by Ayn Rand
The lights were out in the monastery. The entrance door had been locked for the night. The gray flag fought the wind on the tower.
Michael sat on his cot in the darkness and watched the wall outside. A guard walked there slowly, back and forth. His lantern seemed a little red eye winking at Michael. His muffler flapped in the wind.
Michael’s roommate, the old professor, had gone to bed. But he could not sleep. He sighed in the darkness, and made the sign of the cross.
“Aren’t you going to bed, Michael?”
“Not yet.”
“Why do you keep your coat on?”
“I’m cold.”
“That’s funny. I feel stuffy in here. . . . Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The professor turned to the wall. Then he sighed. Then he turned to Michael again.
“Do you hear the sea? It has been beating there for centuries. It’s been moaning before we came here. It will be moaning long after we’re gone.”
He made the sign of the cross. Michael was watching the guard’s lantern.
“We wander in the darkness,” said the professor. “Man has lost sight of beauty. There is a great beauty on this earth of ours. A beauty one’s spirit can approach only bare-headed. But how many of us ever get a glimpse of it?”
Commandant Kareyev’s window was a long, thin, blue cut in the darkness of his room. The moonlight made a long, thin band across the floor, checkered into panes, pointed as the door of an ancient cathedral. In the darkness by the window, Joan’s head was leaning against the back of an armchair, her face a pale white with soft blue shadows under her cheekbones, with a glowing blue patch in the triangle under her chin thrown back, her mouth dark and soft and tender, glistening with a few lost sparks of moonlight. The darkness swallowed her body and only her hands were white on her knees, and in her hands lay the face of Commandant Kareyev at her feet. He did not move. The light of a single candle on the table did not reach them. He whispered, his dark hair brushing her white wrists:
“. . . and then, someday, you may want to leave me. . . .”
She shook her head slowly.
“You may be lonely here in winter. The sea freezes. The nights are so long.”
“Nights like this?”
He looked at the window, smiling.
“Lovely, isn’t it? I’ve never noticed that before. As if . . . as if it were a night for just the two of us.”
Somewhere, far downstairs, an old clock slowly chimed twelve. She repeated softly at the last stroke:
“Yes . . . for just the two . . . of us. Let’s step outside. It’s lovely.”
Commandant Kareyev wrapped her winter cloak around her shoulders. The huge collar of fluffy gray fox swallowed her head, rising over the tips of her blond curls.
On the gallery outside, a soft silver glow streamed from the heavy, sparkling fringe of icicles on the cornices above their heads. A guard with a lantern passed slowly on the wall before them. Beyond the wall rose the black funnel of the boat.
Commandant Kareyev looked at her. It had been his first wine in five years. It had been his first celebration. He drew her closer. His hand slipped under the fluffy fox collar. She jerked herself away.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
Calmly, she pointed to the guard on the wall, a few steps away. Commandant Kareyev smiled. He blew his whistle. The guard turned abruptly, raised his head, saluted.
“Report to post number four at once,” Kareyev shouted over the roar of the waves. “Patrol it until further orders.”
The guard saluted, climbed down, hurried away across the white yard, snow crunching under his boots.
Commandant Kareyev’s lips sank into Joan’s. His arms crushed her body against his.
“Did you ever feel a moment when you knew why you had been living, my dearest . . . dearest . . .” he whispered. “I’m happy . . . Joan.”
Her head was thrown far back, so far that he could see the reflection of the stars in her eyes; so far that she could see the yard below. Her body fell backwards recklessly, limp against his arm. She was smiling triumphantly, deliriously.
“Why do you look so strange, Joan? Why do you smile like that?”
“I’m happy—tonight,” she whispered at the stars.
Michael opened the entrance door noiselessly. He tried with his foot the frozen, slippery steps outside. He felt the gun in his pocket. He stepped out. It took him three minutes to pull the door closed again, slowly, gradually, without a sound. He locked it behind him.
The blue snow glared at him. But there was a narrow line of shadow under the wall of the building. He could follow it to the landing gate. He glided silently into the deep snow, pressing himself against the wall. The snow rose higher than his boots. He could feel it sliding inside. It felt hot as a burn against the holes in his old woolen socks. He moved slowly, his eyes on the empty wall where the guard had been, drawn by it as by a magnet.
He stopped across from the landing gate. He could see the boat’s funnel beyond it. There was no sound on the island but the beating of waves against the wall. He could see two little red dots of lanterns far away. He had to cross to the gate in the open, in the snow. But the guards were too far. The lights were out in the building.
He threw himself down in the snow and crawled as fast as he could toward the gate. He felt the snow biting his wrists between his gloves and sleeves. Halfway across, he raised his head to look back at the building. He stopped.
High on an open gallery, he saw two figures. They were immobile in a passionate embrace. The man’s back was to the yard below.
Michael rose to his feet. He stood in the open, in the glaring snow, and looked at them. One glove slid from his hand, but he didn’t notice it. There was no sound as the glove fell; no sound of his breathing, not even of his heart. Then he ran through the snow, in the moonlight, back to the monastery door.
