The Fountainhead (63 page)

“I’d give my soul.”

“Would you, Peter?” asked Dominique.

“What’s on your mind, Ellsworth?” Keating snapped.

“Just a practical suggestion,” said Toohey. “Who has been your most effective salesman in the past and got you some of your best commissions?”

“Why—Dominique I guess.”

“That’s right. And since you can’t get to Wynand and it wouldn’t do you any good if you did, don’t you think Dominique is the one who’ll be able to persuade him?”

Keating stared at him. “Are you crazy, Ellsworth?”

Dominique leaned forward. She seemed interested.

“From what I’ve heard,” she said, “Gail Wynand does not do favors for a woman, unless she’s beautiful. And if she’s beautiful, he doesn’t do it as a favor.”

Toohey looked at her, underscoring the fact that he offered no denial.

“It’s silly,” snapped Keating angrily. “How would Dominique ever get to see him?”

“By telephoning his office and making an appointment,” said Toohey.

“Who ever told you he’d grant it?”

“He did.”

“When?!”

“Late last night. Or early this morning, to be exact.”

“Ellsworth!” gasped Keating. He added: “I don’t believe it.”

“I do,” said Dominique, “or Ellsworth wouldn’t have started this conversation.” She smiled at Toohey. “So Wynand promised you to see me?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“How did you work that?”

“Oh, I offered him a convincing argument. However, it would be advisable not to delay it. You should telephone him tomorrow—if you wish to do it.”

“Why can’t she telephone now?” said Keating. “Oh, I guess it’s too late. You’ll telephone first thing in the morning.”

She looked at him, her eyes half closed, and said nothing.

“It’s a long time since you’ve taken any active interest in Peter’s career,” said Toohey. “Wouldn’t you like to undertake a difficult feat like that—for Peter’s sake?”

“If Peter wants me to.”

“If I want you to?” cried Keating. “Are you both crazy? It’s the chance of a lifetime, the ...” He saw them both looking at him curiously. He snapped: “Oh, rubbish!”

“What is rubbish, Peter?” asked Dominique.

“Are you going to be stopped by a lot of fool gossip? Why, any other architect’s wife’d crawl on her hands and knees for a chance like that to ...”

“No other architect’s wife would be offered the chance,” said Toohey. “No other architect has a wife like Dominique. You’ve always been so proud of that, Peter.”

“Dominique can take care of herself in any circumstances.”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

“All right, Ellsworth,” said Dominique. “I’ll telephone Wynand tomorrow.”

“Ellsworth, you’re wonderful!” said Keating, not looking at her.

“I believe I’d like a drink now,” said Toohey. “We should celebrate.”

When Keating hurried out to the kitchen, Toohey and Dominique looked at each other. He smiled. He glanced at the door through which Keating had gone, then nodded to her faintly, amused.

“You expected it,” said Dominique.

“Of course.”

“Now what’s the real purpose, Ellsworth?”

“Why, I want to help you get Stoneridge for Peter. It’s really a terrific commission.”

“Why are you so anxious to have me sleep with Wynand?”

“Don’t you think it would be an interesting experience for all concerned?”

“You’re not satisfied with the way my marriage has turned out, are you, Ellsworth?”

“Not entirely. Just about fifty percent. Well, nothing’s perfect in this world. One gathers what one can and then one tries further.”

“You were very anxious to have Peter marry me. You knew what the result would be, better than Peter or I.”

“Peter didn’t know it at all.”

“Well, it worked—fifty percent. You got Peter Keating where you wanted him—the leading architect of the country who’s now mud clinging to your galoshes.”

“I’ve never liked your style of expression, but it’s always been accurate. I should have said: who’s now a soul wagging its tail. Your style is gentler.”

“But the other fifty percent, Ellsworth? A failure?”

“Approximately total. My fault. I should have known better than to expect anyone like Peter Keating, even in the role of husband, to destroy you.”

“Well, you’re frank.”

