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got to hurry and change and run along. The Dean’s waiting for you."

She stood looking after him through the screen door, watching his gaunt figure

move across the rigid neatness of her parlor. He always made her uncomfortable

in the house, with a vague feeling of apprehension, as if she were waiting to

see him swing out suddenly and smash her coffee tables, her Chinese vases, her

framed photographs. He had never shown any inclination to do so. She kept

expecting it, without knowing why.

Roark went up the stairs to his room. It was a large, bare room, made luminous

by the clean glow of whitewash. Mrs. Keating had never had the feeling that

Roark really lived there. He had not added a single object to the bare

necessities of furniture which she had provided; no pictures, no pennants, no

cheering human touch. He had brought nothing to the room but his clothes and his

drawings; there were few clothes and too many drawings; they were stacked high

in one comer; sometimes she thought that the drawings lived there, not the man.

Roark walked now to these drawings; they were the first things to be packed. He

lifted one of them, then the next, then another. He stood looking at the broad

sheets.

They were sketches of buildings such as had never stood on the face of the

earth. They were as the first houses built by the first man born, who had never

heard of others building before him. There was nothing to be said of them,

except that each structure was inevitably what it had to be. It was not as if

the draftsman had sat over them, pondering laboriously, piecing together doors,

windows and columns, as his whim dictated and as the books prescribed. It was as

if the buildings had sprung from the earth and from some living force, complete,

unalterably right. The hand that had made the sharp pencil lines still had much

to learn. But not a line seemed superfluous, not a needed plane was missing. The

structures were austere and simple, until one looked at them and realized what

work, what complexity of method, what tension of thought had achieved the

simplicity. No laws had dictated a single detail. The buildings were not

Classical, they were not Gothic, they were not Renaissance. They were only

Howard Roark.

He stopped, looking at a sketch. It was one that had never satisfied him. He had

designed it as an exercise he had given himself, apart from his schoolwork; he

did that often when he found some particular site and stopped before it to think

of what building it should bear. He had spent nights staring at this sketch,

wondering what he had missed. Glancing at it now, unprepared, he saw the mistake

he had made.

He flung the sketch down on the table, he bent over it, he slashed lines

straight through his neat drawing. He stopped once in a while and stood looking

at it, his fingertips pressed to the paper; as if his hands held the building.

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His hands had long fingers, hard veins, prominent joints and wristbones.

An hour later he heard a knock at his door.

"Come in!" he snapped, without stopping.

"Mr. Roark!" gasped Mrs. Keating, staring at him from the threshold. "What on

earth are you doing?"

He turned and looked at her, trying to remember who she was.

"How about the Dean?" she moaned. "The Dean that’s waiting for you?"

"Oh," said Roark. "Oh, yes. I forgot."

"You...forgot?"

"Yes." There was a note of wonder in his voice, astonished by her astonishment.

"Well, all I can say," she choked, "is that it serves you right! It just serves

you right. And with the commencement beginning at four-thirty, how do you expect

him to have time to see you?"

"I’ll go at once, Mrs. Keating."

It was not her curiosity alone that prompted her to action; it was a secret fear

that the sentence of the Board might be revoked. He went to the bathroom at the

end of the hall; she watched him washing his hands, throwing his loose, straight

hair back into a semblance of order. He came out again, he was on his way to the

stairs before she realized that he was leaving.

"Mr. Roark!" she gasped, pointing at his clothes. "You’re not going like this?"

"Why not?"

"But it’s your Dean!"

"Not any more, Mrs. Keating."

She thought, aghast, that he said it as if he were actually happy.

The Stanton Institute of Technology stood on a hill, its crenelated walls raised

as a crown over the city stretched below. It looked like a medieval fortress,

with a Gothic cathedral grafted to its belly. The fortress was eminently suited

to its purpose, with stout, brick walls, a few slits wide enough for sentries,

ramparts behind which defending archers could hide, and corner turrets from

which boiling oil could be poured upon the attacker--should such an emergency

arise in an institute of learning. The cathedral rose over it in lace splendor,

a fragile defense against two great enemies: light and air.

The Dean’s office looked like a chapel, a pool of dreamy twilight fed by one

tall window of stained glass. The twilight flowed in through the garments of

stiff saints, their arms contorted at the elbows. A red spot of light and a

purple one rested respectively upon two genuine gargoyles squatting at the

corners of a fireplace that had never been used. A green spot stood in the

center of a picture of the Parthenon, suspended over the fireplace.

When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean’s figure swam dimly

behind his desk, which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish

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gentleman whose spreading flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity.

"Ah, yes, Roark," he smiled. "Do sit down, please."

Roark sat down. The Dean entwined his fingers on his stomach and waited for the

plea he expected. No plea came. The Dean cleared his throat.

"It will be unnecessary for me to express my regret at the unfortunate event of

this morning," he began, "since I take it for granted that you have always known

my sincere interest in your welfare."

"Quite unnecessary," said Roark.

The Dean looked at him dubiously, but continued:

"Needless to say, I did not vote against you. I abstained entirely. But you may

be glad to know that you had quite a determined little group of defenders at the

meeting. Small, but determined. Your professor of structural engineering acted

quite the crusader on your behalf. So did your professor of mathematics.

Unfortunately, those who felt it their duty to vote for your expulsion quite

outnumbered the others. Professor Peterkin, your critic of design, made an issue

of the matter. He went so far as to threaten us with his resignation unless you

were expelled. You must realize that you have given Professor Peterkin great

provocation."

"I do," said Roark.

