The Fountainhead

  "Yes, Mr. Wynand."

  Wynand hung up. He asked to be connected with an eminent Senator in Washington.

  "Good morning, Senator," he said when the gentleman came on the wire within two minutes. "It is so kind of you to answer this call. I appreciate it. I do not wish to impose on your time. But I felt I owed you an expression of my deepest gratitude. I called to thank you for your work in passing the Hayes-Langston Bill."

  "But ... Mr. Wynand!" The Senator's voice seemed to squirm. "It's so nice of you, but ... the Bill hasn't been passed."

  "Oh, that's right. My mistake. It will be passed tomorrow."

  A meeting of the board of directors of the Wynand Enterprises, Inc., had been scheduled for eleven-thirty that morning. The Wynand Enterprises consisted of twenty-two newspapers, seven magazines, three news services and two newsreels. Wynand owned seventy-five percent of the stock. The directors were not certain of their functions or purpose. Wynand had ordered meetings of the board always to start on time, whether he was present or not. Today he entered the board room at twelve twenty-five. A distinguished old gentleman was making a speech. The directors were not allowed to stop or notice Wynand's presence. He walked to the empty chair at the head of the long mahogany table and sat down. No one turned to him; it was as if the chair had just been occupied by a ghost whose existence they dared not admit. He listened silently for fifteen minutes. He got up in the middle of a sentence and left the room as he had entered.

  On a large table in his office he spread out maps of Stoneridge, his new real-estate venture, and spent half an hour discussing it with two of his agents. He had purchased a vast tract of land on Long Island, which was to be converted into the Stoneridge Development, a new community of small home owners, every curbstone, street and house to be built by Gail Wynand. The few people who knew of his real-estate activities had told him that he was crazy. It was a year when no one thought of building. But Gail Wynand had made his fortune on decisions which people called crazy.

  The architect to design Stoneridge had not been chosen. News of the project had seeped into the starved profession. For weeks Wynand had refused to read letters or answer calls from the best architects of the country and their friends. He refused once more when, at the end of his conference, his secretary informed him that Mr. Ralston Holcombe most urgently requested two minutes of his time on the telephone.

  When the agents were gone, Wynand pressed a button on his desk, summoning Alvah Scarret. Scarret entered the office, smiling happily. He always answered that buzzer with the flattered eagerness of an office boy.

  "Alvah, what in hell is the Gallant Gallstone?"

  Scarret laughed. "Oh, that? It's the title of a novel. By Lois Cook."

  "What kind of a novel?"

  "Oh, just a lot of drivel. It's supposed to be a sort of prose poem. It's all about a gallstone that thinks that it's an independent entity, a sort of a rugged individualist of the gall bladder, if you see what I mean, and then the man takes a big dose of castor oil--there's a graphic description of the consequences--I'm not sure it's correct medically, but anyway that's the end of the gallant gallstone. It's all supposed to prove that there's no such thing as free will."

  "How many copies has it sold?"

  "I don't know. Not very many, I think. Just among the intelligentsia. But I hear it's picked up some, lately, and ..."

  "Precisely. What's going on around here, Alvah?"

  "What? Oh, you mean you noticed the few mentions which ..."

  "I mean I've noticed it all over the Banner in the last few weeks. Very nicely done, too, if it took me that long to discover that it wasn't accidental."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What do you think I mean? Why should that particular title appear continuously, in the most inappropriate places? One day it's in a police story about the execution of some murderer who 'died bravely like the Gallant Gallstone.' Two days later it's on page sixteen, in a state yam from Albany. 'Senator Hazleton thinks he's an independent entity, but it might turn out that he's only a Gallant Gallstone.' Then it's in the obituaries. Yesterday it was on the women's page. Today, it's in the comics. Snooxy calls his rich landlord a Gallant Gallstone."

  Scarret chortled peacefully. "Yes, isn't it silly?"

  "I thought it was silly. At first. Now I don't."

  "But what the hell, Gail! It's not as if it were a major issue and our by-liners plugged it. It's just the small fry, the forty-dollar-a-week ones."

