'd rather go on the street than be obliged to him in any
    way. Volya! Volya! My beloved, my madly adored lover! Will there
    never be an end to this? Will you never rescue your Ninyka? Have
    you no pity for her? Don't you want to protect her?

    "I'm crying, Volya. You have no pity for your little monkey. You
    never think of her, you cruel, faithless man. You're caressing
    another woman. You love her. I know you love her! And that hurts.
    Very, very badly.

    "I want you, your ardent, insatiable love! Don't you long for
    my lips? For my embraces? My satiny arms want to enfold you--my
    breasts yearn for your caresses....

    "I can't bear it, Volya! I can't be away from you any longer. Why
    did you send me to Moscow? Why?

    "But this will have to be our last separation. In your new district
    you'll have to find a little house for me outside the town.
    Nobody'll know that I live there. 'The mysterious little house',
    where you will go at twilight. And there I'll teach you that a love
    like ours is better and more important than anything else in the
    world. When are you coming to Moscow? Is she really coming here
    with you? If only we could have a week together, to make up for
    this! A week for us only.

    "Nikanor Platonovitch says that in the new district you'll have
    a splendid house for yourself. With a Gothic dining room. But
    there's no dining room lamp. I've seen a marvelous chandelier
    here--a bit expensive, but really artistic. I know you'll like it.

    "Now I've told you enough. Such a long letter. You won't be able
    to hide it. Here I'm joking; but I really want to cry. Can't you
    feel how I suffer? Why, oh why, doesn't life let us have a little
    happiness? But don't be alarmed. I won't complain any more. After
    all I've gone through I've gained a little sense. You do whatever
    you think is right, and I'll be satisfied with everything. Let me
    have only one thing--your passionate tenderness, your loving pity
    for your poor, miserable, capricious Nina.

    "Moscow, Ostoshenka 18, Number 7, and not 17 as you wrote last
    time; the letter almost got lost on account of that.

    "I'm yours, from my feet to my lips--only your darling sweetheart.

                                                                "Nina."

And, in the margin: "Imagine how delighted I was to find Coty's
l'Origan powder in Moscow."

Vasya read Nina's letter slowly, carefully, word for word. Not only
with her eyes, but with her heart.

When she had finished she dropped the letter on her knees, looked at
the dry, dusty grass, listened to the angry humming of a bee; it flew
about busily among the blades, rose into the air, disappointed, and
descended into the grass again. In the spring, when the lilac was
blooming, there had been bees, too. But those had been different,
happy bees; this one was angry, as if the summer had played it false.

Vasya thought she was thinking of the bee, and not of the letter. Her
heart was numb, seemed not to ache, seemed indifferent to everything.
"Satiny arms," "passionate tenderness!" It hurt her so! Slowly,
painstakingly, Vasya folded the letter, put it back into the envelope.

Getting up, she walked toward the gate, past the bandstand. The park
was silent and empty today. No music. Now Vasya knew whom Vladimir
loved, knew that not she, but the other, belonged to him.

Vasya stepped through the gate of the dusty City Park into the noisy
street. She felt as if she had left a grave behind her in the park. She
was going home from a funeral. The burial of her dead happiness.




                             CHAPTER XIII


Vladimir had come home earlier than usual. He was smiling with delight,
for he had good news: the long-expected summons of the Central
Administration, his appointment to the new post, had reached him. He
would have to go to Moscow at once.

"To Moscow? All right, go ahead. I'm going away too, but not to Moscow.
I'm going home, to my province."

On the surface Vasya was calm as she spoke. The narrow, tinted envelope
was in her pocket--the letter from Nina.

Vladimir didn't notice the weariness in Vasya's face. He didn't see the
angry light that flashed in her brown eyes. Nor did he wonder why Vasya
was putting her things in order, why she was packing.

"You want to visit your friends? All right. Will we meet in Moscow, or
will you go directly to the new district?"

Vasya's heart had had one last hope: he would object, wouldn't let her
go. Now that, too, was over.

"I'm not going to the new place with you. I've been called back
to work. And I'm going to stay there. Not for a little while,
but forever. I've had enough of my rest in this prison. I'm tired
of playing the manager's lady. You can take a wife who is able to
appreciate this sort of life."

Something seemed to have given way in Vasya. A torrent of words poured
from her mouth. She spoke so quickly she had to interrupt herself. She
wouldn't let herself be deceived any more. She was glad their love had
come to an end. It had been an ordeal for her, to be without work among
these syndicate people, these _burshuis_! She had stood it only for
Vladimir's sake; and she was hurt because he no longer needed her. He
was using her only as a housekeeper, and as a cloak: "Why, my wife is a
Communist." But it was the other woman who would give him pleasure and
love "in the mysterious little house". A shrewd plan! There was only
one thing Vladimir and Nina had forgotten: whether she, Vasya, would
agree to lead this disgusting life!

Her eyes were green, spiteful. She had to pause for lack of breath.

Vladimir shook his head in amazement. "Is that you, Vasya? I don't
recognize you! If I ever kept anything from you it was only for your
sake."

"Thanks! I don't need your pity. I'm strong. Do you think that your
love fills my life completely? I'm sick of your love. It's only a thorn
in my flesh. I want only to get away from you as quickly as possible,
to tear myself away. I'm not at all interested in what you do. Love,
kiss whomever you please. Lie, deceive! Forget who you are! Betray
Communism--it doesn't make any difference!"

"Vasya! Vasya! What of our friendship? What of your promise to
understand everything?"

"Our friendship? Where is it? Where's that friendship? I don't believe
you any more, Vladimir. You've killed my faith in you. If you had come
to me and said: 'Vasya, something terrible, something dreadful has
happened; I love another'--do you think I would have held you back,
or reproached you? Do you think I would have stood in the way of your
happiness? You see, Vladimir, you forget that I'm not merely your wife,
but your friend and comrade too. And that's what hurt me--that's what
I'll never forgive."

The tears flowed over her thin cheeks. Wiping them away with her
sleeve, she turned her back on Vladimir.

