The Fountainhead (120 page)

My masters, the anonymous, the unselected. They gave me a penthouse, an office, a yacht. To them, to any one of them who wished, for the sum of three cents, I sold Howard Roark.

He walked past an open marble court, a cave cut deep into a building, filled with light, spurting the sudden cold of air-conditioning. It was a movie theater and the marquee had letters made of rainbows:
Romeo and Juliet
. A placard stood by the glass column of the box office: “Bill Shakespeare’s immortal classic! But there’s nothing highbrow about it! Just a simple human love story. A boy from the Bronx meets a girl from Brooklyn. Just like the folks next door. Just like you and me.”

He walked past the door of a saloon. There was a smell of stale beer. A woman sat slumped, breasts flattened against the table top. A juke box played Wagner’s “Song to the Evening Star,” adapted, in swing time.

He saw the trees of Central Park. He walked, his eyes lowered. He was passing by the Aquitania Hotel.

He came to a corner. He had escaped other corners like it, but this one caught him. It was a dim corner, a slice of sidewalk trapped between the wall of a closed garage and the pillars of an elevated station. He saw the rear end of a truck disappearing down the street. He had not seen the name on it, but he knew what truck it was. A newsstand crouched under the iron stairs of the elevated. He moved his eyes slowly. The fresh pile was there, spread out for him. Tomorrow’s
Banner.

He did not come closer. He stood, waiting. He thought, I still have a few minutes in which not to know.

He saw faceless people stopping at the stand, one after another. They came for different papers, but they bought the
Banner
also, when they noticed its front page. He stood pressed to the wall, waiting. He thought, it is right that I should be the last to learn what I have said.

Then he could delay no longer: no customers came, the stand stood deserted, papers spread in the yellow light of a bulb, waiting for him. He could see no vendor in the black hovel beyond the bulb. The street was empty. A long corridor filled by the skeleton of the elevated. Stone paving, blotched walls, the interlacing of iron pillars. There were lighted windows, but they looked as if no people moved inside the walls. A train thundered over his head, a long roll of clangor that went shuddering down the pillars into the earth. It looked like an aggregation of metal rushing without human driver through the night.

He waited for the sound to die, then he walked to the stand. “The
Banner,”
he said. He did not see who sold him the paper, whether it was a man or a woman. He saw only a gnarled brown hand pushing the copy forward.

He started walking away, but stopped while crossing the street. There was a picture of Roark on the front page. It was a good picture. The calm face, the sharp cheekbones, the implacable mouth. He read the editorial, leaning against a pillar of the elevated.

“We have always endeavored to give our readers the truth without fear or prejudice ...

“... charitable consideration and the benefit of the doubt even to a man charged with an outrageous crime ...

“... but after conscientious investigation and in the light of new evidence placed before us, we find ourselves obliged honestly to admit that we might have been too lenient ...

“... A society awakened to a new sense of responsibility toward the underprivileged ...

“... We join the voice of public opinion ... “... The past, the career, the personality of Howard Roark seem to support the widespread impression that he is a reprehensible character, a dangerous, unprincipled, antisocial type of man ...

“... If found guilty, as seems inevitable, Howard Roark must be made to bear the fullest penalty the law can impose on him.”

It was signed “Gail Wynand.”

When he looked up, he was in a brightly lighted street, on a trim sidewalk, looking at a wax figure exquisitely contorted on a satin chaise longue in a shop window; the figure wore a salmon-colored negligee, lucite sandals and a string of pearls suspended from one raised finger.

He did not know when he had dropped the paper. It was not in his hands any longer. He glanced back. It would be impossible to find a discarded paper lying on some street he did not know he had passed. He thought, what for? There are other papers like it. The city is full of them.

“You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated ...”

Howard, I wrote that editorial forty years ago. I wrote it one night when I was sixteen and stood on the roof of a tenement.

He walked on. Another street lay before him, a sudden cut of long emptiness and a chain of green traffic lights strung out to the horizon. Like a rosary without end. He thought, now walk from green bead to green bead. He thought, these are not the words; but the words kept ringing with his steps:
Mea culpa
—
mea culpa
—
mea maxima
culpa.

He went past a window of old shoes corroded by wear—past the door of a mission with a cross above it—past the peeling poster of a political candidate who ran two years ago—past a grocery store with barrels of rotting greens on the sidewalk. The streets were contracting, walls drawing closer together. He could smell the odor of the river, and there were wads of fog over the rare lights.

