The fountainhead by Ayn Rand

part of the building, each wire controlling some man, each man controlling many
men under his orders, each group of men contributing to the final shape of words
on paper to go into millions of homes, into millions of human brains--these
little knobs of colored plastic, there under his fingers. But he had no time to
let the thought amuse him, the door of his office was opening, he moved his hand
away from the buttons.
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Wynand was not certain that he missed a moment, that he did not rise at once as
courtesy demanded, but remained seated, looking at the man who entered; perhaps
he had risen immediately and it only seemed to him that a long time preceded his
movement. Roark was not certain that he stopped when he entered the office, that
he did not walk forward, but stood looking at the man behind the desk; perhaps
there had been no break in his steps and it only seemed to him that he had
stopped. But there had been a moment when both forgot the terms of immediate
reality, when Wynand forgot his purpose in summoning this man, when Roark forgot
that this man was Dominique’s husband, when no door, desk or stretch of carpet
existed, only the total awareness, for each, of the man before him, only two
thoughts meeting in the middle of the room--"This is Gail Wynand"--"This is
Howard Roark."
Then Wynand rose, his hand motioned in simple invitation to the chair beside his
desk, Roark approached and sat down, and they did not notice that they had not
greeted each other.
Wynand smiled, and said what he had never intended to say. He said very simply:
"I don’t think you’ll want to work for me."
"I want to work for you," said Roark, who had come here prepared to refuse.
"Have you seen the kind of things I’ve built?"
"Yes."
Wynand smiled. "This is different. It’s not for my public. It’s for me."
"You’ve never built anything for yourself before?"
"No--if one doesn’t count the cage I have up on a roof and this old printing
factory here. Can you tell me why I’ve never built a structure of my own, with
the means of erecting a city if I wished? I don’t know. I think you’d know." He
forgot that he did not allow men he hired the presumption of personal
speculation upon him.
"Because you’ve been unhappy," said Roark.
He said it simply, without insolence; as if nothing but total honesty were
possible to him here. This was not the beginning of an interview, but the
middle; it was like a continuation of something begun long ago. Wynand said:
"Make that clear."
"I think you understand."
"I want to hear you explain it."
"Most people build as they live--as a matter of routine and senseless accident.
But a few understand that building is a great symbol. We live in our minds, and
existence is the attempt to bring that life into physical reality, to state it
in gesture and form. For the man who understands this, a house he owns is a
statement of his life. If he doesn’t build, when he has the means, it’s because
his life has not been what he wanted."
"You don’t think it’s preposterous to say that to me of all people?"
"No."
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"I don’t either." Roark smiled. "But you and I are the only two who’d say it.
Either part of it: that I didn’t have what I wanted or that I could be included
among the few expected to understand any sort of great symbols. You don’t want
to retract that either?"
"No."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-six."
"I owned most of the papers I have now--when I was thirty-six." He added: "I
didn’t mean that as any kind of a personal remark. I don’t know why I said that.
I just happened to think of it."
"What do you wish me to build for you?"
"My home."
Wynand felt that the two words had some impact on Roark apart from any normal
meaning they could convey; he sensed it without reason; he wanted to ask:
"What’s the matter?" but couldn’t, since Roark had really shown nothing.
"You were right in your diagnosis," said Wynand, "because you see, now I do want
to build a house of my own. Now I’m not afraid of a visible shape for my life.
If you want it said directly, as you did, now I’m happy."
"What kind of house?"
"In the country. I’ve purchased the site. An estate in Connecticut, five hundred
acres. What kind of a house? You’ll decide that."
"Did Mrs. Wynand choose me for the job?"
"No. Mrs. Wynand knows nothing about this. It was I who wanted to move out of
the city, and she agreed. I did ask her to select the architect--my wife is the
former Dominique Francon; she was once a writer on architecture. But she
preferred to leave the choice to me. You want to know why I picked you? I took a
long time to decide. I felt rather lost, at first. I had never heard of you. I
didn’t know any architects at all. I mean this literally--and I’m not forgetting
the years I’ve spent in real estate, the things I’ve built and the imbeciles who
built them for me. This is not a Stoneridge, this is--what did you call it?--a
statement of my life? Then I saw Monadnock. It was the first thing that made me
remember your name. But I gave myself a long test. I went around the country,
looking at homes, hotels, all sorts of buildings. Every time I saw one I liked
and asked who had designed it, the answer was always the same: Howard Roark. So
I called you." He added: "Shall I tell you how much I admire your work?"
