He’s just relaxed with me, thought Keating, he’s tired, he can’t be tactful all the time, he doesn’t realize what he…
“Stoneridge. The great residential development by Gail Wynand. Have you ever thought of Gail Wynand’s career, Peter? From wharf rat to Stoneridge–do you know what a step like that means? Would you care to compute the effort, the energy, the suffering with which Gail Wynand has paid for every step of his way? And here I am, and I hold a project much bigger than Stoneridge in the palm of my hand, without any effort at all.” He dropped his hand and added: “If I do hold it. Might be only a figure of speech. Don’t take me literally, Peter.”
“I hate Wynand,” said Keating, looking down at the floor, his voice thick. “I hate him more than any man living.”
“Wynand? He’s a very naive person. He’s naive enough to think that men are motivated primarily by money.”
“You aren’t, Ellsworth. You’re a man of integrity. That’s why I believe in you. It’s all I’ve got. If I stopped believing in you, there would be nothing…anywhere.”
“Thank you. Peter. That’s sweet of you. Hysterical, but sweet.”
“Ellsworth…you know how I feel about you.”
“I have a fair idea.”
“You see, that’s why I can’t understand.”
“What?”
He had to say it. He had decided, above all, never to say it, but he had to.
“Ellsworth, why have you dropped me? Why don’t you ever write anything about me any more? Why is it always–in your column and everywhere–and on any commission you have a chance to swing–why is it always Gus Webb?”
“But, Peter, why shouldn’t it be?”
“But…I…”
“I’m sorry to see that you haven’t understood me at all. In all these years, you’ve learned nothing of my principles. I don’t believe in individualism, Peter. I don’t believe that any one man is any one thing which everybody else can’t be. I believe we’re all equal and interchangeable. A position you hold today can be held by anybody and everybody tomorrow. Egalitarian rotation. Haven’t I always preached that to you? Why do you suppose I chose you? Why did I put you where you were? To protect the field from men who would become irreplaceable. To leave a chance for the Gus Webbs of this world. Why do you suppose I fought against–for instance–Howard Roark?”
Keating’s mind was a bruise. He thought it would be a bruise, because it felt as if something flat and heavy had smashed against it, and it would be black and blue and swollen later; now he felt nothing except a sweetish numbness. Such chips of thought as he could distinguish told him that the ideas he heard were of a high moral order, the ones he had always accepted, and therefore no evil could come to him from that, no evil could be intended. Toohey’s eyes looked straight at him, dark, gentle, benevolent. Maybe later…he would know later…But one thing had pierced through and remained caught on some fragment of his brain. He had understood that. The name.
And while his sole hope of grace rested in Toohey, something inexplicable twisted within him, he leaned forward, knowing that this would hurt, wishing it to hurt Toohey, and his lips curled incredibly into a smile, baring his teeth and gums:
“You failed there, didn’t you, Ellsworth? Look where he is now–Howard Roark.”
“Oh dear me, how dull it is to discuss things with minds devoted to the obvious. You are utterly incapable of grasping principles, Peter. You think only in terms of persons. Do you really suppose that I have no mission in life save to worry over the specific fate of your Howard Roark? Mr. Roark is merely one detail out of many. I have dealt with him when it was convenient. I am still dealing with him–though not directly. I do grant you, however, that Mr. Howard Roark is a great temptation to me. At times I feel it would be a shame if I never came up against him personally again. But it might not be necessary at all. When you deal in principles, Peter, it saves you the trouble of individual encounters.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you can follow one of two procedures. You can devote your life to pulling out each single weed as it comes up–and then ten lifetimes won’t be enough for the job. Or you can prepare your soil in such a manner–by spreading a certain chemical, let us say–that it will be impossible for weeds to grow. This last is faster. I say ‘weed’ because it is the conventional symbolism and will not frighten you. The same technique, of course, holds true in the case of any other living plant you may wish to eliminate: buckwheat, potatoes, oranges, orchids or morning glories.”
“Ellsworth, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But of course you don’t. That’s my advantage I say these things publicly every single day–and nobody knows what I’m talking about.”
“Have you heard that Howard Roark is doing a house, his own home, for Gail Wynand?”
“My dear Peter, did you think I had to wait to learn it from you?”
“Well, how do you like that?”
“Why should it concern me one way or another?”
