Atlas Shrugged (62 page)

The torture remaining to him was the knowledge that she would never want to leave him and he would never have the right to leave—the thought that he owed her at least the feeble recognition of sympathy, of respect for a feeling he could neither understand nor return—the knowledge that he could summon nothing for her, except contempt, a strange, total, unreasoning contempt, impervious to pity, to reproach, to his own pleas for justice—and, hardest to bear, the proud revulsion against his own verdict, against his demand that he consider himself lower than this woman he despised.

Then it did not matter to him any longer, it all receded into some outer distance, leaving only the thought that he was willing to bear anything—leaving him in a state which was both tension and peace—because he lay in bed, his face pressed to the pillow, thinking of Dagny, of her slender, sensitive body stretched beside him, trembling under the touch of his fingers. He wished she were back in New York. If she were, he would have gone there, now, at once, in the middle of the night.

Eugene Lawson sat at his desk as if it were the control panel of a bomber plane commanding a continent below. But he forgot it, at times, and slouched down, his muscles going slack inside his suit, as if he were pouting at the world. His mouth was the one part of him which he could not pull tight at any time; it was uncomfortably prominent in his lean face, attracting the eyes of any listener: when he spoke, the movement ran through his lower lip, twisting its moist flesh into extraneous contortions of its own.

“I am not ashamed of it,” said Eugene Lawson. “Miss Taggart, I want you to know that I am not ashamed of my past career as president of the Community National Bank of Madison.”

“I haven’t made any reference to shame,” said Dagny coldly.

“No moral guilt can be attached to me, inasmuch as I lost everything I possessed in the crash of that bank. It seems to me that I would have the right to feel proud of such a sacrifice.”

“I merely wanted to ask you some questions about the Twentieth Century Motor Company which—”

“I shall be glad to answer any questions. I have nothing to hide. My conscience is clear. If you thought that the subject was embarrassing to me, you were mistaken.”

“I wanted to inquire about the men who owned the factory at the time when you made a loan to—”

“They were perfectly good men. They were a perfectly sound risk—though, of course, I am speaking in human terms, not in the terms of cold cash, which you are accustomed to expect from bankers. I granted them the loan for the purchase of that factory, because they needed the money. If people needed money, that was enough for me. Need was my standard, Miss Taggart. Need, not greed. My father and grandfather built up the Community National Bank just to amass a fortune for themselves. I placed their fortune in the service of a higher ideal. I did not sit on piles of money and demand collateral from poor people who needed loans. The heart was my collateral. Of course, I do not expect anyone in this materialistic country to understand me. The rewards I got were not of a kind that people of
your
class, Miss Taggart, would appreciate. The people who used to sit in front of my desk at the bank, did not sit as you do, Miss Taggart. They were humble, uncertain, worn with care, afraid to speak. My rewards were the tears of gratitude in their eyes, the trembling voices, the blessings, the woman who kissed my hand when I granted her a loan she had begged for in vain everywhere else.”

“Will you please tell me the names of the men who owned the motor factory?”

“That factory was essential to the region, absolutely essential. I was perfectly justified in granting that loan. It provided employment for thousands of workers who had no other means of livelihood.”

“Did you know any of the people who worked in the factory?”

“Certainly. I knew them all. It was men that interested me, not machines. I was concerned with the human side of industry, not the cash-register side.”

She leaned eagerly across the desk. “Did you know any of the engineers who worked there?”

“The engineers? No, no. I was much more democratic than that. It’s the real workers that interested me. The common men. They all knew me by sight. I used to come into the shops and they would wave and shout, ‘Hello, Gene.’ That’s what they called me—Gene. But I’m sure this is of no interest to you. It’s past history. Now if you really came to Washington in order to talk to me about your railroad”—he straightened up briskly, the bomber-plane pose returning—“I don’t know whether I can promise you any special consideration, inasmuch as I must hold the national welfare above any private privileges or interests which—”

“I didn’t come to talk to you about my railroad,” she said, looking at him in bewilderment. “I have no desire to talk to you about my railroad.”

“No?” He sounded disappointed.

“No. I came for information about the motor factory. Could you possibly recall the names of any of the engineers who worked there?”

“I don’t believe I ever inquired about their names. I wasn’t concerned with the parasites of office and laboratory. I was concerned with the real workers—the men of calloused hands who keep a factory going. They were my friends.”

“Can you give me a few of their names? Any names, of anyone who worked there?”

“My dear Miss Taggart, it was so long ago, there were thousands of them, how can I remember?”

“Can’t you recall one, any one?”

“I certainly cannot. So many people have always filled my life that I can’t be expected to recall individual drops in the ocean.”

“Were you familiar with the production of that factory? With the kind of work they were doing—or planning?”

“Certainly. I took a personal interest in all my investments. I went to inspect that factory very often. They were doing exceedingly well. They were accomplishing wonders. The workers’ housing conditions were the best in the country. I saw lace curtains at every window and flowers on the window sills. Every home had a plot of ground for a garden. They had built a new schoolhouse for the children.”

“Did you know anything about the work of the factory’s research laboratory?”

