Playing With Ironies

Power. Throughout the ages, man has been driven by a desire for power that has governed his actions and shaped the face of social and governmental institutions. Whether mankind is harnessing the untamed elements of nature or establishing civilizations, history has been characterized by men of great power, the Caesars, the Napoleons, and the Attilas, whose quests for sovereignty have been responsible for countless wars but also have yielded great cultural and political achievements. In her acclaimed novel, The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand explores the ramifications of an insidious philosophy of power that utilizes psychological and spiritual manipulation of the populace, rather than the mastery of society through brute military force. Rand juxtaposes the personal quest for power sought by two of her main characters, Ellsworth Toohey and Gail Wynand, with the character of Howard Roark, whose quest for power is to realize his true creative potential. Although Toohey and Wynand both exhibit man’s desire to exert power over others, their methodologies for attaining that power vastly differ, resulting in contradistinctive outcomes, which attest to the characters’ immensely differing philosophical ideologies and worldviews.
As a “philosopher,” author, and architectural critic for Wynand’s newspaper, The Banner, Ellsworth Toohey possesses perceptive insight into the workings of the human mind and soul. He utilizes his column at The Banner as a platform to indoctrinate his readers with an ideology that elevates altruism, a virtue he touts as the pinnacle of human righteousness. Toohey states that only “when you have lost your identity and forgotten the name of your soul—only then […] the gates of spiritual grandeur will fall open before you” (365). However, Toohey’s altruistic efforts are actually a carefully conceived plan for dominion over others by subjugating their souls for the sake of the “the common good.” However, as Rand expresses, “the idea that public interest supercedes private interests and rights can have but one meaning: that the interests and rights of some individuals take precedence over the interests and rights of others.” Toohey espouses selflessness, an essential component of totalitarian collectivism, claiming once you have immolated your soul and identity to mankind, only then can you find true fulfillment. Toohey realizes that once the general populace is convinced their souls are morally corrupt and selfish, the individual spirit is broken and thereby controllable. Further, by praising mediocrity and conformity of the masses, man’s impetus for great achievement is effectively extinguished. Toohey fears the innovative individualist whose capacity for independent creative thought is a threat to the conformity necessary for a totalitarian regime. To gain power, Toohey reveals one must “learn to rule one single man’s soul, [and then] you can get the rest of mankind. […] Kill man’s sense of values. Kill his capacity to recognize greatness or to achieve it. […] Kill by laughter. […] Happy men are free, so kill their joy in living. […] Empty a man’s soul and the space is yours to fill” (635-636). Rand doesn’t clearly delineate Toohey’s drive for power, but she suggests that as a sickly child, Toohey realized his ability to manipulate those he deemed contemptible mental inferiors through his unabashed altruism. Ultimately, like all dictatorial rulers, Toohey’s desire for power is not a decided interest in the common good, but a means to realizing his own personal vision of a totalitarian utopia.
In contrast to Toohey’s rise to power through the destruction of man’s soul, Gail Wynand, the founder of the newspaper The Banner, originally sought power in response to the reproach, “You don’t run things around here.” Wynand climbed out of Hell’s Kitchen to forge a thriving successful enterprise. However, to gain the power he commands Wynand compromised his ideals and integrity. Believing that honest men “don’t exist,” Wynand is disgusted with man’s depravity and corruption and his rise to power is motivated by his desire to overcome that corruption (415). However, Wynand chooses to confront it by consciously seeking power over promising and idealistic men and subsequently destroying them. Wynand tells his wife, “Power Dominique. The only thing I ever wanted. To know that there’s not a man living whom I can’t force to do—anything. Anything I choose. The man I couldn’t break would destroy me” (497). While Wynand himself does not preach the philosophy of altruism to achieve power, he gains power by pandering to what he thinks The Banner’s readers desire: crime, scandal and sentiment (408-409). Wynand mistakenly believes his power lies in forcing the public to believe what he wants them to believe. However, Wynand discovers during his editorial crusade to protect architect Howard Roark, Rand’s hero accused of dynamiting “public” property, that his power has rested solely on volatile public opinion. He never controlled or has “never run things anywhere […he’s] only added [himself] to things as they ran” and tapped into the stream of public consciousness (662). While Wynand believed he held the leash of the masses by forcibly imposing opinions upon them as he desired, this leash was in reality “only a rope with a noose at both ends” (660).
