Cotgrave listened, interested. He had been brought by a friend to this mouldering3 house in a northern suburb, through an old garden to the room where Ambrose the recluse4 dozed5 and dreamed over his books.
'Yes,' he went on, 'magic is justified6 of her children. There are many, I think, who eat dry crusts and drink water, with a joy infinitely7 sharper than anything within the experience of the "practical" epicure8.'
'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 supremely9 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 muddle11 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.'
'Great people of all kinds forsake13 the imperfect[114] 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 sect14 with ferocity, as he handed the seltzer, and pouring out a glass of water for himself, was about to resume his monologue15, when Cotgrave broke in—
'I can't stand it, you know,' he said, 'your paradoxes16 are too monstrous18. 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 exquisite19 taste in Romanée Conti, and yet never have even smelt20 four ale. That's all, and it's more like a truism than a paradox17, 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 forth21. 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[115] 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 solitary22, individual soul? Really, the average murderer, qua 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 late. The man who had brought Cotgrave had probably heard all this before,[116] since he assisted with a bland23 and judicious24 smile, but Cotgrave began to think that his 'lunatic' was turning into a sage25.
'Do you know,' he said, 'you interest me immensely? You think, then, that we do not understand the real nature of evil?'
'No, I don't think we do. We over-estimate it and we under-estimate it. We take the very numerous infractions of our social "bye-laws"—the very necessary and very proper regulations which keep the human company together—and we get frightened at the prevalence of "sin" and "evil." But this is really nonsense. Take theft, for example. Have you any horror at the thought of Robin26 Hood27, of the Highland28 caterans of the seventeenth century, of the moss-troopers, of the company promoters of our day?
'Then, on the other hand, we underrate evil. We attach such an enormous importance to the "sin" of meddling29 with our pockets (and our wives) that we have quite forgotten the awfulness of real sin.'
'And what is sin?' said Cotgrave.
'I think I must reply to your question by another. What would your feelings be, seriously, if your cat or your dog began to talk to you, and to dispute with you in human accents? You would be overwhelmed with horror. I am sure of it. And if the roses in your garden sang a weird30 song, you would go mad. And suppose the stones in the road began to swell31 and grow before your eyes, and if the pebble32 that you noticed at night had shot out stony33 blossoms in the morning?
'Well, these examples may give you some notion of what sin really is.'[117]
'Look here,' said the third man, hitherto placid34, 'you two seem pretty well wound up. But I'm going home. I've missed my tram, and I shall have to walk.'
Ambrose and Cotgrave seemed to settle down more profoundly when the other had gone out into the early misty35 morning and the pale light of the lamps.
'You astonish me,' said Cotgrave. 'I had never thought of that. If that is really so, one must turn everything upside down. Then the essence of sin really is——'
'In the taking of heaven by storm, it seems to me,' said Ambrose. 'It appears to me that it is simply an attempt to penetrate37 into another and higher sphere in a forbidden manner. You can understand why it is so rare. There are few, indeed, who wish to penetrate into other spheres, higher or lower, in ways allowed or forbidden. Men, in the mass, are amply content with life as they find it. Therefore there are few saints, and sinners (in the proper sense) are fewer still, and men of genius, who partake sometimes of each character, are rare also. Yes; on the whole, it is, perhaps, harder to be a great sinner than a great saint.'
'Exactly. Holiness requires as great, or almost as great, an effort; but holiness works on lines that were natural once; it is an effort to recover the ecstasy that was before the Fall. But sin is an effort to gain the ecstasy and the knowledge that pertain39 alone to angels, and in making this effort man becomes a demon40. I told you that the mere10 murderer is not therefore a[118] sinner; that is true, but the sinner is sometimes a murderer. Gilles de Raiz is an instance. So you see that while the good and the evil are unnatural to man as he now is—to man the social, civilized41 being—evil is unnatural in a much deeper sense than good. The saint endeavours to recover a gift which he has lost; the sinner tries to obtain something which was never his. In brief, he repeats the Fall.'
'But are you a Catholic?' said Cotgrave.
'Yes; I am a member of the persecuted42 Anglican Church.'
'Then, how about those texts which seem to reckon as sin that which you would set down as a mere trivial dereliction?'
