III
GAIL WYNAND ROSE AND MET HER HALFWAY ACROSS HIS OFFICE. “How do you do, Mrs. Keating,” he said.
“How do you do, Mr. Wynand,” said Dominique.
He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be nothing improper in this behavior.
“You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version,” he said. “As a rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time it’s a close one between that sculptor and God.”
“What sculptor?”
“The one who did that statue of you.”
He had felt that there was some story behind that statue and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the trim indifference of her self-control.
“Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?”
“In my art gallery, this morning.”
“Where did you get it?”
It was his turn to show perplexity. “But don’t you know that?”
“No.”
“Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present.”
“To get this appointment for me?”
“Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in substance—yes.”
“He hasn’t told me that.”
“Do you mind my having that statue?”
“Not particularly.”
“I expected you to say that you were delighted.”
“I’m not.”
He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out, his ankles crossed. He asked:
“I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?”
“For two years.”
“You can’t have it.” He added, watching her: “You might have Stoneridge.”
“I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you.”
He felt a bitter little stab of triumph—and of disappointment, in thinking that he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:
“Because it gave you this interview?”
“No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have that statue. But Toohey is last.”
He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge should have said or thought. He asked:
“You didn’t know that Toohey had it?”
“No.”
“We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for instance.”
“He didn’t tell you that?”
“No.”
“Steven Mallory.”
“Mallory? ... Not the one who tried to ...” He laughed aloud.
“What’s the matter?”
“Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name. That name.”
“Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?”
“He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety in being as blatant as he’s been. A very difficult kind. I almost like his artistry.”
“I don’t share your taste.”
“Not in any field? Not in sculpture—or architecture?”
“I’m sure not in architecture.”
“Isn’t that the utterly wrong thing for you to say?”
“Probably.”
He looked at her. He said: “You’re interesting.”
“I didn’t intend to be.”
“That’s your third mistake.”
“Third?”
“The first was about Mr. Toohey. In the circumstances, one would expect you to praise him to me. To quote him. To lean on his great prestige in matters of architecture.”
“But one would expect you to know Ellsworth Toohey. That should disqualify any quotations.”
“I intended to say that to you—had you given me the chance you won’t give me.”
“That should make it more entertaining.”
“You expected to be entertained?”
“I am.”
“About the statue?” It was the only point of weakness he had discovered.
“No.” Her voice was hard. “Not about the statue.”
“Tell me, when was it made and for whom?”
“Is that another thing Mr. Toohey forgot?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you remember a scandal about a building called the Stoddard Temple? Two years ago. You were away at the time.”
“The Stoddard Temple.... How do you happen to know where I was two years ago? ... Wait, the Stoddard Temple. I remember: a sacrilegious church or some such object that gave the Bible brigade a howling spree.”
“Yes.”
“There was ...” He stopped. His voice sounded hard and reluctant—like hers. “There was the statue of a naked woman involved.”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice harsh, as if he were holding back some anger whose object she could not guess:
“I was somewhere around Bali at the time. I’m sorry all New York saw that statue before I did. But I don’t read newspapers when I’m sailing. There’s a standing order to fire any man who brings a Wynand paper aboard the yacht.”
“Have you ever seen pictures of the Stoddard Temple?”
“No. Was the building worth the statue?”
“The statue was almost worthy of the building.”
“It has been destroyed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. With the help of the Wynand papers.”
He shrugged. “I remember Alvah Scarret had a good time with it. A big story. Sorry I missed it. But Alvah did very well. Incidentally, how did you know that I was away and why has the fact of my absence remained in your memory?”
“It was the story that cost me my job with you.”
“Your job? With me?”
“Didn’t you know my name was Dominique Francon?”
Under the trim jacket his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was surprise—and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply. After a while, he said:
“No.”
She smiled indifferently. She said: “It appears that Toohey wanted to make it as difficult for both of us as he could.”
“To hell with Toohey. This has to be understood. It doesn’t make sense. You’re Dominique Francon?”