"I believed in you as in a comrade. But you crushed my faith,
pitilessly. And how can we live together when our faith in each other
is gone? Now I see clearly that our life together, our happiness is
over."

Vasya's heart was heavy; her thin shoulders shook. She sat down on the
bed, crushing the silk quilt in her hands. Sitting down beside her,
Vladimir put his arm round her.

"Did you say that we've become strangers to each other, that you don't
love me any more? No, Vasya. If you didn't love me, you wouldn't suffer
so. And I? Have I stopped loving you? Please try to understand! Yes, I
love Nina; but in a different way. My love for you is stronger, deeper.
I can't see any course without you, Vasya. Whatever I do, I always
wonder: What would Vasya say? What would she advise? You've been my
guiding star, and I need you."

"You're always talking about yourself," Vasya complained. "You forget
me. I can't live that way. I'm not worrying so much about your getting
involved in this affair. What hurts me is that we're not comrades any
more."

"Do you think I don't see that? But why? I don't know. When we're
parted, we long for each other--when we're together we feel cramped.
You said it used to be different. But were we ever together before? We
never had any family life. We were always working, saw each other only
for a moment. Shall we live that way again, Vasya? Just for the moment!
Would you like that? Each to live for himself; and when we want each
other, we'll meet. Yes? Will you? Then Vasya will be my dear tomboy
again, the only one in the world. And there will be no more lies. We
mustn't break off everything forever, in the heat of the moment. That's
what hurts. Have pity on me!"

Vladimir buried his head in her lap, as he had always done, and hid his
face in her burning hands.

The room was quiet.

A wave of the longing they thought they had forgotten covered both of
them with its hot flood. The little ember of passion, buried under the
ashes of suspicion and offended feelings, glowed more brightly again.

"Vasya--darling!"

Vladimir's arms embraced Vasya and pulled her on his knee. He covered
her lips with kisses, and her body with passionate caresses.

Unresisting, Vasya yielded to the sweet languor she had almost
forgotten.

Let it be so! Now Vladimir loved her as before. Altogether. He belonged
to her alone, forgot Nina. He was unfaithful to Nina--not only with his
body but with his heart and his soul.

Vasya felt a malicious joy out of keeping with her usual character. It
grieved her, but she was glad at the same time. Let him be unfaithful.

       *       *       *       *       *

The days that followed were curiously sultry. The ember of passion,
glowing under the ashes of anger and estrangement, flared up like a
charcoal pile fanned into flames by the autumn wind.

Vladimir had become gentle, Vasya was loving and yielding. They seemed
to have fallen in love all over again. They could not live without
each other. At night they lay clasped in each other's arms, as though
afraid that they might lose each other. Vladimir kissed Vasya's brown
eyes, Vasya pressed Vladimir's head to her heart. They had never loved,
never possessed each other like this, with bittersweet longing and joy.
Had they found love anew, or were they bidding it farewell? Farewell to
their lost, irretrievable happiness?

The while she smiled and joked Vasya was afraid of bursting into tears
at any moment. Vladimir caressed her, and looked into her brown eyes;
but she read infinite sadness in his gaze. Not the mischievous sparkle
of joy. His eyes did not mirror Vasya's love. They seemed silently to
be saying good-bye to her.

To keep from seeing Volodya's eyes and their tears, to smother that
infinite sadness, Vasya put her slender arms around Volodya's neck.
She sought his lips; he pressed her to his heart. She yielded to his
passionate caresses. He sought her body, insatiably, until both fell
asleep, exhausted.

Those were queer days. Hot, sultry, gloomy. They held no happiness, no
carefree joy born of love.

They discussed everything. "In the meanwhile," Vasya would go home to
her work. When Vladimir would be settled in his new place they would
arrange, by letter, when they would meet. Where? They said nothing.
Not a word was spoken of the separation. Everything seemed so simple
now, so clear and comprehensible, as if there were unadulterated
truthfulness between them. But there was one thing Vasya never
mentioned; that she had taken and hidden Nina's letter, that she was
keeping it because it might some day be useful to her. She insisted
herself that he should telegraph to Moscow that he was coming alone.
Why did she want this? It hurt her, but somehow it seemed necessary. At
first Vladimir refused, and regarded Vasya suspiciously, as if he were
afraid of something. But finally he telegraphed nonetheless--and became
even more loving and ardent.

It had to be so. They were drinking the last drops of happiness that
remained in the cup of life; and they contained the heady wine of
passion, the bitter sweetness of parting.

Vasya was gay, animated, lively. Volodya had not seen her so for a long
time.

"I didn't like my skin, so I shed it. What sort of 'manager's lady' am
I? You need another sort of wife. Beside, I'm not the least bit suited
for the Nep!" Laughing, she teased Volodya.

"I don't know what you are! I only know that you've become Vasya, the
tomboy, again. And I won't give up my tomboy, not even if five Party
Committees demand you. For a while, yes; but for good--never!"

Vasya laughed. That was how it had to be. They would meet occasionally,
as free comrades. But not as man and wife. That would be better.

Vladimir agreed that it would be better so. But he couldn't live
without Vasya's clever little curly head.

"There are so few friends in the world, Vasya. Especially nowadays.
They're all gone; everyone thinks only of himself. But we're tried
friends and true, aren't we, Vasya?"

They talked together as if the wall between them no longer existed; it
had been broken down. The serpent in Vasya's heart lay dormant; she
thought her jealousy had disappeared. But suddenly, unexpectedly, she
felt the sharp fangs again. Vladimir could not free himself of the
past. He would talk of Nina; it showed how frequently he thought of
her. She was so well educated, he said. She could speak perfect French
with Frenchmen, German with Germans. She had learned that in school.

"If she's so well educated, why can't she find work? Or does she prefer
to live at the expense of others? I suppose her laziness is in her
blood. Besides, it's much more comfortable to be your mistress."

Vasya knew she shouldn't say such things; but she could not restrain
herself. The serpent was hurting her; and that was why she wanted to
strike Volodya. Let him suffer, too.

Volodya frowned, looked at Vasya reproachfully.

"Why do you say that, Vasya? It's ugly of you. My tomboy Vasya wouldn't
say that. It was another Vassilissa Dementyevna."