'Yes; but in one place the word "sorcerers" comes in the same sentence, doesn't it? That seems to me to give the key-note. Consider: can you imagine for a moment that a false statement which saves an innocent man's life is a sin? No; very good, then, it is not the mere liar43 who is excluded by those words; it is, above all, the "sorcerers" who use the material life, who use the failings incidental to material life as instruments to obtain their infinitely wicked ends. And let me tell you this: our higher senses are so blunted, we are so drenched44 with materialism45, that we should probably fail to recognize real wickedness if we encountered it.'
'But shouldn't we experience a certain horror—a terror such as you hinted we would experience if a rose tree sang—in the mere presence of an evil man?'
'We should if we were natural: children and women feel this horror you speak of, even animals experience it. But with most of us convention and civilization[119] and education have blinded and deafened46 and obscured the natural reason. No, sometimes we may recognize evil by its hatred47 of the good—one doesn't need much penetration48 to guess at the influence which dictated49, quite unconsciously, the "Blackwood" review of Keats—but this is purely50 incidental; and, as a rule, I suspect that the Hierarchs of Tophet pass quite unnoticed, or, perhaps, in certain cases, as good but mistaken men.'
'But you used the word "unconscious" just now, of Keats' reviewers. Is wickedness ever unconscious?'
'Always. It must be so. It is like holiness and genius in this as in other points; it is a certain rapture51 or ecstasy of the soul; a transcendent effort to surpass the ordinary bounds. So, surpassing these, it surpasses also the understanding, the faculty52 that takes note of that which comes before it. No, a man may be infinitely and horribly wicked and never suspect it. But I tell you, evil in this, its certain and true sense, is rare, and I think it is growing rarer.'
'I am trying to get hold of it all,' said Cotgrave. 'From what you say, I gather that the true evil differs generically53 from that which we call evil?'
'Quite so. There is, no doubt, an analogy between the two; a resemblance such as enables us to use, quite legitimately54, such terms as the "foot of the mountain" and the "leg of the table." And, sometimes, of course, the two speak, as it were, in the same language. The rough miner, or "puddler55," the untrained, undeveloped "tiger-man," heated by a quart or two above his usual measure, comes home and kicks his irritating and injudicious wife to death. He is a murderer. And Gilles de Raiz was a murderer.[120] But you see the gulf56 that separates the two? The "word," if I may so speak, is accidentally the same in each case, but the "meaning" is utterly57 different. It is flagrant "Hobson Jobson" to confuse the two, or rather, it is as if one supposed that Juggernaut and the Argonauts had something to do etymologically58 with one another. And no doubt the same weak likeness59, or analogy, runs between all the "social" sins and the real spiritual sins, and in some cases, perhaps, the lesser60 may be "schoolmasters" to lead one on to the greater—from the shadow to the reality. If you are anything of a Theologian, you will see the importance of all this.'
'I am sorry to say,' remarked Cotgrave, 'that I have devoted61 very little of my time to theology. Indeed, I have often wondered on what grounds theologians have claimed the title of Science of Sciences for their favourite study; since the "theological" books I have looked into have always seemed to me to be concerned with feeble and obvious pieties62, or with the kings of Israel and Judah. I do not care to hear about those kings.'
Ambrose grinned.
'We must try to avoid theological discussion,' he said. 'I perceive that you would be a bitter disputant. But perhaps the "dates of the kings" have as much to do with theology as the hobnails of the murderous puddler with evil.'
'Then, to return to our main subject, you think that sin is an esoteric, occult thing?'
'Yes. It is the infernal miracle as holiness is the supernal63. Now and then it is raised to such a pitch that we entirely64 fail to suspect its existence; it is like[121] the note of the great pedal pipes of the organ, which is so deep that we cannot hear it. In other cases it may lead to the lunatic asylum65, or to still stranger issues. But you must never confuse it with mere social misdoing. Remember how the Apostle, speaking of the "other side," distinguishes between "charitable" actions and charity. And as one may give all one's goods to the poor, and yet lack charity; so, remember, one may avoid every crime and yet be a sinner.'
