People who have tried it, tell me that a clear conscience makes

Host:
The smell of fried onions and cheap beer filled the air of a small pub tucked into the backstreets of London, where the rain tapped against the window like a soft reminder of life’s monotony. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light throwing golden flickers on the wooden walls lined with framed football jerseys and faded laughter.

Jack sat hunched over a plate of half-eaten shepherd’s pie, his jacket draped on the back of the chair. The steam from his pint rose slowly, mingling with the faint haze of cigarette smoke. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea — she never drank beer — watching him with that half-amused, half-worried look that people reserve for men who confuse cynicism with wisdom.

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “Jerome K. Jerome once wrote — ‘People who have tried it, tell me that a clear conscience makes you very happy and contented; but a full stomach does the business quite as well, and is cheaper, and more easily obtained.’”
Jack: [grinning] “Now there’s a man after my own heart.”
Jeeny: “You would like that quote. It excuses appetite as philosophy.”
Jack: [shrugs] “It’s practical. You can’t solve moral dilemmas on an empty stomach.”
Jeeny: [raising an eyebrow] “So you’re saying ethics should wait for dinner?”
Jack: [smirking] “I’m saying hunger makes saints irritable and sinners reasonable. Feed a man, and he’ll stop preaching.”

Host:
The firelight danced across their faces, throwing shadows that flickered like passing thoughts. Outside, the rain intensified, the sound drumming steadily against the windows, while a group of locals laughed at the bar.

Jeeny: “That’s a very convenient worldview, Jack — to replace conscience with comfort.”
Jack: “It’s not a replacement, Jeeny. It’s hierarchy. Try telling a man who hasn’t eaten in two days about the virtues of guilt. He’ll tell you where to put your conscience.”
Jeeny: [leaning forward] “You always think in survival terms — eat, sleep, avoid pain. But what about meaning? What’s the point of a full stomach if the soul’s starving?”
Jack: [grinning faintly] “Meaning is a luxury good. You only start searching for it when you’re not busy trying to live.”
Jeeny: [with quiet conviction] “No, it’s what gives living its taste.”

Host:
The pub’s lights dimmed slightly, the last of the daylight fading behind the wet glass. The hum of conversation filled the air, but around their table, there was only the sound of two different philosophies clinking like glasses.

Jack: “You ever notice how the people who talk most about virtue are the ones who’ve never been desperate? They talk about moral clarity from their warm beds.”
Jeeny: “And you think morality’s a privilege?”
Jack: “No — it’s a distraction. A man with a clear conscience probably hasn’t lived enough.”
Jeeny: [shaking her head] “Or maybe he’s lived enough to be at peace.”
Jack: “Peace? Or denial?”
Jeeny: [firmly] “No, Jack. Peace is what you find when you finally stop being ruled by appetite.”

Host:
Jack laughed, not mockingly, but in that tired, human way that says “I wish I believed you.” He took another sip of his beer, and the foam clung to the edge of his glass like a ghost refusing to leave.

Jack: “You ever feel guilty, Jeeny?”
Jeeny: [after a pause] “Of course. That’s part of being alive.”
Jack: “And what do you do about it?”
Jeeny: “I listen to it. Guilt’s not a punishment — it’s a compass.”
Jack: [snorting softly] “More like a tax. It keeps you paying for things long after they’ve stopped mattering.”
Jeeny: “That’s because you confuse guilt with shame. Shame condemns you. Guilt tries to save you.”
Jack: [leaning forward] “And hunger just reminds you you’re human. Which one’s more honest?”

Host:
The rain outside eased, softening into a steady whisper. The fire crackled louder, as if listening. Jeeny looked at him closely, and in the dim light, her expression was not judgment, but empathy.

Jeeny: “You think morality is a privilege because you mistake comfort for virtue. But tell me, Jack — when your stomach’s full, do you feel any less restless?”
Jack: [after a pause] “No. But it’s a different kind of ache.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The ache of conscience is hunger, too — just not the kind you can fix with food.”
Jack: “So you’re saying satisfaction’s an illusion?”
Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it’s incomplete.”
Jack: [grinning] “Now you sound like a priest.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “And you sound like a man confessing between bites.”

Host:
The pub door opened, letting in a brief gust of cold air and the scent of rain-soaked streets. A stranger entered, ordered a pint, then sat alone at the bar, staring into the amber like it held answers.

Jeeny followed his gaze for a moment, then turned back.

Jeeny: “You know, Jerome was joking, but there’s truth in it. We confuse comfort with happiness because comfort is easier. It’s measurable.”
Jack: “Of course it is. A meal fills you up. A conscience just fills you with questions.”
Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes us human — the questions?”
Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s what makes us miserable.”
Jeeny: “Only if you expect certainty. The soul’s appetite doesn’t end. It deepens.”
Jack: [quietly] “And you’d rather starve searching for truth than eat in peace?”
Jeeny: “I’d rather hunger for something that lasts longer than a meal.”

Host:
The fire burned lower, the last logs collapsing inward, sending sparks upward like small, glowing confessions. Jack rubbed his hands together, his expression softening into thought.

Jack: “You ever wonder if conscience evolved just to torment us?”
Jeeny: “No. It evolved to remind us that pleasure isn’t purpose.”
Jack: “And yet, purpose doesn’t pay the rent.”
Jeeny: “Neither does emptiness, Jack.”
Jack: [half-smiling] “You’ve got an answer for everything.”
Jeeny: [gently] “Only because you keep asking the wrong questions.”

Host:
A soft laugh escaped him, genuine this time. He looked around the pub — the people eating, drinking, arguing, living. For a moment, something like affection crossed his face — not for the world as it was, but for its absurdity.

Jack: “You know, maybe Jerome was right. Maybe a full stomach really can buy happiness — temporary, cheap, but honest.”
Jeeny: “Yes. But only until the hunger returns. Then what?”
Jack: [shrugging] “Then you eat again.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Or you learn to feed something deeper.”
Jack: “Faith?”
Jeeny: “No. Gratitude.”

Host:
The pub had quieted now, the laughter fading into the hum of closing time. The rain had stopped, and the smell of wet cobblestones drifted in through the cracked door.

Jeeny finished her tea, setting the cup down with deliberate grace. Jack leaned back, eyes distant but calmer, the lines of cynicism softening into something almost human — almost humble.

Jeeny: “Maybe Jerome wasn’t mocking faith, Jack. Maybe he was mocking our shortcuts to happiness.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “And what’s your shortcut?”
Jeeny: “There isn’t one. That’s why it matters.”
Jack: “So conscience over comfort, then?”
Jeeny: [quietly] “Only because comfort without conscience doesn’t last.”

Host:
Jack reached for his glass, staring into the amber reflection of the fire. The flame flickered, its light catching the worn lines on his face.

He raised it slightly, not in mockery, but in acknowledgment.

Jack: [softly] “To bad judgment, good meals, and guilty pleasures.”
Jeeny: [smiling warmly] “And to learning which ones feed the soul.”

Host:
They clinked glasses softly, the sound small but significant in the hush of the dying fire. Outside, the rain had left the streets shining, clean and clear.

And in that quiet, the truth of Jerome K. Jerome’s words lingered —

that a full stomach may ease the body,
but only a clear conscience quiets the heart.

For while comfort feeds survival,
it is conscience that feeds the soul —
and both, in their own way,
keep us beautifully, tragically, human.