第 102 页

cheeks. He thought that this was the illumination proper to her face. She turned

to him slowly, and the light became an edge around the pale straight mass of her

hair. She smiled as she had always smiled at him, a quiet greeting of

understanding.

"What’s the matter, Gail?"

"Good evening, dear. Why?"

"You look happy. That’s not the word. But it’s the nearest."

"’Light’ is nearer. I feel light, thirty years lighter. Not that I’d want to be

what I was thirty years ago. One never does. What the feeling means is only a

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sense of being carried back intact, as one is now, back to the beginning. It’s

quite illogical and impossible and wonderful."

"What the feeling usually means is that you’ve met someone. A woman as a rule."

"I have. Not a woman. A man. Dominique, you’re very beautiful tonight. But I

always say that. It’s not what I wanted to say. It’s this: I am very happy

tonight that you’re so beautiful."

"What is it, Gail?"

"Nothing. Only a feeling of how much is unimportant and how easy it is to live."

He took her hand and held it to his lips.

"Dominique, I’ve never stopped thinking it’s a miracle that our marriage has

lasted. Now I believe that it won’t be broken. By anything or anyone." She

leaned back against the glass pane. "I have a present for you--don’t remind me

it’s the sentence I use more often than any other. I will have a present for you

by the end of this summer. Our house."

"The house? You haven’t spoken of it for so long, I thought you had forgotten."

"I’ve thought of nothing else for the last six months. You haven’t changed your

mind? You do want to move out of the city?"

"Yes, Gail, if you want it so much. Have you decided on an architect?"

"I’ve done more than that. I have the drawing of the house to show you."

"Oh, I’d like to see it."

"It’s in my study. Come on. I want you to see it."

She smiled and closed her fingers over his wrist, a brief pressure, like a

caress of encouragement, then she followed him. He threw the door of his study

open and let her enter first. The light was on and the drawing stood propped on

his desk, facing the door.

She stopped, her hands behind her, palms flattened against the doorjamb. She was

too far away to see the signature, but she knew the work and the only man who

could have designed that house.

Her shoulders moved, describing a circle, twisting slowly, as if she were tied

to a pole, had abandoned hope of escape, and only her body made a last,

instinctive gesture of protest.

She thought, were she lying in bed in Roark’s arms in the sight of Gail Wynand,

the violation would be less terrible; this drawing, more personal than Roark’s

body, created in answer to a matching force that came from Gail Wynand, was a

violation of her, of Roark, of Wynand--and yet, she knew suddenly that it was

the inevitable.

"No," she whispered, "things like that are never a coincidence."

"What?"

But she held up her hand, softly pushing back all conversation, and she walked

to the drawing, her steps soundless on the carpet. She saw the sharp signature

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in the corner--"Howard Roark." It was less terrifying than the shape of the

house; it was a thin point of support, almost a greeting.

"Dominique?"

She turned her face to him. He saw her answer. He said:

"I knew you’d like it. Forgive the inadequacy. We’re stuck for words tonight."

She walked to the davenport and sat down; she let her back press against the

cushions; it helped to sit straight. She kept her eyes on Wynand. He stood

before her, leaning on the mantelpiece, half turned away, looking at the

drawing. She could not escape that drawing; Wynand’s face was like a mirror of

it.

"You’ve seen him, Gail?"

"Whom?"

"The architect."

"Of course I’ve seen him. Not an hour ago."

"When did you first meet him?"

"Last month."

"You knew him all this time?...Every evening...when you came home...at the

dinner table..."

"You mean, why didn’t I tell you? I wanted to have the sketch to show you. I saw

the house like this, but I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t think anyone would ever

understand what I wanted and design it. He did."

"Who?"

"Howard Roark."

She had wanted to hear the name pronounced by Gail Wynand.

"How did you happen to choose him, Gail?"

"I looked all over the country. Every building I liked had been done by him."

She nodded slowly.

"Dominique, I take it for granted you don’t care about it any more, but I know

that I picked the one architect you spent all your time denouncing when you were

on the Banner."

"You read that?"

"I read it. You had an odd way of doing it. It was obvious that you admired his

work and hated him personally. But you defended him at the Stoddard trial."

"Yes."

"You even worked for him once. That statue, Dominique, it was made for his

temple."

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"Yes."

"It’s strange. You lost your job on the Banner for defending him. I didn’t know

it when I chose him. I didn’t know about that trial. I had forgotten his name.

Dominique, in a way, it’s he who gave you to me. That statue--from his temple.

And now he’s going to give me this house. Dominique, why did you hate him?"

"I didn’t hate him....It was so long ago..."

"I suppose none of that matters now, does it?" He pointed to the drawing.

"I haven’t seen him for years."

"You’re going to see him in about an hour. He’s coming here for dinner."

She moved her hand, tracing a spiral on the arm of the davenport, to convince

herself that she could.

"Here?"

"Yes."

"You’ve asked him for dinner?"

He smiled; he remembered his resentment against the presence of guests in their

house. He said: "This is different. I want him here. I don’t think you remember

him well--or you wouldn’t be astonished."

She got up.

"All right, Gail. I’ll give the orders. Then I’ll get dressed."

#

They faced each other across the drawing room of Gail Wynand’s penthouse. She

thought how simple it was. He had always been here. He had been the motive power

of every step she had taken in these rooms. He had brought her here and now he

had come to claim this place. She was looking at him. She was seeing him as she

had seen him on the morning when she awakened in his bed for the last time. She

knew that neither his clothes nor the years stood between her and the living

intactness of that memory. She thought this had been inevitable from the first,

from the instant when she had looked down at him on the ledge of a quarry--it

had to come like this, in Gail Wynand’s house--and now she felt the peace of

finality, knowing that her share of decision had ended; she had been the one who

acted, but he would act from now on.

