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didn’t like it at all."

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"What is this, Alvah? Are you telling me things I don’t know, or is this just in

the nature of letting off steam--do forgive the mixed metaphor--on my shoulder?"

"I guess so. I don’t like to knock Gail, but I’ve been so damn mad for so long

I’m fit to be tied. But here’s what I’m driving at: This Howard Roark, what does

he make you think of?"

"I could write a volume on that, Alvah. This is hardly the time to launch into

such an undertaking."

"No, but I mean, what’s the one thing we know about him? That’s he’s a crank and

a freak and a fool, all right, but what else? That he’s one of those fools you

can’t budge with love or money or a sixteen-inch gun. He’s worse than Dwight

Carson, worse than the whole lot of Gall’s pets put together. Well? Get my

point? What’s Gail going to do when he comes up against that kind of a man?"

"One of several possible things."

"One thing only, if I know Gail, and I know Gail. That’s why I feel kind of

hopeful. This is what he’s needed for a long time. A swig of his old medicine.

The safety valve. He’ll go out to break that guy’s spine--and it will be good

for Gail. The best thing in the world. Bring him back to normal....That was my

idea, Ellsworth." He waited, saw no complementary enthusiasm on Toohey’s face

and finished lamely: "Well, I might be wrong....I don’t know....It might mean

nothing at all....I just thought that was psychology...."

"That’s what it was, Alvah."

"Then you think it’ll work that way?"

"It might. Or it might be much worse than anything you imagine. But it’s of no

importance to us any more. Because you see, Alvah, as far as the Banner is

concerned, if it came to a showdown between us and our boss, we don’t have to be

afraid of Mr. Gail Wynand any longer."

#

When the boy from the morgue entered, carrying a thick envelope of clippings,

Wynand looked up from his desk and said:

"That much? I didn’t know he was so famous."

"Well, it’s the Stoddard trial, Mr. Wynand."

The boy stopped. There was nothing wrong--only the ridges on Wynand’s forehead,

and he did not know Wynand well enough to know what these meant. He wondered

what made him feel as if he should be afraid. After a moment, Wynand said:

"All right. Thank you."

The boy deposited the envelope on the glass surface of the desk, and walked out.

Wynand sat looking at the bulging shape of yellow paper. He saw it reflected in

the glass, as if the bulk had eaten through the surface and grown roots to his

desk. He looked at the walls of his office and he wondered whether they

contained a power which could save him from opening that envelope.

Then he pulled himself erect, he put both forearms in a straight line along the

edge of the desk, his fingers stretched and meeting, he looked down, past his

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nostrils, at the surface of the desk, he sat for a moment, grave, proud,

collected, like the angular mummy of a Pharaoh, then he moved one hand, pulled

the envelope forward, opened it and began to read.

"Sacrilege" by Ellsworth M. Toohey--"The Churches of our Childhood" by Alvah

Scarret--editorials, sermons, speeches, statements, letters to the editor, the

Banner unleashed full-blast, photographs, cartoons, interviews, resolutions of

protest, letters to the editor.

He read every word, methodically, his hands on the edge of the desk, fingers

meeting, not lifting the clippings, not touching them, reading them as they lay

on top of the pile, moving a hand only to turn a clipping over and read the one

beneath, moving the hand with a mechanical perfection of timing, the fingers

rising as his eyes took the last word, not allowing the clipping to remain in

sight a second longer than necessary. But he stopped for a long time to look at

the photographs of the Stoddard Temple. He stopped longer to look at one of

Roark’s pictures, the picture of exaltation captioned "Are you happy, Mr.

Superman?" He tore it from the story it illustrated, and slipped it into his

desk drawer. Then he continued reading.

The trial--the testimony of Ellsworth M. Toohey--of Peter Keating--of Ralston

Holcombe--of Gordon L. Prescott--no quotations from the testimony of Dominique

Francon, only a brief report. "The defense rests." A few mentions in "One Small

Voice"--then a gap--the next clipping dated three years later--Monadnock Valley.

