The Fountainhead by Rand, Ayn

The young men talked a great deal about injustice, unfairness, the cruelty of society toward youth, and suggested that everyone should have his future commissions guaranteed when he left college. The woman architect shrieked briefly something about the iniquity of the rich. The contractor barked that it was a hard world and that “fellows gotta help one another.” The boy with the innocent eyes pleaded that “we could do so much good…” His voice had a note of desperate sincerity which seemed embarrassing and out of place. Gordon L. Prescott declared that the A.G.A. was a bunch of old fogies with no conception of social responsibility and not a drop of virile blood in the lot of them, and that it was time to kick them in the pants anyway. The woman of indefinite occupation spoke about ideals and causes, though nobody could gather just what these were.

Peter Keating was elected chairman, unanimously. Gordon L. Prescott was elected vice-chairman and treasurer. Toohey declined all nominations. He declared that he would act only as an unofficial advisor. It was decided that the organization would be named the “Council of American Builders.” It was decided that membership would not be restricted to architects, but would be open to “allied crafts” and to “all those holding the interests of the great profession of building at heart.”

Then Toohey spoke. He spoke at some length, standing up, leaning on the knuckles of one hand against a table. His great voice was soft and persuasive. It filled the room, but it made his listeners realize that it could have filled a Roman amphitheater; there was something subtly flattering in this realization, in the sound of the powerful voice being held in check for their benefit.

“…and thus, my friends, what the architectural profession lacks is an understanding of its own social importance. This lack is due to a double cause: to the anti-social nature of our entire society and to your own inherent modesty. You have been conditioned to think of yourselves merely as breadwinners with no higher purpose than to earn your fees and the means of your own existence. Isn’t it time, my friends, to pause and to redefine your position in society? Of all the crafts, yours is the most important. Important, not in the amount of money you might make, not in the degree of artistic skill you might exhibit, but in the service you render to your fellow men. You are those who provide mankind’s shelter. Remember this and then look at our cities, at our slums, to realize the gigantic task awaiting you. But to meet this challenge you must be armed with a broader vision of yourselves and of your work. You are not hired lackeys of the rich. You are crusaders in the cause of the underprivileged and the unsheltered. Not by what we are shall we be judged, but by those we serve. Let us stand united in this spirit. Let us–in all matters–be faithful to this new, broader, higher perspective. Let us organize–well, my friends, shall I say–a nobler dream?”

Keating listened avidly. He had always thought of himself as a breadwinner bent upon earning his fees, in a profession he had chosen because his mother had wanted him to choose it. It was gratifying to discover that he was much more than this; that his daily activity carried a nobler significance. It was pleasant and it was drugging. He knew that all the others in the room felt it also.

“…and when our system of society collapses, the craft of builders will not be swept under, it will be swept up to greater prominence and greater recognition…”

The doorbell rang. Then Toohey’s valet appeared for an instant, holding the door of the living room open to admit Dominique Francon.

By the manner in which Toohey stopped, on a half-uttered word, Keating knew that Dominique had not been invited or expected. She smiled at Toohey, shook her head and moved one hand in a gesture telling him to continue. He managed a faint bow in her direction, barely more than a movement of his eyebrows, and went on with his speech. It was a pleasant greeting and its informality included the guest in the intimate brotherhood of the occasion, but it seemed to Keating that it had come just one beat too late. He had never before seen Toohey miss the right moment.

Dominique sat down in a corner, behind the others. Keating forgot to listen for a while, trying to attract her attention. He had to wait until her eyes had traveled thoughtfully about the room, from face to face, and stopped on his. He bowed and nodded vigorously, with the smile of greeting a private possession. She inclined her head, he saw her lashes touching her cheeks for an instant as her eyes closed, and then she looked at him again. She sat looking at him for a long moment, without smiling, as if she were rediscovering something in his face. He had not seen her since spring. He thought that she looked a little tired and lovelier than his memory of her.

Then he turned to Ellsworth Toohey once more and he listened. The words he heard were as stirring as ever, but his pleasure in them had an edge of uneasiness. He looked at Dominique. She did not belong in this room, at this meeting. He could not say why, but the certainty of it was enormous and oppressive. It was not her beauty, it was not her insolent elegance. But something made her an outsider. It was as if they had all been comfortably naked, and a person had entered fully clothed, suddenly making them self-conscious and indecent. Yet she did nothing. She sat listening attentively. Once, she leaned back, crossing her legs, and lighted a cigarette. She shook the flame off the match with a brusque little jerk of her wrist and she dropped the match into an ash tray on a table beside her. He saw her drop the match into the ash tray; he felt as if that movement of her wrist had tossed the match into all their faces. He thought that he was being preposterous. But he noticed that Ellsworth Toohey never looked at her as he spoke.

When the meeting ended, Toohey rushed over to her.

“Dominique, my dear!” he said brightly. “Shall I consider myself flattered?”

“If you wish.”

“Had I known that you were interested, I would have sent you a very special invitation.”

“But you didn’t think I’d be interested?”

“No, frankly, I…”

“That was a mistake, Ellsworth. You discounted my newspaperwoman’s instinct. Never miss a scoop. It’s not often that one has the chance to witness the birth of a felony.”

“Just exactly what do you mean, Dominique?” asked Keating, his voice sharp.

She turned to him. “Hello, Peter.”

“You know Peter Keating, of course?” Toohey smiled at her.

“Oh, yes. Peter was in love with me once.”

“You’re using the wrong tense, Dominique,” said Keating.

“You must never take seriously anything Dominique chooses to say, Peter. She does not intend us to take it seriously. Would you like to join our little group, Dominique? Your professional qualifications make you eminently eligible.”

“No, Ellsworth. I wouldn’t like to join your little group. I really don’t hate you enough to do that.”

“Just why do you disapprove of it?” snapped Keating.

“Why, Peter!” she drawled. “Whatever gave you that idea? I don’t disapprove of it at all. Do I, Ellsworth? I think it’s a proper undertaking in answer to an obvious necessity. It’s just what we all need–and deserve.”

“Can we count on your presence at our next meeting?” Toohey asked. “It is pleasant to have so understanding a listener who will not be in the way at all–at our next meeting, I mean.”

“No, Ellsworth. Thank you. It was merely curiosity. Though you do have an interesting group of people here. Young builders. By the way, why didn’t you invite that man who designed the Enright House–what’s his name?–Howard Roark?”

Keating felt his jaw snap tight. But she looked at them innocently, she had said it lightly, in the tone of a casual remark–surely, he thought, she did not mean…what? he asked himself and added: she did not mean whatever it was he’d thought for a moment she meant, whatever had terrified him in that moment.

“I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Roark,” Toohey answered gravely.

“Do you know him?” Keating asked her.

“No,” she answered. “I’ve merely seen a sketch of the Enright House.”

“And?” Keating insisted. “What do you think of it?”

“I don’t think of it,” she answered.

When she turned to leave, Keating accompanied her. He looked at her in the elevator, on their way down. He saw her hand, in a tight black glove, holding the flat corner of a pocket-book. The limp carelessness of her fingers was insolent and inviting at once. He felt himself surrendering to her again. “Dominique, why did you actually come here today?”

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