by Ayn Rand
She looked slowly about her, noting every object and the reason for its presence. He kicked two chairs toward the fireplace and they sat down, one at each side of the fire.
He said, quite simply:
"Clayton, Ohio."
"Doing what?"
"A new building for Janer's Department Store. Five stories. On Main Street."
"How long has he been there?"
"About a month."
It was the first question he answered whenever she came here, without making her ask it. His simple ease spared her the necessity of explanation or pretense; his manner included no comment.
"I'm going away tomorrow, Steve."
"For long?"
"Six weeks. Reno."
"I'm glad."
"I'd rather not tell you now what I'll do when I come back. You won't be glad."
"I'll try to be--if it's what you want to do."
"It's what I want to do."
One log still kept its shape on the pile of coals in the fireplace; it was checkered into small squares and it glowed without flame, like a solid string of lighted windows. He reached down and threw a fresh log on the coals. It cracked the string of windows in half and sent sparks shooting up against the sooted bricks.
He talked about his own work. She listened, as if she were an emigrant hearing her homeland's language for a brief while.
In a pause, she asked:
"How is he, Steve?"
"As he's always been. He doesn't change, you know."
He kicked the log. A few coals rolled out. He pushed them back. He said:
"I often think that he's the only one of us who's achieved immortality. I don't mean in the sense of fame and I don't mean that he won't die some day. But he's living it. I think he is what the conception really means. You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they're not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict--and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been any entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment? But Howard--one can imagine him existing forever."
She sat looking at the fire. It gave a deceptive semblance of life to her face. After a while he asked:
"How do you like all the new things I got?"
"I like them. I like your having them."
"I didn't tell you what happened to me since I saw you last. The completely incredible. Gail Wynand ..."
"Yes, I know about that."
"You do? Wynand, of all people--what on earth made him discover me?"
"I know that too. I'll tell you when I come back."
"He has an amazing judgment. Amazing for him. He bought the best."
"Yes, he would."
Then she asked, without transition, yet he knew that she was not speaking of Wynand:
"Steve, has he ever asked you about me?"
"No."
"Have you told him about my coming here?"
"No."
"Is that--for my sake, Steve?"
"No. For his."
He knew he had told her everything she wanted to know.
She said, rising:
"Let's have some tea. Show me where you keep your stuff. I'll fix it."
Dominique left for Reno early in the morning. Keating was still asleep and she did not awaken him to say good-by.
When he opened his eyes, he knew that she was gone, before he looked at the clock, by the quality of the silence in the house. He thought he should say "Good riddance," but he did not say it and he did not feel it. What he felt was a vast, flat sentence without subject--"It's no use"--related neither to himself nor to Dominique. He was alone and there was no necessity to pretend anything. He lay in bed, on his back, his arms flung out helplessly. His face looked humble and his eyes bewildered. He felt that it was an end and a death, but he did not mean the loss of Dominique.
He got up and dressed. In the bathroom he found a hand towel she had used and discarded. He picked it up, he pressed his face to it and held it for a long time, not in sorrow, but in nameless emotion, not understanding, knowing only that he had loved her twice--on that evening when Toohey telephoned, and now. Then he opened his fingers and let the towel slip down to the floor, like a liquid running between his fingers.
He went to his office and worked as usual. Nobody knew of his divorce and he felt no desire to inform anyone. Neil Dumont winked at him and drawled: "I say, Pete, you look peaked." He shrugged and turned his back. The sight of Dumont made him sick today.
He left the office early. A vague instinct kept pulling at him, like hunger, at first, then taking shape. He had to see Ellsworth Toohey. He had to reach Toohey. He felt like the survivor of a shipwreck swimming toward a distant light.
That evening he dragged himself to Ellsworth Toohey's apartment. When he entered, he felt dimly glad of his self-control, because Toohey seemed to notice nothing in his face,
"Oh, hello, Peter," said Toohey airily. "Your sense of timing leaves much to be desired. You catch me on the worst possible evening. Busy as all hell. But don't let that bother you. What are friends for but to inconvenience one? Sit down, sit down, I'll be with you in a minute."
