The Early Ayn Rand (5 page)

“No, Henry, I won’t. . . . Goodbye, Henry.” I kissed him. For the last time, perhaps. . . .

I walked on foot through the dark streets. It was a cold night and the wind ran under my overcoat, on my naked arms and shoulders. I felt the soft cloud of silver gauze blown close to my legs. I walked firmly and steadily, with a high head.

The Excelsior was a big nightclub in our town. It had not a bad reputation, but somehow women came there with their husbands or did not come at all. I saw the gigantic electric letters “Excelsior,” so white that it hurt the eyes to look upon, above the wide glass entrance. I went upstairs. I did not hear my own footsteps on the deep, soft carpets, and the waiters’ metallic buttons gleamed like diamonds in the strong, unnatural light around me.

The sharp, piercing rumble of a jazz band struck my head like a blow when I entered the great hall. I saw big round white lanterns, white tables, black suits and naked shoulders. I saw glittering glasses, silk stockings, and diamonds.

Mr. Gray was waiting for me. He looked like the best pictures in the most exclusive men’s style magazine. As a perfect gentleman, he did not show the slightest sign of astonishment or surprise at all this. He smiled as courteously and respectfully as it is possible for a man to smile. I chose a table behind a screen, from where I could see the entrance door. Then I sat looking at it, and, strangely, all seemed to be veiled by a cloud. I distinguished the room very vaguely, as in a mist, while I saw the door clearly, precisely, as though through a magnifying glass, with every little detail, to the slightest reflection of the glass, to the smallest curves of the knob.

I remember that Mr. Gray spoke about something and I spoke. He smiled and I smiled, probably, also. . . . There was a clock above the entrance door. It was eight-thirty when I arrived. The hands on the dial moved. I watched them. And if someone could look into my soul then—he would have seen there a round white dial with moving hands. Nothing more.

Just at nine, in the very second when the big hand reached the middle of the 12, the wide glass door opened. I knew it would be opened. . . . However, it was not Henry, no. But it was Claire Van Dahlen.

She was alone. She had a plain black velvet dress, just a piece of soft velvet wrapped around her body; but she had the most gorgeous diamond tiara on her head, with sparkling stones falling to her beautiful golden shoulders.

She stopped at the door and inspected the hall with a quick glance around. She saw at once that he was not there. Her lips had an imperceptible movement of anger and grief. She moved slowly across the hall and sat at a table. I could observe her through a hole in the screen.

Nine-fifteen. . . . The door opened every two minutes. Men in dress coats and women in silk wraps and furs entered and walked noiselessly into the brilliant crowd. I watched the endless torrent of patent-leather shoes and little silver slippers on the soft lavender carpet at the entrance. Oh, why, why were there so many visitors in this restaurant! Every time I heard the door open, with a sinister creaking sound, a cold shudder ran through my back and knees.

My eyes could not leave the door for a second. “Careful, Mrs. Stafford!” I heard Mr. Gray’s voice, as in a dream. I noticed that I had been holding a glass of water and the water was spilling on my dress. I took a little piece of ice from the glass and swallowed it. Mr. Gray looked at me with astonishment.

Nine twenty-five. . . . My knees trembled convulsively. It seemed to me that I would never be able to walk. I looked at Claire through the screen’s hole. She, too, was waiting. Her eyes were also fixed at the door. She was nervously breaking a flower’s stem in her fingers.

Nine-thirty. . . . I could not have told whether the jazz band was rumbling or it was the heavy, striking, knocking noise in my temples. . . . I held my throat with my hand: there was so little air in this hall and a strange leaden humming strangled me.

At nine forty-five he came. The door opened and I saw Henry. For a second it seemed to me that he was standing in the air: there was nothing around. Then I saw the door, but did not see him, though he was standing there: I saw a black hole. Then I saw him again and he moved. And there was a strange dead silence around. No sounds in my ears.

Then I threw back my head and cried: “Let us be merry, Mr. Gray!” I flung my arms around his neck and, burying my face in his shoulder, I bit convulsively his coat: I understood plainly one thing only—I must not shout.

Mr. Gray was amazed; he had been sitting with his back to the door and had not seen Henry. But with his perfect, courteous self-possession, he remained calm and even passed his hand cautiously on my hair.

