VIII
ROARK KNEW THAT HE MUST NOT SHOW THE SHOCK OF HIS FIRST glance at Peter Keating—and that it was too late: he saw a faint smile on Keating’s lips, terrible in its resigned acknowledgment of disintegration.
“Are you only two years younger than I am, Howard?” was the first thing Keating asked, looking at the face of the man he had not seen for six years.
“I don’t know, Peter, I think so. I’m thirty-seven.”
“I’m thirty-nine—that’s all.”
He moved to the chair in front of Roark’s desk, groping for it with his hand. He was blinded by the band of glass that made three walls of Roark’s office. He stared at the sky and the city. He had no feeling of height here, and the buildings seemed to lie under his toes, not a real city, but miniatures of famous landmarks, incongruously close and small; he felt he could bend and pick any one of them up in his hand. He saw the black dashes which were automobiles and they seemed to crawl, it took them so long to cover a block the size of his finger. He saw the stone and plaster of the city as a substance that had soaked light and was throwing it back, row upon row of flat, vertical planes grilled with dots of windows, each plane a reflector, rose-colored, gold and purple—and jagged streaks of smoke-blue running among them, giving them shape, angles and distance. Light streamed from the buildings into the sky and made of the clear summer blue a humble second thought, a spread of pale water over living fire. My God, thought Keating, who are the men that made all this?—and then remembered that he had been one of them.
He saw Roark’s figure for an instant, straight and gaunt against the angle of two glass panes behind the desk, then Roark sat down facing him.
Keating thought of men lost in the desert and of men perishing at sea, when, in the presence of the silent eternity of the sky, they have to speak the truth. And now he had to speak the truth, because he was in the presence of the earth’s greatest city.
“Howard, is this the terrible thing they meant by turning the other cheek—your letting me come here?”
He did not think of his voice. He did not know that it had dignity.
Roark looked at him silently for a moment; this was a greater change than the swollen face.
“I don’t know, Peter. No, if they meant actual forgiveness. Had I been hurt, I’d never forgive it. Yes, if they meant what I’m doing. I don’t think a man can hurt another, not in any important way. Neither hurt him nor help him. I have really nothing to forgive you.”
“It would be better if you felt you had. It would be less cruel.”
“I suppose so.”
“You haven’t changed, Howard.”
“I guess not.”
“If this is the punishment I must take—I want you to know that I’m taking it and that I understand. At one time I would have thought I was getting off easy.”
“You have changed, Peter.”
“I know I have.”
“I’m sorry if it has to be punishment.”
“I know you are. I believe you. But it’s all right. It’s only the last of it. I really took it night before last.”
“When you decided to come here?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t be afraid now. What is it?”
Keating sat straight, calm, not as he had sat facing a man in a dressing gown three days ago, but almost in confident repose. He spoke slowly and without pity:
“Howard, I’m a parasite. I’ve been a parasite all my life. You designed my best projects at Stanton. You designed the first house I ever built. You designed the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. I have fed on you and on all the men like you who lived before we were born. The men who designed the Parthenon, the Gothic cathedrals, the first skyscrapers. If they hadn’t existed, I wouldn’t have known how to put stone on stone. In the whole of my life, I haven’t added a new doorknob to what men have done before me. I have taken that which was not mine and given nothing in return. I had nothing to give. This is not an act, Howard, and I’m very conscious of what I’m saying. And I came here to ask you to save me again. If you wish to throw me out, do it now.”
Roark shook his head slowly, and moved one hand in silent permission to continue.
“I suppose you know that I’m finished as an architect. Oh, not actually finished, but near enough. Others could go on like this for quite a few years, but I can’t, because of what I’ve been. Or was thought to have been. People don’t forgive a man who’s slipping. I must live up to what they thought. I can do it only in the same way I’ve done everything else in my life. I need a prestige I don’t deserve for an achievement I didn’t accomplish to save a name I haven’t earned the right to bear. I’ve been given a last chance. I know it’s my last chance. I know I can’t do it. I won’t try to bring you a mess and ask you to correct it. I’m asking you to design it and let me put my name on it.”
