The fountainhead by Ayn Rand

part committed treason to that idea--the thing of the creature was dead; and why
the good, the high and the noble on earth was only that which kept its
integrity.
The chairman interrupted him:
"Mr. Roark, I agree with you. There’s no answer to what you’re saying. But
unfortunately, in practical life, one can’t always be so flawlessly consistent.
There’s always the incalculable human element of emotion. We can’t fight that
with cold logic. This discussion is actually superfluous. I can agree with you,
but I can’t help you. The matter is closed. It was the board’s final
decision--after more than usually prolonged consideration, as you know."
"Will you let me appear before the board and speak to them?"
"I’m sorry, Mr. Roark, but the board will not re-open the question for further
debate. It was final. I can only ask you to state whether you agree to accept
the commission on our terms or not. I must admit that the board has considered
the possibility of your refusal. In which case, the name of another architect,
one Gordon L. Prescott, has been mentioned most favorably as an alternative. But
I told the board that I felt certain you would accept."
He waited. Roark said nothing.
"You understand the situation, Mr. Roark?"
"Yes," said Roark. His eyes were lowered. He was looking down at the drawings.
"Well?"
Roark did not answer.
"Yes or no, Mr. Roark?"
Roark’s head leaned back. He closed his eyes.
"No," said Roark.
After a while the chairman asked:
"Do you realize what you’re doing?"
"Quite," said Roark.
"Good God!" Weidler cried suddenly. "Don’t you know how big a commission this
is? You’re a young man, you won’t get another chance like this. And...all right,
damn it, I’ll say it! You need this! I know how badly you need it!"
Roark gathered the drawings from the table, rolled them together and put them
under his arm.
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"It’s sheer insanity!" Weidler moaned. "I want you. We want your building. You
need the commission. Do you have to be quite so fanatical and selfless about
it?"
"What?" Roark asked incredulously.
"Fanatical and selfless."
Roark smiled. He looked down at his drawings. His elbow moved a little, pressing
them to his body. He said:
"That was the most selfish thing you’ve ever seen a man do."
He walked back to his office. He gathered his drawing instruments and the few
things he had there. It made one package and he carried it under his arm. He
locked the door and gave the key to the rental agent. He told the agent that he
was closing his office. He walked home and left the package there. Then he went
to Mike Donnigan’s house.
"No?" Mike asked, after one look at him.
"No," said Roark.
"What happened?"
"I’ll tell you some other time."
"The bastards!"
"Never mind that, Mike."
"How about the office now?"
"I’ve closed the office."
"For good?"
"For the time being."
"God damn them all, Red! God damn them!"
"Shut up. I need a job, Mike. Can you help me?"
"Me?"
"I don’t know anyone in those trades here. Not anyone that would want me. You
know them all."
"In what trades? What are you talking about?"
"In the building trades. Structural work. As I’ve done before."
"You mean--a plain workman’s job?"
"I mean a plain workman’s job."
"You’re crazy, you God-damn fool!"
"Cut it, Mike. Will you get me a job?"
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"But why in hell? You can get a decent job in an architect’s office. You know
you can."
"I won’t, Mike. Not ever again."
"Why?"
"I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to help them do
what they’re doing."
"You can get a nice clean job in some other line."
"I would have to think on a nice clean job. I don’t want to think. Not their
way. It will have to be their way, no matter where I go. I want a job where I
won’t have to think."
"Architects don’t take workmen’s jobs."
"That’s all this architect can do."
"You can learn something in no time."
"I don’t want to learn anything."
"You mean you want me to get you into a construction gang, here, in town?"
"That’s what I mean."
"No, God damn you! I can’t! I won’t! I won’t do it!"
"Why?"
"Red, to be putting yourself up like a show for all the bastards in this town to
see? For all the sons of bitches to know they brought you down like this? For
all of them to gloat?"
Roark laughed.
"I don’t give a damn about that, Mike. Why should you?"
"Well, I’m not letting you. I’m not giving the sons of bitches that kinda
treat."
"Mike," Roark said softly, "there’s nothing else for me to do."
