第 36 页

they were photographed like this together and in how many papers it would be

syndicated.

He saw Dominique once. She was leaving the city for the summer. Dominique was

disappointing. She congratulated him, quite correctly; but she looked at him as

she had always looked, as if nothing had happened. Of all architectural

publications, her column had been the only one that had never mentioned the

Cosmo-Slotnick competition or its winner.

"I’m going to Connecticut," she told him. "I’m taking over Father’s place down

there for the summer. He’s letting me have it all to myself. No, Peter, you

can’t come to visit me. Not even once. I’m going there so I won’t have to see

anybody." He was disappointed, but it did not spoil the triumph of his days. He

was not afraid of Dominique any longer. He felt confident that he could bring

her to change her attitude, that he would see the change when she came back in

the fall.

But there was one thing which did spoil his triumph; not often and not too

loudly. He never tired of hearing what was said about him; but he did not like

to hear too much about his building. And when he had to hear it, he did not mind

the comments on "the masterful blending of the modern with the traditional" in

its facade; but when they spoke of the plan--and they spoke so much of the

plan--when he heard about "the brilliant skill and simplicity...the clean,

ruthless efficiency...the ingenious economy of space..." when he heard it and

thought of...He did not think it. There were no words in his brain. He would not

allow them. There was only a heavy, dark feeling--and a name.

For two weeks after the award he pushed this thing out of his mind, as a thing

unworthy of his concern, to be buried as his doubting, humble past was buried.

All winter long he had kept his own sketches of the building with the pencil

lines cut across them by another’s hands; on the evening of the award he had

burned them; it was the first thing he had done.

But the thing would not leave him. Then he grasped suddenly that it was not a

vague threat, but a practical danger; and he lost all fear of it. He could deal

with a practical danger, he could dispose of it quite simply. He chuckled with

relief, he telephoned Roark’s office, and made an appointment to see him.

He went to that appointment confidently. For the first time in his life he felt

free of the strange uneasiness which he had never been able to explain or escape

in Roark’s presence. He felt safe now. He was through with Howard Roark.

#

Roark sat at the desk in his office, waiting. The telephone had rung once, that

morning, but it had been only Peter Keating asking for an appointment. He had

forgotten now that Keating was coming. He was waiting for the telephone. He had

become dependent on that telephone in the last few weeks. He was to hear at any

moment about his drawings for the Manhattan Bank Company.

His rent on the office was long since overdue. So was the rent on the room where

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he lived. He did not care about the room; he could tell the landlord to wait;

the landlord waited; it would not have mattered greatly if he had stopped

waiting. But it mattered at the office. He told the rental agent that he would

have to wait; he did not ask for the delay; he only said flatly, quietly, that

there would be a delay, which was all he knew how to do. But his knowledge that

he needed his alms from the rental agent, that too much depended on it, and made

it sound like begging in his own mind. That was torture. All right, he thought,

it’s torture. What of it?

The telephone bill was overdue for two months. He had received the final

warning. The telephone was to be disconnected in a few days. He had to wait. So

much could happen in a few days.

The answer of the bank board, which Weidler had promised him long ago, had been

postponed from week to week. The board could reach no decision; there had been

objectors and there had been violent supporters; there had been conferences;

Weidler told him eloquently little, but he could guess much; there had been days

of silence, of silence in the office, of silence in the whole city, of silence

within him. He waited.

He sat, slumped across the desk, his face on his arm, his fingers on the stand

of the telephone. He thought dimly that he should not sit like that; but he felt

very tired today. He thought that he should take his hand off that phone; but he

did not move it. Well, yes, he depended on that phone, he could smash it, but he

would still depend on it; he and every breath in him and every bit of him. His

fingers rested on the stand without moving. It was this and the mail; he had

lied to himself also about the mail; he had lied when he had forced himself not

to leap, as a rare letter fell through the slot in the door, not to run forward,

but to wait, to stand looking at me white envelope on the floor, then to walk to

it slowly and pick it up. The slot in the door and the telephone--there was

nothing else left to him of the world.

He raised his head, as he thought of it, to look down at the door, at the foot

of the door. There was nothing. It was late in the afternoon, probably past the

time of the last delivery. He raised his wrist to glance at his watch; he saw

his bare wrist; the watch had been pawned. He turned to the window; there was a

clock he could distinguish on a distant tower; it was half past four; there

would be no other delivery today.

He saw that his hand was lifting the telephone receiver. His fingers were

dialing the number.

"No, not yet," Weidler’s voice told him over the wire. "We had that meeting

scheduled for yesterday, but it had to be called off....I’m keeping after them

like a bulldog....I can promise you that we’ll have a definite answer tomorrow.

I can almost promise you. If not tomorrow, then it will have to wait over the

week end, but by Monday I promise it for certain....You’ve been wonderfully

patient with us, Mr. Roark. We appreciate it." Roark dropped the receiver. He

closed his eyes. He thought he would allow himself to rest, just to rest blankly

like this for a few minutes, before he would begin to think of what the date on

the telephone notice had been and in what way he could manage to last until

Monday.

"Hello, Howard," said Peter Keating.

He opened his eyes. Keating had entered and stood before him, smiling. He wore a

light tan spring coat, thrown open, the loops of its belt like handles at his

sides, a blue cornflower in his buttonhole. He stood, his legs apart, his fists

on his hips, his hat on the back of his head, his black curls so bright and

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crisp over his pale forehead that one expected to see drops of spring dew

glistening on them as on the cornflower.

"Hello, Peter," said Roark.

Keating sat down comfortably, took his hat off, dropped it in the middle of the

desk, and clasped one hand over each knee with a brisk little slap.

"Well, Howard, things are happening, aren’t they?"

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. What’s the matter, Howard? You look like hell. Surely, you’re not

overworking yourself, from what I hear?"

