The Early Ayn Rand (6 page)

I heard running footsteps on the staircase. “What happened?” cried Henry, knocking at my door.

“Nothing,” I answered. “I saw a mouse.” I heard him go downstairs.

I wanted to move, to take some steps. But the floor was running under my feet, running down, down. And there was a black smoke in my room that turned, turned, turned in columns with a frightful speed. I fell. . . .

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor. It was quite dark in the room, and cold. A window had been left open and the curtains moved slowly, blown by the wind. “I was unconscious,” I said to myself.

I rose to my feet and tried to stand. My knees seemed broken. I let myself slowly down again. Then I saw his picture on the floor. A long shudder ran through all my body.

I took the picture and put it in an armchair. Then I whispered, and my voice was human now, weak and trembling: “Henry . . . Henry . . . my Henry . . . that is nothing. . . . It is not true, is it, Henry? It was a dream, perhaps, and we shall awaken soon. . . . And I will not cry. Don’t look at my eyes, Henry, I am not crying . . . it will be over . . . in a minute. . . . Because, you see, it was hard . . . I think it was even very hard. . . . But that is nothing. You are with me, aren’t you, Henry? . . . And you know everything. . . . You do. . . . I am foolish to grieve like this, am I not, Henry? Say that I am. . . . Smile, Henry, and laugh at me . . . and scold me for torturing myself like this, when there is nothing . . . nothing at all. . . . Nothing happened . . . and you know everything. . . . You see, I am smiling. . . . And you love me. . . . You are my Henry. . . . I am a little tired, you know, but I will take a rest . . . and it will be over. . . . No, I am not crying, Henry . . . I love you . . . Henry. . . .”

Tears ran down my cheeks, big, heavy, silent tears. I did not cry, there were no sobs, no sound. I spoke and I smiled. Only tears rolled down, without interruption, without sound, without end. . . .

 

I do not remember much about the months that followed. We had applied for a divorce, on the ground of wife’s unfaithfulness. Waiting for it, I lived in Henry’s house. But we did not meet often. When we met, we greeted one another politely.

I managed to live, somehow. I remember that I read books, lots of books. But I cannot remember a word of them now, their titles or how they looked; not one of them. I walked much too, in the little deserted streets of the poorest neighborhoods, where nobody could see me. I think I was calm then. Only I remember that I once heard a boy say, pointing at me: “Here’s one that’s goofy!”

I met Gerald Gray often, as often as I could, and I flirted with him, I had to. I do not remember one of our meetings. But I must have played my part perfectly well, for I remember, as though out of a deep fog, one sentence said by him: “You are the most bewitching, the most exquisite of women, Mrs. Stafford, and your husband is a fool . . . for which I am immensely happy.” I do not know how I could have done it; I must have acted with the precision and unconsciousness of a lunatic.

One thing I remember well: I watched Henry. He spent all his time with Claire. His eyes were brilliant, and sparkling, and smiling, now. I, who knew him so well, who understood every line of his face, I saw that he was happy. He seemed to have come out of a heavy nightmare, which his existence for the last months had been, and to breathe life again, and as before to be young, strong, beautiful, oh! too beautiful!

I watched Claire, also. She loved Henry. It was not a mere flirt for her, or a victory that flattered her pride. It was a deep, great passion, the first in her life, perhaps. She was no “vamp.” She was a clever, noble, refined woman, as clever as she was beautiful. . . . He will be happy.

I saw them together once. They were walking in the street. They were talking and smiling. She wore an elegant white suit. They looked perfectly happy.

The town was indignant at our divorce, indignant with me, of course. I was not admitted in any house any more. Many persons did not greet me in the street. I noticed disdainful, mocking smiles, despising grins on the faces of persons that had been my friends. I met Mrs. Brogan once. She stopped and told me plainly, for she always said what she thought: “You dirty creature! Do you think nobody understands that you sold yourself for Gray’s money?” And Patsy Tillins approached me once in the street and said: “You’ve made a bad bargain, dearie: I wouldn’t have changed Henry Stafford for no one, from heaven to hell!”

The day came when we got the divorce. . . . I was Irene Wilmer again; divorced for unfaithfulness to my husband. That was all.

