The Early Ayn Rand

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 glad 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:

"If I found that the climate here wasn't good for my lifeblood, I'd flee to the end of the world — if I were free."

Kareyev looked at him. Then he looked slowly up, at the old flag fighting the wind between the clouds and the snow. He said thoughtfully, irrelevantly, pointing up:

"Look at that red flag. Red against the white snow. Doesn't look well together."

"The flag has faded," the engineer said slowly. "The snow has taken its color away."

"It was of cheap material. Good stuff keeps its color — in all weather."

"It's due for a change, Commandant. It has served its time."

He climbed up the ladder. He turned again to look down at the man before him. He spoke suddenly, with an impetuous fire, with the solemn gravity of a prophet, his voice clear, vibrant in the wind: