“The White People” by Arthur Machen / A HorrorBabble Production
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“The White People” by Arthur Machen / A HorrorBabble Production


THE WHITE PEOPLE
By Arthur Machen 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 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, since he assisted with a bland and judicious smile, but Cotgrave began to think
that his ‘lunatic’ was turning into a sage. ‘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 Robin Hood, of the Highland 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 meddling 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 weird song, you would go mad. And suppose the stones in the road began to swell and
grow before your eyes, and if the pebble that you noticed at night had shot out stony blossoms
in the morning? ‘Well, these examples may give you some notion
of what sin really is.’ ‘Look here,’ said the third man, hitherto
placid, ‘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 misty 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 penetrate 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.’
‘There is something profoundly unnatural about sin? Is that what you mean?’
‘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 pertain alone to angels,
and in making this effort man becomes a demon. I told you that the mere murderer is not therefore
a 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, civilized 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 persecuted 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 liar 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 drenched with materialism, 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 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. Cotgrave saw him open a venerable bureau that stood there, and from
some secret recess he drew out a parcel, and came back to the window where they had been
sitting. Ambrose undid a wrapping of paper, and produced
a green pocket-book. ‘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.’ He fondled the faded binding.
‘I knew the girl who wrote this,’ he said. ‘When you read it, you will see how it illustrates
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 groaning 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 swollen and inflamed,
and later, in the doctor’s language, purulent sloughing set in.’
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. THE GREEN BOOK The morocco binding of the book was faded,
and the colour had grown faint, but there were no stains nor bruises nor marks of usage.
The book looked as if it had been bought ‘on a visit to London’ some seventy or eighty
years ago, and had somehow been forgotten and suffered to lie away out of sight. There
was an old, delicate, lingering odour about it, such an odour
as sometimes haunts an ancient piece of furniture for a century or more. The end-papers, inside
the binding, were oddly decorated with coloured patterns and faded gold. It looked small,
but the paper was fine, and there were many leaves, closely covered with minute, painfully
formed characters. I found this book (the manuscript began) in
a drawer in the old bureau that stands on the landing. It was a very rainy day and I
could not go out, so in the afternoon I got a candle and rummaged in the bureau. Nearly
all the drawers were full of old dresses, but one of the small ones looked empty, and
I found this book hidden right at the back. I wanted a book like this, so I took it to
write in. It is full of secrets. I have a great many other books of secrets I have written,
hidden in a safe place, and I am going to write here many of the old secrets and some
new ones; but there are some I shall not put down at all. I must not write down the real
names of the days and months which I found out a year ago, nor the way to make the Aklo
letters, or the Chian language, or the great beautiful Circles, nor the Mao Games, nor
the chief songs. I may write something about all these things but not the way to do them,
for peculiar reasons. And I must not say who the Nymphs are, or the Dôls, or Jeelo, or
what voolas mean. All these are most secret secrets, and I am glad when I remember what
they are, and how many wonderful languages I know, but there are some things that I call
the secrets of the secrets of the secrets that I dare not think of unless I am quite
alone, and then I shut my eyes, and put my hands over them and
whisper the word, and the Alala comes. I only do this at night in my room or in certain
woods that I know, but I must not describe them, as they are secret woods. Then there
are the Ceremonies, which are all of them important, but some are more delightful than
others—there are the White Ceremonies, and the Green Ceremonies, and the Scarlet Ceremonies.
The Scarlet Ceremonies are the best, but there is only one place where they can be performed
properly, though there is a very nice imitation which I have done in other places. Besides
these, I have the dances, and the Comedy, and I have done the Comedy sometimes when
the others were looking, and they didn’t understand anything about it. I was very little when
I first knew about these things. When I was very small, and mother was alive,
I can remember remembering things before that, only it has all got confused. But I remember
when I was five or six I heard them talking about me when they thought I was not noticing.
They were saying how queer I was a year or two before, and how nurse had called my mother
to come and listen to me talking all to myself, and I was saying words that nobody could understand.
I was speaking the Xu language, but I only remember a very few of the words, as it was
about the little white faces that used to look at me when I was lying in my cradle.
They used to talk to me, and I learnt their language and talked to them in it about some
great white place where they lived, where the trees and the grass were all white, and
there were white hills as high up as the moon, and a cold wind. I have often dreamed
of it afterwards, but the faces went away when I was very little. But a wonderful thing
happened when I was about five. My nurse was carrying me on her shoulder; there was a field
of yellow corn, and we went through it, it was very hot. Then we came to a path through
a wood, and a tall man came after us, and went with us till we came to a place where
there was a deep pool, and it was very dark and shady. Nurse put me down on the soft moss
under a tree, and she said: ‘She can’t get to the pond now.’ So they left me there, and
I sat quite still and watched, and out of the water and out of the wood came two wonderful
white people, and they began to play and dance and sing. They were a kind of creamy white
like the old ivory figure in the drawing-room; one was a beautiful lady with kind dark eyes,
and a grave face, and long black hair, and she smiled such a strange sad smile at the
other, who laughed and came to her. They played together, and danced round and round the pool,
and they sang a song till I fell asleep. Nurse woke me up when she came back, and she was
looking something like the lady had looked, so I told her all about it, and asked her
why she looked like that. At first she cried, and then she looked very frightened, and turned
quite pale. She put me down on the grass and stared at me, and I could see she was shaking
all over. Then she said I had been dreaming, but I knew I hadn’t. Then she made me promise
not to say a word about it to anybody, and if I did I should be thrown into the black
pit. I was not frightened at all, though nurse was, and I never forgot about it, because
when I shut my eyes and it was quite quiet, and I was all alone, I could see
them again, very faint and far away, but very splendid; and little bits of the song they
sang came into my head, but I couldn’t sing it.
I was thirteen, nearly fourteen, when I had a very singular adventure, so strange that
the day on which it happened is always called the White Day. My mother had been dead for
more than a year, and in the morning I had lessons, but they let me go out for walks
in the afternoon. And this afternoon I walked a new way, and a little brook led me into
a new country, but I tore my frock getting through some of the difficult places, as the
way was through many bushes, and beneath the low branches of trees, and up thorny thickets
on the hills, and by dark woods full of creeping thorns. And it was a long, long way. It seemed
as if I was going on for ever and ever, and I had to creep by a place like a tunnel where
a brook must have been, but all the water had dried up, and the floor was rocky, and
the bushes had grown overhead till they met, so that it was quite dark. And I went on and
on through that dark place; it was a long, long way. And I came to a hill that I never
saw before. I was in a dismal thicket full of black twisted boughs that tore me as I
went through them, and I cried out because I was smarting all over, and then I found
that I was climbing, and I went up and up a long way, till at last the thicket stopped
and I came out crying just under the top of a big bare place, where there were ugly grey
stones lying all about on the grass, and here and there a little twisted, stunted tree came
out from under a stone, like a snake. And I went up, right to the
top, a long way. I never saw such big ugly stones before; they came out of the earth
some of them, and some looked as if they had been rolled to where they were, and they went
on and on as far as I could see, a long, long way. I looked out from them and saw the country,
but it was strange. It was winter time, and there were black terrible woods hanging from
the hills all round; it was like seeing a large room hung with black curtains, and the
shape of the trees seemed quite different from any I had ever seen before. I was afraid.
Then beyond the woods there were other hills round in a great ring, but I had never seen
any of them; it all looked black, and everything had a voor over it. It was all so still and
silent, and the sky was heavy and grey and sad, like a wicked voorish dome in Deep Dendo.
I went on into the dreadful rocks. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. Some were like
horrid-grinning men; I could see their faces as if they would jump at me out of the stone,
and catch hold of me, and drag me with them back into the rock, so that I should always
be there. And there were other rocks that were like animals, creeping, horrible animals,
