The Fountainhead (105 page)

Keating made an involuntary movement forward.

“But first, I want you to think and tell me what made me give years to this work. Money? Fame? Charity? Altruism?” Keating shook his head slowly. “All right. You’re beginning to understand. So whatever we do, don’t let’s talk about the poor people in the slums. They have nothing to do with it, though I wouldn’t envy anyone the job of trying to explain that to fools. You see, I’m never concerned with my clients, only with their architectural requirements. I consider these as part of my building’s theme and problem, as my building’s material—just as I consider bricks and steel. Bricks and steel are not my motive. Neither are the clients. Both are only the means of my work. Peter, before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the secondary consequences. The work, not the people. Your own action, not any possible object of your charity. I’ll be glad if people who need it find a better manner of living in a house I designed. But that’s not the motive of my work. Nor my reason. Nor my reward.”

He walked to a window and stood looking out at the lights of the city trembling in the dark river.

“You said yesterday: ‘What architect isn’t interested in housing?’ I hate the whole blasted idea of it. I think it’s a worthy undertaking—to provide a decent apartment for a man who earns fifteen dollars a week. But not at the expense of other men. Not if it raises the taxes, raises all the other rents and makes the man who earns forty live in a rat hole. That’s what’s happening in New York. Nobody can afford a modern apartment—except the very rich and the paupers. Have you seen the converted brownstones in which the average self-supporting couple has to live? Have you seen their closet kitchens and their plumbing? They’re forced to live like that—because they’re not incompetent enough. They make forty dollars a week and wouldn’t be allowed into a housing project. But they’re the ones who provide the money for the damn project. They pay the taxes. And the taxes raise their own rent. And they have to move from a converted brownstone into an unconverted one and from that into a railroad flat. I’d have no desire to penalize a man because he’s worth only fifteen dollars a week. But I’ll be damned if I can see why a man worth forty must be penalized—and penalized in favor of the one who’s less competent. Sure, there are a lot of theories on the subject and volumes of discussion. But just look at the results. Still, architects are all for government housing. And have you ever seen an architect who wasn’t screaming for planned cities? I’d like to ask him how he can be so sure that the plan adopted will be his own. And if it is, what right has he to impose it on the others? And if it isn‘t, what happens to his work? I suppose he’ll say that he wants neither. He wants a council, a conference, co-operation and collaboration. And the result will be ‘The March of the Centuries.’ Peter, every single one of you on that committee has done better work alone than the eight of you produced collectively. Ask yourself why, sometime.”

“I think I know it ... But Cortlandt ...”

“Yes. Cortlandt. Well, I’ve told you all the things in which I don’t believe, so that you’ll understand what I want and what right I have to want it. I don’t believe in government housing. I don’t want to hear anything about its noble purposes. I don’t think they’re noble. But that, too, doesn’t matter. That’s not my first concern. Not who lives in the house nor who orders it built. Only the house itself. If it has to be built, it might as well be built right.”

“You ... want to build it?”

“In all the years I’ve worked on this problem, I never hoped to see the results in practical application. I forced myself not to hope. I knew I couldn’t expect a chance to show what could be done on a large scale. Your government housing, among other things, has made all building so expensive that private owners can’t afford such projects, nor any type of low-rent construction. And I will never be given any job by any government. You’ve understood that much yourself. You said I couldn’t get past Toohey. He’s not the only one. I’ve never been given a job by any group, board, council or committee, public or private, unless some man fought for me, like Kent Lansing. There’s a reason for that, but we don’t have to discuss it now. I want you to know only that I realize in what manner I need you, so that what we’ll do will be a fair exchange.”

“You
need me?”

“Peter, I love this work. I want to see it erected. I want to make it real, living, functioning, built. But every living thing is integrated. Do you know what that means? Whole, pure, complete, unbroken. Do you know what constitutes an integrating principle? A thought. The one thought, the single thought that created the thing and every part of it. The thought which no one can change or touch. I want to design Cortlandt. I want to see it built. I want to see it built exactly as I design it.”

