第 27 页

"If you wish. I don’t really care one way or the other."

"Listen, Dominique--oh I know, I’m not to ask any questions--only why on earth

are you always doing things like that?"

"For no reason on earth."

"Look, you know, I’ve heard about that swank dinner where you made certain

remarks on this same subject. And then you go and say things like these at a

radical meeting."

"They’re true, though, both sides of it, aren’t they?"

"Oh, sure, but couldn’t you have reversed the occasions when you chose to

express them?"

"There wouldn’t have been any point in that."

"Was there any in what you’ve done?"

"No. None at all. But it amused me."

"I can’t figure you out, Dominique. You’ve done it before. You go along so

beautifully, you do brilliant work and just when you’re about to make a real

step forward--you spoil it by pulling something like this. Why?"

"Perhaps that is precisely why."

"Will you tell me--as a friend, because I like you and I’m interested in

you--what are you really after?"

"I should think that’s obvious. I’m after nothing at all."

He spread his hands open, shrugging helplessly.

She smiled gaily.

"What is there to look so mournful about? I like you, too, Alvah, and I’m

interested in you. I even like to talk to you, which is better. Now sit still

and relax and I’ll get you a drink. You need a drink, Alvah."

She brought him a frosted glass with ice cubes ringing in the silence. "You’re

just a nice child, Dominique," he said.

"Of course. That’s what I am."

She sat down on the edge of a table, her hands flat behind her, leaning back on

two straight arms, swinging her legs slowly. She said:

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"You know, Alvah, it would be terrible if I had a job I really wanted."

"Well, of all things! Well, of all fool things to say! What do you mean?"

"Just that. That it would be terrible to have a job I enjoyed and did not want

to lose."

"Why?"

"Because I would have to depend on you--you’re a wonderful person, Alvah, but

not exactly inspiring and I don’t think it would be beautiful to cringe before a

whip in your hand--oh, don’t protest, it would be such a polite little whip, and

that’s what would make it uglier. I would have to depend on our boss Gail--he’s

a great man, I’m sure, only I’d just as soon never set eyes on him."

"Whatever gives you such a crazy attitude? When you know that Gail and I would

do anything for you, and I personally..."

"It’s not only that, Alvah. It’s not you alone. If I found a job, a project, an

idea or a person I wanted--I’d have to depend on the whole world. Everything has

strings leading to everything else. We’re all so tied together. We’re all in a

net, the net is waiting, and we’re pushed into it by one single desire. You want

a thing and it’s precious to you. Do you know who is standing ready to tear it

out of your hands? You can’t know, it may be so involved and so far away, but

someone is ready, and you’re afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl

and you beg and you accept them--just so they’ll let you keep it. And look at

whom you come to accept."

"If I’m correct in gathering that you’re criticizing mankind in general..."

"You know, it’s such a peculiar thing--our idea of mankind in general. We all

have a sort of vague, glowing picture when we say that, something solemn, big

and important. But actually all we know of it is the people we meet in our

lifetime. Look at them. Do you know any you’d feel big and solemn about? There’s

nothing but housewives haggling at pushcarts, drooling brats who write dirty

words on the sidewalks, and drunken debutantes. Or their spiritual equivalent.

As a matter of fact, one can feel some respect for people when they suffer. They

have a certain dignity. But have you ever looked at them when they’re enjoying

themselves? That’s when you see the truth. Look at those who spend the money

they’ve slaved for--at amusement parks and side shows. Look at those who’re rich

and have the whole world open to them. Observe what they pick out for enjoyment.

Watch them in the smarter speak-easies. That’s your mankind in general. I don’t

want to touch it."

"But hell! That’s not the way to look at it. That’s not the whole picture.

There’s some good in the worst of us. There’s always a redeeming feature."

"So much the worse. Is it an inspiring sight to see a man commit a heroic

gesture, and then learn that he goes to vaudeville shows for relaxation? Or see

a man who’s painted a magnificent canvas--and learn that he spends his time

sleeping with every slut he meets?"

"What do you want? Perfection?"

"--or nothing. So, you see, I take the nothing."

"That doesn’t make sense."

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"I take the only desire one can really permit oneself. Freedom, Alvah, freedom."

"You call that freedom?"

"To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing."

"What if you found something you wanted?"

"I won’t find it. I won’t choose to see it. It would be part of that lovely

world of yours. I’d have to share it with all the rest of you--and I wouldn’t.

You know, I never open again any great book I’ve read and loved. It hurts me to

think of the other eyes that have read it and of what they were. Things like

that can’t be shared. Not with people like that."

"Dominique, it’s abnormal to feel so strongly about anything."

"That’s the only way I can feel. Or not at all."

"Dominique, my dear," he said, with earnest, sincere concern, "I wish I’d been

your father. What kind of a tragedy did you have in your childhood?"

"Why, none at all. I had a wonderful childhood. Free and peaceful and not

bothered too much by anybody. Well, yes, I did feel bored very often. But I’m

used to that."

"I suppose you’re just an unfortunate product of our times. That’s what I’ve

always said. We’re too cynical, too decadent. If we went back in all humility to

the simple virtues..."

"Alvah, how can you start on that stuff? That’s only for your editorials and..."

She stopped, seeing his eyes; they looked puzzled and a little hurt. Then she

laughed. "I’m wrong. You really do believe all that. If it’s actually believing,

or whatever it is you do that takes its place. Oh, Alvah! That’s why I love you.

That’s why I’m doing again right now what I did tonight at the meeting."

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

"Talking as I am talking--to you as you are. It’s nice, talking to you about

such things. Do you know, Alvah, that primitive people made statues of their

gods in man’s likeness? Just think of what a statue of you would look like--of

you nude, your stomach and all."

"Now what’s that in relation to?"

