The Fountainhead (39 page)

“Yes, of course.”

“Which only shows her honesty and that she has good reasons for her convictions and will stand by them openly.”

“Yes.”

“Well, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Mr. Sutton.”

“Look, it’s not decent to laugh like that.”

“No.”

His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked, unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the unmoving reality of his body.

When he heard the knock at the door, he said: “Come in,” without rising.

Dominique came in. She entered as if she had entered this room before. She wore a black suit of heavy cloth, simple like a child’s garment, worn as mere protection, not as ornament; she had a high masculine collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat cutting half her face out of sight. He sat looking at her. She waited to see the derisive smile, but it did not come. The smile seemed implicit in the room itself, in her standing there, halfway across that room. She took her hat off, like a man entering a house, she pulled it off by the brim with the tips of stiff fingers and held it hanging down at the end of her arm. She waited, her face stern and cold; but her smooth pale hair looked defenseless and humble. She said:

“You are not surprised to see me.”

“I expected you tonight.”

She raised her hand, bending her elbow with a tight economy of motion, the bare minimum needed, and flung her hat across to a table. The hat’s long flight showed the violence in that controlled jerk of her wrist.

He asked: “What do you want?”

She answered: “You know what I want,” her voice heavy and flat.

“Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it.”

“If you wish.” Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with metallic precision. “I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin. your mouth, your hands. I want you—like this—not hysterical with desire—but coldly and consciously—without dignity and without regrets —I want you—I have no self-respect to bargain with me and divide me—I want you—I want you like an animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore.”

She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.

“You know that I hate you, Roark. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you, for having to want you. I’m going to fight you—and I’m going to destroy you—and I tell you this as calmly as I told you that I’m a begging animal. I’m going to pray that you can’t be destroyed—I tell you this, too—even though I believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to. But I will fight to block every step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you—through your work. I will fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I have done it to you today—and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight.”

He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.

“I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you—whenever I know that I have hurt you—and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but an an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”

“Take your clothes off.”

She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the corners of her mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one jolt of controlled breath—and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had always smiled at her.

She lifted her two hands to her collar and unfastened the buttons of her jacket, simply, precisely, one after another. She threw the jacket down on the floor, she took off a thin white blouse, and she noticed the tight black gloves on the wrists of her naked arms. She took the gloves off, pulling at each finger in turn. She undressed indifferently, as if she were alone in her own bedroom.

Then she looked at him. She stood naked, waiting, feeling the space between them like a pressure against her stomach, knowing that it was torture for him also and that it was as they both wanted it. Then he got up, he walked to her, and when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the shape of his body imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm as it encircled him, his ribs, his armpit, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers, her mouth on his, in a surrender more violent than her struggle had been.

Afterward, she lay in bed by his side, under his blanket, looking at his room, and she asked:

“Roark, why were you working in that quarry?”

“You know it.”

“Yes. Anyone else would have taken a job in an architect’s office.”

“And then you’d have no desire at all to destroy me.”

“You understand that?”

“Yes. Keep still. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Do you know that the Enright House is the most beautiful building in New York?”

“I know that you know it.”

“Roark, you worked in that quarry when you had the Enright House in you, and many other Enright Houses, and you were drilling granite like a ...”

“You’re going to weaken in a moment, Dominique, and then you’ll regret it tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very lovely, Dominique.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Roark, I ... I’ll still want to destroy you.”

“Do you think I would want you if you didn’t?”

“Roark ...”

“You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dominique. I want you. I want you.”

“I ...” She stopped, the word on which she stopped almost audible in her breath.

“No,” he said. “Not yet. You won’t say that yet. Go to sleep.”

“Here? With you?”

“Here. With me. I’ll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I fix my own breakfast? You’ll like seeing that. Like the work in the quarry. Then you’ll go home and think about destroying me. Good night, Dominique.”

