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.