The Fountainhead (90 page)

Within two days, it was as if she had never left the staff of the Banner. Only now she did not write a column on houses, but kept busy wherever a competent hand was needed to fill a gap. “It’s quite all right, Alvah,” she said to Scarret, “it’s a proper feminine job to be a seamstress. I’m here to slap on patches where necessary—and boy! is this cloth ripping fast! Just call me when one of your new journalists runs amuck more than usual.”

Scarret could not understand her tone, her manner or her presence. “You’re a lifesaver, Dominique,” he mumbled sadly. “It’s like the old days, seeing you here—and oh! how I wish it were the old days! Only I can’t understand. Gail wouldn’t allow a photo of you in the place, when it was a decent, respectable place—and now when it’s practically as safe as a penitentiary during a convict riot, he lets you
work
here!”

“Can the commentaries, Alvah. We haven’t the time.”

She wrote a brilliant review of a movie she hadn’t seen. She dashed off a report on a convention she hadn’t attended. She batted out a string of recipes for the “Daily Dishes” column, when the lady in charge failed to show up one morning. “I didn’t know you could cook,” said Scarret. “I didn’t either,” said Dominique. She went out one night to cover a dock fire, when it was found that the only man on duty had passed out on the floor of the men’s room. “Good job,” Wynand told her when he read the story, “but try that again and you’ll get fired. If you want to stay, you’re not to step out of the building.”

This was his only comment on her presence. He spoke to her when necessary, briefly and simply, as to any other employee. He gave orders. There were days when they did not have time to see each other. She slept on a couch in the library. Occasionally, in the evening, she would come to his office, for a short rest, when they could take it, and then they talked, about nothing in particular, about small events of the day’s work, gaily, like any married couple gossiping about the normal routine of their common life.

They did not speak of Roark or Cortlandt. She had noticed Roark’s picture on the wall of his office and asked: “When did you hang that up?” “Over a year ago.” It had been their only reference to Roark. They did not discuss the growing public fury against the Banner. They did not speculate on the future. They felt relief in forgetting the question beyond the walls of the building; it could be forgotten because it stood no longer as a question between them; it was solved and answered; what remained was the peace of the simplified: they had a job to do—the job of keeping a newspaper going—and they were doing it together.

She would come in, unsummoned, in the middle of the night, with a cup of hot coffee, and he would snatch it gratefully, not pausing in his work. He would find fresh sandwiches left on his desk when he needed them badly. He had no time to wonder where she got things. Then he discovered that she had established an electric plate and a stock of supplies in a closet. She cooked breakfast for him, when he had to work all night, she came in carrying dishes on a piece of cardboard for a tray, with the silence of empty streets beyond the windows and the first light of morning on the rooftops.

Once he found her, broom in hand, sweeping an office; the maintenance department had fallen apart, charwomen appeared and disappeared, no one had time to notice.

“Is that what I’m paying you for?” he asked.

“Well, we can’t work in a pigsty. I haven’t asked you what you’re paying me, but I want a raise.”

“Drop this thing, for God’s sake! It’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous? It’s clean now. It didn’t take me long. Is it a good job?”

“It’s a good job.”

She leaned on the broom handle and laughed. “I believe you thought, like everybody else, that I’m just a kind of luxury object, a high-class type of kept woman, didn’t you, Gail?”

“Is this the way you can keep going when you want to?”

“This is the way I’ve wanted to keep going all my life—if I could find a reason for it.”

He learned that her endurance was greater than his. She never showed a sign of exhaustion. He supposed that she slept, but he could not discover when.

At any time, in any part of the building, not seeing him for hours, she was aware of him, she knew when he needed her most. Once, he fell asleep, slumped across his desk. He awakened and found her looking at him. She had turned off the lights, she sat on a chair by the window, in the moonlight, her face turned to him, calm, watching. Her face was the first thing he saw. Lifting his head painfully from his arm, in the first moment, before he could return fully to control and reality, he felt a sudden wrench of anger, helplessness and desperate protest, not remembering what had brought them here, to this, remembering only that they were both caught in some vast, slow process of torture and that he loved her.

She had seen it in his face, before he had completed the movement of straightening his body. She walked to him, she stood by his chair, she took his head and let it rest against her, she held him, and he did not resist, slumped in her arms, she kissed his hair, she whispered: “It will be all right, Gail, it will be all right.”

At the end of three weeks Wynand walked out of the building one evening, not caring whether there would be anything left of it when he returned, and went to see Roark.

He had not telephoned Roark since the beginning of the siege. Roark telephoned him often; Wynand answered, quietly, just answering, originating no statement, refusing to prolong the conversation. He had warned Roark at the beginning: “Don’t try to come here. I’ve given orders. You won’t be admitted.” He had to keep out of his mind the actual form which the issue of his battle could take; he had to forget the fact of Roark’s physical existence; because the thought of Roark’s person brought the thought of the county jail.

