第 15 页

"You’ll close up the office, Howard. You’ll let them keep the furniture for

their rent. But you’ll take the drawing that’s on the wall in my room there and

you’ll ship it to me. Only that. You’ll burn everything else. All the papers,

the files, the drawings, the contracts, everything."

"Yes," said Roark.

Miss Cameron came with the orderlies and the stretcher, and they rode in an

ambulance to the ferry. At the entrance to the ferry, Cameron said to Roark:

"You’re going back now." He added: "You’ll come to see me, Howard....Not too

often..."

Roark turned and walked away, while they were carrying Cameron to the pier. It

was a gray morning and there was the cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air.

A gull dipped low over the street, gray like a floating piece of newspaper,

against a corner of damp, streaked stone.

That evening, Roark went to Cameron’s closed office. He did not turn on the

lights. He made a fire in the Franklin heater in Cameron’s room, and emptied

drawer after drawer into the fire, not looking down at them. The papers rustled

dryly in the silence, a thin odor of mold rose through the dark room, and the

fire hissed, crackling, leaping in bright streaks. At times a white flake with

charred edges would flutter out of the flames. He pushed it back with the end of

a steel ruler.

There were drawings of Cameron’s famous buildings and of buildings unbuilt;

there were blueprints with the thin white lines that were girders still standing

somewhere; there were contracts with famous signatures; and at times, from out

of the red glow, there flashed a sum of seven figures written on yellowed paper,

flashed and went down, in a thin burst of sparks.

From among the letters in an old folder, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the

floor. Roark picked it up. It was dry, brittle and yellow, and it broke at the

folds, in his fingers. It was an interview given by Henry Cameron, dated May 7,

1892. It said: "Architecture is not a business, not a career, but a crusade and

a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the earth." He dropped

the clipping into the fire and reached for another folder.

He gathered every stub of pencil from Cameron’s desk and threw them in also.

He stood over the heater. He did not move, he did not look down; he felt the

movement of the glow, a faint shudder at the edge of his vision. He looked at

the drawing of the skyscraper that had never been built, hanging on the wall

before him.

#

It was Peter Keating’s third year with the firm of Francon & Heyer. He carried

his head high, his body erect with studied uprightness; he looked like the

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picture of a successful young man in advertisements for high-priced razors or

medium-priced cars.

He dressed well and watched people noticing it. He had an apartment off Park

Avenue, modest but fashionable, and he bought three valuable etchings as well as

a first edition of a classic he had never read nor opened since. Occasionally,

he escorted clients to the Metropolitan Opera. He appeared, once, at a

fancy-dress Arts Ball and created a sensation by his costume of a medieval

stonecutter, scarlet velvet and tights; he was mentioned in a society-page

account of the event--the first mention of his name in print--and he saved the

clipping.

He had forgotten his first building, and the fear and doubt of its birth. He had

learned that it was so simple. His clients would accept anything, so long as he

gave them an imposing facade, a majestic entrance and a regal drawing room, with

which to astound their guests. It worked out to everyone’s satisfaction: Keating

did not care so long as his clients were impressed, the clients did not care so

long as their guests were impressed, and the guests did not care anyway.

Mrs. Keating rented her house in Stanton and came to live with him in New York.

He did not want her; he could not refuse--because she was his mother and he was

not expected to refuse. He met her with some eagerness; he could at least

impress her by his rise in the world. She was not impressed; she inspected his

rooms, his clothes, his bank books and said only: "It’ll do, Petey--for the time

being."

She made one visit to his office and departed within a half-hour. That evening

he had to sit still, squeezing and cracking his knuckles, for an hour and a

half, while she gave him advice. "That fellow Whithers had a much more expensive

suit than yours, Petey. That won’t do. You’ve got to watch your prestige before

those boys. The little one who brought in those blueprints--I didn’t like the

way he spoke to you....Oh, nothing, nothing, only I’d keep my eye on him....The

one with the long nose is no friend of yours....Never mind, I just know....Watch

out for the one they called Bennett. I’d get rid of him if I were you. He’s

ambitious. I know the signs...."

