“I’m sure you have a great future, Mr. Roark, believe me, I know the signs, you’ll be another Ralston Holcombe.” He was accustomed to hostility; this kind of benevolence was more offensive than hostility. He shrugged; he thought that he would be out of here soon and back in the simple, clean reality of his own office.
He did not look at Dominique again for the rest of the evening. She watched him in the crowd. She watched those who stopped him and spoke to him. She watched his shoulders stooped courteously as he listened. She thought that this, too, was his manner of laughing at her; he let her see him being delivered to the crowd before her eyes, being surrendered to any person who wished to own him for a few moments. He knew that this was harder for her to watch than the sun and the drill in the quarry. She stood obediently, watching. She did not expect him to notice her again; she had to remain there as long as he was in this room.
There was another person, that night, abnormally aware of Roark’s presence, aware from the moment Roark had entered the room. Ellsworth Toohey had seen him enter. Toohey had never set eyes on him before and did not know him. But Toohey stood looking at him for a long time.
Then Toohey moved through the crowd, and smiled at his friends. But between smiles and sentences, his eyes went back to the man with the orange hair. He looked at the man as he looked occasionally at the pavement from a window on the thirtieth floor, wondering about his own body were it to be hurled down and what would happen when he struck against that pavement. He did not know the man’s name, his profession or his past; he had no need to know; it was not a man to him, but only a force; Toohey never saw men. Perhaps it was the fascination of seeing that particular force so explicitly personified in a human body.
After a while he asked John Erik Snyte, pointing:
“Who is that man?”
“That?” said Snyte. “Howard Roark. You know, the Enright House.”
“Oh,” said Toohey.
“What?”
“Of course. It would be.”
“Want to meet him?”
“No,” said Toohey. “No, I don’t want to meet him.”
For the rest of the evening whenever some figure obstructed Toohey’s view of the hall, his head would jerk impatiently to find Roark again. He did not want to look at Roark; he had to look; just as he always had to look down at that distant pavement, dreading the sight.
That evening, Ellsworth Toohey was conscious of no one but Roark. Roark did not know that Toohey existed in the room.
When Roark left, Dominique stood counting the minutes, to be certain that he would be lost to sight in the streets before she could trust herself to go out. Then she moved to leave.
Kiki Holcombe’s thin, moist fingers clasped her hand in parting, clasped it vaguely and slipped up to hold her wrist for a moment.
“And, my dear,” asked Kiki Holcombe, “what did you think of that new one, you know, I saw you talking to him, that Howard Roark?”
“I think,” said Dominique firmly, “that he is the most revolting person I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, now, really?”
“Do you care for that sort of unbridled arrogance? I don’t know what one could say for him, unless it’s that he’s terribly good-looking, if that matters.”
“Good-looking! Are you being funny, Dominique?”
Kiki Holcombe saw Dominique being stupidly puzzled for once. And Dominique realized that what she saw in his face, what made it the face of a god to her, was not seen by others; that it could leave them indifferent; that what she had thought to be the most obvious, inconsequential remark was, instead, a confession of something within her, some quality not shared by others.
“Why, my dear,” said Kiki, “he’s not good-looking at all, but extremely masculine.”
“Don’t let it astonish you, Dominique,” said a voice behind her. “Kiki’s esthetic judgment is not yours–nor mine.”
Dominique turned. Ellsworth Toohey stood there, smiling, watching her face attentively.
“You…” she began and stopped.
“Of course,” said Toohey, bowing faintly in understanding affirmative of what she had not said. “Do give me credit for discernment, Dominique, somewhat equal to yours. Though not for esthetic enjoyment. I’ll leave that part of it to you. But we do see things, at times, which are not obvious, don’t we–you and I?”
“What things?”
“My dear, what a long philosophical discussion that would take, and how involved, and how–unnecessary. I’ve always told you that we should be good friends. We have so much in common intellectually. We start from opposite poles, but that makes no difference, because you see, we meet in the same point. It was a very interesting evening, Dominique.”
“What are you driving at?”
“For instance, it was interesting to discover what sort of thing appears good-looking to you. It’s nice to have you classified firmly, concretely. Without words–just with the aid of a certain face.”
“If…if you can see what you’re talking about, you can’t be what you are.”
“No, my dear. I must be what I am, precisely because of what I see.”
“You know, Ellsworth, I think you’re much worse than I thought you were.”
“And perhaps much worse than you’re thinking now. But useful. We’re all useful to one another. As you will be to me. As, I think, you will want to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s bad, Dominique. Very bad. So pointless. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I couldn’t possibly explain it. If you do–I have you, already, without saying anything further.”
“What kind of a conversation is this?” asked Kiki, bewildered.
“Just our way of kidding each other,” said Toohey brightly. “Don’t let it bother you, Kiki. Dominique and I are always kidding each other. Not very well, though, because you see–we can’t.”
“Some day, Ellsworth,” said Dominique, “you’ll make a mistake.”
“Quite possible. And you, my dear, have made yours already.”
“Good night, Ellsworth.”
“Good night, Dominique.”
Kiki turned to him when Dominique had gone.
“What’s the matter with both of you, Ellsworth? Why such talk–over nothing at all? People’s faces and first impressions don’t mean a thing.”
“That, my dear Kiki,” he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, “is one of our greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we’re not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?”
“The…what?”
“The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the style of a civilization? He called it ‘style.’ He said it was the nearest word he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one principle….I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also. Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else.”
“That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people naked before you.”
“It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of face….The style of your soul…There’s nothing important on earth, except human beings. There’s nothing as important about human beings as their relations to one another….”
“Well, what do you see in my face?”
He looked at her, as if he had just noticed her presence.
“What did you say?”
“I said, what do you see in my face?”
“Oh…yes…well, tell me the movie stars you like and I’ll tell you what you are.”
“You know, I just love to be analyzed. Now let’s see. My greatest favorite has always been…”
But he was not listening. He had turned his back on her, he was walking away without apology. He looked tired. She had never seen him being rude before–except by intention.
A little later, from among a group of friends, she heard his rich, vibrant voice saying:
“…and, therefore, the noblest conception on earth is that of men’s absolute equality.”
7.
“…AND there it will stand, as a monument to nothing but the egotism of Mr. Enright and of Mr. Roark. It will stand between a row of brownstone tenements on one side and the tanks of a gashouse on the other. This, perhaps, is not an accident, but a testimonial to fate’s sense of fitness. No other setting could bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building. It will rise as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built them. Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so. But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast it will have made itself a part of the great ineptitude, its most ludicrous part. If a ray of light falls into a pigsty, it is the ray that shows us the muck and it is the ray that is offensive. Our structures have the great advantage of obscurity and timidity. Besides, they suit us. The Enright House is bright and bold. So is a feather boa. It will attract attention–but only to the immense audacity of Mr. Roark’s conceit. When this building is erected, it will be a wound on the face of our city. A wound, too, is colorful.”