The Early Ayn Rand (65 page)

That norm, the hours succeeding one another, the days and the months, were becoming easier and pleasanter for her; the pleasanter they became the heavier was the burden of a mere thought about him. She had never had many friends, but she was acquiring them now, because people in her profession, in the producers’ offices, in the drugstores where actors gathered, were beginning to know her, to notice her and to like her. She was asked to parties, to luncheons, she was given passes to shows. He would never accompany her. He refused to meet her friends. The few whom she introduced to him told her afterwards that they had never encountered a man more unpleasant than that friend of hers . . . what was his name? Roark? who does he think he is?—even though Roark had said very little to them and had been very polite. He would go with her to the theater sometimes and would seldom enjoy the play. He would never go to a movie nor to a speakeasy, nor dance, nor accept invitations.

“What for, Vesta? I have nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t you want to meet people, to know them, to exchange ideas?”

“I know them. I haven’t any ideas to exchange.”

“Don’t you ever get bored?”

“Always. Terribly. Except when I’m alone.”

“You’re not normal, Howard!”

“No.”

“Why don’t you do something about it? It bothers everyone who meets you.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

There had been—in all their life together—no gay memories, no tender moments to relive, no companionship, very little laughter; there had been “no fun,” she said to herself sometimes, and felt dimly guilty of the word, then angry. When she was away from him, among people, the thought of him was like a weight in her mind, spoiling the comfortable gaiety of the moment. It was like a silent reproach somewhere—and she defied it by drinking a little too much and laughing too loudly. After all, she said to herself, looking at the couples dancing around her, one could not be a Joan d’Arc all the time.

And tonight, alone with him after Keating had left, she felt the resentment rising even here, in his room, in his presence. She looked at him, angry, trying to think of how she could make him understand, angry because she knew that he understood it already, and it was useless, and no word could reach him.

“Howard, listen to me please. Why did you have to do that? Why couldn’t you be nice to Mr. Keating?”

“What have I done?”

“It isn’t what you did. It’s what you didn’t do.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing . . . everything! Why do you hate him?”

“But I don’t hate him.”

“Well, that’s it! Why don’t you hate him at least?”

“For what?”

“Just to give him something. You can’t like anyone, so you can at least be courteous enough to show it. And kind enough.”

“I’m not kind, Vesta.”

“How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you know. Look, I . . . I want to understand. There are two ways. You can join people or you can fight them. But you don’t seem to be doing either.”

“What is it? What are you after specifically right now?”

“Well, for instance, why couldn’t you go out with Keating for a drink? When he asked you so nicely. And I wanted to go.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“What for?”

“Do you always have to have a purpose for everything? Do you always have to be so serious? Can’t you ever do things, just do them, without reason, just like everybody? Can’t you . . . oh, for God’s sake, can’t you be simple and silly, just once?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter with you, Howard? Can’t you be natural?”

“But I am.”

“Can’t you relax, just once in your life?”

He looked at her and smiled, because he was sitting on the windowsill, leaning sloppily against the wall, his legs sprawled, his limbs loose, in perfect relaxation.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said angrily. “That’s just sheer laziness. I don’t know whether you’re the tensest or the laziest man on earth.”

“Well, make up your mind.”

“It won’t make any difference, if I do.”

“No.”

“Howard, do you ever think of how hard this is for me?”

“No.”

“I always think of how you’ll react to everything I do.”

“Don’t. I don’t like it.”

“But it is hard for me, Howard.”

“Leave me then.”

“You want me to?”

“No. Not yet.”

“But you’d let me go, rather than do anything for me?”

“Yes.”

“Howard!”

“But you haven’t asked me to do anything for you.”

“Well . . . oh, God damn you, Howard, it’s so difficult to speak to you! I know what I want to say and I don’t know how to say it!”

“That’s because you don’t want to know what you’re really trying to say. Not yet. But I know it and I’m not going to help you say it. Because when you do say it, I’ll throw you out of here. Only it won’t be necessary. You won’t want to be here then. . . . Is that of any help?”

He had said it evenly, quietly, without emphasis or concern. She felt cold with panic. It had suddenly been too near, that possibility of losing him, and she was not prepared to face it. She stood, her hands clutching the shirt at her sides, moving convulsively through the cloth, hanging on, because she wanted to reach for him, to grasp him, to hold him. But she could not trust herself to touch him, not then, because she would betray too much. After a while, she walked to him, and then she could slip her arms gently about him and put her chin on his shoulder, her head against his.

“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.”