The Early Ayn Rand

"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.