The Fountainhead (114 page)

“The position taken by the Wynand press,” wrote a quiet, conservative newspaper, “is inexplicable and disgraceful.”

The circulation of the Banner dropped week by week, the speed accelerating in the descent, like an elevator out of control. Stickers and buttons inscribed “We Don’t Read Wynand” grew on walls, subway posts, windshields and coat lapels. Wynand newsreels were booed off the theater screens. The
Banner
vanished from corner newsstands; the news vendors had to carry it, but they hid it under their counters and produced it grudgingly, only upon request. The ground had been prepared, the pillars eaten through long ago; the Cortlandt case provided the final impact.

Roark was almost forgotten in the storm of indignation against Gail Wynand. The angriest protests came from Wynand’s own public: from the Women’s Clubs, the ministers, the mothers, the small shopkeepers. Alvah Scarret had to be kept away from the room where hampers of letters to the editor were being filled each day; he started by reading the letters—and his friends on the staff undertook to prevent a repetition of the experience, fearing a stroke.

The staff of the
Banner
worked in silence. There were no furtive glances, no whispered cuss words, no gossip in washrooms any longer. A few men resigned. The rest worked on, slowly, heavily, in the manner of men with life belts buckled, waiting for the inevitable.

Gail Wynand noticed a kind of lingering tempo in every action around him. When he entered the Banner Building, his employees stopped at sight of him; when he nodded to them, their greeting came a second too late; when he walked on and turned, he found them staring after him. The “Yes, Mr. Wynand,” that had always answered his orders without a moment’s cut between the last syllable of his voice and the first letter of the answer, now came late, and the pause had a tangible shape, so that the answer sounded like a sentence not followed but preceded by a question mark.

“One Small Voice” kept silent about the Cortlandt case. Wynand had summoned Toohey to his office, the day after the explosion, and had said: “Listen, you. Not a word in your column. Understand? What you do or yell outside is none of my business—for the time being. But if you yell too much, I’ll take care of you when this is over.”

“Yes, Mr. Wynand.”

“As far as your column is concerned, you’re deaf, dumb and blind. You’ve never heard of any explosion. You’ve never heard of anyone named Roark. You don’t know what the word Cortlandt means. So long as you’re in this building.”

“Yes, Mr. Wynand.”

“And don’t let me see too much of you around here.”

“Yes, Mr. Wynand.”

Wynand’s lawyer, an old friend who had served him for years, tried to stop him.

“Gail, what’s the matter? You’re acting like a child. Like a green amateur. Pull yourself together, man.”

“Shut up,” said Wynand.

“Gail, you are ... you were the greatest newspaperman on earth. Do I have to tell you the obvious? An unpopular cause is a dangerous business for anyone. For a popular newspaper—it’s suicide.”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll send you packing and get myself another shyster.”

Wynand began to argue about the case—with the prominent men he met at business luncheons and dinners. He had never argued before on any subject; he had never pleaded. He had merely tossed final statements to respectful listeners. Now he found no listeners. He found an indifferent silence, half boredom, half resentment. The men who had gathered every word he cared to drop about the stock market, real estate, advertising, politics, had no interest in his opinion on art, greatness and abstract justice.

He heard a few answers:

“Yes, Gail, yes, sure. But on the other hand, I think it was damn selfish of the man. And that’s the trouble with the world today—selfish-ness. Too much selfishness everywhere. That’s what Lancelot Clokey said in his book—swell book, all about his childhood, you read it, saw your picture with Clokey. Clokey’s been all over the world, he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Yes, Gail, but aren’t you kind of old-fashioned about it? What’s all that great man stuff? What’s great about a glorified bricklayer? Who’s great anyway? We’re all just a lot of glands and chemicals and whatever we ate for breakfast. I think Lois Cook explained it very well in that beautiful little—what’s its name?—yes,
The Gallant Gallstone
. Yes, sir. Your own
Banner
plugged like blazes for that little book.”