“I was.”
“You worked here, in this building, for years?”
“For six years.”
“Why haven’t I met you before?”
“I’m sure you don’t meet every one of your employees.”
“I think you understand what I mean.”
“Do you wish me to state it for you?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t I tried to meet you before?”
“Yes.”
“I had no desire to.”
“That, precisely, doesn’t make sense.”
“Shall I let this go by or understand it?”
“I’ll spare you the choice. With the kind of beauty you possess and with knowledge of the kind of reputation I am said to possess—why didn’t you attempt to make a real career for yourself on the Banner?”
“I never wanted a real career on the Banner.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps for the same reason that makes you forbid Wynand papers on your yacht.”
“It’s a good reason,” he said quietly. Then he asked, his voice casual again: “Let’s see, what was it you did to get fired? You went against our policy, I believe?”
“I tried to defend the Stoddard Temple.”
“Didn’t you know better than to attempt sincerity on the Banner?”
“I intended to say that to you—if you’d given me the chance.”
“Are you being entertained?”
“I wasn’t, then. I liked working here.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever said that in this building.”
“I must be one of two.”
“Who’s the other?”
“Yourself, Mr. Wynand.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes and asked: “You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?”
“Yes, I think so,” she answered placidly.
“Dominique Francon ...” he repeated, not addressing her. “I used to like your stuff. I almost wish you were here to ask for your old job.”
“I’m here to discuss Stoneridge.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He settled back, to enjoy a long speech of persuasion. He thought it would be interesting to hear what arguments she’d choose and how she’d act in the role of petitioner. “Well, what do you wish to tell me about that?”
“I should like you to give that commission to my husband. I understand, of course, that there’s no reason why you should do so—unless I agree to sleep with you in exchange. If you consider that a sufficient reason—I am willing to do it.”
He looked at her silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face. She sat looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if her words had deserved no special attention. He could not force on himself, though he was seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than the incongruous one of undisturbed purity.
He said:
“That is what I was to suggest. But not so crudely and not on our first meeting.”
“I have saved you time and lies.”
“You love your husband very much?”
“I despise him.”
“You have a great faith in his artistic genius?”
“I think he’s a third-rate architect.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“It amuses me.”
“I thought I was the only one who acted on such motives.”
“You shouldn’t mind. I don’t believe you’ve ever found originality a desirable virtue, Mr. Wynand.”
“Actually, you don’t care whether your husband gets Stoneridge or not?”
“No.”
“And you have no desire to sleep with me?”
“None at all.”
“I could admire a woman who’d put on an act like that. Only it’s not an act.”
“It’s not. Please don’t begin admiring me. I have tried to avoid it.”
Whenever he smiled no obvious movement was required of his facial muscles; the hint of mockery was always there and it merely came into sharper focus for a moment, to recede imperceptibly again. The focus was sharper now.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your chief motive is I, after all. The desire to give yourself to me.” He saw the glance she could not control and added: “No, don’t enjoy the thought that I have fallen into so gross an error. I didn’t mean it in the usual sense. But in its exact opposite. Didn’t you say you considered me the person before last in the world? You don’t want Stoneridge. You want to sell yourself for the lowest motive to the lowest person you can find.”
“I didn’t expect you to understand that,” she said simply.
“You want—men do that sometimes, not women—to express through the sexual act your utter contempt for me.”
“No, Mr. Wynand. For myself.”
The thin line of his mouth moved faintly, as if his lips had caught the first hint of a personal revelation—an involuntary one and, therefore, a weakness—and were holding it tight while he spoke:
“Most people go to very great length in order to convince themselves of their self-respect.”
“Yes.”
“And, of course, a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack.”
“Yes.”
“Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?”
“That I lack it?”
“And that you’ll never achieve it.”
“I didn’t expect you to understand that either.”
