Red Stefan (11 page)

Stephen was quite willing to talk. Irina was just back from Moscow, and what she had to say might be interesting.

“What is the matter?” he said.

She laid her hand on his arm without any trace of self consciousness.

“You know how I have worked on the Agricultural Front. Before I came to this district I was in the Caucasus—before that near Minsk. I helped to organize the Collective Farms in each district. Does anyone think it was pleasant work? Where it was possible to persuade, I persuaded, but where force was needed, force had to be used. How do you suppose I bore to see houses pulled down, people thrown out, or to hear women shrieking and cursing me? Is that pleasant? I bore it because I could see the end—the whole country collectivized—the old dirty houses and the old dirty people swept away—the small narrow fields, the little miserable barns like this, the two or three starveling cattle, all gone. And instead—what?”

“I'm a public meeting, and she's addressing me from the platform,” said Stephen to himself.

“What?” repeated Irina in a rapt tone. “The whole land cultivated by tractors—obsolete methods replaced—Collectivization everywhere—improved stock—hygienic buildings—nurseries for the children—and cultural opportunities for all!”

“It's a great idea!” said Stephen with enthusiasm. “What's gone wrong with it? Why are you discouraged?”

“Why? You know—or you ought to know. Where were you all this summer? If you were going up and down the country, what did you think of the Farms—the Collective Farms? What did you think of the crops—the output—the agricultural conditions?”

Stephen shrugged his big shoulders.

“Not too good,” he said. “They are letting the weeds get ahead of them, and that's the devil. They are lazy. They grow enough to feed themselves and don't trouble about the workers in the towns.”

Irina made a passionate movement.

“There—you have said it! But this laziness and apathy have not just grown of themselves—they have been fostered. Counter-revolutionary influences have been at work. There are class enemies on the Farms.” Her eyes glowed. “I said I was discouraged, but what's the use of being discouraged? I was whining, and Lenin said, ‘Never whine! We must fight!' You know I have just been in Moscow. They told me there what is to happen.” She dropped her voice to a lower tone. “It was a great blow to me, because they will go no further with Collectivization. You know how I had set my heart on a Collective Farm here—the plans had been passed and the site chosen. Well, that's all put an end to. I tell you I could have cried. But they're going to tighten things up in the existing Farms. They are planning special police to deal with them. Counter-revolutionaries are to be detected and punished with the utmost severity.”

“That sounds all right,” said Stephen heartily.

“Yes, I was wrong to be discouraged. It was my own fault. After we had talked last night I was so discouraged that it would have been a pleasure to die. That was because I had been thinking about personal happiness, and a good Communist does not care about that, but only about the Cause.”

Stephen nodded gravely.

“The Cause should always come first,” he agreed. He wished very much that Irina would take her hand off his arm. Instead she pressed it with a good deal of warmth.

“Yes, yes—how well you put it! That is what makes the bond between us—to both of us the Cause comes first.”

“Yes, naturally.”

Irina leaned against the arm she was holding.

“The Cause still comes first with you then?”

“Of course it does.”

“You have not put a personal affection in its place?”

“
I?
What a question!”

She took a half step back as if about to loose her hold, but instead of doing so she pressed suddenly near again.

“Is it her eyes you prefer to mine?” She said the words as if they were forced out of her. Her face flushed, and her own eyes, large and brilliant, were fixed upon him in an imploring look.

“You have very fine eyes,” said Stephen impartially.

Irina caught her breath. She said,

“Is that all you have to say? Am I to make an inventory in order to find out what makes you choose a half-witted peasant girl like this Varvara? It must be something that you see in her—something you find lacking in me. I ask you to tell me what it is. Is that too much to ask?”

As she spoke, Elizabeth came into the barn. She saw Irina with her hand on Stephen's arm, her face a little flushed and her lips moving in low, earnest talk. She would have liked to turn back, but Akulina had sent her for an apronful of straw, and if she went back without it, there would be questions. Besides, the slow-witted Varvara would not be supposed to notice anything. With a dull and listless air she crossed the barn and began to pull at the straw.

