'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 and education have blinded and deafened and obscured the
natural reason. No, sometimes we may recognize evil by its hatred of the
good--one doesn't need much penetration to guess at the influence which
dictated, quite unconsciously, the "Blackwood" review of Keats--but this
is purely 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 rapture or ecstasy of the soul; a
transcendent effort to surpass the ordinary bounds. So, surpassing
these, it surpasses also the understanding, the faculty 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 generically 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 legitimately, 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
"puddler," 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. But you see the gulf that separates the two? The "word," if I
may so speak, is accidentally the same in each case, but the "meaning"
is utterly 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 etymologically with one another. And no doubt the
same weak likeness, or analogy, runs between all the "social" sins and
the real spiritual sins, and in some cases, perhaps, the lesser 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 devoted 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 pieties, 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 supernal. Now and
then it is raised to such a pitch that we entirely fail to suspect its
existence; it is like 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 asylum, 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 psychology 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 awe. But this emotion is widely distinguished 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 venerate 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? '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 feats 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
inclination either for ascents or descents. It would seem as if the
scholar who decided to "specialize" in Tophet, would be reduced to
purely antiquarian researches. No palæontologist could show you a _live_
pterodactyl.' 'And yet you, I think, have "specialized," and I believe that your
researches have descended to our modern times.' 'You are really interested, I see. Well, I confess, that I have dabbled
a little, and if you like I can show 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.