This was not the manner he had intended to assume. He had planned the interview

to be smooth and friendly. Well, he decided, he’d switch back to that later. But

first he had to show that he was not afraid of Roark, that he’d never be afraid

again.

"No, I’m not overworking."

"Look, Howard, why don’t you drop it?"

That was something he had not intended saying at all. His mouth remained open a

little, in astonishment.

"Drop what?"

"The pose. Oh, the ideals, if you prefer. Why don’t you come down to earth? Why

don’t you start working like everybody else? Why don’t you stop being a damn

fool?" He felt himself rolling down a hill, without brakes. He could not stop.

"What’s the matter, Peter?"

"How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you

know. There are only two ways. You can join them or you can fight them. But you

don’t seem to be doing either."

"No. Not either."

"And people don’t want you. They don’t want you! Aren’t you afraid?"

"No."

"You haven’t worked for a year. And you won’t. Who’ll ever give you work? You

might have a few hundreds left--and then it’s the end."

"That’s wrong, Peter. I have fourteen dollars left, and fifty-seven cents."

"Well? And look at me! I don’t care if it’s crude to say that myself. That’s not

the point. I’m not boasting. It doesn’t matter who says it. But look at me!

Remember how we started? Then look at us now. And then think that it’s up to

you. Just drop that fool delusion that you’re better than everybody else--and go

to work. In a year, you’ll have an office that’ll make you blush to think of

this dump. You’ll have people running after you, you’ll have clients, you’ll

have friends, you’ll have an army of draftsmen to order around!...Hell! Howard,

it’s nothing to me--what can it mean to me?--but this time I’m not fishing for

anything for myself, in fact I know that you’d make a dangerous competitor, but

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I’ve got to say this to you. Just think, Howard, think of it! You’ll be rich,

you’ll be famous, you’ll be respected, you’ll be praised, you’ll be

admired--you’ll be one of us!...Well?...Say something! Why don’t you say

something?"

He saw that Roark’s eyes were not empty and scornful, but attentive and

wondering. It was close to some sort of surrender for Roark, because he had not

dropped the iron sheet in his eyes, because he allowed his eyes to be puzzled

and curious--and almost helpless.

"Look, Peter. I believe you. I know that you have nothing to gain by saying

this. I know more than that. I know that you don’t want me to succeed--it’s all

right, I’m not reproaching you, I’ve always known it--you don’t want me ever to

reach these things you’re offering me. And yet you’re pushing me on to reach

them, quite sincerely. And you know that if I take your advice, I’ll reach them.

And it’s not love for me, because that wouldn’t make you so angry--and so

frightened....Peter, what is it that disturbs you about me as I am?"

"I don’t know..." whispered Rearing.

He understood that it was a confession, that answer of his, and a terrifying

one. He did not know the nature of what he had confessed and he felt certain

that Roark did not know it either. But the thing had been bared; they could not

grasp it, but they felt its shape. And it made them sit silently, facing each

other, in astonishment, in resignation.

"Pull yourself together, Peter," said Roark gently, as to a comrade. "We’ll

never speak of that again."

Then Keating said suddenly, his voice clinging in relief to the bright vulgarity

of its new tone:

"Aw hell, Howard, I was only talking good plain horse sense. Now if you wanted

to work like a normal person--"

"Shut up!" snapped Roark.

Keating leaned back, exhausted. He had nothing else to say. He had forgotten

what he had come here to discuss.

"Now," said Roark, "what did you want to tell me about the competition?"

Keating jerked forward. He wondered what had made Roark guess that. And then it

became easier, because he forgot the rest in a sweeping surge of resentment.

"Oh, yes!" said Keating crisply, a bright edge of irritation in the sound of his

voice. "Yes, I did want to speak to you about that. Thanks for reminding me. Of

course, you’d guess it, because you know that I’m not an ungrateful swine. I

really came here to thank you, Howard. I haven’t forgotten that you had a share

in that building, you did give me some advice on it. I’d be the first one to

give you part of the credit."

"That’s not necessary."

"Oh, it’s not that I’d mind, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to say anything

about it. And I’m sure you don’t want to say anything yourself, because you know

how it is, people are so funny, they misinterpret everything in such a stupid

way....But since I’m getting part of the award money, I thought it’s only fair

to let you have some of it. I’m glad that it comes at a time when you need it so

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badly."

He produced his billfold, pulled from it a check he had made out in advance and

put it down on the desk. It read: "Pay to the order of Howard Roark--the sum of

five hundred dollars."

"Thank you, Peter," said Roark, taking the check.

Then he turned it over, took his fountain pen, wrote on the back: "Pay to the

order of Peter Keating," signed and handed the check to Keating.

"And here’s my bribe to you, Peter," he said. "For the same purpose. To keep

your mouth shut."

Keating stared at him blankly.

"That’s all I can offer you now," said Roark. "You can’t extort anything from me

at present, but later, when I’ll have money, I’d like to ask you please not to

blackmail me. I’m telling you frankly that you could. Because I don’t want

anyone to know that I had anything to do with that building."

He laughed at the slow look of comprehension on Keating’s face.

"No?" said Roark. "You don’t want to blackmail me on that?...Go home, Peter.

You’re perfectly safe. I’ll never say a word about it. It’s yours, the building

and every girder of it and every foot of plumbing and every picture of your face

in the papers."

Then Keating jumped to his feet. He was shaking.

"God damn you!" he screamed. "God damn you! Who do you think you are? Who told

you that you could do this to people? So you’re too good for that building? You

want to make me ashamed of it? You rotten, lousy, conceited bastard! Who are

you? You don’t even have the wits to know that you’re a flop, an incompetent, a

beggar, a failure, a failure, a failure! And you stand there pronouncing