“Yes, yes, they had a wonderful research laboratory, very advanced, very dynamic, with forward vision and great plans.”

“Do you ... remember hearing anything about... any plans to produce a new type of motor?”

“Motor? What motor, Miss Taggart? I had no time for details. My objective was social progress, universal prosperity, human brotherhood and love. Love, Miss Taggart. That is the key to everything. If men learned to love one another, it would solve all their problems.”

She turned away, not to see the damp movements of his mouth.

A chunk of stone with Egyptian hieroglyphs lay on a pedestal in a corner of the office—the statue of a Hindu goddess with six spider arms stood in a niche—and a huge graph of bewildering mathematical detail, like the sales chart of a mail-order house, hung on the wall.

“Therefore, if you’re thinking of your railroad, Miss Taggart—as, of course, you are, in view of certain possible developments—I must point out to you that although the welfare of the country is my first consideration, to which I would not hesitate to sacrifice anyone’s profits, still, I have never closed my ears to a plea for mercy and—”

She looked at him and understood what it was that he wanted from her, what sort of motive kept him going.

“I don’t wish to discuss my railroad,” she said, fighting to keep her voice monotonously flat, while she wanted to scream in revulsion. “Anything you have to say on the subject, you will please say it to my brother, Mr. James Taggart.”

“I’d think that at a time like this you wouldn’t want to pass up a rare opportunity to plead your case before—”

“Have you preserved any records pertaining to the motor factory?” She sat straight, her hands clasped tight together.

“What records? I believe I told you that I lost everything I owned when the bank collapsed.” His body had gone slack once more, his interest had vanished. “But I do not mind it. What I lost was mere material wealth. I am not the first man in history to suffer for an ideal. I was defeated by the selfish greed of those around me. I couldn’t establish a system of brotherhood and love in just one small state, amidst a nation of profit-seekers and dollar-grubbers. It was not my fault. But I won’t let them beat me. I am not to be stopped. I am fighting—on a wider scale—for the privilege of serving my fellow men. Records, Miss Taggart? The record I left, when I departed from Madison, is inscribed in the hearts of the poor, who had never had a chance before.”

She did not want to utter a single unnecessary word; but she could not stop herself: she kept seeing the figure of the old charwoman scrubbing the steps. “Have you seen that section of the country since?” she asked.

“It’s not my fault!” he yelled. “It’s the fault of the rich who still had money, but wouldn’t sacrifice it to save my bank and the people of Wisconsin! You can’t blame me! I lost everything!”

“Mr. Lawson,” she said with effort, “do you perhaps recall the name of the man who headed the corporation that owned the factory? The corporation to which you lent the money. It was called Amalgamated Service, wasn’t it? Who was its president?”

“Oh, him? Yes, I remember him. His name was Lee Hunsacker. A very worthwhile young man, who’s taken a terrible beating.”

“Where is he now? Do you know his address?”

“Why—I believe he’s somewhere in Oregon. Grangeville, Oregon. My secretary can give you his address. But I don’t see of what interest ... Miss Taggart, if what you have in mind is to try to see Mr. Wesley Mouch, let me tell you that Mr. Mouch attaches a great deal of weight to my opinion in matters affecting such issues as railroads and other—”

“I have no desire to see Mr. Mouch,” she said, rising.

“But then, I can’t understand ... What, really, was your purpose in coming here?”

“I am trying to find a certain man who used to work for the Twentieth Century Motor Company.”

“Why do you wish to find him?”

“I want him to work for my railroad.”

He spread his arms wide, looking incredulous and slightly indignant. “At such a moment, when crucial issues hang in the balance, you choose to waste your time on looking for some one employee? Believe me, the fate of your railroad depends on Mr. Mouch much more than on any employee you ever find.”

“Good day,” she said.

She had turned to go, when he said, his voice jerky and high, “You haven’t any right to despise me.”

She stopped to look at him. “I have expressed no opinion.”

“I am perfectly innocent, since I lost my money, since I lost all of my own money for a good cause. My motives were pure. I wanted nothing for myself. I’ve never sought anything for myself. Miss Taggart, I can proudly say that in all of my life I have
never
made a profit!”

Her voice was quiet, steady and solemn:

“Mr. Lawson, I think I should let you know that of all the statements a man can make,
that
is the one I consider most despicable.”

“I never had a chance!” said Lee Hunsacker.

He sat in the middle of the kitchen, at a table cluttered with papers. He needed a shave; his shirt needed laundering. It was hard to judge his age: the swollen flesh of his face looked smooth and blank, untouched by experience; the graying hair and filmy eyes looked worn by exhaustion; he was forty-two.

“Nobody ever gave me a chance. I hope they’re satisfied with what they’ve made of me. But don’t think that I don’t know it. I know I was cheated out of my birthright. Don’t let them put on any airs about how kind they are. They’re a stinking bunch of hypocrites.”

“Who?” asked Dagny.

“Everybody,” said Lee Hunsacker. “People are bastards at heart and it’s no use pretending otherwise. Justice? Huh! Look at it!” His arm swept around him. “A man like me reduced to this!”