Toohey proved that the Stoddard Temple contradicted every brick, stone and precept of history. "I have endeavored to show," he said in conclusion, "that the two essentials of the conception of a temple are a sense of awe and a sense of man's humility. We have noted the gigantic proportions of religious edifices, the soaring lines, the horrible grotesques of monster-like gods, or, later, gargoyles. All of it tends to impress upon man his essential insignificance, to crush him by sheer magnitude, to imbue him with that sacred terror which leads to the meekness of virtue. The Stoddard Temple is a brazen denial of our entire past, an insolent 'No' flung in the face of history. I may venture a guess as to the reason why this case has aroused such public interest. All of us have recognized instinctively that it involves a moral issue much beyond its legal aspects. This building is a monument to a profound hatred of humanity. It is one man's ego defying the most sacred impulses of all mankind, of every man on the street, of every man in this courtroom!"
This was not a witness in court, but Ellsworth Toohey addressing a meeting — and the reaction was inevitable: the audience burst into applause. The judge struck his gavel and made a threat to have the courtroom cleared. Order was restored, but not to the faces of the crowd: the faces remained lecherously self-righteous. It was pleasant to be singled out and brought into the case as an injured party. Three-fourths of them had never seen the Stoddard Temple.
"Thank you, Mr. Toohey," said the attorney, faintly suggesting a bow. Then he turned to Roark and said with delicate courtesy: "Your witness."
"No questions," said Roark.
Ellsworth Toohey raised one eyebrow and left the stand regretfully.
"Mr. Peter Keating!" called the attorney. Peter Keating's face looked attractive and fresh, as if he had had a good night's sleep. He mounted the witness stand with a collegiate sort of gusto, swinging his shoulders and arms unnecessarily. He took the oath and answered the first questions gaily. His pose in the witness chair was strange: his torso slumped to one side with swaggering ease, an elbow on the chair's arm; but his feet were planted awkwardly straight, and his knees were pressed tight together. He never looked at Roark.
"Will you please name some of the outstanding buildings which you have designed, Mr. Keating?" the attorney asked.
Keating began a list of impressive names; the first few came fast, the rest slower and slower, as if he wished to be stopped; the last one died in the air, unfinished.
"Aren't you forgetting the most important one, Mr. Keating?" the attorney asked. "Didn't you design the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?"
"Yes," whispered Keating.
"Now, Mr. Keating, you attended the Stanton Institute of Technology at the same period as Mr. Roark?"
"Yes."
"What can you tell us about Mr. Roark's record there?"
"He was expelled."
"He was expelled because he was unable to live up to the Institute's high standard of requirements?"
"Yes. Yes, that was it."
The judge glanced at Roark. A lawyer would have objected to this testimony as irrelevant. Roark made no objection.
"At that time, did you think that he showed any talent for the profession of architecture?"
"No."
"Will you please speak a little louder, Mr. Keating?"
"I didn't ... think he had any talent."
Queer things were happening to Keating's verbal punctuation: some words came out crisply, as if he dropped an exclamation point after each; others ran together, as if he would not stop to let himself hear them. He did not look at the attorney. He kept his eyes on the audience. At times, he looked like a boy out on a lark, a boy who has just drawn a mustache on the face of a beautiful girl on a subway toothpaste ad. Then he looked as if he were begging the crowd for support — as if he were on trial before them.
"At one time you employed Mr. Roark in your office?"
"Yes."
"And you found yourself forced to fire him?"
"Yes ... we did."
"For incompetence?"
"Yes."
"What can you tell us about Mr. Roark's subsequent career?"
"Well, you know, 'career' is a relative term. In volume of achievement any draftsman in our office has done more than Mr. Roark. We don't call one or two buildings a career. We put up that many every month or so."
"Will you give us your professional opinion of his work?"
"Well, I think it's immature. Very startling, even quite interesting at times, but essentially — adolescent."
"Then Mr. Roark cannot be called a full-fledged architect?"
"Not in the sense in which we speak of Mr. Ralston Holcombe, Mr. Guy Francon, Mr. Gordon Prescott — no. But, of course, I want to be fair. I think Mr. Roark had definite potentialities, particularly in problems of pure engineering. He could have made something of himself. I've tried to talk to him about it — I've tried to help him — I honestly did. But it was like talking to one of his pet pieces of reinforced concrete. I knew that he'd come to something like this. I wasn't surprised when I heard that a client had had to sue him at last."
"What can you tell us about Mr. Roark's attitude toward clients?"
"Well, that's the point. That's the whole point. He didn't care what the clients thought or wished, what anyone in the world thought or wished. He didn't even understand how other architects could care. He wouldn't even give you that, not even understanding, not even enough to ... respect you a little just the same. I don't see what's so wrong with trying to please people. I don't see what's wrong with wanting to be friendly and liked and popular. Why is that a crime? Why should anyone sneer at you for that, sneer all the time, all the time, day and night, not giving you a moment's peace, like the Chinese water torture, you know where they drop water on your skull drop by drop?"
People in the audience began to realize that Peter Keating was drunk. The attorney frowned; the testimony had been rehearsed; but it was getting off the rails.
"Well, now, Mr. Keating, perhaps you'd better tell us about Mr. Roark's views on architecture."
"I'll tell you, if you want to know. He thinks you should take your shoes off and kneel, when you speak of architecture. That's what he thinks. Now why should you? Why? It's a business like any other, isn't it? What's so damn sacred about it? Why do we have to be all keyed up? We're only human. We want to make a living. Why can't things be simple and easy? Why do we have to be some sort of God-damn heroes?"
"Now, now, Mr. Keating, I think we're straying slightly from the subject. We're ... "
"No, we're not. I know what I'm talking about. You do, too. They all do. Every one of them here. I'm talking about the Temple. Don't you see? Why pick a fiend to build a temple? Only a very human sort of man should be chosen to do that. A man who understands ... and forgives. A man who forgives ... That's what you go to church for — to be ... forgiven ... "
"Yes, Mr. Keating, but speaking of Mr. Roark ... "
"Well, what about Mr. Roark? He's no architect. He's no good. Why should I be afraid to say that he's no good? Why are you all afraid of him?"
"Mr. Keating, if you're not well and wish to be dismissed ... ?" Keating looked at him, as if awakening. He tried to control himself. After a while he said, his voice flat, resigned: