The Early Ayn Rand

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?"