The Early Ayn Rand

"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.

“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 asked:

"What are you going to say?"

"Nothing."

"Is it true?"

"My name is Frances Volkontzeva."

"You love him?"