This stung; Vasya was ashamed of herself. But she could not stop. She
tried over and over again to wound Volodya, until he grew furious, and
she came to her senses.

"Don't be angry, dear. Forgive me! I love you. If I didn't love you, I
wouldn't torment you so...."

Ecstatic kisses, two bodies seeking each other deliriously--to drown
thought and suffering; to forget--to hide the inevitable truth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya bade the Party Committee farewell, packed the things in the
house. She was concerned about everything, with the scrubbing rags, the
hemp mats, and the straw. She consulted with Marya Semyonovna, held
important conferences with her; how to pack everything so that nothing
would be damaged or broken, so that everything would arrive safely in
the manager's new home.

"Why do you bother so much about it?" grumbled Marya Semyonovna. "If
you're going back home, why do you work so hard? Mark my word: the
moment you're gone that little lady'll be there to take your place. And
you're working and worrying for her!"

Why not? Let it be so. She was not helping him as his wife; a wife
would never have done it, would have condemned Vladimir: why had he
become a _burshui_? But now this had nothing to do with her. He was
living for himself, and she for herself. Each was going his own way.
But they were comrades. Why shouldn't she help him? Not because he was
her husband, not because he demanded, expected, or wished it. No; but
as a comrade, as a friend. Nor was she angry with him. If he wanted to
take along all that trash, and to burden the national freight lines
with his cases of dishes and his trunks of silks, it was his own
affair! This was the parting of the ways for them. She could not go
through life hand in hand with him; but why shouldn't she help him pack?

Volodya could not believe his own eyes. Since when had she become such
a housewife? He sang her praises to Ivan Ivanovitch and the members of
the administration. But again and again he asked Vasya who would put
his new house in order if she didn't come along.

"Who? Why, what's the matter with Nina Constantinovna? Or doesn't she
want to soil her little white hands? She's a fine lady--everything has
to be prepared for her, and handed her on a silver platter. By others,
at the expense of others."

She had hurt Volodya, and she was sorry. Why? He looked at her
reproachfully, as if to ask: Why, Vasya?

"My darling, my sweetheart--I'm nasty, I know it! But it's only because
I love you. Don't be angry, dear. I was only joking."

She hid her face on Volodya's breast, endeavored to swallow the tears
that were choking her. For she loved him, come what might! She loved
him, suffered, was afraid of losing him. It would be better to die!

"My poor darling. My Vasyuk. I know you--that's why I love you, why I
can't tear my heart away from you. There's not another such Vasya in
all the world. I'll never have another friend like you!"

And again that bitter, oppressive delirium dulled their senses--again
they sought to drown their suffering in love.

"Will you keep a little corner of your heart free for the rebellious
'Anarchist'?"

"When you're happy, will you think of your tomboy, Vasya?"

It was a queer time. Passionate, gloomy....




                                FREEDOM




                              CHAPTER XIV


Knock-knock! Knock-knock!

Vasya was standing before the locked door of her former attic, where
Grusha was living now. She knocked. Downstairs they had told her that
Grusha had come home from work. But the door was locked. Where was
Grusha?

Knock-knock! Knock-knock!

Could she be asleep?

She turned, to see Grusha coming down the hall with a kettle of hot
water.

"Grusha!"

"Vassilissa! Dearest! When did you come? So unexpected!"

Setting the teakettle on the floor, Grusha embraced Vasya.

"Do come in. It's your attic after all. I owe my living here only to
you. Only wait until I open the door. They steal in this house--it's
terrible. I even lock the door when I go for water. Not long ago
they took a coat that was hanging in Furyashkin's room. A fall coat,
absolutely new. He turned the entire house upside down, and even got
the police. But they didn't find anything.

"So, you're home now, Vassilissa! Take off your wraps, wash off the
dust of your trip. I was just going to make tea. Do you want something
to eat? I have eggs, bread, and some apples."

Home? Grusha had said she was at home. But could people like Vasya have
a "home"?

She looked about. The attic was so familiar. But it wasn't Vasya's
attic any more. There was a sewing machine, a dressmaker's model in
the corner, pieces of cloth lying about, scraps and short threads on
the floor. The walls were bare. Neither Marx nor Lenin, nor the group
of tenants celebrating the founding of the community house. Instead, a
faded red paper fan. Beside it, a postcard with the picture of an egg
and a golden inscription: "Christ hath arisen." An ikon in the corner.
Grusha was not a member of the Party. She believed in God and observed
the fasts, although she was in favor of the Soviet Government and had
many friends among the Communists. She had been engaged to be married;
but her fiancé had gone with the Whites, had probably been killed. And
if he had been killed, the chances were he had been put to death by
the Red Guards. That was why Grusha refused to become a Communist. She
cherished the memory of her lover.

"If I should join you he would curse me in the other world."

Before, Vasya had been unable to understand Grusha. How could she
love a White? But now she knew that the heart would not obey orders.
Vladimir and she had come to the parting of the ways; but her love
still was alive, gave her no peace.

Grusha was glad that Vassilissa had come home. She didn't know which
would be the best place to give her. She fairly overwhelmed her with
news, and wondered why Vasya hadn't gained when she was with her
husband. She had come back as thin as she had been, if not thinner.
Vasya said nothing. She had thought that when she would see Grusha she
would fall into her arms and, weeping, tell her all her troubles. But
when they met, Vasya could not open her mouth, could find no words. How
could she tell anyone about this sorrow?

The news of Vassilissa's arrival spread through the house. The old
tenants were delighted, while the new ones were curious to see what she
was like. One of the members of the House Committee grumbled that now
she probably would want to get into the administration again. The first
to come to Grusha's room were the children, Vasya's old friends of the
Children's Club.

The older among them immediately had a complaint to lodge: the
Children's Club had been broken up at the time of the Nep. They had
said it didn't pay, and that the rooms were needed for other purposes.
But where could the children do their lessons now? Their collections
had been broken up and their library had been scattered; some of it had
even been sold.

