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thinking of the Dean. There was an important secret involved somewhere in that

question, he thought. There was a principle which he must discover.

But he stopped. He saw the sunlight of late afternoon, held still in the moment

before it was to fade, on the gray limestone of a stringcourse running along the

brick wall of the Institute building. He forgot men, the Dean and the principle

behind the Dean, which he wanted to discover. He thought only of how lovely the

stone looked in the fragile light and of what he could have done with that

stone.

He thought of a broad sheet of paper, and he saw, rising on the paper, bare

walls of gray limestone with long bands of glass, admitting the glow of the sky

into the classrooms. In the comer of the sheet stood a sharp, angular

signature--HOWARD ROARK.

2.

"...ARCHITECTURE, my friends, is a great Art based on two cosmic principles:

Beauty and Utility. In a broader sense, these are but part of the three eternal

entities: Truth, Love and Beauty. Truth--to the traditions of our Art, Love--for

our fellow men whom we are to serve, Beauty--ah, Beauty is a compelling goddess

to all artists, be it in the shape of a lovely woman or a

building....Hm....Yes....In conclusion, I should like to say to you, who are

about to embark upon your careers in architecture, that you are now the

custodians of a sacred heritage....Hm....Yes....So, go forth into the world,

armed with the three eternal entities--armed with courage and vision, loyal to

the standards this great school has represented for many years. May you all

serve faithfully, neither as slaves to the past nor as those parvenus who preach

originality for its own sake, which attitude is only ignorant vanity. May you

all have many rich, active years before you and leave, as you depart from this

world, your mark on the sands of time!"

Guy Francon ended with a flourish, raising his right arm in a sweeping salute;

informal, but with an air, that gay, swaggering air which Guy Francon could

always permit himself. The huge hall before him came to life in applause and

approval.

A sea of faces, young, perspiring and eager, had been raised solemnly--for

forty-five minutes--to the platform where Guy Francon had held forth as the

speaker at the commencement exercises of the Stanton Institute of Technology,

Guy Francon who had brought his own person from New York for the occasion; Guy

Francon, of the illustrious firm of Francon & Heyer, vice-president of the

Architects’ Guild of America, member of the American Academy of Arts and

Letters, member of the National Fine Arts Commission, Secretary of the Arts and

Crafts League of New York, chairman of the Society for Architectural

Enlightenment of the U.S.A.; Guy Francon, knight of the Legion of Honor of

France, decorated by the governments of Great Britain, Belgium, Monaco and Siam;

Guy Francon, Stanton’s greatest alumnus, who had designed the famous Frink

National Bank Building of New York City, on the top of which, twenty-five floors

above the pavements, there burned in a miniature replica of the Hadrian

Mausoleum a wind-blown torch made of glass and the best General Electric bulbs.

18

Guy Francon descended from the platform, fully conscious of his timing and

movements. He was of medium height and not too heavy, with just an unfortunate

tendency to stoutness. Nobody, he knew, would give him his real age, which was

fifty-one. His face bore not a wrinkle nor a single straight line; it was an

artful composition in globes, circles, arcs and ellipses, with bright little

eyes twinkling wittily. His clothes displayed an artist’s infinite attention to

details. He wished, as he descended the steps, that this were a co-educational

school.

The hall before him, he thought, was a splendid specimen of architecture, made a

bit stuffy today by the crowd and by the neglected problem of ventilation. But

it boasted green marble dadoes, Corinthian columns of cast iron painted gold,

and garlands of gilded fruit on the walls; the pineapples particularly, thought

Guy Francon, had stood the test of years very well. It is, thought Guy Francon,

touching; it was I who built this annex and this very hall, twenty years ago;

and here I am.

The hall was packed with bodies and faces, so tightly that one could not

distinguish at a glance which faces belonged to which bodies. It was like a

soft, shivering aspic made of mixed arms, shoulders, chests and stomachs. One of

the heads, pale, dark haired and beautiful, belonged to Peter Keating.

He sat, well in front, trying to keep his eyes on the platform, because he knew

that many people were looking at him and would look at him later. He did not

glance back, but the consciousness of those centered glances never left him. His

eyes were dark, alert, intelligent. His mouth, a small upturned crescent

faultlessly traced, was gentle and generous, and warm with the faint promise of

a smile. His head had a certain classical perfection in the shape of the skull,

in the natural wave of black ringlets about finely hollowed temples. He held his

head in the manner of one who takes his beauty for granted, but knows that

others do not. He was Peter Keating, star student of Stanton, president of the

student body, captain of the track team, member of the most important

fraternity, voted the most popular man on the campus.

The crowd was there, thought Peter Keating, to see him graduate, and he tried to

estimate the capacity of the hall. They knew of his scholastic record and no one

would beat his record today. Oh, well, there was Shlinker. Shlinker had given

him stiff competition, but he had beaten Shlinker this last year. He had worked

like a dog, because he had wanted to beat Shlinker. He had no rivals

today....Then he felt suddenly as if something had fallen down, inside his

throat, to his stomach, something cold and empty, a blank hole rolling down and

leaving that feeling on its way: not a thought, just the hint of a question

asking him whether he was really as great as this day would proclaim him to be.

He looked for Shlinker in the crowd; he saw his yellow face and gold-rimmed

glasses. He stared at Shlinker warmly, in relief, in reassurance, in gratitude.

It was obvious that Shlinker could never hope to equal his own appearance or

ability; he had nothing to doubt; he would always beat Shlinker and all the

Shlinkers of the world; he would let no one achieve what he could not achieve.

Let them all watch him. He would give them good reason to stare. He felt the hot

breaths about him and the expectation, like a tonic. It was wonderful, thought

Peter Keating, to be alive.

His head was beginning to reel a little. It was a pleasant feeling. The feeling

carried him, unresisting and unremembering, to the platform in front of all

those faces. He stood--slender, trim, athletic--and let the deluge break upon

his head. He gathered from its roar that he had graduated with honors, that the

Architects’ Guild of America had presented him with a gold medal and that he had