“Why, no, Mr. Wynand. I’ve made you a present of it. I intended you only to understand that this is Mrs. Peter Keating.”
Wynand looked at the statue, then back at Toohey.
“Oh you damn fool!” said Wynand softly.
Toohey stared at him, bewildered.
“So you really did use this as a red lamp in a window?” Wynand seemed relieved; he did not find it necessary to hold Toohey’s glance now. “That’s better, Toohey. You’re not as smart as I thought for a moment.”
“But, Mr. Wynand, what…?”
“Didn’t you realize that this statue would be the surest way to kill any possible appetite I might have for your Mrs. Keating?”
“You haven’t seen her, Mr. Wynand.”
“Oh, she’s probably beautiful. She might be more beautiful than this. But she can’t have what that sculptor has given her. And to see that same face, but without any meaning, like a dead caricature–don’t you think one would hate the woman for that?”
“You haven’t seen her.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll see her. I told you you should be allowed to get away with your stunt completely or not at all. I didn’t promise you to lay her, did I? Only to see her.”
“That is all I wanted, Mr. Wynand.”
“Have her telephone my office and make an appointment.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wynand.”
“Besides, you’re lying about not knowing the name of that sculptor. But it’s too much bother to make you tell me. She’ll tell me.”
“I’m sure she’ll tell you. Though why should I lie?”
“God knows. By the way, if it had been a lesser sculptor, you’d have lost your job over this.”
“But, after all, Mr. Wynand, I have a contract.”
“Oh, save that for your labor unions, Elsie! And now I think you should wish me a good night and get out of here.”
“Yes, Mr. Wynand. I wish you a good night.”
Wynand accompanied him to the hall. At the door Wynand said:
“You’re a poor businessman, Toohey. I don’t know why you’re so anxious to have me meet Mrs. Keating. I don’t know what your racket is in trying to get a commission for that Keating of yours. But whatever it is, it can’t be so valuable that you should have been willing to part with a thing like this in exchange.”
2.
“WHY didn’t you wear your emerald bracelet?” asked Peter Keating. “Gordon Prescott’s so-called fiancee had everybody gaping at her star sapphire.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I shall wear it next time,” said Dominique.
“It was a nice party. Did you have a good time?”
“I always have a good time.”
“So did I…Only…Oh God, do you want to know the truth?”
“No.”
“Dominique, I was bored to death. Vincent Knowlton is a pain in the neck. He’s such a damn snob. I can’t stand him.” He added cautiously: “I didn’t show it, did I?”
“No. You behaved very well. You laughed at all his jokes–even when no one else did.”
“Oh, you noticed that? It always works.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“You think I shouldn’t, don’t you?”
“I haven’t said that.”
“You think it’s…low, don’t you?”
“I don’t think anything is low.”
He slumped farther in his armchair; it made his chin press uncomfortably against his chest; but he did not care to move again. A fire crackled in the fireplace of his living room. He had turned out all the lights, save one lamp with a yellow silk shade; but it created no air of intimate relaxation, it only made the place look deserted, like a vacant apartment with the utilities shut off. Dominique sat at the other end of the room, her thin body fitted obediently to the contours of a straight-backed chair; she did not look stiff, only too poised for comfort. They were alone, but she sat like a lady at a public function; like a lovely dress dummy in a public show window–a window facing a busy intersection. They had come home from a tea party at the house of Vincent Knowlton, a prominent young society man, Keating’s new friend. They had had a quiet dinner together, and now their evening was free. There were no other social engagements till tomorrow.
“You shouldn’t have laughed at theosophy when you spoke to Mrs. Marsh,” he said. “She believes in it.”
“I’m sorry. I shall be more careful.”
He waited to have her open a subject of conversation. She said nothing. He thought suddenly that she had never spoken to him first–in the twenty months of their marriage. He told himself that that was ridiculous and impossible; he tried to recall an occasion when she had addressed him. Of course she had; he remembered her asking him: ‘”What time will you get back tonight?” and “Do you wish to include the Dixons for Tuesday’s dinner?” and many things like that.
He glanced at her. She did not look bored or anxious to ignore him. She sat there, alert and ready, as if his company held her full interest; she did not reach for a book, she did not stare at some distant thought of her own. She looked straight at him, not past him, as if she were waiting for a conversation. He realized that she had always looked straight at him, like this; and now he wondered whether he liked it. Yes, he did, it allowed him no cause to be jealous, not even of her hidden thoughts. No, he didn’t, not quite, it allowed no escape, for either one of them.
“I’ve just finished The Gallant Gallstone,” he said. “It’s a swell book. It’s the product of a scintillating brain, a Puck with tears streaming down his face, a golden-hearted clown holding for a moment the throne of God.”
“I read the same book review. In the Sunday Banner.”
“I read the book itself. You know I did.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Huh?” He heard approval and it pleased him.
“It was considerate toward the author. I’m sure she likes to have people read her book. So it was kind to take the time–when you knew in advance what you’d think of it.”
“I didn’t know. But I happened to agree with the reviewer.”
“The Banner has the best reviewers.”
“That’s true. Of course. So there’s nothing wrong in agreeing with them, is there?”
“Nothing whatever. I always agree.”
“With whom?”
“With everybody.”
“Are you making fun of me, Dominique?”
“Have you given me reason to?”
“No. I don’t see how. No, of course I haven’t.”
“Then I’m not.”
He waited. He heard a truck rumbling past, in the street below, and that filled a few seconds; “but when the sound died, he had to speak again:
“Dominique, I’d like to know what you think.”
“Of what?”
“Of…of…” He searched for an important subject and ended with: “…of Vincent Knowlton.”
“I think he’s a man worth kissing the backside of.”
“For Christ’s sake, Dominique!”
“I’m sorry. That’s bad English and bad manners. It’s wrong, of course. Well, let’s see: Vincent Knowlton is a man whom it’s pleasant to know. Old families deserve a great deal of consideration, and we must have tolerance for the opinions of others, because tolerance is the greatest virtue, therefore it would be unfair to force your views on Vincent Knowlton, and if you just let him believe what he pleases, he will be glad to help you too, because he’s a very human person.”
“Now, that’s sensible,” said Keating; he felt at home in recognizable language. “I think tolerance is very important, because…” He stopped. He finished, in an empty voice: “You said exactly the same thing as before.”
“Did you notice that,” she said. She said it without question mark, indifferently, as a simple fact. It was not sarcasm; he wished it were; sarcasm would have granted him a personal recognition–the desire to hurt him. But her voice had never carried any personal relation to him–not for twenty months.
He stared into the fire. That was what made a man happy–to sit looking dreamily into a fire, at his own hearth, in his own home; that’s what he had always heard and read. He stared at the flames, unblinking, to force himself into a complete obedience to an established truth. Just one more minute of it and I will feel happy, he thought, concentrating. Nothing happened.
He thought of how convincingly he could describe this scene to friends and make them envy the fullness of his contentment. Why couldn’t he convince himself? He had everything he’d ever wanted. He had wanted superiority–and for the last year he had been the undisputed leader of his profession. He had wanted fame–and he had five thick albums of clippings. He had wanted wealth–and he had enough to insure luxury for the rest of his life. He had everything anyone ever wanted. How many people struggled and suffered to achieve what he had achieved? How many dreamed and bled and died for this, without reaching it? “Peter Keating is the luckiest fellow on earth.” How often had he heard that?