"I wasn't jus ... Yes, I think that's what I was doing."
"You don't need to. I wasn't thinking of what you've built."
"What were you thinking?"
"That I'm helpless against anyone who sees what you saw in my buildings."
"You felt you wanted help against me?"
"No. Only I don't feel helpless as a rule."
"I'm not prompted to justify myself as a rule, either. Then--it's all right, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I must tell you much more about the house I want. I suppose an architect is like a father confessor--he must know everything about the people who are to live in his house, since what he gives them is more personal than their clothes or food. Please consider it in that spirit--and forgive me if you notice that this is difficult for me to say--I've never gone to confession. You see, I want this house because I'm very desperately in love with my wife.... What's the matter? Do you think it's an irrelevant statement?"
"No. Go on."
"I can't stand to see my wife among other people. It's not jealousy. It's much more and much worse. I can't stand to see her walking down the streets of a city. I can't share her, not even with shops, theaters, taxicabs or sidewalks. I must take her away. I must put her out of reach--where nothing can touch her, not in any sense. This house is to be a fortress. My architect is to be my guard."
Roark sat looking straight at him. He had to keep his eyes on Wynand in order to be able to listen. Wynand felt the effort in that glance; he did not recognize it as effort, only as strength; he felt himself supported by the glance; he found that nothing was hard to confess.
"This house is to be a prison. No, not quite that. A treasury--a vault to guard things too precious for sight. But it must be more. It must be a separate world, so beautiful that we'll never miss the one we left. A prison only by the power of its own perfection. Not bars and ramparts -but your talent standing as a wall between us and the world. That's what I want of you. And more. Have you ever built a temple?"
For a moment, Roark had no strength to answer; but he saw that the question was genuine; Wynand didn't know.
"Yes," said Roark.
"Then think of this commission as you would think of a temple. A temple to Dominique Wynand.... I want you to meet her before you design it."
"I met Mrs. Wynand some years ago."
"You have? Then you understand."
"I do."
Wynand saw Roark's hand lying on the edge of his desk, the long fingers pressed to the glass, next to the proofs of the Banner. The proofs were folded carelessly; he saw the heading "One Small Voice" inside the page. He looked at Roark's hand. He thought he would like to have a bronze paperweight made of it and how beautiful it would look on his desk.
"Now you know what I want. Go ahead. Start at once. Drop anything else you're doing. I'll pay whatever you wish. I want that house by summer.... Oh, forgive me. Too much association with bad architects. I haven't asked whether you want to do it."
Roark's hand moved first; he took it off the desk.
"Yes," said Roark. "I'll do it."
Wynand saw the prints of the fingers left on the glass, distinct as if the skin had cut grooves in the surface and the grooves were wet.
"How long will it take you?" Wynand asked.
"You'll have it by July."
"Of course you must see the site. I want to show it to you myself. Shall I drive you down there tomorrow morning?"
"If you wish."
"Be here at nine."
"Yes."
"Do you want me to draw up a contract? I have no idea how you prefer to work. As a rule, before I deal with a man in any matter, I make it a point to know everything about him from the day of his birth or earlier. I've never checked up on you. I simply forgot. It didn't seem necessary."
"I can answer any question you wish."
Wynand smiled and shook his head:
"No. There's nothing I need to ask you. Except about the business arrangements."
"I never make any conditions, except one: if you accept the preliminary drawings of the house, it is to be built as I designed it, without any alterations of any kind."
"Certainly. That's understood. I've heard you don't work otherwise. But will you mind if I don't give you any publicity on this house? I know it would help you professionally, but I want this building kept out of the newspapers."
"I won't mind that."
"Will you promise not to release pictures of it for publication?"
"I promise."
"Thank you. I'll make up for it. You may consider the Wynand papers as your personal press service. I'll give you all the plugging you wish on any other work of yours."
"I don't want any plugging."
