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The Early Ayn Rand

Page 49

by Ayn Rand


  “All right, Howard,” she whispered, “I won’t say anything. . . . Can I . . . can I congratulate you on the job, at least? I’m really terribly glad you got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, Howard, are you going to move out of here? I’d hate to see you go, but you can get a better place somewhere close by or maybe right in the building.”

  “No. I’m staying here.”

  “But on fifty a week you can afford not to live in this horrible dump. And we’ll see each other just as often.”

  “I’ll need every cent of that money.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I won’t last there.”

  She looked at him in consternation.

  “Howard, why do you start in with an attitude like that? Are you planning to quit already?”

  “No. They’ll fire me.”

  “When?”

  “Sooner or later.”

  “Why will they fire you?”

  “That would take much too long to explain.”

  “You’re not awfully glad of the job, are you?”

  “I expected it.”

  “It’s pretty grand, though, isn’t it? I’ve heard of them vaguely—Francon & Heyer. They’re really awfully big and famous, aren’t they?”

  “They are.”

  “You could really get somewhere with them.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But isn’t it going to be better than that hopeless place where you worked? Won’t you be happier in a real, important office, successful and respected and . . .”

  “We’ll keep still about that, Vesta, and we’ll do it damn fast.”

  “Oh, Howard!” she cried, losing all control. “I can’t talk to you at all! What’s the matter with you tonight?”

  “Why tonight?”

  “No, that’s true! It’s not tonight! It’s always! I can’t stand it, Howard!”

  He looked at her without moving. He asked:

  “What do you want?”

  “Listen, Howard . . .” she whispered gently. Her fingers were rolled together in a little ball at her throat, her eyes were wide and pleading and defenseless; she had never looked lovelier. “Listen, my darling, my dearest one, I love you. I’m not reproaching you. I’m only begging you. I want you. I’ve never really had you, Howard. I want to know you. I want to understand. I’m . . . lonely.”

  “I’m not a crutch, Vesta.”

  “But I want you to help me! I want to know that you want to help me!”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you. If I come to wanting to help a person, I’ll not want that person nor to help any longer.”

  “Howard!” she screamed. “Howard, how can you say a thing like that!”

  And then she was sobbing suddenly, before she could stop it, sobbing openly, convulsively, not trying to hide the single, shameful fact of pain, sobbing with her head against the crook of his elbow. He said nothing and did not move. Her head slipped down to his hand, she pressed her face against it, she could feel her tears on the skin of his hand. The hand did not move; it did not seem alive. When she raised her head, at last, empty of tears, of sounds, even of pain, the pain swallowed under a numb stupor, only her throat still jerking silently, when she looked at him, she saw a face that had not changed, had not been reached, had no answer to give her. He asked:

  “Can you go now?”

  She nodded, humbly, almost indifferently, indifferent to her own pain and to the lack of answer which was such an eloquent answer. She backed slowly to the door, she went out silently, her eyes fastened to the last moment, incredulous and bewildered, upon his face, upon the vast, incomprehensible cruelty of his face.

  At the end of March, a new play opened in New York and on the following morning the dramatic reviews dedicated most of their space to Vesta Dunning.

  Her part was described officially as the second feminine lead, but for those who saw the opening performance there had been no leads and no other actors in the cast and hardly any play: there had been only a miracle, the impossible made real, a woman no one had ever met, yet everyone knew and recognized and believed boundlessly for two and a half hours. It was the part of a wild, stubborn, sparkling, dreadful girl who drove to despair her family and all those approaching her. Vesta Dunning streaked across the stage with her swift, broken, contorted gait; or she stood still, her body an arc, her arms flung out, her voice a whisper; or she destroyed a profound speech with one convulsed shrug of her thin shoulders; or she laughed and all the words on that stage were wiped off by her laughter. She did not hear the applause afterwards. She bowed to it, not knowing that anyone applauded her, not knowing that she bowed.

  She did not hear what was said to her in the dressing room that night. She did not wait for the reviews. She ran away to find Roark, who was waiting for her at the stage door, and she seized his arm to help her stand up, but she said nothing, and they rode home in a cab, silently, not touching each other. Then, in his room, she stood before him, she looked at him, she was speaking, not knowing that she spoke aloud, words like fragments of the thing that was bursting within her:

  “Howard . . . that was it . . . there it was . . . you see, I liked her . . . she’s the first one I ever liked doing . . . it was right . . . oh, Howard, Howard! It was right . . . I don’t care what they’ll say . . . I don’t care about the reviews . . . whether it runs or not, I’ve done it once . . . I’ve done it . . . and that’s the way now, Howard . . . it’s open . . . to Joan d’Arc . . . they’ll let me do it . . . they’ll let me do it someday. . . .”

  He drew her close to him, and she stood while he sat, his arms tight about her, his face buried against her stomach, holding her, holding something that was not to be lost. In that moment, she forgot the fear that had been following her for days, the fear of the slow, open, inevitable growth of his indifference.

