The Fountainhead (23 page)

John Erik Snyte stood by the table, his two hands spread in the air over the sketch, without touching the virgin purity of its delicate colors.

“That is what Mr. Heller had in mind, I’m sure,” he said. “Pretty good ... Yes, pretty good ... Roark, how many times do I have to ask you not to smoke around a final sketch? Stand away. You’ll get ashes on it.”

Austen Heller was expected at twelve o’clock. But at half past eleven Mrs. Symington arrived unannounced and demanded to see Mr. Snyte immediately. Mrs. Symington was an imposing dowager who had just moved into her new residence, designed by Mr. Snyte; besides, Snyte expected a commission for an apartment house from her brother. He could not refuse to see her and he bowed her into his office, where she proceeded to state without reticence of expression that the ceiling of her library had cracked and the bay windows of her drawing room were hidden under a perpetual veil of moisture which she could not combat. Snyte summoned his chief engineer and they launched together into detailed explanations, apologies and damnations of contractors. Mrs. Symington showed no sign of relenting when a signal buzzed on Snyte’s desk and the reception clerk’s voice announced Austin Heller.

It would have been impossible to ask Mrs. Symington to leave or Austin Heller to wait. Snyte solved the problem by abandoning her to the soothing speech of his engineer and excusing himself for a moment. Then he emerged into the reception room, shook Heller’s hand and suggested: “Would you mind stepping into the drafting room, Mr. Heller? Better light in there, you know, and the sketch is all ready for you, and I didn’t want to take the chance of moving it.”

Heller did not seem to mind. He followed Snyte obediently into the drafting room, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in English tweeds, with sandy hair and a square face drawn in countless creases around the ironical calm of the eyes.

The sketch lay on the Chinese artist’s table, and the artist stepped aside diffidently, in silence. The next table was Roark’s. He stood with his back to Heller; he went on with his drawing, and did not turn. The employees had been trained not to intrude on the occasions when Snyte brought a client into the drafting room.

Snyte’s finger tips lifted the tissue paper, as if raising the veil of a bride. Then he stepped back and watched Heller’s face. Heller bent down and stood hunched, drawn, intent, saying nothing for a long time.

“Listen, Mr. Snyte,” he began at last. “Listen, I think ...” and stopped.

Snyte waited patiently, pleased, sensing the approach of something he didn’t want to disturb.

“This,” said Heller suddenly, loudly, slamming his fist down on the drawing, and Snyte winced, “this is the nearest anyone’s ever come to it!”

“I knew you’d like it, Mr. Heller,” said Snyte.

“I don’t,” said Heller.

Snyte blinked and waited.

“It’s so near somehow,” said Heller regretfully, “but it’s not right. I don’t know where, but it’s not. Do forgive me, if this sounds vague, but I like things at once or I don’t. I know that I wouldn’t be comfortable, for instance, with that entrance. It’s a lovely entrance, but you won’t even notice it because you’ve seen it so often.”

“Ah, but allow me to point out a few considerations, Mr. Heller. One wants to be modern, of course, but one wants to preserve the appearance of a home. A combination of stateliness and coziness, you understand, a very austere house like this must have a few softening touches. It is strictly correct architecturally.”

“No doubt,” said Heller. “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never been strictly correct in my life.”

“Just let me explain this scheme and you’ll see that it’s ...”

“I know,” said Heller wearily. “I know. I’m sure you’re right. Only ...” His voice had a sound of the eagerness he wished he could feel. “Only, if it had some unity, some ... some central idea ... which is there and isn’t ... if it seemed to live ... which it doesn’t ... It lacks something and it has too much.... If it were cleaner, more clear-cut ... what’s the word I’ve heard used?—if it were integrated....”

Roark turned. He was at the other side of the table. He seized the sketch, his hand flashed forward and a pencil ripped across the drawing, slashing raw black lines over the untouchable water-color. The lines blasted off the Ionic columns, the pediment, the entrance, the spire, the blinds, the bricks; they flung up two wings of stone; they rent the windows wide; they splintered the balcony and hurled a terrace over the sea.