"That, you see, was the trouble. I am speaking of your attitude towards the

subject of architectural design. You have never given it the attention it

deserves. And yet, you have been excellent in all the engineering sciences. Of

course, no one denies the importance of structural engineering to a future

architect, but why go to extremes? Why neglect what may be termed the artistic

and inspirational side of your profession and concentrate on all those dry,

technical, mathematical subjects? You intended to become an architect, not a

civil engineer."

"Isn’t this superfluous?" Roark asked. "It’s past. There’s no point in

discussing my choice of subjects now."

"I am endeavoring to be helpful, Roark. You must be fair about this. You cannot

say that you were not given many warnings before this happened."

"I was."

The Dean moved in his chair. Roark made him uncomfortable. Roark’s eyes were

fixed on him politely. The Dean thought, there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s

looking at me, in fact it’s quite correct, most properly attentive; only, it’s

as if I were not here.

"Every problem you were given," the Dean went on, "every project you had to

design--what did you do with it? Every one of them done in that--well, I cannot

call it a style--in that incredible manner of yours. It is contrary to every

principle we have tried to teach you, contrary to all established precedents and

traditions of Art. You may think you are what is called a modernist, but it

isn’t even that. It is...it is sheer insanity, if you don’t mind."

"I don’t mind."

"When you were given projects that left the choice of style up to you and you

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turned in one of your wild stunts--well, frankly, your teachers passed you

because they did not know what to make of it. But, when you were given an

exercise in the historical styles, a Tudor chapel or a French opera house to

design--and you turned in something that looked like a lot of boxes piled

together without rhyme or reason--would you say it was an answer to an

assignment or plain insubordination?"

"It was insubordination," said Roark.

"We wanted to give you a chance--in view of your brilliant record in all other

subjects. But when you turn in this--" the Dean slammed his fist down on a sheet

spread before him--"this as a Renaissance villa for your final project of the

year--really, my boy, it was too much!"

The sheet bore a drawing--a house of glass and concrete. In the comer there was

a sharp, angular signature: Howard Roark.

"How do you expect us to pass you after this?"

"I don’t."

"You left us no choice in the matter. Naturally, you would feel bitterness

toward us at this moment, but..."

"I feel nothing of the kind," said Roark quietly. "I owe you an apology. I don’t

usually let things happen to me. I made a mistake this time. I shouldn’t have

waited for you to throw me out. I should have left long ago."

"Now, now, don’t get discouraged. This is not the right attitude to take.

Particularly in view of what I am going to tell you."

The Dean smiled and leaned forward confidentially, enjoying the overture to a

good deed.

"Here is the real purpose of our interview. I was anxious to let you know as

soon as possible. I did not wish to leave you disheartened. Oh, I did,

personally, take a chance with the President’s temper when I mentioned this to

him, but...Mind you, he did not commit himself, but...Here is how things stand:

now that you realize how serious it is, if you take a year off, to rest, to

think it over--shall we say to grow up?--there might be a chance of our taking

you back. Mind you, I cannot promise anything--this is strictly unofficial--it

would be most unusual, but in view of the circumstances and of your brilliant

record, there might be a very good chance."

Roark smiled. It was not a happy smile, it was not a grateful one. It was a

simple, easy smile and it was amused.

"I don’t think you understood me," said Roark. "What made you suppose that I

want to come back?"

"Eh?"

"I won’t be back. I have nothing further to learn here."

"I don’t understand you," said the Dean stiffly.

"Is there any point in explaining? It’s of no interest to you any longer."

"You will kindly explain yourself."

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"If you wish. I want to be an architect, not an archeologist. I see no purpose

in doing Renaissance villas. Why learn to design them, when I’ll never build

them?"

"My dear boy, the great style of the Renaissance is far from dead. Houses of

that style are being erected every day."

"They are. And they will be. But not by me."

"Come, come, now, this is childish."

"I came here to learn about building. When I was given a project, its only value

to me was to learn to solve it as I would solve I a real one in the future. I

did them the way I’ll build them. I’ve | learned all I could learn here--in

the structural sciences of which you don’t approve. One more year of drawing

Italian post cards would give me nothing." ’

An hour ago the Dean had wished that this interview would proceed as calmly as

possible. Now he wished that Roark would display some emotion; it seemed

unnatural for him to be so quietly natural in the circumstances.

"Do you mean to tell me that you’re thinking seriously of building that way,

when and if you are an architect?"

"Yes."

"My dear fellow, who will let you?"

"That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?"

"Look here, this is serious. I am sorry that I haven’t had a long, earnest talk

with you much earlier...I know, I know, I know, don’t interrupt me, you’ve seen

a modernistic building or two, and it gave you ideas. But do you realize what a

passing fancy that whole so-called modern movement is? You must learn to

understand--and it has been proved by all authorities--that everything beautiful

in architecture has been done already. There is a treasure mine in every style

of the past. We can only choose from the great masters. Who are we to improve

upon them? We can only attempt, respectfully, to repeat."

"Why?" asked Howard Roark.

No, thought the Dean, no, he hasn’t said anything else; it’s a perfectly

innocent word; he’s not threatening me.

"But it’s self-evident!" said the Dean.

"Look," said Roark evenly, and pointed at the window. "Can you see the campus

and the town? Do you see how many men are walking and living down there? Well, I

don’t give a damn what any or all of them think about architecture--or about

anything else, for that matter. Why should I consider what their grandfathers

thought of it?"

"That is our sacred tradition."

"Why?"

"For heaven’s sake, can’t you stop being so naive about it?"