  He did not tell Vesta about it for several days. He had seen her seldom in the last few months; her success was working a change in her, which he did not want to see. When he told her at last that he had lost his job, she looked at him coldly and shrugged: “It may teach you a few things for the future.”

  “It did,” said Roark.

  “Don’t expect me to sympathize. Whatever it was that you did, I’m sure you jolly well deserved it.”

  “I did.”

  “For God’s sake, Howard, when are you going to come down to earth? You can’t think that you’re the only one who’s always right and everybody else wrong!”

  “I’m too tired to quarrel with you tonight, Vesta.”

  “You’ve got to learn to curb yourself and cooperate with other people. That’s it, cooperate. People aren’t as stupid as you think. They appreciate real worth when there’s any to appreciate.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Stop talking as if you’re throwing sentences in the wastebasket! Stop being so damn smug! Don’t you realize what’s happened to you? You had a chance at a real career with a real, first-class firm and you didn’t have sense enough to keep it! You had a chance to get out of the gutter and you threw it away! You had to be Joan d’Arc’ish all over the place and . . .”

  “Shut up, Vesta,” he said quietly.

  When he came home in the evenings, Vesta was there sometimes, waiting for him. She asked: “Found anything?” When he answered, “No,” she put her arms around him and said she felt sure he would find it. But secretly, involuntarily, hating herself for it, she felt glad of his failure: it was a vindication of her own unspoken thoughts, of the new appearance the world was presenting to her, of her new security, of her reconciliation with the world, a security which he threatened, a reconciliation against which he stood as a reproach, even though he said nothing and, perhaps, saw nothing. She did not want to acknowledge these thoughts; she needed him, she would not be torn away from him. She could not tell whether he guessed. She knew only that his eyes were watching her, and he said nothing.

  Vesta entered the room in a streak, without knocking
, and stopped abruptly, her skirt flying in a wide triangle and flapping back tightly against her knees. She stood, her mouth half open, her hair thrown back, as she always stood—as if in a gust of wind, her thin body braced, her eyes wide, impatient, full of a flame that seemed to flicker in the wind.

  “Howard! I have something to tell you! Where on earth have you been? I’ve come up three times this evening. You weren’t looking for work at this hour, were you?—you couldn’t.”

  “I . . .” he began, but she went on:

  “Something wonderful’s happened to me! I’m signing the contract tomorrow. I’m going to Hollywood.”

  He sat silently, his arms on the table before him, and looked at her.

  “I’m going as soon as the play closes,” she said, and threw her hands up, and whirled on one toe, her skirt flaring like a dancer’s. “I didn’t tell you, but they took a test of me—weeks ago—and I saw it, I don’t really look very pretty, but they said they could fix that and that I had personality and they’ll give me a chance, and I’m signing a contract!”

  “For how long?” he asked.

  “Oh, that? That’s nothing. It’s for five years, but it’s only options, you know, I don’t have to stay there that long.”

  He snapped his finger against the edge of a sheet of newspaper and the click of his nail sent it across the table with a thin, whining crackle, like a string plucked, and he said nothing.

  “Oh, no,” she said, too emphatically, “I’m not giving up the stage. It’s just to make some quick money.”

  “You don’t need it. You said you could have any part you chose next year.”

  “Sure. I can always have that—after those notices.”

  “Next year, you could do what you’ve wanted to do.”

  “I’m doing that.”

  “So I see.”

  “Well, why not? It’s such a chance.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh, for . . . for . . . Hell, I don’t see why you have to disapprove!”

  “I haven’t said that.”

  “Oh, no! You never say anything. Well, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. Only that you’re lying.”

  “How?”

  “You’re not going for the money.”

  “Well . . . well, for what then? And isn’t it better— whatever you mean than to go for money? I thought you wouldn’t approve of my going after money.”

  “No, Vesta. You thought I might approve. That’s why you said it.”

  “Well, is it all right if it’s for the money?”

  “It might be. But that’s not what you’re after.”

  “What am I after?”

  “People.”

  “What people?”

  “Millions of them. Carloads. Tons. Swarms of them. To look at you. To admire you. No matter what they’re admiring you for.”

  “You’re being silly. I don’t know what you’re driving at. And besides, if I make good, I don’t have to play in stupid movies. I can select my parts. I can do as much as on the stage. More. Because it will reach so many more people and . . .” He was laughing. “Oh, all right, don’t be so smart! You’ll see. I can do what I want on the screen, too. Just give me time. I’ll do everything I want.”

  “Joan d’Arc?”

  “Why not? Besides, it’ll help. I’ll make a name for myself, then watch me come back to the stage and do Joan d’Arc! And furthermore . . .”

  “Look, Vesta, I’m not arguing. You’re going. That’s fine. Don’t explain too much.”

  “You don’t have to look like a judge dishing out a life sentence! And I don’t care whether you approve or not!”

  “I haven’t said I didn’t.”

