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And it has opened the way for every kind of horror. It has become the dreadful

form of selfishness which a truly selfish man couldn’t have conceived. And now,

to cure a world perishing from selflessness, we’re asked to destroy the self.

Listen to what is being preached today. Look at everyone around us. You’ve

wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it. If any man

stopped and asked himself whether he’s ever held a truly personal desire, he’d

find the answer. He’d see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his

ambitions are motivated by other men. He’s not really struggling even for

material wealth, but for the second-hander’s delusion--prestige. A stamp of

approval, not his own. He can find no joy in the struggle and no joy when he has

succeeded. He can’t say about a single thing: ’This is what I wanted because I

wanted it, not because it made my neighbors gape at me.’ Then he wonders why

he’s unhappy. Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are

personal, self-motivated, not to be touched. The things which are sacred or

precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing. But now we

are taught to throw everything within us into public light and common pawing. To

seek joy in meeting halls. We haven’t even got a word for the quality I

mean--for the self-sufficiency of man’s spirit. It’s difficult to call it

selfishness or egotism, the words have been perverted, they’ve come to mean

Peter Keating. Gail, I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing

your prime concern within other men. I’ve always demanded a certain quality in

the people I liked. I’ve always recognized it at once--and it’s the only quality

I respect in men. I chose my friends by that. Now I know what it is. A

self-sufficient ego. Nothing else matters."

"I’m glad you admit that you have friends."

"I even admit that I love them. But I couldn’t love them if they were my chief

reason for living. Do you notice that Peter Keating hasn’t a single friend left?

Do you see why? If one doesn’t respect oneself one can have neither love nor

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respect for others."

"To hell with Peter Keating. I’m thinking of you--and your friends."

Roark smiled. "Gail, if this boat were sinking, I’d give my life to save you.

Not because it’s any kind of duty. Only because I like you, for reasons and

standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t live for

you."

"Howard, what were the reasons and standards?" Roark looked at him and realized

that he had said all the things he had tried not to say to Wynand. He answered:

"That you weren’t born to be a second-hander." Wynand smiled. He heard the

sentence--and nothing else. Afterward, when Wynand had gone below to his cabin,

Roark remained alone on deck. He stood at the rail, staring out at the ocean, at

nothing.

He thought: I haven’t mentioned to him the worst second-hander of all--the man

who goes after power.

12.

IT WAS April when Roark and Wynand returned to the city. The skyscrapers looked

pink against the blue sky, an incongruous shade of porcelain on masses of stone.

There were small tufts of green on the trees in the streets.

Roark went to his office. His staff shook hands with him and he saw the strain

of smiles self-consciously repressed, until a young boy burst out: "What the

hell! Why can’t we say how glad we are to see you back, boss?" Roark laughed.

"Go ahead. I can’t tell you how damn glad I am to be back." Then he sat on a

table in the drafting room, while they all reported to him on the past three

months, interrupting one another; he played with a ruler in his hands, not

noticing it, like a man with the feel of his farm’s soil under his fingers,

after an absence.

In the afternoon, alone at his desk, he opened a newspaper. He had not seen a

newspaper for three months. He noticed an item about the construction of

Cortlandt Homes. He saw the line: "Peter Keating, architect. Gordon L. Prescott

and Augustus Webb, associate designers." He sat very still.

That evening he went to see Cortlandt. The first building was almost completed.

It stood alone on the large, empty tract. The workers had left for the day; a

small light showed in the shack of the night watchman. The building had the

skeleton of what Roark had designed, with the remnants of ten different breeds

piled on the lovely symmetry of the bones. He saw the economy of plan preserved,

but the expense of incomprehensible features added; the variety of modeled

masses gone, replaced by the monotony of brutish cubes; a new wing added, with a

vaulted roof, bulging out of a wall like a tumor, containing a gymnasium;

strings of balconies added, made of metal stripes painted a violent blue; comer

windows without purpose; an angle cut off for a useless door, with a round metal

awning supported by a pole, like a haberdashery in the Broadway district; three

vertical bands of brick, leading from nowhere to nowhere; the general style of

what the profession called "Bronx Modern"; a panel of bas-relief over the main

entrance, representing a mass of muscle which could be discerned as either three

or four bodies, one of them with an arm raised, holding a screwdriver.

There were white crosses on the fresh panes of glass in the windows, and it

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looked appropriate, like an error X-ed out of existence. There was a band of red

in the sky, to the west, beyond Manhattan, and the buildings of the city rose

straight and black against it.

Roark stood across the space of the future road before the first house of

Cortlandt. He stood straight, the muscles of his throat pulled, his wrists held

down and away from his body, as he would have stood before a firing squad.

#

No one could tell how it had happened. There had been no deliberate intention

behind it. It had just happened.

First, Toohey told Keating one morning that Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb

would be put on the payroll as associate designers. "What do you care, Peter? It

won’t come out of your fee. It won’t cut your prestige at all, since you’re the

big boss. They won’t be much more than your draftsmen. All I want is to give the

boys a boost. It will help their reputation, to be tagged with this project in

some way. I’m very interested in building up their reputation."

"But what for? There’s nothing for them to do. It’s all done."

"Oh, any kind of last-minute drafting. Save time for your own staff. You can

share the expense with them. Don’t be a hog."

Toohey had told the truth; he had no other purpose in mind.

Keating could not discover what connections Prescott and Webb possessed, with

whom, in what office, on what terms--among the dozens of officials involved in

the project. The entanglement of responsibility was such that no one could be

quite certain of anyone’s authority. It was clear only that Prescott and Webb

had friends, and that Keating could not keep them off the job.