Then she asked:

"Guy Francon...has he any children?"

"One daughter."

"Oh..." said Mrs. Keating. "What is she like?"

"I’ve never met her."

"Really, Peter," she said, "it’s downright rude to Mr. Francon if you’ve made no

effort to meet his family."

"She’s been away at college, Mother. I’ll meet her some day. It’s getting late,

Mother, and I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow...."

But he thought of it that night and the following day. He had thought of it

before and often. He knew that Francon’s daughter had graduated from college

long ago and was now working on the Banner, where she wrote a small column on

home decoration. He had been able to learn nothing else about her. No one in the

office seemed to know her. Francon never spoke of her.

On that following day, at luncheon, Keating decided to face the subject.

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"I hear such nice things about your daughter," he said to

Francon. "Where did you hear nice things about her?" Francon asked ominously.

"Oh, well, you know how it is, one hears things. And she writes brilliantly."

"Yes, she writes brilliantly." Francon’s mouth snapped shut.

"Really, Guy, I’d love to meet her."

Francon looked at him and sighed wearily.

"You know she’s not living with me," said Francon. "She has an apartment of her

own--I’m not sure that I even remember the address....Oh, I suppose you’ll meet

her some day. You won’t like her, Peter."

"Now, why do you say that?"

"It’s one of those things, Peter. As a father I’m afraid I’m a total

failure....Say, Peter, what did Mrs. Mannering say about that new stairway

arrangement?"

Keating felt angry, disappointed--and relieved. He looked at Francon’s squat

figure and wondered what appearance his daughter must have inherited to earn her

father’s so obvious disfavor. Rich and ugly as sin--like most of them, he

decided. He thought that this need not stop him--some day. He was glad only that

the day was postponed. He thought, with new eagerness, that he would go to see

Catherine tonight.

Mrs. Keating had met Catherine in Stanton. She had hoped that Peter would

forget. Now she knew that he had not forgotten, even though he seldom spoke of

Catherine and never brought her to his home. Mrs. Keating did not mention

Catherine by name. But she chatted about penniless girls who hooked brilliant

young men, about promising boys whose careers had been wrecked by marriage to

the wrong woman; and she read to him every newspaper account of a celebrity

divorcing his plebeian wife who could not live up to his eminent position.

Keating thought, as he walked toward Catherine’s house that night, of the few

times he had seen her; they had been such unimportant occasions, but they were

the only days he remembered of his whole life in New York.

He found, in the middle of her uncle’s living room, when she let him in, a mess

of letters spread all over the carpet, a portable typewriter, newspapers,

scissors, boxes and a pot of glue.

"Oh dear!" said Catherine, flopping limply down on her knees in the midst of the

litter. "Oh dear!"

She looked up at him, smiling disarmingly, her hands raised and spread over the

crinkling white piles. She was almost twenty now and looked no older than she

had looked at seventeen.

"Sit down, Peter. I thought I’d be through before you came, but I guess I’m not.

It’s Uncle’s fan mail and his press clippings. I’ve got to sort it out, and

answer it and file it and write notes of thanks and...Oh, you should see some of

the things people write to him! It’s wonderful. Don’t stand there. Sit down,

will you? I’ll be through in a minute."

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"You’re through right now," he said, picking her up in his arms, carrying her to

a chair.

He held her and kissed her and she laughed happily, her head buried on his

shoulder. He said:

"Katie, you’re an impossible little fool and your hair smells so nice!"

She said: "Don’t move, Peter. I’m comfortable."

"Katie, I want to tell you, I had a wonderful time today. They opened the

Bordman Building officially this afternoon. You know, down on Broadway,

twenty-two floors and a Gothic spire. Francon had indigestion, so I went there

as his representative. I designed that building anyway and...Oh, well, you know

nothing about it."