I raised my head and he could read nothing in my face now. But my eyes must have been horrible, for he looked into them and grew a little uneasy. I seized nervously at all the glasses that were on the table. “Where is the wine, Mr. Gray?” I cried. “Why is there no wine? I want wine!” Afraid to make any opposition, he called a waiter and whispered some words, and the waiter winked.

I looked through the screen’s hole. Henry approached Claire. She had involuntarily jumped from her chair and smiled, with more happiness and passionate tenderness than she wanted to show, perhaps. She must have been very anxious, for she did not even say a word about his delay. He was pale and serious. This delay told me more than anything: he had struggled, oh! horribly struggled, and lost. . . . He sat at her table. I saw his eyes light with an unconquerable joy as he looked at her, and his lips smiled. . . . And he was so beautiful!

The waiter brought the wine, two bottles. Mr. Gray wanted to pour it. I seized the bottle from his hand and filled a glass, so that the wine ran over, on my dress. Then I lifted the glass as high as I could and let it fall to the floor, breaking with a sharp, ringing sound. I burst into a loud, piercing, provocative laugh.

Mr. Gray was amazed. “Laugh!” I whispered threateningly. “I want you to laugh! Laugh loudly!” He laughed. I looked through the hole. Many persons glanced in our direction, wondering who could be making that vulgar noise. That was what I wanted.

I seized my hair and brought it to a wild disorder, so that threads flew in all directions. Then I seized a bottle of wine and flung it to the floor, with a terrible noise. I laughed again and cried: “O-oh! Gerry!” Then I overturned my chair and jumping on Mr. Gray’s knees, embracing him, I pressed my face to his, as though I was kissing him. He could not notice that I pushed the screen with my foot in the same moment. The screen fell and there I was, on “Gerry’s” lap!

Many persons arose from their seats to look, and when I arose, pretending to be very vexed and ashamed—I stood face to face with Henry.

I shall never forget his eyes. . . . We were silent. . . . “Irene . . . Irene,” he muttered.

I pretended to be stricken, afraid, terrified the first minutes. Then I raised my head and looking at him with the greatest insolence: “Well?” I asked.

He stepped back. He shuddered. He passed his hand over his eyes. Then he said slowly: “I will not disturb you.” He turned and walked to Mrs. Van Dahlen. “Let us go to another restaurant . . . Claire,” he said. They walked out. I followed them with my eyes, till they disappeared behind the door. That was all. . . .

I was completely, deeply calm now. I turned to Mr. Gray. He had put the screen around our table again. “Do not grieve yourself, Mrs. Stafford,” he said. “It is for the best, perhaps.”

“Yes, Mr. Gray, it is for the best,” I answered.

We sat down and we finished our dinner, calmly and quietly. I had all my consciousness now. I spoke, and smiled, and flirted with him so gently, so graciously, that he was wholly charmed and forgot the wild scene. At half past ten I asked him to take me home. He was disappointed that our meeting was so short, but said nothing and courteously brought me to my house door, in an automobile. “Shall we meet again soon?” he asked, holding my hand in his.

“Yes, very soon . . . and very often,” I answered. He went away, completely happy.

I entered our apartment. I stood motionless, I could not tell for how long. . . . It was done. . . .

I entered Henry’s study. I saw some papers on the floor and, picking them up, replaced them on the desk. A chair was pushed into the middle of the room—I put it back. I adjusted the pillows on the sofa. I put in order the plans and drawings that covered all the desk. His rulers, compasses, and other objects were thrown all over the room. I put them on the desk. I made a fire in the fireplace. . . . It was for the last time that I could do a wife’s duty for him.

When there was nothing more to arrange, I went to the fireplace and sat on the floor. Henry’s armchair was standing by the fire, and there was a pillow near it, on which he put his feet. I did not dare to sit in the armchair. I lay on the floor and put my head on the pillow. . . . The wood was burning with a soft red glow in the darkness and a little crackling sound in the silence. I lay motionless, pressing the pillow to my lips. . . .

I arose quickly when I heard a key turn in the entrance door’s lock. I went into the hall. Henry was pale, very pale. He did not look at me. He took off his hat and overcoat and hung them on the clothes peg. Then he walked to his study and, passing by me, looked at me with a long glance. He entered first; I followed him.

We were silent for a long time. Then he spoke, sternly and coldly: “Will you explain to me anything?”