"I'm sorry, Ellsworth. But ... I had to."
"Make yourself at home. Just ignore me for a minute, will you?"
Keating sat down and waited. Toohey worked, making notes on sheets of typewritten copy. He sharpened a pencil, the sound grating like a saw across Keating's nerves. He bent over his copy again, rustling the pages once in a while.
Half an hour later he pushed the papers aside and smiled at Keating. "That's that," he said. Keating made a small movement forward. "Sit tight," said Toohey, "just one telephone call I've got to make."
He dialed the number of Gus Webb. "Hello, Gus," he said gaily. "How are you, you walking advertisement for contraceptives?" Keating had never heard that tone of loose intimacy from Toohey, a special tone of brotherhood that permitted sloppiness. He heard Webb's piercing voice say something and laugh in the receiver. The receiver went on spitting out rapid sounds from deep down in its tube, like a throat being cleared. The words could not be recognized, only their quality; the quality of abandon and insolence, with high shrieks of mirth once in a while.
Toohey leaned back in his chair, listening, half smiling. "Yes," he said occasionally, "uh-huh.... You said it, boy.... Surer'n hell...." He leaned back farther and put one foot in a shining, pointed shoe on the edge of the desk. "Listen, boy, what I wanted to tell you is go easy on old Bassett for a while. Sure he liked your work, but don't shock hell out of him for the time being. No rough-house, see? Keep that big facial cavity of yours buttoned up.... You know damn well who I am to tell you.... That's right.... That's the stuff, kid.... Oh, he did? Good, angel-face.... Well, bye-bye--oh, say, Gus, have you heard the one about the British lady and the plumber?" There followed a story. The receiver yelled raucously at the end. "Well, watch your step and your digestion, angel-face. Nighty-night."
Toohey dropped the receiver, said: "Now, Peter," stretched, got up, walked to Keating and stood before him, rocking a little on his small feet, his eyes bright and kindly.
"Now, Peter, what's the matter? Has the world crashed about your nose?"
Keating reached into his inside pocket and produced a yellow check, crumpled, much handled. It bore his signature and the sum of ten thousand dollars, made out to Ellsworth M. Toohey. The gesture with which he handed it to Toohey was not that of a donor, but of a beggar.
"Please, Ellsworth ... here ... take this ... for a good cause ... for the Workshop of Social Study ... or for anything you wish ... you know best ... for a good cause ..."
Toohey held the check with the tips of his fingers, like a soiled penny, bent his head to one side, pursing his lips in appreciation, and tossed the check on his de
sk.
"Very handsome of you, Peter. Very handsome indeed. What's the occasion?"
"Ellsworth, you remember what you said once--that it doesn't matter what we are or do, if we help others? That's all that counts? That's good, isn't it? That's clean?"
"I haven't said it once. I've said it a million times."
"And it's really true?"
"Of course it's true. If you have the courage to accept it."
"You're my friend, aren't you? You're the only friend I've got. I ... I'm not even friendly with myself, but you are. With me, I mean, aren't you, Ellsworth?"
"But of course. Which is of more value than your own friendship with yourself--a rather queer conception, but quite valid."
"You understand. Nobody else does. And you like me."
"Devotedly. Whenever I have the time."
"Ah?"
"Your sense of humor, Peter, where's your sense of humor? What's the matter? A bellyache? Or a soul-indigestion?"
"Ellsworth, I ..."
"Yes?"
"I can't tell you. Even you."
"You're a coward, Peter."
Keating stared helplessly: the voice had been severe and gentle, he did not know whether he should feel pain, insult or confidence.
"You come here to tell me that it doesn't matter what you do--and then you go to pieces over something or other you've done. Come on, be a man and say it doesn't matter. Say you're not important. Mean it. Show some guts. Forget your little ego."
"I'm not important, Ellsworth. I'm not important. Oh God, if only everybody'd say it like you do! I'm not important. I don't want to be important."