Stephen came over to help her, and Irina followed him. When Elizabeth turned to go, she stopped her. Seen in the light of day, there was something in the girl that might attract a man. She had fine eyes, if they had not looked so vacant. She had small hands and feet, and a certain grace. Irina said abruptly,

“Where do you come from? What is your village?”

Elizabeth gave her a blank stare. Since she had no idea what she should say, it seemed the best thing to do. Perhaps Stephen would come to her rescue.

Stephen did. He laughed till the rafters rang, and said,

“It's a good joke your asking her that, because she doesn't know. You see she doesn't come from a village at all. Her father was a forester, and the nearest village was so far away that she was waiting to go there till it was time for her to be married.” He put a rough arm round Elizabeth's shoulders and gave her a shake. “And that's why you're so shy, my little pigeon—And then her father and mother died, and she started out to look for her brother who had joined the Red Army, and as she hadn't the least idea where he was, she hadn't much chance of finding him, and it was a real bit of luck for her finding me.”

“Was her father a kulak?” said Irina, still staring.

The well-to-do peasantry upon whom the Revolution had made special war had been driven out of their holdings in thousands all over Russia. This girl with that undefined look of being different might be the daughter of such a family, crazed perhaps by her sufferings. There are many crazy people in the Revolutionary paradise. Women who have seen their homes burned down, their husbands shot, and their children starved to death are often not quite sane afterwards.

Stephen laughed again.

“A kulak's daughter? What an idea! Didn't I tell you her father was a forester?” He let go of Elizabeth and gave her a push. “Run along with that straw, or my grandmother will scold, and when my grandmother scolds it's all we can do to keep the roof on.”

As Elizabeth ran out, he began to pile up the straw which she had pulled down. As he worked, he sang in his big rolling voice:

“Let the red cock crow on the Kulak's roof!

Pull down the beams of the Kulak's house!

Let the red cock crow!

Let the red fire glow!

Pull down the beams of the Kulak's house!”

“What is that song?” said Irina.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was pale.

“It's a very good song. There's another verse.” He went on singing:

“Let the red cock crow on the Kulak's roof!

Pull down the walls of the Kulak's house!

Let the red cock crow!

Let the red Cause grow!

Pull down the walls of the Kulak's house!”

“Where did you get that song?” said Irina.

Stephen turned round laughing.

“I made it. Don't you think it goes well? I knew you'd like it.”

Irina stamped her foot.

“I hate it!”

He came over to her and took her by the shoulders.

“Was it you who reported Nikita for hiding grain?”

“No!” said Irina violently. She wrenched away from him and went back a step or two. “Why should you say such a thing? Why should you think I would do such a thing?”

Stephen looked mildly surprised.

“Why should you be angry with me? Wouldn't it have been your duty to report him if you knew that he was hiding grain?” He whistled the air of the song he had just sung—
Pull down the beams of the Kulak's house
.

“Be silent!” said Irina passionately.

Stephen stopped whistling.

“You are not a good Communist if you are sorry for kulaks and grain-hoarders,” he said contemptuously. “I suppose it was Nikita's wife Anna who frightened you by saying it would be your turn to be unhappy one day.”

“She did
not
frighten me!” said Irina with heaving breast.

Stephen pressed his advantage.

“I should never have thought that you would have been superstitious, Irina. To be afraid of a poor, silly, demented woman's curse!”

Irina was frightfully pale.

“She did
not
curse me!”

“Well, it sounded very like it to me. Isn't it cursing to wish anyone unhappy?” He shrugged his shoulders. “There are curses I'd prefer to that myself.”

“I tell you she did
not
curse me!”

“All right,” said Stephen cheerfully—“you didn't report Nikita, and Anna didn't curse you, and you're not superstitious, because none of us have any superstitions left. It's a wonderful world—isn't it?”

