The Early Ayn Rand

"Howard..." she whispered softly, as simply as if she were addressing herself and no stress, no emotion, no clarity of words were necessary. "It's funny... what is it?... It couldn't happen like this... and it did... I think I'm hurt, Howard... terribly... I want to cry or do something... and I can't... What is it?... I can't do anything before you... I want to say something... I should... it doesn't happen like this... and I can't... It's funny... isn't it?... You understand?"

"Yes," he said softly.

"Are you hurt too?" she asked, suddenly eager, as if she had caught at the thread of a purpose. "Are you? Are you? You must be!"

"Yes, Vesta."

"No, you aren't! You don't say it as it would sound if you... You can't be hurt. You can never be hurt!"

"I suppose not."

"Howard, why? Why do this? When I need you so much!"

"To end it before we start hating each other. You've started already."

"Oh, no, Howard! No! I don't! Not now! Can't you believe me?"

"I believe you. Not now. But the moment you leave this room. And at every other time."

"Howard, I'll try..."

"No, Vesta. Those things can't be tried. You'd better go now."

"Howard, can't you feel... sorry for me? I know, it's a terrible thing to say. I wouldn't want it from anyone else. But that... that's all I can have from you... Howard? Can't you?"

"No, Vesta."

She spread her hands out helplessly, still wondering, a bewildered question remaining in her eyes, and moved her lips to speak, but didn't, and turned, small, awkward, uncertain, and left.

She walked down the stairs and knew that she would cry in her room, cry for many hours. But one sentence he had spoken came back to her, one sentence clear and alone in the desolate emptiness of her mind: "You'll be glad of it later. Maybe tomorrow." She knew that she was glad already. It terrified her, it made the pain sharper. But she was glad.

He had not seen Vesta again before she left for California. She did not write to him and he had long since forgotten her, except for wondering occasionally, when passing by a movie theater, why he'd heard of no film in which she was to appear. Hollywood seemed to have forgotten her also; she was given no parts.

Then, in the spring, he saw her picture in the paper; she stood, dressed in a polka-dot bathing suit, holding coyly, unnaturally a huge beach ball over her head; except for the pose, it was still Vesta, the odd, impatient face, the wild hair, the ease and freedom in the lines of the body; but one had to look twice to notice it; the photograph was focused upon her long, bare legs, as all the photographs appearing in that corner of that section had always been. The caption read: "This cute little number is Sally Ann Blainey, Lux Studio's starlet. Before she was discovered by Lux scouts, Miss Blainey achieved some measure of distinction on the Broadway stage, where she was known as Vesta Dunning. The studio bosses, however, have given her a less ungainly name." It was not mentioned when she would be put to work.

"Child of Divorce" was released in January 1927, and it made film history. It was not an unusual picture and it starred an actor who was quite definitely on his downgrade, but it had Sally Ann Blainey in a smaller part. Lux Studios had not expected much of Sally Ann Blainey; she had not been advertised, and a week after the picture's completion her contract had been dropped. But on the day after the film's release, she was signed again, on quite different terms, and her name appeared in electric lights upon the marquees of theaters throughout the country, over that of the forgotten star.

Roark went to see the picture. It was still Vesta, as he had seen her last. She had lost nothing and learned nothing. She had not learned the proper camera angles, she had not learned the correct screen makeup; her mouth was too large, her cheeks too gaunt, her hair uncombed, her movements too jerky and angular. She was like nothing ever seen in a film before, she was a contradiction to all standards, she was awkward, crude, shocking, she was like a breath of fresh air. The studio had expected her to be hated; she was suddenly worshiped by the public. She was not pretty, nor gracious, nor gentle, nor sweet; she played the part of a young girl not as a tubercular flower, but as a steel knife. A reviewer said that she was a cross between a medieval pageboy and a gun moll. She achieved the incredible: she was the first woman who ever allowed herself to make strength attractive on the screen.

For a few moments after he left the theater, Roark almost wished to have her back. But he forgot it by the time he got home. Afterwards, he remembered, sometimes, that magnificent performance; he wondered whether he had been wrong and she would win her battle, after all; but he could no longer feel it as a thing too close to him.

Roark and Cameron