"Thank you," said Roark. He closed his eyes for an instant.
"You know, I didn’t want to meet you."
"Why?"
"Have you heard about my art gallery?"
"Yes."
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"I never meet the men whose work I love. The work means too much to me. I don’t
want the men to spoil it. They usually do. They’re an anticlimax to their own
talent. You’re not. I don’t mind talking to you. I told you this only because I
want you to know that I respect very little in life, but I respect the things in
my gallery, and your buildings, and man’s capacity to produce work like that.
Maybe it’s the only religion I’ve ever had." He shrugged. "I think I’ve
destroyed, perverted, corrupted just about everything that exists. But I’ve
never touched that. Why are you looking at me like this?"
"I’m sorry. Please tell me about the house you want."
"I want it to be a palace--only I don’t think palaces are very luxurious.
They’re so big, so promiscuously public. A small house is the true luxury. A
residence for two people only--for my wife and me. It won’t be necessary to
allow for a family, we don’t intend to have children. Nor for visitors, we don’t
intend to entertain. One guest room--in case we should need it--but not more
than that. Living room, dining room, library, two studies, one bedroom.
Servants’ quarters, garage. That’s the general idea. I’ll give you the details
later. The cost--whatever you need. The appearance--" He smiled, shrugging.
"I’ve seen your buildings. The man who wants to tell you what a house should
look like must either be able to design it better--or shut up. I’ll say only
that I want my house to have the Roark quality."
"What is that?"
"I think you understand."
"I want to hear you explain it."
"I think some buildings are cheap show-offs, all front, and some are cowards,
apologizing for themselves in every brick, and some are the eternal unfit,
botched, malicious and false. Your buildings have one sense above all--a sense
of joy. Not a placid joy. A difficult, demanding kind of joy. The kind that
makes one feel as if it were an achievement to experience it. One looks and
thinks: I’m a better person if I can feel that."
Roark said slowly, not in the tone of an answer:
"I suppose it was inevitable."
"What?"
"That you would see that."
"Why do you say it as if you...regretted my being able to see it?"
"I don’t regret it."
"Listen, don’t hold it against me--the things I’ve built before."
"I don’t."
"It’s all those Stoneridges and Noyes-Belmont Hotels--and Wynand papers--that
made it possible for me to have a house by you. Isn’t that a luxury worth
achieving? Does it matter how? They were the means. You’re the end."
"You don’t have to justify yourself to me."
"I wasn’t jus...Yes, I think that’s what I was doing."
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"You don’t need to. I wasn’t thinking of what you’ve built."
"What were you thinking?"
"That I’m helpless against anyone who sees what you saw in my buildings."
"You felt you wanted help against me?"
"No. Only I don’t feel helpless as a rule."
"I’m not prompted to justify myself as a rule, either. Then--it’s all right,
isn’t it?"
"Yes."
"I must tell you much more about the house I want. I suppose an architect is
like a father confessor--he must know everything about the people who are to
live in his house, since what he gives them is more personal than their clothes
or food. Please consider it in that spirit--and forgive me if you notice that
this is difficult for me to say--I’ve never gone to confession. You see, I want
this house because I’m very desperately in love with my wife....What’s the
matter? Do you think it’s an irrelevant statement?"
"No. Go on."
"I can’t stand to see my wife among other people. It’s not jealousy. It’s much
more and much worse. I can’t stand to see her walking down the streets of a
city. I can’t share her, not even with shops, theaters, taxicabs or sidewalks. I
must take her away. I must put her out of reach--where nothing can touch her,
not in any sense. This house is to be a fortress. My architect is to be my
guard."
Roark sat looking straight at him. He had to keep his eyes on Wynand in order to
be able to listen. Wynand felt the effort in that glance; he did not recognize
it as effort, only as strength; he felt himself supported by the glance; he
found that nothing was hard to confess.
"This house is to be a prison. No, not quite that. A treasury--a vault to guard
things too precious for sight. But it must be more. It must be a separate world,
so beautiful that we’ll never miss the one we left. A prison only by the power
of its own perfection. Not bars and ramparts--but your talent standing as a wall
between us and the world. That’s what I want of you. And more. Have you ever
built a temple?"