When Henry spoke to me about money that I might need, I refused to take anything and said cynically: “Mr. Gray has more money than you!”

Gerald Gray was to leave for New York, just on the next day, to take a ship for Europe from there. I was to go with him.

That evening, Mr. Barnes called upon me. He had been out of town for the last months and, returning only today, heard about everything. He came to me immediately. “Now, Irene,” he said very seriously, and his voice trembled in spite of him, “there is some terrible mistake in what I have heard. Would you tell me?”

“Why, Mr. Barnes,” I answered calmly, “I don’t think there could be any mistake: I am divorced, just today.”

“But . . . but . . . but is it really your fault? Are you really guilty?”

“Well, if you call it guilty . . . I love Gerald Gray, that’s all.”

His face grew red, purple, then white. He could not speak for some long minutes. “You . . .
you
don’t love your husband?” he muttered at last.

“Henry Stafford, you mean? He is not my husband any longer. . . . No, I don’t love him.”

“Irene . . .” He tried to speak calmly and there was a strange solemn strength in his voice. “Irene, it is not true. I will tell everybody that you could not have done it.”

“I’m no saint.”

He stepped back and his grayish old head shook piteously. “Irene,” he said again, and there was almost a plea in his voice, “you could not have traded a man like your husband for that silly snob.”

“I did.”

“You, Irene,
you?
I cannot believe it!”

“Don’t. Who cares?”

This was too much. He raised his head. “Then,” he said slowly, “I have nothing more to say. . . . Farewell, Irene.”

“Bye-bye!” I answered with an indifferent insolence.

I looked through the window, when he was going away. His poor old figure seemed more bent and heavy than ever. “Farewell, Mr. Barnes,” I whispered. “Farewell . . . and forgive me.”

That night, the last night I spent in my home, I awoke very late. When all was silent in the house, I went noiselessly downstairs. I thought that I could not say farewell to Henry, tomorrow, and I wanted to say it. I cautiously opened the bedroom door: he was sleeping. I entered. I raised slightly the window curtain, to see him. I stood by his bed, that had been mine also. I looked at him. His face was calm and serene. The dark lashes of his closed eyes were immobile on his cheeks. His beautiful lips seemed carved of marble on his face, pale in the darkness. I did not dare to touch him. I put my hand slowly and cautiously on the pillow, near his head.

Then I knelt down, by the bed. I could not kiss his lips; it would have awakened him. I took his hand cautiously and pressed it to my lips. “Henry,” I whispered, “you shall never know. And you must not know. Be happy, very happy. . . . And I shall go through life with one thing, one right only left to me: the right to say that I loved you, Henry . . . and the right to love you . . . till the end.” I kissed his hand with a long, long kiss.

Then I arose, closed the curtain, and went out.

It was a cold, gray day, the next and the last. There was a little chilly rain sometimes, and a wind that carried gray smoky clouds in the sky.

The train was leaving our town at ten-fifteen P.M. Mr. Gray called me in the morning. He was radiant with joy. He wanted to come in the evening to bring me to the station. I refused. “Wait for me there,” I said shortly. “I shall come myself.”

It was already dark and I sat in my room waiting. Waiting with such a despair that it astonished me, for I thought that I was unable to feel anything now. I waited for Henry. He was not at home. He must have gone to Claire, to spend with her the first day of his freedom. I could not say farewell to him, no; but I wanted to take a last look at him, the last one before going forever. And he was not there. . . . I sat by the window. It was cold, but I opened it. I watched the street. The roofs and pavement were wet and glittering. There were few passersby that walked rarely, with a nervous hurry, lonely, hopeless shadows in glittering raincoats. . . .

It was nine-thirty. Henry had not come.

I closed the window and took a little bag. I had not much to pack. I put some linen in it and one dress—my wedding dress, with the veil; I put in Henry’s photograph. It was all I took with me.

When I was closing the bag, I heard a key turn in the entrance door and footsteps, his footsteps. He had come!

I put on my hat and overcoat, took my bag. “I shall pass through the hall and open the door of his study a little. He will not notice and I shall take a look, just one look,” I thought.

