Part 13 (2/2)

Claire Leslie Burton Blades 26910K 2022-07-22

”That above all, Claire,” he laughed.

”And obligation?”

”Yes, that too, if you mean a sense of being bound to one because of something he has done in the past. For instance, I am obliged to Philip for his food, his house, my life, and this cigarette, but I scarcely feel that that would imply that I must sacrifice my greatest desire in life as payment if necessary. Of course, it isn't necessary, but if it were, I should refuse.”

”I think you would not,” a.s.serted Philip.

”I know I would. I rather believe you would also, though it might be that you would not.”

”I would sacrifice anything to pay a debt of grat.i.tude.” Philip spoke warmly.

”You would--perhaps--but in so doing would you not feel that grat.i.tude was the thing of supreme worth to yourself?”

”Not necessarily. I might even suffer all my life for having done so.”

”Impossible. You would either redeem your sense of life's value by a new belief, or you would die.”

”Then you think a man can do as he pleases and maintain his self-respect, his personal integrity?”

”He will find some way to make himself feel worth while, or he will cease to be.”

”You think that a criminal, or perhaps better, a person abandoned to vice, feels justified?”

”Yes. He creates a belief by which his abandonment is not destructive to himself, or he is converted, which is simply a convulsion of nature for the same end, to preserve his life and make it seem valuable to him.”

”Could you, for instance, murder a man, and do it believing that afterward you would somehow make it seem right, or at least so necessary that you would feel as self-respecting and sin-free as before?” Philip was speaking earnestly.

”I should not do so unless I were forced to it, but if I were, I know that I would somehow reconstruct my mental life so that I would still feel existence worth the price.”

Claire leaned forward. ”Lawrence,” she said jestingly, ”you have swept away the bulwark of the home, made infidelity easy, and numberless separated families inevitable with your bold, bad talk. Aren't you sorry for all those tragedies?”

He laughed. ”Very,” he said, ”though it was watching such proceedings take place so frequently that led me to accept my theory. Think of the men and women who are unfaithful, who leave their wedded partner for another, and still find life worth while.”

”But that is their failure to live true to their principles,” said Philip. ”It is commonly called sin, my friend.”

”It may be, according to their light, but they generally get a new light afterward. You see, I do not believe that G.o.d joins men and women. I am persuaded that a very natural physical desire does so, and it doesn't follow that the first is the only or best union.”

”My husband would simply dread me if I held your view, and I should feel very wary if I were your wife, Lawrence,” remarked Claire.

That was the central point in the whole discussion, though none of them were aware of it. Vaguely they felt that they were groping their way toward the future, but they did not allow the feeling to reach a conscious state, and Philip laughingly broke up the talk.

”Here we are,” he said, yawning, ”the fire is making us all sleepy, we're talking foolishness, and we need exercise. Why not get it? I think we might all of us go out and face the wind for a quarter of an hour, then let it blow us back to camp like three children. I have the skis for us all.”

”Great!” Claire clapped her hands in applause.

”It's a splendid idea,” agreed Lawrence, and they set forth.

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