He walked the long distance to the Enright House; walking made the distance longer and safer; a ride in a cab would pull Roark too close to the Banner Building. He kept his glance slanted toward a point six feet ahead of him on the sidewalk; he did not want to look at the city.

“Good evening, Gail,” Roark said calmly when he came in.

“I don’t know what’s a more conspicuous form of bad discipline,” said Wynand, throwing his hat down on a table by the door, “to blurt things right out or to ignore them blatantly. I look like hell. Say it.”

“You do look like hell. Sit down, rest and don’t talk. Then I’ll run you a hot bath—no, you don’t look that dirty, but it will be good for you for a change. Then we’ll talk.”

Wynand shook his head and remained standing at the door.

“Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It’s ruining you.”

It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that.

“Of course,” said Roark. “What of it?”

Wynand would not advance into the room.

“Gail, it doesn’t matter, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not counting on public opinion, one way or the other.”

“You want me to give in?”

“I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own.”

He saw that Wynand understood, that it was the thing Wynand had tried not to face, and that Wynand wanted him to speak.

“I don’t expect you to save me. I think I have a chance to win. The strike won’t make it better or worse. Don’t worry about me. And don’t give in. If you stick to the end—you won’t need me any longer.”

He saw the look of anger, protest—and agreement. He added:

“You know what I’m saying. We’ll be better friends than ever—and you’ll come to visit me in jail, if necessary. Don’t wince, and don’t make me say too much. Not now. I’m glad of this strike. I knew that something like that had to happen, when I saw you for the first time. You knew it long before that.”

“Two months ago, I promised you ... the one promise I wanted to keep ...”

“You’re keeping it.”

“Don’t you really want to despise me? I wish you’d say it now. I came here to hear it.”

“All right. Listen. You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated. There was Henry Cameron who died for my own cause. And you’re the publisher of filthy tabloids. But I couldn’t say this to him, and I’m saying it to you. There’s Steve Mallory who’s never compromised with his soul. And you’ve done nothing but sell yours in every known way. But I couldn’t say this to him and I’m saying it to you. Is that what you’ve always wanted to hear from me? But don’t give
in
.”

He turned away, and added: “That’s all. We won’t talk about your damn strike again. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink. Rest, get yourself out of looking like hell.”

Wynand returned to the
Banner
late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance.

Dominique said: “You’ve seen Roark.”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“Here’s the Sunday makeup. It’s fairly lousy, but it’ll have to do. I sent Manning home for a few hours—he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can do without him. Alvah’s column was a mess—he can’t even keep his grammar straight any more—I rewrote it, but don’t tell him, tell him you did.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll take Manning’s place. I’m good for hours.”

They went on, and the days passed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs. Fewer copies of the
Banner
were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days passed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread.

XVI

I
N THE GLASS-SMOOTH MAHOGANY OF THE LONG TABLE RESERVED FOR the board of directors there was a monogram in colored wood—G W—reproduced from his signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it now. But an occasional glance fell upon it—and then it was a glance of pleasure.

The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board’s history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.

Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing from a men’s magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts: some thought of British tailors, others -of the House of Lords—of the Tower of London—of the executed English King—or was it a Chancellor?—who had died so well.

They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of the pickets outside—of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions -of the broad, flat face of a girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard “We Don’t Read Wynand”—for support and courage to say what they were saying.

Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold his muscles ready.

“It’s gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable society for the defense of personal friends?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars last week.... Never mind how I know it, Gail, no secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it’s your money, but if you expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we’re wise to your smart tricks. You’re not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a penny of it, you don’t get away with it this time, it’s too late, Gail, the day’s past for your bright stunts.”

Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You’ve run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn’t know it, but I know, it was you, it was your paper, there’s nothing to save now.

“Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is that we accept the Union’s demands, and they’ll pick up the balance of their contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild circulation—which will be some job, friend, let me tell you-and I think that’s pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word—care to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?”

“No, Senator Eldridge wouldn’t see you.... Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to Washington last week. What you don’t know is that Senator Eldridge is going around saying he wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig suddenly got called out to Florida, did he?—to sit up with a sick aunt? None of them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn’t a road-paving deal or a little watered-stock scandal. And you ain’t what you used to be.”

Wynand thought: I never used to be, I’ve never been here, why are you afraid to look at me? Don’t you know that I’m the least among you? The half-naked women in the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of your souls—but where was mine?

“I’ll be damned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a raise in wages,
that
I could understand, I’d say fight the bastards for all we’re worth. But what’s this—a God-damn intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?”

“Don’t you understand? The Banner’s a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand, the evangelist. We’re over a barrel, but we’ve got ideals.”