“I have nothing to explain, Henry,” I answered. “You have seen.”

“Yes,” he said, “I have seen.”

He walked up and down the room, then stopped again. He smiled, a smile of disgust and hatred. “It was great!” he said. I did not answer. He trembled with fury. “You . . . you . . .” he cried, clasping his fists. “How could you?” I was silent. “And I called my wife during four years a woman like that!” He pressed his head. “You make me crazy! It is impossible! It is not you! You were not like this! You could not be like this!”

I said nothing. He seized me by the arms and flung me to the floor. “Speak, dirt! Answer! Why did you do it?”

I looked at him, I looked straight into his eyes and told a lie. It was the most atrocious lie that could be and the only one he could believe and understand. “I hid it from you because I did not want to make you unhappy. I struggled a long time against this love and could not stand it any longer,” I said.

And he understood this. He left my arms and stepped back. Then laughed. “Well, I can make you happy, then!” he cried. “I don’t love you at all and I am not unhappy at all! I love another woman! I am only happy now!”

“You are happy, Henry?”

“Yes, immensely! I see that you are disappointed!”

“No, Henry, I am not disappointed. It is all right.”

“All right? . . . What are you doing lying on the floor? Get up! . . . All right? You have the insolence to say that?”

He walked up and down the room. “Don’t look at me!” he cried. “You have no right any more even to look at me! I forbid it to you!”

“I will not look, Henry,” I answered, bowing my head.

“No, you will! You will look at yourself!” he cried and, seizing me by the arm, flung me to the looking glass. “Look at your dress!” he cried. Dark wine spots covered the silver gauze of my dress.

“You loved him, you went with him, well. But wine! But kisses! But that conduct in a public place!” he cried. Oh, my plan had worked perfectly! I said nothing.

He was silent for some time, then he said, more calmly and coldly: “You understand that there will be nothing between us, now. I wish I could forget that there ever was. . . . And I want you to forget that I was your husband. I want you to give me back everything you have from me, any kind of remembrance.”

“Well, Henry, I can give them now,” I answered.

I went to my room and brought everything, all his pictures, his presents, some letters, all I had from him. He took them all and threw them into the fireplace. “May I . . . may I keep this one, Henry?” I asked, handing him the best picture, with the inscription. My fingers trembled. He took it, looked, and threw it back to me disdainfully. It fell on the floor. I picked it up.

“I will see to it that we are divorced as soon as possible,” he said. He fell into an armchair. “Let me alone now,” he added.

I walked to the door, then stopped. I looked at him. And I said, with a voice that was very firm and very calm: “Forgive me, Henry . . . if you can . . . and forget me. . . . And don’t grieve with grim thoughts, think about Claire, and be happy . . . and don’t think about me . . . it is not worthwhile.”

He looked at me. “You were like this . . . before,” he said slowly.

“I was . . . I am no longer. . . . Everything changes, Henry . . . everything has an end. But life is beautiful . . . life is great. . . . You must be happy, Henry.”

“Irene,” he said, in a very low voice, “tell me, why have you changed?”

I have gone through it all calmly. This simple sentence, my name, his low voice, made something rise in my throat. But for one second only. “I could not help it, Henry,” I answered.

Then I went upstairs to my room.

I bit my lips, when I entered, so that I felt the heavy taste of blood in my mouth. “That’s nothing,” I muttered. “That’s nothing, Irene. . . . That’s nothing. . . .” I felt a strange necessity to speak; to say something; to drown with words something that has no name and that was there, waiting for me. “That’s nothing . . . nothing. . . . It will be over . . . it will be over . . . just one minute, Irene, it will be over . . . one minute. . . .”

I knew I was not blind, but I did not see anything. I did not hear a sound. . . . When I began to hear again I noticed that I was repeating senselessly, “. . . one minute . . . one minute . . .”

Henry’s picture, which I held, fell to the floor. I looked at it. Then, suddenly, I saw clearly, wholly, and exactly what had happened and what was going to happen. It lasted less than a second, as though in the glow of a sudden lightning, but it seized me at the throat, like pincers of red-hot iron. And I shouted. I uttered a cry. It was not even a cry, it was not a human sound. It was the wild howl of a wounded animal; the primitive, ferocious cry of life for help.