'Your psychology66 is very strange to me,' said Cotgrave, 'but I confess I like it, and I suppose that one might fairly deduce from your premisses the conclusion that the real sinner might very possibly strike the observer as a harmless personage enough?'
'Certainly; because the true evil has nothing to do with social life or social laws, or if it has, only incidentally and accidentally. It is a lonely passion of the soul—or a passion of the lonely soul—whichever you like. If, by chance, we understand it, and grasp its full significance, then, indeed, it will fill us with horror and with awe67. But this emotion is widely distinguished68 from the fear and the disgust with which we regard the ordinary criminal, since this latter is largely or entirely founded on the regard which we have for our own skins or purses. We hate a murderer, because we know that we should hate to be murdered, or to have any one that we like murdered. So, on the "other side," we venerate69 the saints, but we don't "like" them as we like our friends. Can you persuade yourself that you would have "enjoyed" St. Paul's company? Do you think that you and I would have "got on" with Sir Galahad?[122]
'So with the sinners, as with the saints. If you met a very evil man, and recognized his evil; he would, no doubt, fill you with horror and awe; but there is no reason why you should "dislike" him. On the contrary, it is quite possible that if you could succeed in putting the sin out of your mind you might find the sinner capital company, and in a little while you might have to reason yourself back into horror. Still, how awful it is. If the roses and the lilies suddenly sang on this coming morning; if the furniture began to move in procession, as in De Maupassant's tale!'
'I am glad you have come back to that comparison,' said Cotgrave, 'because I wanted to ask you what it is that corresponds in humanity to these imaginary feats70 of inanimate things. In a word—what is sin? You have given me, I know, an abstract definition, but I should like a concrete example.'
'I told you it was very rare,' said Ambrose, who appeared willing to avoid the giving of a direct answer. 'The materialism of the age, which has done a good deal to suppress sanctity, has done perhaps more to suppress evil. We find the earth so very comfortable that we have no inclination71 either for ascents72 or descents. It would seem as if the scholar who decided73 to "specialize" in Tophet, would be reduced to purely antiquarian researches. No pal36?ontologist could show you a live pterodactyl.'
'And yet you, I think, have "specialized," and I believe that your researches have descended74 to our modern times.'
'You are really interested, I see. Well, I confess, that I have dabbled75 a little, and if you like I can show[123] you something that bears on the very curious subject we have been discussing.'
Ambrose took a candle and went away to a far, dim corner of the room. Cotgrave saw him open a venerable bureau that stood there, and from some secret recess76 he drew out a parcel, and came back to the window where they had been sitting.
'You will take care of it?' he said. 'Don't leave it lying about. It is one of the choicer pieces in my collection, and I should be very sorry if it were lost.'
'I knew the girl who wrote this,' he said. 'When you read it, you will see how it illustrates79 the talk we have had to-night. There is a sequel, too, but I won't talk of that.'
'There was an odd article in one of the reviews some months ago,' he began again, with the air of a man who changes the subject. 'It was written by a doctor—Dr. Coryn, I think, was the name. He says that a lady, watching her little girl playing at the drawing-room window, suddenly saw the heavy sash give way and fall on the child's fingers. The lady fainted, I think, but at any rate the doctor was summoned, and when he had dressed the child's wounded and maimed fingers he was summoned to the mother. She was groaning80 with pain, and it was found that three fingers of her hand, corresponding with those that had been injured on the child's hand, were swollen81 and inflamed82, and later, in the doctor's language, purulent sloughing83 set in.'[124]
Ambrose still handled delicately the green volume.
'Well, here it is,' he said at last, parting with difficulty, it seemed, from his treasure.
'You will bring it back as soon as you have read it,' he said, as they went out into the hall, into the old garden, faint with the odour of white lilies.
There was a broad red band in the east as Cotgrave turned to go, and from the high ground where he stood he saw that awful spectacle of London in a dream.
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1
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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46
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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49
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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53
generically
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| adv.一般地 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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puddler
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| n.捣泥者，搅拌器，混凝器 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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etymologically
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| adv.语源上 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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pieties
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| 虔诚，虔敬( piety的名词复数 ) | |
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supernal
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| adj.天堂的，天上的；崇高的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sloughing
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| v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的现在分词 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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