But he had not loved any of them as he loved the house of Austen Heller. He stayed in the drafting room through evening after evening, alone with a sheet of paper and the thought of a cliff over the sea. No one saw his sketches until they were finished.
When they were finished, late one night, he sat at his table, with the sheets spread before him, sat for many hours, one hand propping his forehead, the other hanging by his side, blood gathering in the fingers, numbing them, while the street beyond the window became deep blue, then pale gray. He did not look at the sketches. He felt empty and very tired.
The house on the sketches had been designed not by Roark, but by the cliff on which it stood. It was as if the cliff had grown and completed itself and proclaimed the purpose for which it had been waiting. The house was broken into many levels, following the ledges of the rock, rising as it rose, in gradual masses, in planes flowing together up into one consummate harmony. The walls, of the same granite as the rock, continued its vertical lines upward; the wide, projecting terraces of concrete, silver as the sea, followed the line of the waves, of the straight horizon.
Roark was still sitting at his table when the men returned to begin their day in the drafting room. Then the sketches were sent to Snyte's office.
Two days later, the final version of the house to be submitted to Austen Heller, the version chosen and edited by John Erik Snyte, executed by the Chinese artist, lay swathed in tissue paper on a table. It was Roark's house. His competitors had been eliminated. It was Roark's house, but its walls were now of red brick, its windows were cut to conventional size and equipped with green shutters, two of its projecting wings were omitted, the great cantilevered terrace over the sea was replaced by a little wrought-iron balcony, and the house was provided with an entrance of Ionic columns supporting a broken pediment, and with a little spire supporting a weather vane.
John Erik Snyte stood by the table, his two hands spread in the air over the sketch, without touching the virgin purity of its delicate colors.
"That is what Mr. Heller had in mind, I'm sure," he said. "Pretty good ... Yes, pretty good ... Roark, how many times do I have to ask you not to smoke around a final sketch? Stand away. You'll get ashes on it."
Austen Heller was expected at twelve o'clock. But at half past eleven Mrs. Symington arrived unannounced and demanded to see Mr. Snyte immediately. Mrs. Symington was an imposing dowager who had just moved into her new residence designed by Mr. Snyte; besides, Snyte expected a commission for an apartment house from her brother. He could not refuse to see her and he bowed her into his office, where she proceeded to state without reticence of expression that the ceiling of her library had cracked and the bay windows of her drawing room were hidden under a perpetual veil of moisture which she could not combat. Snyte summoned his chief engineer and they launched together into detailed explanations, apologies and damnations of contractors. Mrs. Symington showed no sign of relenting when a signal buzzed on Snyte's desk and the reception clerk's voice announced Austen Heller.
It would have been impossible to ask Mrs. Symington to leave or Austen Heller to wait. Snyte solved the problem by abandoning her to the soothing speech of his engineer and excusing himself for a moment. Then he emerged into the reception room, shook Heller's hand and suggested: "Would you mind stepping into the drafting room, Mr. Heller? Better light in there, you know, and the sketch is all ready for you, and I didn't want to take the chance of moving it."
Heller did not seem to mind. He followed Snyte obediently into the drafting room, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in English tweeds, with sandy hair and a square face drawn in countless creases around the ironical calm of the eyes.
The sketch lay on the Chinese artist's table, and the artist stepped aside diffidently, in silence. The next table was Roark's. He stood with his back to Heller; he went on with his drawing, and did not turn. The employees had been trained not to intrude on the occasions when Snyte brought a client into the drafting room.
Snyte's fingertips lifted the tissue paper, as if raising the veil of a bride. Then he stepped back and watched Heller's face. Heller bent down and stood hunched, drawn, intent, saying nothing for a long time.
"Listen, Mr. Snyte," he began at last. "Listen, I think ... " and stopped.
Snyte waited patiently, pleased, sensing the approach of something he didn't want to disturb.
"This," said Heller suddenly, loudly, slamming his fist down on the drawing, and Snyte winced, "this is the nearest anyone's ever come to it!"
"I knew you'd like it, Mr. Heller," said Snyte.
"I don't," said Heller.
Snyte blinked and waited.
"It's so near somehow," said Heller regretfully, "but it's not right. I don't know where, but it's not. Do forgive me, if this sounds vague, but I like things at once or I don't. I know that I wouldn't be comfortable, for instance, with that entrance. It's a lovely entrance, but you won't even notice it because you've seen it so often."
"Ah, but allow me to point out a few considerations, Mr. Heller. One wants to be modern, of course, but one wants to preserve the appearance of a home. A combination of stateliness and coziness, you understand, a very austere house like this must have a few softening touches. It is strictly correct architecturally."
"No doubt," said Heller. "I wouldn't know about that. I've never been strictly correct in my life."
"Just let me explain this scheme and you'll see that it's ... "
"I know," said Heller wearily. "I know. I'm sure you're right. Only ... " His voice had a sound of the eagerness he wished he could feel. "Only, if it had some unity, some ... some central idea ... which is there and isn't ... if it seemed to live ... which it doesn't ... It lacks something and it has too much ... If it were cleaner, more clear-cut ... what's the word I've heard used? — if it were integrated ... "
Roark turned. He was at the other side of the table. He seized the sketch, his hand flashed forward and a pencil ripped across the drawing, slashing raw black lines over the untouchable water-color. The lines blasted off the Ionic columns, the pediment, the entrance, the spire, the blinds, the bricks; they flung up two wings of stone; they rent the windows wide; they splintered the balcony and hurled a terrace over the sea.
It was being done before the others had grasped the moment when it began. Then Snyte jumped forward, but Heller seized his wrist and stopped him. Roark's hand went on razing walls, splitting, rebuilding in furious strokes.
Roark threw his head up once, for a flash of a second, to look at Heller across the table. It was all the introduction they needed; it was like a handshake. Roark went on, and when he threw the pencil down, the house — as he had designed it — stood completed in an ordered pattern of black streaks. The performance had not lasted five minutes.
Snyte made an attempt at a sound. As Heller said nothing, Snyte felt free to whirl on Roark and scream: "You're fired, God damn you! Get out of here! You're fired!"
"We're both fired," said Austen Heller, winking to Roark. "Come on. Have you had any lunch? Let's go some place. I want to talk to you."
Roark went to his locker to get his hat and coat. The drafting room witnessed a stupefying act and all work stopped to watch it: Austen Heller picked up the sketch, folded it over four times, cracking the sacred cardboard, and slipped it into his pocket.
"But, Mr. Heller ... " Snyte stammered, "let me explain ... It's perfectly all right if that's what you want, we'll do the sketch over ... let me explain ... "