Roark awakened in the morning and thought that last night had been like a point reached, like a stop in the movement of his life. He was moving forward for the sake of such stops; like the moments when he had walked through the half-finished Heller house; like last night. In some unstated way, last night had been what building was to him; in some quality of reaction within him, in what it gave to his consciousness of existence.
They had been united in an understanding beyond the violence, beyond the deliberate obscenity of his action; had she meant less to him, he would not have taken her as he did; had he meant less to her, she would not have fought so desperately. The unrepeatable exultation was in knowing that they both understood this.
He went to the quarry and he worked that day as usual. She did not come to the quarry and he did not expect her to come. But the thought of her remained. He watched it with curiosity. It was strange to be conscious of another person’s existence, to feel it as a close, urgent necessity; a necessity without qualifications, neither pleasant nor painful, merely final like an ultimatum. It was important to know that she existed in the world; it was important to think of her, of how she had awakened this morning, of how she moved, with her body still his, now his forever, of what she thought.
That evening, at dinner in the sooted kitchen, he opened a newspaper and saw the name of Roger Enright in the lines of a gossip column. He read the short paragraph:
“It looks like another grand project on its way to the wastebasket. Roger Enright, the oil king, seems to be stumped this time. He’ll have to call a halt to his latest pipe dream of an Enright House. Architect trouble, we are told. Seems as if half a dozen of the big building boys have been shown the gate by the unsatisfiable Mr. Enright. Top-notchers, all of them.”
Roark felt the wrench he had tried so often to fight, not to let it hurt him too much: the wrench of helplessness before the vision of what he could do, what should have been possible and was closed to him. Then, without reason, he thought of Dominique Francon. She had no relation to the things in his mind; he was shocked only to know that she could remain present even among these things.
A week passed. Then, one evening, he found a letter waiting for him at home. It had been forwarded from his former office to his last New York address, from there to Mike, from Mike to Connecticut. The engraved address of an oil company on the envelope meant nothing to him. He opened the letter. He read:
“Dear Mr. Roark,
“I have been endeavoring for some time to get in touch with you, but have been unable to locate you. Please communicate with me at your earliest convenience. I should like to discuss with you my proposed Enright House, if you are the man who built the Fargo Store.
“Sincerely yours,
“Roger Enright.”
Half an hour later Roark was on a train. When the train started moving, he remembered Dominique and that he was leaving her behind. The thought seemed distant and unimportant. He was astonished only to know that he still thought of her, even now.
She could accept, thought Dominique, and come to forget in time everything that had happened to her, save one memory: that she had found pleasure in the thing which had happened, that he had known it, and more: that he had known it before he came to her and that he would not have come but for that knowledge. She had not given him the one answer that would have saved her: an answer of simple revulsion–she had found joy in her revulsion, in her terror and in his strength. That was the degradation she had wanted and she hated him for it.
She found a letter one morning, waiting for her on the breakfast table. It was from Alvah Scarret. “…When are you coming back, Dominique? I can’t tell you how much we miss you here. You’re not a comfortable person to have around, I’m actually scared of you, but I might as well inflate your inflated ego some more, at a distance, and confess that we’re all waiting for you impatiently. It will be like the homecoming of an Empress.”
She read it and smiled. She thought, if they knew…those people…that old life and that awed reverence before her person…I’ve been raped…I’ve been raped by some redheaded hoodlum from a stone quarry….I, Dominique Francon….Through the fierce sense of humiliation, the words gave her the same kind of pleasure she had felt in his arms.
She thought of it when she walked through the countryside, when she passed people on the road and the people bowed to her, the chatelaine of the town. She wanted to scream it to the hearing of all.
She was not conscious of the days that passed. She felt content in a strange detachment, alone with the words she kept repeating to herself. Then, one morning, standing on the lawn in her garden, she understood that a week had passed and that she had not seen him for a week. She turned and walked rapidly across the lawn to the road. She was going to the quarry.
She walked the miles to the quarry, down the road, bareheaded in the sun. She did not hurry. It was not necessary to hurry. It was inevitable. To see him again….She had no purpose. The need was too great to name a purpose….Afterward…There were other things, hideous, important things behind her and rising vaguely in her mind, but first, above all, just one thing: to see him again…
She came to the quarry and she looked slowly, carefully, stupidly about her, stupidly because the enormity of what she saw would not penetrate her brain: she saw at once that he was not there. The work was in full swing, the sun was high over the busiest hour of the day, there was not an idle man in sight, but he was not among the men. She stood, waiting numbly, for a long time.
Then she saw the foreman and she motioned for him to approach.
“Good afternoon, Miss Francon….Lovely day, Miss Francon, isn’t it? Just like the middle of summer again and yet fall’s not far away, yes, fall’s coming, look at the leaves, Miss Francon.”
She asked:
“There was a man you had here…a man with very bright orange hair…where is he?”
“Oh yes. That one. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Quit. Left for New York, I think. Very suddenly too.”
“When? A week ago?”
“Why, no. Just yesterday.”
“Who was…”
Then she stopped. She was going to ask: “Who was he?” She asked instead:
“Who was working here so late last night? I heard blasting.”
“That was for a special order for Mr. Francon’s building. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building, you know. A rash job.”
“Yes…I see….”
“Sorry it disturbed you, Miss Francon.”
“Oh, not at all….”
She walked away. She would not ask for his name. It was her last chance of freedom.
She walked swiftly, easily, in sudden relief. She wondered why she had never noticed that she did not know his name and why she had never asked him. Perhaps because she had known everything she had to know about him from that first glance. She thought, one could not find some nameless worker in the city of New York. She was safe. If she knew his name, she would be on her way to New York now.
The future was simple. She had nothing to do except never to ask for his name. She had a reprieve. She had a chance to fight. She would break it–or it would break her. If it did, she would ask for his name.
3.
WHEN Peter Keating entered the office, the opening of the door sounded like a single high blast on a trumpet. The door flew forward as if it had opened of itself to the approach of a man before whom all doors were to open in such manner.
His day in the office began with the newspapers. There was a neat pile of them waiting, stacked on his desk by his secretary. He liked to see what new mentions appeared in print about the progress of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building or the firm of Francon & Keating.
There were no mentions in the papers this morning, and Keating frowned. He saw, however, a story about Ellsworth M. Toohey. It was a startling story. Thomas L. Foster, noted philanthropist, had died and had left, among larger bequests, the modest sum of one hundred thousand dollars to Ellsworth M. Toohey, “my friend and spiritual guide–in appreciation of his noble mind and true devotion to humanity.” Ellsworth M. Toohey had accepted the legacy and had turned it over, intact, to the “Workshop of Social Study,” a progressive institute of learning where he held the post of lecturer on “Art as a Social Symptom.” He had given the simple explanation that he “did not believe in the institution of private inheritance.” He had refused all further comment. “No, my friends,” he had said, “not about this.” And had added, with his charming knack for destroying the earnestness of his own moment: “I like to indulge in the luxury of commenting solely upon interesting subjects. I do not consider myself one of these.”