“I won’t say anything else—or I’ll stop being the person before last in the world and I’ll become unsuitable to your purpose.” He rose. “Shall I tell you formally that I accept your offer?”
She inclined her head in agreement.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I don’t care whom I choose to build Stoneridge. I’ve never hired a good architect for any of the things I’ve built. I give the public what it wants. I was stuck for a choice this time, because I’m tired of the bunglers who’ve worked for me, and it’s hard to decide without standards or reason. I’m sure you don’t mind my saying this. I’m really grateful to you for giving me a much better motive than any I could hope to find.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say that you’ve always admired the work of Peter Keating.”
“You didn’t tell me how glad you were to join the distinguished list of Gail Wynand’s mistresses.”
“You may enjoy my admitting it, if you wish, but I think we’ll get along very well together.”
“Quite likely. At least, you’ve given me a new experience: to do what I’ve always done—but honestly. Shall I now begin to give you my orders? I won’t pretend they’re anything else.”
“If you wish.”
“You’ll go with me for a two months’ cruise on my yacht. We’ll sail in ten days. When we come back, you’ll be free to return to your husband -with the contract for Stoneridge.”
“Very well.”
“I should like to meet your husband. Will you both have dinner with me Monday night?”
“Yes, if you wish.”
When she rose to leave, he asked:
“Shall I tell you the difference between you and your statue?”
“No.”
“But I want to. It’s startling to see the same elements used in two compositions with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of exaltation. But your own theme is suffering.”
“Suffering? I’m not conscious of having shown that.”
“You haven’t. That’s what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain.”
 
Wynand telephoned his art dealer and asked him to arrange a private showing of Steven Mallory’s work. He refused to meet Mallory in person; he never met those whose work he liked. The art dealer executed the order in great haste. Wynand bought five of the pieces he saw—and paid more than the dealer had hoped to ask. “Mr. Mallory would like to know,” said the dealer, “what brought him to your attention.” “I saw one of his works.” “Which one?” “It doesn’t matter.”
Toohey had expected Wynand to call for him after the interview with Dominique. Wynand had not called. But a few days later, meeting Toohey by chance in the city room, Wynand asked aloud:
“Mr. Toohey, have so many people tried to kill you that you can’t remember their names?”
Toohey smiled and said: “I’m sure quite so many would like to.”
“You flatter your fellow men,” said Wynand, walking away.
 
Peter Keating stared at the brilliant room of the restaurant. It was the most exclusive place in town, and the most expensive. Keating gloated, chewing the thought that he was here as the guest of Gail Wynand.
He tried not to stare at the gracious elegance of Wynand’s figure across the table. He blessed Wynand for having chosen to give this dinner in a public place. People were gaping at Wynand—discreetly and with practiced camouflage, but gaping nevertheless—and their attention included the two guests at Wynand’s table.
Dominique sat between the two men. She wore a white silk dress with long sleeves and a cowl neck, a nun’s garment that acquired the startling effect of an evening gown only by being so flagrantly unsuited to that purpose. She wore no jewelry. Her gold hair looked like a hood. The dull white silk moved in angular planes with the movements of her body, revealing it in a manner of cold innocence, the body of a sacrificial object publicly offered, beyond the need of concealment or desire. Keating found it unattractive. He noticed that Wynand seemed to admire it.
Someone at a distant table stared in their direction insistently, someone tall and bulky. Then the big shape rose to its feet—and Keating recognized Ralston Holcombe hurrying toward them.
“Peter, my boy, so glad to see you,” boomed Holcombe, shaking his hand, bowing to Dominique, conspicuously ignoring Wynand. “Where have you been hiding? Why don’t we see you around any more?” They had had luncheon together three days ago.
Wynand had risen and stood leaning forward a little, courteously. Keating hesitated; then, with obvious reluctance, said:
“Mr. Wynand—Mr. Holcombe.”
“Not Mr. Gail Wynand?” said Holcombe, with splendid innocence.