It was late when he finished reading. His secretaries had left. He felt the

sense of empty rooms and halls around him. But he heard the sound of presses: a

low, rumbling vibration that went through every room. He had always liked

that--the sound of the building’s heart, beating. He listened. They were running

off tomorrow’s Banner. He sat without moving for a long time.

3.

ROARK and Wynand stood on the top of a hill, looking over a spread of land that

sloped away in a long gradual curve. Bare trees rose on the hilltop and

descended to the shore of a lake, their branches geometrical compositions cut

through the air. The color of the sky, a clear, fragile blue-green, made the air

colder. The cold washed the colors of the earth, revealing that they were not

colors but only the elements from which color was to come, the dead brown not a

full brown but a future green, the tired purple an overture to flame, the gray a

prelude to gold. The earth was like the outline of a great story, like the steel

frame of a building--to be filled and finished, holding all the splendor of the

future in naked simplification.

"Where do you think the house should stand?" asked Wynand.

"Here," said Roark.

"I hoped you’d choose this."

Wynand had driven his car from the city, and they had walked for two hours down

the paths of his new estate, through deserted lanes, through a forest, past the

lake, to the hill. Now Wynand waited, while Roark stood looking at the

countryside spread under his feet. Wynand wondered what reins this man was

gathering from all the points of the landscape into his hand.

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When Roark turned to him, Wynand asked:

"May I speak to you now?"

"Of course," Roark smiled, amused by the deference which he

had not requested.

Wynand’s voice sounded clear and brittle, like the color of the sky above them,

with the same quality of ice-green radiance: "Why did you accept this

commission?"

"Because I’m an architect for hire."

"You know what I mean."

"I’m not sure I do."

"Don’t you hate my guts?"

"No. Why should I?"

"You want me to speak of it first?"

"Of what?"

"The Stoddard Temple."

Roark smiled. "So you did check up on me since yesterday."

"I read our clippings." He waited, but Roark said nothing. "All of them." His

voice was harsh, half defiance, half plea. "Everything we said about you." The

calm of Roark’s face drove him to fury. He went on, giving slow, full value to

each word: "We called you an incompetent fool, a tyro, a charlatan, a swindler,

an egomaniac..."

"Stop torturing yourself."

Wynand closed his eyes, as if Roark had struck him. In a moment, he said:

"Mr. Roark, you don’t know me very well. You might as well learn this: I don’t

apologize. I never apologize for any of my actions."

"What made you think of apology? I haven’t asked for it."

"I stand by every one of those descriptive terms. I stand by every word printed

in the Banner."

"I haven’t asked you to repudiate it."

"I know what you think. You understood that I didn’t know about the Stoddard

Temple yesterday. I had forgotten the name of the architect involved. You

concluded it wasn’t I who led that campaign against you. You’re right, it wasn’t

I, I was away at the time. But you don’t understand that the campaign was in the

true and proper spirit of the Banner. It was in strict accordance with the

Banner’s function. No one is responsible for it but me. Alvah Scarret was doing

only what I taught him. Had I been in town, I would have done the same."

"That’s your privilege."

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"You don’t believe I would have done it?"

"No."

"I haven’t asked you for compliments and I haven’t asked you for pity."

"I can’t do what you’re asking for."

"What do you think I’m asking?"

"That I slap your face."

"Why don’t you?"

"I can’t pretend an anger I don’t feel," said Roark. "It’s not pity. It’s much

more cruel than anything I could do. Only I’m not doing it in order to be cruel.

If I slapped your face, you’d forgive me for the Stoddard Temple."

"Is it you who should seek forgiveness?"

"No. You wish I did. You know that there’s an act of forgiveness involved.

You’re not clear about the actors. You wish I would forgive you--or demand

payment, which is the same thing--and you believe that that would close the

record. But, you see, I have nothing to do with it. I’m not one of the actors.