“I told you once it’s the only method that will work with you. Besides, surely it didn’t take you two years to discover what I wanted of that marriage?”

“So you think Gail Wynand will finish the job?”

“Might. What do you think?”

“I think I’m only a side issue again. Didn’t you call it ‘gravy’ once? What have you got against Wynand?”

He laughed; the sound betrayed that he had not expected the question. She said contemptuously: “Don’t show that you’re shocked, Ellsworth.”

“All right. We’re taking it straight. I have nothing specific against Mr. Gail Wynand. I’ve been planning to have him meet you, for a long time. If you want minor details, he did something that annoyed me yesterday morning. He’s too observant. So I decided the time was right.”

“And there was Stoneridge.”

“And there was Stoneridge. I knew that part of it would appeal to you. You’d never sell yourself to save your country, your soul or the life of a man you loved. But you’ll sell yourself to get a commission he doesn’t deserve for Peter Keating. See what will be left of you afterward. Or of Gail Wynand. I’ll be interested to see it, too.”

“Quite correct, Ellsworth.”

“All of it? Even the part about a man you loved—if you did?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t sell yourself for Roark? Though, of course, you don’t like to hear that name pronounced.”

“Howard Roark,” she said evenly.

“You have a great deal of courage, Dominique.”

Keating returned, carrying a tray of cocktails. His eyes were feverish and he made too many gestures.

Toohey raised his glass. He said:

“To Gail Wynand and the New York
Banner!”

III

G
AIL WYNAND ROSE AND MET HER HALFWAY ACROSS HIS OFFICE. “How do you do, Mrs. Keating,” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Wynand,” said Dominique.

He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be nothing improper in this behavior.

“You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version,” he said. “As a rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time it’s a close one between that sculptor and God.”

“What sculptor?”

“The one who did that statue of you.”

He had felt that there was some story behind that statue and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the trim indifference of her self-control.

“Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?”

“In my art gallery, this morning.”

“Where did you get it?”

It was his turn to show perplexity. “But don’t you know that?”

“No.”

“Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present.”

“To get this appointment for me?”

“Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in substance—yes.”

“He hasn’t told me that.”

“Do you mind my having that statue?”

“Not particularly.”

“I expected you to say that you were delighted.”

“I’m not.”

He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out, his ankles crossed. He asked:

“I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?”

“For two years.”

“You can’t have it.” He added, watching her: “You might have Stoneridge.”

“I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you.”

He felt a bitter little stab of triumph—and of disappointment, in thinking that he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:

“Because it gave you this interview?”

“No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have that statue. But Toohey is last.”

He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge should have said or thought. He asked:

“You didn’t know that Toohey had it?”

“No.”

“We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for instance.”

“He didn’t tell you that?”

“No.”

“Steven Mallory.”

“Mallory? ... Not the one who tried to ...” He laughed aloud.

“What’s the matter?”

“Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name.
That
name.”

“Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?”

“He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety in being as blatant as he’s been. A very difficult kind. I almost like his artistry.”

“I don’t share your taste.”

“Not in any field? Not in sculpture—or architecture?”

“I’m sure not in architecture.”

“Isn’t that the utterly wrong thing for you to say?”

“Probably.”

He looked at her. He said: “You’re interesting.”

“I didn’t intend to be.”

“That’s your third mistake.”

“Third?”

“The first was about Mr. Toohey. In the circumstances, one would expect you to praise him to me. To quote him. To lean on his great prestige in matters of architecture.”

“But one would expect you to know Ellsworth Toohey. That should disqualify any quotations.”

“I intended to say that to you—had you given me the chance you won’t give me.”

“That should make it more entertaining.”

“You expected to be entertained?”

“I am.”

“About the statue?” It was the only point of weakness he had discovered.

“No.” Her voice was hard. “Not about the statue.”

“Tell me, when was it made and for whom?”

“Is that another thing Mr. Toohey forgot?”

“Apparently.”

