The Early Ayn Rand

The radio coughed, hissed, as if clearing its throat. Then — the first notes of music dropped into the chapel like pebbles cutting into a deep, stagnant pool, tearing in sweet agony the virginal air that had never been disturbed by the sound of life.

"The hand of fate draws an eternal trace, I see your face again so close to mine..."

It was a woman's voice singing a song of memories, with a poignant joy as a shadow softening its sorrow, slow and resigned, like an autumn day, still breathing of a past sunshine, but giving it up without thunder, without a storm, with just one teardrop of a first, cold rain.

It rolled into the tortured murals, into the bookshelves and posters and candles from the world outside where life breathed and sent them one faint draught. And they stood, their mouths and their hearts open, gasping for the draught, reverent as at a sacred mass, hearing the music more with a strange, contracted spot in their breasts than with their ears.

They did not speak until the voice of the radio announcer had told them that it was a station in Leningrad. Then, the blond youth broke the silence:

"That was beautiful, Miss Harding. Almost..." A violent cough interrupted him, shaking his thin shoulders. "Almost as beautiful as you are... Thank you..."

He grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips, and held it there longer than mere gratitude dictated.

"Leningrad," the Count remarked, adjusting his monocle, an effort bringing back to his lips his old nonchalant smile. "It was St. Petersburg in my day. Funny how time flies... The quays of the Neva were all white. The snow squealed under the sleighs. We had music, too, at the Aquarium. Champagne that sparkled like music, and girls that sparkled like champagne..."

"I'm from Moscow," said the professor. "I gave lectures... at the University. 'The History of Aesthetics' — that was my last course..."

"I'm from the Volga," said the blond youth. "We were building a bridge across the Volga. It gleamed in the sun — like a steel knife that was to slash across the river's body."

"When Mademoiselle Collette danced at the Aquarium," said the Count, "we threw gold coins on the table."

"Young students listened to me," the professor whispered. "Rosy cheeks... bright eyes... Young Russia..."

"It was to be the longest bridge in the world... Perhaps, someday... I might go back and..." He did not finish; he coughed.

"I have faith in Russia." The professor spoke solemnly, like a prophet. "Our Saint Russia has known dark years before and has risen triumphant. What if we have to fall on the way as dry leaves swept by a torrent? Russia will live."

"It seems to me, citizen" — Comrade Fedossitch rose slowly, frowning, approaching Joan — "that it must be against the law to play this here radio of yours."

"Is it, Comrade Fedossitch?"

"Well, if you ask me, it is. But then, I don't have the say. It may be all right for Comrade Kareyev. It was against the law to let a female citizen in here. But then, how could they refuse anything to such a worthy comrade as Commandant Kareyev?"

He walked out, slamming the door. Five years ago, in Nijni Kolimsk, Comrade Fedossitch had been a candidate for the post of Commandant of Strastnoy Island. But the GPU had chosen Comrade Kareyev.

"I gather," said the Count, following Fedossitch with his eyes, "that the male citizen does not care for the fine art of music. And I observe that he is not alone. How about you, Volkontzev? Not interested?"

"I've heard music before," Michael answered abruptly, turning a page.

"I think that men who let some pet prejudice of theirs stand against the most wonderful woman in the world," said the young engineer, "ought to be thrown into the pit."

"Leave him alone," said the Count. "I'm sure Miss Harding will excuse his unreasonable antipathy."

"But will she forgive mine?" a hoarse voice asked.

They all turned to the sound.

The old general got up, looking straight at Joan, a timid, awkward apology in his old, stubborn face. He made a step forward, came back, picked up his wooden toy; then walked to her, clutching his precious work in his big, stubby fingers.

"I'm sorry, Miss Harding" — he clicked his heels in bast shoes, as if hoping to hear the old sound of military spurs — "if I've been rather... Can you forget?"

"Certainly, General." Joan smiled, her smile warm as a caress, and extended her hand.

The general quickly transferred the toy to his left hand and shook hers in a tight grasp.

"That..." He indicated the box from which the soft tune of a folk song floated into the room. "Is that played in St. Petersburg?"

"Yes."

"I'm from St. Petersburg. Eleven years. I've left my wife there. And Iura, my grandson. He's the grandest little fellow. He was two years old when I left. He had blue eyes, just like... like my son."

He stopped suddenly. Joan noticed the awkward silence that none of the men seemed willing to break.

The Count proved to be the bravest.