The Fountainhead (41 page)

 

“Dear Peter Keating,

“Drop in to see me at my office one of these days. Would love to discover what you look like.

“E.M.T.”

 

He let the clipping flutter down to his desk, and he stood over it, running a strand of hair between his fingers, in a kind of happy stupor. Then he whirled around to his drawing of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, that hung on the wall between a huge photograph of the Parthenon and one of the Louvre. He looked at the pilasters of his building. He had never thought of them as Culture flowering from out of the broad masses, but he decided that one could very well think that and all the rest of the beautiful stuff.

Then he seized the telephone, he spoke to a high, flat voice which belonged to Ellsworth Toohey’s secretary, and he made an appointment to see Toohey at four-thirty of the next afternoon.

In the hours that followed, his daily work assumed a new relish. It was as if his usual activity had been only a bright, flat mural and had now become a noble bas-relief, pushed forward, given a three-dimensional reality by the words of Ellsworth Toohey.

Guy Francon descended from his office once in a while, for no ascertainable purpose. The subtler shades of his shirts and socks matched the gray of his temples. He stood smiling benevolently in silence. Keating flashed past him in the drafting room and acknowledged his presence, not stopping, but slowing his steps long enough to plant a crackling bit of newspaper into the folds of the mauve handkerchief in Francon’s breast-pocket, with “Read that when you have time, Guy.” He added, his steps half-way across the next room: “Want to have lunch with me today, Guy? Wait for me at the Plaza.”

When he came back from lunch, Keating was stopped by a young draftsman who asked, his voice high with excitement:

“Say, Mr. Keating, who’s it took a shot at Ellsworth Toohey?”

Keating managed to gasp out:

“Who is it did
what?”

“Shot Mr. Toohey.”

“That’s what I want to know, who.”

“Shot ...
Ellsworth Toohey?”

“That’s what I saw in the paper in the restaurant a guy had. Didn’t have time to get one.”

“He’s ...
killed?”

“That’s what I don’t know. Saw only it said about a shot.”

“If he’s dead, does that mean they won’t publish his column tomorrow?”

“Dunno. Why, Mr. Keating?”

“Go get me a paper.”

“But I’ve got to ...”

“Get me that paper, you damned idiot!”

The story was there, in the afternoon papers. A shot had been fired at Ellsworth Toohey that morning, as he stepped out of his car in front of a radio station where he was to deliver an address on “The Voiceless and the Undefended.” The shot had missed him. Ellsworth Toohey had remained calm and sane throughout. His behavior had been theatrical only in too complete an absence of anything theatrical. He had said: “We cannot keep a radio audience waiting,” and had hurried on upstairs to the microphone where, never mentioning the incident, he delivered a half-hour’s speech from memory, as he always did. The assailant had said nothing when arrested.

Keating stared—his throat dry—at the name of the assailant. It was Steven Mallory.

Only the inexplicable frightened Keating, particularly when the inexplicable lay, not in tangible facts, but in that causeless feeling of dread within him. There was nothing to concern him directly in what had happened, except his wish that it had been someone else, anyone but Steven Mallory; and that he didn’t know why he should wish this.

Steven Mallory had remained silent. He had given no explanation of his act. At first, it was supposed that he might have been prompted by despair at the loss of his commission for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, since it was learned that he lived in revolting poverty. But it was learned, beyond any doubt, that Ellsworth Toohey had had no connection whatever with his loss. Toohey had never spoken to Mr. Slotnick about Steven Mallory. Toohey had not seen the statue of “Industry.” On this point Mallory had broken his silence to admit that he had never met Toohey nor seen him in person before, nor known any of Toohey’s friends. “Do you think that Mr. Toohey was in some way responsible for your losing that commission?” he was asked. Mallory had answered: “No.” “Then why?” Mallory said nothing.