“What’s the job?”
“Cortlandt Homes.”
“The housing project?”
“Yes. You’ve heard about it?”
“I know everything about it.”
“You’re interested in housing projects, Howard?”
“Who offered it to you? On what conditions?”
Keating explained, precisely, dispassionately, relating his conversation with Toohey as if it were the summary of a court transcript he had read long ago. He pulled the papers out of his briefcase, put them down on the desk and went on speaking, while Roark looked at them. Roark interrupted him once: “Wait a moment, Peter. Keep still.” He waited for a long time. He saw Roark’s hand moving the papers idly, but he knew that Roark was not looking at the papers. Roark said: “Go on,” and Keating continued obediently, allowing himself no questions.
“I suppose there’s no reason why you should do it for me,” he concluded. “If you can solve their problem, you can go to them and do it on your own.”
Roark smiled. “Do you think I could get past Toohey?”
“No. No, I don’t think you could.”
“Who told you I was interested in housing projects?”
“What architect isn’t?”
“Well, I am. But not in the way you think.”
He got up. It was a swift movement, impatient and tense. Keating allowed himself his first opinion: he thought it was strange to see suppressed excitement in Roark.
“Let me think this over, Peter. Leave that here. Come to my house tomorrow night. I’ll tell you then.”
“You’re not ... turning me down?”
“Not yet.”
“You might ... after everything that’s happened ... ?”
“To hell with that.”
“You’re going to consider ...”
“I can’t say anything now, Peter. I must think it over. Don’t count on it. I might want to demand something impossible of you.”
“Anything you ask, Howard. Anything.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Howard, I ... how can I try to thank you, even for ...”
“Don’t thank me. If I do it, I’ll have my own purpose. I’ll expect to gain as much as you will. Probably more. Just remember that I don’t do things on any other terms.”
Keating came to Roark’s house on the following evening. He could not say whether he had waited impatiently or not. The bruise had spread. He could act; he could weigh nothing.
He stood in the middle of Roark’s room and looked about slowly. He had been grateful for all the things Roark had not said to him. But he gave voice to the things himself when he asked:
“This is the Enright House, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You built it?”
Roark nodded, and said: “Sit down, Peter,” understanding too well.
Keating had brought his briefcase; he put it down on the floor, propping it against his chair. The briefcase bulged and looked heavy; he handled it cautiously. Then he spread his hands out and forgot the gesture, holding it, asking:
“Well?”
“Peter, can you think for a moment that you’re alone in the world?”
“I’ve been thinking that for three days.”
“No. That’s not what I mean. Can you forget what you’ve been taught to repeat, and think, think hard, with your own brain? There are things I’ll want you to understand. It’s my first condition. I’m going to tell you what I want. If you think of it as most people do, you’ll say it’s nothing. But if you say that, I won’t be able to do it. Not unless you understand completely, with your whole mind, how important it is.”
“I’ll try, Howard. I was ... honest with you yesterday.”
“Yes. If you hadn’t been, I would have turned you down yesterday. Now I think you might be able to understand and do your part of it.”
“You want to do it?”
“I might. If you offer me enough.”
“Howard—anything you ask. Anything. I’d sell my soul ...”
“That’s the sort of thing I want you to understand. To sell your soul is the easiest thing in the world. That’s what everybody does every hour of his life. If I asked you to keep your soul—would you understand why that’s much harder?”
“Yes ... Yes, I think so.”
“Well? Go on. I want you to give me a reason why I should wish to design Cortlandt. I want you to make me an offer.”
“You can have all the money they pay me. I don’t need it. You can have twice the money. I’ll double their fee.”
“You know better than that, Peter. Is that what you wish to tempt me with?”
“You would save my life.”
“Can you think of any reason why I should want to save your life?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“It’s a great public project, Howard. A humanitarian undertaking. Think of the poor people who live in slums. If you can give them decent comfort within their means, you’ll have the satisfaction of performing a noble deed.”
“Peter, you were more honest than that yesterday.”
