第 51 页

"For instance?"

"For instance, that he went to Stanton."

"I know that."

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"You don’t think it’s interesting? I do, Wonderful place, Stanton. Remarkable

example of Gothic architecture. The stained-glass window in the Chapel is really

one of the finest in this country. And then, think, so many young students. All

so different. Some graduating with high honors. Others being expelled."

"Well?"

"Did you know that Peter Keating is an old friend of Howard Roark?"

"No. Is he?"

"He is."

"Peter Keating is an old friend of everybody."

"Quite true. A remarkable boy. But this is different. You didn’t know that Roark

went to Stanton?"

"No."

"You don’t seem to know very much about Mr. Roark."

"I don’t know anything about Mr. Roark. We weren’t discussing Mr. Roark."

"Weren’t we? No, of course, we were discussing Peter Keating. Well, you see, one

can make one’s point best by contrast, by comparison. As you did in your pretty

little article today. To appreciate Peter as he should be appreciated, let’s

follow up a comparison. Let’s take two parallel lines. I’m inclined to agree

with Euclid, I don’t think these two parallels will ever meet. Well, they both

went to Stanton. Peter’s mother ran a sort of boardinghouse and Roark lived with

them for three years. This doesn’t really matter, except that it makes the

contrast more eloquent and--well--more personal, later on. Peter graduated with

high honors, the highest of his class. Roark was expelled. Don’t look like that.

I don’t have to explain why he was expelled, we understand, you and I. Peter

went to work for your father and he’s a partner now. Roark worked for your

father and got kicked out. Yes, he did. Isn’t that funny, by the way?--he did,

without any help from you at all--that time. Peter has the Cosmo-Slotnick

Building to his credit--and Roark has a hot-dog stand in Connecticut. Peter

signs autographs--and Roark is not known even to all the bathroom fixtures

manufacturers. Now Roark’s got an apartment house to do and it’s precious to him

like an only son--while Peter wouldn’t even have noticed it had he got the

Enright House, he gets them every day. Now, I don’t think that Roark thinks very

much of Peter’s work. He never has and he never will, no matter what happens.

Follow this a step further. No man likes to be beaten. But to be beaten by the

man who has always stood as the particular example of mediocrity in his eyes, to

start by the side of this mediocrity and to watch it shoot up, while he

struggles and gets nothing but a boot in his face, to see the mediocrity snatch

from him, one after another, the chances he’d give his life for, to see the

mediocrity worshipped, to miss the place he wants and to see the mediocrity

enshrined upon it, to lose, to be sacrificed, to be ignored, to be beaten,

beaten, beaten--not by a greater genius, not by a god, but by a Peter

Keating--well, my little amateur, do you think the Spanish Inquisition ever

thought of a torture to equal this?"

"Ellsworth!" she screamed. "Get out of here!"

She had shot to her feet. She stood straight for a moment, then she slumped

forward, her two palms flat on the desk, and she stood, bent over; he saw her

smooth mass of hair swinging heavily, then hanging still, hiding her face.

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"But, Dominique," he said pleasantly, "I was only telling you why Peter Keating

is such an interesting person."

Her hair flew back like a mop, and her face followed, she dropped down on her

chair, looking at him, her mouth loose and very ugly.

"Dominique," he said softly, "you’re obvious. Much too obvious."

"Get out of here."

"Well, I’ve always said that you underestimated me. Call on me next time you

need some help."

At the door, he turned to add:

"Of course, personally, I think Peter Keating is the greatest architect we’ve

got."

#

That evening, when she came home, the telephone rang.

"Dominique, my dear," a voice gulped anxiously over the wire, "did you really

mean all that?"

"Who is this?"

"Joel Sutton. I..."

"Hello, Joel. Did I mean what?"

"Hello, dear, how are you? How is your charming father? I mean, did you mean all

that about the Enright House and that fellow Roark? I mean, what you said in

your column today. I’m quite a bit upset, quite a bit. You know about my

building? Well, we’re all ready to go ahead and it’s such a bit of money, I

thought I was very careful about deciding, but I trust you of all people, I’ve

always trusted you, you’re a smart kid, plenty smart, if you work for a fellow

like Wynand I guess you know your stuff. Wynand knows buildings, why, that man’s

made more in real estate than on all his papers, you bet he did, it’s not

supposed to be known, but I know it. And you working for him, and now I don’t

know what to think. Because, you see, I had decided, yes, I had absolutely and

definitely decided--almost--to have this fellow Roark, in fact I told him so, in

fact he’s coming over tomorrow afternoon to sign the contract, and now...Do you

really think it will look like a feather boa?"

"Listen, Joel," she said, her teeth set tight together, "can you have lunch with

me tomorrow?"

She met Joel Sutton in the vast, deserted dining room of a distinguished hotel.

There were few, solitary guests among the white tables, so that each stood out,

the empty tables serving as an elegant setting that proclaimed the guest’s

exclusiveness. Joel Sutton smiled broadly. He had never escorted a woman as

decorative as Dominique.

"You know, Joel," she said, facing him across a table, her voice quiet, set,

unsmiling, "it was a brilliant idea, your choosing Roark."

"Oh, do you think so?"

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"I think so. You’ll have a building that will be beautiful, like an anthem. A

building that will take your breath away--also your tenants. A hundred years

from now they will write about you in history--and search for your grave in

Potter’s Field."

"Good heavens, Dominique, what are you talking about?"

"About your building. About the kind of building that Roark will design for you.

It will be a great building, Joel."

"You mean, good?"

