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construction.

He broke off abruptly, pushed the drawings aside, and put his fist over them. He

asked:

"When did you decide to become an architect?"

"When I was ten years old."

"Men don’t know what they want so early in life, if ever. You’re lying."

"Am I?"

"Don’t stare at me like that! Can’t you look at something else? Why did you

decide to be an architect?"

"I didn’t know it then. But it’s because I’ve never believed in God."

"Come on, talk sense."

"Because I love this earth. That’s all I love. I don’t like the shape of things

on this earth. I want to change them."

"For whom?"

"For myself."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"When did you hear all that?"

"I didn’t."

"Men don’t talk like that at twenty-two. You’re abnormal."

"Probably."

37

"I didn’t mean it as a compliment."

"I didn’t either."

"Got any family?"

"No."

"Worked through school?"

"Yes."

"At what?"

"In the building trades."

"How much money have you got left?"

"Seventeen dollars and thirty cents."

"When did you come to New York?"

"Yesterday."

Cameron looked at the white pile under his fist.

"God damn you," said Cameron softly.

"God damn you!" roared Cameron suddenly, leaning forward. "I didn’t ask you to

come here! I don’t need any draftsmen! There’s nothing here to draft! I don’t

have enough work to keep myself and my men out of the Bowery Mission! I don’t

want any fool visionaries starving around here! I don’t want the responsibility.

I didn’t ask for it. I never thought I’d see it again. I’m through with it. I

was through with that many years ago. I’m perfectly happy with the drooling

dolts I’ve got here, who never had anything and never will have and it makes no

difference what becomes of them. That’s all I want Why did you have to come

here? You’re setting out to ruin yourself, you know that, don’t you? And I’ll

help you to do it. I don’t want to see you. I don’t like you. I don’t like your

face. You look like an insufferable egotist. You’re impertinent. You’re too sure

of yourself. Twenty years ago I’d have punched your face with the greatest of

pleasure. You’re coming to work here tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp."

"Yes," said Roark, rising.

"Fifteen dollars a week. That’s all I can pay you."

"Yes."

"You’re a damn fool. You should have gone to someone else. I’ll kill you if you

go to anyone else. What’s your name?"

"Howard Roark."

"If you’re late, I’ll fire you."

"Yes."

Roark extended his hand for the drawings.

38

"Leave these here!" bellowed Cameron. "Now get out!"

4.

"TOOHEY," said Guy Francon, "Ellsworth Toohey. Pretty decent of him, don’t you

think? Read it, Peter."

Francon leaned jovially across his desk and handed to Keating the August issue

of New Frontiers. New Frontiers had a white cover with a black emblem that

combined a palette, a lyre, a hammer, a screw driver and a rising sun; it had a

circulation of thirty thousand and a following that described itself as the

intellectual vanguard of the country; no one had ever risen to challenge the

description. Keating read from an article entitled "Marble and Mortar," by

Ellsworth M. Toohey:

"...And now we come to another notable achievement of the metropolitan skyline.

We call the attention of the discriminating to the new Melton Building by

Francon & Heyer. It stands in white serenity as an eloquent witness to the

triumph of Classical purity and common sense. The discipline of an immortal

tradition has served here as a cohesive factor in evolving a structure whose

beauty can reach, simply and lucidly, the heart of every man in the street.

There is no freak exhibitionism here, no perverted striving for novelty, no orgy

of unbridled egotism. Guy Francon, its designer, has known how to subordinate

himself to the mandatory canons which generations of craftsmen behind him have

proved inviolate, and at the same time how to display his own creative

originality, not in spite of, but precisely because of the Classical dogma he

has accepted with the humility of a true artist. It may be worth mentioning, in

passing, that dogmatic discipline is the only thing which makes true originality

possible....