Vasya listened. Was such a thing possible? She bridled at once. She
would not let the matter rest. She would go immediately to the Party
Committee, to the Educational and Housing Bureaus. Let the Nep attend
to its own business; but let it keep its hands off the things the
workers had built up laboriously.

"I'll fight them. I won't permit such a thing. Don't worry, children;
I'll see to it that you get what's coming to you, even if I have to go
to Moscow for it."

The older boys laughed with delight. They believed in Vasya. She would
surely attend to it; she was going to fight now. The whole house knew
her as "the fighter". That was as it should be. The children were all
for Vassilissa.

After the children the old tenants came in to greet her. But the moment
they had said: "Good afternoon," each of them had an urgent request
to make of her, everyone had his troubles and wanted to tell her
about them. Vasya listened patiently to them all. As always, she was
interested in everything, advised and consoled them.

The attic was so crowded that it was impossible to turn around.

"Wait a little, Comrades," pleaded Grusha. "You're not giving her a
chance to eat. And she's tired, after traveling for so many nights. But
you have to come in with your affairs, and get her all mixed up."

"Don't, Grusha. Never mind. I'm not at all tired. What were you telling
me, Timofei Timofeiyevitch? Oh yes, about the taxes you're supposed to
pay. How can that be? You're no property owner, nor an employer or
manager..."

As she uttered the word "manager" she thought of Volodya. But her pain
was submerged in the troubles of others. She had no time for it.

Her old friends went away, one by one; and, forgetting her weariness,
Vasya decided to go to Party Headquarters and get to work immediately.

She buttoned her coat, listening to Grusha's news the while. One man
had married, another had left the Party; this girl had become a member
of the Council. Suddenly they heard the voice of the Fedosseyev woman,
resounding through the hall.

"Where's our darling, our defender? My precious Vassilissa
Dementyevna!" She threw her arms around Vasya's neck, and covered her
with moist kisses. At the same time bitter tears were rolling down her
cheeks and wet Vasya's face.

"I waited for you so long, dearest! I've been so lonesome for you! I
waited for you as for the sunshine. When Vassilissa Dementyevna, our
protector, comes back she'll straighten out everything. When she's here
the wretch won't dare make his wife a laughing-stock. He'll be ashamed
to disgrace the entire house with that slut. She'll sympathize with
me because I have to take care of the little children all by myself.
She'll take him to court. At least he'll have to submit to the Party.
You, our darling, you're my only hope."

As a rule Vasya was able to divine the troubles of others from a few
words. But this time she couldn't quite make out what the Fedosseyev
woman was wailing about. Of whom was she complaining? Vasya saw that
she had changed a great deal, almost beyond recognition. She had been
a young, robust, full-bosomed woman--now she had grown thin, old and
yellow.

What sorrow was breaking her heart?

Fedosseyev had entered on a love affair with Dora, an "unbaptized"
Jewess. He wanted to have nothing to do with his wife, made her the
laughing-stock of the entire district. No one could make him ashamed of
himself. He had left his own children, was bringing everything to his
sweetheart. Here, little girl, that's for you! Let the family die in
their corner! Only don't chase me away, me, your pock-marked lover.

"What in the world did that goose Dora see in him?" shrieked the
Fedosseyev woman. "If he were a real man...! But he's disgusting.
He's so damned filthy! I put up with him for eight years, kissed his
pock-marked phiz for the children's sake. Vassilyevitch, I thought,
you're an ass, but fate brought us together and the Church married us,
so I'll have to stand you. When he would be insistent, he'd make me
sick. But I endured him, never looked at anyone else. I thought he'd
be grateful to me. I gave all my youth to the filthy beast; and that's
what I get for it! I lost my good looks, and he ran after that girl. He
had to get mixed up with a Jewish girl! It's a disgrace for the whole
district."

The Fedosseyev woman wept uncontrollably. Vasya listened; and her own
heart seemed filled with a dark flood. Here she found her own grief and
indignation all over again. She shuddered with disgust. Where had her
pluck gone? She no longer felt any desire to go to the Party Committee.
She wanted only to bury her head in her pillow, and to see nothing more.

The other, however, continued to sob, to kiss Vassilissa's shoulder, to
beg her to bring her husband to reason and to defend the interests of
the little children. She should threaten him with a court trial.

       *       *       *       *       *

As she went home from Party Headquarters, Vasya was surrounded by her
Comrades. They couldn't stop talking. And Vasya felt so happy and gay.
She had forgotten everything, as if she had never lived for or worried
about anything but the Party.

She had grown excited, had quarreled and stood her ground; she had
asked questions about everything, and had found out just how the land
lay. It had interested and satisfied her. Her head was working, her
soul seemed to rise.

She hurried up to her attic without noticing the stairs. Only then she
felt her weariness.

While Grusha was preparing supper Vasya lay down on the bed, and fell
asleep at once.

Grusha looked at her friend, undecided as to whether she should wake
her. She felt sorry for her. Vasya was exhausted; let her sleep.

She undressed Vasya as though she were a child, took off her shoes,
and covered her. She hung a shade over the light, and sat down to sew
button-holes.

Knock-knock!

Who the devil could be coming now? Grusha muttered angrily. They never
let a person alone.

She opened the door. There stood Fedosseyev, the husband.

"What do you want?"

"I want to see Vassilissa Dementyevna. Is she at home?"

"Are you all crazy? She's had a long trip; she's tired, hasn't had a
chance to sleep--and you fall on her like a pack of hungry dogs on a
bone. Vassilissa Dementyevna is asleep."

Grusha and Fedosseyev had words. Fedosseyev was obstinate, but Grusha
refused to let him in. Tomorrow. They agreed on the next day.

She banged the door in Fedosseyev's face. A damned filthy fellow. Had a
wife and three children, and Dora was big, too. It was beyond Grusha.

She considered that Fedosseyev was in the wrong. And she condemned
Dora, too. Why had she started anything with a married man? Weren't
there enough bachelors? Grusha's morals were very strict. She kept
within bounds; for she still remembered her lover.

When Vasya woke up she felt calm and at peace with the world. The
autumn sun was shining through the window, throwing a golden light on
the seamstress. Grusha was heating her flatiron on the petroleum stove;
she was going to iron a dress.

