The Fountainhead (25 page)

At the end of March Roark read in the papers about Roger Enright. Roger Enright possessed millions, an oil concern and no sense of restraint. This made his name appear in the papers frequently. He aroused a half-admiring, half-derisive awe by the incoherent variety of his sudden ventures. The latest was a project for a new type of residential development—an apartment building, with each unit complete and isolated like an expensive private home. It was to be known as the Enright House. Enright had declared that he did not want it to look like anything anywhere else. He had approached and rejected several of the best architests in town.

Roark felt as if this newspaper item were a personal invitation; the kind of chance created expressly for him. For the first time he attempted to go after a commission. He requested an interview with Roger Enright. He got an interview with a secretary. The secretary, a young man who looked bored, asked him several questions about his experience; he asked them slowly, as if it required an effort to decide just what it would be appropriate to ask under the circumstances, since the answers would make no difference whatever; he glanced at some photographs of Roark’s buildings, and declared that Mr. Enright would not be interested.

In the first week of April, when Roark had paid his last rental for one more month at the office, he was asked to submit drawings for the new building of the Manhattan Bank Company. He was asked by Mr. Weidler, a member of the board of directors, who was a friend of young Richard Sanborn. Weidler told him: “I’ve had a stiff fight, Mr. Roark, but I think I’ve won. I’ve taken them personally through the Sanborn house, and Dick and I explained a few things. However, the board must see the drawings before they make a decision. So it’s not quite certain as yet, I must tell you frankly, but it’s almost certain. They’ve turned down two other architects. They’re very much interested in you. Go ahead. Good luck!”

Henry Cameron had had a relapse and the doctor warned his sister that no recovery could be expected. She did not believe it. She felt a new hope, because she saw that Cameron, lying still in bed, looked serene and—almost happy, a word she had never found it possible to associate with her brother.

But she was frightened, one evening, when he said suddenly: “Call Howard. Ask him to come here.” In the three years since his retirement he had never called for Roark, he had merely waited for Roark’s visits.

Roark arrived within an hour. He sat by the side of Cameron’s bed, and Cameron talked to him as usual. He did not mention the special invitation and did not explain. The night was warm and the window of Cameron’s bedroom stood open to the dark garden. When he noticed, in a pause between sentences, the silence of the trees outside, the unmoving silence of late hours, Cameron called his sister and said: “Fix the couch in the living room for Howard. He’s staying here.” Roark looked at him and understood. Roark inclined his head in agreement; he could acknowledge what Cameron had just declared to him only by a quiet glance as solemn as Cameron’s.

Roark remained at the house for three days. No reference was made to his staying there—nor to how long he would have to stay. His presence was accepted as a natural fact requiring no comment. Miss Cameron understood—and knew that she must say nothing. She moved about silently, with the meek courage of resignation.

Cameron did not want Roark’s continuous presence in his room. He would say: “Go out, take a walk through the garden, Howard. It’s beautiful, the grass is coming up.” He would lie in bed and watch, with contentment, through the open window, Roark’s figure moving among the bare trees that stood against a pale blue sky.

He asked only that Roark eat his meals with him. Miss Cameron would put a tray on Cameron’s knees, and serve Roark’s meal on a small table by the bed. Cameron seemed to take pleasure in what he had never had nor sought: a sense of warmth in performing a daily routine, the sense of family.

On the evening of the third day Cameron lay back on his pillow, talking as usual, but the words came slowly and he did not move his head. Roark listened and concentrated on not showing that he knew what went on in the terrible pauses between Cameron’s words. The words sounded natural, and the strain they cost was to remain Cameron’s last secret, as he wished.

Cameron spoke about the future of building materials. “Watch the light metals industry, Howard.... In a few... years... you’ll see them do some astounding things.... Watch the plastics, there’s a whole new era... coming from that.... You’ll find new tools, new means, new forms.... You’ll have to show... the damn fools... what wealth the human brain has made for them... what possibilities.... Last week I read about a new kind of composition tile ... and I’ve thought of a way to use it where nothing... else would do ... take, for instance, a small house... about five thousand dollars ...”