putting out their tongues, and others were like words that I could not say, and others
like dead people lying on the grass. I went on among them, though they frightened me,
and my heart was full of wicked songs that they put into it; and I wanted to make faces
and twist myself about in the way they did, and I went on and on a long way till at last
I liked the rocks, and they didn’t frighten me any more. I sang the songs I thought of;
songs full of words that must not be spoken or written down. Then I made faces like the
faces on the rocks, and I twisted myself about like the
twisted ones, and I lay down flat on the ground like the dead ones, and I went up to one that
was grinning, and put my arms round him and hugged him. And so I went on and on through
the rocks till I came to a round mound in the middle of them. It was higher than a mound,
it was nearly as high as our house, and it was like a great basin turned upside down,
all smooth and round and green, with one stone, like a post, sticking up at the top. I climbed
up the sides, but they were so steep I had to stop or I should have rolled all the way
down again, and I should have knocked against the stones at the bottom, and perhaps been
killed. But I wanted to get up to the very top of the big round mound, so I lay down
flat on my face, and took hold of the grass with my hands and drew myself up, bit by bit,
till I was at the top. Then I sat down on the stone in the middle, and looked all round
about. I felt I had come such a long, long way, just as if I were a hundred miles from
home, or in some other country, or in one of the strange places I had read about in
the ‘Tales of the Genie’ and the ‘Arabian Nights,’ or as if I had gone across the sea,
far away, for years and I had found another world that nobody had ever seen or heard of
before, or as if I had somehow flown through the sky and fallen on one of the stars I had
read about where everything is dead and cold and grey, and there is no air, and the wind
doesn’t blow. I sat on the stone and looked all round and down and round about me. It
was just as if I was sitting on a tower in the middle of a great empty town, because
I could see nothing all around but the grey rocks on the ground. I couldn’t
make out their shapes any more, but I could see them on and on for a long way, and I looked
at them, and they seemed as if they had been arranged into patterns, and shapes, and figures.
I knew they couldn’t be, because I had seen a lot of them coming right out of the earth,
joined to the deep rocks below, so I looked again, but still I saw nothing but circles,
and small circles inside big ones, and pyramids, and domes, and spires, and they seemed all
to go round and round the place where I was sitting, and the more I looked, the more I
saw great big rings of rocks, getting bigger and bigger, and I stared so long that it felt
as if they were all moving and turning, like a great wheel, and I was turning, too, in
the middle. I got quite dizzy and queer in the head, and everything began to be hazy
and not clear, and I saw little sparks of blue light, and the stones looked as if they
were springing and dancing and twisting as they went round and round and round. I was
frightened again, and I cried out loud, and jumped up from the stone I was sitting on,
and fell down. When I got up I was so glad they all looked still, and I sat down on the
top and slid down the mound, and went on again. I danced as I went in the peculiar way the
rocks had danced when I got giddy, and I was so glad I could do it quite well, and I danced
and danced along, and sang extraordinary songs that came into my head. At last I came to
the edge of that great flat hill, and there were no more rocks, and the way went again
through a dark thicket in a hollow. It was just as bad as the other one I went through
climbing up, but I didn’t mind this one, because I was so glad I had seen those singular dances
and could imitate them. I went down, creeping through the bushes, and a tall nettle stung
me on my leg, and made me burn, but I didn’t mind it, and I tingled with the boughs and
the thorns, but I only laughed and sang. Then I got out of the thicket into a close valley,
a little secret place like a dark passage that nobody ever knows of, because it was
so narrow and deep and the woods were so thick round it. There is a steep bank with trees
hanging over it, and there the ferns keep green all through the winter, when they are
dead and brown upon the hill, and the ferns there have a sweet, rich smell like what oozes
out of fir trees. There was a little stream of water running down this valley, so small
that I could easily step across it. I drank the water with my hand, and it tasted like
bright, yellow wine, and it sparkled and bubbled as it ran down over beautiful red and yellow
and green stones, so that it seemed alive and all colours at once. I drank it, and I
drank more with my hand, but I couldn’t drink enough, so I lay down and bent my head and
sucked the water up with my lips. It tasted much better, drinking it that way, and a ripple
would come up to my mouth and give me a kiss, and I laughed, and drank again, and pretended
there was a nymph, like the one in the old picture at home, who lived in the water and
was kissing me. So I bent low down to the water, and put my lips softly to it, and whispered
to the nymph that I would come again. I felt sure it could not be common water, I was so
glad when I got up and went on; and I danced again and went up and up the valley, under
hanging hills. And when I came to the top, the ground rose up in front of
me, tall and steep as a wall, and there was nothing but the green wall and the sky. I
thought of ‘for ever and for ever, world without end, Amen’; and I thought I must have really
found the end of the world, because it was like the end of everything, as if there could
be nothing at all beyond, except the kingdom of Voor, where the light goes when it is put
out, and the water goes when the sun takes it away. I began to think of all the long,
long way I had journeyed, how I had found a brook and followed it, and followed it on,
and gone through bushes and thorny thickets, and dark woods full of creeping thorns. Then
I had crept up a tunnel under trees, and climbed a thicket, and seen all the grey rocks, and
sat in the middle of them when they turned round, and then I had gone on through the
grey rocks and come down the hill through the stinging thicket and up the dark valley,
all a long, long way. I wondered how I should get home again, if I could ever find the way,
and if my home was there any more, or if it were turned and everybody in it into grey
rocks, as in the ‘Arabian Nights.’ So I sat down on the grass and thought what I should
do next. I was tired, and my feet were hot with walking, and as I looked about I saw
there was a wonderful well just under the high, steep wall of grass. All the ground
round it was covered with bright, green, dripping moss; there was every kind of moss there,
moss like beautiful little ferns, and like palms and fir trees, and it was all green
as jewellery, and drops of water hung on it like diamonds. And in the middle was the great
well, deep and shining and beautiful, so clear that it looked as if I could touch the red
sand at the bottom, but it was far below. I stood by it and looked
in, as if I were looking in a glass. At the bottom of the well, in the middle of it, the
red grains of sand were moving and stirring all the time, and I saw how the water bubbled
up, but at the top it was quite smooth, and full and brimming. It was a great well, large
like a bath, and with the shining, glittering green moss about it, it looked like a great
white jewel, with green jewels all round. My feet were so hot and tired that I took
off my boots and stockings, and let my feet down into the water, and the water was soft
and cold, and when I got up I wasn’t tired any more, and I felt I must go on, farther
and farther, and see what was on the other side of the wall. I climbed up it very slowly,
going sideways all the time, and when I got to the top and looked over, I was in the queerest
country I had seen, stranger even than the hill of the grey rocks. It looked as if earth-children
had been playing there with their spades, as it was all hills and hollows, and castles
and walls made of earth and covered with grass. There were two mounds like big beehives, round
and great and solemn, and then hollow basins, and then a steep mounting wall like the ones
I saw once by the seaside where the big guns and the soldiers were. I nearly fell into
one of the round hollows, it went away from under my feet so suddenly, and I ran fast
down the side and stood at the bottom and looked up. It was strange and solemn to look
up. There was nothing but the grey, heavy sky and the sides of the hollow; everything
else had gone away, and the hollow was the whole world, and I thought that at night it
must be full of ghosts and moving shadows and pale things
when the moon shone down to the bottom at the dead of the night, and the wind wailed
up above. It was so strange and solemn and lonely, like a hollow temple of dead heathen
gods. It reminded me of a tale my nurse had told me when I was quite little; it was the
same nurse that took me into the wood where I saw the beautiful white people. And I remembered
how nurse had told me the story one winter night, when the wind was beating the trees
against the wall, and crying and moaning in the nursery chimney. She said there was, somewhere
or other, a hollow pit, just like the one I was standing in, everybody was afraid to
go into it or near it, it was such a bad place. But once upon a time there was a poor girl
who said she would go into the hollow pit, and everybody tried to stop her, but she would
go. And she went down into the pit and came back laughing, and said there was nothing
there at all, except green grass and red stones, and white stones and yellow flowers. And soon
after people saw she had most beautiful emerald earrings, and they asked how she got them,
as she and her mother were quite poor. But she laughed, and said her earrings were not
made of emeralds at all, but only of green grass. Then, one day, she wore on her breast
the reddest ruby that any one had ever seen, and it was as big as a hen’s egg, and glowed
and sparkled like a hot burning coal of fire. And they asked how she got it, as she and
her mother were quite poor. But she laughed, and said it was not a ruby at all, but only