“But look, Gail, he should’ve thought of other people before he thought of himself. I think if a man’s got no love in his heart he can’t be much good. I heard that in a play last night—that was a grand play—the new one by Ike—what the hell’s his last name?—you ought to see it—your own Jules Fougler said it’s a brave and tender stage poem.”

“You make out a good case, Gail, and I wouldn’t know what to say against it, I don’t know where you’re wrong, but it doesn’t sound right to me, because Ellsworth Toohey—now don’t misunderstand me, I don’t agree with Toohey’s political views at all, I know he’s a radical, but on the other hand you’ve got to admit that he’s a great idealist with a heart as big as a house—well, Ellsworth Toohey said ...”

These were the millionaires, the bankers, the industrialists, the businessmen who could not understand why the world was going to hell, as they moaned in all their luncheon speeches.

One morning when Wynand stepped out of his car in front of the Banner Building, a woman rushed up to him as he crossed the sidewalk. She had been waiting by the entrance. She was fat and middle-aged. She wore a filthy cotton dress and a crushed hat. She had a pasty, sagging face, a shapeless mouth and black, round, brilliant eyes. She stood before Gail Wynand and she flung a bunch of rotted beet leaves at his face. There were no beets, just the leaves, soft and slimy, tied with a string. They hit his cheek and rolled down to the sidewalk.

Wynand stood still. He looked at the woman. He saw the white flesh, the mouth hanging open in triumph, the face of self-righteous evil. Passers-by had seized the woman and she was screaming unspeakable obscenities. Wynand raised his hand, shook his head, gesturing for them to let the creature go, and walked into the Banner Building, a smear of greenish-yellow across his cheek.

“Ellsworth, what are we going to do?” moaned Alvah Scarret. “What are we going to do?”

Ellsworth Toohey sat perched on the edge of his desk, and smiled as if he wished he could kiss Alvah Scarret.

“Why don’t they drop the damn thing, Ellsworth? Why doesn’t something break to take it off the front pages? Couldn’t we scare up an international situation or something? In all my born days I’ve never seen people go so wild over so little. A dynamiting job! Christ, Ellsworth, it’s a back-page story. We get them every month, practically with every strike, remember?—the furriers’ strike, the dry cleaners’ strike ... oh what the hell! Why all this fury? Who cares? Why do they care?”

“There are occasions, Alvah, when the issues at stake are not the ostensible facts at all. And the public reaction seems out of all proportion, but isn’t. You shouldn’t be so glum about it. I’m surprised at you. You should be thanking your stars. You see, this is what I meant by waiting for the right moment. The right moment always comes. Damned if I expected it to be handed to me on a platter like that, though. Cheer up, Alvah. This is where we take over.”

“Take over what?”

“The Wynand papers.”

“You’re crazy, Ellsworth. Like all of them. You’re crazy. What do you mean? Gail holds fifty-one per cent of ...”

“Alvah, I love you. You’re wonderful, Alvah. I love you, but I wish to God you weren’t such a God-damn fool, so I could talk to you! I wish I could talk to somebody.”

Ellsworth Toohey tried to talk to Gus Webb, one evening, but it was disappointing. Gus Webb drawled:

“Trouble with you, Ellsworth, is you’re too romantic. Too God-damn metaphysical. What’s all the gloating about? There’s no practical value to the thing. Nothing to get your teeth into, except for a week or two. I wish he’d blasted it when it was full of people—a few children blown to pieces—then you’d have something. Then I’d love it. The movement could use it. But this? Hell, they’ll send the fool to the clink and that’s that. You—a realist? You’re an incurable specimen of the intelligentsia, Ellsworth, that’s all you are. You think you’re the man of the future? Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I am.”

Toohey sighed. “You’re right, Gus,” he said.

“I
T’S KIND OF YOU, MR. TOOHEY,” SAID MRS. KEATING HUMBLY. “I’M glad you came. I don’t know what to do with Petey. He won’t see anyone. He won’t go to his office. I’m scared, Mr. Toohey. Forgive me, I mustn’t whine. Maybe you can help, pull him out of it. He thinks so much of you, Mr. Toohey.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Where is he?”