VIII

T
HE BLINDS RAISED OVER THE WINDOWS OF HER LIVING ROOM, THE lights of the city rising to a black horizon halfway up the glass panes, Dominique sat at her desk, correcting the last sheets of an article, when she heard the doorbell. Guests did not disturb her without warning -and she looked up, the pencil held in mid-air, angry and curious. She heard the steps of the maid in the hall, then the maid came in, saying: “A gentleman to see you, madam,” a faint hostility in her voice explaining that the gentleman had refused to give his name.

A man with orange hair?—Dominique wanted to ask, but didn’t; the pencil jerked stiffly and she said: “Have him come in.”

Then the door opened; against the light of the hall she saw a long neck and sloping shoulders, like the silhouette of a bottle; a rich, creamy voice said, “Good evening, Dominique,” and she recognized Ellsworth Toohey whom she had never asked to her house.

She smiled. She said: “Good evening, Ellsworth. I haven’t seen you for such a long time.”

“You should have expected me now, don’t you think so?” He turned to the maid: “Cointreau, please, if you have it, and I’m sure you do.”

The maid glanced at Dominique, wide-eyed; Dominique nodded silently, and the maid went out, closing the door.

“Busy, of course?” said Toohey, glancing at the littered desk. “Very becoming, Dominique. Gets results, too. You’ve been writing much better lately.”

She let the pencil fall, and threw an arm over the back of her chair, half turning to him, watching him placidly. “What do you want, Ellsworth?”

He did not sit down, but stood examining the place with the unhurried curiosity of an expert.

“Not bad, Dominique. Just about as I’d expect you to have it. A little cold. You know, I wouldn’t have that ice-blue chair over there. Too obvious. Fits in too well. Just what people would expect in just that spot. I’d have it carrot red. An ugly, glaring, outrageous red. Like Mr. Howard Roark’s hair. That’s quite
en passant
—merely a convenient figure of speech—nothing personal at all. Just one touch of the wrong color would make the whole room. The sort of thing that gives a place elegance. Your flower arrangements are nice. The pictures, too—not bad.”

“All right, Ellsworth, all right, what is it?”

“But don’t you know that I’ve never been here before? Somehow, you’ve never asked me. I don’t know why.” He sat down comfortably, resting an ankle on a knee, one thin leg stretched horizontally across the other, the full length of a tight, gun-metal sock exposed under the trouser cuff, and a patch of skin showing above the sock, bluish-white with a few black hairs. “But then, you’ve been so unsociable. The past tense, my dear, the past tense. Did you say that we haven’t seen each other for a long time? That’s true. You’ve been so busy—in such an unusual way. Visits, dinners, speak-easies and giving tea parties. Haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“Tea parties—I though that was tops. This is a good room for parties -large-plenty of space to stuff people into—particularly if you’re not particular whom you stuff it with—and you’re not. Not now. What do you serve them? Anchovy paste and minced egg cut out like hearts?”

“Caviar and minced onion cut out like stars.”

“What about the old ladies?”

“Cream cheese and chopped walnuts—in spirals.”

“I’d like to have seen you taking care of things like that. It’s wonderful how thoughtful you’ve become of old ladies. Particularly the filthy rich—with sons-in-law in real estate. Though I don’t think that’s as bad as going to see
Knock Me Flat
with Commodore Higbee who has false teeth and a nice vacant lot on the corner of Broadway and Chambers.”

The maid came in with the tray. Toohey took a glass and held it delicately, inhaling, while the maid went out.

“Will you tell me why the secret service department—I won’t ask who—and why the detailed reports on my activities?” Dominique said indifferently.

“You can ask who. Anyone and everyone. Don’t you suppose people are talking about Miss Dominique Francon in the role of famous hostess -so suddenly? Miss Dominique Francon as a sort of second Kiki Holcombe, but much better—oh much!—much subtler, much abler, and then, just think, how much more beautiful. It’s about time you made some use of that superlative appearance of yours that any woman would cut your throat for. It’s still being wasted, of course, if one thinks of form in relation to its proper function, but at least some people are getting some good out of it. Your father, for instance. I’m sure he’s delighted with this new life of yours. Little Dominique being friendly to people. Little Dominique who’s become normal at last. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s nice to make him happy. A few others, too..Me, for instance. Though you’d never do anything just to make me happy, but then, you see, that’s my lucky faculty—to extract joy from what was not intended for me at all, in a purely selfless way.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“But I am. You asked why the interest in your activities—and I answer: because they make me happy. Besides, look, one could be astonished—though shortsightedly—if I were gathering information on the activities of my enemies. But not to be informed about the actions of my own side—really, you know, you didn’t think I’d be so unskilled a general, and whatever else you might think of me, you’ve never thought me unskilled.”