Wynand laughed aloud. "What a thing to say in what a place! I don't think you have any idea how your fellow architects would have conducted this interview. I don't believe you were actually conscious at any time that you were speaking to Gail Wynand."
"I was," said Roark.
"This was my way of thanking you. I don't always like being Gail Wynand."
"I know that."
"I'm going to change my mind and ask you a personal question. You said you'd answer anything."
"I will."
"Have you always liked being Howard Roark?"
Roark smiled. The smile was amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous.
"You've answered," said Wynand.
Then he rose and said: "Nine o'clock tomorrow morning," extending his hand.
When Roark had gone, Wynand sat behind his desk, smiling. He moved his hand toward one of the plastic buttons--and stopped. He realized that he had to assume a different manner, his usual manner, that he could not speak as he had spoken in the last half-hour. Then he understood what had been strange about the interview: for the first time in his life he had spoken to a man without feeling the reluctance, the sense of pressure, the need of disguise he had always experienced when he spoke to people; there had been no strain and no need of strain; as if he had spoken to himself.
He pressed the button and said to his secretary:
"Tell the morgue to send me everything they have on Howard Roark."
"Guess what," said Alvah Scarret, his voice begging to be begged for his information.
Ellsworth Toohey waved a hand impatiently in a brushing-off motion, not raising his eyes from his desk.
"Go 'way, Alvah. I'm busy."
"No, but this is interesting, Ellsworth. Really, it's interesting. I know you'll want to know."
Toohey lifted his head and looked at him, the faint contraction of boredom in the corners of his eyes letting Scarret understand that this moment of attention was a favor; he drawled in a tone of emphasized patience:
"All right. What is it?"
Scarret saw nothing to resent in Toohey's manner. Toohey had treated him like that for the last year or longer. Scarret had not noticed the transition in their relationship; by the time he noticed the change, it was too late to resent it--it had become normal to them both.
Scarret smiled like a bright pupil who expects the teacher to praise him for discovering an error in the teacher's own textbook.
"Ellsworth, your private F.B.I. is slipping."
"What are you talking about?"
"Bet you don't know what Gail's been doing--and you always make such a point of keeping yourself informed."
"What don't I know?"
"Guess who was in his office today."
"My dear Alvah, I have no time for quiz games."
"You wouldn't guess in a thousand years."
"Very well, since the only way to get rid of you is to play the vaudeville stooge, I shall ask the proper question: Who was in dear Gail's office today?"
"Howard Roark."
Toohey turned to him full face, forgetting to dole out his attention, and said incredulously:
"No!"
"Yes!" said Scarret, proud of the effect.
"Well!" said Toohey and burs
t out laughing.
Scarret half smiled tentatively, puzzled, anxious to join in, but not quite certain of the cause for amusement.
"Yes, it's funny. But ... just exactly why, Ellsworth?"
"Oh, Alvah, it would take so long to tell you."
"I had an idea it might ..."
"Haven't you any sense of the spectacular, Alvah? Don't you like fireworks? If you want to know what to expect, just think that the worst wars are religious wars between sects of the same religion or civil wars between brothers of the same race."
"I don't quite follow you."
"Oh, dear, I have so many followers. I brush them out of my hair."
"Well, I'm glad you're so cheerful about it, but I thought it's bad."
"Of course it's bad. But not for us."
"But look: you know how we've gone out on a limb, you particularly, on how this Roark is just about the worst architect in town, and if now our own boss hires him--isn't it going to be embarrassing?"
"Oh that? ... Oh, maybe ..."
"Well, I'm glad you take it that way."
"What was he doing in Wynand's office? Is it a commission?"
"That's what I don't know. Can't find out. Nobody knows."
"Have you heard of Mr. Wynand planning to build anything lately?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. I guess my F.B.I. is slipping. Oh, well, one does the best one can."
"But you know, Ellsworth, I had an idea. I had an idea where this might be very helpful to us indeed."
"What idea?" "Ellsworth, Gail's been impossible lately."
Scarret uttered it solemnly, with the air of imparting a discovery. Toohey sat half smiling.