It doesn’t matter what I do or feel about it now. You’re not thinking of me. I

can’t help you. I’m not the person you’re afraid of just now."

"Who is?"

"Yourself."

"Who gave you the right to say all this?"

"You did."

"Well, go on."

"Do you wish the rest?"

"Go on."

"I think it hurts you to know that you’ve made me suffer. You wish you hadn’t.

And yet there’s something that frightens you more. The knowledge that I haven’t

suffered at all."

"Go on."

"The knowledge that I’m neither kind nor generous now, but simply indifferent.

It frightens you, because you know that things like the Stoddard Temple always

require payment--and you see that I’m not paying for it. You were astonished

that I accepted this commission. Do you think my acceptance required courage?

You needed far greater courage to hire me. You see, this is what I think of the

Stoddard Temple. I’m through with it. You’re not."

Wynand let his fingers fall open, palms out. His shoulders sagged a little,

relaxing. He said very simply:

"All right. It’s true. All of it."

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Then he stood straight, but with a kind of quiet resignation, as if his body

were consciously made vulnerable.

"I hope you know you’ve given me a beating in your own way," he said.

"Yes. And you’ve taken it. So you’ve accomplished what you wanted. Shall we say

we’re even and forget the Stoddard Temple?"

"You’re very wise or I’ve been very obvious. Either is your achievement.

Nobody’s ever caused me to become obvious before."

"Shall I still do what you want?"

"What do you think I want now?"

"Personal recognition from me. It’s my turn to give in, isn’t it?"

"You’re appallingly honest, aren’t you?"

"Why shouldn’t I be? I can’t give you the recognition of having made me suffer.

But you’ll take the substitute of having given me pleasure, won’t you? All

right, then. I’m glad you like me. I think you know this is as much an exception

for me as your taking a beating. I don’t usually care whether I’m liked or not.

I do care this time. I’m glad."

Wynand laughed aloud. "You’re as innocent and presumptuous as an emperor. When

you confer honors you merely exalt yourself. What in hell made you think I liked

you?"

"Now you don’t want any explanations of that. You’ve reproached me once for

causing you to be obvious."

Wynand sat down on a fallen tree trunk. He said nothing; but his movement was an

invitation and a demand. Roark sat down beside him; Roark’s face was sober, but

the trace of a smile remained, amused and watchful, as if every word he heard

were not a disclosure but a confirmation.

"You’ve come up from nothing, haven’t you?" Wynand asked. "You came from a poor

family."

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"Just because it feels like a presumption--the thought of handing you anything:

a compliment, an idea or a fortune. I started at the bottom, too. Who was your

father?"

"A steel puddler."

"Mine was a longshoreman. Did you hold all sorts of funny jobs when you were a

child?"

"All sorts. Mostly in the building trades."

"I did worse than that. I did just about everything. What job did you like

best?"

"Catching rivets, on steel structures."

469

"I liked being a bootblack on a Hudson ferry. I should have hated that, but I

didn’t. I don’t remember the people at all. I remember the city. The

city--always there, on the shore, spread out, waiting, as if I were tied to it

by a rubber band. The band would stretch and carry me away, to the other shore,

but it would always snap back and I would return. It gave me the feeling that

I’d never escaped from that city--and it would never escape from me."

Roark knew that Wynand seldom spoke of his childhood, by the quality of his

words; they were bright and hesitant, untarnished by usage, like coins that had

not passed through many hands.

"Were you ever actually homeless and starving?" Wynand asked.

"A few times."

"Did you mind that?"

"No."

"I didn’t either. I minded something else. Did you want to scream, when you were

a child, seeing nothing but fat ineptitude around you, knowing how many things

could be done and done so well, but having no power to do them? Having no power

to blast the empty skulls around you? Having to take orders--and that’s bad

enough--but to take orders from your inferiors! Have you felt that?"