The Early Ayn Rand

Kareyev shook his head slowly. "I don't like that word. I've served it for such a long time. For us. We — the people, the collective, the millions. I've fought on barricades — for us. I've fought in the trenches. I've shot at men and men have shot at me. For us, for them, for those countless others somewhere around me, those for whom I've given a lifetime, my every moment, my every thought, my blood. For us. I don't want to hear the word. Because now — it's for me. You came here — for me. You're mine. I won't share that with anyone on earth. Mine. What a word that is — when you begin to understand it!"

She smiled, mocking, a little reproachful.

"Why, Comrade Kareyev!"

He smiled timidly, apologetically.

"Yes, Comrade Kareyev — tomorrow. And after tomorrow. And for many days to come. But not tonight. I can have one night for my own, can't I? Look." He pointed at the table proudly. "I ordered all this for you — by wireless. I have money in the bank at Nijni Kolimsk. My salary. Had nothing to do with it for five years... I guess it wasn't money alone that I've been missing for five years — for more than thirty-five years."

"It's never too late while one lives — if one still wants to live."

"It's strange, Joan. I've never really known what it was to want to live. I've never thought of tomorrow. I didn't care what bullet ended me — or when. But now, for the first time, I want to be spared. Am I a traitor, Joan?"

"One cannot be a traitor to anything," said Joan, "except to oneself."

"Loyalty," said Michael, "is like rubber: one can stretch it so far, and then — it snaps."

Kareyev looked at him surprised, as if noticing him for the first time.

"Where did you get these perfect waiter's manners, Volkontzev?" he asked.

"Oh, I've had a lot of experience, sir," Michael answered calmly, "from a slightly different angle, though. We had banquets in my day, too. I remember one. We had many flowers and guests. We had a wedding such as those of the old days. She held a bouquet more gracefully than any woman I've ever seen. She wore a long white veil — then."

Commandant Kareyev looked at him, looked at a convict with a shadow of sympathy — for the first time.

"Do you miss her?" he asked.

"No," said Michael. "I wish I did."

"And she?"

"She's the kind that doesn't stay lonely for a long time."

"I wouldn't say that about a woman I had loved."

"You and I, Commandant, did not love the same woman."

"After dinner," Joan said slowly, looking at Michael, "will you bring some wood to my room? I've burned the last logs. It's very cold at night."

Michael bowed silently.

Commandant Kareyev pointed to a dark bottle that stood on the table. Michael poured, filling their glasses.

The wine was dark red, and when he poured it, little ruby sparks tumbled into the glasses, as a draft waved the candle flame.

Commandant Kareyev rose holding his glass, looking at Joan. She rose, too.

"To love," he said calmly, solemnly.

He had pronounced the word for the first time.

Joan held her glass out to his. They met over the candle. It threw a trembling red glow over their faces through the dark liquid, and the shadows swayed over their cheeks, as the flame in the draft.

Her hand jerked suddenly, when she sat down. She spilled a red drop on the white tablecloth. Michael hurried to refill her glass.

"To love, madame," he said, "that is — and that was."

She drank.

Joan was alone in her room when Michael entered carrying the wood. She watched him silently, standing at the window, her arms crossed, without moving-He dropped the logs by the stove. He asked, without looking at her:

"Is that all?"

"Start the fire," she ordered.

He obeyed, kneeling by the stove. He struck a match and the crisp bark crackled, curling, twisting, bursting into little white flames. She approached him and whispered:

"Michael, please listen. I..."

"How many logs, madame?" he asked coldly.

"Michael, what were you trying to do? Do you want to ruin my plan?"

"I didn't know there was any plan left to ruin."

"Your faith doesn't last long, does it?"

"My faith? What about his? I've seen what you've done to that."

"Isn't that what I set out to do?"

"Yes, but I can see the way you look at him. I can see the way you talk to him. What am I to believe?"

"My love."

"I believe in that. Yes. Your love. But for whom?"

"Don't you know?"

"He trusts you, too. Which one of us are you deceiving?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing with the indifferent, even, enigmatic glance that no one could answer. She said slowly, with the innocence of a perfect calm:

"Maybe both."

He stepped toward her, his voice tense, his eyes pleading:

"Frances, I trust you. I wouldn't last here one day if I didn't trust you. But I can't stand it. We've tried. There's nothing we can do. You must see that now. It's hopeless. The boat leaves at dawn. It's the last one before the sea freezes. You'll go back. You'll take that boat tomorrow."