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drunk on--you’ll never learn, never, it’s not for you, and that’s also part of

what I’m drunk on, that it’s not for you. You know, Howard, I love you. I really

do. I do--tonight."

"Yes, Peter. You always will, you know."

Roark was introduced to many people and many people spoke to him. They smiled

and seemed sincere in their efforts to approach him as a friend, to express

appreciation, to display good will and cordial interest. But what he heard was:

"The Enright House is magnificent. It’s almost as good as the Cosmo-Slotnick

Building."

"I’m sure you have a great future, Mr. Roark, believe me, I know the signs,

you’ll be another Ralston Holcombe." He was accustomed to hostility; this kind

of benevolence was more offensive than hostility. He shrugged; he thought that

he would be out of here soon and back in the simple, clean reality of his own

office.

He did not look at Dominique again for the rest of the evening. She watched him

in the crowd. She watched those who stopped him and spoke to him. She watched

his shoulders stooped courteously as he listened. She thought that this, too,

was his manner of laughing at her; he let her see him being delivered to the

crowd before her eyes, being surrendered to any person who wished to own him for

a few moments. He knew that this was harder for her to watch than the sun and

the drill in the quarry. She stood obediently, watching. She did not expect him

to notice her again; she had to remain there as long as he was in this room.

There was another person, that night, abnormally aware of Roark’s presence,

aware from the moment Roark had entered the room. Ellsworth Toohey had seen him

enter. Toohey had never set eyes on him before and did not know him. But Toohey

stood looking at him for a long time.

Then Toohey moved through the crowd, and smiled at his friends. But between

smiles and sentences, his eyes went back to the man with the orange hair. He

looked at the man as he looked occasionally at the pavement from a window on the

thirtieth floor, wondering about his own body were it to be hurled down and what

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would happen when he struck against that pavement. He did not know the man’s

name, his profession or his past; he had no need to know; it was not a man to

him, but only a force; Toohey never saw men. Perhaps it was the fascination of

seeing that particular force so explicitly personified in a human body.

After a while he asked John Erik Snyte, pointing:

"Who is that man?"

"That?" said Snyte. "Howard Roark. You know, the Enright House."

"Oh," said Toohey.

"What?"

"Of course. It would be."

"Want to meet him?"

"No," said Toohey. "No, I don’t want to meet him."

For the rest of the evening whenever some figure obstructed Toohey’s view of the

hall, his head would jerk impatiently to find Roark again. He did not want to

look at Roark; he had to look; just as he always had to look down at that

distant pavement, dreading the sight.

That evening, Ellsworth Toohey was conscious of no one but Roark. Roark did not

know that Toohey existed in the room.

When Roark left, Dominique stood counting the minutes, to be certain that he

would be lost to sight in the streets before she could trust herself to go out.

Then she moved to leave.

Kiki Holcombe’s thin, moist fingers clasped her hand in parting, clasped it

vaguely and slipped up to hold her wrist for a moment.

"And, my dear," asked Kiki Holcombe, "what did you think of that new one, you

know, I saw you talking to him, that Howard Roark?"

"I think," said Dominique firmly, "that he is the most revolting person I’ve

ever met."

"Oh, now, really?"

"Do you care for that sort of unbridled arrogance? I don’t know what one could

say for him, unless it’s that he’s terribly good-looking, if that matters."

"Good-looking! Are you being funny, Dominique?"

Kiki Holcombe saw Dominique being stupidly puzzled for once. And Dominique

realized that what she saw in his face, what made it the face of a god to her,

was not seen by others; that it could leave them indifferent; that what she had

thought to be the most obvious, inconsequential remark was, instead, a

confession of something within her, some quality not shared by others.

"Why, my dear," said Kiki, "he’s not good-looking at all, but extremely

masculine."

"Don’t let it astonish you, Dominique," said a voice behind her. "Kiki’s

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esthetic judgment is not yours--nor mine."

Dominique turned. Ellsworth Toohey stood there, smiling, watching her face

attentively.

"You..." she began and stopped.

"Of course," said Toohey, bowing faintly in understanding affirmative of what

she had not said. "Do give me credit for discernment, Dominique, somewhat equal

to yours. Though not for esthetic enjoyment. I’ll leave that part of it to you.

But we do see things, at times, which are not obvious, don’t we--you and I?"

"What things?"

"My dear, what a long philosophical discussion that would take, and how

involved, and how--unnecessary. I’ve always told you that we should be good

friends. We have so much in common intellectually. We start from opposite poles,

but that makes no difference, because you see, we meet in the same point. It was

a very interesting evening, Dominique."

"What are you driving at?"

"For instance, it was interesting to discover what sort of thing appears

good-looking to you. It’s nice to have you classified firmly, concretely.

Without words--just with the aid of a certain face."

"If...if you can see what you’re talking about, you can’t be what you are."

"No, my dear. I must be what I am, precisely because of what I see."

"You know, Ellsworth, I think you’re much worse than I thought you were."

"And perhaps much worse than you’re thinking now. But useful. We’re all useful

to one another. As you will be to me. As, I think, you will want to be."

