VII
“... 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.”
“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.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, that he went to Stanton.”
“I know that.”
“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 worshiped, 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.
“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?”
“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 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 has good reasons for her convictions and will stand by them openly.”
“Yes.”
“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 that I’m a begging animal. I’m 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 step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you—through your work. I will fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I have done it to you today—and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight.”
He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
“I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you—whenever I know that I have hurt you—and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but an an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”
“Take your clothes off.”
She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the corners of her mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one jolt of controlled breath—and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had always smiled at her.
She lifted her two hands to her collar and unfastened the buttons of her jacket, simply, precisely, one after another. She threw the jacket down on the floor, she took off a thin white blouse, and she noticed the tight black gloves on the wrists of her naked arms. She took the gloves off, pulling at each finger in turn. She undressed indifferently, as if she were alone in her own bedroom.
Then she looked at him. She stood naked, waiting, feeling the space between them like a pressure against her stomach, knowing that it was torture for him also and that it was as they both wanted it. Then he got up, he walked to her, and when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the shape of his body imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm as it encircled him, his ribs, his armpit, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers, her mouth on his, in a surrender more violent than her struggle had been.
Afterward, she lay in bed by his side, under his blanket, looking at his room, and she asked:
“Roark, why were you working in that quarry?”
“You know it.”
“Yes. Anyone else would have taken a job in an architect’s office.”
“And then you’d have no desire at all to destroy me.”
“You understand that?”
“Yes. Keep still. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Do you know that the Enright House is the most beautiful building in New York?”
“I know that you know it.”
“Roark, you worked in that quarry when you had the Enright House in you, and many other Enright Houses, and you were drilling granite like a ...”
“You’re going to weaken in a moment, Dominique, and then you’ll regret it tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“You’re very lovely, Dominique.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re lovely.”
“Roark, I ... I’ll still want to destroy you.”
“Do you think I would want you if you didn’t?”
“Roark ...”
“You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dominique. I want you. I want you.”
“I ...” She stopped, the word on which she stopped almost audible in her breath.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. You won’t say that yet. Go to sleep.”
“Here? With you?”
“Here. With me. I’ll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I fix my own breakfast? You’ll like seeing that. Like the work in the quarry. Then you’ll go home and think about destroying me. Good night, Dominique.”