"To nothing at all, darling. Forgive me." She added: "You know, I love statues

of naked men. Don’t look so silly. I said statues. I had one in particular. It

was supposed to be Helios. I got it out of a museum in Europe. I had a terrible

time getting it--it wasn’t for sale, of course. I think I was in love with it,

Alvah. I brought it home with me."

"Where is it? I’d like to see something you like, for a change."

"It’s broken."

"Broken? A museum piece? How did that happen?"

"I broke it."

"How?"

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"I threw it down the air shaft. There’s a concrete floor below."

"Are you totally crazy? Why?"

"So that no one else would ever see it."

"Dominique!"

She jerked her head, as if to shake off the subject; the straight mass of her

hair stirred in a heavy ripple, like a wave through a half-liquid pool of

mercury. She said:

"I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t want to shock you. I thought I could speak to you

because you’re the one person who’s impervious to any sort of shock. I shouldn’t

have. It’s no use, I guess."

She jumped lightly off the table.

"Run on home, Alvah," she said. "It’s getting late. I’m tired. See you

tomorrow."

#

Guy Francon read his daughter’s articles; he heard of the remarks she had made

at the reception and at the meeting of social workers. He understood nothing of

it, but he understood that it had been precisely the sequence of events to

expect from his daughter. It preyed on his mind, with the bewildered feeling of

apprehension which the thought of her always brought him. He asked himself

whether he actually hated his daughter.

But one picture came back to his mind, irrelevantly, whenever he asked himself

that question. It was a picture of her childhood, of a day from some forgotten

summer on his country estate in Connecticut long ago. He had forgotten the rest

of that day and what had led to the one moment he remembered. But he remembered

how he stood on the terrace and saw her leaping over a high green hedge at the

end of the lawn. The hedge seemed too high for her little body; he had time to

think that she could not make it, in the very moment when he saw her flying

triumphantly over the green barrier. He could not remember the beginning nor the

end of that leap; but he still saw, clearly and sharply, as on a square of movie

film cut out and held motionless forever, the one instant when her body hung in

space, her long legs flung wide, her thin arms thrown up, hands braced against

the air, her white dress and blond hair spread in two broad, flat mats on the

wind, a single moment, the flash of a small body in the greatest burst of

ecstatic freedom he had ever witnessed in his life.

He did not know why that moment remained with him, what significance, unheeded

at the time, had preserved it for him when so much else of greater import had

been lost. He did not know why he had to see that moment again whenever he felt

bitterness for his daughter, nor why, seeing it, he felt that unbearable twinge

of tenderness. He told himself merely that his paternal affection was asserting

itself quite against his will. But in an awkward, unthinking way he wanted to

help her, not knowing, not wanting to know what she had to be helped against.

So he began to look more frequently at Peter Keating. He began to accept the

solution which he never quite admitted to himself. He found comfort in the

person of Peter Keating, and he felt that Keating’s simple, stable wholesomeness

was just the support needed by the unhealthy inconstancy of his daughter.

Keating would not admit that he had tried to see Dominique again, persistently

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and without results. He had obtained her telephone number from Francon long ago,

and he had called her often. She had answered, and laughed gaily, and told him

that of course she’d see him, she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape it, but

she was so busy for weeks to come and would he give her a ring by the first of

next month?

Francon guessed it. He told Keating he would ask Dominique to lunch and bring

them together again. "That is," he added, "I’ll try to ask her. She’ll refuse,

of course." Dominique surprised him again: she accepted, promptly and

cheerfully.

She met them at a restaurant, and she smiled as if this were a reunion she

welcomed. She talked gaily, and Keating felt enchanted, at ease, wondering why

he had ever feared her. At the end of a half hour she looked at Francon and

said:

"It was wonderful of you to take time off to see me, Father. Particularly when

you’re so busy and have so many appointments."

Francon’s face assumed a look of consternation. "My God, Dominique, that reminds

me!"

"You have an appointment you forgot?" she asked gently. "Confound it, yes! It

slipped my mind entirely. Old Andrew Colson phoned this morning and I forgot to

make a note of it and he insisted on seeing me at two o’clock, you know how it

is, I just simply can’t refuse to see Andrew Colson, confound it!--today of

all..." He added, suspiciously: "How did you know it?"

"Why, I didn’t know it at all. It’s perfectly all right, Father. Mr. Keating and

I will excuse you, and we’ll have a lovely luncheon together, and I have no

appointments at all for the day, so you don’t have to be afraid that I’ll escape

from him."

Francon wondered whether she knew that that had been the excuse he’d prepared in

advance in order to leave her alone with Keating. He could not be sure. She was

looking straight at him; her eyes seemed just a bit too candid. He was glad to

escape.

Dominique turned to Keating with a glance so gentle that it could mean nothing

but contempt.

"Now let’s relax," she said. "We both know what Father is after, so it’s

perfectly all right. Don’t let it embarrass you. It doesn’t embarrass me. It’s

nice that you’ve got Father on a leash. But I know it’s not helpful to you to

have him pulling ahead of the leash. So let’s forget it and eat our lunch."

He wanted to rise and walk out; and knew, in furious helplessness, that he

wouldn’t. She said:

"Don’t frown, Peter. You might as well call me Dominique, because we’ll come to

that anyway, sooner or later. I’ll probably see a great deal of you, I see so

many people, and if it will please Father to have you as one of them--why not?"

For the rest of the luncheon she spoke to him as to an old friend, gaily and

openly; with a disquieting candor which seemed to show that there was nothing to

conceal, but showed that it was best to attempt no probe. The exquisite

kindliness of her manner suggested that their relationship was of no possible

consequence, that she could not pay him the tribute of hostility. He knew that

he disliked her violently. But he watched the shape of her mouth, the movements