“Your side,
Ellsworth?”

“Look, Dominique, that’s the trouble with your written—and spoken —style: you use too many question marks. Bad, in any case. Particularly bad when unnecessary. Let’s drop the quiz technique—and just talk. Since we both understand and there aren’t any questions to be asked between us. If there were—you’d have thrown me out. Instead, you gave me a very expensive liqueur.”

He held the rim of the glass under his nose and inhaled with a loose kind of sensual relish, which, at a dinner table, would have been equivalent to a loud lip-smacking, vulgar there, superlatively elegant here, over a cut-crystal edge pressed to a neat little mustache.

“All right,” she said. “Talk.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing. Which is considerate of me—since you’re not ready to talk. Not yet, for a while. Well, let’s talk—in a purely contemplative manner—about how interesting it is to see people welcoming you into their midst so eagerly, accepting you, flocking to you. Why is it, do you suppose? They do plenty of snubbing on their own, but just let someone who’s snubbed them all her life suddenly break down and turn gregarious—and they all come rolling on their backs with their paws folded, for you to rub their bellies. Why? There could be two explanations, I think. The nice one would be that they are generous and wish to honor you with their friendship. Only the nice explanations are never the true ones. The other one is that they know you’re degrading yourself by needing them, you’re coming down off a pinnacle—every loneliness is a pinnacle—and they’re delighted to drag you down through their friendship. Though, of course, none of them knows it consciously, except yourself. That’s why you go through agonies, doing it, and you’d never do it for a noble cause, you’d never do it except for the end you’ve chosen, an end viler than the means and making the means endurable.”

“You know, Ellsworth, you’ve said a sentence there you’d never use in your column.”

“Did I? Undoubtedly. I can say a great many things to you that I’d never use in my column. Which one?”

“Every loneliness is a pinnacle.”

“That? Yes, quite right. I wouldn’t. You’re welcome to it—though it’s not too good. Fairly crude. I’ll give you better ones some day, if you wish. Sorry, however, that that’s all you picked out of my little speech.”

“What did you want me to pick?”

“Well, my two explanations, for instance. There’s an interesting question there. What is kinder—to believe the best of people and burden them with a nobility beyond their endurance—or to see them as they are, and accept it because it makes them comfortable? Kindness being more important than justice, of course.”

“I don’t give a damn, Ellsworth.”

“Not in a mood for abstract speculation? Interested only in concrete results? All right. How many commissions have you landed for Peter Keating in the last three months?”

She rose, walked to the tray which the maid had left, poured herself a drink, and said: “Four,” raising the glass to her mouth. Then she turned to look at him, standing, glass in hand, and added: “And that was the famous Toohey technique. Never place your punch at the beginning of a column nor at the end. Sneak it in where it’s least expected. Fill a whole column with drivel, just to get in that one important line.”

He bowed courteously. “Quite. That’s why I like to talk to you. It’s such a waste to be subtle and vicious with people who don’t even know that you’re being subtle and vicious. But the drivel is never accidental, Dominique. Also, I didn’t know that the technique of my column was becoming obvious. I will have to think of a new one.”

“Don’t bother. They love it.”

“Of course. They’ll love anything I write. So it’s four? I missed one. I counted three.”

“I can’t understand why you had to come here if that’s all you wanted to know. You’re so fond of Peter Keating, and I’m helping him along beautifully, better than you could, so if you wanted to give me a pep talk about Petey—it wasn’t necessary, was it?”