His eyes dropped, his voice low, Keating said:
“You will love designing it.”
“Yes, Peter. Now you’re speaking my language.”
“What do you want?”
“Now listen to me. I’ve been working on the problem of low-rent housing for years. I never thought of the poor people in slums. I thought of the potentialities of our modern world. The new materials, the means, the chances to take and use. There are so many products of man’s genius around us today. There are such great possibilities to exploit. To build cheaply, simply, intelligently. I’ve had a lot of time to study. I didn’t have much to do after the Stoddard Temple. I didn’t expect results. I worked because I can’t look at any material without thinking: What could be done with it? And the moment I think that, I’ve got to do it. To find the answer, to break the thing. I’ve worked on it for years. I loved it. I worked because it was a problem I wanted to solve. You wish to know how to build a unit to rent for fifteen dollars a month? I’ll show you how to build it for ten.”
Keating made an involuntary movement forward.
“But first, I want you to think and tell me what made me give years to this work. Money? Fame? Charity? Altruism?” Keating shook his head slowly. “All right. You’re beginning to understand. So whatever we do, don’t let’s talk about the poor people in the slums. They have nothing to do with it, though I wouldn’t envy anyone the job of trying to explain that to fools. You see, I’m never concerned with my clients, only with their architectural requirements. I consider these as part of my building’s theme and problem, as my building’s material—just as I consider bricks and steel. Bricks and steel are not my motive. Neither are the clients. Both are only the means of my work. Peter, before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the secondary consequences. The work, not the people. Your own action, not any possible object of your charity. I’ll be glad if people who need it find a better manner of living in a house I designed. But that’s not the motive of my work. Nor my reason. Nor my reward.”
He walked to a window and stood looking out at the lights of the city trembling in the dark river.
“You said yesterday: ‘What architect isn’t interested in housing?’ I hate the whole blasted idea of it. I think it’s a worthy undertaking—to provide a decent apartment for a man who earns fifteen dollars a week. But not at the expense of other men. Not if it raises the taxes, raises all the other rents and makes the man who earns forty live in a rat hole. That’s what’s happening in New York. Nobody can afford a modern apartment—except the very rich and the paupers. Have you seen the converted brownstones in which the average self-supporting couple has to live? Have you seen their closet kitchens and their plumbing? They’re forced to live like that—because they’re not incompetent enough. They make forty dollars a week and wouldn’t be allowed into a housing project. But they’re the ones who provide the money for the damn project. They pay the taxes. And the taxes raise their own rent. And they have to move from a converted brownstone into an unconverted one and from that into a railroad flat. I’d have no desire to penalize a man because he’s worth only fifteen dollars a week. But I’ll be damned if I can see why a man worth forty must be penalized—and penalized in favor of the one who’s less competent. Sure, there are a lot of theories on the subject and volumes of discussion. But just look at the results. Still, architects are all for government housing. And have you ever seen an architect who wasn’t screaming for planned cities? I’d like to ask him how he can be so sure that the plan adopted will be his own. And if it is, what right has he to impose it on the others? And if it isn‘t, what happens to his work? I suppose he’ll say that he wants neither. He wants a council, a conference, co-operation and collaboration. And the result will be ‘The March of the Centuries.’ Peter, every single one of you on that committee has done better work alone than the eight of you produced collectively. Ask yourself why, sometime.”
“I think I know it ... But Cortlandt ...”
“Yes. Cortlandt. Well, I’ve told you all the things in which I don’t believe, so that you’ll understand what I want and what right I have to want it. I don’t believe in government housing. I don’t want to hear anything about its noble purposes. I don’t think they’re noble. But that, too, doesn’t matter. That’s not my first concern. Not who lives in the house nor who orders it built. Only the house itself. If it has to be built, it might as well be built right.”
“You ... want to build it?”