"I don’t mean good. I mean great."

"It’s not the same thing."

"No, Joel, no, it’s not the same thing."

"I don’t like this ’great’ stuff."

"No. You don’t. I didn’t think you would. Then what do you want with Roark? You

want a building that won’t shock anybody. A building that will be folksy and

comfortable and safe, like the old parlor back home that smells of clam chowder.

A building that everybody will like, everybody and anybody. It’s very

uncomfortable to be a hero, Joel, and you don’t have the figure for it."

"Well, of course I want a building that people will like. What do you think I’m

putting it up for, for my health?"

"No, Joel. Nor for your soul."

"You mean, Roark’s no good?"

She sat straight and stiff, as if all her muscles were drawn tight against pain.

But her eyes were heavy, half closed, as if a hand were caressing her body. She

said:

"Do you see many buildings that he’s done? Do you see many people hiring him?

There are six million people in the city of New York. Six million people can’t

be wrong. Can they?"

"Of course not."

"Of course."

"But I thought Enright..."

"You’re not Enright, Joel. For one thing, he doesn’t smile so much. Then, you

see, Enright wouldn’t have asked my opinion. You did. That’s what I like you

for."

"Do you really like me, Dominique?"

"Didn’t you know that you’ve always been one of my great favorites?"

"I...I’ve always trusted you. I’ll take your word anytime. What do you really

think I should do?"

"It’s simple. You want the best that money can buy--of what money can buy. You

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want a building that will be--what it deserves to be. You want an architect whom

other people have employed, so that you can show them that you’re just as good

as they are."

"That’s right. That’s exactly right....Look, Dominique, you’ve hardly touched

your food."

"I’m not hungry."

"Well, what architect would you recommend?"

"Think, Joel. Who is there, at the moment, that everybody’s talking about? Who

gets the pick of all commissions? Who makes the most money for himself and his

clients? Who’s young and famous and safe and popular?"

"Why, I guess...I guess Peter Keating."

"Yes, Joel. Peter Keating."

#

"I’m so sorry, Mr. Roark, so terribly sorry, believe me, but after all, I’m not

in business for my health...not for my health nor for my soul...that is, I mean,

well, I’m sure you can understand my position. And it’s not that I have anything

against you, quite the contrary, I think you’re a great architect. You see

that’s just the trouble, greatness is fine but it’s not practical. That’s the

trouble, Mr. Roark, not practical, and after all you must admit that Mr. Keating

has much the better name and he’s got that...that popular touch which you

haven’t been able to achieve."

It disturbed Mr. Sutton that Roark did not protest. He wished Roark would try to

argue; then he could bring forth the unanswerable justifications which Dominique

had taught him a few hours ago. But Roark said nothing; he had merely inclined

his head when he heard the decision. Mr. Sutton wanted desperately to utter the

justifications, but it seemed pointless to try to convince a man who seemed

convinced. Still, Mr. Sutton loved people and did not want to hurt anyone.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Roark, I’m not alone in this decision. As a matter of

fact, I did want you, I had decided on you, honestly I had, but it was Miss

Dominique Francon, whose judgment I value most highly, who convinced me that you

were not the right choice for this commission--and she was fair enough to allow

me to tell you that she did."

He saw Roark looking at him suddenly. Then he saw the hollows of Roark’s cheeks

twisted, as if drawn in deeper, and his mouth open: he was laughing, without

sound but for one sharp intake of breath.

"What on earth are you laughing at, Mr. Roark?"

"So Miss Francon wanted you to tell me this?"

"She didn’t want me to, why should she?--she merely said that I could tell you

if I wished."

"Yes, of course."

"Which only shows her honesty and that she had good reasons for her convictions

and will stand by them openly."

"Yes."

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"Well, what’s the matter?"

"Nothing, Mr. Sutton."

"Look, it’s not decent to laugh like that."

"No."

#

His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked,

unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall

longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing

enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the

unmoving reality of his body.

When he heard the knock at the door, he said: "Come in," without rising.

Dominique came in. She entered as if she had entered this room before. She wore

a black suit of heavy cloth, simple like a child’s garment, worn as mere

protection, not as ornament; she had a high masculine collar raised to her

cheeks, and a hat cutting half her face out of sight. He sat looking at her. She

waited to see the derisive smile, but it did not come. The smile seemed implicit

in the room itself, in her standing there, halfway across that room. She took

her hat off, like a man entering a house, she pulled it off by the brim with the

tips of stiff fingers and held it hanging down at the end of her arm. She

waited, her face stern and cold; but her smooth pale hair looked defenseless and

humble. She said:

"You are not surprised to see me."

"I expected you tonight."

She raised her hand, bending her elbow with a tight economy of motion, the bare

minimum needed, and flung her hat across to a table. The hat’s long flight

showed the violence in that controlled jerk of her wrist.

He asked: "What do you want?"

She answered: "You know what I want," her voice heavy and flat.

"Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it."

"If you wish." Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with

metallic precision. "I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you

may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin, your mouth, your hands.

I want you--like this--not hysterical with desire--but coldly and

consciously--without dignity and without regrets--I want you--I have no

self-respect to bargain with me and divide me--I want you--I want you like an

animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore."

She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism

of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her

shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked

impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.

"You know that I hate you, Roark. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you,

for having to want you. I’m going to fight you--and I’m going to destroy

you--and I tell you this as calmly as I told you mat I’m a begging animal. I’m

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going to pray that you can’t be destroyed--I tell you this, too--even though I

believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to. But I will fight to block every