The Fountainhead (85 page)

When the train stopped, he turned to her. They did not shake hands, they did not speak. They stood straight, facing each other for a moment, as if at attention; it was almost like a military salute. Then she picked up her suitcase and went aboard the train. The train started moving a minute later.

C
HUCK:
AND WHY NOT A MUSKRAT? WHY SHOULD MAN IMAGINE himself superior to a muskrat? Life beats in all the small creatures of field and wood. Life singing of eternal sorrow. An old sorrow. The Song of Songs. We don’t understand—but who cares about understanding? Only public accountants and chiropodists. Also mailmen. We only love. The Sweet Mystery of Love. That’s all there is to it. Give me love and shove all your philosophers up your stovepipe. When Mary took the homeless muskrat, her heart broke open and life and love rushed in. Muskrats make good imitation mink coats, but that’s not the point. Life is the point.

“Jake:
(rushing in) Say, folks, who’s got a stamp with a picture of George Washington on it?

Ike slammed his manuscript shut and took a long swig of air. His voice was hoarse after two hours of reading aloud and he had read the climax of his play on a single long breath. He looked at his audience, his mouth smiling in self-mockery, his eyebrows raised insolently, but his eyes pleading.

Ellsworth Toohey, sitting on the floor, scratched his spine against a chair leg and yawned. Gus Webb, stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the room, rolled over on his back. Lancelot Clokey, the foreign correspondent, reached for his highball glass and finished it off. Jules Fougler, the new drama critic of the
Banner,
sat without moving; he had not moved for two hours. Lois Cook, hostess, raised her arms, twisting them, stretching, and said:

“Jesus, Ike, it’s awful.”

Lancelot Clokey drawled, “Lois, my girl, where do you keep your gin? Don’t be such a damn miser. You’re the worst hostess I know.”

Gus Webb said, “I don’t understand literature. It’s nonproductive and a waste of time. Authors will be liquidated.”

Ike laughed shrilly. “A stinker, huh?” He waved his script. “A real super-stinker. What do you think I wrote it for? Just show me anyone who can write a bigger flop. Worst play you’ll ever hear in your life.”

It was not a formal meeting of the Council of American Writers, but an unofficial gathering. Ike had asked a few of his friends to listen to his latest work. At twenty-six he had written eleven plays, but had never had one produced.

“You’d better give up the theater, Ike,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Writing is a serious business and not for any stray bastard that wants to try it.” Lancelot Clokey’s first book—an account of his personal adventures in foreign countries—was in its tenth week on the best-seller list.

“Why, isn’t it, Lance?” Toohey drawled sweetly.

“All right,” snapped Clokey, “all right. Give me a drink.”

“It’s awful,” said Lois Cook, her head lolling wearily from side to side. “It’s perfectly awful. It’s so awful it’s wonderful.”

“Balls,” said Gus Webb. “Why do I ever come here?”

Ike flung his script at the fireplace, it struck against the wire screen and landed, face down, open, the thin pages crushed.

“If Ibsen can write plays, why can’t I?” he asked. “He’s good and I’m lousy, but that’s not a sufficient reason.”

“Not in the cosmic sense,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Still, you’re lousy.”

“You don’t have to say it. I said so first.”

“This is a great play,” said a voice.

The voice was slow, nasal and bored. It had spoken for the first time that evening, and they all turned to Jules Fougler. A cartoonist had once drawn a famous picture of him; it consisted of two sagging circles, a large one and a small one: the large one was his stomach, the small one—his lower lip. He wore a suit, beautifully tailored, of a color to which he referred as
“merde d’oie.”
He kept his gloves on at all times and he carried a cane. He was an eminent drama critic.

Jules Fougler stretched out his cane, caught the playscript with the hook of the handle and dragged it across the floor to his feet. He did not pick it up, but he repeated, looking at it:

“This is a great play.”

“Why?” asked Lancelot Clokey.

“Because I say so,” said Jules Fougler.

“Is that a gag, Jules?” asked Lois Cook.

“I never gag,” said Jules Fougler. “It is vulgar.”

“Send me a coupla seats to the opening,” sneered Lancelot Clokey.

“Eight-eighty for two seats to the opening,” said Jules Fougler. “It will be the biggest hit of the season.”