For a moment, Roark had no strength to answer; but he saw that the question was
genuine; Wynand didn’t know.
"Yes," said Roark.
"Then think of this commission as you would think of a temple. A, temple to
Dominique Wynand....I want you to meet her before you design it."
"I met Mrs. Wynand some years ago."
"You have? Then you understand."
"I do."
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Wynand saw Roark’s hand lying on the edge of his desk, the long fingers pressed
to the glass, next to the proofs of the Banner. The proofs were folded
carelessly; he saw the heading "One Small Voice" inside the page. He looked at
Roark’s hand. He thought he would like to have a bronze paperweight made of it
and how beautiful it would look on his desk.
"Now you know what I want. Go ahead. Start at once. Drop anything else you’re
doing. I’ll pay whatever you wish. I want that house by summer....Oh, forgive
me. Too much association with bad architects. I haven’t asked whether you want
to do it."
Roark’s hand moved first; he took it off the desk.
"Yes," said Roark. "I’ll do it."
Wynand saw the prints of the fingers left on the glass, distinct as if the skin
had cut grooves in the surface and the grooves were
wet.
"How long will it take you?" Wynand asked.
"You’ll have it by July."
"Of course you must see the site. I want to show it to you myself. Shall I drive
you down there tomorrow morning?"
"If you wish."
"Be here at nine."
"Yes."
"Do you want me to draw up a contract? I have no idea how you prefer to work. As
a rule, before I deal with a man in any matter, I make it a point to know
everything about him from the day of his birth or earlier. I’ve never checked up
on you. I simply forgot. It didn’t seem necessary."
"I can answer any question you wish."
Wynand smiled and shook his head:
"No. There’s nothing I need to ask you. Except about the business arrangements."
"I never make any conditions, except one: if you accept the preliminary drawings
of the house, it is to be built as I designed it, without any alterations of any
kind."
"Certainly. That’s understood. I’ve heard you don’t work otherwise. But will you
mind if I don’t give you any publicity on this house? I know it would help you
professionally, but I want this building kept out of the newspapers."
"I won’t mind that."
"Will you promise not to release pictures of it for publication?"
"I promise."
"Thank you. I’ll make up for it. You may consider the Wynand papers as your
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personal press service. I’ll give you all the plugging you wish on any other
work of yours."
"I don’t want any plugging."
Wynand laughed aloud. "What a thing to say in what a place! I don’t think you
have any idea how your fellow architects would have conducted this interview. I
don’t believe you were actually conscious at any time that you were speaking to
Gail Wynand."
"I was," said Roark.
"This was my way of thanking you. I don’t always like being Gail Wynand."
"I know that."
"I’m going to change my mind and ask you a personal question. You said you’d
answer anything."
"I will."
"Have you always liked being Howard Roark?"
Roark smiled. The smile was amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous.
"You’ve answered," said Wynand.
Then he rose and said: "Nine o’clock tomorrow morning," extending his hand.
When Roark had gone, Wynand sat behind his desk, smiling. He moved his hand
toward one of the plastic buttons--and stopped. He realized that he had to
assume a different manner, his usual manner, that he could not speak as he had
spoken in the last half-hour. Then he understood what had been strange about the
interview: for the first time in his life he had spoken to a man without feeling
the reluctance, the sense of pressure, the need of disguise he had always
experienced when he spoke to people; there had been no strain and no need of
strain; as if he had spoken to himself.
He pressed the button and said to his secretary:
"Tell the morgue to send me everything they have on Howard Roark."
#
"Guess what," said Alvah Scarret, his voice begging to be begged for his
information.
Ellsworth Toohey waved a hand impatiently in a brushing-off motion, not raising
his eyes from his desk.
"Go ’way, Alvah. I’m busy."
"No, but this is interesting, Ellsworth. Really, it’s interesting. I know you’ll
want to know."
Toohey lifted his head and looked at him, the faint contraction of boredom in
the corners of his eyes letting Scarret understand that this moment of attention
was a favor; he drawled in a tone of emphasized patience:
"All right. What is it?"
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Scarret saw nothing to resent in Toohey’s manner. Toohey had treated him like
that for the last year or longer. Scarret had not noticed the change, it was too
late to resent it--it had become normal to them both.
