"It's just the modern way of saying the same old things, nothing more. Besides, I can't be responsible for the policy of a magazine just because I sell them an article once in a while."
"Yeah, but ... That's not what I hear."
"What do you hear?"
"I hear you're financing the damn thing."
"Who, me? With what?"
"Well, not you yourself exactly. But I hear it was you who got young Ronny Pickering, the booze hound, to give them a shot in the arm to the tune of one hundred thousand smackers, just about when New Frontiers was going the way of all frontiers."
"Hell, that was just to save Ronny from the town's more expensive gutters. The kid was going to the dogs. Gave him a sort of higher purpose in life. And put one hundred thousand smackers to better use than the chorus cuties who'd have got it out of him anyway."
"Yeah, but you could've attached a little string to the gift, slipped word to the editors that they'd better lay off Gail or else."
"The New Frontiers is not the Banner, Alvah. It's a magazine of principles. One doesn't attach strings to its editors and one doesn't tell them 'or else.'"
"In this game, Ellsworth? Whom are you kidding?"
"Well, if it will set your mind at rest, I'll tell you something you haven't heard. It's not supposed to be known — it was done through a lot of proxies. Did you know that I just got Mitchell Layton to buy a nice fat chunk of the Banner?"
"No!"
"Yes."
"Christ, Ellsworth, that's great! Mitchell Layton? We can use a reservoir like that and ... Wait a minute. Mitchell Layton?"
"Yes. What's wrong with Mitchell Layton?"
"Isn't he the little boy who couldn't digest grandpaw's money?"
"Grandpaw left him an awful lot of money."
"Yeah, but he's a crackpot. He's the one who's been a Yogi, then a vegetarian, then a Unitarian, then a nudist — and now he's gone to build a palace of the proletariat in Moscow."
"So what?"
"But Jesus! — a Red among our stockholders?"
"Mitch isn't a Red. How can one be a Red with a quarter of a billion dollars? He's just a pale tea-rose. Mostly yellow. But a nice kid at heart."
"But — on the Banner!"
"Alvah, you're an ass. Don't you see? I've made him put some dough into a good, solid, conservative paper. That'll cure him of his pink notions and set him in the right direction. Besides, what harm can he do? Your dear Gail controls his papers, doesn't he?"
"Does Gail know about this?"
"No. Dear Gail hasn't been as watchful in the last five years as he used to be. And you'd better not tell him. You see the way Gail's going. He'll need a little pressure. And you'll need the dough. Be nice to Mitch Layton. He can come in handy."
"That's so."
"It is. You see? My heart's in the right place. I've helped a puny little liberal mag like the New Frontiers, but I've also brought a much more substantial hunk of cash to a big stronghold of arch-conservatism such as the New York Banner."
"So you have. Damn decent of you, too, considering that you're a kind of radical yourself."
"Now are you going to talk about any disloyalty?"
"Guess not. Guess you'll stand by the old Banner."
"Of course I will. Why, I love the Banner. I'd do anything for it. Why, I'd give my life for the New York Banner."
8.
WALKING the soil of a desert island holds one anchored to the rest of the earth; but in their penthouse, with the telephone disconnected, Wynand and Dominique had no feeling of the fifty-seven floors below them, of steel shafts braced against granite — and it seemed to them that their home was anchored in space, not an island, but a planet. The city became a friendly sight, an abstraction with which no possible communication could be established, like the sky, a spectacle to be admired, but of no direct concern in their lives.
For two weeks after their wedding they never left the penthouse. She could have pressed the button of the elevator and broken these weeks any time she wished; she did not wish it. She had no desire to resist, to wonder, to question. It was enchantment and peace.
He sat talking to her for hours when she wanted. He was content to sit silently, when she preferred, and look at her as he looked at the objects in his art gallery, with the same distant, undisturbing glance. He answered any question she put to him. He never asked questions. He never spoke of what he felt. When she wished to be alone, he did not call for her. One evening she sat reading in her room and saw him standing at the frozen parapet of the dark roof garden outside, not looking back at the house, only standing in the streak of light from her window.
When the two weeks ended, he went back to his work, to the office of the Banner. But the sense of isolation remained, like a theme declared and to be preserved through all their future days. He came home in the evening and the city ceased to exist. He had no desire to go anywhere. He invited no guests.
He never mentioned it, but she knew that he did not want her to step out of the house, neither with him nor alone. It was a quiet obsession which he did not expect to enforce. When he came home, he asked: "Have you been out?" — never: "Where have you been?" It was not jealousy — the "where" did not matter. When she wanted to buy a pair of shoes, he had three stores send a collection of shoes for her choice — it prevented her visit to a store. When she said she wanted to see a certain picture, he had a projection room built on the roof.
She obeyed, for the first few months. When she realized that she loved their isolation, she broke it at once. She made him accept invitations and she invited guests to their house. He complied without protest.
But he maintained a wall she could not break — the wall he had erected between his wife and his newspapers. Her name never appeared in their pages. He stopped every attempt to draw Mrs. Gail Wynand into public life — to head committees, sponsor charity drives, endorse crusades. He did not hesitate to open her mail — if it bore an official letterhead that betrayed its purpose — to destroy it without answer and to tell her that he had destroyed it. She shrugged and said nothing.
Yet he did not seem to share her contempt for his papers. He did not allow her to discuss them. She could not discover what he thought of them, nor what he felt. Once, when she commented on an offensive editorial, he said coldly:
"I've never apologized for the Banner. I never will."
"But this is really awful, Gail."
"I thought you married me as the publisher of the Banner."
"I thought you didn't like to think of that."
"What I like or dislike doesn't concern you. Don't expect me to change the Banner or sacrifice it. I wouldn't do that for anyone on earth."
She laughed. "I wouldn't ask it, Gail."
He did not laugh in answer.
In his office in the Banner Building, he worked with a new energy, a kind of elated, ferocious drive that surprised the men who had known him in his most ambitious years. He stayed in the office all night when necessary, as he had not done for a long time. Nothing changed in his methods and policy. Alvah Scarret watched him with satisfaction. "We were wrong about him, Ellsworth," said Scarret to his constant companion, "it's the same old Gail, God bless him. Better than ever."
"My dear Alvah," said Toohey, "nothing is ever as simple as you think — nor as fast."
"But he's happy. Don't you see that he's happy?"
"To be happy is the most dangerous thing that could have happened to him. And, as a humanitarian for once, I mean this for his own sake."
Sally Brent decided to outwit her boss. Sally Brent was one of the proudest possessions of the Banner, a stout, middle-aged woman who dressed like a model for a style show of the twenty-first century and wrote like a chambermaid. She had a large personal following among the readers of the Banner. Her popularity made her overconfident.