"For whom is it?"

"For a member of the Executive Committee, for a birthday party."

"What? Are they celebrating birthdays nowadays?"

"I should say so! You ought to see them--it's better than it used to
be with the rich people. The table is covered with appetizers, wine,
whiskey..." Grusha's iron was hissing; she had no time to talk. Vasya
stretched on the bed. She remembered it well. It was hard and narrow;
yet she had slept in it together with Volodya. How had they ever had
room? Now they had been in each other's way even in a wide bed.

It had been different in the old days.

Was her misery trying to creep into her heart again, to disturb her
peace of mind? No, everything was quiet in her heart. The calm that
follows a storm.

Grusha remembered the appointment with Fedosseyev, and told Vasya about
it.

"I don't care. Let him come."

She didn't want to have too much to do with the Fedosseyevs. She
seemed offended because these gossips had been overtaken by the same
misfortune as she.

She inquired about Dora. Who was she?

"Don't you remember her?" Grusha was amazed. "She's dark and
pretty--she danced with the tambourine at the Komsomolsk celebration."

Now Vasya recalled her. Very favorably. She had worked in the tanners'
Cultural Committee. A clever girl; and her youth was no drawback.
Besides, she sang well. How could the Fedosseyev woman think of
comparing with her?

Grusha's view was different. She condemned Dora; the laws had to be
observed. If the Communists were to permit husbands to act that way,
all the men would desert their wives and little children, and would
take on young girls. The Party was going to take proceedings against
Dora.

"Take proceedings against her? Only the Fedosseyev woman could be
behind that. A disgusting creature!" Vasya defended Dora. "No law could
force a man to live with a woman he doesn't love. Do you want to force
him to embrace that woman? Even though he loathes her? Even though
she's a common sneak?"

Vasya was quite wrought up. She was furious with the Fedosseyev woman;
and why? She hardly knew herself. As she fought about the Fedosseyevs
she thought of Vladimir. As she defended Dora she saw the white lace
parasol and Nina's red lips.

Grusha was surprised to see Vassilissa siding with Fedosseyev.

"You act as if they were your best friends. Weren't you always railing
against them? You know how much trouble they caused you. Of course,
it's your own affair; but I'd advise you to keep out of this business.
There's no use in getting mixed up in a dog fight."

Vasya was stubborn. She would stand up for Dora if there were
proceedings against her. "Tell me, if you please: does Fedosseyev's
legal wife think she's the only one who has rights? No. She's mistaken.
There are other rights, not dictated by human laws. They are the
commands of the heart."

As Grusha pressed the hem of the dress she looked at Vasya attentively,
as if to read her friend's innermost thoughts.

Vasya frowned. Why did Grusha object? Wasn't Vasya right? Could any law
dictate to the heart?

"Who said so? The heart is most important of all. You can't be human if
you haven't a heart. But as I look at you now I see clearly that you're
heart-sick, too, Vassilissa, that you're suffering. That's why you're
defending Fedosseyev. You're thinking of your man, aren't you? And you
want to find an excuse for him. I'm right."

Vasya said nothing, but bowed her head.

Grusha asked no more questions. Taking the dress from the ironing-board
she shook it out and picked off the loose threads. Now it was finished.

"Are you through?" asked Vasya, thinking of something quite different.

"Yes."

"Well, then I'll go to the Party Committee. Let Fedosseyev wait."

       *       *       *       *       *

Now came days of hard work for Vassilissa. She was preparing to
leave for the weaving works. She conferred with Stepan Alexeyevitch,
acquainted herself with her instructions, and spent her evenings at
meetings of her responsible co-workers. The hours passed so quickly
that she had no time to think, or to listen to her heart.

And then she had her new worries, about the Fedosseyevs and Dora. They
and their difficulties gave Vasya no rest.

Fedosseyev had come to her, and had told her everything.

He had met Dora Abramovna in the Cultural Committee. He had been
singing in the chorus. Dora Abramovna liked his bass, and took him to a
music teacher. She was a musician herself. And she had brought him into
the Cultural Committee. That was how it had begun. But his wife soon
got wind of it, and then there was trouble.

Fedosseyev complained about his wife; she was spreading all sorts of
rumors, and was setting the Comrades against Dora Abramovna. She was
wailing that Dora was "robbing" her family, and was letting Fedosseyev
support her. The truth was quite the opposite. Not only did Dora
refuse to accept a single kopek from Fedosseyev, but she even helped
the family, sharing everything with them. She thought of the children,
too, had brought the younger ones into the kindergarten, and had given
textbooks and copybooks to the oldest boy, who went to school. Of
course she didn't want the wife to know that. Besides, she had made a
shirt and tie for Fedosseyev to wear to the concerts. But the malicious
gossips had it just the other way.

Fedosseyev was grieved on Dora's account. It wouldn't hurt him. But he
was worried about her, lest she get into difficulties with the Party
because of him. It was all his wife's fault; she insisted on being in
their way.

Listening to Fedosseyev, Vasya couldn't help thinking of Vladimir and
Nina. They too had suffered like this, had sought a way out, had been
angry at Vasya because she prevented them from being happy. She had
advised the Fedosseyev woman to get out of the way of her own accord.
It was impossible to block the happiness of others; no matter how
many barriers you would put in its path, you couldn't keep it from
flying over your head. But what was Vasya herself doing? Was not she,
too, standing in the way? Was she not still standing guard over the
happiness that had been?

Fedosseyev loved Dora. When he spoke of her his face seemed to shine.
She had seen the same change in Vladimir when he thought of Nina.

"Dora Abramovna has a heart of gold. In the union everybody's fond of
her, too. Those who don't belong to the Party don't think it'll take
any action against her. But if it does, they'll be only too happy. 'Let
her come to us independents; we'll take Dora Abramovna's part, never
fear!'"

Fedosseyev had hardly left Vasya when his wife caught hold of her,
kissed her shoulders, and begged her to be on her side.

Vasya, who didn't like Fedosseyeva, crossly waved her away. Whereupon
she filled the entire house with her shouting about Dora, about her
husband, and about Vasya, abusing all three of them at once.