a red stone. Then one day she wore round her neck the loveliest necklace that any one had
ever seen, much finer than the queen’s finest, and it was made of great bright
diamonds, hundreds of them, and they shone like all the stars on a night in June. So
they asked her how she got it, as she and her mother were quite poor. But she laughed,
and said they were not diamonds at all, but only white stones. And one day she went to
the Court, and she wore on her head a crown of pure angel-gold, so nurse said, and it
shone like the sun, and it was much more splendid than the crown the king was wearing himself,
and in her ears she wore the emeralds, and the big ruby was the brooch on her breast,
and the great diamond necklace was sparkling on her neck. And the king and queen thought
she was some great princess from a long way off, and got down from their thrones and went
to meet her, but somebody told the king and queen who she was, and that she was quite
poor. So the king asked why she wore a gold crown, and how she got it, as she and her
mother were so poor. And she laughed, and said it wasn’t a gold crown at all, but only
some yellow flowers she had put in her hair. And the king thought it was very strange,
and said she should stay at the Court, and they would see what would happen next. And
she was so lovely that everybody said that her eyes were greener than the emeralds, that
her lips were redder than the ruby, that her skin was whiter than the diamonds, and that
her hair was brighter than the golden crown. So the king’s son said he would marry her,
and the king said he might. And the bishop married them, and there was a great supper,
and afterwards the king’s son went to his wife’s room. But just when he had his hand
on the door, he saw a tall, black man, with a dreadful face, standing
in front of the door, and a voice said— Venture not upon your life,This is mine own
wedded wife. Then the king’s son fell down on the ground
in a fit. And they came and tried to get into the room, but they couldn’t, and they hacked
at the door with hatchets, but the wood had turned hard as iron, and at last everybody
ran away, they were so frightened at the screaming and laughing and shrieking and crying that
came out of the room. But next day they went in, and found there was nothing in the room
but thick black smoke, because the black man had come and taken her away. And on the bed
there were two knots of faded grass and a red stone, and some white stones, and some
faded yellow flowers. I remembered this tale of nurse’s while I was standing at the bottom
of the deep hollow; it was so strange and solitary there, and I felt afraid. I could
not see any stones or flowers, but I was afraid of bringing them away without knowing, and
I thought I would do a charm that came into my head to keep the black man away. So I stood
right in the very middle of the hollow, and I made sure that I had none of those things
on me, and then I walked round the place, and touched my eyes, and my lips, and my hair
in a peculiar manner, and whispered some queer words that nurse taught me to keep bad things
away. Then I felt safe and climbed up out of the hollow, and went on through all those
mounds and hollows and walls, till I came to the end, which was high above all
the rest, and I could see that all the different shapes of the earth were arranged in patterns,
something like the grey rocks, only the pattern was different. It was getting late, and the
air was indistinct, but it looked from where I was standing something like two great figures
of people lying on the grass. And I went on, and at last I found a certain wood, which
is too secret to be described, and nobody knows of the passage into it, which I found
out in a very curious manner, by seeing some little animal run into the wood through it.
So I went after the animal by a very narrow dark way, under thorns and bushes, and it
was almost dark when I came to a kind of open place in the middle. And there I saw the most
wonderful sight I have ever seen, but it was only for a minute, as I ran away directly,
and crept out of the wood by the passage I had come by, and ran and ran as fast as ever
I could, because I was afraid, what I had seen was so wonderful and so strange and beautiful.
But I wanted to get home and think of it, and I did not know what might not happen if
I stayed by the wood. I was hot all over and trembling, and my heart was beating, and strange
cries that I could not help came from me as I ran from the wood. I was glad that a great
white moon came up from over a round hill and showed me the way, so I went back through
the mounds and hollows and down the close valley, and up through the thicket over the
place of the grey rocks, and so at last I got home again. My father was busy in his
study, and the servants had not told about my not coming home, though they were frightened,
and wondered what they ought to do, so I told them I had lost my way, but I
did not let them find out the real way I had been. I went to bed and lay awake all through
the night, thinking of what I had seen. When I came out of the narrow way, and it looked
all shining, though the air was dark, it seemed so certain, and all the way home I was quite
sure that I had seen it, and I wanted to be alone in my room, and be glad over it all
to myself, and shut my eyes and pretend it was there, and do all the things I would have
done if I had not been so afraid. But when I shut my eyes the sight would not come, and
I began to think about my adventures all over again, and I remembered how dusky and queer
it was at the end, and I was afraid it must be all a mistake, because it seemed impossible
it could happen. It seemed like one of nurse’s tales, which I didn’t really believe in, though
I was frightened at the bottom of the hollow; and the stories she told me when I was little
came back into my head, and I wondered whether it was really there what I thought I had seen,
or whether any of her tales could have happened a long time ago. It was so queer; I lay awake
there in my room at the back of the house, and the moon was shining on the other side
towards the river, so the bright light did not fall upon the wall. And the house was
quite still. I had heard my father come upstairs, and just after the clock struck twelve, and
after the house was still and empty, as if there was nobody alive in it. And though it
was all dark and indistinct in my room, a pale glimmering kind of light shone in through
the white blind, and once I got up and looked out, and there was a great black shadow of
the house covering the garden, looking like a prison
where men are hanged; and then beyond it was all white; and the wood shone white with black
gulfs between the trees. It was still and clear, and there were no clouds on the sky.
I wanted to think of what I had seen but I couldn’t, and I began to think of all the
tales that nurse had told me so long ago that I thought I had forgotten, but they all came
back, and mixed up with the thickets and the grey rocks and the hollows in the earth and
the secret wood, till I hardly knew what was new and what was old, or whether it was not
all dreaming. And then I remembered that hot summer afternoon, so long ago, when nurse
left me by myself in the shade, and the white people came out of the water and out of the
wood, and played, and danced, and sang, and I began to fancy that nurse told me about
something like it before I saw them, only I couldn’t recollect exactly what she told
me. Then I wondered whether she had been the white lady, as I remembered she was just as
white and beautiful, and had the same dark eyes and black hair; and sometimes she smiled
and looked like the lady had looked, when she was telling me some of her stories, beginning
with ‘Once on a time,’ or ‘In the time of the fairies.’ But I thought she couldn’t be
the lady, as she seemed to have gone a different way into the wood, and I didn’t think the
man who came after us could be the other, or I couldn’t have seen that wonderful secret
in the secret wood. I thought of the moon: but it was afterwards when I was in the middle
of the wild land, where the earth was made into the shape of great figures, and it was
all walls, and mysterious hollows, and smooth round mounds, that I saw the great white
moon come up over a round hill. I was wondering about all these things, till at last I got
quite frightened, because I was afraid something had happened to me, and I remembered nurse’s
tale of the poor girl who went into the hollow pit, and was carried away at last by the black
man. I knew I had gone into a hollow pit too, and perhaps it was the same, and I had done
something dreadful. So I did the charm over again, and touched my eyes and my lips and
my hair in a peculiar manner, and said the old words from the fairy language, so that
I might be sure I had not been carried away. I tried again to see the secret wood, and
to creep up the passage and see what I had seen there, but somehow I couldn’t, and I
kept on thinking of nurse’s stories. There was one I remembered about a young man who
once upon a time went hunting, and all the day he and his hounds hunted everywhere, and
they crossed the rivers and went into all the woods, and went round the marshes, but
they couldn’t find anything at all, and they hunted all day till the sun sank down and
began to set behind the mountain. And the young man was angry because he couldn’t find
anything, and he was going to turn back, when just as the sun touched the mountain, he saw
come out of a brake in front of him a beautiful white stag. And he cheered to his hounds,
but they whined and would not follow, and he cheered to his horse, but it shivered and
stood stock still, and the young man jumped off the horse and left the hounds and began
to follow the white stag all alone. And soon it was quite dark, and the sky was black,
without a single star shining in it, and the stag went away into the darkness. And though
the man had brought his gun with him he never shot at the stag, because he wanted to catch
it, and he was afraid he would lose it in the night. But he never lost it once, though
the sky was so black and the air was so dark, and the stag went on and on till the young
man didn’t know a bit where he was. And they went through enormous woods where the air
was full of whispers and a pale, dead light came out from the rotten trunks that were
lying on the ground, and just as the man thought he had lost the stag, he would see it all
