The fountainhead by Ayn Rand

party at the home of Kiki Holcombe.
On the morning of its appearance Ellsworth Toohey walked into Dominique’s
office. He held a copy of the Banner, with the page bearing her column turned
toward her. He stood silently, rocking a little on his small feet. It seemed as
if the expression of his eyes had to be heard, not seen: it was a visual roar of
laughter. His lips were folded primly, innocently.
"Well?" she asked.
"Where did you meet Roark before that party?"
She sat looking at him, one arm flung over the back of her chair, a pencil
dangling precariously between the tips of her fingers. She seemed to be smiling.
She said:
"I had never met Roark before that party."
"My mistake. I was just wondering about..." he made the paper rustle, "...the
change of sentiment."
"Oh, that? Well, I didn’t like him when I met him--at the party."
"So I noticed."
"Sit down, Ellsworth. You don’t look your best standing up."
"Do you mind? Not busy?"
"Not particularly."
He sat down on the corner of her desk. He sat, thoughtfully tapping his knee
with the folded paper.
"You know, Dominique," he said, "it’s not well done. Not well at all."
"Why?"
"Don’t you see what can be read between the lines? Of course, not many will
notice that. He will. I do."
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"It’s not written for him or for you."
"But for the others?"
"For the others."
"Then it’s a rotten trick on him and me."
"You see? I thought it was well done."
"Well, everyone to his own methods."
"What are you going to write about it?"
"About what?"
"About the Enright House."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
He threw the paper down on the desk, without moving, just flicking his wrist
forward. He said:
"Speaking of architecture, Dominique, why haven’t you ever written anything
about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?"
"Is it worth writing about?"
"Oh, decidedly. There are people whom it would annoy very much."
"And are those people worth annoying?"
"So it seems."
"What people?"
"Oh, I don’t know. How can we know who reads our stuff? That’s what makes it so
interesting. All those strangers we’ve never seen before, have never spoken to,
or can’t speak to--and here’s this paper where they can read our answer, if we
want to give an answer. I really think you should dash off a few nice things
about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building."
"You do seem to like Peter Keating very much."
"I? I’m awfully fond of Peter. You will be, too--eventually, when you know him
better. Peter is a useful person to know. Why don’t you take time, one of these
days, to get him to tell you the story of his life? You’ll learn many
interesting things."
"For instance?"
"For instance, that he went to Stanton."
"I know that."
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"You don’t think it’s interesting? I do, Wonderful place, Stanton. Remarkable
example of Gothic architecture. The stained-glass window in the Chapel is really
one of the finest in this country. And then, think, so many young students. All
so different. Some graduating with high honors. Others being expelled."
"Well?"
"Did you know that Peter Keating is an old friend of Howard Roark?"
"No. Is he?"
"He is."
"Peter Keating is an old friend of everybody."
"Quite true. A remarkable boy. But this is different. You didn’t know that Roark
went to Stanton?"
"No."
"You don’t seem to know very much about Mr. Roark."
"I don’t know anything about Mr. Roark. We weren’t discussing Mr. Roark."
"Weren’t we? No, of course, we were discussing Peter Keating. Well, you see, one
can make one’s point best by contrast, by comparison. As you did in your pretty
little article today. To appreciate Peter as he should be appreciated, let’s
follow up a comparison. Let’s take two parallel lines. I’m inclined to agree
with Euclid, I don’t think these two parallels will ever meet. Well, they both
went to Stanton. Peter’s mother ran a sort of boardinghouse and Roark lived with
them for three years. This doesn’t really matter, except that it makes the
contrast more eloquent and--well--more personal, later on. Peter graduated with
high honors, the highest of his class. Roark was expelled. Don’t look like that.
I don’t have to explain why he was expelled, we understand, you and I. Peter
went to work for your father and he’s a partner now. Roark worked for your
father and got kicked out. Yes, he did. Isn’t that funny, by the way?--he did,
without any help from you at all--that time. Peter has the Cosmo-Slotnick
Building to his credit--and Roark has a hot-dog stand in Connecticut. Peter
signs autographs--and Roark is not known even to all the bathroom fixtures
manufacturers. Now Roark’s got an apartment house to do and it’s precious to him
like an only son--while Peter wouldn’t even have noticed it had he got the
Enright House, he gets them every day. Now, I don’t think that Roark thinks very
much of Peter’s work. He never has and he never will, no matter what happens.