“Mr. Holcombe, if you saw one of the cough-drop Smith brothers in real life, would you recognize him?” asked Wynand.
“Why—I guess so,” said Holcombe, blinking.
“My face, Mr. Holcombe, is just as much of a public bromide.”
Holcombe muttered a few benevolent generalities and escaped.
Wynand smiled affectionately. “You didn’t have to be afraid of introducing Mr. Holcombe to me, Mr. Keating, even though he is an architect.”
“Afraid, Mr. Wynand?”
“Unnecessarily, since it’s all settled. Hasn’t Mrs. Keating told you that Stoneridge is yours?”
“I ... no, she hasn’t told me ... I didn’t know....” Wynand was smiling, but the smile remained fixed, and Keating felt compelled to go on talking until some sign stopped him. “I hadn’t quite hoped ... not so soon ... of course, I thought this dinner might be a sign ... help you to decide ...” He blurted out involuntarily: “Do you always throw surprises like that—just like that?”
“Whenever I can,” said Wynand gravely.
“I shall do my best to deserve this honor and live up to your expectations, Mr. Wynand.”
“I have no doubt about that,” said Wynand.
He had said little to Dominique tonight. His full attention seemed centered on Keating.
“The public has been kind to my past endeavors,” said Keating, “but I shall make Stoneridge my best achievement.”
“That is quite a promise, considering the distinguished list of your works.”
“I had not hoped that my works were of sufficient importance to attract your attention, Mr. Wynand.”
“But I know them quite well. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building, which is pure Michelangelo.” Keating’s face spread in incredulous pleasure; he knew that Wynand was a great authority on art and would not make such comparisons lightly. “The Prudential Bank Building, which is genuine Palladio. The Slottern Department Store, which is snitched Christopher Wren.” Keating’s face had changed. “Look what an illustrious company I get for the price of one. Isn’t it quite a bargain?”
Keating smiled, his face tight, and said:
“I’ve heard about your brilliant sense of humor, Mr. Wynand.”
“Have you heard about my descriptive style?”
“What do you mean?”
Wynand half turned in his chair and looked at Dominique, as if he were inspecting an inanimate object.
“Your wife has a lovely body, Mr. Keating. Her shoulders are too thin, but admirably in scale with the rest of her. Her legs are too long, but that gives her the elegance of line you’ll find in a good yacht. Her breasts are beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Architecture is a crude profession, Mr. Wynand,” Keating tried to laugh. “It doesn’t prepare one for the superior sort of sophistication.”
“You don’t understand me, Mr. Keating?”
“If I didn’t know you were a perfect gentleman, I might misunderstand it, but you can’t fool me.”
“That is just what I am trying not to do.”
“I appreciate compliments, Mr. Wynand, but I’m not conceited enough to think that we must talk about my wife.”
“Why not, Mr. Keating? It is considered good form to talk of the things one has—or will have—in common.”
“Mr. Wynand, I ... I don’t understand.”
“Shall I be more explicit?”
“No, I...”
“No? Shall we drop the subject of Stoneridge?”
“Oh, let’s talk about Stoneridge! I ...”
“But we are, Mr. Keating.”
Keating looked at the room about them. He thought that things like this could not be done in such a place; the fastidious magnificence made it monstrous; he wished it were a dank cellar. He thought: blood on paving stones—all right, but not blood on a drawing-room rug....
“Now I know this is a joke, Mr. Wynand,” he said.
“It is my turn to admire your sense of humor, Mr. Keating.”
“Things like ... like this aren’t being done ...”
“That’s not what you mean at all, Mr. Keating. You mean, they’re being done all the time, but not talked about.”
“I didn’t think ...”
“You thought it before you came here. You didn’t mind. I grant you I’m behaving abominably. I’m breaking all the rules of charity. It’s extremely cruel to be honest.”
“Please, Mr. Wynand, let’s ... drop it. I don’t know what ... I’m supposed to do.”