“Now if it were a real issue, a political issue—but some fool dynamiter who’s blown up some dump! Everybody’s laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I’ve tried to read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it’s the lousiest stuff ever put in print. You’d think you were writing for college professors!”

Wynand thought: I know you—you’re the one who’d give money to a pregnant slut, but not to a starving genius—I’ve seen your face before—I picked you and I brought you in—when in doubt about your work, remember that man’s face, you’re writing for him—but, Mr. Wynand, one can’t remember his face—one can, child, one can, it will come back to remind you—it will come back and demand payment—and I’ll pay—I signed a blank check long ago and now it’s presented for collection—but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything you’ve got.

“The situation is medieval and a disgrace to democracy.” The voice whined. It was Mitchell Layton speaking. “It’s about time somebody had some say around here. One man running all those papers as he damn pleases—what is this, the nineteenth century?” Layton pouted; he looked somewhere in the direction of a banker across the table. “Has anybody here ever bothered to inquire about my ideas? I’ve got ideas. We’ve all got to pool ideas. What I mean is teamwork, one big orchestra. It’s about time this paper had a modern, liberal, progressive policy! For instance, take the question of the share-croppers ...”

“Shut up, Mitch,” said Alvah Scarret. Scarret had drops of sweat running down his temples; he didn’t know why; he wanted the board to win; there was just something in the room ... it’s too hot in here, he thought, I wish somebody’d open a window.

“I won’t shut up!” shrieked Mitchell Layton. “I’m just as good as . . .”

“Please,
Mr. Layton,” said the banker. “All right,” said Layton, “all right. Don’t forget who holds the biggest hunk of stock next to Superman here.” He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him. “Just don’t forget it. Just you guess who’s going to run things around here.”

“Gail,” said Alvah Scarret, looking up at Wynand, his eyes strangely honest and tortured, “Gail, it’s no use. But we can save the pieces. Look, if we just admit that we were wrong about Cortlandt and ... and if we just take Harding back, he’s a valuable man, and ... maybe Toohey ...”

“No one is to mention the name of Toohey in this discussion,” said Wynand.

Mitchell Layton snapped his mouth open and dropped it shut again.

“That’s it, Gail!” cried Alvah Scarret. “That’s great! We can bargain and make them an offer. We’ll reverse our policy on Cortlandt—that, we’ve got to, not for the damn Union, but we’ve got to rebuild circulation, Gail—so we’ll offer them that and we’ll take Harding, Allen and Falk, but not To ... not Ellsworth. We give in and they give in. Saves everybody’s face. Is that it, Gail?”

Wynand said nothing.

“I think that’s it, Mr. Scarret,” said the banker. “I think that’s the solution. After all, Mr. Wynand must be allowed to maintain his prestige. We can sacrifice . . . a columnist and keep peace among ourselves.”

“I don’t see it!” yelled Mitchell Layton. “I don’t see it at all! Why should we sacrifice Mr.... a great liberal, just because ...”

“I stand with Mr. Scarret,” said the man who had spoken of Senators, and the voices of the others seconded him, and the man who had criticized the editorials said suddenly, in the general noise: “I think Gail Wynand was a hell of a swell boss after all!” There was something about Mitchell Layton which he didn’t want to see. Now he looked at Wynand, for protection. Wynand did not notice him.

“Gail?” asked Scarret. “Gail, what do you say?”

There was no answer.

“God damn it, Wynand, it’s now or never! This can’t go on!”

“Make up your mind or get out!”

“I’ll buy you out!” shrieked Layton. “Want to sell? Want to sell and get the hell out of it?”

“For God’s sake, Wynand, don’t be a fool!”

“Gail, it’s the
Banner ...”
whispered Scarret. “It’s our
Banner....”

“We’ll stand by you, Gail, we’ll all chip in, we’ll pull the old paper back on its feet, we’ll do as you say, you’ll be the boss—but for God’s sake, act like a boss now!”

“Quiet, gentlemen, quiet! Wynand, this is final: we switch policy on Cortlandt, we take Harding, Allen and Falk back, and we save the wreck. Yes or no?”

There was no answer.

“Wynand, you know it’s that—or you have to close the Banner. You can’t keep this up, even if you bought us all out. Give in or close the
Banner.
You had better give in.”

Wynand heard that. He had heard it through all the speeches. He had heard it for days before the meeting. He knew it better than any man present. Close the
Banner.

He saw a single picture: the new masthead rising over the door of the
Gazette.

“You had better give in.”

He made a step back. It was not a wall behind him. It was only the side of his chair.

He thought of the moment in his bedroom when he had almost pulled a trigger. He knew he was pulling it now.

“All right,” he said.

