The White People

The White People
by Arthur Machen
1899
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. I 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
RomanŽe 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, qu‰
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
undeveloped man. He cannot be a saint, of course; but he may be, and
often is, an infinitely better creature than thousands who have never
broken a single commandment. He is a great nuisance to us, I admit,
and we very properly lock him up if we catch him; but between his
troublesome and unsocial action and evil--Oh, the connexion is of the
weakest."
It was getting very