“That’s simple. You’re supposed to slap my face.” Keating giggled. “You were supposed to do that several minutes ago.”
Keating noticed that his palms were wet and that he was trying to support his weight by holding on to the napkin on his lap. Wynand and Dominique were eating, slowly and graciously, as if they were at another table. Keating thought that they were not human bodies, either one of them; something had vanished; the light of the crystal fixtures in the room was the radiance of X-rays that ate through, not to the bones, but deeper; they were souls, he thought, sitting at a dinner table, souls held within evening clothes, lacking the intermediate shape of flesh, terrifying in naked revelation—terrifying, because he expected to see torturers, but saw a great innocence. He wondered what they saw, what his own clothes contained if his physical shape had gone.
“No?” said Wynand. “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Keating? But of course you don’t have to. Just say that you don’t want any of it. I won’t mind. There’s Mr. Ralston Holcombe across the room. He can build Stoneridge as well as you could.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wynand,” whispered Keating. His eyes were fixed upon the tomato aspic on his salad plate; it was soft and shivering; it made him sick.
Wynand turned to Dominique.
“Do you remember our conversation about a certain quest, Mrs. Keating? I said it was a quest at which you would never succeed. Look at your husband. He’s an expert—without effort. That is the way to go about it. Match that, sometime. Don’t bother to tell me that you can’t. I know it. You’re an amateur, my dear.”
Keating thought that he must speak again, but he couldn’t, not as long as that salad was there before him. The terror came from that plate, not from the fastidious monster across the table; the rest of the room was warm and safe. He lurched forward and his elbow swept the plate off the table.
He made a kind of sound expressing regrets. Somebody’s shape came up, there were polite voices of apology, and the mess vanished from the carpet.
Keating heard a voice saying: “Why are you doing this?” saw two faces turned to him and knew that he had said it.
“Mr. Wynand is not doing it to torture you, Peter,” said Dominique calmly. “He’s doing it for me. To see how much I can take.”
“That’s true, Mrs. Keating,” said Wynand. “Partly true. The other part is: to justify myself.”
“In whose eyes?”
“Yours. And my own, perhaps.”
“Do you need to?”
“Sometimes. The Banner is a contemptible paper, isn’t it? Well, I have paid with my honor for the privilege of holding a position where I can amuse myself by observing how honor operates in other men.”
His own clothes, thought Keating, contained nothing now, because the two faces did not notice him any longer. He was safe; his place at that table was empty. He wondered, from a great, indifferent distance, why the two were looking at each other quietly, not like enemies, not like fellow executioners, but like comrades.
 
Two days before they were to sail, Wynand telephoned Dominique late in the evening.
“Could you come over right now?” he asked, and hearing a moment’s silence, added: “Oh, not what you’re thinking. I live up to my agreements. You’ll be quite safe. I just would like to see you tonight.”
“All right,” she said, and was astonished to hear a quiet: “Thank you.”
When the elevator door slid open in the private lobby of his penthouse, he was waiting there, but did not let her step out. He joined her in the elevator.
“I don’t want you to enter my house,” he said. “We’re going to the floor below.”
The elevator operator looked at him, amazed.
The car stopped and opened before a locked door. Wynand unlocked it and let her step out first, following her into the art gallery. She remembered that this was the place no outsider ever entered. She said nothing. He offered no explanation.
For hours she walked silently through the vast rooms, looking at the incredible treasures of beauty. There was a deep carpet and no sound of steps, no sounds from the city outside, no windows. He followed her, stopping when she stopped. His eyes went with hers from object to object. At times his glance moved to her face. She passed, without stopping, by the statue from the Stoddard Temple.
He did not urge her to stay nor to hurry, as if he had turned the place over to her. She decided when she wished to leave, and he followed her to the door. Then she asked:
“Why did you want me to see this? It won’t make me think better of you. Worse, perhaps.”
“Yes, I’d expect that,” he said quietly, “if I had thought of it that way. But I didn’t. I just wanted you to see it.”