It’s only a bottle cap, thought Wynand looking down at a speck of glitter under his feet; a bottle cap ground into the pavement. The pavements of New York are full of things like that—bottle caps, safety pins, campaign buttons, sink chains; sometimes—lost jewels; it’s all alike now, flattened, ground in; it makes the pavements sparkle at night. The fertilizer of a city. Someone drank the bottle empty and threw the cap away. How many cars have passed over it? Could one retrieve it now? Could one kneel and dig with bare hands and tear it out again? I had no right to hope for escape. I had no right to kneel and seek redemption. Millions of years ago, when the earth was being born, there were living things like me: flies caught in resin that became amber, animals caught in ooze that became rock. I am a man of the twentieth century and I became a bit of tin in the pavements, for the trucks of New York to roll over.

He walked slowly, the collar of his topcoat raised. The street stretched before him, empty, and the buildings ahead were like the backs of books lining a shelf, assembled without order, of all sizes. The corners he passed led to black channels; street lamps gave the city a protective cover, but it cracked in spots. He turned a corner when he saw a slant of light ahead; it was a goal for three or four blocks.

The light came from the window of a pawnshop. The shop was closed, but a glaring bulb hung there to discourage looters who might be reduced to this. He stopped and looked at it. He thought, the most indecent sight on earth, a pawnshop window. The things which had been sacred to men, and the things which had been precious, surrendered to the sight of all, to the pawing and the bargaining, trash to the indifferent eyes of strangers, the equality of a junk heap, typewriters and violins—the tools of dreams, old photographs and wedding rings—the tags of love, together with soiled trousers, coffee pots, ash trays, pornographic plaster figures; the refuse of despair, pledged, not sold, not cut off in clean finality, but hocked to a stillborn hope, never to be redeemed. “Hello, Gail Wynand,” he said to the things in the window, and walked on.

He felt an iron grate under his feet and an odor struck him in the face, an odor of dust, sweat and dirty clothing, worse than the smell of stockyards, because it had a homey, normal quality, like decomposition made routine. The grating of a subway. He thought, this is the residue of many people put together, of human bodies pressed into a mass, with no space to move, with no air to breathe. This is the sum, even though down there, among the packed flesh, one can find the smell of starched white dresses, of clean hair, of healthy young skin. Such is the nature of sums and of quests for the lowest common denominator. What, then, is the residue of many human minds put together, unaired, unspaced, undifferentiated? The
Banner,
he thought, and walked on.

My city, he thought, the city I loved, the city I thought I ruled.

He had walked out of the board meeting, he had said: “Take over, Alvah, until I come back.” He had not stopped to see Manning drunk with exhaustion at the city desk, nor the people in the city room, still functioning, waiting, knowing what was being decided in the board room; nor Dominique. Scarret would tell them. He had walked out of the building and gone to his penthouse and sat alone in the bedroom without windows. Nobody had come to disturb him.

When he left the penthouse, it was safe to go out: it was dark. He passed a newsstand and saw late editions of the afternoon papers announcing the settlement of the Wynand strike. The Union had accepted Scarret’s compromise. He knew that Scarret would take care of all the rest. Scarret would replate the front page of tomorrow’s
Banner.
Scarret would write the editorial that would appear on the front page. He thought, the presses are rolling right now. Tomorrow morning’s
Banner
will be out on the streets in an hour.

He walked at random. He owned nothing, but he was owned by any part of the city. It was right that the city should now direct his way and that he should be moved by the pull of chance corners. Here I am, my masters, I am coming to salute you and acknowledge, wherever you want me, I shall go as I’m told. I’m the man who wanted power.

That woman sitting on the stoop of an old brownstone house, her fat white knees spread apart—the man pushing the white brocade of his stomach out of a cab in front of a great hotel—the little man sipping root beer at a drugstore counter—the woman leaning over a stained mattress on the sill of a tenement window—the taxi driver parked on a corner—the lady with orchids, drunk at the table of a sidewalk cafe—the toothless woman selling chewing gum—the man in shirt sleeves, leaning against the door of a poolroom—they are my masters. My owners, my rulers without a face.

Stand here, he thought, and count the lighted windows of a city. You cannot do it. But behind each yellow rectangle that climbs, one over another, to the sky—under each bulb—down to there, see that spark over the river which is not a star?—there are people whom you will never see and who are your masters. At the supper tables, in the drawing rooms, in their beds and in their cellars, in their studies and in their bathrooms. Speeding in the subways under your feet. Crawling up in elevators through vertical cracks around you. Jolting past you in every bus. Your masters, Gail Wynand. There is a net—longer than the cables that coil through the walls of this city, larger than the mesh of pipes that carry water, gas and refuse—there is another hidden net around you; it is strapped to you, and the wires lead to every hand in the city. They jerked the wires and you moved. You were a ruler of men. You held a leash. A leash is only a rope with a noose at both ends.