“You’re wrong there twice in one sentence, Dominique. One honest error and one lie. The honest error is the assumption that I wish to help Petey Keating—and, incidentally, I can help him much better than you can, and I have and will, but that’s long-range contemplation. The lie is that I came here to talk about Peter Keating—you knew what I came here to talk about when you saw me enter. And—oh my!—you’d allow someone more obnoxious than myself to barge in on you, just to talk about that subject. Though I don’t know who could be more obnoxious to you than myself, at the moment.”

“Peter Keating,” she said.

He made a grimace, wrinkling his nose: “Oh, no. He’s not big enough for that. But let’s talk about Peter Keating. It’s such a convenient coincidence that he happens to be your father’s partner. You’re merely working your head off to procure commissions for your father, like a dutiful daughter, nothing more natural. You’ve done wonders for the firm of Francon & Keating in these last three months. Just by smiling at a few dowagers and wearing stunning models at some of our better gatherings. Wonder what you’d accomplish if you decided to go all the way and sell your matchless body for purposes other than esthetic contemplation—in exchange for commissions for Peter Keating.” He paused, she said nothing, and he added: “My compliments, Dominique, you’ve lived up to my best opinion of you—by not being shocked at this.”

“What was that intended for, Ellsworth? Shock value or hint value?”

“Oh, it could have been a number of things—a preliminary feeler, for instance. But, as a matter of fact, it was nothing at all. Just a touch of vulgarity. Also the Toohey technique—you know, I always advise the wrong touch at the right time. I am—essentially—such an earnest, single-toned Puritan that I must allow myself another color occasionally—to relieve the monotony.”

“Are you, Ellsworth? I wonder what you are—essentially. I don’t know.”

“I dare say nobody does,” he said pleasantly. “Although really, there’s no mystery about it at all. It’s very simple. All things are simple when you reduce them to fundamentals. You’d be surprised if you knew how few fundamentals there are. Only two, perhaps. To explain all of us. It’s the untangling, the reducing that’s dimcult—that’s why people don’t like to bother. I don’t think they’d like the results, either.”

“I don’t mind. I know what I am. Go ahead and say it. I’m just a bitch.”

“Don’t fool yourself, my dear. You’re much worse than a bitch. You’re a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.”

“And you?”

“As a matter of fact, I know exactly what I am. That alone can explain a great deal about me. I’m giving you a helpful hint—if you care to use it. You don’t, of course. You might, though—in the future.”

“Why should I?” “You need me, Dominique. You might as well understand me a little. You see, I’m not afraid of being understood. Not by you.”

“I need you?”

“Oh, come on, show a little courage, too.”

She sat up and waited coldly, silently. He smiled, obviously with pleasure, making no effort to hide the pleasure.

“Let’s see,” he said, studying the ceiling with casual attention, “those commissions you got for Peter Keating. The Cryson office building was mere nuisance value—Howard Roark never had a chance at that. The Lindsay home was better—Roark was definitely considered, I think he would have got it but for you. The Stonebrook Clubhouse also—he had a chance at that, which you ruined.” He looked at her and chuckled softly. “No comments on techniques and punches, Dominique?” The smile was like cold grease floating over the fluid sounds of his voice. “You slipped up on the Norris country house—he got that last week, you know. Well, you can’t be a hundred per cent successful. After all, the Enright House is a big job; it’s creating a lot of talk, and quite a few people are beginning to show interest in Mr. Howard Roark. But you’ve done remarkably well. My congratulations. Now don’t you think I’m being nice to you? Every artist needs appreciation—and there’s nobody to compliment you, since nobody knows what you’re doing, but Roark and me, and he won’t thank you. On second thought, I don’t think Roark knows what you’re doing, and that spoils the fun, doesn’t it?”

She asked: “How do you know what I’m doing?”—her voice tired.

“My dear, surely you haven’t forgotten that it was I who gave you the idea in the first place?”

“Oh, yes,” she said absently. “Yes.”

“And now you know why I came here. Now you know what I meant when I spoke about my side.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“This is a pact, my dear. An alliance. Allies never trust each other, but that doesn’t spoil their effectiveness. Our motives might be quite opposite. In fact, they are. But it doesn’t matter. The result will be the same. It is not necessary to have a noble aim in common. It is necessary only to have a common enemy. We have.”