第 118 页

"Darling, you’re not being questioned by the police. You will be, though, and

you’ll have to be more convincing than that. However, I’m sure you’ll succeed.

They won’t think of the Stoddard trial."

"Oh."

"You did it then and you’ll always do it. Whatever you think of him, you’ll

always feel what I feel about his work."

"Gail, you’re glad I did it?"

"Yes."

She saw him looking down at her hand that lay on the edge of the bed. Then he

was on his knees, his lips pressed to her hand, not raising it, not touching it

with his fingers, only with his mouth. That was the sole confession he would

permit himself of what her days in the hospital had cost him. She lifted her

other hand and moved it over his hair. She thought: It will be worse for you

than if I had died, Gail, but it will be all right, it won’t hurt you, there’s

no pain left in the world, nothing to compare with the fact that we exist: he,

you and I--you’ve understood all that matters, though you don’t know you’ve lost

me.

He lifted his head and got up.

"I didn’t intend to reproach you in any way. Forgive me."

549

"I won’t die, Gail. I feel wonderful."

"You look it."

"Have they arrested him?"

"He’s out on bail."

"You’re happy?"

"I’m glad you did it and that it was for him. I’m glad he did it. He had to."

"Yes. And it will be the Stoddard trial again."

"Not quite."

"You’ve wanted another chance, Gail? All these years?"

"Yes."

"May I see the papers?"

"No. Not until you’re up."

"Not even the Banner!"

"Particularly not the Banner."

"I love you, Gail. If you stick to the end..."

"Don’t offer me any bribes. This is not between you and me. Not even between him

and me."

"But between you and God?"

"If you want to call it that. But we won’t discuss it. Not until after it’s

over. You have a visitor waiting for you downstairs. He’s been here every day."

"Who?"

"Your lover. Howard Roark. Want to let him thank you now?"

The gay mockery, the tone of uttering the most preposterous thing he could think

of, told her how far he was from guessing the rest. She said:

"Yes. I want to see him. Gail, if I decide to make him my lover?"

"I’ll kill you both. Now don’t move, lie flat, the doctor said you must take it

easy, you’ve got twenty-six assorted stitches all over you."

He walked out and she heard him descending the stairs.

#

When the first policeman had reached the scene of the explosion, he had found,

behind the building, on the shore of the river, the plunger that had set off the

dynamite. Roark stood by the plunger, his hands in his pockets, looking at the

remnants of Cortlandt.

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"What do you know about this, buddy?" the policeman asked.

"You’d better arrest me," said Roark. "I’ll talk at the trial."

He had not added another word in reply to all the official questions that

followed.

It was Wynand who got him released on bail, in the early hours of the morning.

Wynand had been calm at the emergency hospital where he had seen Dominique’s

wounds and had been told she would not live. He had been calm while he

telephoned, got a county judge out of bed and arranged Roark’s bail. But when he

stood in the warden’s office of a small county jail, he began to shake suddenly.

"You bloody fools!" he said through his teeth and there followed every obscenity

he had learned on the waterfront. He forgot all the aspects of the situation

save one: Roark being held behind bars. He was Stretch Wynand of Hell’s Kitchen

again and this was the kind of fury that had shattered him in sudden flashes in

those days, the fury he had felt when standing behind a crumbling wall, waiting

to be killed. Only now he knew that he was also Gail Wynand, the owner of an

empire, and he couldn’t understand why some sort of legal procedure was

necessary, why he didn’t smash this jail, with his fists or through his papers,

it was all one to him at the moment, he wanted to kill, he had to kill, as that

night behind the wall, in defense of his life.

He managed to sign papers, he managed to wait until Roark was brought out to

him. They walked out together, Roark leading him by the wrist, and by the time

they reached the car, Wynand was calm. In the car, Wynand asked:

"You did it, of course?"

"Of course."

"We’ll fight it out together."

"If you want to make it your battle."

"At the present estimate, my personal fortune amounts to forty million dollars.

That should be enough to hire any lawyer you wish or the whole profession."

"I won’t use a lawyer."

"Howard! You’re not going to submit photographs again?"

"No. Not this time."

#

Roark entered the bedroom and sat down on a chair by the bed. Dominique lay

still, looking at him. They smiled at each other. Nothing has to be said, not

this time either, she thought.

She asked:

"You were in jail?"

"For a few hours."

"What was it like?"

"Don’t start acting about it as Gail did."

551

"Gail took it very badly?"

"Very."

"I won’t."

"I might have to go back to a cell for years. You knew that when you agreed to

help me."

"Yes. I knew that."

"I’m counting on you to save Gail, if I go."

"Counting on me?’

He looked at her and shook his head. "Dearest..." It sounded

like a reproach.

"Yes?" she whispered.

"Don’t you know by now that it was a trap I set for you?"

"How?"

"What would you do if I hadn’t asked you to help me?"

"I’d be with you, in your apartment, at the Enright House, right now, publicly

and openly."

"Yes. But now you can’t. You’re Mrs. Gail Wynand, you’re above suspicion, and

everyone believes you were at the scene by accident. Just let it be known what

we are to each other--and it will be a confession that I did it."

"I see."

"I want you to keep quiet. If you had any thoughts of wanting to share my fate,

drop them. I won’t tell you what I intend to do, because that’s the only way I

have of controlling you until the trial. Dominique, if I’m convicted, I want you

to remain with Gail. I’m counting on that, I want you to remain with him, and

never tell him about us, because he and you will need each other."

"And if you’re acquitted?"

"Then..." He glanced about the room, Wynand’s bedroom. "I don’t want to say it

here. But you know it."

"You love him very much?"

"Yes."