"But I do, Peter. I’ve seen all your buildings. I have pictures of them. I cut

them out of the papers. And I’m making a scrap-book, just like Uncle’s. Oh,

Peter, it’s so wonderful!"

"What?"

"Uncle’s scrapbooks, and his letters...all this..." She stretched her hands out

over the papers on the floor, as if she wanted to embrace them. "Think of it,

all these letters coming from all over the country, perfect strangers and yet he

means so much to them. And here I am, helping him, me, just nobody, and look

what a responsibility I have! It’s so touching and so big, what do they

matter--all the little things that can happen to us?--when this concerns a whole

nation!"

"Yeah? Did he tell you that?"

"He told me nothing at all. But you can’t live with him for years without

getting some of that...that wonderful selflessness of his." He wanted to be

angry, but he saw her twinkling smile, her new kind of fire, and he had to smile

in answer.

"I’ll say this, Katie: it’s becoming to you, becoming as hell. You know, you

could look stunning if you learned something about clothes. One of these days,

I’ll take you bodily and drag you down to a good dressmaker. I want you to meet

Guy Francon some day. You’ll like him."

"Oh? I thought you said once that I wouldn’t."

"Did I say that? Well, I didn’t really know him. He’s a grand fellow. I want you

to meet them all. You’d be...hey, where are you going?" She had noticed the

watch on his wrist and was edging away from him.

"I...It’s almost nine o’clock, Peter, and I’ve got to have this finished before

Uncle Ellsworth gets home. He’ll be back by eleven, he’s making a speech at a

labor meeting tonight. I can work while we’re talking, do you mind?"

"I certainly do! To hell with your dear uncle’s fans! Let him untangle it all

himself. You stay just where you are."

She sighed, but put her head on his shoulder obediently. "You mustn’t talk like

that about Uncle Ellsworth. You don’t understand him at all. Have you read his

book?"

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"Yes! I’ve read his book and it’s grand, it’s stupendous, but I’ve heard nothing

but talk of his damn book everywhere I go, so do you mind if we change the

subject?"

"You still don’t want to meet Uncle Ellsworth?"

"Why? What makes you say that? I’d love to meet him."

"Oh..."

"What’s the matter?"

"You said once that you didn’t want to meet him through me."

"Did I? How do you always remember all the nonsense I happen to say?"

"Peter, I don’t want you to meet Uncle Ellsworth."

"Why not?"

"I don’t know. It’s kind of silly of me. But now I just don’t

want you to. I don’t know why."

"Well, forget it then. I’ll meet him when the time comes. Katie, listen,

yesterday I was standing at the window in my room, and I thought of you, and I

wanted so much to have you with me, I almost called you, only it was too late. I

get so terribly lonely for you like that, I..."

She listened, her arms about his neck. And then he saw her looking suddenly past

him, her mouth opened in consternation; she jumped up, dashed across the room,

and crawled on her hands and knees to reach a lavender envelope lying under a

desk.

"Now what on earth?" he demanded angrily.

"It’s a very important letter," she said, still kneeling, the envelope held

tightly in her little fist, "it’s a very important letter and there it was,

practically in the wastebasket, I might have swept it out without noticing. It’s

from a poor widow who has five children and her eldest son wants to be an

architect and Uncle Ellsworth is going to arrange a scholarship for him."

"Well," said Keating, rising, "I’ve had just about enough of this. Let’s get out

of here, Katie. Let’s go for a walk. It’s beautiful out tonight. You don’t seem

to belong to yourself in here."

"Oh, fine! Let’s go for a walk."

Outside, there was a mist of snow, a dry, fine, weightless snow that hung still

in the air, filling the narrow tanks of streets. They walked together,

Catherine’s arm pressed to his, their feet leaving long brown smears on the

white sidewalks.

They sat down on a bench in Washington Square. The snow enclosed the Square,

cutting them off from the houses, from the city beyond. Through the shadow of

the arch, little dots of light rolled past them, steel-white, green and smeared

red.

She sat huddled close to him. He looked at the city. He had always been afraid