第 101 页

"Yes."

"Did you drive the anger back inside of you, and store it, and decide to let

yourself be torn to pieces if necessary, but reach the day when you’d rule those

people and all people and everything around you?"

"No."

"You didn’t? You let yourself forget?"

"No. I hate incompetence. I think it’s probably the only thing I do hate. But it

didn’t make me want to rule people. Nor to teach them anything. It made me want

to do my own work in my own way and let myself be torn to pieces if necessary."

"And you were?"

"No. Not in any way that counts."

"You don’t mind looking back? At anything?"

"No."

"I do. There was one night. I was beaten and I crawled to a door--I remember the

pavement--it was right under my nostrils--I can still see it--there were veins

in the stone and white spots--I had to make sure that that pavement moved--I

couldn’t feel whether I was moving or not--but I could tell by the pavement--I

had to see that those veins and spots changed--I had to reach the next pattern

or the crack six inches away--it took a long time--and I knew it was blood under

my stomach..."

His voice had no tone of self-pity; it was simple, impersonal, with a faint

sound of wonder. Roark said: "I’d like to help you."

Wynand smiled slowly, not gaily. "I believe you could. I even believe that it

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would be proper. Two days ago I would have murdered anyone who’d think of me as

an object for help....You know, of course, that that night’s not what I hate in

my past. Not what I dread to look back on. It was only the least offensive to

mention. The other things can’t be talked about."

"I know. I meant the other things."

"What are they? You name them."

"The Stoddard Temple."

"You want to help me with that?"

"Yes."

"You’re a damn fool. Don’t you realize..."

"Don’t you realize I’m doing it already?"

"How?"

"By building this house for you."

Roark saw the slanting ridges on Wynand’s forehead. Wynand’s eyes seemed whiter

than usual, as if the blue had ebbed from the iris, two white ovals, luminous on

his face. He said:

"And getting a fat commission check for it."

He saw Roark’s smile, suppressed before it appeared fully. The smile would have

said that this sudden insult was a declaration of surrender, more eloquent than

the speeches of confidence; the suppression said that Roark would not help him

over this particular moment.

"Why, of course," said Roark calmly.

Wynand got up. "Let’s go. We’re wasting time. I have more important things to do

at the office."

They did not speak on their way back to the city. Wynand drove his car at ninety

miles an hour. The speed made two solid walls of blurred motion on the sides of

the road; as if they were flying down a long, closed, silent corridor.

He stopped at the entrance to the Cord Building and let Roark out. He said:

"You’re free to go back to that site as often as you wish, Mr. Roark. I don’t

have to go with you. You can get the surveys and all the information you need

from my office. Please do not call on me again until it is necessary. I shall be

very busy. Let me know when the first drawings are ready."

#

When the drawings were ready, Roark telephoned Wynand’s office. He had not

spoken to Wynand for a month. "Please hold the wire, Mr. Roark," said Wynand’s

secretary. He waited. The secretary’s voice came back and informed him that Mr.

Wynand wished the drawings brought to his office that afternoon; she gave the

hour, Wynand would not answer in person.

When Roark entered the office, Wynand said: "How do you do, Mr. Roark," his

voice gracious and formal. No memory of intimacy remained on his blank,

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courteous face.

Roark handed him the plans of the house and a large perspective drawing. Wynand

studied each sheet. He held the drawing for a long time. Then he looked up.

"I am very much impressed, Mr. Roark." The voice was offensively correct. "I

have been quite impressed by you from the first. I have thought it over and I

want to make a special deal with you."

His glance was directed at Roark with a soft emphasis, almost with tenderness;

as if he were showing that he wished to treat Roark cautiously, to spare him

intact for a purpose of his own. He lifted the sketch and held it up between two

fingers, letting all the light hit it straight on; the white sheet glowed as a

reflector for a moment, pushing the black pencil lines eloquently forward.

"You want to see this house erected?" Wynand asked softly. "You want it very

much?"

"Yes," said Roark.

Wynand did not move his hand, only parted his fingers and let the cardboard drop

face down on the desk.

"It will be erected, Mr. Roark. Just as you designed it. Just as it stands on

this sketch. On one condition."

Roark sat leaning back, his hands in his pockets, attentive, waiting.

"You don’t want to ask me what condition, Mr. Roark? Very well, I’ll tell you. I

shall accept this house on condition that you accept the deal I offer you. I

wish to sign a contract whereby you will be sole architect for any building I

undertake to erect in the future. As you realize, this would be quite an

assignment. I venture to say I control more structural work than any other

single person in the country. Every man in your profession has wanted to be

known as my exclusive architect. I am offering it to you. In exchange, you will

have to submit yourself to certain conditions. Before I name them, I’d like to

point out some of the consequences, should you refuse. As you may have heard, I

do not like to be refused. The power I hold can work two ways. It would be easy

for me to arrange that no commission be available to you anywhere in this

country. You have a small following of your own, but no prospective employer can

withstand the kind of pressure I am in a position to exert. You have gone

through wasted periods of your life before. They were nothing, compared to the

blockade I can impose. You might have to go back to a granite quarry--oh yes, I

know about that, summer of 1928, the Francon quarry in

Connecticut--how?--private detectives, Mr. Roark--you might have to go back to a

granite quarry, only I shall see to it that the quarries also will be closed to

you. Now I’ll tell you what I want of you."

In all the gossip about Gail Wynand, no one had ever mentioned the expression of

his face as it was in this moment. The few men who had seen it did not talk

about it. Of these men, Dwight Carson had been the first. Wynand’s lips were

parted, his eyes brilliant. It was an expression of sensual pleasure derived

from agony--the agony of his victim or his own, or both.

