第 69 页

of her own; she took her friends out to lunch, older women of her profession,

and they talked about the problems of unwed mothers, self-expression for the

children of the poor, and the evils of industrial corporations.

In the last few years Toohey seemed to have forgotten her existence. But he knew

that she was enormously aware of him in her silent, self-effacing way. He was

seldom first to speak to her. But she came to him continuously for minor advice.

She was like a small motor running on his energy, and she had to stop for

refueling once in a while. She would not go to the theater without consulting

him about the play. She would not attend a lecture course without asking his

opinion. Once she developed a friendship with a girl who was intelligent,

capable, gay and loved the poor, though a social worker. Toohey did not approve

of the girl. Catherine dropped her.

When she needed advice, she asked for it briefly, in passing, anxious not to

delay him: between the courses of a meal, at the elevator door on his way out,

in the living room when some important broadcast stopped for station

identification. She made it a point to show that she would presume to claim

nothing but the waste scraps of his time.

So Toohey looked at her, surprised, when she entered his study. He said:

"Certainly, pet. I’m not busy. I’m never too busy for you, anyway. Turn the

thing down a bit, will you?"

She softened the volume of the radio, and she slumped down in an armchair facing

him. Her movements were awkward and contradictory, like an adolescent’s: she had

lost the habit of moving with assurance, and yet, at times, a gesture, a jerk of

her head, would show a dry, overbearing impatience which she was beginning to

develop.

She looked at her uncle. Behind her glasses, her eyes were still and tense, but

unrevealing. She said:

"What have you been doing, Uncle Ellsworth? I saw something in the papers about

winning some big lawsuit that you were connected with. I was glad. I haven’t

read the papers for months. I’ve been so busy...No, that’s not quite true. I’ve

had the time, but when I came home I just couldn’t make myself do anything, I

just fell in bed and went to sleep. Uncle Ellsworth, do people sleep a lot

because they’re tired or because they want to escape from something?"

"Now, my dear, this doesn’t sound like you at all. None of it." She shook her

head helplessly: "I know."

"What is the matter?"

She said, looking at the toes of her shoes, her lips moving with effort:

"I guess I’m no good, Uncle Ellsworth." She raised her eyes to him. "I’m so

terribly unhappy."

He looked at her silently, his face earnest, his eyes gentle. She whispered:

"You understand?" He nodded. "You’re not angry at me? You don’t despise me?"

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"My dear, how could I?"

"I didn’t want to say it. Not even to myself. It’s not just tonight, it’s for a

long time back. Just let me say everything, don’t be shocked, I’ve got to tell

it. It’s like going to confession as I used to--oh, don’t think I’m returning to

that, I know religion is only a...a device of class exploitation, don’t think

I’d let you down after you explained it all so well. I don’t miss going to

church. But it’s just--it’s just that I’ve got to have somebody listen."

"Katie, darling, first of all, why are you so frightened? You mustn’t be.

Certainly not of speaking to me. Just relax, be yourself and tell me what

happened."

She looked at him gratefully. "You’re...so sensitive, Uncle Ellsworth. That’s

one thing I didn’t want to say, but you guessed. I am frightened. Because--well,

you see, you just said, be yourself. And what I’m afraid of most is of being

myself. Because I’m vicious."

He laughed, not offensively, but warmly, the sound destroying her statement. But

she did not smile.

"No, Uncle Ellsworth, it’s true. I’ll try to explain. You see, always, since I

was a child, I wanted to do right. I used to think everybody did, but now I

don’t think so. Some people try their best, even if they do make mistakes, and

others just don’t care. I’ve always cared. I took it very seriously. Of course I

knew that I’m not a brilliant person and that it’s a very big subject, good and

evil. But I felt that whatever is the good--as much as it would be possible for

me to know--I would do my honest best to live up to it. Which is all anybody can

try, isn’t it? This probably sounds terribly childish to you."

"No, Katie, it doesn’t. Go on, my dear."