She stood straight, her head level; the planes of her face had a military

cleanliness of precision and a feminine fragility; her hands hung still,

composed by her sides, parallel with the long straight lines of her black dress.

"How do you do, Mr. Roark."

"How do you do, Mrs. Wynand."

"May I thank you for the house you have designed for us? It is the most

beautiful of your buildings."

"It had to be, by the nature of the assignment, Mrs. Wynand."

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She turned her head slowly.

"How did you present the assignment to Mr. Roark, Gail?"

"Just as I spoke of it to you."

She thought of what Roark had heard from Wynand, and had accepted. She moved to

sit down; the two men followed her example. Roark said:

"If you like the house, the first achievement was Mr. Wynand’s conception of

it."

She asked: "Are you sharing the credit with a client?"

"Yes, in a way."

"I believe this contradicts what I remember of your professional convictions."

"But supports my personal ones."

"I’m not sure I ever understood that."

"I believe in conflict, Mrs. Wynand."

"Was there a conflict involved in designing this house?"

"The desire not to be influenced by my client."

"In what way?"

"I have liked working for some people and did not like working for others. But

neither mattered. This time, I knew that the house would be what it became only

because it was being done for Mr. Wynand. I had to overcome this. Or rather, I

had to work with it and against it. It was the best way of working. The house

had to surpass the architect, the client and the future tenant. It did."

"But the house--it’s you, Howard," said Wynand. "It’s still you."

It was the first sign of emotion on her face, a quiet shock, when she heard the

"Howard." Wynand did not notice it. Roark did. He glanced at her--his first

glance of personal contact. She could read no comment in it--only a conscious

affirmation of the thought that had shocked her.

"Thank you for understanding that, Gail," he answered.

She was not certain whether she had heard him stressing the name.

"It’s strange," said Wynand. "I am the most offensively possessive man on earth.

I do something to things. Let me pick up an ash tray from a dime-store counter,

pay for it and put it in my pocket--and it becomes a special kind of ash tray,

unlike any on earth, because it’s mine. It’s an extra quality in the thing, like

a sort of halo. I feel that about everything I own. From my overcoat--to the

oldest linotype in the composing room--to the copies of the Banner on

newsstands--to this penthouse--to my wife. And I’ve never wanted to own anything

as much as I want this house you’re going to build for me, Howard. I will

probably be jealous of Dominique living in it--I can be quite insane about

things like that. And yet--I don’t feel that I’ll own it, because no matter what

I do or say, it’s still yours. It will always be yours."

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"It has to be mine," said Roark. "But in another sense, Gail, you own that house

and everything else I’ve built. You own every structure you’ve stopped before

and heard yourself answering."

"In what sense?"

"In the sense of that personal answer. What you feel in the presence of a thing

you admire is just one word--’Yes.’ The affirmation, the acceptance, the sign of

admittance. And that ’Yes’ is more than an answer to one thing, it’s a kind of

’Amen’ to life, to the earth that holds this thing, to the thought that created

it, to yourself for being able to see it. But the ability to say ’Yes’ or ’No’

is the essence of all ownership. It’s your ownership of your own ego. Your soul,

if you wish. Your soul has a single basic function--the act of valuing. ’Yes’ or

’No,’ ’I wish’ or ’I do not wish.’ You can’t say ’Yes’ without saying ’I.’

There’s no affirmation without the one who affirms. In this sense, everything to

which you grant your love is yours."

"In this sense, you share things with others?"

"No. It’s not sharing. When I listen to a symphony I love, I don’t get from it

what the composer got. His ’Yes’ was different from mine. He could have no

concern for mine and no exact conception of it. That answer is too personal to

each man But in giving himself what he wanted, he gave me a great experience.

I’m alone when I design a house, Gail, and you can never know the way in which I

own it. But if you said you own ’Amen’ to it--it’s also yours. And I’m glad it’s

yours."

Wynand said, smiling:

"I like to think that. That I own Monadnock and the Enright House and the Cord

Building..."

"And the Stoddard Temple," said Dominique.

She had listened to them. She felt numb. Wynand had never spoken like this to

any guest in their house; Roark had never spoken like this to any client. She

knew that the numbness would break into anger, denial, indignation later; now it

was only a cutting sound in her voice, a sound to destroy what she had heard.

She thought that she succeeded. Wynand answered, the word dropping heavily:

"Yes."

"Forget the Stoddard Temple, Gail," said Roark. There was such a simple,

careless gaiety in his voice that no solemn dispensation could have been more

effective.

"Yes, Howard," said Wynand, smiling.

She saw Roark’s eyes turned to her.

"I have not thanked you, Mrs. Wynand, for accepting me as your architect. I know

that Mr. Wynand chose me and you could have refused my services. I wanted to

tell you that I’m glad you didn’t."

She thought, I believe it because none of this can be believed; I’ll accept

anything tonight; I’m looking at him.

She said, courteously indifferent: "Wouldn’t it be a reflection on my judgment

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to suppose that I would wish to reject a house you had designed, Mr. Roark?" She

thought that nothing she said aloud could matter tonight.

Wynand asked:

"Howard, that ’Yes’--once granted, can it be withdrawn?"

She wanted to laugh in incredulous anger. It was Wynand’s voice that had asked

this; it should have been hers. He must look at me when he answers, she thought;

he must look at me.

"Never," Roark answered, looking at Wynand.

"There’s so much nonsense about human inconstancy and the transience of all

emotions," said Wynand. "I’ve always thought that a feeling which changes never

existed in the first place. There are books I liked at the age of sixteen. I

still like them."

The butler entered, carrying a tray of cocktails. Holding her glass, she watched