by Ayn Rand
"He always has."
"But events have a way of beating us all into a more ... pliable frame of mind, sooner or later."
"I've heard many characteristics ascribed to him, but .'pliable' has never been one of them."
"Well, things change and people change with them. After all, it is a law of nature that animals must adapt themselves to their background. And I might add that adaptability is the one characteristic most stringently required at present by laws other than those of nature. We're in for a very difficult time, and I would hate to see you suffer the consequences of his intransigent attitude. I would hate--as your friend--to see you in the kind of danger he's headed for, unless he learns to co-operate."
"How sweet of you, Jim," she said sweetly.
He was doling his sentences out with cautious slowness, balancing himself between word and intonation to hit the right degree of semi-clarity. He wanted her to understand, but he did not want her to understand fully, explicitly, down to the root--since the essence of that modern language, which he had learned to speak expertly, was never to let oneself or others understand anything down to the root.
He had not needed many words to understand Mr. Weatherby. On his last trip to Washington, he had pleaded with Mr. Weatherby that a cut in the rates of the railroads would be a deathblow; the wage raises had been granted, but the demands for the cut in rates were still heard in the press--and Taggart had known what it meant, if Mr. Mouch still permitted them to be heard; he had known that the knife was still poised at his throat. Mr. Weatherby had not answered his pleas, but had said, in a tone of idly irrelevant speculation, "Wesley has so many tough problems. If he is to give everybody a breathing spell, financially speaking, he's got to put into operation a certain emergency program .of which you have some inkling. But you know what hell the unpro gressive elements of the country would raise about it. A man like Rearden, for instance. We don't want any more stunts of the sort he's liable to pull. Wesley would give a lot for somebody who could keep Rearden in line. But I guess that's something nobody can deliver. Though I may be wrong. You may know better, Jim, since Rearden is a sort of friend of yours, who comes to your parties and all that."
Looking at Lillian across the table, Taggart said, "Friendship, I find, is the most valuable thing in life--and I would be amiss if I didn't give you proof of mine."
"But I've never doubted it."
He lowered his voice to the tone of an ominous warning: "I think I should tell you, as a favor to a friend, although it's confidential, that your husband's attitude is being discussed in high places--very high places. I'm sure you know what I mean."
This was why he hated Lillian Rearden, thought Taggart: she knew the game, but she played it with unexpected variations of her own. It was against all rules to look at him suddenly, to laugh in his face, and -after all those remarks showing that she understood too little--to say bluntly, showing that she understood too much, "Why, darling, of course I know what you mean. You mean that the purpose of this very excellent luncheon was not a favor you wanted to do me, but a favor you wanted to get from me. You mean that it's you who are in danger and could use that favor to great advantage for a trade in high places. And you mean that you are reminding me of my promise to deliver the goods."
"The sort of performance he put on at his trial was hardly what I'd call delivering the goods," he said angrily. "It wasn't what you had led me to expect."
"Oh my, no, it wasn.'t," she said placidly. "It certainly wasn't. But, darling, did you expect me not to know that after that performance of his he wouldn't be very popular in high places? Did you really think you had to tell me that as a confidential favor?"
"But it's true. I heard him discussed, so I thought I'd tell you."
"I'm sure it's true. I know that they would be discussing him. I know also that if there were anything they could do to him, they would have done it right after his trial. My, would they have been glad to do it! So I know that he's the only one among you who is in no danger whatever, at the moment. I know that it's they who are afraid of him. Do you see how well I understand what you mean, darling?"
"Well, if you think you do, I must say that for my part I don't understand you at all. I don't know what it is you're doing."
"Why, I'm just setting things straight--so that you'll know that I know how much you need me. And now that it's straight, I'll tell you the truth in my turn: I didn't double-cross you, I merely failed. His performance at the trial--I didn't expect it any more than you did. Less. I had good reason not to expect it. But something went wrong. I don't know what it was. I am trying to find out. When I do, I will keep my promise. Then you'll be free to take full credit for it and to tell your friends in high places that it's you who've disarmed him."
