Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [120]
“But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me,” said Philip.
“Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police.”
“It’s a thousand to one that the police would never find out.”
“My ancestors have lived in a civilized state so long that the fear of the police has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would not hesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminal classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice.”
“But then that does away with honor and virtue and goodness and decency and everything,” said Philip.
“Have you ever committed a sin?”
“I don’t know, I suppose so,” answered Philip.
“You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committed a sin.”
Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes, looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh.
“Have you never done anything you regret?”
“How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?” asked Cronshaw in return.
“But that’s fatalism.”
“The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure.”
“My brain reels,” said Philip.
“Have some whisky,” returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. “There’s nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer.”
Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:
“You’re not a bad fellow, but you won’t drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad ...” Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, ‘I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no significance for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the center of the world.”
“But there are one or two other people in the world,” objected Philip.
“I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the center of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice; I do not know justice, I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society tempts me to its service by honors and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their opinion, I despise honors and I can do very well without riches.”
“But if everyone thought like you things