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.