Scarret smiled like a bright pupil who expects the teacher to praise him for
discovering an error in the teacher’s own textbook.
"Ellsworth, your private F.B.I. is slipping."
"What are you talking about?"
"Bet you don’t know what Gail’s been doing--and you always make such a point of
keeping yourself informed."
"What don’t I know?"
"Guess who was in his office today."
"My dear Alvah, I have no time for quiz games."
"You wouldn’t guess in a thousand years."
"Very well, since the only way to get rid of you is to play the vaudeville
stooge, I shall ask the proper question: Who was in dear Gail’s office today?"
"Howard Roark."
Toohey turned to him full face, forgetting to dole out his attention, and said
incredulously:
"No!"
"Yes!" said Scarret, proud of the effect.
"Well!" said Toohey and burst out laughing.
Scarret half smiled tentatively, puzzled, anxious to join in, but not quite
certain of the cause for amusement.
"Yes, it’s funny. But...just exactly why, Ellsworth?"
"Oh, Alvah, it would take so long to tell you!"
"I had an idea it might..."
"Haven’t you any sense of the spectacular, Alvah? Don’t you like fireworks? If
you want to know what to expect, just think that the worst wars are religious
wars between sects of the same religion or civil wars between brothers of the
same race."
"I don’t quite follow you."
"Oh, dear, I have so many followers. I brush them out of my hair."
"Well, I’m glad you’re so cheerful about it, but I thought it’s
bad."
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"Of course it’s bad. But not for us."
"But look: you know bow we’ve gone out on a limb, you particularly, on how this
Roark is just about the worst architect in town, and if now our own boss hires
him--isn’t it going to be embarrassing?"
"Oh that?...Oh, maybe..."
"Well, I’m glad you take it that way."
"What was he doing in Wynand’s office? Is it a commission?"
"That’s what I don’t know. Can’t find out. Nobody knows."
"Have you heard of Mr. Wynand planning to build anything lately?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. I guess my F.B.I. is slipping. Oh, well, one does the best one can."
"But you know, Ellsworth, I had an idea. I had an idea where this might be very
helpful to us indeed."
"What idea?"
"Ellsworth, Gail’s been impossible lately."
Scarret uttered it solemnly, with the air of imparting a discovery. Toohey sat
half smiling.
"Well, of course, you predicted it, Ellsworth. You were right. You’re always
right. I’ll be damned if I can figure out just what’s happening to him, whether
it’s Dominique or some sort of a change of life or what, but something’s
happening. Why does he get fits suddenly and start reading every damn line of
every damn edition and raise hell for the silliest reasons? He’s killed three of
my best editorials lately--and he’s never done that to me before. Never. You
know what he said to me? He said: ’Motherhood is wonderful, Alvah, but for God’s
sake go easy on the bilge. There’s a limit even for intellectual depravity.’
What depravity? That was the sweetest Mother’s Day editorial I ever put
together. Honest, I was touched myself. Since when has he learned to talk about
depravity? The other day, he called Jules Fougler a bargain-basement mind, right
to his face, and threw his Sunday piece into the wastebasket. A swell piece,
too--on the Workers’ Theater. Jules Fougler, our best writer! No wonder Gail
hasn’t got a friend left in the place. If they hated his guts before, you ought
to hear them now!"
"I’ve heard them."
"He’s losing his grip, Ellsworth. I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for you
and the swell bunch of people you picked. They’re practically our whole actual
working staff, those youngsters of yours, not our old sacred cows who’re writing
themselves out anyway. Those bright kids will keep the Banner going. But
Gail...Listen, last week he fired Dwight Carson. Now you know, I think that was
significant. Of course Dwight was just a deadweight and a damn nuisance, but he
was the first one of those special pets of Gail’s, the boys who sold their
souls. So, in a way, you see, I liked having Dwight around, it was all right, it
was healthy, it was a relic of Gail’s best days. I always said it was Gail’s
safety valve. And when he suddenly let Carson go--I didn’t like it, Ellsworth. I
didn’t like it at all."
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"What is this, Alvah? Are you telling me things I don’t know, or is this just in
the nature of letting off steam--do forgive the mixed metaphor--on my shoulder?"