  "That's the point. One of them. The other is that the book's not a famous best-seller. If it were, I could understand the title popping into their heads automatically. But it isn't. So someone's doing the popping. Why?"

  "Oh, come, Gail! Why would anyone want to bother? And what do we care? If it were a political issue ... But hell, who can get any gravy out of plugging for free will or against free will?"

  "Did anyone consult you about this plugging?"

  "No. I tell you, nobody's behind it. It's just spontaneous. Just a lot of people who thought it was a funny gag."

  "Who was the first one that you heard it from?"

  "I don't know.... Let me see.... It was ... yes, I think it was Ellsworth Toohey."

  "Have it stopped. Be sure to tell Mr. Toohey."

  "Okay, if you say so. But it's really nothing. Just a lot of people amusing themselves."

  "I don't like to have anyone amusing himself on my paper."

  "Yes, Gail."

  At two o'clock Wynand arrived, as guest of honor, at a luncheon given by a National Convention of Women's Clubs. He sat at the right of the chairwoman, in an echoing banquet hall filled with the odors of corsages--gardenias and sweet peas--and of fried chicken. After luncheon Wynand spoke. The Convention advocated careers for married women; the Wynand papers had fought against the employment of married women for many years. Wynand spoke for twenty minutes and said nothing at all; but he conveyed the impression that he supported every sentiment expressed at the meeting. Nobody had ever been able to explain the effect of Gail Wynand on an audience, particularly an audience of women. He did nothing spectacular; his voice was low, metallic, inclined to sound monotonous; he was too correct, in a manner that was almost deliberate satire on correctness. Yet he conquered all listeners. People said it was his subtle, enormous virility; it made the courteous voice speaking about school, home and family sound as if he were making love to every old hag present.

  Returning to his office, Wynand stopped in the city room. Standing at a tall desk, a big blue pencil in his hand, he wrote on a huge sheet of plain print stock, in letters an inch high, a brilliant, ruthless editorial denouncing all advocates of careers for women. The GW at the end stood like a streak of blue flame. He did not read the piece over--he never needed to--but threw it on the desk of the first editor in sight and walked out of the room.

  Late in the afternoon, when Wynand was ready to leave his office, his secretary announced that Ellsworth Toohey requested the privilege of seeing him. "Let him in," said Wynand.

  Toohey entered, a cautious half-smile on his face, a smile mocking himself and his boss, but with a delicate sense of balance, sixty percent of the mockery directed at himself. He knew that Wynand did not want to see him, and being received was not in his favor.

  Wynand sat behind his desk, his face courteously blank. Two diagonal ridges stood out faintly on his forehead, parallel with his slanting eyebrows. It was a disconcerting peculiarity which his face assumed at times; it gave the effect of a double exposure, an ominous emphasis.

  "Sit down, Mr. Toohey. Of what service can I be to you?"

  "Oh, I'm much more presumptuous than that, Mr. Wynand," said Toohey gaily. "I didn't come to ask for your services, but to offer you mine."

  "In what matter?"

  "Stoneridge."

  The diagonal lines stood out sharper on Wynand's forehead.

  "Of what use can a newspaper columnist be to Stoneridge?"

  "A newspaper columnist--none, Mr. Wynand. But an architectural
expert ..." Toohey let his voice trail into a mocking question mark.

  If Toohey's eyes had not been fixed insolently on Wynand's, he would have been ordered out of the office at once. But the glance told Wynand that Toohey knew to what extent he had been plagued by people recommending architects and how hard he had tried to avoid them; and that Toohey had outwitted him by obtaining this interview for a purpose Wynand had not expected. The impertinence of it amused Wynand, as Toohey had known it would.

  "All right, M. Toohey. Whom are you selling?"

  "Peter Keating."

  "Well?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Well, sell him to me."