"Lillian," he said nervously, "I meant it when I said that I was anxious to give you proof of my friendship--so if there's anything I can do for--"
She laughed. "There isn't. I know you meant it. But there's nothing you can do for me. No favor of any kind. No trade. I'm a truly non-commercial person, 1 want nothing in return. Tough luck, Jim. You'll just have to remain at my mercy."
"But then why should you want to do it at all? What are you getting out of it?"
She leaned back, smiling. "This lunch. Just seeing you here. Just knowing that you had to come to me."
An angry spark flashed in Taggart's veiled eyes, then his eyelids narrowed slowly and he, too, leaned back in his chair, his face relaxing to a faint look of mockery and satisfaction. Even from within that unstated, unnamed, undefined muck which represented his code of values, he was able to realize which one of them was the more dependent on the other and the more contemptible.
When they parted at the door of the restaurant, she went to Rearden's suite at the Wayne-Falkland Hotel, where she stayed occasionally in his absence. She paced the room for about half an hour, in a leisurely manner of reflection. Then she picked up the telephone, with a smoothly casual gesture, but with the purposeful air of a decision reached. She called Rearden's office at the mills and asked Miss Ives when she expected him to return.
"Mr. Rearden will be in New York tomorrow, arriving on the Comet, Mrs. Rearden," said Miss Ives' clear, courteous voice.
"Tomorrow? That's wonderful. Miss Ives, would you do me a favor? Would you call Gertrude at the house and tell her not to expect me for dinner? I'm staying in New York overnight."
She hung up, glanced at her watch and called the florist of the Wayne-Falkland. "This is Mrs. Henry Rearden," she said. "I should like to have two dozen roses delivered to Mr. Rearden's drawing room aboard the Comet.... Yes, today, this afternoon, when the Comet reaches Chicago.... No, without any card--just the flowers.... Thank you ever so much."
She telephoned James Taggart. "Jim, will you send me a pass to your passenger platforms? I want to meet my husband at the station tomorrow."
She hesitated between Balph Eubank and Bertram Scudder, chose Balph Eubank, telephoned him and made a date for this evening's dinner and a musical show. Then she went to take a bath, and lay relaxing in a tub of warm water, reading a magazine devoted to problems of political economy.
It was late afternoon when the florist telephoned her. "Our Chicago office sent word that they were unable to deliver the flowers, Mrs. Rearden," he said, "because Mr. Rearden is not aboard the Comet."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Quite sure, Mrs. Rearden. Our man found at the station in Chicago that there was no compartment on the train reserved in Mr. Rearden's name. We checked with the New York office of Taggart Transcontinental, just to make certain, and were told that Mr. Rearden's name is not on the passenger list of the Comet."
"I see.... Then cancel the order, please.... Thank you."
She sat by the telephone for a moment, frowning, then called Miss Ives. "Please forgive me for being slightly scatterbrained, Miss Ives, but I was rushed and did not write it down, and now I'm not quite certain of what you said. Did you say that Mr. Rearden was coming back tom
orrow? On the Comet?"
"Yes, Mrs. Rearden."
"You have not heard of any delay or change in his plans?"
"Why, no. In fact, I spoke to Mr. Rearden about an hour ago. He telephoned from the station in Chicago, and he mentioned that he had to hurry back aboard, as the Comet was about to leave."
"I see. Thank you."
She leaped to her feet as soon as the click of the instrument restored her to privacy. She started pacing the room, her steps now un-rhythmically tense. Then she stopped, struck by a sudden thought. There was only one reason why a man would make a train reservation under an assumed name: if he was not traveling alone.
Her facial muscles went flowing slowly into a smile of satisfaction: this was an opportunity she had not expected.
Standing on the Terminal platform, at a point halfway down the length of the train, Lillian Rearden watched the passengers descending from the Comet. Her mouth held the hint of a smile; there was a spark of animation in her lifeless eyes; she glanced from one face to another, jerking her head with the awkward eagerness of a schoolgirl. She was anticipating the look on Rearden's face when, with his mistress beside him, he would see her standing there.