white and shining in front of him, and he would run fast to catch it, but the stag always
ran faster, so he did not catch it. And they went through the enormous woods, and they
swam across rivers, and they waded through black marshes where the ground bubbled, and
the air was full of will-o’-the-wisps, and the stag fled away down into rocky narrow
valleys, where the air was like the smell of a vault, and the man went after it. And
they went over the great mountains and the man heard the wind come down from the sky,
and the stag went on and the man went after. At last the sun rose and the young man found
he was in a country that he had never seen before; it was a beautiful valley with a bright
stream running through it, and a great, big round hill in the middle. And the stag went
down the valley, towards the hill, and it seemed to be getting tired and went slower
and slower, and though the man was tired, too, he began to run faster, and he was sure
he would catch the stag at last. But just as they got to the bottom of the hill, and
the man stretched out his hand to catch the stag, it vanished into the earth, and the
man began to cry; he was so sorry that he had lost it after
all his long hunting. But as he was crying he saw there was a door in the hill, just
in front of him, and he went in, and it was quite dark, but he went on, as he thought
he would find the white stag. And all of a sudden it got light, and there was the sky,
and the sun shining, and birds singing in the trees, and there was a beautiful fountain.
And by the fountain a lovely lady was sitting, who was the queen of the fairies, and she
told the man that she had changed herself into a stag to bring him there because she
loved him so much. Then she brought out a great gold cup, covered with jewels, from
her fairy palace, and she offered him wine in the cup to drink. And he drank, and the
more he drank the more he longed to drink, because the wine was enchanted. So he kissed
the lovely lady, and she became his wife, and he stayed all that day and all that night
in the hill where she lived, and when he woke he found he was lying on the ground, close
to where he had seen the stag first, and his horse was there and his hounds were there
waiting, and he looked up, and the sun sank behind the mountain. And he went home and
lived a long time, but he would never kiss any other lady because he had kissed the queen
of the fairies, and he would never drink common wine any more, because he had drunk enchanted
wine. And sometimes nurse told me tales that she had heard from her great-grandmother,
who was very old, and lived in a cottage on the mountain all alone, and most of these
tales were about a hill where people used to meet at night long ago, and they used to
play all sorts of strange games and do queer things that nurse told
me of, but I couldn’t understand, and now, she said, everybody but her great-grandmother
had forgotten all about it, and nobody knew where the hill was, not even her great-grandmother.
But she told me one very strange story about the hill, and I trembled when I remembered
it. She said that people always went there in summer, when it was very hot, and they
had to dance a good deal. It would be all dark at first, and there were trees there,
which made it much darker, and people would come, one by one, from all directions, by
a secret path which nobody else knew, and two persons would keep the gate, and every
one as they came up had to give a very curious sign, which nurse showed me as well as she
could, but she said she couldn’t show me properly. And all kinds of people would come; there
would be gentle folks and village folks, and some old people and boys and girls, and quite
small children, who sat and watched. And it would all be dark as they came in, except
in one corner where some one was burning something that smelt strong and sweet, and made them
laugh, and there one would see a glaring of coals, and the smoke mounting up red. So they
would all come in, and when the last had come there was no door any more, so that no one
else could get in, even if they knew there was anything beyond. And once a gentleman
who was a stranger and had ridden a long way, lost his path at night, and his horse took
him into the very middle of the wild country, where everything was upside down, and there
were dreadful marshes and great stones everywhere, and holes underfoot, and the trees looked
like gibbet-posts, because they had great black arms
that stretched out across the way. And this strange gentleman was very frightened, and
his horse began to shiver all over, and at last it stopped and wouldn’t go any farther,
and the gentleman got down and tried to lead the horse, but it wouldn’t move, and it was
all covered with a sweat, like death. So the gentleman went on all alone, going farther
and farther into the wild country, till at last he came to a dark place, where he heard
shouting and singing and crying, like nothing he had ever heard before. It all sounded quite
close to him, but he couldn’t get in, and so he began to call, and while he was calling,
something came behind him, and in a minute his mouth and arms and legs were all bound
up, and he fell into a swoon. And when he came to himself, he was lying by the roadside,
just where he had first lost his way, under a blasted oak with a black trunk, and his
horse was tied beside him. So he rode on to the town and told the people there what had
happened, and some of them were amazed; but others knew. So when once everybody had come,
there was no door at all for anybody else to pass in by. And when they were all inside,
round in a ring, touching each other, some one began to sing in the darkness, and some
one else would make a noise like thunder with a thing they had on purpose, and on still
nights people would hear the thundering noise far, far away beyond the wild land, and some
of them, who thought they knew what it was, used to make a sign on their breasts when
they woke up in their beds at dead of night and heard that terrible deep noise, like thunder
on the mountains. And the noise and the singing would go on and on for a long time, and the
people who were in a ring swayed a little to and fro; and the song was in an old, old
language that nobody knows now, and the tune was queer. Nurse said her great-grandmother
had known some one who remembered a little of it, when she was quite a little girl, and
nurse tried to sing some of it to me, and it was so strange a tune that I turned all
cold and my flesh crept as if I had put my hand on something dead. Sometimes it was a
man that sang and sometimes it was a woman, and sometimes the one who sang it did it so
well that two or three of the people who were there fell to the ground shrieking and tearing
with their hands. The singing went on, and the people in the ring kept swaying to and
fro for a long time, and at last the moon would rise over a place they called the Tole
Deol, and came up and showed them swinging and swaying from side to side, with the sweet
thick smoke curling up from the burning coals, and floating in circles all around them. Then
they had their supper. A boy and a girl brought it to them; the boy carried a great cup of
wine, and the girl carried a cake of bread, and they passed the bread and the wine round
and round, but they tasted quite different from common bread and common wine, and changed
everybody that tasted them. Then they all rose up and danced, and secret things were
brought out of some hiding place, and they played extraordinary games, and danced round
and round and round in the moonlight, and sometimes people would suddenly disappear
and never be heard of afterwards, and nobody knew what had happened to them. And they drank
more of that curious wine, and they made images and worshipped them, and nurse showed
me how the images were made one day when we were out for a walk, and we passed by a place
where there was a lot of wet clay. So nurse asked me if I would like to know what those
things were like that they made on the hill, and I said yes. Then she asked me if I would
promise never to tell a living soul a word about it, and if I did I was to be thrown
into the black pit with the dead people, and I said I wouldn’t tell anybody, and she said
the same thing again and again, and I promised. So she took my wooden spade and dug a big
lump of clay and put it in my tin bucket, and told me to say if any one met us that
I was going to make pies when I went home. Then we went on a little way till we came
to a little brake growing right down into the road, and nurse stopped, and looked up
the road and down it, and then peeped through the hedge into the field on the other side,
and then she said, ‘Quick!’ and we ran into the brake, and crept in and out among the
bushes till we had gone a good way from the road. Then we sat down under a bush, and I
wanted so much to know what nurse was going to make with the clay, but before she would
begin she made me promise again not to say a word about it, and she went again and peeped
through the bushes on every side, though the lane was so small and deep that hardly anybody
ever went there. So we sat down, and nurse took the clay out of the bucket, and began
to knead it with her hands, and do queer things with it, and turn it about. And she hid it
under a big dock-leaf for a minute or two and then she brought it out again, and then
she stood up and sat down, and walked round the clay in
a peculiar manner, and all the time she was softly singing a sort of rhyme, and her face
got very red. Then she sat down again, and took the clay in her hands and began to shape
it into a doll, but not like the dolls I have at home, and she made the queerest doll I
had ever seen, all out of the wet clay, and hid it under a bush to get dry and hard, and
all the time she was making it she was singing these rhymes to herself, and her face got
redder and redder. So we left the doll there, hidden away in the bushes where nobody would
ever find it. And a few days later we went the same walk, and when we came to that narrow,
dark part of the lane where the brake runs down to the bank, nurse made me promise all
over again, and she looked about, just as she had done before, and we crept into the
bushes till we got to the green place where the little clay man was hidden. I remember
it all so well, though I was only eight, and it is eight years ago now as I am writing
it down, but the sky was a deep violet blue, and in the middle of the brake where we were
