You rear like a frightened colt, because i use a word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder and you speak with little thrill of self - satisfaction of duty, charity and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I spoke of happiness instead of pleasure: It sounds less shocking and your mind wanders from the sty of Epicure to his garden . But i will speak of pleasure for i see that men aim at that, and i do not know that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him and when they are good for other people as well they are thought of as virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give two pence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that i drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.
"But have you never known people to do things they didn't want to instead of things they did?"
"No, you put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept and immediate pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the senses; but, child, a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct."
"But, if all that is true," cried Phillip "what is the use of anything? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into this world?"
"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cornshaw.
He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe, and with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, vendors of cheap rugs and each bare on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables and in the atmosphere heavy and discolored with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in European shabby clothes, and their great coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbauch. Their faces were grey with cold. One was of middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of 18, with a face deeply scarred by small pox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw and Phillip.
"Allah the great and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively.
The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.
"Are you Masr-ed-Deen the merchant of Alexandria, or is it far from Baghdad that you bring your goods, o, my Uncle; and yonder one - eyed youth do i see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories to her lord?"
The peddler's smile grew more ingratiating though he understood no word of what Cronshaw said and like a conjurer he produced a small sandle wood box.
"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms, "quoth Cronshaw. "For i would paint a moral and adorn a tale."
The Levantine unfolded a table cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous and grotesque.
"Thirty five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.
"Ultima Thule was the place of my birth."
"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.
"Get thee gone, fellow, said Cronshaw.
"May wild asses defile the grave of thy maternal grandmother."
"Imperturbably, but smiling no more the Levantine passed with his waves to another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip,
"Have you been to the clung, the museum? There you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and sensual beauty of the east the roses of Hafiz and the wine cup of Omar: but presently you will see more. You were asking just how what is the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets and one of these days the answer will come to you.
"You are cryptic," said Philip.
"I am drunk," answeard Cronshaw.
"But have you never known people to do things they didn't want to instead of things they did?"
"No, you put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept and immediate pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the senses; but, child, a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct."
"But, if all that is true," cried Phillip "what is the use of anything? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into this world?"
"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cornshaw.
He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe, and with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, vendors of cheap rugs and each bare on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables and in the atmosphere heavy and discolored with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in European shabby clothes, and their great coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbauch. Their faces were grey with cold. One was of middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of 18, with a face deeply scarred by small pox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw and Phillip.
"Allah the great and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively.
The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.
"Are you Masr-ed-Deen the merchant of Alexandria, or is it far from Baghdad that you bring your goods, o, my Uncle; and yonder one - eyed youth do i see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories to her lord?"
The peddler's smile grew more ingratiating though he understood no word of what Cronshaw said and like a conjurer he produced a small sandle wood box.
"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms, "quoth Cronshaw. "For i would paint a moral and adorn a tale."
The Levantine unfolded a table cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous and grotesque.
"Thirty five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.
"Ultima Thule was the place of my birth."
"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.
"Get thee gone, fellow, said Cronshaw.
"May wild asses defile the grave of thy maternal grandmother."
"Imperturbably, but smiling no more the Levantine passed with his waves to another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip,
"Have you been to the clung, the museum? There you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and sensual beauty of the east the roses of Hafiz and the wine cup of Omar: but presently you will see more. You were asking just how what is the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets and one of these days the answer will come to you.
"You are cryptic," said Philip.
"I am drunk," answeard Cronshaw.