Her glance darted hopefully to every flashy young female stepping off the train. It was hard to watch: within an instant after the first few figures, the train had seemed to burst at the seams, flooding the platform with a solid current that swept in one direction, as if pulled by a vacuum; she could barely distinguish separate persons. The lights were more glare than illumination, picking this one strip out of a dusty, oily darkness. She needed an effort to stand still against the invisible pressure of motion.
Her first sight of Rearden in the crowd came as a shock: she had not seen him step out of a car, but there he was, walking in her direction from somewhere far down the length of the train. He was alone. He was walking with his usual purposeful speed, his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat. There was no woman beside him, no companion of any kind, except a porter hurrying along with a bag she recognized as his.
In a fury of incredulous disappointment, she looked frantically for any single feminine figure he could have left behind. She felt certain that she would recognize his choice. She saw none that could be possible. And then she saw that the last car of the train was a private car, and that the figure standing at its door, talking to some station official--a figure wearing, not minks and veils, but a rough sports coat that stressed the incomparable grace of a slender body in the confident posture of this station's owner and center--was Dagny Taggart. Then Lillian Rearden understood.
"Lillian! What's the matter?"
She heard Rearden's voice, she felt his hand grasping her arm, she saw him looking at her as one looks at the object of a sudden emergency. He was looking at a blank face and an unfocused glance of .terror.
"What happened? What are you doing here?"
"I ... Hello, Henry ... I just came to meet you ... No special reason ... I just wanted to meet you." The terror was gone from her face, but she spoke in a strange, flat voice. "I wanted to see you, it was an impulse, a sudden impulse and I couldn't resist it, because--"
"But you look ... looked ill."
"No ... No, maybe I felt faint, it's stuffy here.... I couldn't resist coming, because it made me think of the days when you would have been glad to see me ... it was a moment's illusion to re-create for myself...." The words sounded like a memorized lesson.
She knew that she had to speak, while her mind was fighting to grasp the full meaning of her discovery. The words were part of the plan she had intended to use, if she had met him after he had found the roses in his compartment.
He did not answer, he stood watching her, frowning.
"I missed you, Henry. I know what I am confessing. But I don't expect it to mean anything to you any longer." The words did not fit the tight face, the lips that moved with effort, the eyes that kept glancing away from him down the length of the platform. "I wanted ... I merely wanted to surprise you." A look of shrewdness and purpose was returning to her face.
He took her arm, but she drew back, a little too sharply.
"Aren't you going to say a word to me, Henry?"
"What do you wish me to say?"
"Do you hate it as much as that--having your wife come to meet you at the station?" She glanced down the platform: Dagny Taggart was walking toward them; he did not see her.
"Let's go," he said.
She would not move. "Do you?" she asked.
"What?"
"Do you hate it?"
"No, I don't hate it. I merely don't understand it."
"Tell me about your trip. I'm sure you've had a very enjoyable trip."
"Come on. We can talk at home."
"When do I ever have a chance to talk to you at home?" She was drawling her words impassively, as if she were stretching them to fill time, for some reason which he could not imagine. "I had hoped to catch a few moments of your attention--like this--between trains and business appointments and all those important matters that hold you day and night, all those great achievements of yours, such as ... Hello, Miss Taggart!" she said sharply, her voice loud and bright.
Rearden whirled around. Dagny was walking past them, but she stopped.
"How do you do," she said to Lillian, bowing, her face expressionless.
"I am so sorry, Miss Taggart," said Lillian, smiling, "you must forgive me if I don't know the appropriate formula of condolences for the occasion." She noted that Dagny and Rearden had not greeted each other. "You're returning from what was, in effect, the funeral of your child by my husband, aren't you?"
Dagny's mouth showed a faint line of astonishment and of contempt. She inclined her head, by way of leave-taking, and walked on.
