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"That’s just what I wanted."

"But you must think of the proper unveiling to the public, the proper

dedication, the right publicity."

"Of course...That is, publicity?"

"Certainly. Do you know of any great event that’s not accompanied by a good

publicity campaign? One that isn’t, can’t be much. If you skimp on that, it will

be downright disrespectful."

"That’s true."

"Now if you want the proper publicity, you must plan it carefully, well in

advance. What you want, when you unveil it, is one grand fanfare, like an opera

overture, like a blast on Gabriel’s horn."

"That’s beautiful, the way you put it."

"Well, to do that you mustn’t allow a lot of newspaper punks to dissipate your

effect by dribbling out premature stories. Don’t release the drawings of the

temple. Keep them secret. Tell Roark that you want them kept secret. He won’t

object to that. Have the contractor put up a solid fence all around the site

while it’s being built. No one’s to know what it’s like until you come back and

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preside at the unveiling in person. Then--pictures in every damn paper in the

country!"

"Ellsworth!"

"I beg your pardon."

"The idea’s right. That’s how we put over The Legend of the Virgin, ten years

ago that was, with a cast of ninety-seven."

"Yes. But in the meantime, keep the public interested. Get yourself a good press

agent and tell him how you want it handled. I’ll give you the name of an

excellent one. See to it that there’s something about the mysterious Stoddard

Temple in the papers every other week or so. Keep ’em guessing. Keep ’em

waiting. They’ll be good and ready when the time comes."

"Right."

"But, above all, don’t let Roark know that I recommended him. Don’t breathe a

word to anyone about my having anything to do with it. Not to a soul. Swear it."

"But why?"

"Because I have too many friends who are architects, and it’s such an important

commission, and I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings."

"Yes. That’s true."

"Swear it."

"Oh, Ellsworth!"

"Swear it. By the salvation of your soul."

"I swear it. By...that."

"All right. Now you’ve never dealt with architects, and he’s an unusual kind of

architect, and you don’t want to muff it. So I’ll tell you exactly what you’re

to say to him."

On the following day Toohey walked into Dominique’s office. He stood at her

desk, smiled and said, his voice unsmiling:

"Do you remember Hopton Stoddard and that temple of all faith that he’s been

talking about for six years?"

"Vaguely."

"He’s going to build it."

"Is he?"

"He’s giving the job to Howard Roark."

"Not really!"

"Really."

"Well, of all the incredible...Not Hopton!"

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"Hopton."

"Oh, all right. I’ll go to work on him."

"No. You lay off. I told him to give it to Roark."

She sat still, exactly as the words caught her, the amusement gone from her

face. He added:

"I wanted you to know that I did it, so there won’t be any tactical

contradictions. No one else knows it or is to know it. I trust you to remember

that."

She asked, her lips moving tightly: "What are you after?"

He smiled. He said:

"I’m going to make him famous."

#

Roark sat in Hopton Stoddard’s office and listened, stupefied. Hopton Stoddard

spoke slowly; it sounded earnest and impressive, but was due to the fact that he

had memorized his speeches almost verbatim. His baby eyes looked at Roark with

an ingratiating plea. For once, Roark almost forgot architecture and placed the

human element first; he wanted to get up and get out of the office; he could not

stand the man. But the words he heard held him; the words did not match the

man’s face or voice.

"So you see, Mr. Roark, though it is to be a religious edifice, it is also more

than that. You notice that we call it the Temple of the Human Spirit. We want to

capture--in stone, as others capture in music--not some narrow creed, but the

essence of all religion. And what is the essence of religion? The great

aspiration of the human spirit toward the highest, the noblest, the best. The

human spirit as the creator and the conqueror of the ideal. The great

life-giving force of the universe. The heroic human spirit. That is your

assignment, Mr. Roark."

Roark rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes, helplessly. It was not

possible. It simply was not possible. That could not be what the man wanted; not

that man. It seemed horrible to hear him say that.