After a while he stopped and remained silent, his eyes closed. Then Roark heard him whisper suddenly:

“Gail Wynand ...”

Roark leaned closer to him, bewildered.

“I don’t... hate anybody any more... only Gail Wynand ... No, I’ve never laid eyes on him.... But he represents ... everything that’s wrong with the world... the triumph... of overbearing vulgarity.... It’s Gail Wynand that you’ll have to fight, Howard....”

Then he did not speak for a long time. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled. He said:

“I know... what you’re going through at your office just now....” Roark had never spoken to him of that. “No ... don’t deny and ... don’t say anything.... I know.... But... it’s all right.... Don’t be afraid.... Do you remember the day when I tried to fire you? ... Forget what I said to you then.... It was not the whole story.... This is ... Don’t be afraid.... It was worth it....”

His voice failed and he could not use it any longer. But the faculty of sight remained untouched and he could lie silently and look at Roark without effort. He died half an hour later.

Keating saw Catherine often. He had not announced their engagement, but his mother knew, and it was not a precious secret of his own any longer. Catherine thought, at times, that he had dropped the sense of significance in their meetings. She was spared the loneliness of waiting for him; but she had lost the reassurance of his inevitable returns.

Keating had told her: “Let’s wait for the results of that movie competition, Katie. It won’t be long, they’ll announce the decision in May. If I win—I’ll be set for life. Then we’ll be married. And that’s when I’ll meet your uncle—and he’ll want to meet me. And I’ve got to win.”

“I know you’ll win.”

“Besides, old Heyer won’t last another month. The doctor told us that we can expect a second stroke at any time and that will be that. If it doesn’t get him to the graveyard, it’ll certainly get him out of the office.”

“Oh, Peter, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. You mustn’t be so ... so terribly selfish.”

“I’m sorry, dear. Well ... yes, I guess I’m selfish. Everybody is.”

He spent more time with Dominique. Dominique watched him complacently, as if he presented no further problem to her. She seemed to find him suitable as an inconsequential companion for an occasional, inconsequential evening. He thought that she liked him. He knew that this was not an encouraging sign.

He forgot at times that she was Francon’s daughter; he forgot all the reasons that prompted him to want her. He felt no need to be prompted. He wanted her. He needed no reasons now but the excitement of her presence.

Yet he felt helpless before her. He refused to accept the thought that a woman could remain indifferent to him. But he was not certain even of her indifference. He waited and tried to guess her moods, to respond as he supposed she wished him to respond. He received no answer.

On a spring night they attended a ball together. They danced, and he drew her close, he stressed the touch of his fingers on her body. He knew that she noticed and understood. She did not withdraw; she looked at him with an unmoving glance that was almost expectation. When they were leaving, he held her wrap and let his fingers rest on her shoulders; she did not move or draw the wrap closed; she waited; she let him lift his hands. Then they walked together down to the cab.

She sat silently in a corner of the cab; she had never before considered his presence important enough to require silence. She sat, her legs crossed, her wrap gathered tightly, her finger tips beating in slow rotation against her knee. He closed his hand softly about her forearm. She did not resist; she did not answer; only her fingers stopped beating. His lips touched her hair; it was not a kiss, he merely let his lips rest against her hair for a long time.

When the cab stopped, he whispered: “Dominique ... let me come up ... for just a moment ...”

“Yes,” she answered. The word was flat, impersonal, with no sound of invitation. But she had never allowed it before. He followed her, his heart pounding.

There was one fragment of a second, as she entered her apartment, when she stopped, waiting. He stared at her helplessly, bewildered, too happy. He noticed the pause only when she was moving again, walking away from him, into the drawing room. She sat down, and her hands fell limply one at each side, her arms away from her body, leaving her unprotected. Her eyes were half closed, rectangular, empty.