  Toohey was stopped, then shrugged brightly and plunged in:

  "You understand, of course, that I'm not connected with Mr. Keating in any way. I'm acting only as his friend--and yours." The voice sounded pleasantly informal, but it had lost some of its certainty. "Honestly, I know it does sound trite, but what else can I say? It just happens to be the truth." Wynand would not help him out. "I presumed to come here because I felt it was my duty to give you my opinion. No, not a moral duty. Call it an esthetic one. I know that you demand the best in anything you do. For a project of the size you have in mind there's not another architect living who can equal Peter Keating in efficiency, taste, originality, imagination. That, Mr. Wynand, is my sincere opinion."

  "I quite believe you."

  "You do?"

  "Of course. But, Mr. Toohey, why should I consider your opinion?"

  "Well, after all, I am your architectural expert!" He could not keep the edge of anger out of his voice.

  "My dear Mr. Toohey, don't confuse me with my readers."

  After a moment, Toohey leaned back and spread his hands out in laughing helplessness.

  "Frankly, Mr. Wynand, I didn't think my word would carry much weight with you. So I didn't intend trying to sell you Peter Keating."

  "No? What did you intend?"

  "Only to ask that you give half an hour of your time to someone who can convince you of Peter Keating's ability much better than I can."

  "Who is that?"

  "Mrs. Peter Keating."

  "Why should I wish to discuss this matter with Mrs. Peter Keating?"

  "Because she is an exceedingly beautiful woman and an extremely difficult one."

  Wynand threw his head back and laughed aloud.

  "Good God, Toohey, am I as obvious as that?"

  Toohey blinked, unprepared.

  "Really, Mr. Toohey, I owe you an apology, if, by allowing my tastes to become so well known, I caused you to be so crude. But I had no idea that among your many other humanitarian activities you were also a pimp."

  Toohey rose to his feet.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Toohey. I have no desire whatever to meet Mrs. Peter Keating."

  "I didn't think you would have, Mr. Wynand. Not on my unsupported suggestion. I foresaw that several hours ago. In fact, as early as this morning. So I took the liberty of preparing for myself another chance to discuss this with you. I took the liberty of sending you a present. When you get home tonight, you will find my gift there. Then, if you feel that I was justified in expecting you to do so, you can telephone me and I shall come over at once so that you will be able to tell me whether you wish to meet Mrs. Peter Keating or not."

  "Toohey, this is unbelievable, but I believe you're offering me a bribe."

  "I am."

  "You know, that's the sort of stunt you should be allowed to get away with completely--or lose your job for."

  "I shall rest upon your opinion of my present tonight."

  "All right, Mr. Toohey, I'll look at your present."

  Toohey bowed and turned to go. He was at the door when Wynand added:

  "You know, Toohey, one of these days you'll bore me."

  "I shall endeavor not to do so until the right time," said Toohey, bowed again and went out.

  When Wynand returned to his home, he had forgotten all about Ellsworth Toohey.

  That evening, in his penthouse, Wynand had dinner with a woman who had a white face, soft brown hair and, behind her, three centuries of fathers and brothers who would have killed a man for a hint of the things which Gail Wynand had experienced with her.

  The line of her arm, when she raised a crystal goblet of water to her lips, was as perfect as the lines of the silver candelabra produced by a matchless talent--and Wynand observed it with the same appreciation. The candlelight flickering on the planes of her face made a sight of such beauty that he wished she were not alive, so that he could look, say nothing and think what he pleased.

  "In a month or two, Gail," she said, smiling lazily, "when it gets really cold and nasty, let's take the I Do and sail somewhere straight into the sun, as we did last winter."

  I Do was the name of Wynand's yacht. He had never explained that name to anyone. Many women had questioned him about it. This woman had questioned him before. Now, as he remained silent, she asked it again:

  "By the way, darling, what does it mean--the name of that wonderful mud-scow of yours?"

  "It's a question I don't answer," he said. "One of them."

  "Well, shall I get my wardrobe ready for the cruise?"

  "Green is your best color. It looks well at sea. I love to watch what it does to your hair and your arms. I shall miss the sight of your naked arms against green silk. Because tonight is the last time."

  Her fingers lay still on the stem of the glass. Nothing had given her a hint that tonight was to be the last time. But she knew that these words were all he needed to end it. All of Wynand's women had known that they were to expect an end like this and that it was not to be discussed. After a while, she asked, her voice low:

  "What reason, Gail?"