"Mr. Stoddard, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake," he said, his voice slow and

tired. "I don’t think I’m the man you want. I don’t think it would be right for

me to undertake it. I don’t believe in God."

He was astonished to see Hopton Stoddard’s expression of delight and triumph.

Hopton Stoddard glowed in appreciation--in appreciation of the clairvoyant

wisdom of Ellsworth Toohey who was always right. He drew himself up with new

confidence, and he said firmly, for the first time in the tone of an old man

addressing a youth, wise and gently patronizing:

"That doesn’t matter. You’re a profoundly religious man, Mr. Roark--in your own

way. I can see that in your buildings."

He wondered why Roark stared at him like that, without moving, for such a long

time.

"That’s true," said Roark. It was almost a whisper.

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That he should learn something about himself, about his buildings, from this man

who had seen it and known it before he knew it, that this man should say it with

that air of tolerant confidence implying full understanding--removed Roark’s

doubts. He told himself that he did not really understand people; that an

impression could be deceptive; that Hopton Stoddard would be far on another

continent away; that nothing mattered in the face of such an assignment; that

nothing could matter when a human voice--even Hopton Stoddard’s--was going on,

saying:

"I wish to call it God. You may choose any other name. But what I want in that

building is your spirit. Your spirit, Mr. Roark. Give me the best of that--and

you will have done your job, as I shall have done mine. Do not worry about the

meaning I wish conveyed. Let it be your spirit in the shape of a building--and

it will have that meaning, whether you know it or not."

And so Roark agreed to build the Stoddard Temple of the Human Spirit.

11.

IN DECEMBER the Cosmo-Slotnick Building was opened with great ceremony. There

were celebrities, flower horseshoes, newsreel cameras, revolving searchlights

and three hours of speeches, all alike.

I should be happy, Peter Keating told himself--and wasn’t. He watched from a

window the solid spread of faces filling Broadway from curb to curb. He tried to

talk himself into joy. He felt nothing. He had to admit that he was bored. But

he smiled and shook hands and let himself be photographed. The Cosmo-Slotnick

Building rose ponderously over the street, like a big white bromide.

After the ceremonies Ellsworth Toohey took Keating away to the retreat of a

pale-orchid booth in a quiet, expensive restaurant. Many brilliant parties were

being given in honor of the opening, but Keating grasped Toohey’s offer and

declined all the other invitations. Toohey watched him as he seized his drink

and slumped in his seat.

"Wasn’t it grand?" said Toohey. ’That, Peter, is the climax of what you can

expect from life." He lifted his glass delicately. "Here’s to the hope that you

shall have many triumphs such as this. Such as tonight."

"Thanks," said Keating, and reached for his glass hastily, without looking, and

lifted it, to find it empty.

"Don’t you feel proud, Peter?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"That’s good. That’s how I like to see you. You looked extremely handsome

tonight. You’ll be splendid in those newsreels."

A flicker of interest snapped in Keating’s eyes. "Well, I sure hope so."

"It’s too bad you’re not married, Peter. A wife would have been most decorative

tonight. Goes well with the public. With the movie audiences, too."

"Katie doesn’t photograph well."

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"Oh, that’s right, you’re engaged to Katie. So stupid of me. I keep forgetting

it. No, Katie doesn’t photograph well at all. Also, for the life of me, I can’t

imagine Katie being very effective at a social function. There are a great many

nice adjectives one could use about Katie, but ’poised’ and ’distinguished’ are

not among them. You must forgive me, Peter. I let my imagination run away with

me. Dealing with art as much as I do, I’m inclined to see things purely from the

viewpoint of artistic fitness. And looking at you tonight, I couldn’t help

thinking of the woman who would have made such a perfect picture by your side."

"Who?"

"Oh, don’t pay attention to me. It’s only an esthetic fancy. Life is never as

perfect as that. People have too much to envy you for. You couldn’t add that to

your other achievements."

