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"Gail, you are...you were the greatest newspaperman on earth. Do I have to tell

you the obvious? An unpopular cause is a dangerous business for anyone. For a

popular newspaper--it’s suicide."

"If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll send you packing and get myself another

shyster."

Wynand began to argue about the case--with the prominent men he met at business

luncheons and dinners. He had never argued before on any subject; he had never

pleaded. He had merely tossed final statements to respectful listeners. Now he

found no listeners. He found no indifferent silence, half boredom, half

resentment. The men who had gathered every word he cared to drop about the stock

market, real estate, advertising, politics, had no interest in his opinion on

art, greatness and abstract justice.

He heard a few answers:

"Yes, Gail, yes, sure. But on the other hand, I think it was damn selfish of the

man. And that’s the trouble with the world today--selfishness. Too much

selfishness everywhere. That’s what Lancelot Clokey said in his book--swell

book, all about his childhood, you read it, saw your picture with Clokey.

Clokey’s been all over the world, he knows what he’s talking about."

"Yes, Gail, but aren’t you kind of old-fashioned about it? What’s all that great

man stuff? What’s great about a glorified bricklayer? Who’s great anyway? We’re

all just a lot of glands and chemicals and whatever we ate for breakfast. I

think Lois Cook explained it very well in that beautiful little--what’s its

name?--yes, The Gallant Gallstone. Yes, sir. Your own Banner plugged like blazes

for that little book."

"But look, Gail, he should’ve thought of other people before he thought of

himself. I think if a man’s got no love in his heart he can’t be much good. I

heard that in a play last night--that was a grand play--the new one by Ike--what

the hell’s his last name?--you ought to see it--your own Jules Fougler said it’s

a brave and tender stage poem."

"You make out a good case, Gail, and I wouldn’t know what to say against it, I

don’t know where you’re wrong, but it doesn’t sound right to me, because

Ellsworth Toohey--now don’t misunderstand me, I don’t agree with Toohey’s

political views at all, I know he’s a radical, but on the other hand you’ve got

to admit that he’s a great idealist with a heart as big as a house--well,

Ellsworth Toohey said..."

These were the millionaires, the bankers, the industrialists, the businessmen

who could not understand why the world was going to hell, as they moaned in all

their luncheon speeches.

559

One morning when Wynand stepped out of his car in front of the Banner Building,

a woman rushed up to him as he crossed the sidewalk. She had been waiting by the

entrance. She was fat and middle-aged. She wore a filthy cotton dress and a

crushed hat. She had a pasty, sagging face, a shapeless mouth and black, round,

brilliant eyes. She stood before Gail Wynand and she flung a bunch of rotted

beet leaves at his face. There were no beets, just the leaves, soft and slimy,

tied with a string. They hit his cheek and rolled down to the sidewalk.

Wynand stood still. He looked at the woman. He saw the white flesh, the mouth

hanging open in triumphs, the face of self-righteous evil. Passersby had seized

the woman and she was screaming unspeakable obscenities. Wynand raised his hand,

shook his head, gesturing for them to let the creature go, and walked into the

Banner Building, a smear of greenish-yellow across his cheek.

"Ellsworth, what are we going to do?" moaned Alvah Scarret. "What are we going

to do?"

Ellsworth Toohey sat perched on the edge of his desk, and smiled as if he wished

he could kiss Alvah Scarret.

"Why don’t they drop the damn thing, Ellsworth? Why doesn’t something break to

take it off the front pages? Couldn’t we scare up an international situation or

something? In all my born days I’ve never seen people go so wild over so little.

A dynamiting job! Christ, Ellsworth, it’s a back-page story. We get them every

month, practically with every strike, remember?--the furriers’ strike, the dry

cleaners’ strike...oh what the hell! Why all this fury? Who cares? Why do they

care?"

"There are occasions, Alvah, when the issues at stake are not the ostensible

facts at all. And the public reaction seems out of all proportion, but isn’t.

