The Fountainhead (21 page)

The doorbell rang.

“Well,” said Mrs. Keating. “What can that be, at this hour?”

Keating rose, shrugging, and ambled to the door.

It was Catherine. She stood, her two hands clasped on a large, old, shapeless pocketbook. She looked determined and hesitant at once. She drew back a little. She said: “Good evening, Peter. Can I come in? I’ve got to speak to you.”

“Katie! Of course! How nice of you! Come right in. Mother, it’s Katie.”

Mrs. Keating looked at the girl’s feet which stepped as if moving on the rolling deck of a ship; she looked at her son, and she knew that something had happened, to be handled with great caution.

“Good evening, Catherine,” she said softly.

Keating was conscious of nothing save the sudden stab of joy he had felt on seeing her; the joy told him that nothing had changed, that he was safe in certainty, that her presence resolved all doubts. He forgot to wonder about the lateness of the hour, about her first, uninvited appearance in his apartment.

“Good evening, Mrs. Keating,” she said, her voice bright and hollow. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, it’s late probably, is it?”

“Why, not at all, child,” said Mrs. Keating.

Catherine hurried to speak, senselessly, hanging on to the sound of words:

“I’ll just take my hat off.... Where can I put it, Mrs. Keating? Here on the table? Would that be all right? ... No, maybe I’d better put it on this bureau, though it’s a little damp from the street, the hat is, it might hurt the varnish, it’s a nice bureau, I hope it doesn’t hurt the varnish....”

“What’s the matter, Katie?” Keating asked, noticing at last.

She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were terrified. Her lips parted; she was trying to smile.

“Katie!” he gasped.

She said nothing.

“Take your coat off. Come here, get yourself warm by the fire.”

He pushed a low bench to the fireplace, he made her sit down. She was wearing a black sweater and an old black skirt, schoolgirlish house garments which she had not changed for her visit. She sat hunched, her knees drawn tight together. She said, her voice lower and more natural, with the first released sound of pain in it:

“You have such a nice place.... So warm and roomy.... Can you open the windows any time you want to?”

“Katie darling,” he said gently, “what happened?”

“Nothing. It’s not that anything really happened. Only I had to speak to you. Now. Tonight.”

He looked at Mrs. Keating. “If you’d rather ...”

“No. It’s perfectly all right. Mrs. Keating can hear it. Maybe it’s better if she hears it.” She turned to his mother and said very simply: “You see, Mrs. Keating, Peter and I are engaged.” She turned to him and added, her voice breaking: “Peter, I want to be married now, tomorrow, as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Keating’s hand descended slowly to her lap. She looked at Catherine, her eyes expressionless. She said quietly, with a dignity Keating had never expected of her:

“I didn’t know it. I am very happy, my dear.”

“You don’t mind? You really don’t mind at all?” Catherine asked desperately.

“Why, child, such things are to be decided only by you and my son.”

“Katie!” he gasped, regaining his voice. “What happened? Why as soon as possible?”

“Oh! oh, it did sound as if... as if I were in the kind of trouble girls are supposed to ...” She blushed furiously. “Oh, my God! No! It’s not that! You know it couldn’t be! Oh, you couldn’t think, Peter, that I ... that ...”

“No, of course not,” he laughed, sitting down on the floor by her side, slipping an arm around her. “But pull yourself together. What is it? You know I’d marry you tonight if you wanted me to. Only what happened?”

“Nothing. I’m all right now. I’ll tell you. You’ll think I’m crazy. I just suddenly had the feeling that I’d never marry you, that something dreadful was happening to me and I had to escape from it.”

“What was happening to you?”

“I don’t know. Not a thing. I was working on my research notes all day, and nothing had happened at all. No calls or visitors. And then suddenly tonight, I had that feeling, it was like a nightmare, you know, the kind of horror that you can’t describe, that’s not like anything normal at all. Just the feeling that I was in mortal danger, that something was closing in on me, that I’d never escape it, because it wouldn’t let me and it was too late.”

“That you’d never escape what?”

“I don’t know exactly. Everything. My whole life. You know, like quicksand. Smooth and natural. With not a thing that you can notice about it or suspect. And you walk on it easily. When you’ve noticed, it’s too late.... And I felt that it would get me, that I’d never marry you, that I had to run, now, now or never. Haven’t you ever had a feeling like that, just fear that you couldn’t explain?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No, Katie. Only what was it exactly that started it? Anything in particular?”

