Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [304]
“You ... you wouldn’t throw your own brother out on the street, would you?” his mother said at last; it was not a demand, but a plea.
“I would.”
“But he’s your brother ... Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Maybe he goes a bit too far at times, but it’s just loose talk, it’s just that modern jabber, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Then let him learn.”
“Don’t be hard on him ... he’s younger than you and ... and weaker. He ... Henry, don’t look at me that way! I’ve never seen you look like that.... You shouldn’t frighten him. You know that he needs you.”
“Does he know it?”
“You can’t be hard on a man who needs you, it will prey on your conscience for the rest of your life.”
“It won’t.”
“You’ve got to be kind, Henry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve got to have some pity.”
“I haven’t.”
“A good man knows how to forgive.”
“I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t want me to think that you’re selfish.”
“I am.”
Philip’s eyes were darting from one to the other. He looked like a man who had felt certain that he stood on solid granite and had suddenly discovered that it was thin ice, now cracking open all around him.
“But I ...” he tried, and stopped; his voice sounded like steps testing the ice. “But don’t I have any freedom of speech?”
“In your own house. Not in mine.”
“Don’t I have a right to my own ideas?”
“At your own expense. Not at mine.”
“Don’t you tolerate any differences of opinion?”
“Not when I’m paying the bills.”
“Isn’t there anything involved but money?”
“Yes. The fact that it’s my money.”
“Don’t you want to consider any hi ...”—he was going to say “higher,” but changed his mind—“any other aspects?”
“No.”
“But I’m not your slave.”
“Am I yours?”
“I don’t know what you—” He stopped; he knew what was meant.
“No,” said Rearden, “you’re not my slave. You’re free to walk out of here any time you choose.”
“I ... I’m not speaking of that.”
“I am.”
“I don’t understand it ...”
“Don’t you?”
“You’ve always known my ... my political views. You’ve never objected before.”
“That’s true,” said Rearden gravely. “Perhaps I owe you an explanation, if I have misled you. I’ve tried never to remind you that you’re living on my charity. I thought that it was your place to remember it. I thought that any human being who accepts the help of another, knows that good will is the giver’s only motive and that good will is the payment he owes in return. But I see that I was wrong. You were getting your food unearned and you concluded that affection did not have to be earned, either. You concluded that I was the safest person in the world for you to spit on, precisely because I held you by the throat. You concluded that I wouldn’t want to remind you of it and that I would be tied by the fear of hurting your feelings. All right, let’s get it straight: you’re an object of charity who’s exhausted his credit long ago. Whatever affection I might have felt for you once, is gone. I haven’t the slightest interest in you, your fate or your future. I haven’t any reason whatever for wishing to feed you. If you leave my house, it won’t make any difference to me whether you starve or not. Now that is your position here and I will expect you to remember it, if you wish to stay. If not, then get out.”
But for the movement of drawing his head a little into his shoulders, Philip showed no reaction. “Don’t imagine that I enjoy living here,” he said; his voice was lifeless and shrill. “If you think I’m happy, you’re mistaken. I’d give anything to get away.” The words pertained to defiance, but the voice had a curiously cautious quality. “If that is how you feel about it, it would be best for me to leave.” The words were a statement, but the voice put a question mark at the end of it and waited; there was no answer. “You needn’t worry about my future. I don’t have to ask favors of anybody. I can take care of myself all right.” The words were addressed