"Well, of course, you predicted it, Ellsworth. You were right. You're always right. I'll be damned if I can figure out just what's happening to him, whether it's Dominique or some sort of a change of life or what, but something's happening. Why does he get fits suddenly and start reading every damn line of every damn edition and raise hell for the silliest reasons? He's killed three of my best editorials lately--and he's never done that to me before. Never. You know what he said to me? He said: 'Motherhood is wonderful, Alvah, but for God's sake go easy on the bilge. There's a limit even for intellectual depravity.' What depravity? That was the sweetest Mother's Day editorial I ever put together. Honest, I was touched myself. Since when has he learned to talk about depravity? The other day, he called Jules Fougler a bargain-basement mind, right to his face, and threw his Sunday piece into the wastebasket. A swell piece, too--on the Workers' theater. Jules Fougler, our best writer! No wonder Gail hasn't got a friend left in the place. If they hated his guts before, you ought to hear them now!"
"I've heard them."
"He's losing his grip, Ellsworth. I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for you and the swell bunch of people you picked. They're practically our whole actual working staff, those youngsters of yours, not our old sacred cows who're writing themselves out anyway. Those bright kids will keep the Banner going. But Gail ... Listen, last week he fired Dwight Carson. Now you know, I think that was significant. Of course Dwight was just a deadweight and a damn nuisance, but he was the first one of those special pets of Gail's, the boys who sold their souls. So, in a way, you see, I liked having Dwight around, it was all right, it was healthy, it was a relic of Gail's best days. I always said it was Gail's safety valve. And when he suddenly let Carson go--I didn't like it, Ellsworth. I didn't like it at all."
"What is this, Alvah? Are you telling me things I don't know, or is this just in the nature of letting off steam--do forgive the mixed metaphor--on my shoulder?"
"I guess so. I don't like to knock Gail, but I've been so damn mad for so long I'm fit to be tied. But here's what I'm driving at: This Howard Roark, what does he make you think of?"
"I could write a volume on that, Alvah. This is hardly the time to launch into such an undertaking."
"No, but I mean, what's the one thing we know about him? That he's a crank and a freak and a fool, all right, but what else? That he's one of those fools you can't budge with love or money or a sixteen-inch gun. He's worse than Dwight Carson, worse than the whole lot of Gail's pets put together. Well? Get my point? What's Gail going to do when he comes up against that kind of a man?"
"One of several possible things."
"One thing only, if I know Gail, and I know Gail. That's why I feel kind of hopeful. This is what he's needed for a long time. A swig of his old medicine. The safety valve. He'll go out to break that guy's spine--and it will be good for Gail. The best thing in the world. Bring him back to normal.... That was my idea, Ellsworth." He waited, saw no complimentary enthusiasm on Toohey's face and finished lamely: "Well, I might be wrong.... I don't know.... It might mean nothing at all. ... I just thought that was psychology...."
"That's what it was, Alvah."
"Then you think it'll work that way?"
"It might. Or it might be much worse than anything you imagine. But it's of no importance to us any more. Because you see, Alvah, as far as the Banner is concerned, if it came to a showdown between us and our boss, we don't have to be afraid of Mr. Gail Wynand any longer."
When the boy from the morgue entered, carrying a thick envelope of clippings, Wynand looked up from his desk and said:
"That much? I didn't know he was so famous."
"Well, it's the Stoddard trial, Mr. Wynand."
The boy stopped. There was nothing wrong--only the ridges on Wynand's forehead, and he did not know Wynand well enough to know what these meant. He wondered what made him feel as if he should be afraid. After a moment, Wynand said:
"All right. Thank you."
The boy deposited the envelope on the glass surface of the desk, and walked out.
Wynand sat looking at the bulging shape of yellow paper. He saw it reflected in the glass, as if the bulk had eaten through the surface and grown roots to his desk. He looked at the walls of his office and he wondered whether they contained a power which could save him from opening that envelope.
