by Ayn Rand
"Because I need it very badly, Ellsworth."
"I know you do."
There was nothing further to say. Toohey shifted his ankle, raised his foot and put it flat upon the arm of the couch, spreading his legs comfortably.
"Sit up, Peter. You look like a gargoyle."
Keating did not move.
"What made you assume that the selection of an architect for Cortlandt Homes was up to me?"
Keating raised his head; it was a stab of relief. He had presumed too much and offended Toohey; that was the reason; that was the only reason.
"Why, I understand ... it's being said ... I was told that you have a great deal of influence on this particular project ... with those people ... and in Washington ... and places ..."
"Strictly in an unofficial capacity. As something of an expert in architectural matters. Nothing else."
"Yes, of course.... That's ... what I meant."
"I can recommend an architect. That's all. I can guarantee nothing. My word is not final."
"That's all I wanted, Ellsworth. A word of recommendation from you..."
"But, Peter, if I recommend someone, I must give a reason. I can't use such influence as I might have, just to push a friend, can I?"
Keating stared at the dressing gown, thinking: powder puffs, why powder puffs? That's what's wrong with me, if he'd only take the thing off.
"Your professional standing is not what it used to be, Peter."
"You said 'to push a friend,' Ellsworth ..." It was a whisper.
"Well, of course I'm your friend. I've always been your friend. You're not doubting that, are you?"
"No ... I can't, Ellsworth...."
"Well, cheer up, then. Look, I'll tell you the truth. We're stuck on that damn Cortlandt. There's a nasty little sticker involved. I've tried to get it for Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb--I thought it was more in their line, I didn't think you'd be so interested. But neither of them could make the grade. Do you know the big problem in housing? Economy, Peter. How to design a decent modern unit that could rent for fifteen dollars a month. Ever tried to figure out that one? Well, that's what's expected of the architect who'll do Cortlandt--if they ever find him. Of course, tenant selection helps, they stagger the rents, the families who make twelve hundred a year pay more for the same apartment to help carry the families who make six hundred a year--you know, underdog milked to help somebody underdoggier--but still, the cost of the building and the upkeep must be as low as humanly possible. The boys in Washington don't want another one of those--you heard about it, a little government development where the homes cost ten thousand dollars apiece, while a private builder could have put them up for two thousand. Cortlandt is to be a model project. An example for the whole world. It must be the most brilliant, the most efficient exhibit of planning ingenuity and structural economy ever achieved anywhere. That's what the big boys demand. Gordon and Gus couldn't do it. They tried and were turned down. You'd be surprised to know how many people have tried. Peter, I couldn't sell you to them even at the height of your career. What can I tell them about you? All you stand for is plush, gilt and marble, old Guy Francon, the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, the Frink National Bank, and that little abortion of the Centuries that will never pay for itself. What they want is a millionaire's kitchen for a. share-cropper's income. Think you can do it?"
"I ... I have ideas, Ellsworth. I've watched the field ... I've ... studied new methods.... I could ..."
"If you can, it's yours. If you can't, all my friendship won't help you. And God knows I'd like to help you. You look like an old hen in the rain. Here's what I'll do for you, Peter: come to my office tomorrow, I'll give you all the dope, take it home and see if you wish to break your head over it. Take a chance, if you care to. Work me out a preliminary scheme. I can't promise anything. But if you come anywhere near it, I'll submit it to the right people and I'll push it for all I'm worth. That's all I can do for you. It's not up to me. It's really up to you."
Keating sat looking at him. Keating's eyes were anxious, eager and hopeless.
"Care to try, Peter?"
"Will you let me try?"
"Of course I'll let you. Why shouldn't I? I'd be delighted if you, of all people, turned out to be the one to turn the trick."
"About the way I look, Ellsworth," he said suddenly, "about the way I look ... it's not because I mind so much that I'm a failure ... it's because I can't understand why I slipped like that ... from the top ... without any reason at all ..."
"Well, Peter, that could be terrifying to contemplate. The inexplicable is always terrifying. But it wouldn't be so frightening if you stopped to ask yourself whether there's ever been any reason why you should have been at the top.... Oh, come, Peter, smile, I'm only kidding. One loses everything when one loses one's sense of humor."
On the following morning Keating came to his office after a visit to Ellsworth Toohey's cubbyhole in the Banner Building. He brought with him a briefcase containing the data on the Cortlandt Homes project. He spread the papers on a large table in his office and locked the door. He asked a draftsman to bring him a sandwich at noon, and he ordered another sandwich at dinner time. "Want me to help, Pete?" asked Neil Dumont. "We could consult and discuss it and ..." Keating shook his head.
He sat at his table all night. After a while he stopped looking at the papers; he sat still, thinking. He was not thinking of the charts and figures spread before him. He had studied them. He had understood what he could not do.
When he noticed that it was daylight, when he heard steps behind his locked door, the movement of men returning to work, and knew that office hours had begun, here and everywhere else in the city--he rose, walked to his desk and reached for the telephone book. He dialed the number.
"This is Peter Keating speaking. I should like to make an appointment to see Mr. Roark."
Dear God, he thought while waiting, don't let him see me. Make him refuse. Dear God, make him refuse and I will have the right to hate him to the end of my days. Don't let him see me.
"Will four o'clock tomorrow afternoon be convenient for you, Mr. Keating?" said the calm, gentle voice of the secretary. "Mr. Roark will see you then."
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."
