The Fountainhead (95 page)

“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?”

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 transition in their relationship; by the time he 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.”

“Of course it’s bad. But not for us.”

“But look: you know how 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
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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.”

“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 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 Gail’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 complimentary 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
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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 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
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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 exultation 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 the 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
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He sat without moving for a long time.

R
OARK 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.

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
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“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
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It was in strict accordance with the
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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.”

“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?”