Then he pulled himself erect, he put both forearms in a straight line along the edge of the desk, his fingers stretched and meeting, he looked down, past his nostrils, at the surface of the desk, he sat for a moment, grave, proud, collected, like the angular mummy of a Pharaoh, then he moved one hand, pulled the envelope forward, opened it and began to read.
"Sacrilege" by Ellsworth M. Toohey--"The Churches of our Childhood" by Alvah Scarret--editorials, sermons, speeches, statements, letters to the editor, the Banner unleashed full-blast, photographs, cartoons, interviews, resolutions of protest, letters to the editor.
He read every word, methodically, his hands on the edge of the desk, fingers meeting, not lifting the clippings, not touching them, reading them as they lay on top of the pile, moving a hand only to turn a clipping over and read the one beneath, moving the hand with a mechanical perfection of timing, the fingers rising as his eyes took the last word, not allowing the clipping to remain in sight a second longer than necessary. But he stopped for a long time to look at the photographs of the Stoddard Temple. He stopped longer to look at one of Roark's pictures, the picture of exultation captioned "Are you happy, Mr. Superman?" He tore it from the story it illustrated, and slipped it into his desk drawer. Then he continued reading.
The trial--the testimony of Ellsworth M. Toohey--of Peter Keating -of Ralston Holcombe--of Gordon L. Prescott--no quotations from the testimony of Dominique Francon, only a brief report. "The defense rests." A few mentions in "One Small Voice"--then a gap--the next clipping dated three years later--Monadnock Valley.
It was late when he finished reading. His secretaries had left. He felt the sense of empty rooms and halls around him. But he heard the sound of the presses: a low, rumbling vibration that went through every room. He had always liked that--the sound of the building's heart, beating. He listened. They were running off tomorrow's Banner. He sat without moving for a long time.
III
ROARK AND WYNAND STOOD ON TH
E TOP OF A HILL, LOOKING OVER a spread of land that sloped away in a long gradual curve. Bare trees rose on the hilltop and descended to the shore of a lake, their branches geometrical compositions cut through the air. The color of the sky, a clear, fragile blue-green, made the air colder. The cold washed the colors of the earth, revealing that they were not colors but only the elements from which color was to come, the dead brown not a full brown but a future green, the tired purple an overture to flame, the gray a prelude to gold. The earth was like the outline of a great story, like the steel frame of a building--to be filled and finished, holding all the splendor of the future in naked simplification.
"Where do you think the house should stand?" asked Wynand.
"Here," said Roark.
"I hoped you'd choose this."
Wynand had driven his car from the city, and they had walked for two hours down the paths of his new estate, through deserted lanes, through a forest, past the lake, to the hill. Now Wynand waited, while Roark stood looking at the countryside spread under his feet. Wynand wondered what reins this man was gathering from all the points of the landscape into his hand.
When Roark turned to him, Wynand asked:
"May I speak to you now?"
"Of course." Roark smiled, amused by the deference which he had not requested.
Wynand's voice sounded clear and brittle, like the color of the sky above them, with the same quality of ice-green radiance:
"Why did you accept this commission?"
"Because I'm an architect for hire."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm not sure I do."
"Don't you hate my guts?"
"No. Why should I?"
"You want me to speak of it first?"
"Of what?"
"The Stoddard Temple."
Roark smiled. "So you did check up on me since yesterday."
"I read our clippings." He waited, but Roark said nothing. "All of them." His voice was harsh, half defiance, half plea. "Everything we said about you." The calm of Roark's face drove him to fury. He went on, giving slow, full value to each word: "We called you an incompetent fool, a tyro, a charlatan, a swindler, an egomaniac ..."
"Stop torturing yourself."
Wynand closed his eyes, as if Roark had struck him. In a moment, he said:
"Mr. Roark, you don't know me very well. You might as well learn this: I don't apologize. I never apologize for any of my actions."
"What made you think of apology? I haven't asked for it."