Follow this a step further. No man likes to be beaten. But to be beaten by the
man who has always stood as the particular example of mediocrity in his eyes, to
start by the side of this mediocrity and to watch it shoot up, while he
struggles and gets nothing but a boot in his face, to see the mediocrity snatch
from him, one after another, the chances he’d give his life for, to see the
mediocrity worshipped, to miss the place he wants and to see the mediocrity
enshrined upon it, to lose, to be sacrificed, to be ignored, to be beaten,
beaten, beaten--not by a greater genius, not by a god, but by a Peter
Keating--well, my little amateur, do you think the Spanish Inquisition ever
thought of a torture to equal this?"
"Ellsworth!" she screamed. "Get out of here!"
She had shot to her feet. She stood straight for a moment, then she slumped
forward, her two palms flat on the desk, and she stood, bent over; he saw her
smooth mass of hair swinging heavily, then hanging still, hiding her face.
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"But, Dominique," he said pleasantly, "I was only telling you why Peter Keating
is such an interesting person."
Her hair flew back like a mop, and her face followed, she dropped down on her
chair, looking at him, her mouth loose and very ugly.
"Dominique," he said softly, "you’re obvious. Much too obvious."
"Get out of here."
"Well, I’ve always said that you underestimated me. Call on me next time you
need some help."
At the door, he turned to add:
"Of course, personally, I think Peter Keating is the greatest architect we’ve
got."
#
That evening, when she came home, the telephone rang.
"Dominique, my dear," a voice gulped anxiously over the wire, "did you really
mean all that?"
"Who is this?"
"Joel Sutton. I..."
"Hello, Joel. Did I mean what?"
"Hello, dear, how are you? How is your charming father? I mean, did you mean all
that about the Enright House and that fellow Roark? I mean, what you said in
your column today. I’m quite a bit upset, quite a bit. You know about my
building? Well, we’re all ready to go ahead and it’s such a bit of money, I
thought I was very careful about deciding, but I trust you of all people, I’ve
always trusted you, you’re a smart kid, plenty smart, if you work for a fellow
like Wynand I guess you know your stuff. Wynand knows buildings, why, that man’s
made more in real estate than on all his papers, you bet he did, it’s not
supposed to be known, but I know it. And you working for him, and now I don’t
know what to think. Because, you see, I had decided, yes, I had absolutely and
definitely decided--almost--to have this fellow Roark, in fact I told him so, in
fact he’s coming over tomorrow afternoon to sign the contract, and now...Do you
really think it will look like a feather boa?"
"Listen, Joel," she said, her teeth set tight together, "can you have lunch with
me tomorrow?"
She met Joel Sutton in the vast, deserted dining room of a distinguished hotel.
There were few, solitary guests among the white tables, so that each stood out,
the empty tables serving as an elegant setting that proclaimed the guest’s
exclusiveness. Joel Sutton smiled broadly. He had never escorted a woman as
decorative as Dominique.
"You know, Joel," she said, facing him across a table, her voice quiet, set,
unsmiling, "it was a brilliant idea, your choosing Roark."
"Oh, do you think so?"
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"I think so. You’ll have a building that will be beautiful, like an anthem. A
building that will take your breath away--also your tenants. A hundred years
from now they will write about you in history--and search for your grave in
Potter’s Field."
"Good heavens, Dominique, what are you talking about?"
"About your building. About the kind of building that Roark will design for you.
It will be a great building, Joel."
"You mean, good?"
"I don’t mean good. I mean great."
"It’s not the same thing."
"No, Joel, no, it’s not the same thing."
"I don’t like this ’great’ stuff."
"No. You don’t. I didn’t think you would. Then what do you want with Roark? You
want a building that won’t shock anybody. A building that will be folksy and
comfortable and safe, like the old parlor back home that smells of clam chowder.
A building that everybody will like, everybody and anybody. It’s very
uncomfortable to be a hero, Joel, and you don’t have the figure for it."
"Well, of course I want a building that people will like. What do you think I’m
putting it up for, for my health?"
"No, Joel. Nor for your soul."
"You mean, Roark’s no good?"
She sat straight and stiff, as if all her muscles were drawn tight against pain.
But her eyes were heavy, half closed, as if a hand were caressing her body. She
said:
"Do you see many buildings that he’s done? Do you see many people hiring him?
There are six million people in the city of New York. Six million people can’t
be wrong. Can they?"
"Of course not."
"Of course."
"But I thought Enright..."
"You’re not Enright, Joel. For one thing, he doesn’t smile so much. Then, you
see, Enright wouldn’t have asked my opinion. You did. That’s what I like you
for."
"Do you really like me, Dominique?"
"Didn’t you know that you’ve always been one of my great favorites?"
"I...I’ve always trusted you. I’ll take your word anytime. What do you really
think I should do?"