"Who?"

"Drop it, Peter. You can’t get her. Nobody can get her. You’re good, but you’re

not good enough for that."

"Who?"

"Dominique Francon, of course."

Keating sat up straight and Toohey saw wariness in his eyes, rebellion, actual

hostility. Toohey held his glance calmly. It was Keating who gave in; he slumped

again and he said, pleading:

"Oh, God, Ellsworth, I don’t love her."

"I never thought you did. But I do keep forgetting the exaggerated importance

which the average man attaches to love--sexual love."

"I’m not an average man," said Keating wearily; it was an automatic

protest--without fire.

"Sit up, Peter. You don’t look like a hero, slumped that way."

Keating jerked himself up--anxious and angry. He said:

"I’ve always felt that you wanted me to marry Dominique. Why? What’s it to you?"

"You’ve answered your own question, Peter. What could it possibly be to me? But

we were speaking of love. Sexual love, Peter, is a profoundly selfish emotion.

And selfish emotions are not the ones that lead to happiness. Are they? Take

tonight for instance. That was an evening to swell an egotist’s heart. Were you

happy, Peter? Don’t bother, my dear, no answer is required. The point I wish to

make is only that one must mistrust one’s most personal impulses. What one

desires is actually of so little importance! One can’t expect to find happiness

until one realizes this completely. Think of tonight for a moment. You, my dear

Peter, were the least important person there. Which is as it should be. It is

not the doer that counts but those for whom things are done. But you were not

able to accept that--and so you didn’t feel the great elation that should have

been yours."

"That’s true," whispered Keating. He would not have admitted it to anyone else.

"You missed the beautiful pride of utter selflessness. Only when you learn to

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deny your ego, completely, only when you learn to be amused by such piddling

sentimentalities as your little sex urges--only then will you achieve the

greatness which I have always expected of you."

"You...you believe that about me, Ellsworth? You really do?"

"I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t. But to come back to love. Personal

love, Peter, is a great evil--as everything personal. And it always leads to

misery. Don’t you see why? Personal love is an act of discrimination, of

preference. It is an act of injustice--to every human being on earth whom you

rob of the affection arbitrarily granted to one. You must love all men equally.

But you cannot achieve so noble an emotion if you don’t kill your selfish little

choices. They are vicious and futile--since they contradict the first cosmic

law--the basic equality of all men."

"You mean," said Keating, suddenly interested, "that in a...in a philosophical

way, deep down, I mean, we’re all equal? All of us?"

"Of course," said Toohey.

Keating wondered why the thought was so warmly pleasant to him. He did not mind

that this made him the equal of every pickpocket in the crowd gathered to

celebrate his building tonight; it occurred to him dimly--and left him

undisturbed, even though it contradicted the passionate quest for superiority

that had driven him all his life. The contradiction did not matter; he was not

thinking of tonight nor of the crowd; he was thinking of a man who had not been

there tonight.

"You know, Ellsworth," he said, leaning forward, happy in an uneasy kind of way,

"I...I’d rather talk to you than do anything else, anything at all. I had so

many places to go tonight--and I’m so much happier just sitting here with you.

Sometimes I wonder how I’d ever go on without you."

"That," said Toohey, "is as it should be. Or else what are friends for?"

#

That winter the annual costume Arts Ball was an event of greater brilliance and

originality than usual. Athelstan Beasely, the leading spirit of its

organization, had had what he called a stroke of genius: all the architects were

invited to come dressed as their best buildings. It was a huge success.

Peter Keating was the star of the evening. He looked wonderful as the

Cosmo-Slotnick Building. An exact papier-maché replica of his famous structure

covered him from head to knees; one could not see his face, but his bright eyes

peered from behind the windows of the top floor, and the crowning pyramid of the

roof rose over his head; the colonnade hit him somewhere about the diaphragm,

and he wagged a finger through the portals of the great entrance door. His legs