He was in Hell’s Kitchen.

The façades of the buildings around him were like the walls of secret backyards suddenly exposed; decay without reticence, past the need of privacy or shame. He heard shrieks coming from a saloon on a corner; he could not tell whether it was joy or brawling.

He stood in the middle of a street. He looked slowly down the mouth of every dark crevice, up the streaked walls, to the windows, to the roofs.

I never got out of here.

I never got out. I surrendered to the grocery man—to the deck hands on the ferryboat—to the owner of the poolroom. You don’t run things around here. You don’t run things around here. You’ve never run things anywhere, Gail Wynand. You’ve only added yourself to the things they ran.

Then he looked up, across the city, to the shapes of the great skyscrapers. He saw a string of lights rising unsupported in black space, a glowing pinnacle anchored to nothing, a small, brilliant square hanging detached in the sky. He knew the famous buildings to which these belonged, he could reconstruct their forms in space. He thought, you’re my judges and witnesses. You rise, unhindered, above the sagging roofs. You shoot your gracious tension to the stars, out of the slack, the tired, the accidental. The eyes one mile out on the ocean will see none of this and none of this will matter, but you will be the presence and the city. As down the centuries, a few men stand in lonely rectitude that we may look and say, there is a human race behind us. One can’t escape from you; the streets change, but one looks up and there you stand, unchanged. You have seen me walking through the streets tonight. You have seen all my steps and all my years. It’s you that I’ve betrayed. For I was born to be one of you.

He walked on. It was late. Circles of light lay undisturbed on the empty sidewalks under the lampposts. The horns of taxis shrieked once in a while like doorbells ringing through the corridors of a vacant interior. He saw discarded newspapers, as he passed: on the pavements, on park benches, in the wire trash-baskets on corners. Many of them were the
Banner.
Many copies of the
Banner
had been read in the city tonight. He thought, we’re building circulation, Alvah.

He stopped. He saw a paper spread out in the gutter before him, front page up. It was the
Banner.
He saw Roark’s picture. He saw the gray print of a rubber heel across Roark’s face.

He bent, his body folding itself down slowly, with both knees, both arms, and picked up the paper. He folded the front page and put it in his pocket. He walked on.

An unknown rubber heel, somewhere in the city, on an unknown foot that I released to march.

I released them all. I made every one of those who destroyed me. There is a beast on earth, dammed safely by its own impotence. I broke the dam. They would have remained helpless. They can produce nothing. I gave them the weapon. I gave them my strength, my energy, my living power. I created a great voice and let them dictate the words. The woman who threw the beet leaves in my face had a right to do it. I made it possible for her.

Anything may be betrayed, anyone may be forgiven. But not those who lack the courage of their own greatness. Alvah Scarret can be forgiven. He had nothing to betray. Mitchell Layton can be forgiven. But not I. I was not born to be a second-hander.

I
T WAS A SUMMER DAY, CLOUDLESS AND COOL, AS IF THE SUN WERE screened by an invisible film of water, and the energy of heat had been transformed into a sharper clarity, an added brilliance of outline for the buildings of the city. In the streets, scattered like scraps of gray foam, there were a great many copies of the
Banner.
The city read, chuckling, the statement of Wynand’s renunciation.

“That’s that,” said Gus Webb, chairman of the “We Don’t Read Wynand” Committee. “It’s slick,” said Ike. “I’d like one peek, just one peek, at the great Mr. Gail Wynand’s face today,” said Sally Brent. “It’s about time,” said Homer Slottern. “Isn’t it splendid? Wynand’s surrendered,” said a tight-lipped woman; she knew little about Wynand and nothing about the issue, but she liked to hear of people surrendering. In a kitchen, after dinner, a fat woman scraped the remnants off the dishes onto a sheet of newspaper; she never read the front page, only the installments of a love serial in the second section; she wrapped onion peelings and lamb-chop bones in a copy of the
Banner.

“It’s stupendous,” said Lancelot Clokey, “only I’m really sore at that Union, Ellsworth. How could they double-cross you like that?” “Don’t be a sap, Lance,” said Ellsworth Toohey. “What do you mean?” “I told them to accept the terms.” “
You
did?” “Yep.” “But Jesus! ‘One Small Voice’ ...” “You can wait for ‘One Small Voice’ another month or so, can’t you? I’ve filed suit with the labor board today, to be reinstated in my job on the
Banner.
There are more ways than one to skin a cat, Lance. The skinning isn’t important once you’ve broken its spine.”