"It’s simple. You want the best that money can buy--of what money can buy. You
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want a building that will be--what it deserves to be. You want an architect whom
other people have employed, so that you can show them that you’re just as good
as they are."
"That’s right. That’s exactly right....Look, Dominique, you’ve hardly touched
your food."
"I’m not hungry."
"Well, what architect would you recommend?"
"Think, Joel. Who is there, at the moment, that everybody’s talking about? Who
gets the pick of all commissions? Who makes the most money for himself and his
clients? Who’s young and famous and safe and popular?"
"Why, I guess...I guess Peter Keating."
"Yes, Joel. Peter Keating."
#
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Roark, so terribly sorry, believe me, but after all, I’m not
in business for my health...not for my health nor for my soul...that is, I mean,
well, I’m sure you can understand my position. And it’s not that I have anything
against you, quite the contrary, I think you’re a great architect. You see
that’s just the trouble, greatness is fine but it’s not practical. That’s the
trouble, Mr. Roark, not practical, and after all you must admit that Mr. Keating
has much the better name and he’s got that...that popular touch which you
haven’t been able to achieve."
It disturbed Mr. Sutton that Roark did not protest. He wished Roark would try to
argue; then he could bring forth the unanswerable justifications which Dominique
had taught him a few hours ago. But Roark said nothing; he had merely inclined
his head when he heard the decision. Mr. Sutton wanted desperately to utter the
justifications, but it seemed pointless to try to convince a man who seemed
convinced. Still, Mr. Sutton loved people and did not want to hurt anyone.
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Roark, I’m not alone in this decision. As a matter of
fact, I did want you, I had decided on you, honestly I had, but it was Miss
Dominique Francon, whose judgment I value most highly, who convinced me that you
were not the right choice for this commission--and she was fair enough to allow
me to tell you that she did."
He saw Roark looking at him suddenly. Then he saw the hollows of Roark’s cheeks
twisted, as if drawn in deeper, and his mouth open: he was laughing, without
sound but for one sharp intake of breath.
"What on earth are you laughing at, Mr. Roark?"
"So Miss Francon wanted you to tell me this?"
"She didn’t want me to, why should she?--she merely said that I could tell you
if I wished."
"Yes, of course."
"Which only shows her honesty and that she had good reasons for her convictions
and will stand by them openly."
"Yes."
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"Well, what’s the matter?"
"Nothing, Mr. Sutton."
"Look, it’s not decent to laugh like that."
"No."
#
His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked,
unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall
longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing
enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the
unmoving reality of his body.
When he heard the knock at the door, he said: "Come in," without rising.
Dominique came in. She entered as if she had entered this room before. She wore
a black suit of heavy cloth, simple like a child’s garment, worn as mere
protection, not as ornament; she had a high masculine collar raised to her
cheeks, and a hat cutting half her face out of sight. He sat looking at her. She
waited to see the derisive smile, but it did not come. The smile seemed implicit
in the room itself, in her standing there, halfway across that room. She took
her hat off, like a man entering a house, she pulled it off by the brim with the
tips of stiff fingers and held it hanging down at the end of her arm. She
waited, her face stern and cold; but her smooth pale hair looked defenseless and
humble. She said:
"You are not surprised to see me."
"I expected you tonight."
She raised her hand, bending her elbow with a tight economy of motion, the bare
minimum needed, and flung her hat across to a table. The hat’s long flight
showed the violence in that controlled jerk of her wrist.
He asked: "What do you want?"
She answered: "You know what I want," her voice heavy and flat.
"Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it."
"If you wish." Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with
metallic precision. "I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you
may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin, your mouth, your hands.
I want you--like this--not hysterical with desire--but coldly and
consciously--without dignity and without regrets--I want you--I have no
self-respect to bargain with me and divide me--I want you--I want you like an
animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore."
She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism
of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her
shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked
impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.
"You know that I hate you, Roark. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you,
for having to want you. I’m going to fight you--and I’m going to destroy
you--and I tell you this as calmly as I told you mat I’m a begging animal. I’m
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going to pray that you can’t be destroyed--I tell you this, too--even though I
believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to. But I will fight to block every
step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will
hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you--through your work. I will
fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I
have done it to you today--and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight."
He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in
relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
"I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have
beaten you--whenever I know that I have hurt you--and I’ll let you own me. I
want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my
victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on
mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear
it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?"
"Take your clothes off."
She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the
corners of her mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one
jolt of controlled breath--and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had
always smiled at her.
