The Fountainhead by Rand, Ayn

“Why don’t they drop the damn thing, Ellsworth? Why doesn’t something break to take it off the front pages? Couldn’t we scare up an international situation or something? In all my born days I’ve never seen people go so wild over so little. A dynamiting job! Christ, Ellsworth, it’s a back-page story. We get them every month, practically with every strike, remember?–the furriers’ strike, the dry cleaners’ strike…oh what the hell! Why all this fury? Who cares? Why do they care?”

“There are occasions, Alvah, when the issues at stake are not the ostensible facts at all. And the public reaction seems out of all proportion, but isn’t. You shouldn’t be so glum about it. I’m surprised at you. You should be thanking your stars. You see, this is what I meant by waiting for the right moment. The right moment always comes. Damned if I expected it to be handed to me on a platter like that, though. Cheer up, Alvah. This is where we take over.”

“Take over what?”

“The Wynand papers.”

“You’re crazy, Ellsworth. Like all of them. You’re crazy. What do you mean? Gail holds fifty-one per cent of…”

“Alvah, I love you. You’re wonderful, Alvah. I love you, but I wish to God you weren’t such a God-damn fool, so I could talk to you! I wish I could talk to somebody!”

Ellsworth Toohey tried to talk to Gus Webb, one evening, but it was disappointing. Gus Webb drawled:

“Trouble with you, Ellsworth, is you’re too romantic. Too God-damn metaphysical. What’s all the gloating about? There’s no practical value to the thing. Nothing to get your teeth into, except for a week or two. I wish he’d blasted it when it was full of people–a few children blown to pieces–then you’d have something. Then I’d love it. The movement could use it. But this? Hell, they’ll send the fool to the clink and that’s that. You–a realist? You’re an incurable specimen of the intelligentsia, Ellsworth, that’s all you are. You think you’re the man of the future? Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I am.”

Toohey sighed. “You’re right, Gus,” he said.

14.

“IT’S kind of you, Mr. Toohey,” said Mrs. Keating humbly. “I’m glad you came. I don’t know what to do with Petey. He won’t see anyone. He won’t go to his office. I’m scared, Mr. Toohey. Forgive me, I mustn’t whine. Maybe you can help, pull him out of it. He thinks so much of you, Mr. Toohey.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Where is he?”

“Right here. In his room. This way, Mr. Toohey.”

The visit was unexpected. Toohey had not been here for years. Mrs. Keating felt very grateful. She led the way down the hall and opened a door without knocking, afraid to announce the visitor, afraid of her son’s refusal. She said brightly:

“Look, Petey, look what a guest I have for you!”

Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave a poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper. There was a full glass on the table with a dried red rim that had been tomato juice; a box containing a jigsaw puzzle; a deck of cards; a Bible.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway.

Mrs. Keating saw the smile and stepped out hastily, relieved, closing the door.

The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory. Then he remembered many things which he had tried not to understand.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he repeated helplessly.

Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.

“Touching, Peter,” he said. “Very touching. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if he saw it.”

“Who?”

“Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?”

“I wanted to see you, Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you.” Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.

“Well, that’s what I came here for,” he said. “To hear you talk.”

Keating said nothing.

“Well?”

“You mustn’t think I didn’t want to see you, Ellsworth. It was only…what I told Mother about not letting anyone in…it was on account of the newspaper people. They won’t leave me alone.”

“My, how times change, Peter. I remember when one couldn’t keep you away from newspaper people.”

“Ellsworth, I haven’t any sense of humor left. Not any at all.”

“That’s lucky. Or you’d die laughing.”

“I’m so tired, Ellsworth….I’m glad you came.”

The light glanced off Toohey’s glasses and Keating could not see his eyes; only two circles filled with a metallic smear, like the dead headlights of a car reflecting the approach of something from a distance.

“Think you can get away with it?” asked Toohey.

“With what?”

“The hermit act. The great penance. The loyal silence.”

“Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?”

“So he’s not guilty, is he? So you want us to please leave him alone, do you?”

Keating’s shoulders moved, more an intention than the reality of sitting up straight, but still an intention, and his jaw moved enough to ask:

“What do you want?”

“The whole story.”

“What for?”

“Want me to make it easier for you? Want a good excuse, Peter? I could, you know. I could give you thirty-three reasons, all noble, and you’d swallow any one of them. But I don’t feel like making it easier for you. So I’ll just tell you the truth: to send him to the penitentiary, your hero, your idol, your generous friend, your guardian angel!”

“I have nothing to tell you, Ellsworth.”

“While you’re being shocked out of the last of your wits you’d better hang on to enough to realize that you’re no match for me. You’ll talk if I want you to talk and I don’t feel like wasting time. Who designed Cortlandt?”

“I did.”

“Do you know that I’m an architectural expert?”

“I designed Cortlandt.”

“Like the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you on the witness stand, Petey. I want you to tell the story in court. Your friend isn’t as obvious as you are. I don’t know what he’s up to. That remaining at the scene was a bit too smart. He knew he’d be suspected and he’s playing it subtle. God knows what he intends to say in court. I don’t intend to let him get away with it. The motive is what they’re all stuck on. I know the motive. Nobody will believe me if I try to explain it. But you’ll state it under oath. You’ll tell the truth. You’ll tell them who designed Cortlandt and why.”

“I designed it.”

“If you want to say that on the stand, you’d better do something about your muscular control. What are you shaking for?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Too late, Petey. Ever read Faust?”

“What do you want?”

“Howard Roark’s neck.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s never been. You know what I think of him.”

“I know, you God-damn fool! I know you’ve worshipped him all your life. You’ve knelt and worshipped, while stabbing him in the back. You didn’t even have the courage of your own malice. You couldn’t go one way or the other. You hated me–oh, don’t you suppose I knew it?–and you followed me. You loved him and you’ve destroyed him. Oh, you’ve destroyed him all right, Petey, and now there’s no place to run, and you’ll have to go through with it!”

“What’s he to you? What difference does it make to you?”

“You should have asked that long ago. But you didn’t. Which means that you knew it. You’ve always known it. That’s what’s making you shake. Why should I help you lie to yourself? I’ve done that for ten years. That’s what you came to me for. That’s what they all come to me for. But you can’t get something for nothing. Ever. My socialistic theories to the contrary notwithstanding. You got what you wanted from me. It’s my turn now.”

“I won’t talk about Howard. You can’t make me talk about Howard.”

“No? Why don’t you throw me out of here? Why don’t you take me by the throat and choke me? You’re much stronger than I am. But you won’t. You can’t. Do you see the nature of power, Petey? Physical power? Muscle or guns or money? You and Gail Wynand should get together. You have a lot to tell him. Come on, Peter. Who designed Cortlandt?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Who designed Cortlandt?”

“Let me go!”

“Who designed Cortlandt?”

“It’s worse…what you’re doing…it’s much worse…”

“Than what?”

“Than what I did to Lucius Heyer.”

“What did you do to Lucius Heyer?”

“I killed him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s why it was better. Because I let him die.”

“Stop raving.”

“Why do you want to kill Howard?”

“I don’t want to kill him. I want him in jail. You understand? In jail. In a cell. Behind bars. Locked, stopped, strapped–and alive. He’ll get up when they tell him to. He’ll eat what they give him. He’ll move when he’s told to move and stop when he’s told. He’ll walk to the jute mill, when he’s told, and he’ll work as he’s told. They’ll push him, if he doesn’t move fast enough, and they’ll slap his face when they feel like it, and they’ll beat him with rubber hose if he doesn’t obey. And he’ll obey. He’ll take orders. He’ll take orders!”