Toohey had not recognized his assailant when he saw him seized by policemen on the sidewalk outside the radio station. He did not learn his name until after the broadcast. Then, stepping out of the studio into an anteroom full of waiting newsmen, Toohey said: “No, of course I won’t press any charges. I wish they’d let him go. Who is he, by the way?” When he heard the name, Toohey’s glance remained fixed somewhere between the shoulder of one man and the hat brim of another. Then Toohey—who had stood calmly while a bullet struck an inch from his face against the glass of the entrance door below—uttered one word and the word seemed to fall at his feet, heavy with fear:
“Why?”

No one could answer. Presently, Toohey shrugged, smiled, and said: “If it was an attempt at free publicity—well, what atrocious taste!” But nobody believed this explanation, because all felt that Toohey did not believe it either. Through the interviews that followed, Toohey answered questions gaily. He said: “I had never thought myself important enough to warrant assassination. It would be the greatest tribute one could possibly expect—if it weren’t so much in the style of an operetta.” He managed to convey the charming impression that nothing of importance had happened because nothing of importance ever happened on earth.

Mallory was sent to jail to await trial. All efforts to question him failed.

The thought that kept Keating uneasily awake for many hours, that night, was the groundless certainty that Toohey felt exactly as he did. He knows, thought Keating, and I know, that there is—in Steven Mallory’s motive—a greater danger than in his murderous attempt. But we shall never know his motive. Or shall we? ... And then he touched the core of fear: it was the sudden wish that he might be guarded, through the years to come, to the end of his life, from ever learning that motive.

 

Ellsworth Toohey’s secretary rose in a leisurely manner, when Keating entered, and opened for him the door into Ellsworth Toohey’s office.

Keating had grown past the stage of experiencing anxiety at the prospect of meeting a famous man, but he experienced it in the moment when he saw the door opening under her hand. He wondered what Toohey really looked like. He remembered the magnificent voice he had heard in the lobby of the strike meeting, and he imagined a giant of a man, with a rich mane of hair, perhaps, just turning gray, with bold, broad features of an ineffable benevolence, something vaguely like the countenance of God the Father.

“Mr. Peter Keating—Mr. Toohey,” said the secretary and closed the door behind him.

At a first glance upon Ellsworth Monkton Toohey one wished to offer him a heavy, well-padded overcoat—so frail and unprotected did his thin little body appear, like that of a chicken just emerging from the egg, in all the sorry fragility of unhardened bones. At a second glance one wished to be sure that the overcoat should be an exceedingly good one—so exquisite were the garments covering that body. The lines of the dark suit followed frankly the shape within it, apologizing for nothing: they sank with the concavity of the narrow chest, they slid down from the long, thin neck with the sharp slope of the shoulders. A great forehead dominated the body. The wedge-shaped face descended from the broad temples to a small, pointed chin. The hair was black, lacquered, divided into equal halves by a thin white line. This made the skull look tight and trim, but left too much emphasis to the ears that flared out in solitary nakedness, like the handles of a bouillon cup. The nose was long and thin, prolonged by the small dab of a black mustache. The eyes were dark and startling. They held such a wealth of intellect and of twinkling gaiety that his glasses seemed to be worn not to protect his eyes but to protect other men from their excessive brilliance.

“Hello, Peter Keating,” said Ellsworth Monkton Toohey in his compelling, magical voice. “What do you think of the temple of Nike Apteros?”

“How ... do you do, Mr. Toohey,” said Keating, stopped, stupefied. “What do I think ... of
what?”

“Sit down, my friend. Of the temple of Nike Apteros.”

“Well ... Well ... I ...”

“I feel certain that you couldn’t have overlooked that little gem. The Parthenon has usurped the recognition which—and isn’t that usually the case? the bigger and stronger appropriating all the glory, while the beauty of the unprepossessing goes unsung—which should have been awarded to that magnificent little creation of the great free spirit of Greece. You’ve noted, I’m sure, the fine balance of its mass, the supreme perfection of its modest proportions—ah, yes, you know, the supreme in the modest—the delicate craftsmanship of detail?”

“Yes, of course,” muttered Keating, “that’s always been my favorite —the temple of Nike Apteros.”

“Really?” said Ellsworth Toohey, with a smile which Keating could not quite classify. “I was certain of it. I was certain you’d say it. You have a very handsome face, Peter Keating, when you don’t stare like this—which is really quite unnecessary.”

