The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand Read Free Book Online Page A

and the light of a lamppost on the corner.
    It was strange to see an electric globe in the air of a spring night. It made the street darker and softer; it hung alone, like a gap, and left nothing to be seen but a few branches heavy with leaves, standing still at the gap’s edges. The small hint became immense, as if the darkness held nothing but a flood of leaves. The mechanical ball of glass made the leaves seem more living; it took away their color and gave the promise that in daylight they would be a brighter green than had ever existed; it took away one’s sight and left a new sense instead, neither smell nor touch, yet both, a sense of spring and space.
    Keating stopped when he recognized the preposterous orange hair in the darkness of the porch. It was the one person whom he had wanted to see tonight. He was glad to find Roark alone, and a little afraid of it.
    “Congratulations, Peter,” said Roark.
    “Oh ... Oh, thanks....” Keating was surprised to find that he felt more pleasure than from any other compliment he had received today. He was timidly glad that Roark approved, and he called himself inwardly a fool for it. “... I mean ... do you know or ...” He added sharply: “Has mother been telling you?”
    “She has.”
    “She shouldn’t have!”
    “Why not?”
    “Look, Howard, you know that I’m terribly sorry about your being ...”
    Roark threw his head back and looked up at him.
    “Forget it,” said Roark.
    “I ... there’s something I want to speak to you about, Howard, to ask your advice. Mind if I sit down?”
    “What is it?”
    Keating sat down on the steps beside him. There was no part that he could ever play in Roark’s presence. Besides, he did not feel like playing a part now. He heard a leaf rustling in its fall to the earth; it was a thin, glassy, spring sound.
    He knew, for the moment, that he felt affection for Roark; an affection that held pain, astonishment and helplessness.
    “You won’t think,” said Keating gently, in complete sincerity, “that it’s awful of me to be asking about my business, when you’ve just been ... ?”
    “I said forget about that. What is it?”
    “You know,” said Keating honestly and unexpectedly even to himself, “I’ve often thought that you’re crazy. But I know that you know many things about it—architecture, I mean—which those fools never knew. And I know that you love it as they never will.”
    “Well?”
    “Well, I don’t know why I should come to you, but—Howard, I’ve never said it before, but you see, I’d rather have your opinion on things than the Dean‘s—I’d probably follow the Dean’s, but it’s just that yours means more to me myself, I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m saying this, either.”
    Roark turned over on his side, looked at him, and laughed. It was a young, kind, friendly laughter, a thing so rare to hear from Roark that Keating felt as if someone had taken his hand in reassurance; and he forgot that he had a party in Boston waiting for him.
    “Come on,” said Roark, “you’re not being afraid of me, are you? What do you want to ask about?”
    “It’s about my scholarship. The Paris prize I got.”
    “Yes?”
    “It’s for four years. But, on the other hand, Guy Francon offered me a job with him some time ago. Today he said it’s still open. And I don’t know which to take.”
    Roark looked at him; Roark’s fingers moved in slow rotation, beating against the steps.
    “If you want my advice, Peter,” he said at last, “you’ve made a mistake already. By asking me. By asking anyone. Never ask people. Not about your work. Don’t you know what you want? How can you stand it, not to know?”
    “You see, that’s what I admire about you, Howard. You always know.”
    “Drop the compliments.”
    “But I mean it. How do you always manage to decide?”
    “How can you let others decide for you?”
    “But you see, I’m not sure, Howard. I’m never sure of myself. I don’t