sitting there was a great elder tree covered with blossoms, and on the other side there
was a clump of meadowsweet, and when I think of that day the smell of the meadowsweet and
elder blossom seems to fill the room, and if I shut my eyes I can see the glaring blue
sky, with little clouds very white floating across it, and nurse who went away long ago
sitting opposite me and looking like the beautiful white lady in the wood. So we sat down and
nurse took out the clay doll from the secret place where she had hidden it, and she said
we must ‘pay our respects,’ and she would show me what to do, and
I must watch her all the time. So she did all sorts of queer things with the little
clay man, and I noticed she was all streaming with perspiration, though we had walked so
slowly, and then she told me to ‘pay my respects,’ and I did everything she did because I liked
her, and it was such an odd game. And she said that if one loved very much, the clay
man was very good, if one did certain things with it, and if one hated very much, it was
just as good, only one had to do different things, and we played with it a long time,
and pretended all sorts of things. Nurse said her great-grandmother had told her all about
these images, but what we did was no harm at all, only a game. But she told me a story
about these images that frightened me very much, and that was what I remembered that
night when I was lying awake in my room in the pale, empty darkness, thinking of what
I had seen and the secret wood. Nurse said there was once a young lady of the high gentry,
who lived in a great castle. And she was so beautiful that all the gentlemen wanted to
marry her, because she was the loveliest lady that anybody had ever seen, and she was kind
to everybody, and everybody thought she was very good. But though she was polite to all
the gentlemen who wished to marry her, she put them off, and said she couldn’t make up
her mind, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry anybody at all. And her father, who
was a very great lord, was angry, though he was so fond of her, and he asked her why she
wouldn’t choose a bachelor out of all the handsome young men who came to the castle.
But she only said she didn’t love any of them very much, and she must wait, and if they
pestered her, she said she would go and be a nun in a nunnery.
So all the gentlemen said they would go away and wait for a year and a day, and when a
year and a day were gone, they would come back again and ask her to say which one she
would marry. So the day was appointed and they all went away; and the lady had promised
that in a year and a day it would be her wedding day with one of them. But the truth was, that
she was the queen of the people who danced on the hill on summer nights, and on the proper
nights she would lock the door of her room, and she and her maid would steal out of the
castle by a secret passage that only they knew of, and go away up to the hill in the
wild land. And she knew more of the secret things than any one else, and more than any
one knew before or after, because she would not tell anybody the most secret secrets.
She knew how to do all the awful things, how to destroy young men, and how to put a curse
on people, and other things that I could not understand. And her real name was the Lady
Avelin, but the dancing people called her Cassap, which meant somebody very wise, in
the old language. And she was whiter than any of them and taller, and her eyes shone
in the dark like burning rubies; and she could sing songs that none of the others could sing,
and when she sang they all fell down on their faces and worshipped her. And she could do
what they called shib-show, which was a very wonderful enchantment. She would tell the
great lord, her father, that she wanted to go into the woods to gather flowers, so he
let her go, and she and her maid went into the woods where nobody came, and the maid
would keep watch. Then the lady would lie down under the trees
and begin to sing a particular song, and she stretched out her arms, and from every part
of the wood great serpents would come, hissing and gliding in and out among the trees, and
shooting out their forked tongues as they crawled up to the lady. And they all came
to her, and twisted round her, round her body, and her arms, and her neck, till she was covered
with writhing serpents, and there was only her head to be seen. And she whispered to
them, and she sang to them, and they writhed round and round, faster and faster, till she
told them to go. And they all went away directly, back to their holes, and on the lady’s breast
there would be a most curious, beautiful stone, shaped something like an egg, and coloured
dark blue and yellow, and red, and green, marked like a serpent’s scales. It was called
a glame stone, and with it one could do all sorts of wonderful things, and nurse said
her great-grandmother had seen a glame stone with her own eyes, and it was for all the
world shiny and scaly like a snake. And the lady could do a lot of other things as well,
but she was quite fixed that she would not be married. And there were a great many gentlemen
who wanted to marry her, but there were five of them who were chief, and their names were
Sir Simon, Sir John, Sir Oliver, Sir Richard, and Sir Rowland. All the others believed she
spoke the truth, and that she would choose one of them to be her man when a year and
a day was done; it was only Sir Simon, who was very crafty, who thought she was deceiving
them all, and he vowed he would watch and try if he could find out anything. And though
he was very wise he was very young, and he had a smooth, soft face like
a girl’s, and he pretended, as the rest did, that he would not come to the castle for a
year and a day, and he said he was going away beyond the sea to foreign parts. But he really
only went a very little way, and came back dressed like a servant girl, and so he got
a place in the castle to wash the dishes. And he waited and watched, and he listened
and said nothing, and he hid in dark places, and woke up at night and looked out, and he
heard things and he saw things that he thought were very strange. And he was so sly that
he told the girl that waited on the lady that he was really a young man, and that he had
dressed up as a girl because he loved her so very much and wanted to be in the same
house with her, and the girl was so pleased that she told him many things, and he was
more than ever certain that the Lady Avelin was deceiving him and the others. And he was
so clever, and told the servant so many lies, that one night he managed to hide in the Lady
Avelin’s room behind the curtains. And he stayed quite still and never moved, and at
last the lady came. And she bent down under the bed, and raised up a stone, and there
was a hollow place underneath, and out of it she took a waxen image, just like the clay
one that I and nurse had made in the brake. And all the time her eyes were burning like
rubies. And she took the little wax doll up in her arms and held it to her breast, and
she whispered and she murmured, and she took it up and she laid it down again, and she
held it high, and she held it low, and she laid it down again. And she said, ‘Happy is
he that begat the bishop, that ordered the clerk, that married the man, that had the
wife, that fashioned the hive, that harboured the bee, that gathered the wax that my own
true love was made of.’ And she brought out of an aumbry a great golden bowl, and she
brought out of a closet a great jar of wine, and she poured some of the wine into the bowl,
and she laid her mannikin very gently in the wine, and washed it in the wine all over.
Then she went to a cupboard and took a small round cake and laid it on the image’s mouth,
and then she bore it softly and covered it up. And Sir Simon, who was watching all the
time, though he was terribly frightened, saw the lady bend down and stretch out her arms
and whisper and sing, and then Sir Simon saw beside her a handsome young man, who kissed
her on the lips. And they drank wine out of the golden bowl together, and they ate the
cake together. But when the sun rose there was only the little wax doll, and the lady
hid it again under the bed in the hollow place. So Sir Simon knew quite well what the lady
was, and he waited and he watched, till the time she had said was nearly over, and in
a week the year and a day would be done. And one night, when he was watching behind the
curtains in her room, he saw her making more wax dolls. And she made five, and hid them
away. And the next night she took one out, and held it up, and filled the golden bowl
with water, and took the doll by the neck and held it under the water. Then she said—
Sir Dickon, Sir Dickon, your day is done, You shall be drowned in the water wan.
And the next day news came to the castle that Sir Richard had been drowned at the ford.
And at night she took another doll and tied a violet cord round its neck and hung it up
on a nail. Then she said— Sir Rowland, your life has ended its span,
High on a tree I see you hang. And the next day news came to the castle that
Sir Rowland had been hanged by robbers in the wood. And at night she took another doll,
and drove her bodkin right into its heart. Then she said—
Sir Noll, Sir Noll, so cease your life, Your heart piercèd with the knife.
And the next day news came to the castle that Sir Oliver had fought in a tavern, and a stranger
had stabbed him to the heart. And at night she took another doll, and held it to a fire
of charcoal till it was melted. Then she said— Sir John, return, and turn to clay,
In fire of fever you waste away. And the next day news came to the castle that
Sir John had died in a burning fever. So then Sir Simon went out of the castle and mounted
his horse and rode away to the bishop and told him everything. And the bishop sent his
men, and they took the Lady Avelin, and everything she had done was found out. So on the day
after the year and a day, when she was to have been married, they carried her through
the town in her smock, and they tied her to a great stake in the market-place, and burned
her alive before the bishop with her wax image hung round her neck. And people said the wax
man screamed in the burning of the flames. And I thought of this story again and again
as I was lying awake in my bed, and I seemed to see the Lady Avelin in the market-place,
with the yellow flames eating up her beautiful white body. And I thought of it so much that
I seemed to get into the story myself, and I fancied I was the lady, and that they were