You shouldn’t be so glum about it. I’m surprised at you. You should be thanking

your stars. You see, this is what I meant by waiting for the right moment. The

right moment always comes. Damned if I expected it to be handed to me on a

platter like that, though. Cheer up, Alvah. This is where we take over."

"Take over what?"

"The Wynand papers."

"You’re crazy, Ellsworth. Like all of them. You’re crazy. What do you mean? Gail

holds fifty-one per cent of..."

"Alvah, I love you. You’re wonderful, Alvah. I love you, but I wish to God you

weren’t such a God-damn fool, so I could talk to you! I wish I could talk to

somebody!"

Ellsworth Toohey tried to talk to Gus Webb, one evening, but it was

disappointing. Gus Webb drawled:

"Trouble with you, Ellsworth, is you’re too romantic. Too God-damn metaphysical.

What’s all the gloating about? There’s no practical value to the thing. Nothing

to get your teeth into, except for a week or two. I wish he’d blasted it when it

was full of people--a few children blown to pieces--then you’d have something.

Then I’d love it. The movement could use it. But this? Hell, they’ll send the

fool to the clink and that’s that. You--a realist? You’re an incurable specimen

of the intelligentsia, Ellsworth, that’s all you are. You think you’re the man

of the future? Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I am."

560

Toohey sighed. "You’re right, Gus," he said.

14.

"IT’S kind of you, Mr. Toohey," said Mrs. Keating humbly. "I’m glad you came. I

don’t know what to do with Petey. He won’t see anyone. He won’t go to his

office. I’m scared, Mr. Toohey. Forgive me, I mustn’t whine. Maybe you can help,

pull him out of it. He thinks so much of you, Mr. Toohey."

"Yes, I’m sure. Where is he?"

"Right here. In his room. This way, Mr. Toohey."

The visit was unexpected. Toohey had not been here for years. Mrs. Keating felt

very grateful. She led the way down the hall and opened a door without knocking,

afraid to announce the visitor, afraid of her son’s refusal. She said brightly:

"Look, Petey, look what a guest I have for you!"

Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp

that gave a poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper.

There was a full glass on the table with a dried red rim that had been tomato

juice; a box containing a jigsaw puzzle; a deck of cards; a Bible.

"Hello, Ellsworth," he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the

effort, halfway.

Mrs. Keating saw the smile and stepped out hastily, relieved, closing the door.

The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory. Then he

remembered many things which he had tried not to understand.

"Hello, Ellsworth," he repeated helplessly.

Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.

"Touching, Peter," he said. "Very touching. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if he

saw it."

"Who?"

"Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?"

"I wanted to see you, Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you." Toohey grasped a

chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish,

planted it by the table and sat down.

"Well, that’s what I came here for," he said. "To hear you talk."

Keating said nothing.

"Well?"

"You mustn’t think I didn’t want to see you, Ellsworth. It was only...what I

told Mother about not letting anyone in...it was on account of the newspaper

people. They won’t leave me alone."

561

"My, how times change, Peter. I remember when one couldn’t keep you away from

newspaper people."

"Ellsworth, I haven’t any sense of humor left. Not any at all."

"That’s lucky. Or you’d die laughing."

"I’m so tired, Ellsworth....I’m glad you came."

The light glanced off Toohey’s glasses and Keating could not see his eyes; only

two circles filled with a metallic smear, like the dead headlights of a car

reflecting the approach of something from a distance.

"Think you can get away with it?" asked Toohey.

"With what?"

"The hermit act. The great penance. The loyal silence."

"Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?"

"So he’s not guilty, is he? So you want us to please leave him alone, do you?"

Keating’s shoulders moved, more an intention than the reality of sitting up

straight, but still an intention, and his jaw moved enough to ask:

"What do you want?"

"The whole story."

"What for?"

"Want me to make it easier for you? Want a good excuse, Peter? I could, you

know. I could give you thirty-three reasons, all noble, and you’d swallow any

one of them. But I don’t feel like making it easier for you. So I’ll just tell

you the truth: to send him to the penitentiary, your hero, your idol, your

generous friend, your guardian angel!"