“Dominique ...” he whispered, “Dominique ... how lovely you are! ...”

Then he was beside her, whispering incoherently:

“Dominique ... Dominique, I love you ... Don’t laugh at me, please don’t laugh! ... My whole life ... anything you wish ... Don’t you know how beautiful you are? ... Dominique ... I love you ...”

He stopped, with his arms around her and his face over hers, to catch some hint of response or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him and kissed her lips.

His arms fell open. He let her body fall back against the seat, and he stared at her, aghast. It had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what he had held and kissed had not been alive. Her lips had not moved in answer against his; her arms had not moved to embrace him; it was not revulsion—he could have understood revulsion. It was as if he could hold her forever or drop her, kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire—and her body would not know it, would not notice it. She was looking at him, past him. She saw a cigarette stub that had fallen off a tray on a table beside her, she moved her hand and slipped the cigarette back into the tray.

“Dominique,” he whispered stupidly, “didn’t you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.” She was not laughing at him; she was answering simply and helplessly.

“Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Do you always act like that?”

“Always. Just like that.”

“Why did you want me to kiss you?”

“I wanted to try it.”

“You’re not human, Dominique.”

She lifted her head, she got up and the sharp precision of the movement was her own again. He knew he would hear no simple, confessing helplessness in her voice; he knew the intimacy was ended, even though her words, when she spoke, were more intimate and revealing than anything she had said; but she spoke as if she did not care what she revealed or to whom:

“I suppose I’m one of those freaks you hear about, an utterly frigid woman. I’m sorry, Peter. You see? You have no rivals, but that includes you also. A disappointment, darling?”

“You ... you’ll outgrow it... some day ...”

“I’m really not so young, Peter. Twenty-five. It must be an interesting experience to sleep with a man. I’ve wanted to want it. I should think it would be exciting to become a dissolute woman. I am, you know, in everything but in fact.... Peter, you look as if you were going to blush in a moment, and that’s very amusing.”

“Dominique! Haven’t you ever been in love at all? Not even a little?”

“I haven’t. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be convenient. I’d have no trouble with you at all. But you see? I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel any difference, whether it’s you or Alvah Scarret or Lucius Heyer.”

He got up. He did not want to look at her. He walked to a window and stood, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. He had forgotten his desire and her beauty, but he remembered now that she was Francon’s daughter.

“Dominique, will you marry me?”

He knew he had to say it now; if he let himself think of her, he would never say it; what he felt for her did not matter any longer; he could not let it stand between him and his future; and what he felt for her was growing into hatred.

“You’re not serious?” she asked.

He turned to her. He spoke rapidly, easily; he was lying now, and so he was sure of himself and it was not difficult:

“I love you, Dominique. I’m crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there’s no one else, why not? You’ll learn to love me—because I understand you. I’ll be patient. I’ll make you happy.”

She shuddered suddenly, and then she laughed. She laughed simply, completely; he saw the pale foam of her dress trembling; she stood straight, her head thrown back, like a string shaking with the vibrations of a blinding insult to him; an insult, because her laughter was not bitter or mocking, but quite simply gay.

Then it stopped. She stood looking at him. She said earnestly:

“Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something terrible, if I ever want to punish myself disgustingly—I’ll marry you.” She added: “Consider it a promise.”

“I’ll wait—no matter what reason you choose for it.”

Then she smiled gaily, the cold, gay smile he dreaded.

“Really, Peter, you don’t have to do it, you know. You’ll get that partnership anyway. And we’ll always be good friends. Now it’s time for you to go home. Don’t forget, you’re taking me to the horse show Wednesday. Oh, yes, we’re going to the horse show Wednesday. I adore horse shows. Good night, Peter.”

He left and walked home through the warm spring night. He walked savagely. If, at that moment, someone had offered him sole ownership of the firm of Francon & Heyer at the price of marrying Dominique, he would have refused it. He knew also, hating himself, that he would not refuse, if it were offered to him on the following morning.