coming to take me to be burnt with fire, with all the people in the town looking at me.
And I wondered whether she cared, after all the strange things she had done, and whether
it hurt very much to be burned at the stake. I tried again and again to forget nurse’s
stories, and to remember the secret I had seen that afternoon, and what was in the secret
wood, but I could only see the dark and a glimmering in the dark, and then it went away,
and I only saw myself running, and then a great moon came up white over a dark round
hill. Then all the old stories came back again, and the queer rhymes that nurse used to sing
to me; and there was one beginning ‘Halsy cumsy Helen musty,’ that she used to sing
very softly when she wanted me to go to sleep. And I began to sing it to myself inside of
my head, and I went to sleep. The next morning I was very tired and sleepy,
and could hardly do my lessons, and I was very glad when they were over and I had had
my dinner, as I wanted to go out and be alone. It was a warm day,
and I went to a nice turfy hill by the river, and sat down on my mother’s old shawl that
I had brought with me on purpose. The sky was grey, like the day before, but there was
a kind of white gleam behind it, and from where I was sitting I could look down on the
town, and it was all still and quiet and white, like a picture. I remembered that it was on
that hill that nurse taught me to play an old game called ‘Troy Town,’ in which one
had to dance, and wind in and out on a pattern in the grass, and then when one had danced
and turned long enough the other person asks you questions, and you can’t help answering
whether you want to or not, and whatever you are told to do you feel you have to do it.
Nurse said there used to be a lot of games like that that some people knew of, and there
was one by which people could be turned into anything you liked, and an old man her great-grandmother
had seen had known a girl who had been turned into a large snake. And there was another
very ancient game of dancing and winding and turning, by which you could take a person
out of himself and hide him away as long as you liked, and his body went walking about
quite empty, without any sense in it. But I came to that hill because I wanted to think
of what had happened the day before, and of the secret of the wood. From the place where
I was sitting I could see beyond the town, into the opening I had found, where a little
brook had led me into an unknown country. And I pretended I was following the brook
over again, and I went all the way in my mind, and at last I found the wood, and crept into
it under the bushes, and then in the dusk I
saw something that made me feel as if I were filled with fire, as if I wanted to dance
and sing and fly up into the air, because I was changed and wonderful. But what I saw
was not changed at all, and had not grown old, and I wondered again and again how such
things could happen, and whether nurse’s stories were really true, because in the daytime in
the open air everything seemed quite different from what it was at night, when I was frightened,
and thought I was to be burned alive. I once told my father one of her little tales, which
was about a ghost, and asked him if it was true, and he told me it was not true at all,
and that only common, ignorant people believed in such rubbish. He was very angry with nurse
for telling me the story, and scolded her, and after that I promised her I would never
whisper a word of what she told me, and if I did I should be bitten by the great black
snake that lived in the pool in the wood. And all alone on the hill I wondered what
was true. I had seen something very amazing and very lovely, and I knew a story, and if
I had really seen it, and not made it up out of the dark, and the black bough, and the
bright shining that was mounting up to the sky from over the great round hill, but had
really seen it in truth, then there were all kinds of wonderful and lovely and terrible
things to think of, so I longed and trembled, and I burned and got cold. And I looked down
on the town, so quiet and still, like a little white picture, and I thought over and over
if it could be true. I was a long time before I could make up my mind to anything; there
was such a strange fluttering at my heart that seemed to whisper to me all the time
that I had not made it up out of my head, and yet it seemed quite impossible,
and I knew my father and everybody would say it was dreadful rubbish. I never dreamed of
telling him or anybody else a word about it, because I knew it would be of no use, and
I should only get laughed at or scolded, so for a long time I was very quiet, and went
about thinking and wondering; and at night I used to dream of amazing things, and sometimes
I woke up in the early morning and held out my arms with a cry. And I was frightened,
too, because there were dangers, and some awful thing would happen to me, unless I took
great care, if the story were true. These old tales were always in my head, night and
morning, and I went over them and told them to myself over and over again, and went for
walks in the places where nurse had told them to me; and when I sat in the nursery by the
fire in the evenings I used to fancy nurse was sitting in the other chair, and telling
me some wonderful story in a low voice, for fear anybody should be listening. But she
used to like best to tell me about things when we were right out in the country, far
from the house, because she said she was telling me such secrets, and walls have ears. And
if it was something more than ever secret, we had to hide in brakes or woods; and I used
to think it was such fun creeping along a hedge, and going very softly, and then we
would get behind the bushes or run into the wood all of a sudden, when we were sure that
none was watching us; so we knew that we had our secrets quite all to ourselves, and nobody
else at all knew anything about them. Now and then, when we had hidden ourselves as
I have described, she used to show me all sorts of odd things. One day,
I remember, we were in a hazel brake, overlooking the brook, and we were so snug and warm, as
though it was April; the sun was quite hot, and the leaves were just coming out. Nurse
said she would show me something funny that would make me laugh, and then she showed me,
as she said, how one could turn a whole house upside down, without anybody being able to
find out, and the pots and pans would jump about, and the china would be broken, and
the chairs would tumble over of themselves. I tried it one day in the kitchen, and I found
I could do it quite well, and a whole row of plates on the dresser fell off it, and
cook’s little work-table tilted up and turned right over ‘before her eyes,’ as she said,
but she was so frightened and turned so white that I didn’t do it again, as I liked her.
And afterwards, in the hazel copse, when she had shown me how to make things tumble about,
she showed me how to make rapping noises, and I learnt how to do that, too. Then she
taught me rhymes to say on certain occasions, and peculiar marks to make on other occasions,
and other things that her great-grandmother had taught her when she was a little girl
herself. And these were all the things I was thinking about in those days after the strange
walk when I thought I had seen a great secret, and I wished nurse were there for me to ask
her about it, but she had gone away more than two years before, and nobody seemed to know
what had become of her, or where she had gone. But I shall always remember those days if
I live to be quite old, because all the time I felt so strange, wondering and doubting,
and feeling quite sure at one time, and making up my mind, and then I would
feel quite sure that such things couldn’t happen really, and it began all over again.
But I took great care not to do certain things that might be very dangerous. So I waited
and wondered for a long time, and though I was not sure at all, I never dared to try
to find out. But one day I became sure that all that nurse said was quite true, and I
was all alone when I found it out. I trembled all over with joy and terror, and as fast
as I could I ran into one of the old brakes where we used to go—it was the one by the
lane, where nurse made the little clay man—and I ran into it, and I crept into it; and when
I came to the place where the elder was, I covered up my face with my hands and lay down
flat on the grass, and I stayed there for two hours without moving, whispering to myself
delicious, terrible things, and saying some words over and over again. It was all true
and wonderful and splendid, and when I remembered the story I knew and thought of what I had
really seen, I got hot and I got cold, and the air seemed full of scent, and flowers,
and singing. And first I wanted to make a little clay man, like the one nurse had made
so long ago, and I had to invent plans and stratagems, and to look about, and to think
of things beforehand, because nobody must dream of anything that I was doing or going
to do, and I was too old to carry clay about in a tin bucket. At last I thought of a plan,
and I brought the wet clay to the brake, and did everything that nurse had done, only I
made a much finer image than the one she had made; and when it was finished I did everything
that I could imagine and much more than she did, because it was
the likeness of something far better. And a few days later, when I had done my lessons
early, I went for the second time by the way of the little brook that had led me into a
strange country. And I followed the brook, and went through the bushes, and beneath the
low branches of trees, and up thorny thickets on the hill, and by dark woods full of creeping
thorns, a long, long way. Then I crept through the dark tunnel where the brook had been and
the ground was stony, till at last I came to the thicket that climbed up the hill, and
though the leaves were coming out upon the trees, everything looked almost as black as
it was on the first day that I went there. And the thicket was just the same, and I went
up slowly till I came out on the big bare hill, and began to walk among the wonderful
rocks. I saw the terrible voor again on everything, for though the sky was brighter, the ring
of wild hills all around was still dark, and the hanging woods looked dark and dreadful,
and the strange rocks were as grey as ever; and when I looked down on them from the great
mound, sitting on the stone, I saw all their amazing circles and rounds within rounds,