Although Toohey and Wynand both strive for power, there is a defining distinction that underlies each man’s motivations. In The Fountainhead, Rand discusses the “second-hander,” which, according to her philosophy of Objectivism, is an individual who is the paramount embodiment the hypocritical parasite. He is 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 [… he] professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison” (605). Although “second-handers” are often distinguished by their dependence upon the directives of others, Toohey remains a type of “second-hander” because he compromises his own soul to procure reverence from his devoted, yet purblind followers. He scorns creativity and embraces mediocrity and the destruction of innovative thought. For Wynand, the masses are also a part of his identity. However, Wynand has compromised himself differently than Toohey. In his search for power, Wynand sacrifices his personal values, integrity and creativity in order to cater to the base desires of his readers. Wynand tells Roark, “Selflessness in the absolute sense? Why, that’s what I’ve been […] I made myself into a barometer subject to the pressure of the whole world” (603). Regardless of Wynand’s dependence upon the fickle sentiments of his readership, Roark reminds Wynand, “you weren’t born to be a second-hander” (608). This is what ultimately separates Toohey’s quest for power from Wynand’s: reliance upon other men to create a sense of worth, rather than the assurance of that worth intrinsically. Toohey relies upon the devotion of other “second-handers” in order to feel great, but Wynand understands, only too late, that true worth must be found independently through honesty to oneself, self-reliance and creativity.
Howard Roark, Ayn Rand’s protagonist, is the antithesis of the “second-hander.” Roark possesses an intrinsic spirit of creativity and sense of self-respect that needs no further affirmation from extraneous sources. He refuses to compromise himself for another man, and he does not expect anyone to make compromises for him. The self-reliant Roark does not desire to rule other men or to be ruled by them. Seneca, a Roman philosopher, best defines the individualist’s quest for power when he states: “Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.” Roark seeks only to be master of himself and master of the natural elements he molds from lifeless forms into revolutionary expressions architecture. Roark realizes Shakespeare’s iconic saying, “to thine ownself be true / And it must follow, as the night the day, / Thou canst not then be false to any man” (Hamlet, Act I, Scene III, lines 78-80). Roark does not sacrifice his integrity, but boldly declares his individual voice and fulfills his destiny despite the onslaught of public defiance. Ellsworth Toohey perceives this individual independence as a dangerous threat to his well conceived plans for domination. He recognizes that great men like Roark “can’t be ruled. We don’t want any great men” (635). He seeks to destroy Roark by slowly eroding his reputation and praising unskilled craftsmen rather than flatly denying Roark’s genius. Because of Roark’s refusal to compromise, he ultimately prevails. Wynand also acknowledges Roark’s virtuosity, and although Wynand initially attempts to suppress Howard’s autonomous nature, he soon realizes that he longs to possess Roark’s visionary individualism. Wynand had the potential to enjoy the same spirit of integrity that Roark embodies, but sold out long ago to sovereignty’s siren song.
In conclusion, although Toohey and Wynand both vie for absolute power, each man’s desire for dominion ultimately differs in accordance with his philosophies and ideologies. Toohey see no merit in the individual human soul and consequently sacrifices himself to achieve his vision of a totalitarian collective. Wynand, however, sees worth and achievement within himself and others, but his eventual self-immolation prevents him from attaining his true potential. Rand ultimately intimates that the fundamental struggle mankind faces is against men like Ellsworth Toohey; men who seek to manipulate and enslave mankind in order to create a world that conforms to their collectivist philosophy. The only means of combating this insidious ideology is through the spirit of individualism. According to Rand, Howard Roark is the ideal man because he neither seeks power over men, nor longs to be controlled, but simply discovers that the fountainhead of thought, creativity, and worth is found within himself.