  "The obvious one."

  He reached into his pocket and took out a diamond bracelet; it flashed a cold, brilliant fire in the candlelight; its heavy links hung limply in his fingers. It had no case, no wrapper. He tossed it across the table.

  "A memorial, my dear," he said. "Much more valuable than that which it commemorates."

  The bracelet hit the goblet and made it ring, a thin, sharp cry, as if the glass had screamed for the woman. The woman made no sound. He knew that it was horrible, because she was the kind to whom one did not offer such gifts at such moments, just as all those other women had been; and because she would not refuse, as all the others had not refused.

  "Thank you, Gail," she said, clasping the bracelet about her wrist, not looking at him across the candles.

  Later, when they had walked into the drawing room, she stopped and the glance between her long eyelashes moved toward the darkness where the stairway to his bedroom began.

  "To let me earn the memorial, Gail?" she asked, her voice flat.

  He shook his head.

  "I had really intended that," he said. "But I'm tired."

  When she had gone, he stood in the hall and thought that she suffered, that the suffering was real, but after a while none of it would be real to her, except the bracelet. He could no longer remember the time when such a thought had the power to give him bitterness. When he recalled that he, too, was concerned in the event of this evening, he felt nothing, except wonder why he had not done this long ago.

  He went to his library. He sat reading for a few hours. Then he stopped. He stopped short, without reason, in the middle of an important sentence. He had no desire to read on. He had no desire ever to make another effort.

  Nothing had happened to him--a happening is a positive reality, and no reality could ever make him helpless; this was some enormous negative--as if everything had been wiped out, leaving a senseless emptiness, faintly indecent because it seemed so ordinary, so unexciting, like murder wearing a homey smile.

  Nothing was gone--except desire; no, more than that--the root, the desire to desire. He thought that a man who loses his eyes still retains the concept of sight; but he had heard of a ghastlier blindness--if the brain centers controlling vision are
destroyed, one loses even the memory of visual perception.

  He dropped the book and stood up. He had no wish to remain on that spot; he had no wish to move from it. He thought that he should go to sleep. It was much too early for him, but he could get up earlier tomorrow. He went to his bedroom, he took a shower, he put on his pyjamas. Then he opened a drawer of his dresser and saw the gun he always kept there. It was the immediate recognition, the sudden stab of interest, that made him pick it up.

  It was the lack of shock, when he thought he would kill himself, that convinced him he should. The thought seemed so simple, like an argument not worth contesting. Like a bromide.

  Now he stood at the glass wall, stopped by that very simplicity. One could make a bromide of one's life, he thought; but not of one's death.

  He walked to the bed and sat down, the gun hanging in his hand. A man about to die, he thought, is supposed to see his whole life in a last flash. I see nothing. But I could make myself see it. I could go over it again, by force. Let me find in it either the will to live on or the reason to end it now.

  Gail Wynand, aged twelve, stood in the darkness under a broken piece of wall on the shore of the Hudson, one arm swung back, the fist closed, ready to strike, waiting.

  The stones under his feet rose to the remnant of a corner; one side of it hid him from the street; there was nothing behind the other side but a sheer drop to the river. An unlighted, unpaved stretch of waterfront lay before him, sagging structures and empty spaces of sky, warehouses, a crooked cornice hanging somewhere over a window with a malignant light.

  In a moment he would have to fight--and he knew it would be for his life. He stood still. His closed fist, held down and back, seemed to clutch invisible wires that stretched to every key spot of his lanky, fleshless body, under the ragged pants and shirt, to the long, swollen tendon of his bare arm, to the taut cords of his neck. The wires seemed to quiver; the body was motionless. He was like a new sort of lethal instrument; if a finger were to touch any part of him, it would release the trigger.

  He knew that the leader of the boys' gang was looking for him and that the leader would not come alone. Two of the boys he expected fought with knives; one had a killing to his credit. He waited for them, his own pockets empty. He was the youngest member of the gang and the last to join. The leader had said that he needed a lesson.