“Howard ... I won’t say ‘it’s nothing.’ ”

“You understand?”

“Yes.”

“I like to receive money for my work. But I can pass that up this time. I like to have people know my work is done by me. But I can pass that up. I like to have tenants made happy by my work. But that doesn’t matter too much. The only thing that matters, my goal, my reward, my beginning, my end is the work itself. My work done my way. Peter, there’s nothing in the world that you can offer me, except this. Offer me this and you can have anything I’ve got to give. My work done my way. A private, personal, selfish, egotistical motivation. That’s the only way I function. That’s all I am.”

“Yes, Howard. I understand. With my whole mind.”

“Then here’s what I’m offering you: I’ll design Cortlandt. You’ll put your name on it. You’ll keep all the fees. But you’ll guarantee that it will be built exactly as I design it.”

Keating looked at him and held the glance deliberately, quietly, for a moment.

“All right, Howard.” He added: “I waited, to show you that I know exactly what you’re asking and what I’m promising.”

“You know it won’t be easy?”

“I know it will be very terribly difficult.”

“It will. Because it’s such a large project. Most particularly because it’s a government project. There will be so many people involved, each with authority, each wanting to exercise it in some way or another. You’ll have a hard battle. You will have to have the courage of my convictions.”

“I’ll try to live up to that, Howard.”

“You won’t be able to, unless you understand that I’m giving you a trust which is more sacred—and nobler, if you like the word—than any altruistic purpose you could name. Unless you understand that this is not a favor, that I’m not doing it for you nor for the future tenants, but for myself, and that you have no right to it except on these terms.”

“Yes, Howard.”

“You’ll have to devise your own way of accomplishing it. You’ll have to get yourself an ironclad contract with your bosses and then fight every bureaucrat that comes along every five minutes for the next year or more. I will have no guarantee except your word. Wish to give it to me?”

“I give you my word.”

Roark took two typewritten sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to him.

“Sign it.”

“What’s that?”

“A contract between us, stating the terms of our agreement. A copy for each of us. It would probably have no legal validity whatever. But I can hold it over your head. I couldn’t sue you. But I could make this public. If it’s prestige you want, you can’t allow this to become known. If your courage fails you at any point, remember that you’ll lose everything by giving in. But if you’ll keep your word—I give you mine—it’s written there—that I’ll never betray this to anyone. Cortlandt will be yours. On the day when it’s finished, I’ll send this paper back to you and you can burn it if you wish.”

“All right, Howard.”

Keating signed, handed the pen to him, and Roark signed.

Keating sat looking at him for a moment, then said slowly, as if trying to distinguish the dim form of some thought of his own:

“Everybody would say you’re a fool.... Everybody would say I’m getting everything....”

“You’ll get everything society can give a man. You’ll keep all the money. You’ll take any fame or honor anyone might want to grant. You’ll accept such gratitude as the tenants might feel. And I—I’ll take what nobody can give a man, except himself. I will have built Cortlandt.”

“You’re getting more than I am, Howard.”

“Peter!” The voice was triumphant. “You understand that?”

“Yes....”

Roark leaned back against a table, and laughed softly; it was the happiest sound Keating had ever heard.

“This will work, Peter. It will work. It will be all right. You’ve done something wonderful. You haven’t spoiled everything by thanking me.”

Keating nodded silently.

“Now relax, Peter. Want a drink? We won’t discuss any details tonight. Just sit here and get used to me. Stop being afraid of me. Forget everything you said yesterday. This wipes it off. We’re starting from the beginning. We’re partners now. You have your share to do. It’s a legitimate share. This is my idea of co-operation, by the way. You’ll handle people. I’ll do the building. We’ll each do the job we know best, as honestly as we can.”

He walked to Keating and extended his hand.

Sitting still, not raising his head, Keating took the hand. His fingers tightened on it for a moment.

When Roark brought him a drink, Keating swallowed three long gulps and sat looking at the room. His fingers were closed firmly about the glass, his arm steady; but the ice tinkled in the liquid once in a while, without apparent motion.