When reading a masterful classic such as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it is easy for the reader to become so immersed in the compelling supernatural mystery consuming the principle characters, that the detailed descriptions Stevenson provides for the locations of the main dramatic action might summarily be regarded as being of minimal importance. However, these settings not only provide a glimpse into the heart of the repressive Victorian society, but also serve to augment the evil foreboding of Stevenson’s Gothic allegory and symbolize Jekyll’s moral and rational dichotomy. Written in the Gothic genre, Stevenson utilizes the settings for his novella to parallel the psychological and supernatural themes of his work. Each prudently crafted setting—the bustling city of London, the fog-enshrouded lamp-lit bystreets, Dr. Jekyll’s affluently appointed residence, and his disheveled and derelict scientific laboratory—become metaphors that underscore Stevenson’s themes of the duality of human nature and man’s internal struggle between good and evil.
Stevenson’s initial introduction to Jekyll is through the descriptions of his townhouse, which not only provide insight into the privileged lifestyle of Victorian aristocracy, but into the social mores and principles that govern the behavior of respectable society. Dr. Jekyll, a wealthy bachelor, is well respected by his community and his socialite acquaintances. Consequently, his impeccable residence appears to be of discriminating taste and refined decorum, for even the doorway is ascribed to bearing “a great air of wealth and comfort” (14). Upon one particular visit to Jekyll’s home, Utterson, Jekyll’s solicitor and friend, is shown into the fashionable reception hall, which apparently he is wont to call “the pleasantest room in London,” a generous compliment from a man of Utterson’s urbane refinement (14). As it appears from the façade of the residence, nothing is out of the ordinary, and Jekyll’s sophisticated home testifies to the mannered, ordered, and rational existence that he leads; a life governed by the protocol of Victorian morality and propriety. However, as the narrative progresses, the reader discovers the ominous secret that masquerades behind the urbane façade of Jekyll’s stately and idyllic home. As Dr. Jekyll becomes eclipsed by the depraved Hyde, his house slowly reflects the transformation. Utterson notes the once elegant and welcoming door “was now plunged in darkness except for the fan-light,” and that the fire which once seemed to glow with warmth and hospitality, “he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof” (14). The townhouse, which initially possesses an air of tranquility, reflects the malevolent changes to Jekyll’s own soul. Stevenson proves that, similarly to Jekyll, the “false face [of the house] must hide what the false heart doth know” (Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 7). This malignancy cannot be controlled, and just as Dr. Jekyll is unable to conceal the evil lurking within himself, the townhouse reflects the turpitude embodied within.
In contrast to the splendor of upper class aristocracy, the social turmoil in Victorian England provides further insight into the major themes concerning Jekyll’s metaphysical transformation. Immigration and the rise of Industrialism during this period had exponentially increased the population of large cities. This resulted in a proportionate rise in the rate of poverty, violent crime, and prostitution. Stevenson utilizes this social degeneracy to create a perfect environment for the murderous Hyde. During the daylight hours, London was presided over by the upper class civility, most of whom conducted their affairs largely indifferent of the social and economic decay surrounding them. However, once the night was ushered in, the squalid and criminal underbelly of the London was exposed. It was no longer a city governed by societal conventions, but a city where immorality lurked within each shadow, and where one “begins to long for the sight of a policeman” (5). Despite being a man of distinction and rationality, when Mr. Utterson, Jekyll’s solicitor, travels to Hyde’s residence, he apprehensively watches as “the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace […] many ragged children huddled in the doorway […] and the next moment the fog settled down again […] and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings” (20). Stevenson utilizes this nightmarish description of the urban landscape not only to heighten the mystery and suspense of the story, but also highlight and underscore the nefarious and animalistic nature of Mr. Hyde. One cannot imagine the novel’s villain prowling through London during the broad daylight hours, unnoticed and un-accosted, while he perpetrates his horrific malefactions. However, under the cover of night, with only the street lamps, “kindled afresh to combat this mournful reinvasion of darkness,” to witness his deeds, Hyde, and ultimately Stevenson, uses the anonymous darkness to his advantage (20). Amidst these sinister environs, one witnesses a breakdown of rational and civilized behavior that perfectly parallels the immoral primitive desires of Hyde, making London’s nightscape the ideal setting for his unrestrained wickedness.
