“I do not expect you to think of me at all.”
Under his anger, the emotion which Rearden would not acknowledge remained unstated and unthought; he knew it only as a hint of pain.
Had he faced it, he would have known that he still heard Francisco’s voice saying, “I am the only one who will offer it . . . if you will accept it. . . .” He heard the words and the strangely solemn inflection of the quiet voice and an inexplicable answer of his own, something within him that wanted to cry yes, to accept, to tell this man that he accepted, that he needed it—though there was no name for what he needed, it was not gratitude, and he knew that it was not gratitude this man had meant.
Aloud, he said, “I didn’t seek to talk to you. But you’ve asked for it and you’re going to hear it. To me, there’s only one form of human depravity—the man without a purpose.”
“That is true.”
“I can forgive all those others, they’re not vicious, they’re merely helpless. But you—you’re the kind who can’t be forgiven.”
“It is against the sin of forgiveness that I wanted to warn you.”
“You had the greatest chance in life. What have you done with it?
If you have the mind to understand all the things you said, how can you speak to me at all? How can you face anyone after the sort of irresponsible destruction you’ve perpetrated in that Mexican business?”
“It is your right to condemn me for it, if you wish.”
Dagny stood by the corner of the window recess, listening. They did not notice her. She had seen them together and she had approached, drawn by an impulse she could not explain or resist; it seemed crucially important that she know what these two men said to each other.
She had heard their last few sentences. She had never thought it possible that she would see Francisco taking a beating. He could smash any adversary in any form of encounter. Yet he stood, offering no defense.
She knew that it was not indifference; she knew his face well enough to see the effort his calm cost him—she saw the faint line of a muscle pulled tight across his cheek.
“Of all those who live by the ability of others,” said Rearden, “you’re the one real parasite.”
“I have given you grounds to think so.”
“Then what right have you to talk about the meaning of being a man? You’re the one who has betrayed it.”
“I am sorry if I have offended you by what you may rightly consider as a presumption.”
Francisco bowed and turned to go. Rearden said involuntarily, not knowing that the question negated his anger, that it was a plea to stop this man and hold him, “What did you want to learn to understand about me?”
Francisco turned. The expression of his face had not changed; it was still a look of gravely courteous respect. “I have learned it,” he answered.
Rearden stood watching him as he walked off into the crowd. The figures of a butler, with a crystal dish, and of Dr. Pritchett, stooping to choose another canape, hid Francisco from sight. Rearden glanced out at the darkness; nothing could be seen there but the wind.
Dagny stepped forward, when he came out of the recess; she smiled, openly inviting conversation. He stopped. It seemed to her that he had stopped reluctantly. She spoke hastily, to break the silence.
“Hank, why do you have so many intellectuals of the looter persuasion here? I wouldn’t have them in my house.”
This was not what she had wanted to say to him. But she did not know what she wanted to say; never before had she felt herself left wordless in his presence.
She saw his eyes narrowing, like a door being closed. “I see no reason why one should not invite them to a party,” he answered coldly.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to criticize your choice of guests. But . . . Well, I’ve been trying not to learn which one of them is Bertram Scudder. If I do, I’ll slap his face.” She tried to sound casual, “I don’t want to create a scene, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself. I couldn’t believe it when somebody told me that Mrs. Rearden had invited him.”
“I invited him.”
“But . . .” Then her voice dropped. “Why?”
“I don’t attach any importance to occasions of this kind.”
“I’m sorry, Hank. I didn’t know you were so tolerant. I’m not.”
He said nothing.
“I know you don’t like parties. Neither do I. But sometimes I wonder . . . perhaps we’re the only ones who were meant to be able to enjoy them.”
“I am afraid I have no talent for it.”
“Not for this. But do you think any of these people are enjoying it? They’re just straining to be more senseless and aimless than usual. To be light and unimportant . . . You know, I think that only if one feels immensely important can one feel truly light.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s just a thought that disturbs me once in a while. . . . I thought it about my first ball. . . . I keep thinking that parties are intended to be celebrations, and celebrations should be only for those who have something to celebrate.”
“I have never thought of it.”
She could not adapt her words to the rigid formality of his manner; she could not quite believe it. They had always been at ease together, in his office. Now he was like a man in a strait jacket.
“Hank, look at it. If you didn’t know any of these people, wouldn’t it seem beautiful? The lights and the clothes and all the imagination that went to make it possible . . .” She was looking at the room. She did not notice that he had not followed her glance. He was looking down at the shadows on her naked shoulder, the soft, blue shadows made by the light that fell through the strands of her hair. “Why have we left it all to fools? It should have been ours.”
“In what manner?”
“I don’t know . . . I’ve always expected parties to be exciting and brilliant, like some rare drink.” She laughed; there was a note of sadness in it. “But I don’t drink, either. That’s just another symbol that doesn’t mean what it was intended to mean,” He was silent. She added, “Perhaps there’s something that we have missed.”
“I am not aware of it.”
In a flash of sudden, desolate emptiness, she was glad that he had not understood or responded, feeling dimly that she had revealed too much, yet not knowing what she had revealed. She shrugged, the movement running through the curve of her shoulder like a faint convulsion.
“It’s just an old illusion of mine,” she said indifferently. “Just a mood that comes once every year or two. Let me see the latest steel price index and I’ll forget all about it.”
She did not know that his eyes were following her, as she walked away from him.
She moved slowly through the room, looking at no one. She noticed a small group huddled by the unlighted fireplace. The room was not cold, but they sat as if they drew comfort from the thought of a non-existent fire.
“I do not know why, but I am growing to be afraid of the dark. No, not now, only when I am alone. What frightens me is night. Night as such.”
The speaker was an elderly spinster with an air of breeding and hopelessness. The three women and two men of the group were well dressed, the skin of their faces was smoothly well tended, but they had a manner of anxious caution that kept their voices one tone lower than normal and blurred the differences of their ages, giving them all the same gray look of being spent. It was the look one saw in groups of respectable people everywhere. Dagny stopped and listened.
“But, my dear,” one of them asked, “why should it frighten you?”
“I don’t know,” said the spinster, “I am not afraid of prowlers or robberies or anything of the sort. But I stay awake all night. I fall asleep only when I see the sky turning pale. It is very odd. Every evening, when it grows dark, I get the feeling that this tune it is final, that daylight will not return.”
“My cousin who lives on the coast of Maine wrote me the same thing,” said one of the women.
“Last night,” said the spinster, “I stayed awake because of the shooting. There were guns going off all night, way out at sea. There were no flashes. There was nothing. Just those detonations, at long intervals, somewhere in the fog over the Atlantic.”