The Fountainhead Part 23

It made a better story than Francon had expected. From the pages of newspapers the face of Peter Keating looked upon the country, the handsome, wholesome, smiling face with the brilliant eyes and the dark curls; it headed columns of print about poverty, struggle, aspiration and unremitting toil that had won their reward; about the faith of a mother who had sacrificed everything to her boy's success; about the "Cinderella of Architecture."

Cosmo-Slotnick were pleased; they had not thought that prize-winning architects could also be young, handsome and poor-well, so recently poor. They had discovered a boy genius; Cosmo-Slotnick adored boy geniuses; Mr. Slotnick was one himself, being only forty-three.

Keating's drawings of the "most beautiful skysc.r.a.per on earth" were reproduced in the papers, with the words of the award underneath: "... for the brilliant skill and simplicity of its plan ... for its clean, ruthless efficiency ... for its ingenious economy of s.p.a.ce ... for the masterful blending of the modern with the traditional in Art ... to Francon & Heyer and Peter Keating ..."

Keating appeared in newsreels, shaking hands with Mr. Shupe and Mr. Slotnick, and the subt.i.tle announced what these two gentlemen thought of his building. Keating appeared in newsreels, shaking hands with Miss Dimples Williams, and the subt.i.tle announced what he thought of her current picture. He appeared at architectural banquets and at film banquets, in the place of honor, and he had to make speeches, forgetting whether he was to speak of buildings or of movies. He appeared at architectural clubs and at fan clubs. Cosmo-Slotnick put out a composite picture of Keating and of his building, which could be had for a self-addressed, stamped envelope, and two bits. He made a personal appearance each evening, for a week, on the stage of the Cosmo Theater, with the first run of the latest Cosmo-Slotnick special; he bowed over the footlights, slim and graceful in a black tuxedo, and he spoke for two minutes on the significance of architecture. He presided as judge at a beauty contest in Atlantic City, the winner to be awarded a screen test by Cosmo-Slotnick. He was photographed with a famous prizefighter, under the caption: "Champions." A scale model of his building was made and sent on tour, together with the photographs of the best among the other entries, to be exhibited in the foyers of Cosmo-Slotnick theaters throughout the country.

Mrs. Keating had sobbed at first, clasped Peter in her arms and gulped that she could not believe it. She had stammered, answering questions about Petey and she had posed for pictures, embarra.s.sed, eager to please. Then she became used to it. She told Peter, shrugging, that of course he had won, it was nothing to gape at, no one else could have won. She acquired a brisk little tone of condescension for the reporters. She was distinctly annoyed when she was not included in the photographs taken of Petey. She acquired a mink coat.

Keating let himself be carried by the torrent. He needed the people and the clamor around him. There were no questions and no doubts when he stood on a platform over a sea of faces; the air was heavy, compact, saturated with a single solvent-admiration; there was no room for anything else. He was great; great as the number of people who told him so. He was right; right as the number of people who believed it. He looked at the faces, at the eyes; he saw himself born in them, he saw himself being granted the gift of life. That was Peter Keating, that, the reflection in those staring pupils, and his body was only its reflection.

He found time to spend two hours with Catherine, one evening. He held her in his arms and she whispered radiant plans for their future; he glanced at her with contentment; he did not hear her words; he was thinking of how it would look if they were photographed like this together and in how many papers it would be syndicated.

He saw Dominque once. She was leaving the city for the summer. Dominque 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 compet.i.tion 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 att.i.tude, 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 s.p.a.ce ..." 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 hand; 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 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 this alms from the rental agent, that too much depended on it, had 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 the 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 p.a.w.ned. 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 b.u.t.ton hole. He stood, his legs apart, his fists on his hips, his hat on the back of his head, his black curls so bright and crisp over his pale forehead that one expected to see drops of spring dew glistening on them as on the cornflower.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 h.e.l.l. Surely, you're not overworking yourself, from what I hear?"

This was not the manner he had intended to a.s.sume. 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 atonishment.

"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 d.a.m.n 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! don't want you! Aren't you afraid?" 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! ... h.e.l.l, Howard, it's nothing to me-what can it mean to me?-but this time I'm not fis.h.i.+ng for anything for myself, in fact I know that you'd make a dangerous compet.i.tor, but 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 Keating.

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 h.e.l.l, 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 compet.i.tion?"

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 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.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" he screamed. "G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 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 p.r.o.nouncing judgment! You, against the whole country! You against everybody! Why should I listen to you? You can't frighten me. You can't touch me. I have the whole world with me! ... Don't stare at me like that! I've always hated you! You didn't know that, did you? I've always hated you! I always will! I'll break you some day, I swear I will, if it's the last thing I do!"

"Peter," said Roark, "why betray so much?"

Keating's breath failed on a choked moan. He slumped down on a chair, he sat still, his hands clasping the sides of the seat under him.

After a while he raised his head. He asked woodenly: "Oh G.o.d, Howard, what have I been saying?"

"Are you all right now? Can you go?"

"Howard, I'm sorry. I apologize, if you want me to." His voice was raw and dull, without conviction. "I lost my head. Guess I'm just unstrung. I didn't mean any of it. I don't know why I said it. Honestly, I don't."

"Fix your collar. It's unfastened."

"I guess I was angry about what you did with that check. But I suppose you were insulted, too. I'm sorry. I'm stupid like that sometimes. I didn't mean to offend you. We'll just destroy the d.a.m.n thing."

He picked up the check, struck a match, cautiously watched the paper burn till he had to drop the last sc.r.a.p.