Jules Fougler turned and saw Toohey looking at him. Toohey smiled but the smile was not light or careless; it was an approving commentary upon something he considered as very serious indeed. Fougler’s glance was contemptuous when turned to the others, but it relaxed for a moment of understanding when it rested on Toohey.

“Why don’t you join the Council of American Writers, Jules?” asked Toohey.

“I am an individualist,” said Fougler. “I don’t believe in organizations. Besides, is it necessary?”

“No, not necessary at all,” said Toohey cheerfully. “Not for you, Jules. There’s nothing I can teach you.”

“What I like about you, Ellsworth, is that it’s never necessary to explain myself to you.”

“Hell, why explain anything here? We’re six of a kind.”

“Five,” said Fougler. “I don’t like Gus Webb.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Gus. He was not offended.

“Because he doesn’t wash his ears,” answered Fougler, as if the question had been asked by a third party.

“Oh, that,” said Gus.

Ike had risen and stood staring at Fougler, not quite certain whether he should breathe.

“You like my play, Mr. Fougler?” he asked at last, his voice small.

“I haven’t said I like it,” Fougler answered coldly. “I think it smells. That is why it’s great.”

“Oh,” said Ike. He laughed. He seemed relieved. His glance went around the faces in the room, a glance of sly triumph.

“Yes,” said Fougler, “my approach to its criticism is the same as your approach to its writing. Our motives are identical.”

“You’re a grand guy, Jules.”

“Mr. Fougler, please.”

“You’re a grand guy and the swellest bastard on earth, Mr. Fougler.”

Fougler turned the pages of the script at his feet with the tip of his cane.

“Your typing is atrocious, Ike,” he said.

“Hell, I’m not a stenographer. I’m a creative artist.”

“You will be able to afford a secretary after this show opens. I shall be obliged to praise it—if for no other reason than to prevent any further abuse of a typewriter, such as this. The typewriter is a splendid instrument, not to be outraged.”

“All right, Jules,” said Lancelot Clokey, “it’s all very witty and smart and you’re sophisticated and brilliant as all get-out-but what do you actually want to praise that crap for?”

“Because it is—as you put it—crap.”

“You’re not logical, Lance,” said Ike. “Not in the cosmic sense you aren’t. To write a good play and to have it praised is nothing. Anybody can do that. Anybody with talent—and talent is only a glandular accident. But to write a piece of crap and have it praised—well, you match that.”

“He has,” said Toohey.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Lancelot Clokey. He upturned his empty glass over his mouth and sucked at a last piece of ice.

“Ike understands things much better than you do, Lance,” said Jules Fougler. “He has just proved himself to be a real thinker—in that little speech of his. Which, incidentally, was better than his whole play.”

“I’ll write my next play about that,” said Ike.

“Ike has stated his reasons,” Fougler continued. “And mine. And also yours, Lance. Examine my case, if you wish. What achievement is there for a critic in praising a good play? None whatever. The critic is then nothing but a kind of glorified messenger boy between author and public. What’s there in that for me? I’m sick of it. I have a right to wish to impress my own personality upon people. Otherwise I shall become frustrated—and I do not believe in frustration. But if a critic is able to put over a perfectly worthless play—ah, you do perceive the difference! Therefore, I shall make a hit out of—what’s the name of your play, Ike?”

“No skin off your ass,” said Ike.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the title.”

“Oh, I see. Therefore, I shall make a hit out of No Skin
Off
Your
Ass.”

Lois Cook laughed loudly.

“You all make too damn much fuss about everything,” said Gus Webb, lying flat, his hands entwined under his head.

“Now if you wish to consider your own case, Lance,” Fougler went on. “What satisfaction is there for a correspondent in reporting on world events? The public reads about all sorts of international crises and you’re lucky if they even notice your by-line. But you’re every bit as good as any general, admiral or ambassador. You have a right to make people conscious of yourself. So you’ve done the wise thing. You’ve written a remarkable collection of bilge—yes, bilge—but morally justified. A clever book. World catastrophes used as a backdrop for your own nasty little personality. How Lancelot Clokey got drunk at an international conference. What beauties slept with Lancelot Clokey during an invasion. How Lancelot Clokey got dysentery in a land of famine. Well, why not, Lance? It went over, didn’t it? Ellsworth put it over, didn’t he?”