"I have nothing to tell you, Ellsworth."

"While you’re being shocked out of the last of your wits you’d better hang on to

enough to realize that you’re no match for me. You’ll talk if I want you to talk

and I don’t feel like wasting time. Who designed Cortlandt?"

"I did."

"Do you know that I’m an architectural expert?"

"I designed Cortlandt."

"Like the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?"

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you on the witness stand, Petey. I want you to tell the story in court.

Your friend isn’t as obvious as you are. I don’t know what he’s up to. That

remaining at the scene was a bit too smart. He knew he’d be suspected and he’s

playing it subtle. God knows what he intends to say in court. I don’t intend to

562

let him get away with it. The motive is what they’re all stuck on. I know the

motive. Nobody will believe me if I try to explain it. But you’ll state it under

oath. You’ll tell the truth. You’ll tell them who designed Cortlandt and why."

"I designed it."

"If you want to say that on the stand, you’d better do something about your

muscular control. What are you shaking for?"

"Leave me alone."

"Too late, Petey. Ever read Faust?"

"What do you want?"

"Howard Roark’s neck."

"He’s not my friend. He’s never been. You know what I think of him."

"I know, you God-damn fool! I know you’ve worshipped him all your life. You’ve

knelt and worshipped, while stabbing him in the back. You didn’t even have the

courage of your own malice. You couldn’t go one way or the other. You hated

me--oh, don’t you suppose I knew it?--and you followed me. You loved him and

you’ve destroyed him. Oh, you’ve destroyed him all right, Petey, and now there’s

no place to run, and you’ll have to go through with it!"

"What’s he to you? What difference does it make to you?"

"You should have asked that long ago. But you didn’t. Which means that you knew

it. You’ve always known it. That’s what’s making you shake. Why should I help

you lie to yourself? I’ve done that for ten years. That’s what you came to me

for. That’s what they all come to me for. But you can’t get something for

nothing. Ever. My socialistic theories to the contrary notwithstanding. You got

what you wanted from me. It’s my turn now."

"I won’t talk about Howard. You can’t make me talk about Howard."

"No? Why don’t you throw me out of here? Why don’t you take me by the throat and

choke me? You’re much stronger than I am. But you won’t. You can’t. Do you see

the nature of power, Petey? Physical power? Muscle or guns or money? You and

Gail Wynand should get together. You have a lot to tell him. Come on, Peter. Who

designed Cortlandt?"

"Leave me alone."

"Who designed Cortlandt?"

"Let me go!"

"Who designed Cortlandt?"

"It’s worse...what you’re doing...it’s much worse..."

"Than what?"

"Than what I did to Lucius Heyer."

"What did you do to Lucius Heyer?"

563

"I killed him."

"What are you talking about?"

"That’s why it was better. Because I let him die."

"Stop raving."

"Why do you want to kill Howard?"

"I don’t want to kill him. I want him in jail. You understand? In jail. In a

cell. Behind bars. Locked, stopped, strapped--and alive. He’ll get up when they

tell him to. He’ll eat what they give him. He’ll move when he’s told to move and

stop when he’s told. He’ll walk to the jute mill, when he’s told, and he’ll work

as he’s told. They’ll push him, if he doesn’t move fast enough, and they’ll slap

his face when they feel like it, and they’ll beat him with rubber hose if he

doesn’t obey. And he’ll obey. He’ll take orders. He’ll take orders!"

"Ellsworth!" Keating screamed. "Ellsworth!"

"You make me sick. Can’t you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating.

That’s why I prefer Gus Webb. There’s one who has no illusions."

Mrs. Keating threw the door open. She had heard the scream. "Get out of here!"

Toohey snapped at her. She backed out, and Toohey slammed the door. Keating

raised his head. "You have no right to talk to Mother that way. She had nothing

to do with you."

"Who designed Cortlandt?"