“Well ... it seems so silly now.” She giggled apologetically. “It was like this: I was sitting in my room and it was a little chilly, so I didn’t open the window. I had so many papers and books on the table, I hardly had room to write and every time I made a note my elbow’d push something off. There were piles of things on the floor all around me, all paper, and it rustled a little, because I had the door to the living room half open and there was a little draft, I guess. Uncle was working too, in the living room. I was getting along fine, I’d been at it for hours, didn’t even know what time it was. And then suddenly it got me. I don’t know why. Maybe the room was stuffy, or maybe it was the silence. I couldn’t hear a thing, not a sound in the living room, and there was that paper rustling, so softly, like somebody being choked to death. And then I looked around and... and I couldn’t see Uncle in the living room, but I saw his shadow on the wall, a huge shadow, all hunched, and it didn’t move, only it was so huge!”

She shuddered. The thing did not seem silly to her any longer. She whispered:

“That’s when it got me. It wouldn’t move, that shadow, but I thought all that paper was moving, I thought it was rising very slowly off the floor, and it was going to come to my throat and I was going to drown. That’s when I screamed. And, Peter, he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear it! Because the shadow didn’t move. Then I seized my hat and coat and I ran. When I was running through the living room, I think he said: ‘Why, Catherine, what time is it?—Where are you going?’ Something like that, I’m not sure. But I didn’t look back and I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. I was afraid of him. Afraid of Uncle Ellsworth who’s never said a harsh word to me in his life! ... That was all, Peter. I can’t understand it, but I’m afraid. Not so much any more, not here with you, but I’m afraid....”

Mrs. Keating spoke, her voice dry and crisp:

“Why, it’s plain what happened to you, my dear. You worked too hard and overdid it, and you just got a mite hysterical.”

“Yes ... probably ...”

“No,” said Keating dully, “no, it wasn’t that....” He was thinking of the loud-speaker in the lobby of the strike meeting. Then he added quickly: “Yes, Mother’s right. You’re killing yourself with work, Katie. That uncle of yours—I’ll wring his neck one of these days.”

“Oh, but it’s not his fault! He doesn’t want me to work. He often takes the books away from me and tells me to go to the movies. He’s said that himself, that I work too hard. But I like it. I think that every note I make, every little bit of information—it’s going to be taught to hundreds of young students, all over the country, and I think it’s me who’s helping to educate people, just my own little bit in such a big cause—and I feel proud and I don’t want to stop. You see? I’ve really got nothing to complain about. And then ... then, like tonight... I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“Look, Katie, we’ll get the license tomorrow morning and then we’ll be married at once, anywhere you wish.”

“Let’s, Peter,” she whispered. “You really don’t mind? I have no real reasons, but I want it. I want it so much. Then I’ll know that everything’s all right. We’ll manage. I can get a job if you... if you’re not quite ready or ...”

“Oh, nonsense. Don’t talk about that. We’ll manage. It doesn’t matter. Only let’s get married and everything else will take care of itself.”

“Darling, you understand? You do understand?”

“Yes, Katie.”

“Now that it’s all settled,” said Mrs. Keating, “I’ll fix you a cup of hot tea, Catherine. You’ll need it before you go home.”

She prepared the tea, and Catherine drank it gratefully and said, smiling:

“I ... I’ve often been afraid that you wouldn’t approve, Mrs. Keating.”

“Whatever gave you that idea,” Mrs. Keating drawled, her voice not in the tone of a question. “Now you run on home like a good girl and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Mother, couldn’t Katie stay here tonight? She could sleep with you.”

“Well, now, Peter, don’t get hysterical. What would her uncle think?”

“Oh, no, of course not. I’ll be perfectly all right, Peter. I’ll go home.”

“Not if you ...”

“I’m not afraid. Not now. I’m fine. You don’t think that I’m really scared of Uncle Ellsworth?”

“Well, all right. But don’t go yet.”

“Now, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating, “you don’t want her to be running around the streets later than she has to.”

“I’ll take her home.”