He turned back to the straw and sang again:

“The red cock crows on the kulak's roof.”

Irina rushed out of the barn.

CHAPTER XI

Stephen came back into the house and found Elizabeth alone there. She was looking pale and troubled.

“That's all right,” he said. “But we must get away. She's a heap too interested in you.”

Elizabeth had turned away. She said without looking round,

“What happened? What did you say?”

Stephen laughed a little grimly.

“I pulled off a good rousing counter-attack. I asked her if it was she who reported Nikita for grain hoarding. Akulina was talking about it last night.”

“Was it Irina?” Elizabeth's tone was low and horrified.

“I don't know. I expect so. She'd look upon it as a duty—you've got to remember that—a painful duty.”

Still without looking round, Elizabeth said,

“She wouldn't find it a painful duty to report me.”

“I don't know,” said Stephen. “I don't believe she'd know, herself. Most of the time she's a set of copy-book maxims for Young Communists, very handsomely bound, but every now and then a streak of something real crops up, and then I'm sorry for her because she doesn't know what to do with it.”

Elizabeth went over to the old-fashioned loom and stood there fingering it.

“It would be better to tell her that we are not married.”

“Why?”

“It would be better.”

He came and leaned against the wall beyond the loom so that he could see her face.

“Why do you want to commit suicide?”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“I don't.”

“Telling Irina we're not married would be suicide—for both of us. And a nasty, painful, lingering suicide too—weeks in a buggy Bolshevist prison, a lot of beastly interrogations—they're great on third degree—and a nasty, messy execution at the end of it. I could do it much better with a revolver if you're really set on it. Of course it would annoy Akulina very much to come in and find our corpses on the floor, because she takes a good deal of pains to keep things clean. I expect you've noticed there aren't any insects, and that's more than you can say about most peasants' houses.”

Elizabeth looked up, met his teasing eyes, and quickly looked away. She frowned a little and said,

“When we were talking on the bridge, you said—I should be—rather an asset.” She hesitated curiously over the words. “You said anyone who was looking for you wouldn't expect you to have—a woman with you. I've wanted to ask you about it. What did you mean? Are people looking for you?”

“They're not looking for Red Stefan,” he said with a laugh. “I didn't mean that. We'd be badly up against it if they were.”

“What did you mean?”

“I told you I was in Tronsk to meet a man who was taking over my job. When he didn't come, I was pretty sure he'd been done in. Well; they might have known he was going to meet someone, and that would mean they'd be keeping their eyes skinned for anyone who was hanging around in Tronsk without a good excuse. They might have come to wonder why Red Stefan was kicking his heels there. But if he was there to pick up a wife, that let him out. That's what I meant.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth. She smiled suddenly and sweetly. “I don't know if that's true, but I should like to think it was.”

“Oh, it's quite true,” said Stephen. Then, with one of his abrupt turns, “I didn't tell you that I knew Petroff, did I?”

She was really startled.

“No—you didn't.”

He looked pleased.

“I know him quite well. We're almost bosom companions. You see, I saved his life.”

“Why did you?”

“I didn't know what a nuisance he was going to be. It was in the early days at Magnitogorsk. The whole place had run out of vodka—and you know what Petroff is when he can't get vodka. I had two bottles, and he swore they saved his life.”

“I didn't know you'd been in Magnitogorsk.”

“Oh, I've been in lots of places,” said Stephen cheerfully.

It came on to snow that evening and snowed all night. An hour before the snow began Irina left the village for the nearest Collective Farm, which was about ten versts away. The schoolmaster drove her over, and his wife was quite certain that he would be snowed up at the Farm with Irina and unable to return. All the women agreed with her that this was what Irina had intended. Akulina did not scruple to assert that she had caused the snow to fall—how, or by what arts, it was not for a God-fearing woman to say.