"Howard, we'll forget it?"

"Don't you think you'd better go now?"

Keating rose heavily, his hands poked about in a few useless gestures, and he mumbled: "Well ... well, goodnight, Howard. I ... I'll see you soon.... It's because so much's happened to me lately.... Guess I need a rest.... So long, Howard...."

When he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him, Keating felt an icy sense of relief. He felt heavy and very tired, but drearily sure of himself. He had acquired the knowledge of one thing: he hated Roark. It was not necessary to doubt and wonder and squirm in uneasiness any longer. It was simple. He hated Roark. The reasons? It was not necessary to wonder about the reasons. It was necessary only to hate, to hate blindly, to hate patiently, to hate without anger; only to hate, and let nothing intervene, and not let oneself forget, ever.

The telephone rang late on Monday afternoon.

"Mr. Roark?" said Weidler. "Can you come right over? I don't want to say anything over the phone, but get here at once." The voice sounded clear, gay, radiantly premonitory.

Roark looked at the window, at the clock on the distant tower. He sat laughing at that clock, as at a friendly old enemy; he would not need it any longer, he would have a watch of his own again. He threw his head back in defiance to that pale, gray dial hanging high over the city.

He rose and reached for his coat. He threw his shoulders back, slipping the coat on; he felt pleasure in the jolt of his muscles.

In the street outside, he took a taxi which he could not afford.

The chairman of the board was waiting for him in his office, with Weidler and with the vice-president of the Manhattan Bank Company. There was a long conference table in the room, and Roark's drawings were spread upon it. Weidler rose when he entered and walked to meet him, his hand outstretched. It was in the air of the room, like an overture to the words Weidler uttered, and Roark was not certain of the moment when he heard them, because he thought he had heard them the instant he entered.

"Well, Mr. Roark, the commission's yours," said Weidler.

Roark bowed. It was best not to trust his voice for a few minutes.

The chairman smiled amiably, inviting him to sit down. Roark sat down by the side of the table that supported his drawings. His hand rested on the table. The polished mahogany felt warm and living under his fingers; it was almost as if he were pressing his hand against the foundations of his building; his greatest building, fifty stories to rise in the center of Manhattan.

"I must tell you," the chairman was saying, "that we've had a h.e.l.l of a fight over that building of yours. Thank G.o.d it's over. Some of our members just couldn't swallow your radical innovations. You know how stupidly conservative some people are. But we've found a way to please them, and we got their consent. Mr. Weidler here was really magnificently convincing on your behalf."

A great deal more was said by the three men. Roark barely heard it. He was thinking of the first bite of machine into earth that begins an excavation. Then he heard the chairman saying: "... and so it's yours, on one minor condition." He heard that and looked at the chairman.

"It's a small compromise, and when you agree to it we can sign the contract. It's only an inconsequential matter of the building's appearance. I understand that you modernists attach no great importance to a mere facade, it's the plan that counts with you, quite rightly, and we wouldn't think of altering your plan in any way, it's the logic of the plan that sold us on the building. So I'm sure you won't mind."

"What do you want?"

"It's only a matter of a slight alteration in the facade. I'll show you. Our Mr. Parker's son is studying architecture and we had him draw us up a sketch, just a rough sketch to ill.u.s.trate what we had in mind and to show the members of the board, because they couldn't have visualized the compromise we offered. Here it is."

He pulled a sketch from under the drawings on the table and handed it to Roark.

It was Roark's building on the sketch, very neatly drawn. It was his building, but it had a simplified Doric portico in front, a cornice on top, and his ornament was replaced by a stylized Greek ornament.

Roark got up. He had to stand. He concentrated on the effort of standing. It made the rest easier. He leaned on one straight arm, his hand closed over the edge of the table, the tendons showing under the skin of his wrist.

"You see the point?" said the chairman soothingly. "Our conservatives simply refused to accept a queer stark building like yours. And they claim that the public won't accept it either. So we hit upon a middle course. In this way, though it's not traditional architecture of course, it will give the public the impression impression of what they're accustomed to. It adds a certain air of sound, stable dignity-and that's what we want in a bank, isn't it? It does seem to be an unwritten law that a bank must have a Cla.s.sic portico-and a bank is not exactly the right inst.i.tution to parade law-breaking and rebellion. Undermines that intangible feeling of confidence, you know. People don't trust novelty. But this is the scheme that pleased everybody. Personally, I wouldn't insist on it, but I really don't see that it spoils anything. And that's what the board has decided. Of course, we don't mean that we want you to follow this sketch. But it gives you our general idea and you'll work it out yourself, make your own adaptation of the Cla.s.sic motive to the facade." of what they're accustomed to. It adds a certain air of sound, stable dignity-and that's what we want in a bank, isn't it? It does seem to be an unwritten law that a bank must have a Cla.s.sic portico-and a bank is not exactly the right inst.i.tution to parade law-breaking and rebellion. Undermines that intangible feeling of confidence, you know. People don't trust novelty. But this is the scheme that pleased everybody. Personally, I wouldn't insist on it, but I really don't see that it spoils anything. And that's what the board has decided. Of course, we don't mean that we want you to follow this sketch. But it gives you our general idea and you'll work it out yourself, make your own adaptation of the Cla.s.sic motive to the facade."

Then Roark answered. The men could not cla.s.sify the tone of his voice; they could not decide whether it was too great a calm or too great an emotion. They concluded that it was calm, because the voice moved forward evenly, without stress, without color, each syllable s.p.a.ced as by a machine; only the air in the room was not the air that vibrates to a calm voice.