That evening Roark pressed the bell button at the door of Wynand’s penthouse. The butler opened the door and said: “Mr. Wynand cannot see you, Mr. Roark.” From the sidewalk across the street Roark looked up and saw a square of light high over the roofs, in the window of Wynand’s study.

In the morning Roark came to Wynand’s office in the Banner Building. Wynand’s secretary told him: “Mr. Wynand cannot see you, Mr. Roark.” She added, her voice polite, disciplined: “Mr. Wynand has asked me to tell you that he does not wish ever to see you again.”

Roark wrote him a long letter: “... Gail, I know. I hoped you could escape it, but since it had to happen, start again from where you are. I know what you’re doing to yourself. You’re not doing it for my sake, it’s not up to me, but if this will help you I want to say that I’m repeating, now, everything I’ve ever said to you. Nothing has changed for me. You’re still what you were. I’m not saying that I forgive you, because there can be no such question between us. But if you can’t forgive yourself, will you let me do it? Let me say that it doesn’t matter, it’s not the final verdict on you. Give me the right to let you forget it. Go on just on my faith until you’ve recovered. I know it’s something no man can do for another, but if I am what I’ve been to you, you’ll accept it. Call it a blood transfusion. You need it. Take it. It’s harder than fighting that strike. Do it for my sake, if that will help you. But do it. Come back. There will be another chance. What you think you’ve lost can neither be lost nor found. Don’t let it go.”

The letter came back to Roark, unopened.

Alvah Scarret ran the
Banner.
Wynand sat in his office. He had removed Roark’s picture from the wall. He attended to advertising contracts, expenses, accounts. Scarret took care of the editorial policy. Wynand did not read the contents of the
Banner.

When Wynand appeared in any department of the building, the employees obeyed him as they had obeyed him before. He was still a machine and they knew that it was a machine more dangerous than ever: a car running downhill, without combustion or brakes.

He slept in his penthouse. He had not seen Dominique. Scarret had told him that she had gone back to the country. Once Wynand ordered his secretary to telephone Connecticut. He stood by her desk while she asked the butler whether Mrs. Wynand was there. The butler answered that she was. The secretary hung up and Wynand went back to his office.

He thought he would give himself a few days. Then he’d return to Dominique. Their marriage would be what she had wanted it to be at first—“Mrs. Wynand-Papers.” He would accept it.

Wait, he thought in an agony of impatience, wait. You must learn to face her as you are now. Train yourself to be a beggar. There must be no pretense at things to which you have no right. No equality, no resistance, no pride in holding your strength against hers. Only acceptance now. Stand before her as a man who can give her nothing, who will live on what she chooses to grant him. It will be contempt, but it will come from her and it will be a bond. Show her that you recognize this. There is a kind of dignity in a renunciation of dignity openly admitted. Learn it. Wait.... He sat in the study of his penthouse, his head on the arm of his chair. There were no witnesses in the empty rooms around him.... Dominique, he thought, I will have no claim to make except that I need you so much. And that I love you. I told you once not to consider it. Now I’ll use it as a tin cup. But I’ll use it. I love you....

Dominique lay stretched out on the shore of the lake. She looked at the house on the hill, at the tree branches above her. Flat on her back, hands crossed under her head, she studied the motion of leaves against the sky. It was an earnest occupation, giving her full contentment. She thought, it’s a lovely kind of green, there’s a difference between the color of plants and the color of objects, this has light in it, this is not just green, but also the living force of the tree made visible, I don’t have to look down, I can see the branches, the trunk, the roots just by looking at that color. That fire around the edges is the sun, I don’t have to see it, I can tell what the whole countryside looks like today. The spots of light weaving in circles—that’s the lake, the special kind of light that comes refracted from water, the lake is beautiful today, and it’s better not to see it, just to guess by these spots. I have never been able to enjoy it before, the sight of the earth, it’s such a great background, but it has no meaning except as a background, and I thought of those who owned it and then it hurt me too much. I can love it now. They don’t own it. They own nothing. They’ve never won. I have seen the life of Gail Wynand, and now I know. One cannot hate the earth in their name. The earth is beautiful. And it is a background, but not theirs.