Lillian glanced sharply at Rearden's face, as if in deliberate emphasis. He looked at her indifferently, puzzled.
She said nothing. She followed him without a word when he turned to go. She remained silent in the taxicab, her face half-turned away from him, while they rode to the Wayne-Falkland Hotel. He felt certain, as he looked at the tautly twisted set of her mouth, that some un-customary violence was raging within her. He had never known her to experience a strong emotion of any kind.
She whirled to face him, the moment they were alone in his room.
"So that's who it is?" she asked.
He had not expected it. He looked at her, not quite believing that he had understood it correctly.
"It's Dagny Taggart who's your mistress, isn't she?"
He did not answer.
"I happen to know that you had no compartment on that train. So I know where you've slept for the last four nights. Do you want to admit it or do you want me to send detectives to question her train crews and her house servants? Is it Dagny Taggart?"
"Yes," he answered calmly.
Her mouth twisted into an ugly chuckle; she was staring past him. "I should have known it. I should have guessed. That's why it didn't work!"
He asked, in blank bewilderment, "What didn't work?"
She stepped back, as if to remind herself of his presence. "Had you-when she was in our house, at the party--had you, then ... ?"
"No. Since."
"The great businesswoman," she said, "above reproach and feminine weaknesses. The great mind detached from any concern with the body ..." She chuckled. "The bracelet ..." she said, with the still look that made it sound as if the words were dropped accidentally out of the torrent in her mind. "That's what she meant to you. That's the weapon she gave you."
"If you really understand what you're saying--yes."
"Do you think I'll let you get away with it?"
"Get away ... ?" He was looking at her incredulously, in cold, astonished curiosity.
"That's why, at your trial--" She stopped.
"What about my trial?"
She was trembling. "You know, of course, that I won't allow this to continue."
"What does it have to do with my trial?"
"I
won't permit you to have her. Not her. Anyone but her."
He let a moment pass, then asked evenly, "Why?"
"I won't permit it! You'll give it up!" He was looking at her without expression, but the steadiness of his eyes hit her as his most dangerous answer. "You'll give it up, you'll leave her, you'll never see her again!"
"Lillian, if you wish to discuss it, there's one thing you'd better understand: nothing on earth will make me give it up."
"But I demand it!"
"I told you that you could demand anything but that."
He saw the look of a peculiar panic growing in her eyes: it was not the look of understanding, but of a ferocious refusal to understand--as if she wanted to turn the violence of her emotion into a fog screen, as if she hoped, not that it would blind her to reality, but that her blindness would make reality cease to exist.
"But I have the right to demand it! I own your life! It's my property. My property--by your own oath. You swore to serve my happiness. Not yours--mine! What have you done for me? You've given me nothing, you've sacrificed nothing, you've never been concerned with anything but yourself--your work, your mills, your talent, your mistress! What about me? I hold first claim! I'm presenting it for collection! You're the account I own!"
It was the look on his face that drove her up the rising steps of her voice, scream by scream, into terror. She was seeing, not anger or pain or guilt, but the one inviolate enemy: indifference.
"Have you thought of me?" she screamed, her voice breaking against his face. "Have you thought of what you're doing to me? You have no right to go on, if you know that you're putting me through hell every time you sleep with that woman! I can't stand it, I can't stand one moment of knowing it! Will you sacrifice me to your animal desire? Are you as vicious and selfish as that? Can you buy your pleasure at the price of my suffering? Can you have it, if this is what it does to me?"
Feeling nothing but the emptiness of wonder, he observed the thing which he had glimpsed briefly in the past and was now seeing in the full ugliness of its futility: the spectacle of pleas for pity delivered, in snarling hatred, as threats and as demands.
"Lillian," he said very quietly, "I would have it, even if it took your life."
She heard it. She heard more than he was ready to know and to hear in his own words. The shock, to him, was that she did not scream in answer, but that he saw her, instead, shrinking down into calm. "You have no right ..." she said dully. It had the embarrassing helplessness of the words of a person who knows her own words to be meaningless.