Commandant Kareyev and Joan turned when the door of his room was flung open. Joan screamed. Michael stood on the threshold, snow dripping from his clothes.
“You might need these,” he said and threw the keys into Kareyev’s face. “I’ve tried to escape. I don’t care what you do to me. And I don’t care what you do to her.”
“Michael!” Joan screamed. “Get out of here! Keep quiet!”
“She’s afraid,” said Michael, “that I’ll tell you that she’s my wife!
“Oh, that’s all right,” he continued, as no answer came. “You can have her, with my compliments and permission. Only I don’t think you needed the permission.”
Commandant Kareyev looked at Joan. She stood straight, looking at him. The cloak with the fluffy collar had fallen to her feet.
Commandant Kareyev bent down and picked up the keys. Then he blew his whistle three times. A little drop of blood rolled from his lips where the keys had struck him.
Comrade Fedossitch and two guards appeared at the door. Comrade Fedossitch was hastily pulling his night-shirt into his trousers.
“Put Citizen Volkontzev in the tower detention cell,” Commandant Kareyev ordered.
“Why don’t you throw me into the pit?” asked Michael. “You’ll be rid of me quicker. Then you can enjoy my wife without any trouble.”
“Did you say—your wife, Citizen Volkontzev?” gasped Comrade Fedossitch.
“Put Citizen Volkontzev in the tower detention cell,” repeated Commandant Kareyev.
The guards grasped Michael’s arms. He walked out, head high, laughing. Comrade Fedossitch followed.
The long flame of a candle on the table hissed in the silence, smoking, reaching the end of the little wax butt. Commandant Kareyev looked at Joan. She stood leaning against the table, her head bent, looking at her toe buried in the fur collar on the floor.
Commandant Kareyev walked to a shelf, took a new candle, lighted it, replaced the old one. He stood waiting. She did not look at him, did not speak. He ask
ed:
“What are you going to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it true?”
“My name is Frances Volkontzeva.”
“You love him?”
She looked at him slowly, fixedly, from under her eyelids, without raising her head.
“I didn’t say that,” she answered.
He waited. She was silent.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” he asked.
“No . . . but that’s all I’m going to say.”
“Why?”
“I won’t explain. You won’t believe me.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
His words were an order; but his eyes were a plea.
She studied him again from under her eyelids. Then she raised her head. She looked straight at him. Her eyes were clear and haughty, as they always were when she was proud of the truth in her words or prouder of the lie.
“Well, yes, I’m his wife. Yes, I came here only to save my husband. I came here hating all Communists. But I stayed because I loved one.”
He did not move. But she noticed that he made an effort not to move and she knew that she could go on.
“At first it was just a game, like my name Joan. But, you see, Joan killed Frances, and now it’s Joan who lives . . . and loves.”
“She did not forget Frances’ plans, however.”
“Oh, don’t you understand? I wanted him out of the way. How could I remain here with that threat, that reminder always before me? I wanted his freedom to feel that I had earned mine. But you don’t have to believe me.”
Her eyes were defiant; but her lips trembled, soft and childish, and her body leaned against the table, suddenly frail, helpless, calling for his protection.
“I was young when I married Michael. I thought I loved him. I didn’t learn what love could be until it was too late.”
In his arms was all the strength of his despair, of his faith grateful to be forced to believe again.
“It’s never too late,” he whispered, “while one lives—if one still wants to live.”
She was laughing through his kisses, laughing happily.
“Let him escape,” she whispered. “You can’t leave him here. And you can’t kill him. He’ll always stand between us.”
“Don’t talk about him, now, dear. Let’s just keep silent, and let me hold you like this . . . close.”
“Let him go. I’ll stay here with you . . . forever.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking. If I let him go, there will be an investigation. They’ll learn your real name and arrest you. We’ll be separated. Forever.”
“I can’t stay here if he does.”
“And as long as I’m Commandant here, I can’t betray my Party’s confidence.”
“Well, then, do you have to be Commandant here?”
He let her out of his arms, stepped back, and looked at her. He was not indignant, just surprised.
“Oh, don’t you see?” Her voice fell to a passionate, breathless whisper. “I’ve betrayed my whole past when I said I loved you. Do the same. Let’s kill the years behind us with one blow—and start life again from the same grave.”
“What do you mean, Joan?”
“Let’s escape all together—the three of us. I know that you can’t leave without permission, but we’ll take the emergency motorboat. We’ll go to Nijni Kolimsk. I have a friend there—an English merchant. He has connections in the GPU—it’s right across the street.”
“And . . . then?”
“He’ll arrange our passage on an English ship to foreign lands, far, far away. To America. There Michael will give me my freedom. It’s a fair exchange. And then . . .”
“Joan, I’ve belonged to a Party for twenty-two years. A Party that fought for the revolution.”
“That fought for them? The people, the collective? Look at them, your millions. They sleep, they eat, they marry, they die. Is there one among them who will shed one tear in honor of a man that gave up his desire of desires for their sake?”
“They’re my brothers, Joan. You don’t understand our duty, our great struggle. They’re hungry. They have to be fed.”
