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remember what sentences they had exchanged. It would have seemed possible to him

that they had not spoken at all. Their serenity was their best means of

communication.

Today they had dived together to swim and Wynand had climbed back first. As he

stood at the rail, watching Roark in the water, he thought of the power he held

in this moment: he could order the yacht to start moving, sail away and leave

that redheaded body to sun and ocean. The thought gave him pleasure: the sense

of power and the sense of surrender to Roark in the knowledge that no

conceivable force could make him exercise that power. Every physical

instrumentality was on his side: a few contractions of his vocal cords giving

the order and someone’s hand opening a valve--and the obedient machine would

move away. He thought: It’s not just a moral issue, not the mere horror of the

act, one could conceivably abandon a man if the fate of a continent depended on

it. But nothing would enable him to abandon this man. He, Gail Wynand, was the

helpless one in this moment, with the solid planking of the deck under his feet.

Roark, floating like a piece of driftwood, held a power greater than that of the

engine in the belly of the yacht. Wynand thought: Because that is the power from

which the engine has come.

Roark climbed back on deck; Wynand looked at Roark’s body, at the threads of

water running down the angular planes. He said:

"You made a mistake on the Stoddard Temple, Howard. That statue should have

been, not of Dominique, but of you."

"No. I’m too egotistical for that."

"Egotistical? An egotist would have loved it. You use words in the strangest

way."

"In the exact way. I don’t wish to be the symbol of anything. I’m only myself."

#

Stretched in a deck chair, Wynand glanced up with satisfaction at the lantern, a

disk of frosted glass on the bulkhead behind him: it cut off the black void of

the ocean and gave him privacy within solid walls of light. He heard the sound

of the yacht’s motion, he felt the warm night air on his face, he saw nothing

but the stretch of deck around him, enclosed and final.

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Roark stood before him at the rail; a tall white figure leaning back against

black space, his head lifted as Wynand had seen it lifted in an unfinished

building. His hands clasped the rail. The short shirt sleeves left his arms in

the light; vertical ridges of shadow stressed the tensed muscles of his arms and

the tendons of his neck. Wynand thought of the yacht’s engine, of skyscrapers,

of transatlantic cables, of everything man had made.

"Howard, this is what I wanted. To have you here with me."

"I know."

"Do you know what it really is? Avarice. I’m a miser about two things on earth:

you and Dominique. I’m a millionaire who’s never owned anything. Do you remember

what you said about ownership? I’m like a savage who’s discovered the idea of

private property and run amuck on it. It’s funny. Think of Ellsworth Toohey."

"Why Ellsworth Toohey?"

"I mean, the things he preaches, I’ve been wondering lately whether he really

understands what he’s advocating. Selflessness in the absolute sense? Why,

that’s what I’ve been. Does he know that I’m the embodiment of his ideal? Of

course, he wouldn’t approve of my motive, but motives never alter facts. If it’s

true selflessness he’s after, in the philosophical sense--and Mr. Toohey is a

philosopher--in a sense much beyond matters of money, why, let him look at me.

I’ve never owned anything. I’ve never wanted anything. I didn’t give a damn--in

the most cosmic way Toohey could ever hope for. I made myself into a barometer

subject to the pressure of the whole world. The voice of his masses pushed me up

and down. Of course, I collected a fortune in the process. Does that change the

intrinsic reality of the picture? Suppose I gave away every penny of it. Suppose

I had never wished to take any money at all, but had set out in pure altruism to

serve the people. What would I have to do? Exactly what I’ve done. Give the

greatest pleasure to the greatest number. Express the opinions, the desires, the

tastes of the majority. The majority that voted me its approval and support

freely, in the shape of a three-cent ballot dropped at the corner newsstand

every morning. The Wynand papers? For thirty-one years they have represented

everybody except Gail Wynand. I erased my ego out of existence in a way never

achieved by any saint in a cloister. Yet people call me corrupt. Why? The saint

in a cloister sacrifices only material things. It’s a small price to pay for the

glory of his soul. He hoards his soul and gives up the world. But I--I took

automobiles, silk pyjamas, a penthouse, and gave the world my soul in exchange.

Who’s sacrificed more--if sacrifice is the test of virtue? Who’s the actual

saint?"

"Gail...I didn’t think you’d ever admit that to yourself."

"Why not? I knew what I was doing. I wanted power over a collective soul and I

got it. A collective soul. It’s a messy kind of concept, but if anyone wishes to

visualize it concretely, let him pick up a copy of the New York Banner."

"Yes..."

"Of course, Toohey would tell me that this is not what he means by altruism. He

means I shouldn’t leave it up to the people to decide what they want I should

decide it. I should determine, not what I like nor what they like, but what I

think they should like, and then ram it down their throats. It would have to be

rammed, since their voluntary choice is the Banner. Well, there are several such

altruists in the world today."

"You realize that?"

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"Of course. What else can one do if one must serve the people? If one must live

for others? Either pander to everybody’s wishes and be called corrupt; or impose

on everybody by force your own idea of everybody’s good. Can you think of any

other way?"

"No."

"What’s left then? Where does decency start? What begins where altruism ends? Do

you see what I’m in love with?"

"Yes, Gail." Wynand had noticed that Roark’s voice had a reluctance that sounded

almost like sadness.

