Red Love

Part 3, Chapter 1
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&rsq... (From : Marxists.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 13
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. (From : Marxists.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 12
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 dress... (From : Marxists.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 11
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 way almost eight! Vladimir must have waited for her impatiently. Had they given him a dinner conformi... (From : Marxists.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 10
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 e... (From : Marxists.org.)

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... (From : Marxists.org.)

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 t... (From : Marxists.org.)

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 re-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 o... (From : Marxists.org.)

Source: Red Love, Seven Arts Publishing Co., New York, 1927. First Published: 1923; Online Version: marx.org 1998; Transcription/Markup: Sally Ryan for marxists.org. 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 postwar 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 evo... (From : Marxists.org.)

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 ... (From : Marxists.org.)