The Fountainhead by Rand, Ayn

“I’ve done something very dirty, Katie. I’ll tell you about it some day, but not now….Look will you say that you forgive me–without asking what it is? I’ll think…I’ll think that I’ve been forgiven by someone who can never forgive me. Someone who can’t be hurt and so can’t forgive–but that makes it worse for me.”

She did not seem perplexed. She said earnestly:

“I forgive you, Peter.”

He nodded his head slowly several times and said:

“Thank you.”

Then she pressed her head to his and she whispered:

“You’ve gone through hell, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But it’s all right now.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Then he did not think of the Stoddard Temple any longer, and she did not think of good and evil. They did not need to; they felt too clean.

“Katie, why haven’t we married?”

“I don’t know,” she said. And added hastily, saying it only because her heart was pounding, because she could not remain silent and because she felt called upon not to take advantage of him: “I guess it’s because we knew we don’t have to hurry,”

“But we do. If we’re not too late already.”

“Peter, you…you’re not proposing to me again?”

“Don’t look stunned, Katie. If you do, I’ll know that you’ve doubted it all these years. And I couldn’t stand to think that just now. That’s what I came here to tell you tonight. We’re going to get married. We’re going to get married right away.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“We don’t need announcements, dates, preparations, guests, any of it. We’ve let one of those things or another stop us every time. I honestly don’t know just how it happened that we’ve let it all drift like that….We won’t say anything to anyone. We’ll just slip out of town and get married. We’ll announce and explain afterward, if anyone wants explanations. And that means your uncle, and my mother, and everybody.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Quit your damn job tomorrow. I’ll make arrangements at the office to take a month off. Guy will be sore as hell–I’ll enjoy that. Get your things ready–you won’t need much–don’t bother about the makeup, by the way–did you say you looked terrible tonight?–you’ve never looked lovelier. I’ll be here at nine o’clock in the morning, day after tomorrow. You must be ready to start then.”

“Yes, Peter.”

After he had gone, she lay on her bed, sobbing aloud, without restraint, without dignity, without a care in the world.

Ellsworth Toohey had left the door of his study open. He had seen Keating pass by the door without noticing it and go out. Then he heard the sound of Catherine’s sobs. He walked to her room and entered without knocking. He asked:

“What’s the matter, my dear? Has Peter done something to hurt you?”

She half lifted herself on the bed, she looked at him, throwing her hair back off her face, sobbing exultantly. She said without thinking the first thing she felt like saying. She said something which she did not understand, but he did: “I’m not afraid of you, Uncle Ellsworth!”

14.

“WHO?” gasped Keating.

“Miss Dominique Francon,” the maid repeated.

“You’re drunk, you damn fool!”

“Mr. Keating!…”

He was on his feet, he shoved her out of the way, he flew into the living room, and saw Dominique Francon standing there, in his apartment.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Dominique!…Dominique, how come?” In his anger, apprehension, curiosity and flattered pleasure, his first conscious thought was gratitude to God that his mother was not at home.

“I phoned your office. They said you had gone home.”

“I’m so delighted, so pleasantly sur…Oh, hell, Dominique, what’s the use? I always try to be correct with you and you always see through it so well that it’s perfectly pointless. So I won’t play the poised host. You know that I’m knocked silly and that your coming here isn’t natural and anything I say will probably be wrong.”

“Yes, that’s better, Peter.”

He noticed that he still held a key in his hand and he slipped it into his pocket; he had been packing a suitcase for his wedding trip of tomorrow. He glanced at the room and noted angrily how vulgar his Victorian furniture looked beside the elegance of Dominique’s figure. She wore a gray suit, a black fur jacket with a collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat slanting down. She did not look as she had looked on the witness stand, nor as he remembered her at dinner parties. He thought suddenly of that moment, years ago, when he stood on the stair landing outside Guy Francon’s office and wished never to see Dominique again. She was what she had been then: a stranger who frightened him by the crystal emptiness of her face.

“Well, sit down, Dominique. Take your coat off.”

“No, I shan’t stay long. Since we’re not pretending anything today, shall I tell you what I came for–or do you want some polite conversation first?”

“No, I don’t want polite conversation.”

“All right. Will you marry me, Peter?”

He stood very still; then he sat down heavily–because he knew she meant it.

“If you want to marry me,” she went on in the same precise, impersonal voice, “you must do it right now. My car is downstairs. We drive to Connecticut and we come back. It will take about three hours.”

“Dominique…” He didn’t want to move his lips beyond the effort of her name. He wanted to think that he was paralyzed. He knew that he was violently alive, that he was forcing the stupor into his muscles and into his mind, because he wished to escape the responsibility of consciousness.

“We’re not pretending, Peter. Usually, people discuss their reasons and their feelings first, then make the practical arrangements. With us, this is the only way. If I offered it to you in any other form, I’d be cheating you. It must be like this. No questions, no conditions, no explanations. What we don’t say answers itself. By not being said. There is nothing for you to ponder–only whether you want to do it or not.”

“Dominique,” he spoke with the concentration he used when he walked down a naked girder in an unfinished building, “I understand only this much: I understand that I must try to imitate you, not to discuss it, not to talk, just answer.”

“Yes.”

“Only–I can’t–quite.”

“This is one time, Peter, when there are no protections. Nothing to hide behind. Not even words.”

“If you’d just say one thing…”

“No.”

“If you’d give me time…”

“No. Either we go downstairs together now or we forget it.”

“You mustn’t resent it if I…You’ve never allowed me to hope that you could…that you…no, no, I won’t say it…but what can you expect me to think? I’m here, alone, and…”

“And I’m the only one present to give you advice. My advice is to refuse. I’m honest with you, Peter. But I won’t help you by withdrawing the offer. You would prefer not to have had the chance of marrying me. But you have the chance. Now. The choice will be yours.”

Then he could not hold on to his dignity any longer; he let his head drop, he pressed his fist to his forehead. “Dominique–why?”

“You know the reasons. I told them to you once, long ago. If you haven’t the courage to think of them, don’t expect me to repeat them.”

He sat still, his head down. Then he said: “Dominique, two people like you and me getting married, it’s almost a front-page event.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do it properly, with an announcement and a real wedding ceremony?”

“I’m strong, Peter, but I’m not that strong. You can have your receptions and your publicity afterward.”

“You don’t want me to say anything now, except yes or no?”

“That’s all.”

He sat looking up at her for a long time. Her glance was on his eyes, but it had no more reality than the glance of a portrait. He felt alone in the room. She stood, patient, waiting, granting him nothing, not even the kindness of prompting him to hurry. “All right, Dominique. Yes,” he said at last. She inclined her head gravely in acquiescence. He stood up. “I’ll get my coat,” he said. “Do you want to take your car?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an open car, isn’t it? Should I wear my fur coat? “No. Take a warm muffler, though. There’s a little wind.”

“No luggage? We’re coming right back to the city?”

“We’re coming right back.”

He left the door to the hall open, and she saw him putting on his coat, throwing a muffler around his throat, with the gesture of flinging a cape over his shoulder. He stepped to the door of the living room, hat in hand, and invited her to go, with a silent movement of his head. In the hall outside he pressed the button of the elevator and he stepped back to let her enter first. He was precise, sure of himself, without joy, without emotion. He seemed more coldly masculine than he had ever been before.

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