“Have you heard that Roark and Wynand are the best of friends? And what friendship, from what I hear! Well? You know what Wynand can do. You know what he can make of Roark. Try and stop Roark now! Try and stop him! Try…”
He choked on a gulp and kept still. He found himself staring at Toohey’s bare ankle between the pyjama trouser and the rich fur of a sheepskin-lined slipper. He had never visualized Toohey’s nudity; somehow, he had never thought of Toohey as possessing a physical body. There was something faintly indecent about that ankle: Just skin, too bluish-white, stretched over bones that looked too brittle. It made him think of chicken bones left on a plate after dinner, dried out; if one touches them, it takes no effort at all, they just snap. He found himself wishing to reach out, to take that ankle between thumb and forefinger, and just twist the pads of his fingertips.
“Ellsworth, I came here to talk about Cortlandt Homes!” He could not take his eyes off the ankle. He hoped the words would release him.
“Don’t shout like that. What’s the matter?…Cortlandt Homes? Well, what did you want to say about it?”
He had to lift his eyes now, in astonishment. Toohey waited innocently.
“I want to design Cortlandt Homes,” he said, his voice coming like a paste strained through a cloth. “I want you to give it to me.”
“Why should I give it to you?”
There was no answer. If he were to say now: Because you’ve written that I’m the greatest architect living, the reminder would prove that Toohey believed it no longer. He dared not face such proof, nor Toohey’s possible reply. He was staring at two long black hairs on the bluish knob of Toohey’s ankle; he could see them quite clearly; one straight, the other twisted into a curlicue. After a long time, he answered:
“Because I need it very badly, Ellsworth.”
“I know you do.”
There was nothing further to say. Toohey shifted his ankle, raised his foot and put it flat upon the arm of the couch, spreading his legs comfortably.
“Sit up, Peter. You look like a gargoyle.”
Keating did not move.
“What made you assume that the selection of an architect for Cortlandt Homes was up to me?”
Keating raised his head; it was a stab of relief. He had presumed too much and offended Toohey; that was the reason; that was the only reason.
“Why, I understand…it’s being said…I was told that you have a great deal of influence on this particular project…with those people…and in Washington…and places…”
“Strictly in an unofficial capacity. As something of an expert in architectural matters. Nothing else.”
“Yes, of course…That’s…what I meant.”
“I can recommend an architect. That’s all. I can guarantee nothing. My word is not final.”
“That’s all I wanted, Ellsworth. A word of recommendation from you…”
“But, Peter, if I recommend someone, I must give a reason. I can’t use such influence as I might have, just to push a friend, can I?”
Keating stared at the dressing gown, thinking: powder puffs, why powder puffs? That’s what’s wrong with me, if he’d only take the thing off.
“Your professional standing is not what it used to be, Peter.”
“You said to ‘push a friend,’ Ellsworth…” It was a whisper.
“Well, of course I’m your friend. I’ve always been your friend. You’re not doubting that, are you?”
“No…I can’t, Ellsworth…”
“Well, cheer up, then. Look, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re stuck on that damn Cortlandt. There’s a nasty little sticker involved. I’ve tried to get it for Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb–I thought it was more in their line, I didn’t think you’d be so interested. But neither of them could make the grade. Do you know the big problem in housing? Economy, Peter. How to design a decent modern unit that could rent for fifteen dollars a month. Ever tried to figure out that one? Well, that’s what’s expected of the architect who’ll do Cortlandt–if they ever find him. Of course, tenant selection helps, they stagger the rents, the families who make twelve hundred a year pay more for the same apartment to help carry the families who make six hundred a year–you know, underdog milked to help somebody underdoggier–but still, the cost of the building and the upkeep must be as low as humanly possible. The boys in Washington don’t want another one of those–you heard about it, a little government development where the homes cost ten thousand dollars apiece, while a private builder could have put them up for two thousand. Cortlandt is to be a model project. An example for the whole world. It must be the most brilliant, the most efficient exhibit of planning ingenuity and structural economy ever achieved anywhere. That’s what the big boys demand. Gordon and Gus couldn’t do it. They tried and were turned down. You’d be surprised to know how many people have tried. Peter, I couldn’t sell you to them even at the height of your career. What can I tell them about you? All you stand for is plush, gilt and marble, old Guy Francon, the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, the Frink National Bank, and that little abortion of the Centuries that will never pay for itself. What they want is a millionaire’s kitchen for a sharecropper’s income. Think you can do it?”