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.