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 train was to arrive in the morning. And Vassilissa was up with the first pale light of dawn had to collect her things, and dress, to please her beloved Volodya. They had been hard, those seven months of separation. Vassilissa was happy, gay, joyful. She felt the spring in the air. The Nep-girl was still in bed, lying on her back, and gazing at her reflection in a hand mirror. But Vasya had already washed herself, carefully brushed her curls, and put on the new dress Grusha had made for her. Vassilissa looked into the mirror on the wall. She saw only her eyes. They sparkled so that her entire face looked beautiful. Everything seemed to be allright. This time Volodya wouldn’t lecture her for running around in “rags. ” A ... (From : Marxists.org.)

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 wornout 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 ... (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.)

Vasya was sitting in the car, her head pillowed on her woolen shawl. She was not sleeping, but she saw the past as in a dream, as in a moving picture: reel after reel, scene after scene, joy and misery, all her life with Vladimir, with Volodya. Beautiful memories. And as she remembered them even her sorrows seemed pleasant. She settled down more comfortably. The car rocked soothingly, luxuriously. In her mind’s eye, Vassilissa saw the meeting of the union, a noisy, shouting, restless assembly. The bakers were an obstreperous, stiff-necked, unruly crowd. Vladimir was in the chair; he alone knew how to manage them. It was difficult, but finally he succeeded. The veins of his forehead were swollen with the effort, but he had carried his ... (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.)