“In all the years I’ve worked on this problem, I never hoped to see the results in practical application. I forced myself not to hope. I knew I couldn’t expect a chance to show what could be done on a large scale. Your government housing, among other things, has made all building so expensive that private owners can’t afford such projects, nor any type of low-rent construction. And I will never be given any job by any government. You’ve understood that much yourself. You said I couldn’t get past Toohey. He’s not the only one. I’ve never been given a job by any group, board, council or committee, public or private, unless some man fought for me, like Kent Lansing. There’s a reason for that, but we don’t have to discuss it now. I want you to know only that I realize in what manner I need you, so that what we’ll do will be a fair exchange.”
“You need me?”
“Peter, I love this work. I want to see it erected. I want to make it real, living, functioning, built. But every living thing is integrated. Do you know what that means? Whole, pure, complete, unbroken. Do you know what constitutes an integrating principle? A thought. The one thought, the single thought that created the thing and every part of it. The thought which no one can change or touch. I want to design Cortlandt. I want to see it built. I want to see it built exactly as I design it.”
“Howard ... I won’t say ‘it’s nothing.’ ”
“You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I like to receive money for my work. But I can pass that up this time. I like to have people know my work is done by me. But I can pass that up. I like to have tenants made happy by my work. But that doesn’t matter too much. The only thing that matters, my goal, my reward, my beginning, my end is the work itself. My work done my way. Peter, there’s nothing in the world that you can offer me, except this. Offer me this and you can have anything I’ve got to give. My work done my way. A private, personal, selfish, egotistical motivation. That’s the only way I function. That’s all I am.”
“Yes, Howard. I understand. With my whole mind.”
“Then here’s what I’m offering you: I’ll design Cortlandt. You’ll put your name on it. You’ll keep all the fees. But you’ll guarantee that it will be built exactly as I design it.”
Keating looked at him and held the glance deliberately, quietly, for a moment.
“All right, Howard.” He added: “I waited, to show you that I know exactly what you’re asking and what I’m promising.”
“You know it won’t be easy?”
“I know it will be very terribly difficult.”
“It will. Because it’s such a large project. Most particularly because it’s a government project. There will be so many people involved, each with authority, each wanting to exercise it in some way or another. You’ll have a hard battle. You will have to have the courage of my convictions.”
“I’ll try to live up to that, Howard.”
“You won’t be able to, unless you understand that I’m giving you a trust which is more sacred—and nobler, if you like the word—than any altruistic purpose you could name. Unless you understand that this is not a favor, that I’m not doing it for you nor for the future tenants, but for myself, and that you have no right to it except on these terms.”
“Yes, Howard.”
“You’ll have to devise your own way of accomplishing it. You’ll have to get yourself an ironclad contract with your bosses and then fight every bureaucrat that comes along every five minutes for the next year or more. I will have no guarantee except your word. Wish to give it to me?”
“I give you my word.”
Roark took two typewritten sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to him.
“Sign it.”
“What’s that?”
“A contract between us, stating the terms of our agreement. A copy for each of us. It would probably have no legal validity whatever. But I can hold it over your head. I couldn’t sue you. But I could make this public. If it’s prestige you want, you can’t allow this to become known. If your courage fails you at any point, remember that you’ll lose everything by giving in. But if you’ll keep your word—I give you mine—it’s written there—that I’ll never betray this to anyone. Cortlandt will be yours. On the day when it’s finished, I’ll send this paper back to you and you can burn it if you wish.”
“All right, Howard.”
Keating signed, handed the pen to him, and Roark signed.
Keating sat looking at him for a moment, then said slowly, as if trying to distinguish the dim form of some thought of his own:
“Everybody would say you’re a fool.... Everybody would say I’m getting everything....”
“You’ll get everything society can give a man. You’ll keep all the money. You’ll take any fame or honor anyone might want to grant. You’ll accept such gratitude as the tenants might feel. And I—I’ll take what nobody can give a man, except himself. I will have built Cortlandt.”
“You’re getting more than I am, Howard.”
“Peter!” The voice was triumphant. “You understand that?”
“Yes....”
Roark leaned back against a table, and laughed softly; it was the happiest sound Keating had ever heard.
“This will work, Peter. It will work. It will be all right. You’ve done something wonderful. You haven’t spoiled everything by thanking me.”