“The public appreciates good human-interest stuff,” said Lancelot Clokey, looking angrily into his glass.

“Oh, can the crap, Lance!” cried Lois Cook. “Who’re you acting for here? You know damn well it wasn’t any kind of a human interest, but plain Ellsworth Toohey.”

“I don’t forget what I owe Ellsworth,” said Clokey sullenly. “Ellsworth’s my best friend. Still, he couldn’t have done it if he didn’t have a good book to do it with.”

Eight months ago Lancelot Clokey had stood with a manuscript in his hand before Ellsworth Toohey, as Ike stood before Fougler now, not believing it when Toohey told him that his book would top the best-seller list. But two hundred thousand copies sold had made it impossible for Clokey ever to recognize any truth again in any form.

“Well, he did it with The
Gallant Gallstone,”
said Lois Cook placidly, “and a worse piece of trash never was put down on paper. I ought to know. But he did it.”

“And almost lost my job doing it,” said Toohey indifferently.

“What do you do with your liquor, Lois?” snapped Clokey. “Save it to take a bath in?”

“All right, blotter,” said Lois Cook, rising lazily.

She shuffled across the room, picked somebody’s unfinished drink off the floor, drank the remnant, walked out and came back with an assortment of expensive bottles. Clokey and Ike hurried to help themselves.

“I think you’re unfair to Lance, Lois,” said Toohey. “Why shouldn’t he write an autobiography?”

“Because his life wasn’t worth living, let alone recording.”

“Ah, but that is precisely why I made it a best-seller.”

“You’re telling me?”

“I like to tell someone.”

There were many comfortable chairs around him, but Toohey preferred to remain on the floor. He rolled over to his stomach, propping his torso upright on his elbows, and he lolled pleasurably, switching his weight from elbow to elbow, his legs spread out in a wide fork on the carpet. He seemed to enjoy unrestraint.

“I like to tell someone. Next month I’m pushing the autobiography of a small-town dentist who’s really a remarkable person—because there’s not a single remarkable day in his life nor sentence in his book. You’ll like it, Lois. Can you imagine a solid bromide undressing his soul as if it were a revelation?”

“The little people,” said Ike tenderly. “I love the little people. We must love the little people of this earth.”

“Save that for your next play,” said Toohey.

“I can’t,” said Ike. “It’s in this one.”

“What’s the big idea, Ellsworth?” snapped Clokey.

“Why, it’s simple, Lance. When the fact that one is a total nonentity who’s done nothing more outstanding than eating, sleeping and chatting with neighbors becomes a fact worthy of pride, of announcement to the world and of diligent study by millions of readers—the fact that one has built a cathedral becomes unrecordable and unannounceable. A matter of perspectives and relativity. The distance permissible between the extremes of any particular capacity is limited. The sound perception of an ant does not include thunder.”

“You talk like a decadent bourgeois, Ellsworth,” said Gus Webb.

“Pipe down, Sweetie-pie,” said Toohey without resentment.

“It’s all very wonderful,” said Lois Cook, “except that you’re doing too well, Ellsworth. You’ll run me out of business. Pretty soon if I still want to be noticed, I’ll have to write something that’s actually good.”

“Not in this century, Lois,” said Toohey. “And perhaps not in the next. It’s later than you think.”

“But you haven’t said ... !” Ike cried suddenly, worried.

“What haven’t I said?”

“You haven’t said who’s going to produce my play!”

“Leave that to me,” said Jules Fougler.

“I forgot to thank you, Ellsworth,” said Ike solemnly. “So now I thank you. There are lots of bum plays, but you picked mine. You and Mr. Fougler.”

“Your bumness is serviceable, Ike.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“It’s a great deal.”

“How—for instance?”

“Don’t talk too much, Ellsworth,” said Gus Webb. “You’ve got a talking jag.”

“Shut your face, Kewpie-doll. I like to talk. For instance, Ike? Well, for instance, suppose I didn’t like Ibsen——”

“Ibsen is good,” said Ike.

“Sure he’s good, but suppose I didn’t like him. Suppose I wanted to stop people from seeing his plays. It would do me no good whatever to tell them so. But if I sold them the idea that you’re just as great as Ibsen—pretty soon they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”