She lifted her two hands to her collar and unfastened the buttons of her jacket,
simply, precisely, one after another. She threw the jacket down on the floor,
she took off a thin white blouse, and she noticed the tight black gloves on the
wrists of her naked arms. She took the gloves off, pulling at each finger in
turn. She undressed indifferently, as if she were alone in her own bedroom.
Then she looked at him. She stood naked, waiting, feeling the space between them
like a pressure against her stomach, knowing that it was torture for him also
and that it was as they both wanted it. Then he got up, he walked to her, and
when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the shape of his body
imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm as it encircled him, his ribs,
his armpit, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers, her mouth on his, in
a surrender more violent than her struggle had been.
Afterward, she lay in bed by his side, under his blanket, looking at his room,
and she asked:
"Roark, why were you working in that quarry?"
"You know it."
"Yes. Anyone else would have taken a job in an architect’s office."
"And then you’d have no desire at all to destroy me."
"You understand that?"
"Yes. Keep still. It doesn’t matter now."
"Do you know that the Enright House is the most beautiful building in New York?"
"I know that you know it."
"Roark, you worked in that quarry when you had the Enright House in you, and
many other Enright Houses, and you were drilling granite like a..."
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"You’re going to weaken in a moment, Dominique, and then you’ll regret it
tomorrow."
"Yes."
"You’re very lovely, Dominique."
"Don’t."
"You’re lovely."
"Roark, I...I’ll still want to destroy you."
"Do you think I would want you if you didn’t?"
"Roark..."
"You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dominique. I want you. I
want you."
"I..." She stopped, the word on which she stopped almost audible in her breath.
"No," he said. "Not yet. You won’t say that yet. Go to sleep.
"Here? With you?"
"Here. With me. I’ll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I
fix my own breakfast? You’ll like seeing that. Like the work in the quarry. Then
you’ll go home and think about destroying me. Good night, Dominique."
8.
THE BLINDS raised over the windows of her living room, the lights of the city
rising to a black horizon halfway up the glass panes, Dominique sat at her desk,
correcting the last sheets of an article, when she heard the doorbell. Guests
did not disturb her without warning--and she looked up, the pencil held in
midair, angry and curious. She heard the steps of the maid in the hall, then the
maid came in, saying: "A gentleman to see you, madam," a faint hostility in her
voice explaining that the gentleman had refused to give his name.
A man with orange hair?--Dominique wanted to ask, but didn’t; the pencil jerked
stiffly and she said: "Have him come
Then the door opened; against the light of the hall she saw a long neck and
sloping shoulders, like the silhouette of a bottle; a rich, creamy voice said,
"Good evening, Dominique," and she recognized Ellsworth Toohey whom she had
never asked to her house. ,
She smiled. She said: "Good evening, Ellsworth. I haven’t seen you for such a
long time."
"You should have expected me now, don’t you think so?" He turned to the maid:
"Cointreau, please, if you have it, and I’m sure you do."
The maid glanced at Dominique, wide-eyed; Dominique nodded silently, and the
maid went out, closing the door.
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"Busy, of course?" said Toohey, glancing at the littered desk. "Very becoming,
Dominique. Gets results, too. You’ve been writing much better lately."
She let the pencil fall, and threw an arm over the back of her chair, half
turning to him, watching him placidly. "What do you want, Ellsworth?"
He did not sit down, but stood examining the place with the unhurried curiosity
of an expert.
"Not bad, Dominique. Just about as I’d expect you to have it. A little cold. You
know, I wouldn’t have that ice-blue chair over there. Too obvious. Fits in too
well. Just what people would expect in just that spot. I’d have it carrot red.
An ugly, glaring, outrageous red. Like Mr. Howard Roark’s hair. That’s quite en
passant--merely a convenient figure of speech--nothing personal at all. Just one
touch of the wrong color would make the whole room. The sort of thing that gives
a place elegance. Your flower arrangements are nice. The pictures, too--not
bad."
"All right, Ellsworth, all right, what is it?"
"But don’t you know that I’ve never been here before? Somehow, you’ve never
asked me. I don’t know why." He sat down comfortably, resting an ankle on a
knee, one thin leg stretched horizontally across the other, the full length of a
tight, gunmetal sock exposed under the trouser cuff, and a patch of skin showing
above the sock, bluish-white with a few black hairs. "But then, you’ve been so
unsociable. The past tense, my dear, the past tense. Did you say that we haven’t
seen each other for a long time? That’s true. You’ve been so busy--in such an
unusual way. Visits, dinners, speakeasies and giving tea parties. Haven’t you?"
"I have."
"Tea parties--I thought that was tops. This is a good room for