"Enough to sacrifice..."

He smiled. "You’ve been afraid of that ever since I came here for the first

time?"

"Yes."

He looked straight at her. "Did you think that possible?"

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"No."

"Not my work nor you, Dominique. Not ever. But I can do this much for him: I can

leave it to him if I have to go."

"You’ll be acquitted."

"That’s not what I want to hear you say."

"If they convict you--if they lock you in jail or put you in a chain gang--if

they smear your name in every filthy headline--if they never let you design

another building--if they never let me see you again--it will not matter. Not

too much. Only down to a certain point."

"That’s what I’ve waited to hear for seven years, Dominique." He took her hand,

he raised it and held it to his lips, and she felt his lips where Wynand’s had

been. Then he got up.

"I’ll wait," she said. "I’ll keep quiet. I won’t come near you. I promise."

He smiled and nodded. Then he left.

#

"It happens, upon rare occasions, that world forces too great to comprehend

become focused in a single event, like rays gathered by a lens to one point of

superlative brightness, for all of us to see. Such an event is the outrage of

Cortlandt. Here, in a microcosm, we can observe the evil that has crushed our

poor planet from the day of its birth in cosmic ooze. One man’s Ego against all

the concepts of mercy, humanity and brotherhood. One man destroying the future

home of the disinherited. One man condemning thousands to the horror of the

slums, to filth, disease and death. When an awakening society, with a new sense

of humanitarian duty, made a mighty effort to rescue the underprivileged, when

the best talents of society united to create a decent home for them--the egotism

of one man blew the achievement of others to pieces. And for what? For some

vague matter of personal vanity, for some empty conceit. I regret that the laws

of our state allow nothing more than a prison sentence for this crime. That man

should forfeit his life. Society needs the right to rid itself of men such as

Howard Roark."

Thus spoke Ellsworth M. Toohey in the pages of the New Frontiers.

Echoes answered him from all over the country. The explosion of Cortlandt had

lasted half a minute. The explosion of public fury went on and on, with a cloud

of powdered plaster filling the air, with rust and refuse raining out of the

cloud.

Roark had been indicted by a grand jury, had pleaded "Not guilty" and had

refused to make any other statement. He had been released on a bond furnished by

Gail Wynand, and he awaited trial.

There were many speculations on his motive. Some said it was professional

jealousy. Others declared that there was a certain similarity between the design

of Cortlandt and Roark’s style of building, that Keating, Prescott and Webb

might have borrowed a little from Roark--"a legitimate adaptation"--"there’s no

property rights on ideas"--"in a democracy, art belongs to all the people"--and

that Roark had been prompted by the vengeance lust of an artist who had believed

himself plagiarized.

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None of it was too clear, but nobody cared too much about the motive. The issue

was simple: one man against many. He had no right to a motive.

A home, built in charity, for the poor. Built upon ten thousand years in which

men had been taught that charity and self-sacrifice are an absolute not to be

questioned, the touchstone of virtue, the ultimate ideal. Ten thousand years of

voices speaking of service and sacrifice--sacrifice is the prime rule of

life--serve or be served--crush or get crushed--sacrifice is noble--make what

you can of it, at the one end or the other--serve and sacrifice--serve and serve

and serve...

Against that--one man who wished neither to serve nor to rule. And had thereby

committed the only unforgivable crime.

It was a sensational scandal, and there was the usual noise and the usual lust

of righteous anger, such as is proper to all lynchings. But there was a fierce,

personal quality in the indignation of every person who spoke about it.

"He’s just an egomaniac devoid of all moral sense"-

--said the society woman dressing for a charity bazaar, who dared not

contemplate what means of self-expression would be left to her and how she could

impose her ostentation on her friends, if charity were not the all-excusing

virtue-

--said the social worker who had found no aim in life and could generate no

aim from within the sterility of his soul, but basked in virtue and held an

unearned respect from all, by grace of his fingers on the wounds of others-

--said the novelist who had nothing to say if the subject of service and

sacrifice were to be taken away from him, who sobbed in the hearing of attentive

thousands that he loved them and loved them and would they please love him a

little in return-

--said the lady columnist who had just bought a country mansion because she

wrote so tenderly about the little people-

--said all the little people who wanted to hear of love, the great love, the

unfastidious love, the love that embraced everything, forgave everything and

permitted them everything-

--said every second-hander who could not exist except as a leech on the

souls of others.

Ellsworth Toohey sat back, watched, listened and smiled.

Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb were entertained at dinners and cocktail

parties; they were treated with tender, curious solicitude, like survivors of

disaster. They said that they could not understand what possible motive Roark

could have had, and they demanded justice.

Peter Keating went nowhere. He refused to see the press. He refused to see

anyone. But he issued a written statement that he believed Roark was not guilty.

His statement contained one curious sentence, the last. It said: "Leave him

alone, please can’t you leave him alone?"

Pickets from the Council of American Builders paced in front of the Cord

Building. It served no purpose, because there was no work in Roark’s office. The

commissions he was to start had been canceled.

This was solidarity. The debutante having her toenails pedicured--the housewife

buying carrots from a pushcart--the bookkeeper who had wanted to be a pianist,

but had the excuse of a sister to support--the businessman who hated his

business--the worker who hated his work--the intellectual who hated

everybody--all were united as brothers in the luxury of common anger that cured

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boredom and took them out of themselves, and they knew well enough what a

blessing it was to be taken out of themselves. The readers were unanimous. The

press was unanimous.

Gail Wynand went against the current.

"Gail!" Alvah Scarret had gasped. "We can’t defend a dynamiter!"

"Keep still, Alvah," Wynand had said, "before I bash your teeth in."