riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
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.
21

"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."
22

"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 know
whether I’m as good as they all tell me I am. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone
but you. I think it’s because you’re always so sure that I..."
"Petey!" Mrs. Keating’s voice exploded behind them. "Petey, sweetheart! What are
you doing there?"
She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and
angry.
"And here I’ve been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you
doing on those filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in
the house, boys. I’ve got hot chocolate and cookies ready for you."
"But, Mother. I wanted to speak to Howard about something important," said
Keating. But he rose to his feet.
She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed.
Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also.
Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling.
"Well?" she asked. "What were you two discussing out there?"
Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then,
ignoring her, turned to Roark.
"Look, Howard, drop the pose," he said, his voice high. "Shall I junk the
scholarship and go to work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to
impress the yokels? What do you think?"
Something was gone. The one moment was lost.
"Now, Petey, let me get this straight..." began Mrs. Keating.
"Oh, wait a minute, Mother!...Howard, I’ve got to weigh it carefully. It isn’t
23

everyone who can get a scholarship like that. You’re pretty good when you rate
that. A course at the Beaux-Arts--you know how important that is."
"I don’t," said Roark.
"Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I’m speaking practically, for a man in
my position. Ideals aside for a moment, it certainly is..."
"You don’t want my advice," said Roark.
"Of course I do! I’m asking you!"

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.

21

"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."

22

"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 know

whether I’m as good as they all tell me I am. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone

but you. I think it’s because you’re always so sure that I..."

"Petey!" Mrs. Keating’s voice exploded behind them. "Petey, sweetheart! What are

you doing there?"

She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and

angry.

"And here I’ve been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you

doing on those filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in

the house, boys. I’ve got hot chocolate and cookies ready for you."

"But, Mother. I wanted to speak to Howard about something important," said

Keating. But he rose to his feet.

She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed.

Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also.

Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling.

"Well?" she asked. "What were you two discussing out there?"

Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then,

ignoring her, turned to Roark.

"Look, Howard, drop the pose," he said, his voice high. "Shall I junk the

scholarship and go to work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to

impress the yokels? What do you think?"

Something was gone. The one moment was lost.

"Now, Petey, let me get this straight..." began Mrs. Keating.

"Oh, wait a minute, Mother!...Howard, I’ve got to weigh it carefully. It isn’t

23

everyone who can get a scholarship like that. You’re pretty good when you rate

that. A course at the Beaux-Arts--you know how important that is."

"I don’t," said Roark.

"Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I’m speaking practically, for a man in

my position. Ideals aside for a moment, it certainly is..."

"You don’t want my advice," said Roark.

"Of course I do! I’m asking you!"