“Do you remember a scandal about a building called the Stoddard Temple? Two years ago. You were away at the time.”

“The Stoddard Temple.... How do you happen to know where I was two years ago? ... Wait, the Stoddard Temple. I remember: a sacrilegious church or some such object that gave the Bible brigade a howling spree.”

“Yes.”

“There was ...” He stopped. His voice sounded hard and reluctant—like hers. “There was the statue of a naked woman involved.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice harsh, as if he were holding back some anger whose object she could not guess:

“I was somewhere around Bali at the time. I’m sorry all New York saw that statue before I did. But I don’t read newspapers when I’m sailing. There’s a standing order to fire any man who brings a Wynand paper aboard the yacht.”

“Have you ever seen pictures of the Stoddard Temple?”

“No. Was the building worth the statue?”

“The statue was almost worthy of the building.”

“It has been destroyed, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. With the help of the Wynand papers.”

He shrugged. “I remember Alvah Scarret had a good time with it. A big story. Sorry I missed it. But Alvah did very well. Incidentally, how did you know that I was away and why has the fact of my absence remained in your memory?”

“It was the story that cost me my job with you.”

“Your
job? With
me?”

“Didn’t you know my name was Dominique Francon?”

Under the trim jacket his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was surprise—and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply. After a while, he said:

“No.”

She smiled indifferently. She said: “It appears that Toohey wanted to make it as difficult for both of us as he could.”

“To hell with Toohey. This has to be understood. It doesn’t make sense. You’re Dominique Francon?”

“I was.”

“You worked here, in this building, for years?”

“For six years.”

“Why haven’t I met you before?”

“I’m sure you don’t meet every one of your employees.”

“I think you understand what I mean.”

“Do you wish me to state it for you?”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t I tried to meet you before?”

“Yes.”

“I had no desire to.”

“That, precisely, doesn’t make sense.”

“Shall I let this go by or understand it?”

“I’ll spare you the choice. With the kind of beauty you possess and with knowledge of the kind of reputation I am said to possess—why didn’t you attempt to make a real career for yourself on the
Banner?”

“I never wanted a real career on the
Banner.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps for the same reason that makes you forbid Wynand papers on your yacht.”

“It’s a good reason,” he said quietly. Then he asked, his voice casual again: “Let’s see, what was it you did to get fired? You went against our policy, I believe?”

“I tried to defend the Stoddard Temple.”

“Didn’t you know better than to attempt sincerity on the Banner?”

“I intended to say that to you—if you’d given me the chance.”

“Are you being entertained?”

“I wasn’t, then. I liked working here.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever said that in this building.”

“I must be one of two.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Yourself, Mr. Wynand.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes and asked: “You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?”

“Yes, I think so,” she answered placidly.

“Dominique Francon ...” he repeated, not addressing her. “I used to like your stuff. I almost wish you were here to ask for your old job.”

“I’m here to discuss Stoneridge.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He settled back, to enjoy a long speech of persuasion. He thought it would be interesting to hear what arguments she’d choose and how she’d act in the role of petitioner. “Well, what do you wish to tell me about that?”

“I should like you to give that commission to my husband. I understand, of course, that there’s no reason why you should do so—unless I agree to sleep with you in exchange. If you consider that a sufficient reason—I am willing to do it.”

He looked at her silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face. She sat looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if her words had deserved no special attention. He could not force on himself, though he was seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than the incongruous one of undisturbed purity.

He said:

“That is what I was to suggest. But not so crudely and not on our first meeting.”

“I have saved you time and lies.”

“You love your husband very much?”

“I despise him.”

“You have a great faith in his artistic genius?”

“I think he’s a third-rate architect.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“It amuses me.”

“I thought I was the only one who acted on such motives.”

“You shouldn’t mind. I don’t believe you’ve ever found originality a desirable virtue, Mr. Wynand.”

“Actually, you don’t care whether your husband gets Stoneridge or not?”

