The Early Ayn Rand

Henry, in the present story, is the earliest ancestor of Leo (in We the Living), of Roark, of Francisco or Rearden (in Atlas Shrugged). Those who know the later heroes can see the first faint glimmer of them here. The focus, however, lies in Irene's response to him, which may be symbolized by a single line: "When I am tired, I kneel before the table [on which Henry's picture stands] and I look at him."

On the surface, this story might appear to be quite conventional. I can imagine someone reading it as the tragic story of an unloved wife "selflessly" removing herself from her husband's path. But the actual meaning is the opposite. Irene is not a selfless wife, but a passionate valuer; her decision to leave Henry is not self-sacrifice, but self-preservation and the reaffirmation of her values. She cannot accept anyone less than Henry, or any relationship with him less than what she has had.

Nor does Irene draw a tragic conclusion from her suffering. The glory of her life, she feels, is that Henry exists, that she had him once, and that she will love him always. Even in the agony of unrequited love, her implicit focus is on values, not on pain. This is especially clear in her desire to protect her ideal from suffering, to protect him for her own sake, although she is leaving him, to keep her supreme value whole, radiant, godlike, not dimmed or diminished by loss and sorrow. "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."

The story's events are conventional — but their meaning and motivation are vintage Ayn Rand, and utterly unconventional. What makes this possible is the profound seriousness of Irene's passion. This is what transforms and transfigures an otherwise ordinary tale.

There are, of course, major flaws in the story's execution. Important events are not dramatized, but merely narrated (and sometimes only sketchily explained). This is a practice opposite to that of the mature Ayn Rand. The moral code of the small town — the narrow respectability of sixty years ago — is thoroughly dated, and, in our age, virtually unbelievable. Above all, there is the problem of the language, which reflects a mind still unfamiliar with many essentials of English grammar, vocabulary, and idiom; as a result, the dialogue in particular is often stilted and unreal. I have edited out the most confusing lapses of English grammar and wording and the most obvious foreignisms, but have allowed the rest of the text to stand as written, so as to leave to posterity a record of where Ayn Rand began. Those who have read her novels can judge for themselves how far she was able to travel. It may be wondered why Ayn Rand chose to present man-worship first of all in the form of a story of unrequited love. My conjecture — it is only that — is that this aspect of the story was autobiographical Ayn Rand as a college student was in love with a young man in Russia who was the real-life source of the character of Leo. She remembered this young man, and her feeling for him, all her life. The relationship between them, however, was never fulfilled — whether for personal reasons or political ones (I believe he was exiled to Siberia) I do not know. But, either way, it is easy to imagine that alone in a new country, on the threshold of a new life, she should be drawn to focus as a kind of farewell on the man she loved and had now lost forever — or, more exactly, to focus on her own feeling for that man and loss.

L.P.

The Husband I Bought

I should not have written this story. If I did it all — I did it only by keeping silent. I went through tortures, such as no other woman on earth, perhaps just to keep silent. And now — I speak. I must not have written my secret. But I have a hope. My one and only, and last hope. And I have no time before me. When life is dead and you have nothing left on your way — who can blame you for taking a last chance, a poor little chance... before the end? And so I write my story.

I loved Henry. I love him. It is the only thing I know and I can say about myself. It is the only thing, that was my life. There is no person on earth that has never been in love. But love can go beyond all limits and bounds. Love can go beyond all consciousness, beyond your very soul.

I never think of how I met him. It has no importance for me. I had to meet him and I did. I never think of how and when I began to love him or how I realized that he loved me. The only thing I know is that two words only were written on my life: "Henry Stafford."