  “I thought you’d be glad for me. Everybody else was. But you have to spoil it.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, how! How do you always manage to spoil everything? And here I was so anxious to tell you! I couldn’t wait. Where on earth have you been all evening, by the way?”

  “Working.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In the office.”

  “What office? Have you found a job?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Oh! . . . Well, how nice. . . . Doing what?”

  “Well, what do you suppose?”

  “Oh, you got a real job? With an architect? So you found one to take you after all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . it’s wonderful . . . I’m awfully glad. . . . Oh, I’m awfully glad. . . .” She heard her own voice, flat and empty and with a thin, strange, distant note in it, a note that was anger without reason; she wondered whether it sounded like that to him also. She said quickly: “I hope you’re set this time. I hope you’ll be successful someday—like everybody else.”

  He leaned back and looked at her. She stood defiantly, holding his eyes, saying nothing, flaunting her consciousness of the meaning of his silence.

  “You’re not glad that I got it,” he said. “You hope I won’t last. That’s the next best to the thing you really hope—that I’ll be successful someday like everybody else.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  He sat, looking at her, without moving. She shrugged and turned away; she picked up the newspaper and flipped its pages violently, as if the loud crackling could shut out the feeling of his eyes on her.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “Now say it.”

  “What?” she snapped, whirling around.

  “What you’ve wanted to say for a long time.”

  She flung the newspaper aside. She said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Say it, Vesta.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible! You’re . . .” And then her voice dropped suddenly, and she spoke softly, simply, pleading: “Howard, I love you. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why it should be like this. I love you and I can’t stand you. And also, I wouldn’t love you if I could stand you, if you were any different. But what you are—that frightens me, Howard. I don’t know why. It frightens me because it’s something in me which I don’t want. No. Because it’s something in me which I do want, but I’d rather not want it, and . . . Oh, you can’t understand any of it!”

  “Go on.”

  “Yes, damn you, you do understand! . . . Oh, don’t look at me like that! . . . Howard, Howard, please listen. It’s this: you want the impossible. You are the impossible yourself—and you expect the impossible. I can’t feel human around you. I can’t feel simple, natural, comfortable. And one’s got to be comfortable sometime! It’s like . . . like as if you had no weekdays at all in your life, nothing but Sundays, and you expect me always to be on my Sunday behavior. Everything is important to you, everything is great, significant in some way, every minute, even when you keep still. God, Howard, one can’t stand that! It becomes unbearable . . . if . . . if I could only put it into words!”

  “You have. Very nicely.”

  “Oh, please, Howard, don’t look like that! I’m not . . . I’m not criticizing you. I understand. I know what you want of life. I want it too. That’s why I love you. But, Howard! You can’t be that all the time! God, not all the time! One’s got to be human also.”

  “What?”

  “Human! One has to relax. One gets tired of the heroic.”

  “What’s heroic about me?”

  “Nothing. Everything! . . . No, you don’t do anything. You don’t say anything. I don’t know. It’s only what you make people feel in your presence.”

  “What?”

  “The abnormal. The overnormal. The strain. When I’m with you—it’s always like a choice. A choice between you—and the rest of the world. I don’t want such a choice. I’m afraid because I want you too much—but I don’t want to give up everybody, everything. I want to be a part of the world. They like me, they recognize me now, I don’t want to be an outsider. There’s so much that’s beautiful in the world, and gay and simple and pleasant. It
’s not all a fight and a renunciation. It doesn’t have to be. It is—with you.”

  “What have I ever renounced?”

  “Oh, you’ll never renounce anything. You’ll walk over corpses for what you want. But it’s what you’ve renounced by never wanting it. What you’ve closed your eyes to—what you were born with your eyes closed to.”

  “Don’t you think that perhaps one can’t have one’s eyes open to both?”

  “Everybody else can! Everybody but you. You’re so old, Howard. So old, so serious. . . . And there’s something else. What you said about my going after people. Look, Howard, don’t other people mean anything to you at all? I know, you like some of them and you hate others, but neither really makes much difference to you. That’s what’s horrifying. Everyone’s a blank around you. They’re there, but they don’t touch you in any way, not in any single way. You’re so closed, so finished. It’s unbearable. All of us react upon one another in some way, I don’t mean that we have to be slaves of others, or be influenced, or changed, no, not that, but we react. You don’t. We’re aware of others. You’re not. You don’t hate people—that’s the ghastliness of it. If you did—it would be simple to face. But you’re worse. You’re a fiend. You’re the real enemy of all mankind—because one can’t do anything against your kind of weapon—your utter, horrible, inhuman indifference!”

  She stood waiting. She stood, as if she had slapped his face and triumphantly expected the answer. He looked at her. She saw that his lips were opening wide, his mouth loose, young, easy; she could not believe for a moment that he was laughing. She did not believe what he said either. He said:

  “I’m sorry, Vesta.”

  Then she felt frightened. He said very gently:

 

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