“No.”

“And you have no desire to sleep with me?”

“None at all.”

“I could admire a woman who’d put on an act like that. Only it’s not an act.”

“It’s not. Please don’t begin admiring me. I have tried to avoid it.”

Whenever he smiled no obvious movement was required of his facial muscles; the hint of mockery was always there and it merely came into sharper focus for a moment, to recede imperceptibly again. The focus was sharper now.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your chief motive is I, after all. The desire to give yourself to me.” He saw the glance she could not control and added: “No, don’t enjoy the thought that I have fallen into so gross an error. I didn’t mean it in the usual sense. But in its exact opposite. Didn’t you say you considered me the person before last in the world? You don’t want Stoneridge. You want to sell yourself for the lowest motive to the lowest person you can find.”

“I didn’t expect you to understand that,” she said simply.

“You want—men do that sometimes, not women—to express through the sexual act your utter contempt for me.”

“No, Mr. Wynand. For myself.”

The thin line of his mouth moved faintly, as if his lips had caught the first hint of a personal revelation—an involuntary one and, therefore, a weakness—and were holding it tight while he spoke:

“Most people go to very great length in order to convince themselves of their self-respect.”

“Yes.”

“And, of course, a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack.”

“Yes.”

“Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?”

“That I lack it?”

“And that you’ll never achieve it.”

“I didn’t expect you to understand that either.”

“I won’t say anything else—or I’ll stop being the person before last in the world and I’ll become unsuitable to your purpose.” He rose. “Shall I tell you formally that I accept your offer?”

She inclined her head in agreement.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I don’t care whom I choose to build Stoneridge. I’ve never hired a good architect for any of the things I’ve built. I give the public what it wants. I was stuck for a choice this time, because I’m tired of the bunglers who’ve worked for me, and it’s hard to decide without standards or reason. I’m sure you don’t mind my saying this. I’m really grateful to you for giving me a much better motive than any I could hope to find.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say that you’ve always admired the work of Peter Keating.”

“You didn’t tell me how glad you were to join the distinguished list of Gail Wynand’s mistresses.”

“You may enjoy my admitting it, if you wish, but I think we’ll get along very well together.”

“Quite likely. At least, you’ve given me a new experience: to do what I’ve always done—but honestly. Shall I now begin to give you my orders? I won’t pretend they’re anything else.”

“If you wish.”

“You’ll go with me for a two months’ cruise on my yacht. We’ll sail in ten days. When we come back, you’ll be free to return to your husband -with the contract for Stoneridge.”

“Very well.”

“I should like to meet your husband. Will you both have dinner with me Monday night?”

“Yes, if you wish.”

When she rose to leave, he asked:

“Shall I tell you the difference between you and your statue?”

“No.”

“But I want to. It’s startling to see the same elements used in two compositions with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of exaltation. But your own theme is suffering.”

“Suffering? I’m not conscious of having shown that.”

“You haven’t. That’s what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain.”

Wynand telephoned his art dealer and asked him to arrange a private showing of Steven Mallory’s work. He refused to meet Mallory in person; he never met those whose work he liked. The art dealer executed the order in great haste. Wynand bought five of the pieces he saw—and paid more than the dealer had hoped to ask. “Mr. Mallory would like to know,” said the dealer, “what brought him to your attention.” “I saw one of his works.” “Which one?” “It doesn’t matter.”

Toohey had expected Wynand to call for him after the interview with Dominique. Wynand had not called. But a few days later, meeting Toohey by chance in the city room, Wynand asked aloud:

“Mr. Toohey, have so many people tried to kill you that you can’t remember their names?”

Toohey smiled and said: “I’m sure quite so many would like to.”

“You flatter your fellow men,” said Wynand, walking away.

Peter Keating stared at the brilliant room of the restaurant. It was the most exclusive place in town, and the most expensive. Keating gloated, chewing the thought that he was here as the guest of Gail Wynand.