The Fountainhead Part 86

Late each afternoon he telephoned Dominique in the country. "Fine. Everything under control. Don't listen to panic-mongers.... No, to h.e.l.l with it, you know I don't want to talk about the d.a.m.n paper. Tell me what the garden looks like.... Did you go swimming today? ... Tell me about the lake.... What dress are you wearing? ... Listen to WLX tonight, at eight, they'll have your pet-Rachmaninoff's Second Concerto.... Second Concerto.... Of course I have time to keep informed about everything.... Oh, all right, I see one can't fool an ex-newspaper woman, I did go over the radio page.... Of course we have plenty of help, it's just that I can't quite trust some of the new boys and I had a moment to spare.... Above all, Of course I have time to keep informed about everything.... Oh, all right, I see one can't fool an ex-newspaper woman, I did go over the radio page.... Of course we have plenty of help, it's just that I can't quite trust some of the new boys and I had a moment to spare.... Above all, don't come to town. don't come to town. You promised me that.... Good night, dearest...." You promised me that.... Good night, dearest...."

He hung up and sat looking at the telephone, smiling. The thought of the countryside was like the thought of a continent beyond an ocean that could not be crossed; it gave him a sense of being locked in a besieged fortress and he liked that-not the fact, but the feeling. His face looked like a throwback to some distant ancestor who had fought on the ramparts of a castle.

One evening he went out to the restaurant across the street; he had not eaten a complete meal for days. The streets were still light when he came back-the placid brown haze of summer, as if dulled sunrays remained stretched too comfortably on the warm air to undertake a movement of withdrawal, even though the sun had long since gone; it made the sky look fresh and the street dirty; there were patches of brown and tired orange in the corners of old buildings. He saw pickets pacing in front of the Banner's Banner's entrance. There were eight of them and they marched around and around in a long oval on the sidewalk. He recognized one boy-a police reporter; he had never seen any of the others. They carried signs: "Toohey, Harding, Allen, Falk ..." "The Freedom of the Press ..." "Gail Wynand Tramples Human Rights ..." entrance. There were eight of them and they marched around and around in a long oval on the sidewalk. He recognized one boy-a police reporter; he had never seen any of the others. They carried signs: "Toohey, Harding, Allen, Falk ..." "The Freedom of the Press ..." "Gail Wynand Tramples Human Rights ..."

His eyes kept following one woman. Her hips began at her ankles, bulging over the tight straps of her shoes; she had square shoulders and a long coat of cheap brown tweed over a huge square body. She had small white hands, the kind that would drop things all over the kitchen. She had an incision of a mouth, without lips, and she waddled as she moved, but she moved with surprising briskness. Her steps defied the whole world to hurt her, with a malicious slyness that seemed to say she would like nothing better, because what a joke it would be on the world if it tried to hurt her, just try it and see, just try it. Wynand knew she had never been employed on the Banner; Banner; she never could be; it did not appear likely that she could be taught to read; her steps seemed to add that she jolly well didn't have to. She carried a sign: "We demand ..." she never could be; it did not appear likely that she could be taught to read; her steps seemed to add that she jolly well didn't have to. She carried a sign: "We demand ..."

He thought of the nights when he had slept on the couch in the old Banner Building, in the first years, because the new presses had to be paid for and the Banner Banner had to be on the streets before its compet.i.tors, and he coughed blood one night and refused to see a doctor, but it turned out to be nothing, just exhaustion. had to be on the streets before its compet.i.tors, and he coughed blood one night and refused to see a doctor, but it turned out to be nothing, just exhaustion.

He hurried into the building. The presses were rolling. He stood and listened for a while.

At night the building was quiet. It seemed bigger, as if sound took s.p.a.ce and vacated it; there were panels of light at open doors, between long stretches of dim hallways. A lone typewriter clicked somewhere, evenly, like a dripping faucet. Wynand walked through the halls. He thought that men had been willing to work for him when he plugged known crooks for munic.i.p.al elections, when he glamorized red-light districts, when he ruined reputations by scandalous libel, when he sobbed over the mothers of gangsters. Talented men, respected men had been eager to work for him. Now he was being honest for the first time in his career. He was leading his greatest crusade-with the help of finks, drifters, drunkards, and humble drudges too pa.s.sive to quit. The guilt, he thought, was not perhaps with those who now refused to work for him.

The sun hit the square crystal inkstand on his desk. It made Wynand think of a cool drink on a lawn, white clothes, the feel of gra.s.s under bare elbows. He tried not to look at the gay glitter and went on writing. It was a morning in the second week of the strike. He had retreated to his office for an hour and given orders not to be disturbed; he had an article to finish; he knew he wanted the excuse, one hour of not seeing what went on in the building.

