“Roark,” she said. “I want to remain here with you for all the years we might have.”
He looked at her, attentively, waiting.
“I want to live here.” Her voice had the sound of pressure against a dam. “I want to live as you live. Not to touch my money–I’ll give it away, to anyone, to Steve Mallory, if you wish, or to one of Toohey’s organizations, it doesn’t matter. We’ll take a house here–like one of these–and I’ll keep it for you–don’t laugh, I can–I’ll cook, I’ll wash your clothes, I’ll scrub the floor. And you’ll give up architecture.”
He had not laughed. She saw nothing but an unmoving attention prepared to listen on.
“Roark, try to understand, please try to understand. I can’t bear to see what they’re doing to you, what they’re going to do. It’s too great–you and building and what you feel about it. You can’t go on like that for long. It won’t last. They won’t let you. You’re moving to some terrible kind of disaster. It can’t end any other way. Give it up. Take some meaningless job–like the quarry. We’ll live here. We’ll have little and we’ll give nothing. We’ll live only for what we are and for what we know.”
He laughed. She heard, in the sound of it, a surprising touch of consideration for her–the attempt not to laugh; but he couldn’t stop it.
“Dominique.” The way he pronounced the name remained with her and made it easier to hear the words that followed: “I wish I could tell you that it was a temptation, at least for a moment. But it wasn’t.” He added: “If I were very cruel, I’d accept it. Just to see how soon you’d beg me to go back to building.”
“Yes…Probably…”
“Marry Wynand and stay married to him. It will be better than what you’re doing to yourself right now.”
“Do you mind…if we just sit here for a little while longer…and not talk about that…but just talk, as if everything were right…just an armistice for half an hour out of years….Tell me what you’ve done every day you’ve been here, everything you can remember….”
Then they talked, as if the stoop of the vacant house were an airplane hanging in space, without sight of earth or sky; he did not look across the street.
Then he glanced at his wrist watch and said:
“There’s a train for the West in an hour. Shall I go with you to the station?”
“Do you mind if we walk there?”
“All right.”
She stood up. She asked:
“Until–when, Roark?”
His hand moved over the streets. “Until you stop hating all this, stop being afraid of it, learn not to notice it.”
They walked together to the station. She listened to the sound of his steps with hers in the empty streets. She let her glance drag along the walls they passed, like a clinging touch. She loved this place, this town and everything that was part of it.
They were walking past a vacant lot. The wind blew an old sheet of newspaper against her legs. It clung to her with a tight insistence that seemed conscious, like the peremptory caress of a cat. She thought, anything of this town had that intimate right to her. She bent, picked up the paper and began folding it, to keep it
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Something to read on the train,” she said stupidly.
He snatched the paper from her, crumpled it and flung it away into the weeds. She said nothing and they walked on.
A single light bulb hung over the empty station platform. They waited. He stood looking up the tracks, where the train was to appear. When the tracks rang, shuddering, when the white ball of a headlight spurted out of the distance and stood still in the sky, not approaching, only widening, growing in furious speed, he did not move or turn to her. The rushing beam flung his shadow across the platform, made it sweep over the planks and vanish. For an instant she saw the tall, straight line of his body against the glare. The engine passed them and the car rattled, slowing down. He looked at the windows rolling past. She could not see his face, only the outline of his cheekbone.
When the train stopped, he turned to her. They did not shake hands, they did not speak. They stood straight, facing each other for a moment, as if at attention; it was almost like a military salute. Then she picked up her suitcase and went aboard the train. The train started moving a minute later.
6.
“CHUCK: And why not a muskrat? Why should man imagine himself superior to a muskrat? Life beats in all the small creatures of field and wood. Life singing of eternal sorrow. An old sorrow. The Song of Songs. We don’t understand–but who cares about understanding? Only public accountants and chiropodists. Also mailmen. We only love. The Sweet Mystery of Love. That’s all there is to it. Give me love and shove all your philosophers up your stovepipe. When Mary took the homeless muskrat, her heart broke open and life and love rushed in. Muskrats make good imitation mink coats, but that’s not the point. Life is the point.
“Jake: (rushing in) Say, folks, who’s got a stamp with a picture of George Washington on it?
“Curtain.”
Ike slammed his manuscript shut and took a long swig of air. His voice was hoarse after two hours of reading aloud and he had read the climax of his play on a single long breath. He looked at his audience, his mouth smiling in self-mockery, his eyebrows raised insolently, but his eyes pleading.
Ellsworth Toohey, sitting on the floor, scratched his spine against a chair leg and yawned. Gus Webb, stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the room, rolled over on his back. Lancelot Clokey, the foreign correspondent, reached for his highball glass and finished it off. Jules Fougler, the new drama critic of the Banner, sat without moving; he had not moved for two hours. Lois Cook, hostess, raised her arms, twisting them, stretching, and said:
“Jesus, Ike, it’s awful.”
Lancelot Clokey drawled, “Lois, my girl, where do you keep your gin? Don’t be such a damn miser. You’re the worst hostess I know.”
Gus Webb said, “I don’t understand literature. It’s nonproductive and a waste of time. Authors will be liquidated.”
Ike laughed shrilly. “A stinker, huh?” He waved his script. “A real super-stinker. What do you think I wrote it for? Just show me anyone who can write a bigger flop. Worst play you’ll ever hear in your life.”
It was not a formal meeting of the Council of American Writers, but an unofficial gathering. Ike had asked a few of his friends to listen to his latest work. At twenty-six he had written eleven plays, but had never had one produced.
“You’d better give up the theater, Ike,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Writing is a serious business and not for any stray bastard that wants to try it.” Lancelot Clokey’s first book–an account of his personal adventures in foreign countries–was in its tenth week on the best-seller list.
“Why isn’t it, Lance?” Toohey drawled sweetly.
“All right,” snapped Clokey, “all right. Give me a drink.”
“It’s awful,” said Lois Cook, her head lolling wearily from side to side. “It’s perfectly awful. It’s so awful it’s wonderful.”
“Balls,” said Gus Webb. “Why do I ever come here?”
Ike flung his script at the fireplace. It struck against the wire screen and landed, face down, open, the thin pages crushed.
“If Ibsen can write plays, why can’t I?” he asked. “He’s good and I’m lousy, but that’s not a sufficient reason.”
“Not in the cosmic sense,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Still, you’re lousy.”
“You don’t have to say it. I said so first.”
“This is a great play,” said a voice.
The voice was slow, nasal and bored. It had spoken for the first time that evening, and they all turned to Jules Fougler. A cartoonist had once drawn a famous picture of him; it consisted of two sagging circles, a large one and a small one: the large one was his stomach, the small one–his lower lip. He wore a suit, beautifully tailored, of a color to which he referred as “merde d’oie.” He kept his gloves on at all times and he carried a cane. He was an eminent drama critic.
Jules Fougler stretched out his cane, caught the playscript with the hook of the handle and dragged it across the floor to his feet. He did not pick it up, but he repeated, looking down at it:
“This is a great play.”
“Why?” asked Lancelot Clokey.
“Because I say so,” said Jules Fougler.
“Is that a gag, Jules?” asked Lois Cook.
“I never gag,” said Jules Fougler. “It is vulgar.”
“Send me a coupla seats to the opening,” sneered Lancelot Clokey.