"I guess so. I don’t like to knock Gail, but I’ve been so damn mad for so long
I’m fit to be tied. But here’s what I’m driving at: This Howard Roark, what does
he make you think of?"
"I could write a volume on that, Alvah. This is hardly the time to launch into
such an undertaking."
"No, but I mean, what’s the one thing we know about him? That’s he’s a crank and
a freak and a fool, all right, but what else? That he’s one of those fools you
can’t budge with love or money or a sixteen-inch gun. He’s worse than Dwight
Carson, worse than the whole lot of Gall’s pets put together. Well? Get my
point? What’s Gail going to do when he comes up against that kind of a man?"
"One of several possible things."
"One thing only, if I know Gail, and I know Gail. That’s why I feel kind of
hopeful. This is what he’s needed for a long time. A swig of his old medicine.
The safety valve. He’ll go out to break that guy’s spine--and it will be good
for Gail. The best thing in the world. Bring him back to normal....That was my
idea, Ellsworth." He waited, saw no complementary enthusiasm on Toohey’s face
and finished lamely: "Well, I might be wrong....I don’t know....It might mean
nothing at all....I just thought that was psychology...."
"That’s what it was, Alvah."
"Then you think it’ll work that way?"
"It might. Or it might be much worse than anything you imagine. But it’s of no
importance to us any more. Because you see, Alvah, as far as the Banner is
concerned, if it came to a showdown between us and our boss, we don’t have to be
afraid of Mr. Gail Wynand any longer."
#
When the boy from the morgue entered, carrying a thick envelope of clippings,
Wynand looked up from his desk and said:
"That much? I didn’t know he was so famous."
"Well, it’s the Stoddard trial, Mr. Wynand."
The boy stopped. There was nothing wrong--only the ridges on Wynand’s forehead,
and he did not know Wynand well enough to know what these meant. He wondered
what made him feel as if he should be afraid. After a moment, Wynand said:
"All right. Thank you."
The boy deposited the envelope on the glass surface of the desk, and walked out.
Wynand sat looking at the bulging shape of yellow paper. He saw it reflected in
the glass, as if the bulk had eaten through the surface and grown roots to his
desk. He looked at the walls of his office and he wondered whether they
contained a power which could save him from opening that envelope.
Then he pulled himself erect, he put both forearms in a straight line along the
edge of the desk, his fingers stretched and meeting, he looked down, past his
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nostrils, at the surface of the desk, he sat for a moment, grave, proud,
collected, like the angular mummy of a Pharaoh, then he moved one hand, pulled
the envelope forward, opened it and began to read.
"Sacrilege" by Ellsworth M. Toohey--"The Churches of our Childhood" by Alvah
Scarret--editorials, sermons, speeches, statements, letters to the editor, the
Banner unleashed full-blast, photographs, cartoons, interviews, resolutions of
protest, letters to the editor.
He read every word, methodically, his hands on the edge of the desk, fingers
meeting, not lifting the clippings, not touching them, reading them as they lay
on top of the pile, moving a hand only to turn a clipping over and read the one
beneath, moving the hand with a mechanical perfection of timing, the fingers
rising as his eyes took the last word, not allowing the clipping to remain in
sight a second longer than necessary. But he stopped for a long time to look at
the photographs of the Stoddard Temple. He stopped longer to look at one of
Roark’s pictures, the picture of exaltation captioned "Are you happy, Mr.
Superman?" He tore it from the story it illustrated, and slipped it into his
desk drawer. Then he continued reading.
The trial--the testimony of Ellsworth M. Toohey--of Peter Keating--of Ralston
Holcombe--of Gordon L. Prescott--no quotations from the testimony of Dominique
Francon, only a brief report. "The defense rests." A few mentions in "One Small
Voice"--then a gap--the next clipping dated three years later--Monadnock Valley.
It was late when he finished reading. His secretaries had left. He felt the
sense of empty rooms and halls around him. But he heard the sound of presses: a
low, rumbling vibration that went through every room. He had always liked
that--the sound of the building’s heart, beating. He listened. They were running
off tomorrow’s Banner. He sat without moving for a long time.
3.