Vasya met Dora at Party headquarters. They found a corner where the
typists were busily pounding away at their machines, where the noise
permitted them to talk without being overheard.

Dora was pretty, with clever eyes. Vasya liked her.

She was trying to hide her pregnancy with a shawl.

Dora began to speak of her own accord. Not of herself, but of
Fedosseyev. She looked after him, esteemed him, admired his talent;
his voice was excellent, as good as Chaliapin's. All he needed was to
study. That was why Dora wanted to marry him. So that he could break
away from his family and from his cobbling, so that he could devote
himself entirely to his singing.

But although she spoke highly of Fedosseyev Dora also bewailed his
indecision. As long as he was with her he was prepared to do anything,
fully determined to leave his wife and put through the divorce. But as
soon as he came home it was finished. He would give in, and she would
have to begin all over again. She had been working on him for so many
months! And unsuccessfully.

Vasya grew disturbed as she listened to Dora. Might not Nina have
spoken of Vladimir in the same way?

Dora didn't care a rap for all the formalities of divorce and
marriage. It was all nonsense in her eyes; she favored a free union.
But Fedosseyeva would never let them live in peace unless they were
registered in the Commissariat; therefore Dora was making the most of
her being 'in the family way' to move Fedosseyev and induce him to get
the divorce. She wasn't afraid of motherhood. She would be able to take
care of herself without a husband too.

To move him? To force him to get the divorce? Had Nina done that, too?
Dora, praising Fedosseyev, was expecting Vasya to voice her approval.

But Vasya was thinking of her own troubles. Dora saw only the good
in Fedosseyev. Nina probably loved Vladimir in the same way. Vasya
was different. She saw Vladimir's bad points, too. She loved him and
suffered for his faults; they distressed her, and she wanted to reform
him. Might this not have hurt Volodya?

"Why does his wife cling to him so?" Dora spoke wrathfully. "Because
they used to love each other? But that was so long ago! Now there's
nothing to keep them together. She doesn't really know him--she can't
appreciate him--she doesn't understand him at all!"

Ah, thought Vasya, that's how it was with Vladimir and me. He didn't
know what I wanted, and I couldn't understand his ideas. Our paths went
off in different directions.

"He's a stranger to his wife; they're different in every respect--in
their tastes and in their ideals. She wants to keep him as a husband,
but she doesn't need him as a man. He's not essential in her life."

And she, Vasya--did she need Vladimir as a man? Was he essential to her?

As she asked herself this question her heart answered distinctly: No,
she did not need him--not as he was now. But Dora could not help going
on: "What sort of love is that? They can't bear each other. It's a
cat-and-dog life. Every man for himself. Neither friendship, nor faith
in each other."

Yes, thought Vasya. Yes; neither friendship, nor faith in each other.

"And we, Comrade Fedosseyev and I, understand each other as if we had
only one heart, one soul."

So that was the love of Vladimir and Nina.

Vasya seemed to understand it only now. She grew thoughtful.

She had much to do. Urgent Party affairs, preparations for her
departure. Yet she didn't forget the Fedosseyevs. She did her best to
hasten the divorce, tried to reconcile Fedosseyev with his Comrades,
and to defend Dora.

All this seemed important, very important for Vasya. She couldn't
explain why.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya was hurrying home from Party headquarters. She was to leave for
the weaving works the next day. Her head was whirling. How reorganize
the work, follow orders and adapt herself to the many who didn't belong
to the Party? The independents were just like the Communists nowadays.
They wanted to penetrate more and more deeply into everything, to
investigate everything themselves. They took nothing on faith. If you
didn't have a sound basis for your statements you might just as well
not talk to them.

Her head was full of all this. She seemed to have forgotten her
heartache. She felt as if she had never lost her man, her friend--as if
she had not lived through an entire summer as "the manager's lady".

Vasya hurried along. She had had nothing to eat since morning. And when
she thought of food she felt sick, everything seemed to grow dark, her
head was reeling. How long? Was she going to be ill, or....

A suspicion rose in her mind. It was almost three months since her last
period. Oughtn't she to look up Marya Andreyevna, the physician? She
lived right here, in one of the side streets. They had worked together
in the organization of the nursery for the community houses. She would
have to find out what the trouble was. Vasya couldn't go to her new
work if she was sick.

She turned into the side street, went up to the little white house, and
rang the bell. The physician, Marya Andreyevna, opened the door herself.

"How in the world did you happen to come here? Is it a business matter,
or do you want my professional advice?"

Vasya was on pins and needles; she felt embarrassed, and even blushed.

After watching her carefully for a while Marya Andreyevna put her hand
on her shoulder.

"Come into my office--I'll examine you."

Marya Andreyevna inquired about Vasya's appetite, her periods, her
dizziness. She seemed to know everything in advance. She examined Vasya.

It was disagreeable and embarrassing for Vasya. She had never consulted
a gynecologist before. She was almost frightened when she had to sit
down on the examination chair.

As she dressed, her hands trembled so that she couldn't fasten the
hooks.

Marya Andreyevna stood before the wash-stand in her white smock, and
painstakingly scrubbed her hands with soap and a brush.

For a while neither spoke.

"Well, dear Comrade Vassilissa, I don't know whether you'll be glad or
sorry, but there's no doubt about it. You're in the family way."

Vasya was surprised. But in a moment a smile flitted over her face. A
baby? That would be nice.

"Will you go back to your husband now?" asked the white-smocked
physician as she dried her hands on an embroidered towel.

"To my husband? No." Vasya shook her head. "I'm not going back to
him--we've separated. Each of us is going his own way."

"You've separated? This is a fine time for it! How will you arrange
things now? We may yet be able to stop the business. What do you say?
Where will you go all alone with your child? You're not strong."

"I'm not alone, though. Tomorrow I'm leaving for the weaving works.
There's a fine group there, mostly women, weavers. We'll all work
together there, organize a nursery. Oh, yes, that's what I wanted to
ask you: how did you make the nursery self-supporting? Tell me about
it, please, and advise me."

