The Fountainhead (94 page)

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.”

“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 a 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 sort 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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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 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.”