ROARK and Wynand stood on the top of a hill, looking over a spread of land that
sloped away in a long gradual curve. Bare trees rose on the hilltop and
descended to the shore of a lake, their branches geometrical compositions cut
through the air. The color of the sky, a clear, fragile blue-green, made the air
colder. The cold washed the colors of the earth, revealing that they were not
colors but only the elements from which color was to come, the dead brown not a
full brown but a future green, the tired purple an overture to flame, the gray a
prelude to gold. The earth was like the outline of a great story, like the steel
frame of a building--to be filled and finished, holding all the splendor of the
future in naked simplification.
"Where do you think the house should stand?" asked Wynand.
"Here," said Roark.
"I hoped you’d choose this."
Wynand had driven his car from the city, and they had walked for two hours down
the paths of his new estate, through deserted lanes, through a forest, past the
lake, to the hill. Now Wynand waited, while Roark stood looking at the
countryside spread under his feet. Wynand wondered what reins this man was
gathering from all the points of the landscape into his hand.
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When Roark turned to him, Wynand asked:
"May I speak to you now?"
"Of course," Roark smiled, amused by the deference which he
had not requested.
Wynand’s voice sounded clear and brittle, like the color of the sky above them,
with the same quality of ice-green radiance: "Why did you accept this
commission?"
"Because I’m an architect for hire."
"You know what I mean."
"I’m not sure I do."
"Don’t you hate my guts?"
"No. Why should I?"
"You want me to speak of it first?"
"Of what?"
"The Stoddard Temple."
Roark smiled. "So you did check up on me since yesterday."
"I read our clippings." He waited, but Roark said nothing. "All of them." His
voice was harsh, half defiance, half plea. "Everything we said about you." The
calm of Roark’s face drove him to fury. He went on, giving slow, full value to
each word: "We called you an incompetent fool, a tyro, a charlatan, a swindler,
an egomaniac..."
"Stop torturing yourself."
Wynand closed his eyes, as if Roark had struck him. In a moment, he said:
"Mr. Roark, you don’t know me very well. You might as well learn this: I don’t
apologize. I never apologize for any of my actions."
"What made you think of apology? I haven’t asked for it."
"I stand by every one of those descriptive terms. I stand by every word printed
in the Banner."
"I haven’t asked you to repudiate it."
"I know what you think. You understood that I didn’t know about the Stoddard
Temple yesterday. I had forgotten the name of the architect involved. You
concluded it wasn’t I who led that campaign against you. You’re right, it wasn’t
I, I was away at the time. But you don’t understand that the campaign was in the
true and proper spirit of the Banner. It was in strict accordance with the
Banner’s function. No one is responsible for it but me. Alvah Scarret was doing
only what I taught him. Had I been in town, I would have done the same."
"That’s your privilege."
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"You don’t believe I would have done it?"
"No."
"I haven’t asked you for compliments and I haven’t asked you for pity."
"I can’t do what you’re asking for."
"What do you think I’m asking?"
"That I slap your face."
"Why don’t you?"
"I can’t pretend an anger I don’t feel," said Roark. "It’s not pity. It’s much
more cruel than anything I could do. Only I’m not doing it in order to be cruel.
If I slapped your face, you’d forgive me for the Stoddard Temple."
"Is it you who should seek forgiveness?"
"No. You wish I did. You know that there’s an act of forgiveness involved.
You’re not clear about the actors. You wish I would forgive you--or demand
payment, which is the same thing--and you believe that that would close the
record. But, you see, I have nothing to do with it. I’m not one of the actors.
It doesn’t matter what I do or feel about it now. You’re not thinking of me. I
can’t help you. I’m not the person you’re afraid of just now."
"Who is?"
"Yourself."
"Who gave you the right to say all this?"
"You did."
"Well, go on."
"Do you wish the rest?"
"Go on."
"I think it hurts you to know that you’ve made me suffer. You wish you hadn’t.
And yet there’s something that frightens you more. The knowledge that I haven’t
suffered at all."
"Go on."
"The knowledge that I’m neither kind nor generous now, but simply indifferent.
It frightens you, because you know that things like the Stoddard Temple always
require payment--and you see that I’m not paying for it. You were astonished
that I accepted this commission. Do you think my acceptance required courage?
You needed far greater courage to hire me. You see, this is what I think of the
Stoddard Temple. I’m through with it. You’re not."