It was being done before the others had grasped the moment when it began. Then Snyte jumped forward, but Heller seized his wrist and stopped him. Roark’s hand went on razing walls, splitting, rebuilding in furious strokes.

Roark threw his head up once, for a flash of a second, to look at Heller across the table. It was all the introduction they needed; it was like a handshake. Roark went on, and when he threw the pencil down, the house—as he had designed it—stood completed in an ordered pattern of black streaks. The performance had not lasted five minutes.

Snyte made an attempt at a sound. As Heller said nothing, Snyte felt free to whirl on Roark and scream: “You’re fired, God damn you! Get out of here! You’re fired!”

“We’re both fired,” said Austen Heller, winking to Roark. “Come on. Have you had any lunch? Let’s go some place. I want to talk to you.”

Roark went to his locker to get his hat and coat. The drafting room witnessed a stupefying act and all work stopped to watch it: Austen Heller picked up the sketch, folded it over four times, cracking the sacred cardboard, and slipped it into his pocket.

“But, Mr. Heller ...” Snyte stammered, “let me explain ... It’s perfectly all right if that’s what you want, we’ll do the sketch over ... let me explain ...”

“Not now,” said Heller. “Not now.” He added at the door: “I’ll send you a check.”

Then Heller was gone, and Roark with him; and the door, as Heller swung it shut behind them, sounded like the closing paragraph in one of Heller’s articles.

Roark had not said a word.

In the softly lighted booth of the most expensive restaurant that Roark had ever entered, across the crystal and silver glittering between them, Heller was saying:

“... because that’s the house I want, because that’s the house I’ve always wanted. Can you build it for me, draw up the plans and supervise the construction?”

“Yes,” said Roark.

“How long will it take if we start at once?”

“About eight months.”

“I’ll have the house by late fall?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that sketch?”

“Just like that.”

“Look, I have no idea what kind of a contract one makes with an architect and you must know, so draw up one and let my lawyer okay it this afternoon, will you?”

“Yes.”

Heller studied the man who sat facing him. He saw the hand lying on the table before him. Heller’s awareness became focused on that hand. He saw the long fingers, the sharp joints, the prominent veins. He had the feeling that he was not hiring this man, but surrendering himself into his employment.

“How old are you,” asked Heller, “whoever you are?”

“Twenty-six. Do you want any references?”

“Hell, no. I have them, here in my pocket. What’s your name?”

“Howard Roark.”

Heller produced a checkbook, spread it open on the table and reached for his fountain pen.

“Look,” he said, writing, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars on account. Get yourself an office or whatever you have to get, and go ahead.”

He tore off the check and handed it to Roark, between the tips of two straight fingers, leaning forward on his elbow, swinging his wrist in a sweeping curve. His eyes were narrowed, amused, watching Roark quizzically. But the gesture had the air of a salute.

The check was made out to “Howard Roark, Architect.”

H
OWARD ROARK OPENED HIS OWN OFFICE. It was one large room on the top of an old building, with a broad window high over the roofs. He could see the distant band of the Hudson at his window sill, with the small streaks of ships moving under his finger tips when he pressed them to the glass. He had a desk, two chairs, and a huge drafting table. The glass entrance door bore the words: “Howard Roark, Architect.” He stood in the hall for a long time, looking at the words. Then he went in, and slammed his door; he picked up a T-square from the table and flung it down again, as if throwing an anchor.

John Erik Snyte had objected. When Roark came to the office for his drawing instruments Snyte emerged into the reception room, shook his hand warmly and said: “Well, Roark! Well, how are you? Come in, come right in, I want to speak to you!”

And with Roark seated before his desk Snyte proceeded loudly:

“Look, fellow, I hope you’ve got sense enough not to hold it against me, anything that I might’ve said yesterday. You know how it is, I lost my head a little, and it wasn’t what you did, but that you had to go and do it on that sketch,
that sketch
... well, never mind. No hard feelings?”

“No,” said Roark. “None at all.”

“Of course, you’re not fired. You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You can go right back to work here this very minute.”

