Datasets:

riskyhomo

/

ayn_rand

like 0

But Keating could never be the same when he had an audience, any audience.

Something was gone. He did not know it, but he felt that Roark knew; Roark’s

eyes made him uncomfortable and that made him angry.

"I want to practice architecture," snapped Keating, "not talk about it! Gives

you a great prestige--the old École. Puts you above the rank and file of the

ex-plumbers who think they can build. On the other hand, an opening with

Francon--Guy Francon himself offering it!"

Roark turned away.

"How many boys will match that?" Keating went on blindly. "A year from now

they’ll be boasting they’re working for Smith or Jones if they find work at all.

While I’ll be with Francon & Heyer!"

"You’re quite right, Peter," said Mrs. Keating, rising. "On a question like that

you don’t want to consult your mother. It’s too important. I’ll leave you to

settle it with Mr. Roark."

He looked at his mother. He did not want to hear what she thought of this; he

knew that his only chance to decide was to make the decision before he heard

her; she had stopped, looking at him, ready to turn and leave the room; he knew

it was not a pose--she would leave if he wished it; he wanted her to go; he

wanted it desperately. He said:

"Why, Mother, how can you say that? Of course I want your opinion. What...what

do you think?"

She ignored the raw irritation in his voice. She smiled.

"Petey, I never think anything. It’s up to you. It’s always been up to you."

"Well..." he began hesitantly, watching her, "if I go to the Beaux-Arts..."

"Fine," said Mrs. Keating, "go to the Beaux-Arts. It’s a grand place. A whole

ocean away from your home. Of course, if you go, Mr. Francon will take somebody

else. People will talk about that. Everybody knows that Mr. Francon picks out

the best boy from Stanton every year for his office. I wonder how it’ll look if

some other boy gets the job? But I guess that doesn’t matter."

"What...what will people say?"

"Nothing much, I guess. Only that the other boy was the best man of his class. I

guess he’ll take Shlinker."

"No!" he gulped furiously. "Not Shlinker!"

24

"Yes," she said sweetly. "Shlinker."

"But..."

"But why should you care what people will say? All you have to do is please

yourself."

"And you think that Francon..."

"Why should I think of Mr. Francon? It’s nothing to me."

"Mother, you want me to take the job with Francon?"

"I don’t want anything, Petey. You’re the boss."

He wondered whether he really liked his mother. But she was his mother and this

fact was recognized by everybody as meaning automatically that he loved her, and

so he took for granted mat whatever he felt for her was love. He did not know

whether there was any reason why he should respect her judgment. She was his

mother; this was supposed to take the place of reasons.

"Yes, of course, Mother....But...Yes, I know, but.. Howard?"

It was a plea for help. Roark was there, on a davenport in the corner, half

lying, sprawled limply like a kitten. It had often astonished Keating; he had

seen Roark moving with the soundless tension, the control, the precision of a

cat; he had seen him relaxed, like a cat, in shapeless ease, as if his body held

no single solid bone. Roark glanced up at him. He said:

"Peter, you know how I feel about either one of your opportunities. Take your

choice of the lesser evil. What will you learn at the Beaux-Arts? Only more

Renaissance palaces and operetta settings. They’ll kill everything you might

have in you. You do good work, once in a while, when somebody lets you. If you

really want to learn, go to work. Francon is a bastard and a fool, but you will

be building. It will prepare you for going on your own that much sooner."

"Even Mr. Roark can talk sense sometimes," said Mrs. Keating, "even if he does

talk like a truck driver."

"Do you really think that I do good work?" Keating looked at him, as if his eyes

still held the reflection of that one sentence--and nothing else mattered.

"Occasionally," said Roark. "Not often."

"Now that it’s all settled..." began Mrs. Keating.

"I...I’ll have to think it over, Mother."

"Now that it’s all settled, how about the hot chocolate? I’ll have it out to you

in a jiffy!"

She smiled at her son, an innocent smile that declared her obedience and

gratitude, and she rustled out of the room.

Keating paced nervously, stopped, lighted a cigarette, stood spitting the smoke

out in short jerks, then looked at Roark.

"What are you going to do now, Howard?"

25

"I?"

"Very thoughtless of me, I know, going on like that about myself. Mother means

well, but she drives me crazy....Well, to hell with that. What are you going to

do?"

"I’m going to New York."

"Oh, swell. To get a job?"

"To get a job."

"In...in architecture?"

"In architecture, Peter."

"That’s grand. I’m glad. Got any definite prospects?

"I’m going to work for Henry Cameron."

"Oh, no, Howard!"

Roark smiled slowly, the corners of his mouth sharp, and said nothing.

"Oh, no, Howard!"

"Yes "

"But he’s nothing, nobody any more! Oh, I know he has a name but he’s done for!

He never gets any important buildings, hasn’t had any for years! They say he’s

got a dump for an office. What kind of future will you get out of him? What will

you learn?"

"Not much. Only how to build."

"For God’s sake, you can’t go on like that, deliberately ruining yourself! I

thought...well, yes, I thought you’d learned something today!"

"I have."

"Look, Howard, if it’s because you think that no one else will have you now, no