I went downstairs. I entered the hall and opened his door: the study was empty; he was not there. I took a deep breath and walked to the entrance door. I put my hand on the knob.

“Irene, are you not going to say farewell to me?” I turned. It was Henry. His voice was calm and sad.

I was so stricken that I almost lost all my self-possession in the first second. “Yes . . . yes . . .” I muttered incoherently.

We entered his study. There was a fire in the fireplace. He looked at me with his dark eyes, and they were very clear and very sad.

“We are parting forever, perhaps, Irene,” he said, “and we had meant much to one another.”

I nodded. My voice would have betrayed me, if I spoke.

“I cannot blame or judge you, Irene. . . . That evening, in the restaurant, it was a sudden madness, perhaps, that you did not realize yourself. . . . I do not think you are really the woman you were then.”

“No, Henry . . . perhaps not.” I could not help whispering.

“You are not. I shall always think of you as the woman I loved.” He paused. I had never seen him so quiet and hopeless.

“Life goes on,” he continued. “I shall marry another woman and you—another man. . . . And everything is over.” He took my hands in his and there was a sudden light in his eyes when he said: “But we were so happy, Irene!”

“Yes, Henry, we were,” I answered firmly and calmly.

“Did you love me then, Irene?”

“I did, Henry.”

“That time has gone. . . . But I could never forget you, Irene. I cannot. I shall think about you.”

“Yes, Henry, think about me . . . sometimes.”

“You will be happy, Irene, won’t you? I want you to be happy.”

“I will be, Henry.”

“I will be also. . . . Maybe even as happy as I was with you. . . . But we cannot look behind now. One has to go on. . . . Will you think about me a little, Irene?”

“I will, Henry.”

His eyes were dark and there was a deep sorrow in them. I raised my head. I put my hand on his shoulder. I spoke with a great calm, with a majesty, perhaps, to which I had the right now.

“Henry, you must be happy, and strong, and glorious. Leave suffering to those that cannot help it. You must smile at life. . . . And never think about those that cannot. They are not worthwhile.”

“Yes . . . you are right. . . . Everything finished well. It could have broken the life of one of us. I am so happy it did not!”

“Yes, Henry, it did not. . . .”

We were silent. Then he said: “Farewell, Irene. . . . We shall never meet on this earth again. . . .”

“Life is not so long, Henry.” I trembled when I said this, but happily he did not understand. “Who knows?” I added quickly. “We shall meet, perhaps . . . when we are sixty.”

He smiled. “Yes, perhaps . . . and then we shall laugh at all this.”

“Yes, Henry, we shall laugh. . . .”

He bent his head and kissed my hand. “Go now,” he whispered, and added, in a very low voice: “You were the greatest thing in my life, Irene.” He raised his head and looking into my eyes: “Will you not say something to me . . . for the last time?” he asked.

I looked straight into his eyes. All my soul was in my answer:
“I loved you, Henry.”

He kissed my hand again. His voice was a very faint whisper when he said: “I shall be happy. But there are moments when I wish I would never have met that woman. . . . There is nothing to do. . . . Life is hard, sometimes, Irene.”

“Yes, Henry,” I answered.

He took me in his arms and kissed me. His lips were on mine; my arms—around his neck. It was for the last time, but it was. And no one can deprive me of it now.

He went with me outside. I called a taxi and entered it. I looked through the window: he was standing on the steps. The wind blew his hair and he was immobile like a statue. It was the last time I ever saw him.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them—the taxi was stopped before the station. I paid the driver, took my bag, and went to the train.

Gerald Gray was waiting for me. He had a brilliant traveling costume, a radiant smile, and a gigantic bouquet of flowers, which he presented to me. We entered the car.

At ten-fifteen there was a crackling, metallic sound, the wheels turned, the car shook and moved. The pillars of the station slipped faster and faster beyond us, then some lanterns, on corners of the dark streets, some lights in the windows. And the town remained behind us. . . . The wheels were knocking quickly and regularly.

 

We were alone in our part of the car. Mr. Gray looked at me and smiled. Then he smiled again, as though to make me smile in answer. I sat motionless. “We are free and alone at last,” he whispered and tried to put his arm around me. I moved from him.