“Dagny, don’t be astonished by anything I do,” he said, “or by anything I may ever do in the future.”
That was the only explanation he granted her, then proceeded to act as if there were nothing to explain.
She could feel no more than a faint anxiety; it was impossible to feel fear for his fate or in his presence. When he laughed, she thought they were back in the woods by the Hudson: he had not changed and never would.
The dinner was served in his room. She found it amusing to face him across a table laid out with the icy formality pertaining to excessive cost, in a hotel room designed as a European palace.
The Wayne-Falkland was the most distinguished hotel left on any continent. Its style of indolent luxury, of velvet drapes, sculptured panels and candlelight, seemed a deliberate contrast to its function: no one could afford its hospitality except men who came to New York on business, to settle transactions involving the world. She noticed that the manner of the waiters who served their dinner suggested a special deference to this particular guest of the hotel, and that Francisco did not notice it. He was indifferently at home. He had long since become accustomed to the fact that he was Senor d’Anconia of d’Anconia Copper.
But she thought it strange that he did not speak about his work. She had expected it to be his only interest, the first thing he would share with her. He did not mention it. He led her to talk, instead, about her job, her progress, and what she felt for Taggart Transcontinental. She spoke of it as she had always spoken to him, in the knowledge that he was the only one who could understand her passionate devotion. He made no comment, but he listened intently.
A waiter had turned on the radio for dinner music; they had paid no attention to it. But suddenly, a crash of sound jarred the room, almost as if a subterranean blast had struck the walls and made them tremble. The shock came, not from the loudness, but from the quality of the sounds. It was Halley’s new Concerto, recently written, the Fourth.
They sat in silence, listening to the statement of rebellion—the anthem of the triumph of the great victims who would refuse to accept pain. Francisco listened, looking out at the city.
Without transition or warning, he asked, his voice oddly unstressed, “Dagny, what would you say if I asked you to leave Taggart Transcontinental and let it go to hell, as it will when your brother takes over?”
“What would I say if you asked me to consider the idea of committing suicide?” she answered angrily.
He remained silent.
“Why did you say that?” she snapped. “I didn’t think you’d joke about it. It’s not like you.”
There was no touch of humor in his face. He answered quietly, gravely, “No. Of course. I shouldn’t.”
She brought herself to question him about his work. He answered the questions; he volunteered nothing. She repeated to him the comments of the industrialists about the brilliant prospects of d’Anconia Copper under his management. “That’s true,” he said, his voice lifeless.
In sudden anxiety, not knowing what prompted her, she asked, “Francisco, why did you come to New York?”
He answered slowly, “To see a friend who called for me.”
“Business?”
Looking past her, as if answering a thought of his own, a faint smile of bitter amusement on his face, but his voice strangely soft and sad, he answered: “Yes.”
It was long past midnight when she awakened in bed by his side.
No sounds came from the city below. The stillness of the room made life seem suspended for a while. Relaxed in happiness and in complete exhaustion, she turned lazily to glance at him. He lay on his back, half propped by a pillow. She saw his profile against the foggy glow of the night sky in the window. He was awake, his eyes were open. He held his mouth closed like a man lying in resignation in unbearable pain, bearing it, making no attempt to hide it.
She was too frightened to move. He felt her glance and turned to her.
He shuddered suddenly, he threw off the blanket, he looked at her naked body, then he fell forward and buried his face between her breasts. He held her shoulders, hanging onto her convulsively. She heard the words, muffled, his mouth pressed to her skin: “I can’t give it up! I can’t!”
“What?” she whispered.
“You.”
“Why should—”
“And everything.”
“Why should you give it up?”
“Dagny! Help me to remain. To refuse. Even though he’s right!”
She asked evenly, “To refuse what, Francisco?”
He did not answer, only pressed his face harder against her.
She lay very still, conscious of nothing but a supreme need of caution.
His head on her breast, her hand caressing his hair gently, steadily, she lay looking up at the ceiling of the room, at the sculptured garlands faintly visible in the darkness, and she waited, numb with terror.
He moaned, “It’s right, but it’s so hard to do! Oh God, it’s so hard!”
After a while, he raised his head. He sat up. He had stopped trembling.
“What is it, Francisco?”
“I can’t tell you.” His voice was simple, open, without attempt to disguise suffering, but it was a voice that obeyed him now. “You’re not ready to hear it.”
“I want to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“You said, to help you refuse.”
“I can’t refuse.”
“Then let me share it with you.”
He shook his head.
He sat looking down at her, as if weighing a question. Then he shook his head again, in answer to himself.
“If I’m not sure I can stand it,” he said, and the strange new note in his voice was tenderness, “how could you?”
She said slowly, with effort, trying to keep herself from screaming, “Francisco, I have to know.”
“Will you forgive me? I know you’re frightened, and it’s cruel. But will you do this for me—will you let it go, just let it go, and don’t ask me anything?”
“I—”
“That’s all you can do for me. Will you?”
“Yes, Francisco.”
“Don’t be afraid for me. It was just this once. It won’t happen to me again. It will become much easier... later.”
“If I could—”
“No. Go to sleep, dearest.”
It was the first time he had ever used that word.
In the morning, he faced her openly, not avoiding her anxious glance, but saying nothing about it. She saw both serenity and suffering in the calm of his face, an expression like a smile of pain, though he was not smiling. Strangely, it made him look younger. He did not look like a man bearing torture now, but like a man who sees that which makes the torture worth bearing.
She did not question him. Before leaving, she asked only, “When will I see you again?”
He answered, “I don’t know. Don’t wait for me, Dagny. Next time we meet, you will not want to see me. I will have a reason for the things I’ll do. But I can’t tell you the reason and you will be right to damn me. I am not committing the contemptible act of asking you to take me on faith. You have to live by your own knowledge and judgment. You will damn me. You will be hurt. Try not to let it hurt you too much. Remember that I told you this and that it was all I could tell you.”
She heard nothing from him or about him for a year. When she began to hear gossip and to read newspaper stories, she did not believe, at first, that they referred to Francisco d’Anconia. After a while, she had to believe