Wynand let his fingers fall open, palms out. His shoulders sagged a little,
relaxing. He said very simply:
"All right. It’s true. All of it."
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Then he stood straight, but with a kind of quiet resignation, as if his body
were consciously made vulnerable.
"I hope you know you’ve given me a beating in your own way," he said.
"Yes. And you’ve taken it. So you’ve accomplished what you wanted. Shall we say
we’re even and forget the Stoddard Temple?"
"You’re very wise or I’ve been very obvious. Either is your achievement.
Nobody’s ever caused me to become obvious before."
"Shall I still do what you want?"
"What do you think I want now?"
"Personal recognition from me. It’s my turn to give in, isn’t it?"
"You’re appallingly honest, aren’t you?"
"Why shouldn’t I be? I can’t give you the recognition of having made me suffer.
But you’ll take the substitute of having given me pleasure, won’t you? All
right, then. I’m glad you like me. I think you know this is as much an exception
for me as your taking a beating. I don’t usually care whether I’m liked or not.
I do care this time. I’m glad."
Wynand laughed aloud. "You’re as innocent and presumptuous as an emperor. When
you confer honors you merely exalt yourself. What in hell made you think I liked
you?"
"Now you don’t want any explanations of that. You’ve reproached me once for
causing you to be obvious."
Wynand sat down on a fallen tree trunk. He said nothing; but his movement was an
invitation and a demand. Roark sat down beside him; Roark’s face was sober, but
the trace of a smile remained, amused and watchful, as if every word he heard
were not a disclosure but a confirmation.
"You’ve come up from nothing, haven’t you?" Wynand asked. "You came from a poor
family."
"Yes. How did you know that?"
"Just because it feels like a presumption--the thought of handing you anything:
a compliment, an idea or a fortune. I started at the bottom, too. Who was your
father?"
"A steel puddler."
"Mine was a longshoreman. Did you hold all sorts of funny jobs when you were a
child?"
"All sorts. Mostly in the building trades."
"I did worse than that. I did just about everything. What job did you like
best?"
"Catching rivets, on steel structures."
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"I liked being a bootblack on a Hudson ferry. I should have hated that, but I
didn’t. I don’t remember the people at all. I remember the city. The
city--always there, on the shore, spread out, waiting, as if I were tied to it
by a rubber band. The band would stretch and carry me away, to the other shore,
but it would always snap back and I would return. It gave me the feeling that
I’d never escaped from that city--and it would never escape from me."
Roark knew that Wynand seldom spoke of his childhood, by the quality of his
words; they were bright and hesitant, untarnished by usage, like coins that had
not passed through many hands.
"Were you ever actually homeless and starving?" Wynand asked.
"A few times."
"Did you mind that?"
"No."
"I didn’t either. I minded something else. Did you want to scream, when you were
a child, seeing nothing but fat ineptitude around you, knowing how many things
could be done and done so well, but having no power to do them? Having no power
to blast the empty skulls around you? Having to take orders--and that’s bad
enough--but to take orders from your inferiors! Have you felt that?"
"Yes."
"Did you drive the anger back inside of you, and store it, and decide to let
yourself be torn to pieces if necessary, but reach the day when you’d rule those
people and all people and everything around you?"
"No."
"You didn’t? You let yourself forget?"
"No. I hate incompetence. I think it’s probably the only thing I do hate. But it
didn’t make me want to rule people. Nor to teach them anything. It made me want
to do my own work in my own way and let myself be torn to pieces if necessary."
"And you were?"
"No. Not in any way that counts."
"You don’t mind looking back? At anything?"
"No."
"I do. There was one night. I was beaten and I crawled to a door--I remember the
pavement--it was right under my nostrils--I can still see it--there were veins
in the stone and white spots--I had to make sure that that pavement moved--I
couldn’t feel whether I was moving or not--but I could tell by the pavement--I
had to see that those veins and spots changed--I had to reach the next pattern
or the crack six inches away--it took a long time--and I knew it was blood under
my stomach..."
His voice had no tone of self-pity; it was simple, impersonal, with a faint
sound of wonder. Roark said: "I’d like to help you."
Wynand smiled slowly, not gaily. "I believe you could. I even believe that it
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would be proper. Two days ago I would have murdered anyone who’d think of me as
an object for help....You know, of course, that that night’s not what I hate in
my past. Not what I dread to look back on. It was only the least offensive to
mention. The other things can’t be talked about."