"More important, however, is the symbolic significance of a building such as

this rising in our imperial city. As one stands before its southern facade, one

is stricken with the realization that the stringcourses, repeated with

deliberate and gracious monotony from the third to the eighteenth story, these

long, straight, horizontal lines are the moderating, leveling principle, the

lines of equality. They seem to bring the towering structure down to the humble

level of the observer. They are the lines of the earth, of the people, of the

great masses. They seem to tell us that none may rise too high above the

restraint of the common human level, that all is held and shall be checked, even

as this proud edifice, by the stringcourses of men’s brotherhood...."

There was more. Keating read it all, then raised his head. "Gee!" he said, awed.

Francon smiled happily.

"Pretty good, eh? And from Toohey, no less. Not many people might have heard the

name, but they will, mark my word, they will. I know the signs....So he doesn’t

think I’m so bad? And he’s got a tongue like an icepick, when he feels like

using it. You should see what he says about others, more often than not. You

know Durkin’s latest mousetrap? Well, I was at a party where Toohey said--"

Francon chuckled--"he said: ’If Mr. Durkin suffers under the delusion that he is

an architect, someone should mention to him the broad opportunities offered by

the shortage of skilled plumbers.’ That’s what he said, imagine, in public!"

"I wonder," said Keating wistfully, "what he’ll say about me, when the times

comes."

39

"What on earth does he mean by the symbolic significance stuff and the

stringcourses of men’s brotherhood?...Oh, well, if that’s what he praises us

for, we should worry!"

"It’s the critic’s job to interpret the artist, Mr. Francon, even to the artist

himself. Mr. Toohey has merely stated the hidden significance that was

subconsciously in your own mind."

"Oh," said Francon vaguely. "Oh, do you think so?" he added brightly. "Quite

possible....Yes, quite possible....You’re a smart boy, Peter."

"Thank you, Mr. Francon." Keating made a movement to rise.

"Wait. Don’t go. One more cigarette and then we’ll both return to the drudgery."

Francon was smiling over the article, reading it again. Keating had never seen

him so pleased; no drawing in the office, no work accomplished had ever made him

as happy as these words from another man on a printed page to be read by other

eyes.

Keating sat easily in a comfortable chair. His month with the firm had been well

spent. He had said nothing and done nothing, but the impression had spread

through the office that Guy Francon liked to see this particular boy sent to him

whenever anyone had to be sent. Hardly a day passed without the pleasant

interlude of sitting across the desk from Guy Francon, in a respectful, growing

intimacy, listening to Francon’s sighs about the necessity of being surrounded

by men who understood him.

Keating had learned all he could team about Guy Francon, from his fellow

draftsmen. He had teamed that Guy Francon ate moderately and exquisitely, and

prided himself on the title of gourmet; that he had graduated with distinction

from the école des Beaux-Arts; that he had married a great deal of money and

that the marriage had not been a happy one; that he matched meticulously his

socks with his handkerchiefs, but never with his neckties; that he had a great

preference for designing buildings of gray granite; that he owned a quarry of

gray granite in Connecticut, which did a thriving business; that he maintained a

magnificent bachelor apartment done in plum-colored Louis XV; that his wife, of

a distinguished old name, had died, leaving her fortune to their only daughter,

that the daughter, now nineteen, was away at college.

These last facts interested Keating a great deal. He mentioned to Francon,

tentatively in passing, the subject of his daughter. "Oh, yes..." Francon said

thinly. "Yes, indeed..." Keating abandoned all further research into the matter,

for the time being; Francon’s face had declared mat the thought of his daughter

was painfully annoying to him, for some reason which Keating could not discover.

Keating had met Lucius N. Heyer, Francon’s partner, and had seen him come to the

office twice in three weeks, but had been unable to learn what service Heyer

rendered to the firm. Heyer did not have haemophilia, but looked as though he

should have it He was a withered aristocrat, with a long, thin neck, pate,

bulging eyes and a manner of frightened sweetness toward everyone. He was the

relic of an ancient family, and it was suspected mat Francon had taken him into

partnership for the sake of his social connections. People felt sorry for poor

dear Lucius, admired him for the effort of undertaking a professional career,

and thought it would be nice to let him build their homes. Francon built them

and required no further service from Lucius. This satisfied everybody.