The door of his office opened without announcement, and Dominique came in. She had not been allowed to enter the Banner Building since their marriage.

He got up, a kind of quiet obedience in his movement, permitting himself no questions. She wore a coral linen suit, she stood as if the lake were behind her and the sunlight rose from the surface to the folds of her clothes. She said: "Gail, I've come for my old job on the Banner Banner."

He stood looking at her silently; then he smiled; it was a smile of convalescence.

He turned to the desk, picked up the sheets he had written, handed them to her and said: "Take this to the back room. Pick up the wire flimsies and bring them to me. Then report to Manning at the city desk."

The impossible, the not to be achieved in word, glance or gesture, the complete union of two beings in complete understanding, was done by a small stack of paper pa.s.sing from his hand to hers. Their fingers did not touch. She turned and walked out of the office.

Within two days, it was as if she had never left the staff of the Banner. Only now she did not write a column on houses, but kept busy wherever a competent hand was needed to fill a gap. "It's quite all right, Alvah," she said to Scarret, "it's a proper feminine job to be a seamstress. I'm here to slap on patches where necessary-and boy! is this cloth ripping fast! Just call me when one of your new journalists runs amuck more than usual."

Scarret could not understand her tone, her manner or her presence. "You're a lifesaver, Dominique," he mumbled sadly. "It's like the old days, seeing you here-and oh! how I wish it were the old days! Only I can't understand. Gail wouldn't allow a photo of you in the place, when it was a decent, respectable place-and now when it's practically as safe as a penitentiary during a convict riot, he lets you work work here!" here!"

"Can the commentaries, Alvah. We haven't the time."

She wrote a brilliant review of a movie she hadn't seen. She dashed off a report on a convention she hadn't attended. She batted out a string of recipes for the "Daily Dishes" column, when the lady in charge failed to show up one morning. "I didn't know you could cook," said Scarret. "I didn't either," said Dominique. She went out one night to cover a dock fire, when it was found that the only man on duty had pa.s.sed out on the floor of the men's room. "Good job," Wynand told her when he read the story, "but try that again and you'll get fired. If you want to stay, you're not to step out of the building."

This was his only comment on her presence. He spoke to her when necessary, briefly and simply, as to any other employee. He gave orders. There were days when they did not have time to see each other. She slept on a couch in the library. Occasionally, in the evening, she would come to his office, for a short rest, when they could take it, and then they talked, about nothing in particular, about small events of the day's work, gaily, like any married couple gossiping about the normal routine of their common life.

They did not speak of Roark or Cortlandt. She had noticed Roark's picture on the wall of his office and asked: "When did you hang that up?" "Over a year ago." It had been their only reference to Roark. They did not discuss the growing public fury against the Banner. They did not speculate on the future. They felt relief in forgetting the question beyond the walls of the building; it could be forgotten because it stood no longer as a question between them; it was solved and answered; what remained was the peace of the simplified: they had a job to do-the job of keeping a newspaper going-and they were doing it together.

She would come in, unsummoned, in the middle of the night, with a cup of hot coffee, and he would s.n.a.t.c.h it gratefully, not pausing in his work. He would find fresh sandwiches left on his desk when he needed them badly. He had no time to wonder where she got things. Then he discovered that she had established an electric plate and a stock of supplies in a closet. She cooked breakfast for him, when he had to work all night, she came in carrying dishes on a piece of cardboard for a tray, with the silence of empty streets beyond the windows and the first light of morning on the rooftops.

Once he found her, broom in hand, sweeping an office; the maintenance department had fallen apart, charwomen appeared and disappeared, no one had time to notice.

"Is that what I'm paying you for?" he asked.

"Well, we can't work in a pigsty. I haven't asked you what you're paying me, but I want a raise."

"Drop this thing, for G.o.d's sake! It's ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous? It's clean now. It didn't take me long. Is it a good job?"

"It's a good job."

She leaned on the broom handle and laughed. "I believe you thought, like everybody else, that I'm just a kind of luxury object, a high-cla.s.s type of kept woman, didn't you, Gail?"

"Is this the way you can keep going when you want to?"

"This is the way I've wanted to keep going all my life-if I could find a reason for it."

He learned that her endurance was greater than his. She never showed a sign of exhaustion. He supposed that she slept, but he could not discover when.

At any time, in any part of the building, not seeing him for hours, she was aware of him, she knew when he needed her most. Once, he fell asleep, slumped across his desk. He awakened and found her looking at him. She had turned off the lights, she sat on a chair by the window, in the moonlight, her face turned to him, calm, watching. Her face was the first thing he saw. Lifting his head painfully from his arm, in the first moment, before he could return fully to control and reality, he felt a sudden wrench of anger, helplessness and desperate protest, not remembering what had brought them here, to this, remembering only that they were both caught in some vast, slow process of torture and that he loved her.