And Toohey was laughing suddenly, laughing quite obviously, quite insultingly, at Keating and at himself; it was as if he were underscoring the falseness of the whole procedure. Keating sat aghast for an instant; and then he found himself laughing easily in answer, as if at home with a very old friend.

“That’s better,” said Toohey. “Don’t you find it advisable not to talk too seriously in an important moment? And this might be a very important moment—who knows?—for both of us. And, of course, I knew you’d be a little afraid of me and—oh, I admit—I was quite a bit afraid of you, so isn’t this much better?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Toohey,” said Keating happily. His normal assurance in meeting people had vanished; but he felt at ease, as if all responsibility were taken away from him and he did not have to worry about saying the right things, because he was being led gently into saying them without any effort on his part. “I’ve always known it would be an important moment when I met you, Mr. Toohey. Always. For years.”

“Really?” said Ellsworth Toohey, the eyes behind the glasses attentive. “Why?”

“Because I’d always hoped that I would please you, that you’d approve to me ... of my work ... when the time came ... why, I even ...”

“Yes?”

“... I even thought, so often, when drawing, is this the kind of a building that Ellsworth Toohey would say is good? I tried to see it like that, through your eyes ... I ... I’ve ...” Toohey listened watchfully. “I’ve always wanted to meet you because you’re such a profound thinker and a man of such cultural distinc—”

“Now,” said Toohey, his voice kindly but a little impatient; his interest had dropped on that last sentence. “None of that. I don’t mean to be ungracious, but we’ll dispense with that sort of thing, shall we? Unnatural as this may sound, I really don’t like to hear personal praise.”

It was Toohey’s eyes, thought Keating, that put him at ease. There was such a vast understanding in Toohey’s eyes and such an unfastidious kindness—no, what a word to think of—such an unlimited kindness. It was as if one could hide nothing from him, but it was not necessary to hide it, because he would forgive anything. They were the most unaccusing eyes that Keating had ever seen.

“But, Mr. Toohey,” he muttered, “I did want to ...”

“You wanted to thank me for my article,” said Toohey and made a little grimace of gay despair. “And here I’ve been trying so hard to prevent you from doing it. Do let me get away with it, won’t you? There’s no reason why you should thank me. If you happened to deserve the things I said—well, the credit belongs to you, not to me. Doesn’t it?”

“But I was so happy that you thought I’m ...”

“... a great architect? But surely, my boy, you knew that. Or weren’t you quite sure? Never quite sure of it?”

“Well, I ...”

It was only a second’s pause. And it seemed to Keating that this pause was all Toohey had wanted to hear from him; Toohey did not wait for the rest, but spoke as if he had received a full answer, and an answer that pleased him.

“And as for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, who can deny that it’s an extraordinary achievement? You know, I was greatly intrigued by its plan. It’s a most ingenious plan. A brilliant plan. Very unusual. Quite different from what I have observed in your previous work. Isn’t it?”

“Naturally,” said Keating, his voice clear and hard for the first time, “the problem was different from anything I’d done before, so I worked out that plan to fit the particular requirements of the problem.”

“Of course,” said Toohey gently. “A beautiful piece of work. You should be proud of it.”

Keating noticed that Toohey’s eyes stood centered in the middle of the lenses and the lenses stood focused straight on his pupils, and Keating knew suddenly that Toohey knew he had not designed the plan of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. This did not frighten him. What frightened him was that he saw approval in Toohey’s eyes.

“If you must feel—no, not gratitude, gratitude is such an embarrassing word—but, shall we say, appreciation?” Toohey continued, and his voice had grown softer, as if Keating were a fellow conspirator who would know that the words used were to be, from now on, a code for a private meaning, “you might thank me for understanding the symbolic implications of your building and for stating them in words as you stated them in marble. Since, of course, you are not just a common mason, but a thinker in stone.”

“Yes,” said Keating, “that was my abstract theme, when I designed the building—the great masses and the flowers of culture. I’ve always believed that true culture springs from the common man. But I had no hope that anyone would ever understand me.”