“What for, Mr. Snyte?”

“What do you mean, what for? Oh, you’re thinking of the Heller house? But you’re not taking Heller seriously, are you? You saw how he is, that madman can change his mind sixty times a minute. He won’t really give you that commission, you know, it isn’t as simple as that, it isn’t being done that way.”

“We’ve signed the contract yesterday.”

“Oh, you have? Well, that’s splendid! Well, look, Roark, I’ll tell you what we’ll do: you bring the commission back to us and I’ll let you put your name on it with mine—‘John Erik Snyte & Howard Roark.’ And we’ll split the fee. That’s in addition to your salary—and you’re getting a raise, incidentally. Then we’ll have the same arrangement on any other commission you bring in. And ... Lord, man, what are you laughing at?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Snyte. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you understand,” said Snyte, bewildered. “Don’t you see? It’s your insurance. You don’t want to break loose just yet. Commissions won’t fall into your lap like this. Then what will you do? This way, you’ll have a steady job and you’ll be building toward independent practice, if that’s what you’re after. In four or five years, you’ll be ready to take the leap. That’s the way everybody does it. You see?”

“Yes.”

“Then you agree?”

“No.”

“But, good Lord, man, you’ve lost your mind! To set up alone
now?
Without experience, without connections, without ... well, without anything at all! I never heard of such a thing. Ask anybody in the profession. See what they’ll tell you. It’s preposterous!”

“Probably.”

“Listen, Roark, won’t you please listen?”

“I’ll listen if you want me to, Mr. Snyte. But I think I should tell you now that nothing you can say will make any difference. If you don’t mind that, I don’t mind listening.”

Snyte went on speaking for a long time and Roark listened, without objecting, explaining or answering.

“Well, if that’s how you are, don’t expect me to take you back when you find yourself on the pavement.”

“I don’t expect it, Mr. Snyte.”

“Don’t expect anyone else in the profession to take you in, after they hear what you’ve done to me.”

“I don’t expect that either.”

For a few days Snyte thought of suing Roark and Heller. But he decided against it, because there was no precedent to follow under the circumstances; because Heller had paid him for his efforts, and the house had been actually designed by Roark; and because no one ever sued Austen Heller.

The first visitor to Roark’s office was Peter Keating.

He walked in, without warning, one noon, walked straight across the room and sat down on Roark’s desk, smiling gaily, spreading his arms wide in a sweeping gesture:

“Well, Howard!” he said. “Well, fancy that!”

He had not seen Roark for a year.

“Hello, Peter,” said Roark.

“You’re own office, your own name and everything! Already! Just imagine!”

“Who told you, Peter?”

“Oh, one hears things. You wouldn’t expect me not to keep track of your career, now would you? You know what I’ve always thought of you. And I don’t have to tell you that I congratulate you and wish you the very best.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

“Nice place you got here. Light and roomy. Not quite as imposing as it should be, perhaps, but what can one expect at the beginning? And then, the prospects are uncertain, aren’t they, Howard?”

“Quite.”

“It’s an awful chance you’ve taken.”

“Probably.”

“Are you really going to go through with it? I mean, on your own?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not too late, you know. I thought, when I heard the story, that you’d surely turn it over to Snyte and make a smart deal with him. ”

“I didn’t.”

“Aren’t you really going to?”

“No.”

Keating wondered why he should experience that sickening feeling of resentment; why he had come here hoping to find the story untrue, hoping to find Roark uncertain and willing to surrender. That feeling had haunted him ever since he’d heard the news about Roark; the sensation of something unpleasant that remained after he’d forgotten the cause. The feeling would come back to him, without reason, a blank wave of anger, and he would ask himself: now what the hell?—what was it I heard today? Then he would remember: Oh, yes, Roark—Roark’s opened his own office. He would ask himself impatiently: So what?—and know at the same time that the words were painful to face, and humiliating like an insult.

“You know, Howard, I admire your courage. Really, you know, I’ve had much more experience and I’ve got more of a standing in the profession, don’t mind saying it—I’m only speaking objectively—but I wouldn’t dare take such a step.”