She had seen it in his face, before he had completed the movement of straightening his body. She walked to him, she stood by his chair, she took his head and let it rest against her, she held him, and he did not resist, slumped in her arms, she kissed his hair, she whispered: "It will be all right, Gail, it will be all right."

At the end of three weeks Wynand walked out of the building one evening, not caring whether there would be anything left of it when he returned, and went to see Roark.

He had not telephoned Roark since the beginning of the siege. Roark telephoned him often; Wynand answered, quietly, just answering, originating no statement, refusing to prolong the conversation. He had warned Roark at the beginning: "Don't try to come here. I've given orders. You won't be admitted." He had to keep out of his mind the actual form which the issue of his battle could take; he had to forget the fact of Roark's physical existence; because the thought of Roark's person brought the thought of the county jail.

He walked the long distance to the Enright House; walking made the distance longer and safer; a ride in a cab would pull Roark too close to the Banner Building. He kept his glance slanted toward a point six feet ahead of him on the sidewalk; he did not want to look at the city.

"Good evening, Gail," Roark said calmly when he came in.

"I don't know what's a more conspicuous form of bad discipline," said Wynand, throwing his hat down on a table by the door, "to blurt things right out or to ignore them blatantly. I look like h.e.l.l. Say it."

"You do look like h.e.l.l. Sit down, rest and don't talk. Then I'll run you a hot bath-no, you don't look that dirty, but it will be good for you for a change. Then we'll talk."

Wynand shook his head and remained standing at the door.

"Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It's ruining you."

It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that.

"Of course," said Roark. "What of it?"

Wynand would not advance into the room.

"Gail, it doesn't matter, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not counting on public opinion, one way or the other."

"You want me to give in?"

"I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own."

He saw that Wynand understood, that it was the thing Wynand had tried not to face, and that Wynand wanted him to speak.

"I don't expect you to save me. I think I have a chance to win. The strike won't make it better or worse. Don't worry about me. And don't give in. If you stick to the end-you won't need me any longer."

He saw the look of anger, protest-and agreement. He added: "You know what I'm saying. We'll be better friends than ever-and you'll come to visit me in jail, if necessary. Don't wince, and don't make me say too much. Not now. I'm glad of this strike. I knew that something like that had to happen, when I saw you for the first time. You knew it long before that."

"Two months ago, I promised you ... the one promise I wanted to keep ..."

"You're keeping it."

"Don't you really want to despise me? I wish you'd say it now. I came here to hear it."

"All right. Listen. You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated. There was Henry Cameron who died for my own cause. And you're the publisher of filthy tabloids. But I couldn't say this to him, and I'm saying it to you. There's Steve Mallory who's never compromised with his soul. And you've done nothing but sell yours in every known way. But I couldn't say this to him and I'm saying it to you. Is that what you've always wanted to hear from me? But don't give in in."

He turned away, and added: "That's all. We won't talk about your d.a.m.n strike again. Sit down, I'll get you a drink. Rest, get yourself out of looking like h.e.l.l."

Wynand returned to the Banner Banner late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance. late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance.

Dominique said: "You've seen Roark."

"Yes. How do you know?"

"Here's the Sunday makeup. It's fairly lousy, but it'll have to do. I sent Manning home for a few hours-he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can do without him. Alvah's column was a mess-he can't even keep his grammar straight any more-I rewrote it, but don't tell him, tell him you did."

"Go to sleep. I'll take Manning's place. I'm good for hours."

They went on, and the days pa.s.sed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs. Fewer copies of the Banner Banner were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days pa.s.sed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread. were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days pa.s.sed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread.

XVI

IN THE GLa.s.s-SMOOTH MAHOGANY OF THE LONG TABLE RESERVED FOR the board of directors there was a monogram in colored wood-G W-reproduced from his signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it now. But an occasional glance fell upon it-and then it was a glance of pleasure.

The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board's history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.

Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing from a men's magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts: some thought of British tailors, others -of the House of Lords-of the Tower of London-of the executed English King-or was it a Chancellor?-who had died so well.

They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of the pickets outside-of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions -of the broad, flat face of a girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard "We Don't Read Wynand"-for support and courage to say what they were saying.

Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold his muscles ready.

"It's gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable society for the defense of personal friends?"

"Three hundred thousand dollars last week.... Never mind how I know it, Gail, no secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it's your money, but if you expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we're wise to your smart tricks. You're not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a penny of it, you don't get away with it this time, it's too late, Gail, the day's past for your bright stunts."

Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You've run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn't know it, but I know, it was you, it was your paper, there's nothing to save now.

"Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is that we accept the Union's demands, and they'll pick up the balance of their contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild circulation-which will be some job, friend, let me tell you-and I think that's pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word-care to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?"

"No, Senator Eldridge wouldn't see you.... Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to Washington last week. What you don't know is that Senator Eldridge is going around saying he wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig suddenly got called out to Florida, did he?-to sit up with a sick aunt? None of them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn't a road-paving deal or a little watered-stock scandal. And you ain't what you used to be."

Wynand thought: I never used to be, I've never been here, why are you afraid to look at me? Don't you know that I'm the least among you? The half-naked women in the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of your souls-but where was mine?

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a raise in wages, that that I could understand, I'd say fight the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for all we're worth. But what's this-a G.o.d-d.a.m.n intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?" I could understand, I'd say fight the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for all we're worth. But what's this-a G.o.d-d.a.m.n intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?"

"Don't you understand? The Banner's a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand, the evangelist. We're over a barrel, but we've got ideals."

"Now if it were a real issue, a political issue-but some fool dynamiter who's blown up some dump! Everybody's laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I've tried to read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it's the lousiest stuff ever put in print. You'd think you were writing for college professors!"

Wynand thought: I know you-you're the one who'd give money to a pregnant s.l.u.t, but not to a starving genius-I've seen your face before-I picked you and I brought you in-when in doubt about your work, remember that man's face, you're writing for him-but, Mr. Wynand, one can't remember his face-one can, child, one can, it will come back to remind you-it will come back and demand payment-and I'll pay-I signed a blank check long ago and now it's presented for collection-but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything you've got.

"The situation is medieval and a disgrace to democracy." The voice whined. It was Mitch.e.l.l Layton speaking. "It's about time somebody had some say around here. One man running all those papers as he d.a.m.n pleases-what is this, the nineteenth century?" Layton pouted; he looked somewhere in the direction of a banker across the table. "Has anybody here ever bothered to inquire about my ideas? I've got ideas. We've all got to pool ideas. What I mean is teamwork, one big orchestra. It's about time this paper had a modern, liberal, progressive policy! For instance, take the question of the share-croppers ..."

"Shut up, Mitch," said Alvah Scarret. Scarret had drops of sweat running down his temples; he didn't know why; he wanted the board to win; there was just something in the room ... it's too hot in here, he thought, I wish somebody'd open a window.

"I won't shut up!" shrieked Mitch.e.l.l Layton. "I'm just as good as . . ."

"Please, Mr. Layton," said the banker. "All right," said Layton, "all right. Don't forget who holds the biggest hunk of stock next to Superman here." He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him. "Just don't forget it. Just you guess who's going to run things around here." Mr. Layton," said the banker. "All right," said Layton, "all right. Don't forget who holds the biggest hunk of stock next to Superman here." He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him. "Just don't forget it. Just you guess who's going to run things around here."

"Gail," said Alvah Scarret, looking up at Wynand, his eyes strangely honest and tortured, "Gail, it's no use. But we can save the pieces. Look, if we just admit that we were wrong about Cortlandt and ... and if we just take Harding back, he's a valuable man, and ... maybe Toohey ..."

"No one is to mention the name of Toohey in this discussion," said Wynand.

Mitch.e.l.l Layton snapped his mouth open and dropped it shut again.

"That's it, Gail!" cried Alvah Scarret. "That's great! We can bargain and make them an offer. We'll reverse our policy on Cortlandt-that, we've got to, not for the d.a.m.n Union, but we've got to rebuild circulation, Gail-so we'll offer them that and we'll take Harding, Allen and Falk, but not To ... not Ellsworth. We give in and they give in. Saves everybody's face. Is that it, Gail?"

Wynand said nothing.

"I think that's it, Mr. Scarret," said the banker. "I think that's the solution. After all, Mr. Wynand must be allowed to maintain his prestige. We can sacrifice . . . a columnist and keep peace among ourselves."

"I don't see it!" yelled Mitch.e.l.l Layton. "I don't see it at all! Why should we sacrifice Mr.... a great liberal, just because ..."

"I stand with Mr. Scarret," said the man who had spoken of Senators, and the voices of the others seconded him, and the man who had criticized the editorials said suddenly, in the general noise: "I think Gail Wynand was a h.e.l.l of a swell boss after all!" There was something about Mitch.e.l.l Layton which he didn't want to see. Now he looked at Wynand, for protection. Wynand did not notice him.

"Gail?" asked Scarret. "Gail, what do you say?"

There was no answer.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Wynand, it's now or never! This can't go on!"

"Make up your mind or get out!"