and I had to sit quite still and watch them as they began to turn about me, and each stone
danced in its place, and they seemed to go round and round in a great whirl, as if one
were in the middle of all the stars and heard them rushing through the air. So I went down
among the rocks to dance with them and to sing extraordinary songs; and I went down
through the other thicket, and drank from the bright stream in the close and secret
valley, putting my lips down to the bubbling water; and then I went on till I came to the
deep, brimming well among the glittering moss, and I sat
down. I looked before me into the secret darkness of the valley, and behind me was the great
high wall of grass, and all around me there were the hanging woods that made the valley
such a secret place. I knew there was nobody here at all besides myself, and that no one
could see me. So I took off my boots and stockings, and let my feet down into the water, saying
the words that I knew. And it was not cold at all, as I expected, but warm and very pleasant,
and when my feet were in it I felt as if they were in silk, or as if the nymph were kissing
them. So when I had done, I said the other words and made the signs, and then I dried
my feet with a towel I had brought on purpose, and put on my stockings and boots. Then I
climbed up the steep wall, and went into the place where there are the hollows, and the
two beautiful mounds, and the round ridges of land, and all the strange shapes. I did
not go down into the hollow this time, but I turned at the end, and made out the figures
quite plainly, as it was lighter, and I had remembered the story I had quite forgotten
before, and in the story the two figures are called Adam and Eve, and only those who know
the story understand what they mean. So I went on and on till I came to the secret wood
which must not be described, and I crept into it by the way I had found. And when I had
gone about halfway I stopped, and turned round, and got ready, and I bound the handkerchief
tightly round my eyes, and made quite sure that I could not see at all, not a twig, nor
the end of a leaf, nor the light of the sky, as it was an old red silk handkerchief with
large yellow spots, that went round twice and covered my eyes, so that I
could see nothing. Then I began to go on, step by step, very slowly. My heart beat faster
and faster, and something rose in my throat that choked me and made me want to cry out,
but I shut my lips, and went on. Boughs caught in my hair as I went, and great thorns tore
me; but I went on to the end of the path. Then I stopped, and held out my arms and bowed,
and I went round the first time, feeling with my hands, and there was nothing. I went round
the second time, feeling with my hands, and there was nothing. Then I went round the third
time, feeling with my hands, and the story was all true, and I wished that the years
were gone by, and that I had not so long a time to wait before I was happy for ever and
ever. Nurse must have been a prophet like those
we read of in the Bible. Everything that she said began to come true, and since then other
things that she told me of have happened. That was how I came to know that her stories
were true and that I had not made up the secret myself out of my own head. But there was another
thing that happened that day. I went a second time to the secret place. It was at the deep
brimming well, and when I was standing on the moss I bent over and looked in, and then
I knew who the white lady was that I had seen come out of the water in the wood long ago
when I was quite little. And I trembled all over, because that told me other things. Then
I remembered how sometime after I had seen the white people in the wood, nurse asked
me more about them, and I told her all over again, and she listened, and said
nothing for a long, long time, and at last she said, ‘You will see her again.’ So I understood
what had happened and what was to happen. And I understood about the nymphs; how I might
meet them in all kinds of places, and they would always help me, and I must always look
for them, and find them in all sorts of strange shapes and appearances. And without the nymphs
I could never have found the secret, and without them none of the other things could happen.
Nurse had told me all about them long ago, but she called them by another name, and I
did not know what she meant, or what her tales of them were about, only that they were very
queer. And there were two kinds, the bright and the dark, and both were very lovely and
very wonderful, and some people saw only one kind, and some only the other, but some saw
them both. But usually the dark appeared first, and the bright ones came afterwards, and there
were extraordinary tales about them. It was a day or two after I had come home from the
secret place that I first really knew the nymphs. Nurse had shown me how to call them,
and I had tried, but I did not know what she meant, and so I thought it was all nonsense.
But I made up my mind I would try again, so I went to the wood where the pool was, where
I saw the white people, and I tried again. The dark nymph, Alanna, came, and she turned
the pool of water into a pool of fire…. EPILOGUE ‘That’s a very queer story,’ said Cotgrave,
handing back the green book to the recluse, Ambrose. ‘I see the drift of a good deal,
but there are many things that I do not grasp at all. On the last page, for example, what
does she mean by “nymphs”?’ ‘Well, I think there are references throughout
the manuscript to certain “processes” which have been handed down by tradition from age
to age. Some of these processes are just beginning to come within the purview of science, which
has arrived at them—or rather at the steps which lead to them—by quite different paths.
I have interpreted the reference to “nymphs” as a reference to one of these processes.’
‘And you believe that there are such things?’ ‘Oh, I think so. Yes, I believe I could give
you convincing evidence on that point. I am afraid you have neglected the study of alchemy?
It is a pity, for the symbolism, at all events, is very beautiful, and moreover if you were
acquainted with certain books on the subject, I could recall to your mind phrases which
might explain a good deal in the manuscript that you have been reading.’
‘Yes; but I want to know whether you seriously think that there is any foundation of fact
beneath these fancies. Is it not all a department of poetry; a curious dream with which man
has indulged himself?’ ‘I can only say that it is no doubt better
for the great mass of people to dismiss it all as a dream. But if you ask my veritable
belief—that goes quite the other way. No; I should not say belief, but rather knowledge.
I may tell you that I have known cases in which men have stumbled quite by accident
on certain of these “processes,” and have been astonished by wholly unexpected results.
In the cases I am thinking of there could have been no possibility of “suggestion” or
sub-conscious action of any kind. One might as well suppose a schoolboy “suggesting” the
existence of Æschylus to himself, while he plods mechanically through the declensions.
‘But you have noticed the obscurity,’ Ambrose went on, ‘and in this particular case it must
have been dictated by instinct, since the writer never thought that her manuscripts
would fall into other hands. But the practice is universal, and for most excellent reasons.
Powerful and sovereign medicines, which are, of necessity, virulent poisons also, are kept
in a locked cabinet. The child may find the key by chance, and drink herself dead; but
in most cases the search is educational, and the phials contain precious elixirs for him
who has patiently fashioned the key for himself.’ ‘You do not care to go into details?’
‘No, frankly, I do not. No, you must remain unconvinced. But you saw how the manuscript
illustrates the talk we had last week?’ ‘Is this girl still alive?’
‘No. I was one of those who found her. I knew the father well; he was a lawyer, and had
always left her very much to herself. He thought of nothing but deeds and leases, and the news
came to him as an awful surprise. She was missing one morning; I suppose it was about
a year after she had written what you have read. The servants were called, and they told
things, and put the only natural interpretation on them—a perfectly erroneous one.
‘They discovered that green book somewhere in her room, and I found her in the place
that she described with so much dread, lying on the ground before the image.’
‘It was an image?’ ‘Yes, it was hidden by the thorns and the
thick undergrowth that had surrounded it. It was a wild, lonely country; but you know
what it was like by her description, though of course you will understand that the colours
have been heightened. A child’s imagination always makes the heights higher and the depths
deeper than they really are; and she had, unfortunately for herself, something more
than imagination. One might say, perhaps, that the picture in her mind which she succeeded
in a measure in putting into words, was the scene as it would have appeared to an imaginative
artist. But it is a strange, desolate land.’ ‘And she was dead?’
‘Yes. She had poisoned herself—in time. No; there was not a word to be said against
her in the ordinary sense. You may recollect a story I told you the other night about a
lady who saw her child’s fingers crushed by a window?’
‘And what was this statue?’ ‘Well, it was of Roman workmanship, of a stone
that with the centuries had not blackened, but had become white and luminous. The thicket
had grown up about it and concealed it, and in the Middle Ages the followers of a very
old tradition had known how to use it for their own purposes. In fact it had been incorporated
into the monstrous mythology of the Sabbath. You will have noted that those to whom a sight
of that shining whiteness had been vouchsafed by chance, or rather, perhaps, by apparent
chance, were required to blindfold themselves on their second approach. That is very significant.’
‘And is it there still?’ ‘I sent for tools, and we hammered it into
dust and fragments.’ ‘The persistence of tradition never surprises
me,’ Ambrose went on after a pause. ‘I could name many an English parish where such traditions
as that girl had listened to in her childhood are still existent in occult but unabated
vigour. No, for me, it is the “story” not the “sequel,” which is strange and awful,
for I have always believed that wonder is of the soul.’