The changes began with the gymnasium. The lady in charge of tenant selection

demanded a gymnasium. She was a social worker and her task was to end with the

opening of the project. She acquired a permanent job by getting herself

appointed Director of Social Recreation for Cortlandt. No gymnasium had been

provided in the original plans; there were two schools and a Y.M.C.A. within

walking distance. She declared that this was an outrage against the children of

the poor, Prescott and Webb supplied the gymnasium. Other changes followed, of a

purely esthetic nature. Extras piled on the cost of construction so carefully

devised for economy. The Director of Social Recreation departed for Washington

to discuss the matter of a Little Theater and a Meeting Hall she wished added to

the next two buildings of Cortlandt.

The changes in the drawings came gradually, a few at a time. The others okaying

the changes came from headquarters. "But we’re ready to start!" cried Keating.

"What the hell," drawled Gus Webb, "set ’em back just a coupla thousand bucks

more, that’s all."

"Now as to the balconies," said Gordon L. Prescott, "they lend a certain modern

style. You don’t want the damn thing to look so bare. It’s depressing. Besides,

you don’t understand psychology. The people who’ll live here are used to sitting

out on fire-escapes. They love it. They’ll miss it. You gotta give ’em a place

to sit on in the fresh air....The cost? Hell, if you’re so damn worried about

the cost, I’ve got an idea where we can save plenty. We’ll do without closet

doors. What do they need doors for on closets? It’s old-fashioned." All the

closet doors were omitted.

Keating fought. It was the kind of battle he had never entered, but he tried

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everything possible to him, to the honest limit of his exhausted strength. He

went from office to office, arguing, threatening, pleading. But he had no

influence, while his associate designers seemed to control an underground river

with interlocking tributaries. The officials shrugged and referred him to

someone else. No one cared about an issue of esthetics. "What’s the difference?"

"It doesn’t come out of your pocket, does it?" "Who are you to have it all your

way? Let the boys contribute something."

He appealed to Ellsworth Toohey, but Toohey was not interested. He was busy with

other matters and he had no desire to provoke a bureaucratic quarrel. In all

truth, he had not prompted his protégés to their artistic endeavor, but he saw

no reason for attempting to stop them. He was amused by the whole thing. "But

it’s awful, Ellsworth! You know it’s awful!" "Oh, I suppose so. What do you

care, Peter? Your poor but unwashed tenants won’t be able to appreciate the

finer points of architectural art. See that the plumbing works."

"But what for? What for? What for?" Keating cried to his associate designers.

"Well, why shouldn’t we have any say at all?" asked Gordon L. Prescott. "We want

to express our individuality too."

When Keating invoked his contract, he was told: "All right, go ahead, try to sue

the government. Try it." At times, he felt a desire to kill. There was no one to

kill. Had he been granted the privilege, he could not have chosen a victim.

Nobody was responsible. There was no purpose and no cause. It had just happened.

Keating came to Roark’s house on the evening after Roark’s return. He had not

been summoned. Roark opened the door and said: "Good evening, Peter," but

Keating could not answer. They walked silently into the work room. Roark sat

down, but Keating remained standing in the middle of the floor and asked his

voice dull:

"What are you going to do?"

"You must leave that up to me now."

"I couldn’t help it, Howard....I couldn’t help it!"

"I suppose not."

"What can you do now? You can’t sue the government."

"No."

Keating thought that he should sit down, but the distance to a chair seemed too

great. He felt he would be too conspicuous if he moved.

"What are you going to do to me, Howard?"

"Nothing."

"Want me to confess the truth to them? To everybody?"

"No."

After a while Keating whispered:

"Will you let me give you the fee...everything...and..."

Roark smiled.

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"I’m sorry..." Keating whispered, looking away.

He waited, and then the plea he knew he must not utter came out as:

"I’m scared, Howard..."

Roark shook his head.

"Whatever I do, it won’t be to hurt you, Peter. I’m guilty, too. We both are."

"You’re guilty?"

"It’s I who’ve destroyed you, Peter. From the beginning. By helping you. There

are matters in which one must not ask for help nor give it. I shouldn’t have

done your projects at Stanton. I shouldn’t have done the Cosmo-Slotnick

Building. Nor Cortlandt. I loaded you with more than you could carry. It’s like

an electric current too strong for the circuit. It blows the fuse. Now we’ll

both pay for it. It will be hard on you, but it will be harder on me."

"You’d rather...I went home now, Howard?"

"Yes."

At the door Keating said:

"Howard! They didn’t do it on purpose."

"That’s what makes it worse."

#

Dominique heard the sound of the car rising up the hill road. She thought it was

Wynand coming home. He had worked late in the city every night of the two weeks

since his return.

The motor filled the spring silence of the countryside. There was no sound in

the house; only the small rustle of her hair as she leaned her head back against

a chair cushion. In a moment she was not conscious of hearing the car’s

approach, it was so familiar at this hour, part of the loneliness and privacy

outside.

She heard the car stop at the door. The door was never locked; there were no

neighbors or guests to expect. She heard the door opening, and steps in the hall

downstairs. The steps did not pause, but walked with familiar certainty up the

stairs. A hand turned the knob of her door.

It was Roark. She thought, while she was rising to her feet, that he had never

entered her room before; but he knew every part of this house; as he knew

everything about her body. She felt no moment of shock, only the memory of one,

a shock in the past tense, the thought: I must have been shocked when I saw him,

but not now. Now, by the time she was standing before him, it seemed very

simple.

She thought: The most important never has to be said between us. It has always

been said like this. He did not want to see me alone. Now he’s here. I waited

and I’m ready.

"Good evening, Dominique."

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She heard the name pronounced to fill the space of five years. She said quietly:

"Good evening, Roark."