"Well, to begin with, I knew that it was evil to be selfish. That much I was

sure of. So I tried never to demand anything for myself. When Peter would

disappear for months...No, I don’t think you approve of that."

"Of what, my dear?"

"Of Peter and me. So I won’t talk about that. It’s not important anyway. Well,

you can see why I was so happy when I came to live with you. You’re as close to

the ideal of unselfishness as anyone can be. I tried to follow you the best I

could. That’s how I chose the work I’m doing. You never actually said that I

should choose it, but I came to feel that you thought so. Don’t ask me how I

came to feel it--it was nothing tangible, just little things you said. I felt

very confident when I started. I knew that unhappiness comes from selfishness,

and that one can find true happiness only in dedicating oneself to others. You

said that. So many people have said that. Why, all the greatest men in history

have been saying that for centuries."

"And?"

"Well, look at me."

His face remained motionless for a moment, then he smiled gaily and said:

"What’s wrong with you, pet? Apart from the fact that your stockings don’t match

and that you could be more careful about your make-up?"

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"Don’t laugh, Uncle Ellsworth. Please don’t laugh. I know you say we must be

able to laugh at everything, particularly at ourselves. Only--I can’t."

"I won’t laugh, Katie. But what is the matter?"

"I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy in such a horrible, nasty, undignified way. In a way

that seems...unclean. And dishonest. I go for days, afraid to think, to look at

myself. And that’s wrong. It’s...becoming a hypocrite. I always wanted to be

honest with myself. But I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!"

"Hold on, my dear. Don’t shout. The neighbors will hear you."

She brushed the back of her hand against her forehead. She shook her head. She

whispered:

"I’m sorry....I’ll be all right...."

"Just why are you unhappy, my dear?"

"I don’t know. I can’t understand it. For instance, it was I who arranged to

have the classes in prenatal care down at the Clifford House--it was my idea--I

raised the money--I found the teacher. The classes are doing very well. I tell

myself that I should be happy about it. But I’m not. It doesn’t seem to make any

difference to me. I sit down and I tell myself: It was you who arranged to have

Marie Gonzales’ baby adopted into a nice family--now, be happy. But I’m not. I

feel nothing. When I’m honest with myself, I know that the only emotion I’ve

felt for years is being tired. Not physically tired. Just tired. It’s as if...as

if there were nobody there to feel any more."

She took off her glasses, as if the double barrier of her glasses and his

prevented her from reaching him. She spoke, her voice lower, the words coming

with greater effort:

"But that’s not all. There’s something much worse. It’s doing something horrible

to me. I’m beginning to hate people, Uncle Ellsworth. I’m beginning to be cruel

and mean and petty in a way I’ve never been before. I expect people to be

grateful to me. I...I demand gratitude. I find myself pleased when slum people

bow and scrape and fawn over me. I find myself liking only those who are

servile. Once...once I told a woman that she didn’t appreciate what people like

us did for trash like her. I cried for hours afterward, I was so ashamed. I

begin to resent it when people argue with me. I feel that they have no right to

minds of their own, that I know best, that I’m the final authority for them.

There was a girl we were worried about, because she was running around with a

very handsome boy who had a bad reputation, I tortured her for weeks about it,

telling her how he’d get her in trouble and that she should drop him. Well, they

got married and they’re the happiest couple in the district. Do you think I’m

glad? No, I’m furious and I’m barely civil to the girl when I meet her. Then

there was a girl who needed a job desperately--it was really a ghastly situation

in her home, and I promised that I’d get her one. Before I could find it, she

got a good job all by herself. I wasn’t pleased. I was sore as hell that

somebody got out of a bad hole without my help. Yesterday, I was speaking to a

boy who wanted to go to college and I was discouraging him, telling him to get a

good job, instead. I was quite angry, too. And suddenly I realized that it was

because I had wanted so much to go to college--you remember, you wouldn’t let

me--and so I wasn’t going to let that kid do it either....Uncle Ellsworth, don’t

you see? I’m becoming selfish. I’m becoming selfish in a way that’s much more

horrible than if I were some petty chiseler pinching pennies off these people’s

wages in a sweatshop!"