"Where did that money come from?"
"I sold Dominique."
"What are you talking about? The cruise?"
"Only it seems as if it's not Dominique that I sold."
"What do you care if ..."
"She's gone to Reno."
"What?"
He could not understand the violence of Toohey's reaction, but he was too tired to wonder. He told everything, as it had happened to him; it had not taken long to happen or to tell.
"You damn fool! You shouldn't have allowed it!"
"What could I do? Against Wynand?"
"But to let him marry her!"
"Why not, Ellsworth? It's better than ..."
"I didn't think he'd ever ... but ... Oh, God damn it, I'm a bigger fool than you are!"
"But it's better for Dominique if ..."
"To hell with your Dominique! It's Wynand I'm thinking about!"
"Ellsworth, what's the matter with you? ... Why should you care?"
"Keep still, will you? Let me think."
In a moment, Toohey shrugged, sat down beside Keating and slipped his arm about his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I apologize. I've been inexcusably rude to you. It was just the shock. But I understand how you feel. Only you mustn't take it too seriously. It doesn't matter." He spoke automatically. His mind was far away. Keating did not notice that. He heard the words. They were the spring in the desert. "It doesn't matter. You're only human. That's all you want to be. Who's any better? Who has the right to cast the first stone? We're all human. It doesn't matter."
"My God!" said Alvah Scarret. "He can't! Not Dominique Francon!"
"He will," said Toohey. "As soon as she returns."
Scarret had been surprised that Toohey should invite him to lunch, but the news he heard wiped out the surprise in a greater and more painful one.
"I'm fond of Dominique," said Scarret, pushing his plate aside, his appetite gone. "I've always been very fond of her. But to have her as Mrs. Gail Wynand!"
"These, exactly, are my own sentiments," said Toohey.
"I've always advised him to marry. It helps. Lends an air. An insurance of respectability, sort of, and he could do with one. He's always skated on pretty thin ice. Got away with it, so far. But Dominique!"
"Why do you find such a marriage unsuitable?"
"Well... well, it's not ... Damn it, you know it's not right!"
"I know it. Do you?"
"Look, she's a dangerous kind of woman."
"She is. That's your minor premise. Your major premise, however, is: he's a dangerous kind of man."
"Well ... in some ways ... yes."
"My esteemed editor, you understand me quite well. But there are times when it's helpful to formulate things. It tends toward future--cooperation. You and I have a great deal in common--though you have been somewhat reluctant to admit it. We are two variations on the same theme, shall we say? Or we play two ends against the same middle, if you prefer your own literary style. But our dear boss is quite another tune. A different leitmotif entirely--don't you think so, Alvah? Our dear boss is an accident in our midst. Accidents are unreliable phenomena. You've been sitting on the edge of your seat for years--haven't you? --watching Mr. Gail Wynand. So you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know also that Miss Dominique Francon is not our tune either. And you do not wish to see that particular influence enter the life of our boss. Do I have to state the issue any plainer?"
"You're a smart man, Ellsworth," said Scarret heavily.
"That's been obvious for years."
"I'll talk to him. You'd better not--he hates your guts, if you'll excuse me. But I don't think I'd do much good either. Not if he's made up his mind."
"I don't expect you to. You may try, if you wish, though it's useless. We can't stop that marriage. One of my good points is the fact that I admit defeat when it has to be admitted."
"But then, why did you----"
"Tell you this? In the nature of a scoop, Alvah. Advance information."
"I appreciate it, Ellsworth. I sure do."
"It would be wise to go on appreciating it. The Wynand papers, Alvah, are not to be given up easily. In unity there is strength. Your style."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that we're in for a difficult time, my friend. So we'd do better to stick together."
"Why, I'm with you, Ellsworth. I've always been."
"Inaccurate, but we'll let it pass. We're concerned only with the present. And the future. As a token of mutual understanding, how about getting rid of Jimmy Kearns at the first opportunity?"
