"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.