They discussed the nursery, subsidies, contributions, the payment of
professional employes. Vasya forgot the "news" about herself. Marya
reminded her of it when she was leaving.

"Don't undertake too much work! Remember that your health is none too
good. I'm afraid for you, my dear!"

She gave Vasya some advice. One thing was prohibited, while another
was good for her. Vasya listened, and tried to remember everything.
For the child's sake. It should be a strong baby. It was so little, so
helpless....

She reached the street, smiled as she walked along.

A baby! That would be nice. She would show the other women how to raise
a child in the Communist way. There was no need for a kitchen, for
family life and all that nonsense. The thing to do was to organize a
nursery, a self-supporting community house. Practice was better than
preaching.

Vasya was so occupied with the idea of self-support that she even
forgot her child. The thought of Vladimir, however, never entered her
mind, as though he had had nothing to do with it.

Vasya was packing. A box containing Volodya's picture and his letters
fell over. On the top of the pile lay a narrow, tinted envelope, Nina
Constantinovna's letter.

Vasya looked at it, turned it over and over. She knew it by heart, yet
she wanted to read it again. It would revive her heartache; but she
could not resist it. Whenever she read it the old pain again gnawed at
her heart; then it would freeze--that was her wrath against Vladimir.
Why had he lied? Why had he deceived her?

She took up the letter, went closer to the window. It was growing dark.
She unfolded the familiar sheet. She read it carefully, every word.

But the gnawing pain was gone. And the serpent, that venomous
tormentor, seemed to have lost its strength.

Instead, Vasya felt pity stirring in her heart. Sympathy for Nina
Constantinovna's tears. Sympathy with the grief, the sorrow, the
distress of another woman's heart. She remembered Nina going away from
the bandstand, wiping away her tears with her fingers.

Why had she suffered? Why had she exposed herself to such anguish? She
had expected a baby; and she had got rid of it. Why?

Going over to the table, Vasya pushed aside Grusha's pieces of cloth,
set down the ink and began to write a letter.

    "Nina Constantinovna!

    "I don't know you, have no idea of what you really are. I've seen
    you only once. And I will tell you quite frankly that I didn't like
    you. But when you cried, as you went away from the bandstand, my
    heart understood your pain and suffered with you.

    "I have just reread your letter to Vladimir Ivanovitch. I'm
    returning it to you; my taking it was quite unwarranted, and I kept
    it from Vladimir. But it has served its purpose. So you needn't be
    angry with me on this account.

    "I've thought a great deal about your letter. Now that I have just
    reread it I know that I cherish no grudge against you, that I'm not
    angry with you any more. I see that you, too, have suffered much
    because of me. Let me, therefore, tell you what I've already told
    Vladimir: We've had enough of this game of hide and seek. You must
    become Vladimir Ivanovitch's wife, his legal wife. The two of you
    are better suited to each other. I'm not the proper wife for him,
    for our tastes differ, and our lives run in different directions. I
    never know what he thinks, and he doesn't understand me.

    "When we separated, Vladimir and I, it was not because you had
    stolen him away from me; you could take possession of his heart
    only because he no longer loved me. I shall continue to live now
    just as I used to live before without Vladimir. You, however,
    actually cannot live without him. It is always so when two people
    love each other.

    "Vladimir Ivanovitch and I lived in a free union, so that no
    divorce is required.

    "I do not reproach you. If I had known sooner how you love each
    other, I would have done this long ago. Tell Vladimir Ivanovitch
    that I feel no bitterness toward him, but will always be his
    friend, as I always used to be. And should you ever need anything I
    shall always be ready to help you or to be of service to you. There
    was a time when my heart held little love for you. But now that I
    understand everything I feel only deep sympathy for you, for all
    your tears, for the suffering and heartache of a woman. I wish you
    great happiness, as I would a sister. Remember me to Vladimir, and
    tell him to take good care of his bride.

    "In any case, I'm giving you my new address. If you want to write
    me, I will answer. For we aren't enemies, Nina Constantinovna, even
    though, unintentionally, we caused each other much pain. Neither of
    us wanted to hurt the other.

    "Good-bye. I wish you all the happiness in the world,

                                                 "Vassilissa Malygina."

At the end of the letter she wrote down her exact address. Then she put
both letters into an envelope, moistened the flap with her tongue, and
pasted it together.

Then, suddenly, her soul--not her reason--told her: this is the end.

The end? But where was the pain?

There was no pain.

Where was her grief? Her gnawing, benumbing grief?

The grief, too, had gone.

Volodya "the American" was there--not Vladimir Ivanovitch. She thought
of Vladimir and saw Nina. She thought of Nina, and Vladimir appeared
beside her.

As though they had become one for Vasya--one, indivisible, inseparable.

One. The thought of it did not hurt her. Let them be one.

Her heart was calm, full of peace. Like a garden after a tempest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vasya stood beside the window, enjoying the sunset. The sun was sinking
behind purple, gold-edged clouds, as in a storm. The crows were
circling over the earth, cawing, seeking a shelter for the night.

The air smelled of dry leaves, mushrooms and autumn earth. Fragrant,
refreshing, familiar. Not spicy and enervating, as in Vladimir's
country.

Vasya drew a deep breath, avidly drinking in the air.

Yes, life was beautiful.

She leaned out of the window. In the little courtyard Grusha was
hastening to get the clean clothes off the line while it was still
daylight.

"Grusha. Grusha. Come here, quick. I have some news. Good news...."

"I'm on my way."

She came in, threw the laundry on the bed.

"What's the news? Did you get a letter?"

"A letter? Yes, it's a letter; but I didn't get it--I wrote it. Guess
to whom!"

"To none other than Vladimir Ivanovitch, I'm sure."

"But you're wrong! Not to him, but to the little lady, his wife, Nina
Constantinovna."

Grusha was astonished. "Why did you do that?"

"You see, Grusha, when I read that letter of Nina's over again I felt
so sorry for her. After all she suffered, too, on my account. And
she lost a baby because of me. She endured everything, grieved, was
miserable. And why? We're not rivals, after all. We're not enemies. If
she had taken Vladimir from me in cold blood, without love, I would
never have forgiven her, would always have been furious at her. But now
that I really understand her.... For she loves Vladimir. She loves him
very much, more than I do. And she's right.

