The Fountainhead (38 page)

“Possibly.”

“You ought to try and learn a few things, if you’re going in for playing the game through the Kiki Holcombe salon. Are you? Growing up, Howard? Though it did give me a shock to see you here of all places. Oh, and yes, congratulations on the Enright job, beautiful job as usual -where have you been all summer?—remind me to give you a lesson on how to wear a tux, God, but it looks silly on you! That’s what I like, I like to see you looking silly, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Howard?”

“You’re drunk, Peter.”

“Of course I am. But I haven’t touched a drop tonight, not a drop. What I’m drunk on—you’ll never learn, never, it’s not for you, and that’s also part of what I’m drunk on, that it’s not for you. You know, Howard, I love you. I really do. I do—tonight.”

“Yes, Peter. You always will, you know.”

Roark was introduced to many people and many people spoke to him. They smiled and seemed sincere in their efforts to approach him as a friend, to express appreciation, to display good will and cordial interest. But what he heard was: “The Enright House is magnificent. It’s almost as good as the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.” “I’m sure you have a great future, Mr. Roark, believe me, I know the signs, you’ll be another Ralston Holcombe.” He was accustomed to hostility; this kind of benevolence was more offensive than hostility. He shrugged; he thought that he would be out of here soon and back in the simple, clean reality of his own office.

He did not look at Dominique again for the rest of the evening. She watched him in the crowd. She watched those who stopped him and spoke to him. She watched his shoulders stooped courteously as he listened. She thought that this, too, was his manner of laughing at her; he let her see him being delivered to the crowd before her eyes, being surrendered to any person who wished to own him for a few moments. He knew that this was harder for her to watch than the sun and the drill in the quarry. She stood obediently, watching. She did not expect him to notice her again; she had to remain there as long as he was in this room.

There was another person, that night, abnormally aware of Roark’s presence, aware from the moment Roark had entered the room. Ellsworth Toohey had seen him enter. Toohey had never set eyes on him before and did not know him. But Toohey stood looking at him for a long time.

Then Toohey moved through the crowd, and smiled at his friends. But between smiles and sentences, his eyes went back to the man with the orange hair. He looked at the man as he looked occasionally at the pavement from a window on the thirtieth floor, wondering about his own body were it to be hurled down and what would happen when it struck against that pavement. He did not know the man’s name, his profession or his past; he had no need to know; it was not a man to him, but only a force; Toohey never saw men. Perhaps it was the fascination of seeing that particular force so explicitly personified in a human body.

After a while he asked John Erik Snyte, pointing:

“Who is that man?”

“That?” said Snyte. “Howard Roark. You know, the Enright House.”

“Oh,” said Toohey.

“What?”

“Of course. It would be.”

“Want to meet him?”

“No,” said Toohey. “No, I don’t want to meet him.”

For the rest of the evening, whenever some figure obstructed Toohey’s view of the hall, his head would jerk impatiently to find Roark again. He did not want to look at Roark; he had to look; just as he always had to look down at that distant pavement, dreading the sight.

That evening, Ellsworth Toohey was conscious of no one but Roark. Roark did not know that Toohey existed in the room.

When Roark left, Dominique stood counting the minutes, to be certain that he would be lost to sight in the streets before she could trust herself to go out. Then she moved to leave.

Kiki Holcombe’s thin, moist fingers clasped her hand in parting, clasped it vaguely and slipped up to hold her wrist for a moment.

“And, my dear,” asked Kiki Holcombe, “what did you think of that new one, you know, I saw you talking to him, that Howard Roark?”

“I think,” said Dominique firmly, “that he is the most revolting person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, now, really?”

“Do you care for that sort of unbridled arrogance? I don’t know what one could say for him, unless it’s that he’s terribly good-looking, if that matters.”

“Good-looking?
Are you being funny, Dominique?”

Kiki Holcombe saw Dominique being stupidly puzzled for once. And Dominique realized that what she saw in his face, what made it the face of a god to her, was not seen by others; that it could leave them indifferent; that what she had thought to be the most obvious, inconsequential remark was, instead, a confession of something within her, some quality not shared by others.