"What are you talking about?"

"That’s bad, Dominique. Very bad. So pointless. If you don’t know what I’m

talking about, I couldn’t possibly explain it. If you do--I have you, already,

without saying anything further."

"What kind of a conversation is this?" asked Kiki, bewildered.

"Just our way of kidding each other," said Toohey brightly. "Don’t let it bother

you, Kiki. Dominique and I are always kidding each other. Not very well, though,

because you see--we can’t."

"Some day, Ellsworth," said Dominique, "you’ll make a mistake."

"Quite possible. And you, my dear, have made yours already."

"Good night, Ellsworth."

"Good night, Dominique."

Kiki turned to him when Dominique had gone.

"What’s the matter with both of you, Ellsworth? Why such talk--over nothing at

all? People’s faces and first impressions don’t mean a thing."

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"That, my dear Kiki," he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were

giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, "is one of our

greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor

as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance

at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we’re not

always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the

style of a soul, Kiki?"

"The...what?"

"The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the

style of a civilization? He called it ’style.’ He said it was the nearest word

he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic

principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of

men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one

principle....I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also.

Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every

wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living

creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d

have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing

else."

"That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people

naked before you."

"It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself

by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of

face....The style of your soul...There’s nothing important on earth, except

human beings. There’s nothing as important about human beings as their relations

to one another...."

"Well, what do you see in my face?"

He looked at her, as if he had just noticed her presence.

"What did you say?"

"I said, what do you see in my face?"

"Oh...yes...well, tell me the movie stars you like and I’ll tell you what you

are."

"You know, I just love to be analyzed. Now let’s see. My greatest favorite has

always been..."

But he was not listening. He had turned his back on her, he was walking away

without apology. He looked tired. She had never seen him being rude

before--except by intention.

A little later, from among a group of friends, she heard his rich, vibrant voice

saying:

"...and, therefore, the noblest conception on earth is that of men’s absolute

equality."

7.

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"...AND there it will stand, as a monument to nothing but the egotism of Mr.

Enright and of Mr. Roark. It will stand between a row of brownstone tenements on

one side and the tanks of a gashouse on the other. This, perhaps, is not an

accident, but a testimonial to fate’s sense of fitness. No other setting could

bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building. It will rise

as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built them.

Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so.

But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast it will

have made itself a part of the great ineptitude, its most ludicrous part. If a

ray of light falls into a pigsty, it is the ray that shows us the muck and it is

the ray that is offensive. Our structures have the great advantage of obscurity

and timidity. Besides, they suit us. The Enright House is bright and bold. So is

a feather boa. It will attract attention--but only to the immense audacity of

Mr. Roark’s conceit. When this building is erected, it will be a wound on the

face of our city. A wound, too, is colorful."

This appeared in the column "Your House" by Dominique Francon, a week after the

party at the home of Kiki Holcombe.

On the morning of its appearance Ellsworth Toohey walked into Dominique’s

office. He held a copy of the Banner, with the page bearing her column turned

toward her. He stood silently, rocking a little on his small feet. It seemed as

if the expression of his eyes had to be heard, not seen: it was a visual roar of

laughter. His lips were folded primly, innocently.

"Well?" she asked.

"Where did you meet Roark before that party?"

She sat looking at him, one arm flung over the back of her chair, a pencil

dangling precariously between the tips of her fingers. She seemed to be smiling.

She said:

"I had never met Roark before that party."

"My mistake. I was just wondering about..." he made the paper rustle, "...the

change of sentiment."

"Oh, that? Well, I didn’t like him when I met him--at the party."

"So I noticed."

"Sit down, Ellsworth. You don’t look your best standing up."

"Do you mind? Not busy?"

"Not particularly."

He sat down on the corner of her desk. He sat, thoughtfully tapping his knee

with the folded paper.

"You know, Dominique," he said, "it’s not well done. Not well at all."

"Why?"

"Don’t you see what can be read between the lines? Of course, not many will

notice that. He will. I do."

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"It’s not written for him or for you."

"But for the others?"

"For the others."

"Then it’s a rotten trick on him and me."

"You see? I thought it was well done."

"Well, everyone to his own methods."

"What are you going to write about it?"

"About what?"

"About the Enright House."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He threw the paper down on the desk, without moving, just flicking his wrist

forward. He said:

"Speaking of architecture, Dominique, why haven’t you ever written anything

about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?"

"Is it worth writing about?"

"Oh, decidedly. There are people whom it would annoy very much."

"And are those people worth annoying?"

"So it seems."

"What people?"

"Oh, I don’t know. How can we know who reads our stuff? That’s what makes it so

interesting. All those strangers we’ve never seen before, have never spoken to,

or can’t speak to--and here’s this paper where they can read our answer, if we

want to give an answer. I really think you should dash off a few nice things

about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building."

"You do seem to like Peter Keating very much."

"I? I’m awfully fond of Peter. You will be, too--eventually, when you know him

better. Peter is a useful person to know. Why don’t you take time, one of these

days, to get him to tell you the story of his life? You’ll learn many

interesting things."