The Early Ayn Rand

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.