The main theme of the tale explores the moral duality of man’s human nature, and Stevenson so perfectly realizes this dilemma when he provides the reader with a description of Jekyll’s scientific laboratory. In contrast to the restrained and meticulous civility evident in his Victorian household, Jekyll’s laboratory is in a state of utter chaos, “lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola” (22). As the learned doctor of sciences, Jekyll is a pillar of society whose abode demonstrates taste and codification, and as the transformed Hyde, his life is a tumultuous whirlwind of evil and malicious passions, the personification of the animalistic and the troglodyte, void of the moral constraints governing Victorian society. Additionally, when Utterson is first ushered into the cluttered laboratory, he notices “three dusty windows barred with iron” (22). Although one may argue that the bars serve the functional purpose of protecting his laboratory from intruders, it may be equally as valid to argue that the steel bars reminds the reader that Jekyll is imprisoned by his failed experiment and by the Pandora’s box of evil embodied by Hyde. And then there is the door. In the bystreet there is the infamous door that leads out from Jekyll’s laboratory, but from which Hyde is sole creature to issue forth. Unlike the door to the townhouse that bears “a great air of wealth and comfort,” this secret backdoor to Jekyll’s laboratory is an entrance to pure evil and “bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence” (14, 4). These entrances reflect each side of Jekyll’s personality; the proper townhouse conceals Jekyll’s sinister experiments, while the backdoor is a secret access of Hyde’s sin. Thematically, Stevenson uses the secret back entrance to symbolize the private struggle within each man to conquer his own transgressions and malice while conforming to societal conventions. In the end, Jekyll is overcome by Hyde, and locks himself behind the door, imprisoning himself within his own ruinous sin.
In conclusion, although one may realize that the exhaustive descriptions Stevenson supplies sets the tenor of his supernatural allegory, each of these narrations provides the reader with a glimpse not only into Victorian social conduct, but also into the duality of good and evil within the metaphysical transformation of Dr. Jekyll. While the theme of good and evil is obviously enacted by the experiment performed by Jekyll, it is also woven into the story by the haunting nocturnal London streets, the grandiose splendor of the doctor’s home, the disarray of Jekyll’s laboratory, and by the ominous aura of Hyde’s backdoor. Without the inclusion of these descriptions, Stevenson’s work would lack a dimensionality only provided by the settings, both as proper environments for the action, and as symbols for the deeper messages of the novella. As an audience, one understands the opulent state of Jekyll when one can imagine his grand house, and one equally realizes the evil of Hyde as the image of the laboratory door haunts him and reminds him of the bitter struggle within himself for mastery of the soul.

When Victor Hugo first published The Hunchback of Notre-Dame in 1837, he did not actually intend for his novel to concentrate on one particular character and locale as the title implies (McCracken, xii). Rather, Hugo chose to broaden the scope of his masterpiece to underscore the plight and destitution of the French populace under the reign of a cruel government that was indifferent towards the impoverished and anarchical state of its people. However, while he may almost appear to be a secondary character when compared with La Esmeralda or Claude Frollo, Quasimodo, the legendary bell-ringer of Notre-Dame, may certainly be considered the heart and soul of Hugo’s work. His omnipresence infuses life into the novel the same way his presence in the cathedral is “said to have made the immense building breathe” (142). Without Quasimodo, the story may also be said to lack a proper protagonist. In the true tradition of a literary hero, the audience rejoices in Quasimodo’s triumphs and weeps in his darkest hours. He is the only character in The Hunchback of Notre-Dame who performs valiant and selfless acts and exhibits a character filled with kindness, loyalty and true beauty, despite his hideous exterior and flawed nature. Although one may contest that because of his outward ugliness and internalized malice Quasimodo cannot be considered beautiful, his virtuous and heroic heart endows him with true beauty that transcends the ostensible beauty exhibited by all of the other characters in the novel.