About Ralph Robinson

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36 thoughts on ““The White People” by Arthur Machen / A HorrorBabble Production

  1. The first 9.5 minutes, are credibly brilliant. Will take a week to chew on that one….
    honesti mores valentien holocaustum tribus proiecit rumpatur ! Is artfully and cryptically crafted.
    ๐Ÿ’™๐ŸŒ™๐ŸŽฉ๐Ÿ’– a very sweet and sad circle, at once. Thank you for this introduction to Arthur Machen. Interesting and accomplished . Thank you so much.

  2. Simply brilliant, this will be the perfect evening treat. Thank you very much for such a flawlessly presented tale of terror!!

  3. Tragic man absolutely tragic. Good thing Old Arthur is not among us anymore. He blabs too much. Like his heroine who poisoned herself. You need a guide ,a teacher to these things. You can't just go into the forest and eat any old mushroom. it is too damn dangerous. someone has to show you the safe ones. And for god's sake don't go tripping in the middle of the forest scaring the animals.
    Take your srooms home . Enjoy the trip there. Still better to have company in case of mishap.
    +1 What can i say? The scratches are still smarting , i have bugs in my clothes and i definitely need a shower,now.

  4. I picked up your sig, about the shining pyramid. I listened to this โ€˜Sherlock Holmesโ€™, like piece & didnโ€™e approve. Lo, the theme is a classic one, but better left to the Master, who is Lovecraft. I look fwd, to your upcoming Lovecraft book, with Spanish. Thanks for the news & only the blues, for Jen ๐Ÿ’™๐ŸŒ™๐ŸŽฉ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฝ I would like to acknowledge, that your efforts & passions for this venue have not gone unnoticed. Your new page, here, is dyno baby. ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿฝ๐ŸŽฉ๐ŸŒน

  5. I've been looking forward to this reading since you first announced it (and The Inmost Light) a while back, and I was certainly not disappointed! Machen is one of a handful of "weird" writers I consider the absolute masters of their art (with Poe, Lovecraft, de la Mare, Chambers, M.R. James). I'm always especially thrilled to hear another HorrorBabble reading of Machen's work, partly because I feel he's too often overlooked on YouTube and I want to see his tales endure. (For example, there's only one narration of The Inmost Light on YouTube and it's a text-to-speech rendition, which would ruin it for me.) I know I can count on HorrorBabble for outstanding readings of the masters, and to introduce me to lesser-known authors from time to time. Many thanks for bringing us "The White People". Another tale at the top of my wish-list is de la Mare's "Out of the Deep", which calls out for Ian's special touch and is not to be found on YouTube (copyright 1923 by Walter de la Mare). Oh, and "The Hell of Mirrors", as long as I'm wishing! Thanks once again to HorrorBabble!

  6. One of my favorites. Best reading on youtube as well. You should consider doing the great god pan.

  7. So wonderful, as usual, to hear the great HorrorBabble cover a classic of my favorite genre. Also, I love the echo thatโ€™s going on, intentionally done or not, itโ€™s a very gratifying small detail that adds to the experience. Cheers!

  8. Honestly, this was quite terrifying. Machen is just great for Ian overall so yes I would love more Machen. Even in one spot where my nitpicky mind thought the inflection should obviously go down, when he rose at the end of the sentence sort of creeped me out more, like what the. . .? What is going on! The mound sitting was awful, a sickening paranoia, while the part right after that produced a scaring fear that the mind wants desperately to dismiss but will not let go. The most entertained I have been in quite a while, even fighting through a ridiculously impairing hangover i have today xD.

  9. I have been listening to Joseph Campbellโ€™s, Hero with a Thousand Faces. With respect, to the first ten minutes,
    Of this pice, The White People, which is an extremely open minded dialogue; Campbell quotes Heraclitus: โ€œto god, all things are fair and good and rightโ€. This book, The White People, is a classic, in the eyes of an seeker. Wow. Thanks. ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿฝ๐ŸŒ™๐ŸŽฉ Good sho โ€˜Ol Boy โค๏ธ๐ŸŒน (Ch1, pt 7, 4:42, IBooks)

  10. Again with the time, basically 138! We are 138! & Best narration ever ๐ŸŒŸ !!!!!!!!!! What a wonderful book! And the secret book, how perfectly beautiful. I've had these… and want more…๐ŸŒŒ๐ŸŒŒ๐ŸŒŒโ˜โ˜๐ŸŒœโญโ˜โ˜

  11. "The White People" is a horror short story by Welsh author Arthur Machen. The tale centres around a young girl's initiation into a supernatural cult.

    Chapters:
    00:00:11 – Prologue
    00:19:45 – The Green Book
    01:31:40 – Epilogue

    Bandcamp link: https://horrorbabble.bandcamp.com/album/the-white-people

    Narrated by Ian Gordon for HorrorBabble
    Music and production by Ian Gordon

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  12. An interesting discussion of the nature of evil from the POV of a prominent Victorian author.
    By their definitions
    Transhumanism is the essence of their evil. In many ways it shows what a gap has opened up.

  13. Thank you very much. I read the story, then listened its audio and now this. Not so horrible witching fantasy is, but what fell into my mind long ago is the discussion about the nature of Sin. Machen made a very deep and original analysis of it and very convincing. I also recall some great-dictator reformers who did not kill or torture a single human themselves, yet used all their crazy will power to "make people free and happy", to "improve" the human nature, in reality creating some "hells on Earth" built upon millions of human skeletons. Good intentions – they believed those were good – paved the road to those hells. And they really saw themselves as "saints" and "saviors", praised as such by millions of simple people. Just like Anti-Christ who is predicted to please and charm the mankind. Initially. Form a different angle – French philosopher and mathematician of the 17th century Blaiz Pascal said: "The world is full of sinners who believe they are saints and saints who believe they are sinners". And I like the saying: "Hell starts emerging when foam appears on angels' lips".

  14. I wonder if I'm like a psychic, "sensitive", mystically-inclined, occult-intuned type! Because I live in Idaho and I see white people ALL THE TIME!

  15. Thank you so much for this! Hearing the story narrated just gets the mind whirling with possibilities…. well done!

  16. Thank you Ian for your incredible work. This is one of my absolute favorites. Your voice makes the subtle feeling of… wrongness of the text ever more deliciously dreadful. Great job!

  17. Machen's stories take on a different colour when you find out he was a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. So was Yeats. And Blackwood.

    Excellent story and narration.

  18. loved the first story. psychotic killers are in a way like animals – they canโ€™t stop themselves. so then really is someone who does something wrong knowingly, even by omission, the real sinner?
    (i donโ€™t particularly like the good/bad thing as everything is really a continuum of grey shades. but it is an interesting question worthy of discussion. so great story ๐Ÿ™‚

  19. Your amazing narration have opened up a whole area of horror that I couldn't previously get into. These days, if you haven't already read a writer's work, a bad narration can put you off even trying to buy a book and read it yourself. You have showed me that these writers are brilliant and well worth adding to my 'physical' library.

  20. Thank you for this. I find myself listening to this a lot especially when I cannot sleep as It helps me relax and let go of my reality.

  21. Question ian… Do you have pet birds?
    I keep hearing background noise that sounds just like my grandmother's old cockatiel

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