"Hell, yes, there is. I told you before. You’ll be listening to reason now. I
got all the dough you need until..."
"I’ll tell you what I’ve told Austen Heller: If you ever offer me money again,
that’ll be the end between us."
"But why?"
"Don’t argue, Mike."
"But..."
"I’m asking you to do me a bigger favor. I want that job. You don’t have to feel
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sorry for me. I don’t."
"But...but what’ll happen to you, Red?"
"Where?"
"I mean...your future?"
"I’ll save enough money and I’ll come back. Or maybe someone will send for me
before then."
Mike looked at him. He saw something in Roark’s eyes which he knew Roark did not
want to be there.
"Okay, Red," said Mike softly.
He thought it over for a long time. He said:
"Listen, Red, I won’t get you a job in town. I just can’t. It turns my stomach
to think of it. But I’ll get you something in the same line."
"All right. Anything. It doesn’t make any difference to me."
"I’ve worked for all of that bastard Francon’s pet contractors for so long I
know everybody ever worked for him. He’s got a granite quarry down in
Connecticut. One of the foremen’s a great pal of mine. He’s in town right now.
Ever worked in a quarry before?"
"Once. Long ago."
"Think you’ll like that?"
"Sure."
"I’ll go see him. We won’t be telling him who you are, just a friend of mine,
that’s all."
"Thanks, Mike."
Mike reached for his coat, and then his hands fell back, and he looked at the
floor.
"Red..."
"It will be all right, Mike."
Roark walked home. It was dark and the street was deserted. There was a strong
wind. He could feel the cold, whistling pressure strike his cheeks. It was the
only evidence of the flow ripping the air. Nothing moved in the stone corridor
about him. There was not a tree to stir, no curtains, no awnings; only naked
masses of stone, glass, asphalt and sharp corners. It was strange to feel that
fierce movement against his face. But in a trash basket on a corner a crumpled
sheet of newspaper was rustling, beating convulsively against the wire mesh. It
made the wind real.
#
In the evening, two days later, Roark left for Connecticut.
From the train, he looked back once at the skyline of the city as it flashed
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into sight and was held for some moments beyond the windows. The twilight had
washed off the details of the buildings. They rose in thin shafts of a soft,
porcelain blue, a color not of real things, but of evening and distance. They
rose in bare outlines, like empty molds waiting to be filled. The distance had
flattened the city. The single shafts stood immeasurably tall, out of scale to
the rest of the earth. They were of their own world, and they held up to the sky
the statement of what man had conceived and made possible. They were empty
molds. But man had come so far; he could go farther. The city on the edge of the
sky held a question--and a promise.
#
Little pinheads of light flared up about the peak of one famous tower, in the
windows of the Star Roof Restaurant. Then the train swerved around a bend and
the city vanished.
That evening, in the banquet hall of the Star Roof Restaurant, a dinner was held
to celebrate the admittance of Peter Keating to partnership in the firm to be
known henceforward as Francon & Keating.
At the long table that seemed covered, not with a tablecloth, but with a sheet
of light, sat Guy Francon. Somehow, tonight, he did not mind the streaks of
silver that appeared on his temples; they sparkled crisply against the black of
his hair and they gave him an air of cleanliness and elegance, like the rigid
white of his shirt against his black evening clothes. In the place of honor sat
Peter Keating. He leaned back, his shoulders straight, his hand closed about the
stem of a glass. His black curls glistened against his white forehead. In that
one moment of silence, the guests felt no envy, no resentment, no malice. There
was a grave feeling of brotherhood in the room, in the presence of the pale,
handsome boy who looked solemn as at his first communion. Ralston Holcombe had
risen to speak. He stood, his glass in hand. He had prepared his speech, but he
was astonished to hear himself saying something quite different, in a voice of
complete sincerity. He said:
"We are the guardians of a great human function. Perhaps of the greatest
function among the endeavors of man. We have achieved much and we have erred
often. But we are willing in all humility to make way for our heirs. We are only
men and we are only seekers. But we seek for truth with the best there is in our
hearts. We seek with what there is of the sublime granted to the race of men. It
is a great quest. To the future of American Architecture!"