“Why, my dear,” said Kiki, “he’s not good-looking at all, but extremely masculine.”

“Don’t let it astonish you, Dominique,” said a voice behind her. “Kiki’s esthetic judgment is not yours—nor mine.”

Dominique turned. Ellsworth Toohey stood there, smiling, watching her face attentively.

“You ...” she began and stopped.

“Of course,” said Toohey, bowing faintly in understanding affirmative of what she had not said. “Do give me credit for discernment, Dominique, somewhat equal to yours. Though not for esthetic enjoyment. I’ll leave that part of it to you. But we do see things, at times, which are not obvious, don’t we—you and I?”

“What things?”

“My dear, what a long philosophical discussion that would take, and how involved, and how—unnecessary. I’ve always told you that we should be good friends. We have so much in common intellectually. We start from opposite poles, but that makes no difference, because you see, we meet in the same point. It was a very interesting evening, Dominique.”

“What are you driving at?”

“For instance, it was interesting to discover what sort of thing appears good-looking to you. It’s nice to have you classified firmly, concretely. Without words—just with the aid of a certain face.”

“If ... if you can see what you’re talking about, you can’t be what you are.”

“No, my dear. I
must
be what I am, precisely because of what I see.”

“You know, Ellsworth, I think you’re much worse than I thought you were.”

“And perhaps much worse than you’re thinking now. But useful. We’re all useful to one another. As you will be to me. As, I think, you will want to be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s bad, Dominique. Very bad. So pointless. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I couldn’t possibly explain it. If you do—I have you, already, without saying anything further.”

“What kind of a conversation is this?” asked Kiki, bewildered.

“Just our way of kidding each other,” said Toohey brightly. “Don’t let it bother you, Kiki. Dominique and I are always kidding each other. Not very well, though, because you see—we can’t.”

“Some day, Ellsworth,” said Dominique, “you’ll make a mistake.”

“Quite possible. And you, my dear, have made yours already.”

“Good night, Ellsworth.”

“Good night, Dominique.”

Kiki turned to him when Dominique had gone.

“What’s the matter with both of you, Ellsworth? Why such talk—over nothing at all? People’s faces and first impressions don’t mean a thing.”

“That, my dear Kiki,” he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, “is one of our greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we’re not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?”

“The ... what?”

“The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the style of a civilization? He called it ‘style.’ He said it was the nearest word he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one principle.... I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also. Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else.”

“That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people naked before you.”

“It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of face.... The style of your soul ... There’s nothing important on earth, except human beings. There’s nothing as important about human beings as their relations to one another....”

“Well, what do you see in my face?”

He looked at her, as if he had just noticed her presence.

“What did you say?”

“I said, what do you see in my face?”

“Oh ... yes ... well, tell me the movie stars you like and I’ll tell you what you are.”

“You know, I just love to be analyzed. Now let’s see. My greatest favorite has always been ...”

But he was not listening. He had turned his back on her, he was walking away without apology. He looked tired. She had never seen him being rude before—except by intention.

A little later, from among a group of friends, she heard his rich, vibrant voice saying:

“... and, therefore, the noblest conception on earth is that of men’s absolute equality.”

VII

“... A
ND THERE IT WILL STAND, AS A MONUMENT TO nothing but the egotism of Mr. Enright and of Mr. Roark. It will stand between a row of brownstone tenements on one side and the tanks of a gashouse on the other. This, perhaps, is not an accident, but a testimonial to fate’s sense of fitness. No other setting could bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building. It will rise as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built them. Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so. But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast it will have made itself a part of the great ineptitude, its most ludicrous part. If a ray of light falls into a pigsty, it is the ray that shows us the muck and it is the ray that is offensive. Our structures have the great advantage of obscurity and timidity. Besides, they suit us. The Enright House is bright and bold. So is a feather-boa. It
will
attract attention—but only to the immense audacity of Mr. Roark’s conceit. When this building is erected, it will be a wound on the face of our city. A wound, too, is colorful.”

This appeared in the column “Your House” by Dominique Francon, a week after the 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.”

“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.”

“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 worshiped, 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.

“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?”

“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 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.”