“Because you’ve been unhappy,” said Roark.
He said it simply, without insolence; as if nothing but total honesty were possible to him here. This was not the beginning of an interview, but the middle; it was like a continuation of something begun long ago. Wynand said:
“Make that clear.”
“I think you understand.”
“I want to hear you explain it.”
“Most people build as they live–as a matter of routine and senseless accident. But a few understand that building is a great symbol. We live in our minds, and existence is the attempt to bring that life into physical reality, to state it in gesture and form. For the man who understands this, a house he owns is a statement of his life. If he doesn’t build, when he has the means, it’s because his life has not been what he wanted.”
“You don’t think it’s preposterous to say that to me of all people?”
“No.”
“I don’t either.” Roark smiled. “But you and I are the only two who’d say it. Either part of it: that I didn’t have what I wanted or that I could be included among the few expected to understand any sort of great symbols. You don’t want to retract that either?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I owned most of the papers I have now–when I was thirty-six.” He added: “I didn’t mean that as any kind of a personal remark. I don’t know why I said that. I just happened to think of it.”
“What do you wish me to build for you?”
“My home.”
Wynand felt that the two words had some impact on Roark apart from any normal meaning they could convey; he sensed it without reason; he wanted to ask: “What’s the matter?” but couldn’t, since Roark had really shown nothing.
“You were right in your diagnosis,” said Wynand, “because you see, now I do want to build a house of my own. Now I’m not afraid of a visible shape for my life. If you want it said directly, as you did, now I’m happy.”
“What kind of house?”
“In the country. I’ve purchased the site. An estate in Connecticut, five hundred acres. What kind of a house? You’ll decide that.”
“Did Mrs. Wynand choose me for the job?”
“No. Mrs. Wynand knows nothing about this. It was I who wanted to move out of the city, and she agreed. I did ask her to select the architect–my wife is the former Dominique Francon; she was once a writer on architecture. But she preferred to leave the choice to me. You want to know why I picked you? I took a long time to decide. I felt rather lost, at first. I had never heard of you. I didn’t know any architects at all. I mean this literally–and I’m not forgetting the years I’ve spent in real estate, the things I’ve built and the imbeciles who built them for me. This is not a Stoneridge, this is–what did you call it?–a statement of my life? Then I saw Monadnock. It was the first thing that made me remember your name. But I gave myself a long test. I went around the country, looking at homes, hotels, all sorts of buildings. Every time I saw one I liked and asked who had designed it, the answer was always the same: Howard Roark. So I called you.” He added: “Shall I tell you how much I admire your work?”
“Thank you,” said Roark. He closed his eyes for an instant.
“You know, I didn’t want to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Have you heard about my art gallery?”
“Yes.”
“I never meet the men whose work I love. The work means too much to me. I don’t want the men to spoil it. They usually do. They’re an anticlimax to their own talent. You’re not. I don’t mind talking to you. I told you this only because I want you to know that I respect very little in life, but I respect the things in my gallery, and your buildings, and man’s capacity to produce work like that. Maybe it’s the only religion I’ve ever had.” He shrugged. “I think I’ve destroyed, perverted, corrupted just about everything that exists. But I’ve never touched that. Why are you looking at me like this?”
“I’m sorry. Please tell me about the house you want.”
“I want it to be a palace–only I don’t think palaces are very luxurious. They’re so big, so promiscuously public. A small house is the true luxury. A residence for two people only–for my wife and me. It won’t be necessary to allow for a family, we don’t intend to have children. Nor for visitors, we don’t intend to entertain. One guest room–in case we should need it–but not more than that. Living room, dining room, library, two studies, one bedroom. Servants’ quarters, garage. That’s the general idea. I’ll give you the details later. The cost–whatever you need. The appearance–” He smiled, shrugging. “I’ve seen your buildings. The man who wants to tell you what a house should look like must either be able to design it better–or shut up. I’ll say only that I want my house to have the Roark quality.”
“What is that?”
“I think you understand.”
“I want to hear you explain it.”
“I think some buildings are cheap show-offs, all front, and some are cowards, apologizing for themselves in every brick, and some are the eternal unfit, botched, malicious and false. Your buildings have one sense above all–a sense of joy. Not a placid joy. A difficult, demanding kind of joy. The kind that makes one feel as if it were an achievement to experience it. One looks and thinks: I’m a better person if I can feel that.”
Roark said slowly, not in the tone of an answer:
“I suppose it was inevitable.”
“What?”
“That you would see that.”
“Why do you say it as if you…regretted my being able to see it?”
“I don’t regret it.”
“Listen, don’t hold it against me–the things I’ve built before.”
“I don’t.”
“It’s all those Stoneridges and Noyes-Belmont Hotels–and Wynand papers–that made it possible for me to have a house by you. Isn’t that a luxury worth achieving? Does it matter how? They were the means. You’re the end.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
“I wasn’t jus…Yes, I think that’s what I was doing.”
“You don’t need to. I wasn’t thinking of what you’ve built.”
“What were you thinking?”
“That I’m helpless against anyone who sees what you saw in my buildings.”
“You felt you wanted help against me?”
“No. Only I don’t feel helpless as a rule.”
“I’m not prompted to justify myself as a rule, either. Then–it’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I must tell you much more about the house I want. I suppose an architect is like a father confessor–he must know everything about the people who are to live in his house, since what he gives them is more personal than their clothes or food. Please consider it in that spirit–and forgive me if you notice that this is difficult for me to say–I’ve never gone to confession. You see, I want this house because I’m very desperately in love with my wife….What’s the matter? Do you think it’s an irrelevant statement?”
“No. Go on.”
“I can’t stand to see my wife among other people. It’s not jealousy. It’s much more and much worse. I can’t stand to see her walking down the streets of a city. I can’t share her, not even with shops, theaters, taxicabs or sidewalks. I must take her away. I must put her out of reach–where nothing can touch her, not in any sense. This house is to be a fortress. My architect is to be my guard.”
Roark sat looking straight at him. He had to keep his eyes on Wynand in order to be able to listen. Wynand felt the effort in that glance; he did not recognize it as effort, only as strength; he felt himself supported by the glance; he found that nothing was hard to confess.
“This house is to be a prison. No, not quite that. A treasury–a vault to guard things too precious for sight. But it must be more. It must be a separate world, so beautiful that we’ll never miss the one we left. A prison only by the power of its own perfection. Not bars and ramparts–but your talent standing as a wall between us and the world. That’s what I want of you. And more. Have you ever built a temple?”
For a moment, Roark had no strength to answer; but he saw that the question was genuine; Wynand didn’t know.
“Yes,” said Roark.
“Then think of this commission as you would think of a temple. A, temple to Dominique Wynand….I want you to meet her before you design it.”
“I met Mrs. Wynand some years ago.”
“You have? Then you understand.”
“I do.”