He managed to sign papers, he managed to wait until Roark was brought out to him. They walked out together, Roark leading him by the wrist, and by the time they reached the car, Wynand was calm. In the car, Wynand asked:
“You did it, of course?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll fight it out together.”
“If you want to make it your battle.”
“At the present estimate, my personal fortune amounts to forty million dollars. That should be enough to hire any lawyer you wish or the whole profession.”
“I won’t use a lawyer.”
“Howard! You’re not going to submit photographs again?”
“No. Not this time.”
Roark entered the bedroom and sat down on a chair by the bed. Dominique lay still, looking at him. They smiled at each other. Nothing has to be said, not this time either, she thought.
She asked:
“You were in jail?”
“For a few hours.”
“What was it like?”
“Don’t start acting about it as Gail did.”
“Gail took it very badly?”
“Very.”
“I won’t.”
“I might have to go back to a cell for years. You knew that when you agreed to help me.”
“Yes. I knew that.”
“I’m counting on you to save Gail, if I go.”
“Counting on me?’
He looked at her and shook his head. “Dearest…” It sounded
like a reproach.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“Don’t you know by now that it was a trap I set for you?”
“How?”
“What would you do if I hadn’t asked you to help me?”
“I’d be with you, in your apartment, at the Enright House, right now, publicly and openly.”
“Yes. But now you can’t. You’re Mrs. Gail Wynand, you’re above suspicion, and everyone believes you were at the scene by accident. Just let it be known what we are to each other–and it will be a confession that I did it.”
“I see.”
“I want you to keep quiet. If you had any thoughts of wanting to share my fate, drop them. I won’t tell you what I intend to do, because that’s the only way I have of controlling you until the trial. Dominique, if I’m convicted, I want you to remain with Gail. I’m counting on that, I want you to remain with him, and never tell him about us, because he and you will need each other.”
“And if you’re acquitted?”
“Then…” He glanced about the room, Wynand’s bedroom. “I don’t want to say it here. But you know it.”
“You love him very much?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to sacrifice…”
He smiled. “You’ve been afraid of that ever since I came here for the first time?”
“Yes.”
He looked straight at her. “Did you think that possible?”
“No.”
“Not my work nor you, Dominique. Not ever. But I can do this much for him: I can leave it to him if I have to go.”
“You’ll be acquitted.”
“That’s not what I want to hear you say.”
“If they convict you–if they lock you in jail or put you in a chain gang–if they smear your name in every filthy headline–if they never let you design another building–if they never let me see you again–it will not matter. Not too much. Only down to a certain point.”
“That’s what I’ve waited to hear for seven years, Dominique.” He took her hand, he raised it and held it to his lips, and she felt his lips where Wynand’s had been. Then he got up.
“I’ll wait,” she said. “I’ll keep quiet. I won’t come near you. I promise.”
He smiled and nodded. Then he left.
“It happens, upon rare occasions, that world forces too great to comprehend become focused in a single event, like rays gathered by a lens to one point of superlative brightness, for all of us to see. Such an event is the outrage of Cortlandt. Here, in a microcosm, we can observe the evil that has crushed our poor planet from the day of its birth in cosmic ooze. One man’s Ego against all the concepts of mercy, humanity and brotherhood. One man destroying the future home of the disinherited. One man condemning thousands to the horror of the slums, to filth, disease and death. When an awakening society, with a new sense of humanitarian duty, made a mighty effort to rescue the underprivileged, when the best talents of society united to create a decent home for them–the egotism of one man blew the achievement of others to pieces. And for what? For some vague matter of personal vanity, for some empty conceit. I regret that the laws of our state allow nothing more than a prison sentence for this crime. That man should forfeit his life. Society needs the right to rid itself of men such as Howard Roark.”
Thus spoke Ellsworth M. Toohey in the pages of the New Frontiers.
Echoes answered him from all over the country. The explosion of Cortlandt had lasted half a minute. The explosion of public fury went on and on, with a cloud of powdered plaster filling the air, with rust and refuse raining out of the cloud.
Roark had been indicted by a grand jury, had pleaded “Not guilty” and had refused to make any other statement. He had been released on a bond furnished by Gail Wynand, and he awaited trial.
There were many speculations on his motive. Some said it was professional jealousy. Others declared that there was a certain similarity between the design of Cortlandt and Roark’s style of building, that Keating, Prescott and Webb might have borrowed a little from Roark–“a legitimate adaptation”–“there’s no property rights on ideas”–“in a democracy, art belongs to all the people”–and that Roark had been prompted by the vengeance lust of an artist who had believed himself plagiarized.
None of it was too clear, but nobody cared too much about the motive. The issue was simple: one man against many. He had no right to a motive.
A home, built in charity, for the poor. Built upon ten thousand years in which men had been taught that charity and self-sacrifice are an absolute not to be questioned, the touchstone of virtue, the ultimate ideal. Ten thousand years of voices speaking of service and sacrifice–sacrifice is the prime rule of life–serve or be served–crush or get crushed–sacrifice is noble–make what you can of it, at the one end or the other–serve and sacrifice–serve and serve and serve…
Against that–one man who wished neither to serve nor to rule. And had thereby committed the only unforgivable crime.
It was a sensational scandal, and there was the usual noise and the usual lust of righteous anger, such as is proper to all lynchings. But there was a fierce, personal quality in the indignation of every person who spoke about it.
“He’s just an egomaniac devoid of all moral sense”–
–said the society woman dressing for a charity bazaar, who dared not contemplate what means of self-expression would be left to her and how she could impose her ostentation on her friends, if charity were not the all-excusing virtue–
–said the social worker who had found no aim in life and could generate no aim from within the sterility of his soul, but basked in virtue and held an unearned respect from all, by grace of his fingers on the wounds of others–
–said the novelist who had nothing to say if the subject of service and sacrifice were to be taken away from him, who sobbed in the hearing of attentive thousands that he loved them and loved them and would they please love him a little in return–
–said the lady columnist who had just bought a country mansion because she wrote so tenderly about the little people–
–said all the little people who wanted to hear of love, the great love, the unfastidious love, the love that embraced everything, forgave everything and permitted them everything–
–said every second-hander who could not exist except as a leech on the souls of others.
Ellsworth Toohey sat back, watched, listened and smiled.
Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb were entertained at dinners and cocktail parties; they were treated with tender, curious solicitude, like survivors of disaster. They said that they could not understand what possible motive Roark could have had, and they demanded justice.
Peter Keating went nowhere. He refused to see the press. He refused to see anyone. But he issued a written statement that he believed Roark was not guilty. His statement contained one curious sentence, the last. It said: “Leave him alone, please can’t you leave him alone?”
Pickets from the Council of American Builders paced in front of the Cord Building. It served no purpose, because there was no work in Roark’s office. The commissions he was to start had been canceled.
This was solidarity. The debutante having her toenails pedicured–the housewife buying carrots from a pushcart–the bookkeeper who had wanted to be a pianist, but had the excuse of a sister to support–the businessman who hated his business–the worker who hated his work–the intellectual who hated everybody–all were united as brothers in the luxury of common anger that cured boredom and took them out of themselves, and they knew well enough what a blessing it was to be taken out of themselves. The readers were unanimous. The press was unanimous.