Keating nodded silently.
“Now relax, Peter. Want a drink? We won’t discuss any details tonight. Just sit here and get used to me. Stop being afraid of me. Forget everything you said yesterday. This wipes it off. We’re starting from the beginning. We’re partners now. You have your share to do. It’s a legitimate share. This is my idea of co-operation, by the way. You’ll handle people. I’ll do the building. We’ll each do the job we know best, as honestly as we can.”
He walked to Keating and extended his hand.
Sitting still, not raising his head, Keating took the hand. His fingers tightened on it for a moment.
When Roark brought him a drink, Keating swallowed three long gulps and sat looking at the room. His fingers were closed firmly about the glass, his arm steady; but the ice tinkled in the liquid once in a while, without apparent motion.
His eyes moved heavily over the room, over Roark’s body. He thought, it’s not intentional, not just to hurt me, he can’t help it, he doesn’t even know it—but it’s in his whole body, that look of a creature glad to be alive. And he realized he had never actually believed that any living thing could be glad of the gift of existence.
“You’re ... so young, Howard.... You’re so young ... Once I reproached you for being too old and serious ... Do you remember when you worked for me at Francon’s?”
“Drop it, Peter. We’ve done so well without remembering.”
“That’s because you’re kind. Wait, don’t frown. Let me talk. I’ve got to talk about something. I know, this is what you didn’t want to mention. God, I didn’t want you to mention it! I had to steel myself against it, that night—against all the things you could throw at me. But you didn’t. If it were reversed now and this were my home—can you imagine what I’d do or say? You’re not conceited enough.”
“Why, no. I’m too conceited. If you want to call it that. I don’t make comparisons. I never think of myself in relation to anyone else. I just refuse to measure myself as part of anything. I’m an utter egotist.”
“Yes. You are. But egotists are not kind. And you are. You’re the most egotistical and the kindest man I know. And that doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe the concepts don’t make sense. Maybe they don’t mean what people have been taught to think they mean. But let’s drop that now. If you’ve got to talk of something, let’s talk of what we’re going to do.” He leaned out to look through the open window. “It will stand down there. That dark stretch—that’s the site of Cortlandt. When it’s done, I’ll be able to see it from my window. Then it will be part of the city. Peter, have I ever told you how much I love this city?”
Keating swallowed the rest of the liquid in his glass.
“I think I’d rather go now, Howard. I’m ... no good tonight.”
“I’ll call you in a few days. We’d better meet here. Don’t come to my office. You don’t want to be seen there—somebody might guess. By the way, later, when my sketches are done, you’ll have to copy them yourself, in your own manner. Some people would recognize my way of drawing.”
“Yes.... All right....”
Keating rose and stood looking uncertainly at his briefcase for a moment, then picked it up. He mumbled some vague words of parting, he took his hat, he walked to the door, then stopped and looked down at his briefcase.
“Howard ... I brought something I wanted to show you.”
He walked back into the room and put the briefcase on the table.
“I haven’t shown it to anyone.” His fingers fumbled, opening the straps. “Not to mother or Ellsworth Toohey ... I just want you to tell me if there’s any ...”
He handed to Roark six of his canvases.
Roark looked at them, one after another. He took a longer time than he needed. When he could trust himself to lift his eyes, he shook his head in silent answer to the word Keating had not pronounced.
“It’s too late, Peter,” he said gently.
Keating nodded. “Guess I ... knew that.”
When Keating had gone, Roark leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He was sick with pity.
He had never felt this before—not when Henry Cameron collapsed in the office at his feet, not when he saw Steven Mallory sobbing on a bed before him. Those moments had been clean. But this was pity—this complete awareness of a man without worth or hope, this sense of finality, of the not to be redeemed. There was shame in this feeling—his own shame that he should have to pronounce such judgment upon a man, that he should know an emotion which contained no shred of respect.
This is pity, he thought, and then he lifted his head in wonder. He thought that there must be something terribly wrong with a world in which this monstrous feeling is called a virtue.