"I know. I meant the other things."
"What are they? You name them."
"The Stoddard Temple."
"You want to help me with that?"
"Yes."
"You’re a damn fool. Don’t you realize..."
"Don’t you realize I’m doing it already?"
"How?"
"By building this house for you."
Roark saw the slanting ridges on Wynand’s forehead. Wynand’s eyes seemed whiter
than usual, as if the blue had ebbed from the iris, two white ovals, luminous on
his face. He said:
"And getting a fat commission check for it."
He saw Roark’s smile, suppressed before it appeared fully. The smile would have
said that this sudden insult was a declaration of surrender, more eloquent than
the speeches of confidence; the suppression said that Roark would not help him
over this particular moment.
"Why, of course," said Roark calmly.
Wynand got up. "Let’s go. We’re wasting time. I have more important things to do
at the office."
They did not speak on their way back to the city. Wynand drove his car at ninety
miles an hour. The speed made two solid walls of blurred motion on the sides of
the road; as if they were flying down a long, closed, silent corridor.
He stopped at the entrance to the Cord Building and let Roark out. He said:
"You’re free to go back to that site as often as you wish, Mr. Roark. I don’t
have to go with you. You can get the surveys and all the information you need
from my office. Please do not call on me again until it is necessary. I shall be
very busy. Let me know when the first drawings are ready."
#
When the drawings were ready, Roark telephoned Wynand’s office. He had not
spoken to Wynand for a month. "Please hold the wire, Mr. Roark," said Wynand’s
secretary. He waited. The secretary’s voice came back and informed him that Mr.
Wynand wished the drawings brought to his office that afternoon; she gave the
hour, Wynand would not answer in person.
When Roark entered the office, Wynand said: "How do you do, Mr. Roark," his
voice gracious and formal. No memory of intimacy remained on his blank,
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courteous face.
Roark handed him the plans of the house and a large perspective drawing. Wynand
studied each sheet. He held the drawing for a long time. Then he looked up.
"I am very much impressed, Mr. Roark." The voice was offensively correct. "I
have been quite impressed by you from the first. I have thought it over and I
want to make a special deal with you."
His glance was directed at Roark with a soft emphasis, almost with tenderness;
as if he were showing that he wished to treat Roark cautiously, to spare him
intact for a purpose of his own. He lifted the sketch and held it up between two
fingers, letting all the light hit it straight on; the white sheet glowed as a
reflector for a moment, pushing the black pencil lines eloquently forward.
"You want to see this house erected?" Wynand asked softly. "You want it very
much?"
"Yes," said Roark.
Wynand did not move his hand, only parted his fingers and let the cardboard drop
face down on the desk.
"It will be erected, Mr. Roark. Just as you designed it. Just as it stands on
this sketch. On one condition."
Roark sat leaning back, his hands in his pockets, attentive, waiting.
"You don’t want to ask me what condition, Mr. Roark? Very well, I’ll tell you. I
shall accept this house on condition that you accept the deal I offer you. I
wish to sign a contract whereby you will be sole architect for any building I
undertake to erect in the future. As you realize, this would be quite an
assignment. I venture to say I control more structural work than any other
single person in the country. Every man in your profession has wanted to be
known as my exclusive architect. I am offering it to you. In exchange, you will
have to submit yourself to certain conditions. Before I name them, I’d like to
point out some of the consequences, should you refuse. As you may have heard, I
do not like to be refused. The power I hold can work two ways. It would be easy
for me to arrange that no commission be available to you anywhere in this
country. You have a small following of your own, but no prospective employer can
withstand the kind of pressure I am in a position to exert. You have gone
through wasted periods of your life before. They were nothing, compared to the
blockade I can impose. You might have to go back to a granite quarry--oh yes, I
know about that, summer of 1928, the Francon quarry in
Connecticut--how?--private detectives, Mr. Roark--you might have to go back to a
granite quarry, only I shall see to it that the quarries also will be closed to
you. Now I’ll tell you what I want of you."
In all the gossip about Gail Wynand, no one had ever mentioned the expression of
his face as it was in this moment. The few men who had seen it did not talk
about it. Of these men, Dwight Carson had been the first. Wynand’s lips were