"No, no, no!" cried Philip.
Cronshaw chuckled.
"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 a 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 had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the sty of Epicurus 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 virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others 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 twopence 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 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 an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure.
The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it.
It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than 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 who dies for his country dies because he likes it as surely as 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 Philip, "what is the use of anything?
If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the world?"
"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cronshaw.
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, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle.
It was Sunday evening, and the cafe was very full.
They passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery.
They were clad in European, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbouch.
Their faces were gray with cold.
One was of middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only.
They passed by Cronshaw and Philip.
"Allah is 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 from far Bagdad 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 pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.
"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth Cronshaw. "For I would point a moral and adorn a tale."
The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and grotesque.
"Thirty-five francs," he said.
"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara."
"Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.
"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham 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 wares to another table.
Cronshaw turned to Philip.
"Have you ever been to the Cluny, 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 the 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 now what was the meaning of life.