"I thought you've been driving at that for months! What's the matter with Jimmy Kearns? He's a bright kid. The best drama critic in town. He's got a mind. Smart as a whip. Most promising."
"He's got a mind--of his own. I don't think you want any whips around the place--except the one you hold. I think you want to be careful about what the promise promises."
"Whom'll I stick in his spot?"
"Jules Fougler."
"Oh, hell, Ellsworth!"
"Why not?"
"That old son of a ... We can't afford him."
"You can if you want to. And look at the name he's got."
"But he's the most impossible old ..."
"Well, you don't have to take him. We'll discuss it some other time. Just get rid of Jimmy Kearns."
"Look, Ellsworth, I don't play favorites; it's all the same to me. I'll give Jimmy the boot if you say so. Only I don't see what difference it makes and what it's got to do with what we were talking about."
"You don't," said Toohey. "You will."
"Gail, you know that I want you to be happy," said Alvah Scarret, sitting in a comfortable armchair in the study of Wynand's penthouse that evening. "You know that. I'm thinking of nothing else."
Wynand lay stretched out on a couch, one leg bent, with the foot resting on the knee of the other. He smoked and listened silently.
"I've known Dominique for years," said Scarret. "Long before you even heard of her. I love her. I love her, you might say, like a father. But you've got to admit that she's not the kind of woman your public would expect to see as Mrs. Gail Wynand."
Wynand said nothing.
"Your wife is a public figure, Gail. Just automatically. A public property. Your readers have a right to demand and expect certain thi
ngs of her. A symbol value, if you know what I mean. Like the Queen of England, sort of. How do you expect Dominique to live up to that? How do you expect her to preserve any appearances at all? She's the wildest person I know. She has a terrible reputation. But worst of all--think, Gail!--a divorcee! And here we spend tons of good print, standing for the sanctity of the home and the purity of womanhood! How are you going to make your public swallow that one? How am I going to sell your wife to them?"
"Don't you think this conversation had better be stopped, Alvah?"
"Yes, Gail," said Scarret meekly.
Scarret waited, with a heavy sense of aftermath, as if after a violent quarrel, anxious to make up.
"I know, Gail!" he cried happily. "I know what we can do. We'll put Dominique back on the paper and we'll have her write a column--a different one--a syndicated column on the home. You know, household hints, kitchen, babies and all that. It'll take the curse off. Show what a good little homebody she really is, her youthful mistakes notwithstanding. Make the women forgive her. We'll have a special department--'Mrs. Gail Wynand's recipes.' A few pictures of her will help--you know, gingham dresses and aprons and her hair done up in a more conventional way."
"Shut up, Alvah, before I slap your face," said Wynand without raising his voice.
"Yes, Gail."
Scarret made a move to get up.
"Sit still. I haven't finished."
Scarret waited obediently.
"Tomorrow morning," said Wynand, "you will send a memo to every one of our papers. You will tell them to look through their files and find any pictures of Dominique Francon they might have in connection with her old column. You will tell them to destroy the pictures. You will tell them that henceforward any mention of her name or the use of her picture in any of my papers will cost the job of the entire editorial staff responsible. When the proper time comes, you will have an announcement of my marriage appear in all our papers. That cannot be avoided. The briefest announcement you can compose. No commentaries. No stories. No pictures. Pass the word around and make sure it's understood. It's any man's job, yours included, if this is disobeyed."
"No stories--when you marry her?"
"No stories, Alvah."
"But good God! That's news! The other papers ..."
"I don't care what the other papers do about it."
"But--why, Gail?"
"You wouldn't understand."
Dominique sat at the window, listening to the train wheels under the floor. She looked at the countryside of Ohio flying past in the fading daylight. Her head lay back against the seat and her hands lay limply at each side of her on the seat cushion. She was one with the structure of the car, she was carried forward just as the window frame, the floor, the walls of the compartment were carried forward. The corners blurred, gathering darkness; the window remained luminous, evening light rising from the earth. She let herself rest in that faint illumination; it entered the car and ruled it, so long as she did not turn on the light to shut it out.