|
| “THE
LEAVES STREAMED DOWN, TREMBLING IN THE SUN.
THEY were not green; only a few, scattered
through the torrent, stood out in single
drops of green so bright and pure that it
hurt the eyes; the rest were not a color,
but a light, the substance of fire on metal,
living sparks without edges. And it looked
like as if the forest were a spread of light
boiling slowly to produce this color, this
green rising in small bubbles, the condensed
essence of spring. The trees met, bending
over the road, and the spots of sun on the
ground moved with the shifting of the branches,
like a conscious caress. The young man hoped
he would not have to die. |
| “Not
if the earth could look like this, he thought.
Not if he could hear the hope and the promise
like a voice, with leaves, tree trunks and
rock in stead of words. But he knew that
the earth looked like this only because
he had seen no sign of men for hours; he
was alone, riding his bicycle down a forgotten
trail through the hills of Pennsylvania
where he had never been before, where he
could feel the fresh wonder of an untouched
world. |
| “He
was a very young man. He had just graduated
from college - in the spring of the year
1935 - and he wanted to decide whether life
was worth living. He did not know that this
was the question in his mind. He did not
think of dying. He thought only that he
wished to find joy and reason and meaning
in life - and that none had been offered
to him anywhere. |
| “He
did not like the things taught him in
college.
He had been taught a great deal about
social responsibility, about a life of
service and self-sacrifice. Everybody
had said that it was beautiful and inspiring.
Only he had not felt inspired. He had
felt
nothing at all. |
| “He
could not name the thing he wanted in life.
He felt it here, in this wild wilderness.
But he did not face nature with the joy
of a healthy animal - as a proper and final
setting; he faced it with the joy of a healthy
man - as a challenge; as tools, means and
material. So he felt anger that he should
find exaltation only in the wilderness,
that this great sense of hope had to be
lost when he would return to men and men’s
work. He thought that this was not right;
that man’s work should be a higher
step, an improvement on nature, nor a degradation.
He did not want to despise men; he wanted
to love and admire them. But he dreaded
the sight of the first house, poolroom and
movie poster he would encounter on his way.
|
| “He
had always wanted to write music, and he
could give no other identity to the thing
he sought. If you want to know what it is,
he told himself, listen to the first phrases
of Tchaikovsky’s First Concerto
- or the last movement of Rachmaninoff’s
Second. Men have not found the
word for it nor the deed nor the thought,
but they have found the music. Let me see
in one single act of man on earth. Let me
see it made real. Let me see the answer
to the promise of that music. Not servants
nor those served; not altars and immolations;
but the final, the fulfilled, innocent of
pain. Don’t help me or serve me, but
let me see it once, because I need it. Don’t
work for my happiness, my brothers - show
me yours - show me that it is possible -
show me your achievement - and the knowledge
will give me courage for mine. |
| “He
saw a blue hole ahead, where the road ended
on the crest of a ridge. The blue looked
cool and clean like a film of water stretched
in the frame od green branches. It would
be funny, he thought, if I came to the edge
and found nothing but that blue beyond;
nothing but the sky ahead, above and below.
He closed his eyes and went on, suspending
the possible for a moment, granting himself
a dream, a few instants of believing that
he could reach the crest, open his eyes
and see the blue radiance of the sky below. |
| “His
foot touched the ground, breaking his motion;
he stopped and opened his eyes. He stood
still. |
| “In
the broad valley, far below him, in the
first sunlight of the early morning, he
saw a town. Only it was not a town. Towns
do not look like that. He had to suspend
the possible for a while longer, to seek
no questions or explanations, only to look. |
| “There
were small houses on the ledges of the hill
before him, flowing down to the bottom.
He knew that the ledges had not been touched,
that no artifice had altered the unplanned
beauty of the graded steps. Yet some power
had known how to build on those ledges in
such a way that the houses became inevitable,
and one could no longer imagine the hills
as beautiful without them - as if the the
centuries and the series of chances that
produced these ledges in the struggle of
great blind forces had waited for their
final expression, had been only a road to
a goal - the goal was these buildings, part
of the hills, shaped by the hills, yet ruling
them by giving them meaning. |
| “The
houses were of plain field stone - like
the rocks jutting from the green hillsides
- and of glass, great sheets of glass used
as if the sun were invited to complete the
structures, sunlight becoming part of the
masonry. There were many houses, they were
small, they were cut off from one another,
and no two of them were alike. But they
were like variations on a single theme,
like a symphony played by an inexhaustible
imagination, and one could still hear the
laughter of the force that had been let
loose on them, as if that force had run,
unrestrained, challenging itself to be spent,
but had never reached its end. Music, he
thought, the promise of the music he had
invoked, the sense of it made real - there
it was before his eyes - he did not see
it - he heard it in the chords - the thought
that there was a common language of thought,
sight and sound - was it mathematics? -
the discipline of reason - music was mathematics
- and architecture was music in stone -
he knew he was dizzy because this place
below could not be real. |
| “He
saw trees, lawns, walks twisting up the
hillsides, steps cut into the stone, he
saw fountains, swimming pools, tennis courts
- and not a sign of life. The place was
uninhabited. |
| “It
did not shock him, not as the sight of it
shocked him. In a way it seemed proper;
this was not part of known existence. For
the moment he had no desire to know what
it was. |
| “After
a long time he glanced about him - and then
he saw that he was not alone. Some steps
away from him a man sat on a boulder, looking
down at the valley. The man seemed absorbed
in the sight and he had not heard his approach.
The man was tall and gaunt and had orange
hair. |
| “He
walked straight to the man, who turned his
eyes to him; the eyes were gray and calm;
the boy knew suddenly that they felt the
same thing, and he could speak as he would
not speak to a stranger anywhere else. |
| “‘That
isn’t real is it?’ the boy asked,
pointing down. |
| “‘Why,
yes, it is now,’ the man answered. |
| “‘It’s
not a movie set or a trick of some kind?’ |
| “‘No.
It’s a summer resort. It’s just
been completed. It will be opened in a few
weeks.” |
| “‘Thank
you,’ said the boy. He knew that the
steady eyes looking at him understood everything
that these two words had to cover. Howard
Roark inclined his head, in acknowledgement. |
| “Wheeling
his bicycle by his side, the boy took the
narrow path down the slope of the hill to
the valley and the houses below. Roark looked
after him. He had never seen the boy before
and he would never see him again. He did
not know that he had given someone the courage
to face a lifetime.” |
Ayn
Rand
1943
The Fountainhead
pp 527-530
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| GoTo:
Gail’s Nest Program |
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