第 70 页

soul--only then will you know the kind of happiness I spoke about, and the gates

of spiritual grandeur will fall open before you."

"But, Uncle Ellsworth," she whispered, "when the gates fall open, who is it

that’s going to enter?"

He laughed aloud, crisply. It sounded like a laugh of appreciation. "My dear,"

he said, "I never thought you could surprise me."

Then his face became earnest again.

"It was a smart crack, Katie, but you know, I hope, that it was only a smart

crack?"

"Yes," she said uncertainly, "I suppose so. Still..."

"We can’t be too literal when we deal in abstractions. Of course it’s you who’ll

enter. You won’t have lost your identity--you will merely have acquired a

broader one, an identity that will be part of everybody else and of the whole

universe."

"How? In what way? Part of what?"

"Now you see how difficult it is to discuss these things when our entire

language is the language of individualism, with all its terms and superstitions.

’Identity’--it’s an illusion, you know. But you can’t build a new house out of

crumbling old bricks. You can’t expect to understand me completely through the

medium of present-day conceptions. We are poisoned by the superstition of the

ego. We cannot know what will be right or wrong in a selfless society, nor what

we’ll feel, nor in what manner. We must destroy the ego first. That is why the

317

mind is so unreliable. We must not think. We must believe. Believe, Katie, even

if your mind objects. Don’t think. Believe. Trust your heart, not your brain.

Don’t think. Feel. Believe."

She sat still, composed, but somehow she looked like something run over by a

tank. She whispered obediently:

"Yes, Uncle Ellsworth...I...I didn’t think of it that way. I mean I always

thought that I must think...But you’re right, that is, if right is the word I

mean, if there is a word...Yes, I will believe....I’ll try to understand....No,

not to understand. To feel. To believe, I mean....Only I’m so weak....I always

feel so small after talking to you....I suppose I was right in a way--I am

worthless...but it doesn’t matter...it doesn’t matter...."

#

When the doorbell rang on the following evening Toohey went to open the door

himself.

He smiled when he admitted Peter Keating. After the trial he had expected

Keating to come to him; he knew that Keating would need to come. But he had

expected him sooner.

Keating walked in uncertainly. His hands seemed too heavy for his wrists. His

eyes were puffed, and the skin of his face looked slack.

"Hello, Peter," said Toohey brightly. "Want to see me? Come right in. Just your

luck. I have the whole evening free."

"No," said Keating. "I want to see Katie."

He was not looking at Toohey and he did not see the expression behind Toohey’s

glasses.

"Katie? But of course!" said Toohey gaily. "You know, you’ve never come here to

call on Katie, so it didn’t occur to me, but...Go right in, I believe she’s

home. This way--you don’t know her room?--second door."

Keating shuffled heavily down the hall, knocked on Catherine’s door and went in

when she answered. Toohey stood looking after him, his face thoughtful.

Catherine jumped to her feet when she saw her guest. She stood stupidly,

incredulously for a moment, then she dashed to her bed to snatch a girdle she

had left lying there and stuff it hurriedly under the pillow. Then she jerked

off her glasses, closed her whole fist over them, and slipped them into her

pocket. She wondered which would be worse: to remain as she was or to sit down

at her dressing table and make up her face in his presence.

She had not seen Keating for six months. In the last three years, they had met

occasionally, at long intervals, they had had a few luncheons together, a few

dinners, they had gone to the movies twice. They had always met in a public

place. Since the beginning of his acquaintance with Toohey, Keating would not

come to see her at her home. When they met, they talked as if nothing had

changed. But they had not spoken of marriage for a long time. "Hello, Katie,"

said Keating softly. "I didn’t know you wore glasses now."

"It’s just...it’s only for reading....I...Hello, Peter....I guess I look

terrible tonight....I’m glad to see you, Peter...."

He sat down heavily, his hat in his hand, his overcoat on. She stood smiling

318

helplessly. Then she made a vague, circular motion with her hands and asked:

"Is it just for a little while or...or do you want to take your coat off?"

"No, it’s not just for a little while." He got up, threw his coat and hat on the

bed, then he smiled for the first time and asked: "Or are you busy and want to

throw me out?"

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eye sockets, and dropped her

hands again quickly; she had to meet him as she had always met him, she had to

sound light and normal: "No, no, Fin not busy at all."

He sat down and stretched out his arm in silent invitation. She came to him

promptly, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her down to the arm of his

chair.

The lamplight fell on him, and she had recovered enough to notice the appearance

of his face.

"Peter," she gasped, "what have you been doing to yourself? You look awful."

"Drinking."

"Not...like that!"

"Like that. But it’s over now."

"What was it?"

"I wanted to see you, Katie. I wanted to see you."

"Darling...what have they done to you?"

"Nobody’s done anything to me. I’m all right now. I’m all right. Because I came

here...Katie, have you ever heard of Hopton Stoddard?"

"Stoddard?...I don’t know. I’ve seen the name somewhere."

"Well, never mind, it doesn’t matter. I was only thinking how strange it is. You

see, Stoddard’s an old bastard who just couldn’t take his own rottenness any

more, so to make up for it he built a big present to the city. But when I...when

I couldn’t take any more, I felt that the only way I could make up for it was by

doing the thing I really wanted to do most--by coming here."

"When you couldn’t take--what, Peter?"

"I’ve done something very dirty, Katie. I’ll tell you about it some day, but not

now....Look will you say that you forgive me--without asking what it is? I’ll

think...I’ll think that I’ve been forgiven by someone who can never forgive me.

Someone who can’t be hurt and so can’t forgive--but that makes it worse for me."

She did not seem perplexed. She said earnestly:

"I forgive you, Peter."

He nodded his head slowly several times and said:

"Thank you."

319

Then she pressed her head to his and she whispered:

"You’ve gone through hell, haven’t you?"

"Yes. But it’s all right now."

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Then he did not think of the

Stoddard Temple any longer, and she did not think of good and evil. They did not

need to; they felt too clean.

"Katie, why haven’t we married?"

"I don’t know," she said. And added hastily, saying it only because her heart

was pounding, because she could not remain silent and because she felt called

upon not to take advantage of him: "I guess it’s because we knew we don’t have

to hurry,"

"But we do. If we’re not too late already."

"Peter, you...you’re not proposing to me again?"

"Don’t look stunned, Katie. If you do, I’ll know that you’ve doubted it all

these years. And I couldn’t stand to think that just now. That’s what I came

here to tell you tonight. We’re going to get married. We’re going to get married

right away."

"Yes, Peter."

"We don’t need announcements, dates, preparations, guests, any of it. We’ve let

one of those things or another stop us every time. I honestly don’t know just

how it happened that we’ve let it all drift like that....We won’t say anything

to anyone. We’ll just slip out of town and get married. We’ll announce and

explain afterward, if anyone wants explanations. And that means your uncle, and

my mother, and everybody."

"Yes, Peter."

"Quit your damn job tomorrow. I’ll make arrangements at the office to take a

month off. Guy will be sore as hell--I’ll enjoy that. Get your things ready--you

won’t need much--don’t bother about the makeup, by the way--did you say you

looked terrible tonight?--you’ve never looked lovelier. I’ll be here at nine

o’clock in the morning, day after tomorrow. You must be ready to start then."

"Yes, Peter."

After he had gone, she lay on her bed, sobbing aloud, without restraint, without

dignity, without a care in the world.

Ellsworth Toohey had left the door of his study open. He had seen Keating pass

by the door without noticing it and go out. Then he heard the sound of

Catherine’s sobs. He walked to her room and entered without knocking. He asked:

"What’s the matter, my dear? Has Peter done something to hurt you?"

She half lifted herself on the bed, she looked at him, throwing her hair back

off her face, sobbing exultantly. She said without thinking the first thing she

felt like saying. She said something which she did not understand, but he did:

"I’m not afraid of you, Uncle Ellsworth!"

320

14.

"WHO?" gasped Keating.

"Miss Dominique Francon," the maid repeated.

"You’re drunk, you damn fool!"

"Mr. Keating!..."

He was on his feet, he shoved her out of the way, he flew into the living room,

and saw Dominique Francon standing there, in his apartment.

"Hello, Peter."

"Dominique!...Dominique, how come?" In his anger, apprehension, curiosity and

flattered pleasure, his first conscious thought was gratitude to God that his

mother was not at home.

"I phoned your office. They said you had gone home."

"I’m so delighted, so pleasantly sur...Oh, hell, Dominique, what’s the use? I

always try to be correct with you and you always see through it so well that

it’s perfectly pointless. So I won’t play the poised host. You know that I’m

knocked silly and that your coming here isn’t natural and anything I say will

probably be wrong."

"Yes, that’s better, Peter."

He noticed that he still held a key in his hand and he slipped it into his

pocket; he had been packing a suitcase for his wedding trip of tomorrow. He

glanced at the room and noted angrily how vulgar his Victorian furniture looked

beside the elegance of Dominique’s figure. She wore a gray suit, a black fur

jacket with a collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat slanting down. She did not

look as she had looked on the witness stand, nor as he remembered her at dinner

parties. He thought suddenly of that moment, years ago, when he stood on the

stair landing outside Guy Francon’s office and wished never to see Dominique

again. She was what she had been then: a stranger who frightened him by the

crystal emptiness of her face.

"Well, sit down, Dominique. Take your coat off."

"No, I shan’t stay long. Since we’re not pretending anything today, shall I tell

you what I came for--or do you want some polite conversation first?"

"No, I don’t want polite conversation."

"All right. Will you marry me, Peter?"

He stood very still; then he sat down heavily--because he knew she meant it.

"If you want to marry me," she went on in the same precise, impersonal voice,

"you must do it right now. My car is downstairs. We drive to Connecticut and we

come back. It will take about three hours."

"Dominique..." He didn’t want to move his lips beyond the effort of her name. He

321

wanted to think that he was paralyzed. He knew that he was violently alive, that

he was forcing the stupor into his muscles and into his mind, because he wished

to escape the responsibility of consciousness.

"We’re not pretending, Peter. Usually, people discuss their reasons and their

feelings first, then make the practical arrangements. With us, this is the only

way. If I offered it to you in any other form, I’d be cheating you. It must be

like this. No questions, no conditions, no explanations. What we don’t say

answers itself. By not being said. There is nothing for you to ponder--only

whether you want to do it or not."

"Dominique," he spoke with the concentration he used when he walked down a naked

girder in an unfinished building, "I understand only this much: I understand

that I must try to imitate you, not to discuss it, not to talk, just answer."

"Yes."

"Only--I can’t--quite."

"This is one time, Peter, when there are no protections. Nothing to hide behind.

Not even words."

"If you’d just say one thing..."

"No."

"If you’d give me time..."

"No. Either we go downstairs together now or we forget it."

"You mustn’t resent it if I...You’ve never allowed me to hope that you

could...that you...no, no, I won’t say it...but what can you expect me to think?

I’m here, alone, and..."

"And I’m the only one present to give you advice. My advice is to refuse. I’m

honest with you, Peter. But I won’t help you by withdrawing the offer. You would

prefer not to have had the chance of marrying me. But you have the chance. Now.

The choice will be yours."

Then he could not hold on to his dignity any longer; he let his head drop, he

pressed his fist to his forehead. "Dominique--why?"

"You know the reasons. I told them to you once, long ago. If you haven’t the

courage to think of them, don’t expect me to repeat them."