"Life without Vladimir means nothing to her. That's why she writes:
'I can't live without you!' Do I need Vladimir? I've thought it over,
Grusha, many times; and now I realize that I won't grieve for him.
If Volodya 'the American' could come back, it would be different. I
long for him, Grusha, for the old Volodya. But, you see, the American
doesn't exist any more! And he'll never return! So why should I torment
Nina? Why disturb the happiness of these two? What do I care about the
'manager'? I don't need him."

"Yes," agreed Grusha, "you don't need the manager. That's the worst of
it, the way so many of our men have deserted us to become managers.
But don't be unhappy, Vassilissa. There are plenty of our boys left.
Just look at those who don't belong to the Party! You'll find true
Communists among them, real proletarian Communists."

"Of course, we're getting new recruits. But the others? They exchanged
their proletarianism long ago for lamps and quilts. They don't
understand us. So, you see, Grusha, I thought: Why torment Nina? Why
hold on to Vladimir? He was neither married nor free. What was the
sense in that state of affairs? It would have to be stopped; and that
without bitterness. They had suffered enough. I didn't quite understand
all this when I left Vladimir. I was still expecting something, hoping
for something. I thought that if Vladimir left me for another woman I
would die of grief. I was numbed with pain when I came here; I didn't
even notice the trip. But when I went to work in the Party Committee,
when others came to me with their worries and troubles, it seemed to me
that my sorrow was gone. Will you believe me? I can honestly say that I
feel neither bitterness nor jealousy. Everything is calm and quiet."

"Mother of God, I thank thee!" Grusha quickly crossed herself, and
glanced at the ikon in the corner. "I did not kneel and pray to our
Holy Lady all these nights in vain, Vassilissa. 'Help a woman's
heart,' I prayed. 'Help Vassilissa.'"

Vasya smiled. "Stop, Grusha! You're incorrigible! Do you still believe
in ikons? But what you said is true: I'm cured. How many months was I
walking about like a somnambulist! I wasn't conscious. I didn't live. I
forgot the Party. But now I'm well again. Everything delights me now,
everything's new to me. The old world still goes round. Vladimir may
be gone, but the Party is there. That's how I felt after I had typhus,
when I began to recuperate."

"I'm only afraid that you'll have another attack, that your husband'll
write some more of those damned letters of his."

"No, Grusha, that won't happen again!" Thoughtfully Vasya shook her
head. "My heart has changed altogether. I resent nothing, reproach him
with nothing; my jealousy of Nina has disappeared. But my pity for them
remains. All three of us were lost in a labyrinth. We were angry at
one another. And we couldn't find the way out before we had lost our
bitterness. When I took Nina into my heart I stepped out of that maze
of suffering. It was not because I forgave her; what did I have to
forgive? But I sympathized with her as with a sister, for she had known
a woman's pain, and had suffered as much as I. Not through her own
fault, but because life still hasn't reached the ideal. I pitied her
and I felt better."

"And it couldn't be otherwise if you don't love him any more. Love
always brings suffering. It gives you a little joy--but sorrow follows
it like a shadow. And when you feel no more pain your love's at an end,
too."

"That's not true, Grusha; you mustn't look at things that way," Vasya
shook her head. "I haven't stopped loving Vladimir. He's still in my
heart. But my love has changed. It no longer makes me miserable; I'm
not angry at him any more. I am grateful to him for the love that has
been, for the happiness we felt together. Why should I be vexed with
Vladimir? As long as he loved me we were happy. Now he has stopped
loving me--who's to blame for that? I thank him for what has been. I
feel as if Vladimir had become my brother, and Nina my sister."

"I can't quite see your regarding Nina as a sister. You're trying to
fool yourself, Vassilissa. Don't try to be too clever--don't be a
super-Communist. Of course it's better that you've forgiven Vladimir
about Nina. Forgiven and forgotten. Out of your heart, and out of
your mind. But as for love--don't! Keep your love, your heart for the
workers instead. They're having a hard time now. Many of them have lost
faith in themselves. They don't get much out of your Party doctrines.
Give them something more, food and warmth for the heart. I'm not a
member of the Party, but I see everything nevertheless. Just ask me,
Vassilissa, and I'll always tell you the truth."

"I know you're with us, Grusha; we all know that. But why do you still
insist on believing in your ikons? Now, don't pout, don't be offended.
I won't say another word. I won't tease you any more, and I won't
quarrel with you. I'm in such a festive mood today, Grusha. I feel so
happy, so gay, so free! And do you know who cured me? Do you? Try to
guess!"

"I can't imagine!"

"The Fedosseyevs."

"You don't mean it! Then let that Fedosseyev woman be forgiven for all
her sins and meanness!"

They laughed.

"But I haven't even told you the biggest news of all, Grusha. I saw the
doctor. I'm expecting a baby."

"A baby?" Grusha clapped her hands. "Really? Then how could you let
your husband go? Will you let the baby be fatherless, or are you going
to be fashionable, and have an abortion?"

"Why an abortion? Let the child grow. I don't need a man. That's all
they can do--be fathers! Look at the Fedosseyev woman with her three
children--they didn't keep her husband from going to Dora."

"That's all very well; but how will you bring it up all by yourself?"

"All by myself? The organization will bring it up. We'll fix up a
nursery. And I'll bring you over to work there. You like children, too.
Then it'll be our baby. We'll have it in common."

Again they laughed.

"But now, Grusha, I have to hurry with my packing. The train leaves
early in the morning. I'm going to my work tomorrow. I'm going to
arrange everything just as I want it. Stepan Alexeyevitch has given me
his blessing. Back to work! Grusha, do you realize the joy of that?"

She seized Grusha's hands, and the two danced about the room like
children. They almost knocked over the dressmaker's model.

They laughed uproariously. Even the people downstairs in the courtyard
could hear them.

"We must live, Grusha! Live!"


                                 FINIS





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RED LOVE ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.