“No,” said Catherine. “I don’t want to be sillier than I am. No, I won’t let you.”

He kissed her at the door and he said: “I’ll come for you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and we’ll go for the license.” “Yes, Peter,” she whispered.

He closed the door after her and he stood for a moment, not noticing that he was clenching his fists. Then he walked defiantly back to the living room, and he stopped, his hands in his pockets, facing his mother. He looked at her, his glance a silent demand. Mrs. Keating sat looking at him quietly, without pretending to ignore the glance and without answering it.

Then she asked:

“Do you want to go to bed, Peter?”

He had expected anything but that. He felt a violent impulse to seize the chance, to turn, leave the room and escape. But he had to learn what she thought; he had to justify himself.

“Now, Mother, I’m not going to listen to any objections.”

“I’ve made no objections,” said Mrs. Keating.

“Mother, I want you to understand that I love Katie, that nothing can stop me now, and that’s that.”

“Very well, Peter.”

“I don’t see what it is that you dislike about her.”

“What I like or dislike is of no importance to you any more.”

“Oh yes, Mother, of course it is! You know it is. How can you say that?”

“Peter, I have no likes or dislikes as far as I’m concerned. I have no thought for myself at all, because nothing in the world matters to me, except you. It might be old-fashioned, but that’s the way I am. I know I shouldn’t be, because children don’t appreciate it nowadays, but I can’t help it.”

“Oh, Mother, you know that I appreciate it! You know that I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me, Peter, except by hurting yourself. And that ... that’s hard to bear.”

“How am I hurting myself?”

“Well, if you won’t refuse to listen to me ...”

“I’ve never refused to listen to you!”

“If you do want to hear my opinion, I’ll say that this is the funeral of twenty-nine years of my life, of all the hopes I’ve had for you.”

“But why? Why?”

“It’s not that I dislike Catherine, Peter. I like her very much. She’s a nice girl—if she doesn’t let herself go to pieces often and pick things out of thin air like that. But she’s a respectable girl and I’d say she’d make a good wife for anybody. For any nice, plodding, respectable boy. But to think of it for you, Peter! For you!”

“But...”

“You’re modest, Peter. You’re too modest. That’s always been your trouble. You don’t appreciate yourself. You think you’re just like anybody else.”

“I certainly don’t! And I won’t have anyone think that!”

“Then use your head! Don’t you know what’s ahead of you? Don’t you see how far you’ve come already and how far you’re going? You have a chance to become—well, not the very best, but pretty near the top in the architectural profession, and ...”

“Pretty near the top? Is that what you think? If I can’t be the very best, if I can’t be the one architect of this country in my day—I don’t want any damn part of it!”

“Ah, but one doesn’t get to that, Peter, by falling down on the job. One doesn’t get to be first in anything without the strength to make some sacrifices.”

“But ...”

“Your life doesn’t belong to you, Peter, if you’re really aiming high. You can’t allow yourself to indulge every whim, as ordinary people can, because with them it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not you or me or what we feel, Peter. It’s your career. It takes strength to deny yourself in order to win other people’s respect.”

“You just dislike Katie and you let your own prejudice ...”

“Whatever would I dislike about her? Well, of course, I can’t say that I approve of a girl who has so little consideration for her man that she’ll run to him and upset him over nothing at all, and ask him to chuck his future out the window just because she gets some crazy notion. That shows what help you can expect from a wife like that. But as far as I’m concerned, if you think that I’m worried about myself—well, you’re just blind, Peter. Don’t you see that for me personally it would be a perfect match? Because I’d have no trouble with Catherine, I could get along with her beautifully, she’d be respectful and obedient to her mother-in-law. While, on the other hand, Miss Francon ...”

He winced. He had known that this would come. It was the one subject he had been afraid to hear mentioned.

“Oh yes, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating quietly, firmly, “we’ve got to speak of that. Now, I’m sure I could never manage Miss Francon, and an elegant society girl like that wouldn’t even stand for a dowdy, uneducated mother like me. She’d probably edge me out of the house. Oh, yes, Peter. But you see, it’s not me that I’m thinking of.”

“Mother,” he said harshly, “that part of it is pure drivel—about my having a chance with Dominique. That hell-cat—I’m not sure she’d ever look at me.”