The Fountainhead (73 page)

“The incident illustrates to perfection,” wrote Ellsworth Toohey, “the antisocial nature of Mr. Howard Roark’s egotism, the arrogance of the unbridled individualism which he has always personified.”

Among the eight chosen to design “The March of the Centuries” were Peter Keating, Gordon L. Prescott, Ralston Holcombe. “I won’t work with Howard Roark,” said Peter Keating, when he saw the list of the council, “you’ll have to choose. It’s he or I.” He was informed that Mr. Roark had declined. Keating assumed leadership over the council. The press stories about the progress of the fair’s construction referred to “Peter Keating and his associates.”

Keating had acquired a sharp, intractable manner in the last few years. He snapped orders and lost his patience before the smallest difficulty; when he lost his patience, he screamed at people; he had a vocabulary of insults that carried a caustic, insidious, almost feminine malice; his face was sullen.

In the fall of 1936 Roark moved his office to the top floor of the Cord Building. He had thought, when he designed that building, that it would be the place of his office some day. When he saw the inscription: “Howard Roark, Architect,” on his new door, he stopped for a moment; then he walked into the office. His own room, at the end of a long suite, had three walls of glass, high over the city. He stopped in the middle of the room. Through the broad panes, he could see the Fargo Store, the Enright House, the Aquitania Hotel. He walked to the windows facing south and stood there for a long time. At the tip of Manhattan, far in the distance, he could see the Dana Building by Henry Cameron.

On an afternoon of November, returning to his office after a visit to the site of a house under construction on Long Island, Roark entered the reception room, shaking his drenched raincoat, and saw a look of suppressed excitement on the face of his secretary; she had been waiting impatiently for his return.

“Mr. Roark, this is probably something very big,” she said. “I made an appointment for you for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. At his office.”

“Whose office?”

“He telephoned half an hour ago. Mr. Gail Wynand.”

II

A
SIGN HUNG OVER THE ENTRANCE DOOR, A REPRODUCTION OF THE paper’s masthead:

THE NEW YORK BANNER

The sign was small, a statement of fame and power that needed no emphasis; it was like a fine, mocking smile that justified the building’s bare ugliness; the building was a factory scornful of all ornament save the implications of that masthead.

The entrance lobby looked like the mouth of a furnace; elevators drew a stream of human fuel and spat it out. The men did not hurry, but they moved with subdued haste, the propulsion of purpose; nobody loitered in that lobby. The elevator doors clicked like valves, a pulsating rhythm in their sound. Drops of red and green light flashed on a wall board, signaling the progress of cars high in space.

It looked as if everything in that building were run by such control boards in the hands of an authority aware of every motion, as if the building were flowing with channeled energy, functioning smoothly, soundlessly, a magnificent machine that nothing could destroy. Nobody paid any attention to the redheaded man who stopped in the lobby for a moment.

Howard Roark looked up at the tiled vault. He had never hated anyone. Somewhere in this building was its owner, the man who had made him feel his nearest approach to hatred.

Gail Wynand glanced at the small clock on his desk. In a few minutes he had an appointment with an architect. The interview, he thought, would not be difficult; he had held many such interviews in his life; he merely had to speak, he knew what he wanted to say, and nothing was required of the architect except a few sounds signifying understanding.

His glance went from the clock back to the sheets of proofs on his desk. He read an editorial by Alvah Scarret on the public feeding of squirrels in Central Park, and a column by Ellsworth Toohey on the great merits of an exhibition of paintings done by the workers of the City Department of Sanitation. A buzzer rang on his desk, and his secretary’s voice said: “Mr. Howard Roark, Mr. Wynand.”

“Okay,” said Wynand, flicking the switch off. As his hand moved back, he noticed the row of buttons at the edge of his desk, bright little knobs with a color code of their own, each representing the end of a wire that stretched to some part of the building, each wire controlling some man, each man controlling many men under his orders, each group of men contributing to the final shape of words on paper to go into millions of homes, into millions of human brains—these little knobs of colored plastic, there under his fingers. But he had no time to let the thought amuse him, the door of his office was opening, he moved his hand away from the buttons.

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.”