“Right here. In his room. This way, Mr. Toohey.”

The visit was unexpected. Toohey had not been here for years. Mrs. Keating felt very grateful. She led the way down the hall and opened a door without knocking, afraid to announce the visitor, afraid of her son’s refusal. She said brightly:

“Look, Petey, look what a guest I have for you!”

Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave a poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper. There was a tall glass on the table, with a dried red rim that had been tomato juice; a box containing a jigsaw puzzle; a deck of cards; a Bible.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway.

Mrs. Keating saw the smile and stepped out hastily, relieved, closing the door.

The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory. Then he remembered many things which he had tried not to understand.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he repeated helplessly.

Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.

“Touching, Peter,” he said. “Very touching. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if he saw it.”

“Who?”

“Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?”

“I wanted to see you, Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you.”

Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.

“Well, that’s what I came here for,” he said. “To hear you talk.”

Keating said nothing.

“Well?”

“You mustn’t think I didn’t want to see you, Ellsworth. It was only ... what I told mother about not letting anyone in ... it was on account of the newspaper people. They won’t leave me alone.”

“My, how times change, Peter. I remember when one couldn’t keep you away from newspaper people.”

“Ellsworth, I haven’t any sense of humor left. Not any at all.”

“That’s lucky. Or you’d die laughing.”

“I’m so tired, Ellsworth.... I’m glad you came.”

The light glanced off Toohey’s glasses and Keating could not see his eyes; only two circles filled with a metallic smear, like the dead headlights of a car reflecting the approach of something from a distance.

“Think you can get away with it?” asked Toohey.

“With what?”

“The hermit act. The great penance. The loyal silence.”

“Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?”

“So he’s not guilty, is he? So you want us to please leave him alone, do you?”

Keating’s shoulders moved, more an intention than the reality of sitting up straight, but still an intention, and his jaw moved enough to ask:

“What do you want?”

“The whole story.”

“What for?”

“Want me to make it easier for you? Want a good excuse, Peter? I could, you know. I could give you thirty-three reasons, all noble, and you’d swallow any one of them. But I don’t feel like making it easier for you. So I’ll just tell you the truth: to send him to the penitentiary, your hero, your idol, your generous friend, your guardian angel!”

“I have nothing to tell you, Ellsworth.”

“While you’re being shocked out of the last of your wits you’d better hang on to enough to realize that you’re no match for me. You’ll talk if I want you to talk and I don’t feel like wasting time. Who designed Cortlandt?”

“I did.”

“Do you know that I’m an architectural expert?”

“I designed Cortlandt.”

“Like the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you on the witness stand, Petey. I want you to tell the story in court. Your friend isn’t as obvious as you are. I don’t know what he’s up to. That remaining at the scene was a bit too smart. He knew he’d be suspected and he’s playing it subtle. God knows what he intends to say in court. I don’t intend to let him get away with it. The motive is what they’re all stuck on. I know the motive. Nobody will believe me if I try to explain it. But you’ll state it under oath. You’ll tell the truth. You’ll tell them who designed Cortlandt and why.”

“I designed it.”

“If you want to say that on the stand, you’d better do something about your muscular control. What are you shaking for?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Too late, Petey. Ever read
Faust?”

“What do you want?”

“Howard Roark’s neck.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s never been. You know what I think of him.”

“I know, you God-damn fool! I know you’ve worshiped him all your life. You’ve knelt and worshiped, while stabbing him in the back. You didn’t even have the courage of your own malice. You couldn’t go one way or the other. You hated me—oh, don’t you suppose I knew it? -and you followed me. You loved him and you’ve destroyed him. Oh, you’ve destroyed him all right, Petey, and now there’s no place to run, and you’ll have to go through with it!”

“What’s he to you? What difference does it make to you?”