His eyes moved heavily over the room, over Roark’s body. He thought, it’s not intentional, not just to hurt me, he can’t help it, he doesn’t even know it—but it’s in his whole body, that look of a creature glad to be alive. And he realized he had never actually believed that any living thing could be glad of the gift of existence.

“You’re ... so young, Howard.... You’re so young ... Once I reproached you for being too old and serious ... Do you remember when you worked for me at Francon’s?”

“Drop it, Peter. We’ve done so well without remembering.”

“That’s because you’re kind. Wait, don’t frown. Let me talk. I’ve got to talk about something. I know, this is what you didn’t want to mention. God, I didn’t want you to mention it! I had to steel myself against it, that night—against all the things you could throw at me. But you didn’t. If it were reversed now and this were my home—can you imagine what I’d do or say? You’re not conceited enough.”

“Why, no. I’m too conceited. If you want to call it that. I don’t make comparisons. I never think of myself in relation to anyone else. I just refuse to measure myself as part of anything. I’m an utter egotist.”

“Yes. You are. But egotists are not kind. And you are. You’re the most egotistical and the kindest man I know. And that doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe the concepts don’t make sense. Maybe they don’t mean what people have been taught to think they mean. But let’s drop that now. If you’ve got to talk of something, let’s talk of what we’re going to do.” He leaned out to look through the open window. “It will stand down there. That dark stretch—that’s the site of Cortlandt. When it’s done, I’ll be able to see it from my window. Then it will be part of the city. Peter, have I ever told you how much I love this city?”

Keating swallowed the rest of the liquid in his glass.

“I think I’d rather go now, Howard. I’m ... no good tonight.”

“I’ll call you in a few days. We’d better meet here. Don’t come to my office. You don’t want to be seen there—somebody might guess. By the way, later, when my sketches are done, you’ll have to copy them yourself, in your own manner. Some people would recognize my way of drawing.”

“Yes.... All right....”

Keating rose and stood looking uncertainly at his briefcase for a moment, then picked it up. He mumbled some vague words of parting, he took his hat, he walked to the door, then stopped and looked down at his briefcase.

“Howard ... I brought something I wanted to show you.”

He walked back into the room and put the briefcase on the table.

“I haven’t shown it to anyone.” His fingers fumbled, opening the straps. “Not to mother or Ellsworth Toohey ... I just want you to tell me if there’s any ...”

He handed to Roark six of his canvases.

Roark looked at them, one after another. He took a longer time than he needed. When he could trust himself to lift his eyes, he shook his head in silent answer to the word Keating had not pronounced.

“It’s too late, Peter,” he said gently.

Keating nodded. “Guess I ... knew that.”

When Keating had gone, Roark leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He was sick with pity.

He had never felt this before—not when Henry Cameron collapsed in the office at his feet, not when he saw Steven Mallory sobbing on a bed before him. Those moments had been clean. But this was pity—this complete awareness of a man without worth or hope, this sense of finality, of the not to be redeemed. There was shame in this feeling—his own shame that he should have to pronounce such judgment upon a man, that he should know an emotion which contained no shred of respect.

This is pity, he thought, and then he lifted his head in wonder. He thought that there must be something terribly wrong with a world in which this monstrous feeling is called a virtue.

T
HEY SAT ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE-WYNAND SLOUCHED ON A boulder—Roark stretched out on the ground—Dominique sitting straight, her body rising stiffly from the pale blue circle of her skirt on the grass.

The Wynand house stood on the hill above them. The earth spread out in terraced fields and rose gradually to make the elevation of the hill. The house was a shape of horizontal rectangles rising toward a slashing vertical projection; a group of diminishing setbacks, each a separate room, its size and form making the successive steps in a series of interlocking floor lines. It was as if from the wide living room on the first level a hand had moved slowly, shaping the next steps by a sustained touch, then had stopped, had continued in separate movements, each shorter, brusquer, and had ended, torn off, remaining somewhere in the sky. So that it seemed as if the slow rhythm of the rising fields had been picked up, stressed, accelerated and broken into the staccato chords of the finale.