The Early Ayn Rand

Then she knew, not that he loved her, but that he granted her a strange value, not for him, but in herself alone, apart from him, not needing her, but admiring her. And she felt at once that this was right and what she wanted and what she loved in him, and also that it was inhuman, bewildering, cold, and not the love others called love. She felt both things, confused, inextricable, and she knew only, with a certainty beyond explanation, that she was happy in that moment and would hate him for it when the moment passed and life became normal again.

That norm, the hours succeeding one another, the days and the months, were becoming easier and pleasanter for her; the pleasanter they became the heavier was the burden of a mere thought about him. She had never had many friends, but she was acquiring them now, because people in her profession, in the producers' offices, in the drugstores where actors gathered, were beginning to know her, to notice her and to like her. She was asked to parties, to luncheons, she was given passes to shows. He would never accompany her. He refused to meet her friends. The few whom she introduced to him told her afterwards that they had never encountered a man more unpleasant than that friend of hers... what was his name? Roark? who does he think he is? — even though Roark had said very little to them and had been very polite. He would go with her to the theater sometimes and would seldom enjoy the play. He would never go to a movie nor to a speakeasy, nor dance, nor accept invitations.

"What for, Vesta? I have nothing to talk about."

"Don't you want to meet people, to know them, to exchange ideas?"

"I know them. I haven't any ideas to exchange."

"Don't you ever get bored?"

"Always. Terribly. Except when I'm alone."

"You're not normal, Howard!"

"No."

“Why don't you do something about it? It bothers everyone who meets you."

"It doesn't bother me."

There had been — in all their life together — no gay memories, no tender moments to relive, no companionship, very little laughter; there had been "no fun," she said to herself sometimes, and felt dimly guilty of the word, then angry. When she was away from him, among people, the thought of him was like a weight in her mind, spoiling the comfortable gaiety of the moment. It was like a silent reproach somewhere — and she defied it by drinking a little too much and laughing too loudly. After all, she said to herself, looking at the couples dancing around her, one could not be a Joan d'Arc all the time.

And tonight, alone with him after Keating had left, she felt the resentment rising even here, in his room, in his presence. She looked at him, angry, trying to think of how she could make him understand, angry because she knew that he understood it already, and it was useless, and no word could reach him.

"Howard, listen to me please. Why did you have to do that? Why couldn't you be nice to Mr. Keating?"

"What have I done?"

"It isn't what you did. It's what you didn't do."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing... everything! Why do you hate him?"

"But I don't hate him."

"Well, that's it! Why don't you hate him at least?"

"For what?"

"Just to give him something. You can't like anyone, so you can at least be courteous enough to show it. And kind enough."

"I'm not kind, Vesta."

"How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you know. Look, I... I want to understand. There are two ways. You can join people or you can fight them. But you don't seem to be doing either."

"What is it? What are you after specifically right now?"

"Well, for instance, why couldn't you go out with Keating for a drink? When he asked you so nicely. And I wanted to go."

"But I didn't."

"Why not?"

"What for?"

"Do you always have to have a purpose for everything? Do you always have to be so serious? Can't you ever do things, just do them, without reason, just like everybody? Can't you... oh, for God's sake, can't you be simple and silly, just once?"

"No."

"What's the matter with you, Howard? Can't you be natural?"

"But I am."

"Can't you relax, just once in your life?"

He looked at her and smiled, because he was sitting on the windowsill, leaning sloppily against the wall, his legs sprawled, his limbs loose, in perfect relaxation.

"That's not what I mean," she said angrily. "That's just sheer laziness. I don't know whether you're the tensest or the laziest man on earth."

"Well, make up your mind."

"It won't make any difference, if I do."

"No."

"Howard, do you ever think of how hard this is for me?"

"No."

"I always think of how you'll react to everything I do."

"Don't. I don't like it."

"But it is hard for me, Howard."

"Leave me then."

"You want me to?"

"No. Not yet."

"But you'd let me go, rather than do anything for me?"

"Yes."

"Howard!"

"But you haven't asked me to do anything for you."

"Well... oh, God damn you, Howard, it's so difficult to speak to you! I know what I want to say and I don't know how to say it!"