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame is a work filled with seemingly beautiful characters. From the imposing façade of Notre-Dame, to the mystical and bewitching gypsy girl, the reader is continually enthralled by the pulchritude of Hugo’s creations. Outward ugliness is only manifested by one figure, and that is Quasimodo. With his “tetrahedron nose, […] that horseshoe mouth […] that little left eye, obscured by a bristly red eyebrow, while the right was completely overwhelmed by an enormous wart […] those irregular teeth, jagged here and there […] and, above all […] the expression, that mixture of spite, astonishment, and melancholy, spread over all these features,” Quasimodo is certainly a sight to behold (43). In addition to his grotesque appearance, Hugo describes Quasimodo as exhibiting great malevolence towards others. Hugo also points out, though, that this “malice was probably not innate in him […] as he grew up he found nothing but hatred around him. He had adopted it. He had acquired the general malevolence. He had picked up the weapon with which he had been wounded” (139). However, despite his outward appearance and even his malignity, Quasimodo possesses spiritual virtues that, according to Jonathan Edwards, an eighteenth century philosopher and theologian, are the paramount embodiment of beauty. In his essay The Beauty of the World, Edward declares that while we may consider the figures and creatures of this world to be sublime, beauty of spirit rather than beauty of form is superior. Edwards asserts, “the reason is that spiritual beauties are infinitely the greatest, and bodies being but the shadows of beings, they must be so much the more charming as they shadow forth spiritual beauties” (14). This is what the Parisian crowd sees when Quasimodo rescues La Esmeralda. The compassion in his heart incarnates itself through his heroic actions, thus displaying his virtuous beauty before the multitude below. His odious appearance melts away “for at that moment Quasimodo was really beautiful” (323). His beauty cannot escape us.
Although Quasimodo’s beauty is evident to Hugo’s audience, it seems to elude La Esmeralda. Once Quasimodo has rescued her from the gallows, she expresses gratitude and compassion towards her savior, but is unable to see beyond his malformed countenance (339-342). She remains fixated upon the charming Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers, naïvely believing that he returns her ardent affection. However, in contrast to Quasimodo, while Phoebus may appear handsome and winsome, he is in reality a loathsome womanizer who disregards her sincere, yet misplaced, adoration in order to fulfill his lascivious desires. La Esmeralda is unable to see beyond the external beauty of her idol and into the ugliness of his heart. Even in his deaf and lonely state, Quasimodo recognizes the corrupt and deceptive beauty of the Captain when he sings, “do not look at the face, young girl, look at the heart. The heart of a handsome young man is often deformed” (351). In a further attempt to dissuade La Esmeralda’s misplaced love, Quasimodo leaves two vases with flowers: a crystal vase with withered flowers, and an earthenware jug with fresh flowers (351). When La Esmeralda sees the pair, she chooses the flowers that have died, signifying her choice of beauty of the form over beauty of the spirit. This is perhaps, one of the great tragedies of Hugo’s masterpiece. Beyond all of the death and social turmoil, lies La Esmeralda’s grievous choice: to spurn the spiritual beauty of Quasimodo and to remain fixated upon the beguiling and spurious captain. Perhaps the gravity of her choice is beyond her understanding, but the audience witnesses her decision and is left with a haunting sense of hopelessness.
In conclusion, although one may question the beauty of Quasimodo on account of his monstrous appearance and calloused heart, the hunchback’s virtuous character endows him with a spiritual beauty that transcends the temporal beauty exhibited by the other personae in the novel. Quasimodo’s flawed character and hideous exterior does not exempt him from the title of hero, nor does it eclipse his true beauty. The actions he performs, and the sentiments he expresses, prove that Quasimodo has a virtuous and kind heart. As Jonathan Edwards reveals, the superior spiritual beauties, such as the virtuous traits the hunchback displays, become manifested in the outward form despite one’s physical appearance. Quasimodo’s beauty originates from his honorable character, but when he rescues La Esmeralda from the gallows, both the Parisians and the readers witness this internal beauty extend to his outward from. However, despite the kindness and love he shows towards her, La Esmeralda is unable, or unwilling, to see Quasimodo’s spiritual beauty, focusing upon his repulsive form, and instead chooses the superficial beauty of Captain Phoebus. She chooses the crystal vase, but the flowers have withered. She expectantly clings to Phoebus’ love, and is sent to the gallows for her hope.