The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK ®. Arthur Machen

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СКАЧАТЬ to him. The “poems” are even stranger. One, headed (with an odd reminiscence of old-fashioned books) “Lines written on looking down from a Height in London on a Board School suddenly lit up by the Sun” begins thus:—

      One day when I was all alone

      I found a wondrous little stone,

      It lay forgotten on the road

      Far from the ways of man’s abode.

      When on this stone mine eyes I cast

      I saw my Treasure found at last.

      I pressed it hard against my face,

      I covered it with my embrace,

      I hid it in a secret place.

      And every day I went to see

      This stone that was my ecstasy;

      And worshipped it with flowers rare,

      And secret words and sayings fair.

      O stone, so rare and red and wise

      O fragment of far Paradise,

      O Star, whose light is life! O Sea,

      Whose ocean is infinity!

      Thou art a fire that ever burns,

      And all the world to wonder turns;

      And all the dust of the dull day

      By thee is changed and purged away,

      So that, where’er I look, I see

      A world of a Great Majesty.

      The sullen river rolls all gold,

      The desert park’s a faery wold,

      When on the trees the wind is borne

      I hear the sound of Arthur’s horn

      I see no town of grim grey ways,

      But a great city all ablaze

      With burning torches, to light up

      The pinnacles that shrine the Cup.

      Ever the magic wine is poured,

      Ever the Feast shines on the board,

      Ever the song is borne on high

      That chants the holy Magistry—

      Etc. etc. etc.

      From such documents as these it is clearly impossible to gather any very definite information. But on the last page Darnell has written—

      “So I awoke from a dream of a London suburb, of daily labour, of weary, useless little things; and as my eyes were opened I saw that I was in an ancient wood, where a clear well rose into grey film and vapour beneath a misty, glimmering heat. And a form came towards me from the hidden places of the wood, and my love and I were united by the well.”

      THE WHITE PEOPLE

      PROLOGUE

      “Sorcery and sanctity,” said Ambrose, “these are the only realities. Each is an ecstasy, a withdrawal from the common life.”

      Cotgrave listened, interested. He had been brought by a friend to this mouldering house in a northern suburb, through an old garden to the room where Ambrose the recluse dozed and dreamed over his books.

      “Yes,” he went on, “magic is justified of her children. There are many, I think, who eat dry crusts and drink water, with a joy infinitely sharper than anything within the experience of the ‘practical’ epicure.”

      “You are speaking of the saints?”

      “Yes, and of the sinners, too. I think you are falling into the very general error of confining the spiritual world to the supremely good; but the supremely wicked, necessarily, have their portion in it. The merely carnal, sensual man can no more be a great sinner than he can be a great saint. Most of us are just indifferent, mixed-up creatures; we muddle through the world without realizing the meaning and the inner sense of things, and, consequently, our wickedness and our goodness are alike second-rate, unimportant.”

      “And you think the great sinner, then, will be an ascetic, as well as the great saint?”

      “Great people of all kinds forsake the imperfect copies and go to the perfect originals. I have no doubt but that many of the very highest among the saints have never done a ‘good action’ (using the words in their ordinary sense). And, on the other hand, there have been those who have sounded the very depths of sin, who all their lives have never done an ‘ill deed.’”

      He went out of the room for a moment, and Cotgrave, in high delight, turned to his friend and thanked him for the introduction.

      “He’s grand,” he said. “I never saw that kind of lunatic before.”

      Ambrose returned with more whisky and helped the two men in a liberal manner. He abused the teetotal sect with ferocity, as he handed the seltzer, and pouring out a glass of water for himself, was about to resume his monologue, when Cotgrave broke in—

      “I can’t stand it, you know,” he said, “your paradoxes are too monstrous. A man may be a great sinner and yet never do anything sinful! Come!”

      “You’re quite wrong,” said Ambrose. “I never make paradoxes; I wish I could. I merely said that a man may have an exquisite taste in Romanée Conti, and yet never have even smelt four ale. That’s all, and it’s more like a truism than a paradox, isn’t it? Your surprise at my remark is due to the fact that you haven’t realized what sin is. Oh, yes, there is a sort of connexion between Sin with the capital letter, and actions which are commonly called sinful: with murder, theft, adultery, and so forth. Much the same connexion that there is between the A, B, C and fine literature. But I believe that the misconception—it is all but universal—arises in great measure from our looking at the matter through social spectacles. We think that a man who does evil to us and to his neighbours must be very evil. So he is, from a social standpoint; but can’t you realize that Evil in its essence is a lonely thing, a passion of the solitary, individual soul? Really, the average murderer, quâ murderer, is not by any means a sinner in the true sense of the word. He is simply a wild beast that we have to get rid of to save our own necks from his knife. I should class him rather with tigers than with sinners.”

      “It seems a little strange.”

      “I think not. The murderer murders not from positive qualities, but from negative ones; he lacks something which non-murderers possess. Evil, of course, is wholly positive—only it is on the wrong side. You may believe me that sin in its proper sense is very rare; it is probable that there have been far fewer sinners than saints. Yes, your standpoint is all very well for practical, social purposes; we are naturally inclined to think that a person who is very disagreeable to us must be a very great sinner! It is very disagreeable to have one’s pocket picked, and we pronounce the thief to be a very great sinner. In truth, he is merely an СКАЧАТЬ