"What’s the matter with you? Why do you sound like that?"

"I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just something I thought. I’ve been thinking of

this for a long time. And particularly all these days when you’ve made me lie on

deck and loaf."

"Thinking about me?"

"About you--among many other things."

"What have you decided?"

"I’m not an altruist, Gail. I don’t decide for others."

"You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve sold myself, but I’ve held no illusions

about it. I’ve never become an Alvah Scarret. He really believes whatever the

public believes. I despise the public. That’s my only vindication. I’ve sold my

life, but I got a good price. Power. I’ve never used it. I couldn’t afford a

personal desire. But now I’m free. Now I can use it for what I want. For what I

believe. For Dominique. For you."

Roark turned away. When he looked back at Wynand, he said only:

"I hope so, Gail."

"What have you been thinking about these past weeks?"

"The principle behind the dean who fired me from Stanton."

"What principle?"

"The thing that is destroying the world. The thing you were talking about.

Actual selflessness."

"The ideal which they say does not exist?"

"They’re wrong. It does exist--though not in the way they imagine. It’s what I

couldn’t understand about people for a long time. They have no self. They live

within others. They live second-hand. Look at Peter Keating."

"You look at him. I hate his guts."

"I’ve looked at him--at what’s left of him--and it’s helped me to understand.

He’s paying the price and wondering for what sin and telling himself that he’s

been too selfish. In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self? What

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was his aim in life? Greatness--in other people’s eyes. Fame, admiration,

envy--all that which comes from others. Others dictated his convictions, which

he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others

were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn’t want to be great, but to

be thought great. He didn’t want to build, but to be admired as a builder. He

borrowed from others in order to make an impression on others. There’s your

actual selflessness. It’s his ego he’s betrayed and given up. But everybody

calls him selfish."

"That’s the pattern most people follow."

"Yes! And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but

precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but

preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others

think he’s honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The

man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself

to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who

professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to

establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make

money. Now I don’t see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is

only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose--to invest in

his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury--he’s completely

moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is

a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to

entertain, to impress others. They’re second-handers. Look at our so-called

cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all

that means nothing at all to him--and the people who listen and don’t give a

damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a

lecture by a famous name. All second-handers."

"If I were Ellsworth Toohey, I’d say: aren’t you making out a case against

selfishness? Aren’t they all acting on a selfish motive--to be noticed, liked,

admired?"

"--by others. At the price of their own self-respect. In the realm of greatest

importance--the realm of values, of judgment, of spirit, of thought--they place

others above self, in the exact manner which altruism demands. A truly selfish

man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn’t need it."

"I think Toohey understands that. That’s what helps him spread his vicious

nonsense. Just weakness and cowardice. It’s so easy to run to others. It’s so

hard to stand on one’s own record. You can fake virtue for an audience. You

can’t fake it in your own eyes. Your ego is the strictest judge. They run from

it. They spend their lives running. It’s easier to donate a few thousand to

charity and think oneself noble than to base self-respect on personal standards

of personal achievement. It’s simple to seek substitutes for competence--such

easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for

competence."

"That, precisely, is the deadliness of second-handers. They have no concern for

facts, ideas, work. They’re concerned only with people. They don’t ask: ’Is this

true?’ They ask: ’Is this what others think is true?’ Not to judge, but to

repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show.

Not ability, but friendship. Not merit, but pull. What would happen to the world

without those who do, think, work, produce? Those are the egotists. You don’t

think through another’s brain and you don’t work through another’s hands. When

you suspend your faculty of independent judgment, you suspend consciousness. To

stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality.

Their reality is not within them, but somewhere in that space which divides one

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human body from another. Not an entity, but a relation--anchored to nothing.

That’s the emptiness I couldn’t understand in people. That’s what stopped me

whenever I faced a committee. Men without an ego. Opinion without a rational

process. Motion without brakes or motor. Power without responsibility. The

second-hander acts, but the source of his actions is scattered in every other

living person. It’s everywhere and nowhere and you can’t reason with him. He’s

not open to reason. You can’t speak to him--he can’t hear. You’re tried by an

empty bench. A blind mass running amuck, to crush you without sense or purpose.

Steve Mallory couldn’t define the monster, but he knew. That’s the drooling

beast he fears. The second-hander."

"I think your second-handers understand this, try as they might not to admit it

to themselves. Notice how they’ll accept anything except a man who stands alone.

They recognize him at once. By instinct. There’s a special, insidious kind of

hatred for him. They forgive criminals. They admire dictators. Crime and

violence are a tie. A form of mutual dependence. They need ties. They’ve got to

force their miserable little personalities on every single person they meet. The

independent man kills them--because they don’t exist within him and that’s the

only form of existence they know. Notice the malignant kind of resentment

against any idea that propounds independence. Notice the malice toward an

independent man. Look back at your own life, Howard, and at the people you’ve

met. They know. They’re afraid. You’re a reproach."

"That’s because some sense of dignity always remains in them. They’re still

human beings. But they’ve been taught to seek themselves in others. Yet no man

can achieve the kind of absolute humility that would need no self-esteem in any

form. He wouldn’t survive. So after centuries of being pounded with the doctrine

that altruism is the ultimate ideal, men have accepted it in the only way it

could be accepted. By seeking self-esteem through others. By living second-hand.