The men in the drafting rooms loved Peter Keating. He made them feel as if he

had been there for a long time; he had always known how to become part of any

40

place he entered; he came soft and bright as a sponge to be filled, unresisting,

with the air and the mood of the place. His warm smile, his gay voice, the easy

shrug of his shoulders seemed to say that nothing weighed too much within his

soul and so he was not one to blame, to demand, to accuse anything.

As he sat now, watching Francon read the article, Francon raised his head to

glance at him. Francon saw two eyes looking at him with immense approval--and

two bright little points of contempt in the corners of Keating’s mouth, like two

musical notes of laughter visible the second before they were to be heard.

Francon felt a great wave of comfort. The comfort came from the contempt. The

approval, together with that wise half-smile, granted him a grandeur he did not

have to earn; a blind admiration would have been precarious; a deserved

admiration would have been a responsibility; an undeserved admiration was

precious.

"When you go, Peter, give this to Miss Jeffers to put in my scrapbook."

On his way down the stairs, Keating flung the magazine high in the air and

caught it smartly, his lips pursed to whistle without sound.

In the drafting room he found Tim Davis, his best friend, slouched despondently

over a drawing. Tim Davis was the tall, blond boy at the next table, whom

Keating had noticed long ago, because he had known, with no tangible evidence,

but with certainty, as Keating always knew such things, that this was the

favored draftsman of the office. Keating managed to be assigned, as frequently

as possible, to do parts of the projects on which Davis worked. Soon they were

going out to lunch together, and to a quiet little speak-easy after the day’s

work, and Keating was listening with breathless attention to Davis’ talk about

his love for one Elaine Duffy, not a word of which Keating ever remembered

afterward.

He found Davis now in black gloom, his mouth chewing furiously a cigarette and a

pencil at once. Keating did not have to question him. He merely bent his

friendly face over Davis’ shoulder. Davis spit out the cigarette and exploded.

He had just been told that he would have to work overtime tonight, for the third

time this week.

"Got to stay late, God knows how late! Gotta finish this damn tripe tonight!" He

slammed the sheets spread before him. "Look at it! Hours and hours and hours to

finish it! What am I going to do?"

"Well, it’s because you’re the best man here, Tim, and they need you."

"To hell with that! I’ve got a date with Elaine tonight! How’m I going to break

it? Third time! She won’t believe me! She told me so last time! That’s the end!

I’m going up to Guy the Mighty and tell him where he can put his plans and his

job! I’m through!"

"Wait," said Keating, and leaned closer to him. "Wait! There’s another way. I’ll

finish them for you."

"Huh?"

"I’ll stay. I’ll do them. Don’t be afraid. No one’ll tell the difference."

"Pete! Would you?"

"Sure. I’ve nothing to do tonight. You just stay till they all go home, then

skip."

41

"Oh, gee, Pete!" Davis sighed, tempted. "But look, if they find out, they’ll can

me. You’re too new for this kind of job."

"They won’t find out."

"I can’t lose my job, Pete. You know I can’t. Elaine and I are going to be

married soon. If anything happens..."

"Nothing will happen."

Shortly after six, Davis departed furtively from the empty drafting room,

leaving Keating at his table.

Bending under a solitary green lamp. Keating glanced at the desolate expanse of

three long rooms, oddly silent after the day’s rush, and he felt that he owned

them, that he would own them, as surely as the pencil moved in his hand.

It was half past nine when he finished the plans, stacked them neatly on Davis’

table, and left the office. He walked down the street, glowing with a

comfortable, undignified feeling, as though after a good meal. Then the

realization of his loneliness struck him suddenly. He had to share this with