"I want you to design all my future commercial structures--as the public wishes

commercial structures to be designed. You’ll build Colonial houses, Rococo

hotels and semi-Grecian office buildings. You’ll exercise your matchless

ingenuity within forms chosen by the taste of the people--and you’ll make money

for me. You’ll take your spectacular talent and make it obedient Originality and

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subservience together. They call it harmony. You’ll create in your sphere what

the Banner is in mine. Do you think it took no talent to create the Banner? Such

will be your future career. But the house you’ve designed for me shall be

erected as you designed it. It will be the last Roark building to rise on earth.

Nobody will have one after mine. You’ve read about ancient rulers who put to

death the architect of their palace, that no others might equal the glory he had

given them. They killed the architect or cut his eyes out. Modern methods are

different. For the rest of your life you’ll obey the will of the majority. I

shan’t attempt to offer you any arguments. I am merely stating an alternative.

You’re the kind of man who can understand plain language. You have a simple

choice: if you refuse, you’ll never build anything again; if you accept, you’ll

build this house which you want so much to see erected, and a great many other

houses which you won’t like, but which will make money for both of us. For the

rest of your life you’ll design rental developments, such as Stoneridge. That is

what I want."

He leaned forward, waiting for one of the reactions he knew well and enjoyed: a

look of anger, or indignation, or ferocious pride.

"Why, of course," said Roark gaily. "I’ll be glad to do it. That’s easy."

He reached over, took a pencil and the first piece of paper he saw on Wynand’s

desk--a letter with an imposing letterhead. He drew rapidly on the back of the

letter. The motion of his hand was smooth and confident. Wynand looked at his

face bent over the paper; he saw the unwrinkled forehead, the straight line of

the eyebrows, attentive, but untroubled by effort.

Roark raised his head and threw the paper to Wynand across the desk.

"Is this what you want?"

Wynand’s house stood drawn on the paper--with Colonial porches, a gambrel roof,

two massive chimneys, a few little pilasters, a few porthole windows. It was not

a parody, it was a serious job of adaptation in what any professor would have

called excellent taste.

"Good God, no!" The gasp was instinctive and immediate.

"Then shut up," said Roark, "and don’t ever let me hear any architectural

suggestions."

Wynand slumped down in his chair and laughed. He laughed for a long time, unable

to stop. It was not a happy sound.

Roark shook his head wearily. "You knew better than that. And it’s such an old

one to me. My antisocial stubbornness is so well known that I didn’t think

anyone would waste time trying to tempt me again."

"Howard. I meant it. Until I saw this."

"I knew you meant it. I didn’t think you could be such a fool."

"You knew you were taking a terrible kind of chance?"

"None at all. I had an ally I could trust."

"What? Your integrity?"

"Yours, Gail."

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Wynand sat looking down at the surface of his desk. After a while he said:

"You’re wrong about that."

"I don’t think so."

Wynand lifted his head; he looked tired; he sounded indifferent.

"It was your method of the Stoddard trial again, wasn’t it? "The defense

rests.’...I wish I had been in the courtroom to hear that sentence....You did

throw the trial back at me again, didn’t you?"

"Call it that."

"But this time, you won. I suppose you know I’m not glad that you won."

"I know you’re not."

"Don’t think it was one of those temptations when you tempt just to test your

victim and are happy to be beaten, and smile and say, well, at last, here’s the

kind of man I want. Don’t imagine that. Don’t make that excuse for me."

"I’m not. I know what you wanted."

"I wouldn’t have lost so easily before. This would have been only the beginning.

I know I can try further. I don’t want to try. Not because you’d probably hold

out to the end. But because I wouldn’t hold out. No, I’m not glad and I’m not

grateful to you for this....But it doesn’t matter...."

"Gail, how much lying to yourself are you actually capable of?"

"I’m not lying. Everything I just told you is true. I thought you understood

it."

"Everything you just told me--yes. I wasn’t thinking of that."

"You’re wrong in what you’re thinking. You’re wrong in remaining here."

"Do you wish to throw me out?"

"You know I can’t."

Wynand’s glance moved from Roark to the drawing of the house lying face down on

his desk. He hesitated for a moment, looking at the blank cardboard, then turned

it over. He asked softly:

"Shall I tell you now what I think of this?"

"You’ve told me."

"Howard, you spoke about a house as a statement of my life. Do you think my life

deserves a statement like this?"

"Yes."

"Is this your honest judgment?"

"My honest judgment, Gail. My most sincere one. My final one. No matter what

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might happen between us in the future."

Wynand put the drawing down and sat studying the plans for a long time. When he

raised his head, he looked calm and normal.

"Why did you stay away from here?" he asked. "You were busy with private

detectives." Wynand laughed. "Oh that? I couldn’t resist my old bad habits and I

was curious. Now I know everything about you--except the women in your life.

Either you’ve been very discreet or there haven’t been many. No information

available on that anywhere."

"There haven’t been many."

"I think I missed you. It was a kind of substitute--gathering the details of

your past. Why did you actually stay away?"

"You told me to."

"Are you always so meek about taking orders?"

"When I find it advisable."

"Well, here’s an order--hope you place it among the advisable ones: come to have

dinner with us tonight. I’ll take this drawing home to show my wife. I’ve told

her nothing about the house so far."

"You haven’t told her?"

"No. I want her to see this. And I want you to meet her. I know she hasn’t been

kind to you in the past--I read what she wrote about you. But it’s so long ago.

I hope it doesn’t matter now."

"No, it doesn’t matter."

"Then will you come?"

"Yes."

4.

DOMINIQUE stood at the glass door of her room. Wynand saw the starlight on the

ice sheets of the roof garden outside. He saw its reflection touching the

outline of her profile, a faint radiance on her eyelids, on the planes of her