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He asked quietly:

"Is that all?"

She closed her eyes, and then she said, looking down at her hands:

"Yes...except that I’m not the only one who’s like that. A lot of them are, most

of the women I work with....I don’t know how they got that way....I don’t know

how it happened to me....I used to feel happy when I helped somebody. I remember

once--I had lunch with Peter that day--and on my way back I saw an old

organ-grinder and I gave him five dollars I had in my bag. It was all the money

I had; I’d saved it to buy a bottle of ’Christmas Night,’ I wanted ’Christmas

Night’ very badly, but afterward every time I thought of that organ-grinder I

was happy....I saw Peter often in those days....I’d come home after seeing him

and I’d want to kiss every ragged kid on our block....I think I hate the poor

now....I think all the other women do, too....But the poor don’t hate us, as

they should. They only despise us....You know, it’s funny: it’s the masters who

despise the slaves, and the slaves who hate the masters. I don’t know who is

which. Maybe it doesn’t fit here. Maybe it does. I don’t know..."

She raised her head with a last spurt of rebellion.

"Don’t you see what it is that I must understand? Why is it that I set out

honestly to do what I thought was right and it’s making me rotten? I think it’s

probably because I’m vicious by nature and incapable of leading a good life.

That seems to be the only explanation. But...but sometimes I think it doesn’t

make sense that a human being is completely sincere in good will and yet the

good is not for him to achieve. I can’t be as rotten as that. But...but I’ve

given up everything, I have no selfish desire left, I have nothing of my

own--and I’m miserable. And so are the other women like me. And I don’t know a

single selfless person in the world who’s happy--except you."

She dropped her head and she did not raise it again; she seemed indifferent even

to the answer she was seeking.

"Katie," he said softly, reproachfully, "Katie darling."

She waited silently.

"Do you really want me to tell you the answer?" She nodded. "Because, you know,

you’ve given the answer yourself, in the things you said." She lifted her eyes

blankly. "What have you been talking about? What have you been complaining

about? About the fact that you are unhappy. About Katie Halsey and nothing else.

It was the most egotistical speech I’ve ever heard in my life."

She blinked attentively, like a schoolchild disturbed by a difficult lesson.

"Don’t you see how selfish you have been? You chose a noble career, not for the

good you could accomplish, but for the personal happiness you expected to find

in it."

"But I really wanted to help people."

"Because you thought you’d be good and virtuous doing it."

"Why--yes. Because I thought it was right. Is it vicious to want to do right?"

"Yes, if it’s your chief concern. Don’t you see how egotistical it is? To hell

with everybody so long as I’m virtuous."

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"But if you have no...no self-respect, how can you be anything?"

"Why must you be anything?"

She spread her hands out, bewildered.

"If your first concern is for what you are or think or feel or have or haven’t

got--you’re still a common egotist."

"But I can’t jump out of my own body."

"No. But you can jump out of your narrow soul."

"You mean, I must want to be unhappy?"

"No. You must stop wanting anything. You must forget how important Miss

Catherine Halsey is. Because, you see, she isn’t. Men are important only in

relation to other men, in their usefulness, in the service they render. Unless

you understand that completely, you can expect nothing but one form of misery or

another. Why make such a cosmic tragedy out of the fact that you’ve found

yourself feeling cruel toward people? So what? It’s just growing pains. One

can’t jump from a state of animal brutality into a state of spiritual living

without certain transitions. And some of them may seem evil. A beautiful woman

is usually a gawky adolescent first. All growth demands destruction. You can’t

make an omelet without breaking eggs. You must be willing to suffer, to be

cruel, to be dishonest, to be unclean--anything, my dear, anything to kill the

most stubborn of roots, the ego. And only when it is dead, when you care no

longer, when you have lost your identity and forgotten the name of your