“But your own heart will die of starvation.”
“They’ve toiled hopelessly for centuries.”
“But you’ll give up your own last hope.”
“They’ve suffered so much.”
“But you’re going to learn what suffering means.”
“There is a great duty . . .”
“Yes, we all have a great duty. A sacred inviolable duty, and we spend our lives trying to violate it. Our duty to ourselves. We fight it, we stifle it, we compromise. But there comes a day when it gives us an order, its last, highest order—and then we can’t disobey any longer. You want to go. With me. You want it. That’s the highest of all reasons. You can’t question it. When you can’t ask any questions—then you know you’re facing your duty.”
He moaned helplessly:
“Oh, Joan, Joan!”
She stood before him, solemn as a priestess looking into the future, but her words were soft, dreamy, as if her voice were smiling between her stern lips, and it seemed to him that it was not her voice, not her words, but the soft, faint movements of her mouth that drew him, tempting, irresistible, into a future it knew, but he had never known.
“Over there, far away, electric fires will blaze on dark boulevards . . . and they’ll play the ‘Song of Dancing Lights’ . . .”
He whispered obediently:
“. . . and I’ll carry you out of the car . . .”
“. . . and I’ll teach you to dance . . .”
“. . . and I’ll laugh, laugh, and will never feel guilty . . .”
“Are we going?”
He seemed to awaken suddenly. He stepped aside. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again she saw the look she had forgotten on the Beast’s face.
“The boat is to leave at dawn,” he said slowly. “I’ll order it to wait till noon. You can pack your clothes. At noon, you’ll go—alone.”
“Is that your choice?”
“I know what I’m missing. But there are some things I can’t do. I want you to go—before it is too late for me.”
“Repeat it again.” Her voice was calm, like his, and indifferent.
“Tomorrow—at noon—you will go—alone.”
“All right, Commandant. I’ll go to sleep, since I have to travel tomorrow. . . . Goodnight. . . . When you think of me, remember only that I . . . loved you.”
——VI——
The big trunk stood open in the middle of Joan’s room. She folded her dresses slowly and put them in, one by one. She wrapped her slippers in paper. She gathered her stockings, that made a film thin as smoke over her fingers; her white powder puffs, her crystal bottles of perfume. She moved through the room quietly, without hurry. She was as calmly indifferent as on the day when she had unpacked that trunk.
She could hear, above the roar of the sea, the low droning of bells that moaned when the wind was very strong. The sea, a dirty white, turbid like dishwater, swayed furiously, ready to be slung out of the pail. The spurting sprays of foam soiled the sky to a muddy gray.
Twice, Joan had stepped out into the hall and looked at the room next to hers. Its door was open. It was empty. Its new carpet was a deep blue in the daylight. The lace spread and pillows on the bed had not been disturbed. One pillow had been flung against the wall in a far corner.
The monastery was silent. The wind whistled in the old abandoned cells high on top of the towers. Below, in the long, dim halls, whispers crawled eagerly, stealthily, as hushed gusts of wind.
“. . . and all the time she was his wife.”
“I don’t envy him.”
“I do. I wish I had a woman who loved me like that.”
In a huddled group on a stair landing, the old professor whispered, sighing:
“How lonely this place will be without her!”
“I’m gla
d she’s going,” a weary voice answered, “for her sake.”
At a window, the general leaned on the Count’s shoulder. They were watching the sea.
“Well, the Beast has made people suffer,” the general whispered. “It’s his turn.”
“He’s getting the loan back,” the Count remarked, “with plenty of interest.”
Comrade Fedossitch leaned heavily, crouching, against a windowsill. He was not looking at the sea. He was looking, his shrewd, narrow pupils fixed tensely, up at the tower platform under the bells. The tall figure of a man stood there, at the parapet. Comrade Fedossitch had a good idea of what the Commandant was thinking.
Commandant Kareyev stood on the tower, the wind tearing his hair. He was looking far out to where the clouds, as a heavy gray curtain, had descended over the coast and all that lay beyond the coast. Commandant Kareyev had faced long city streets where barricades rose red with human flags and human blood, where, behind every corner, from every rooftop, machine guns coughed a death rattle deadlier than that of a consumptive. He had faced long trenches where behind rusted barbed wire thin, bluish blades of steel waited, silent, sure, pitiless. But his face had never looked as it did now.
Steps grated on the stairs behind him. He turned. The young engineer was coming up, carrying a stepladder and a new red flag. The old flag was gray, shivering desolately in its last convulsions, high over the cupola white with snow.
The engineer looked at him. In his young, blue eyes was a sorrow he knew they were sharing. He said slowly:
“It’s a bad morning, Commandant. Gray. No sun.”
“There will be no sun for a long time,” said Kareyev.
“I’m cold. I’m so cold. And . . .” He looked straight into Kareyev’s eyes. “I’m not the only one, Commandant.”
“No,” said Commandant Kareyev, “you’re not the only one.”
The engineer put his stepladder against the tower wall. Then he turned again. He said, as if each word were to pierce the grim, fathomless pupils of the man he had hated until that moment: