THE ONLY ONE THAT WAS LEFT
Stillness followed the man's words until the people began to fidget,
and to shuffle with their feet, and to murmur:
'What talk is this? What blasphemy does this man utter? Who is this
mountebank to whom he speaks?'
But the Stranger continued to look at the man who had come out from
the crowd. And He asked him:
'How is it that you know Me, since I do not know you?'
The man laughed, and, as he did so, it was seen that the Stranger
started, and drew a little back.
'Because I know You, it doesn't follow that You should know me. I'd
rather that You didn't. Directly You came into the street I knew that
it was You, and wished You further. What do You want to trouble us
for? Aren't we better off without You?'
The Stranger held up His hand as if to keep the other from Him.
'You thing all evil, return to your own kind!'
The man drew back into the crowd, a little uncertainly, as if
crestfallen, but laughing all the time. He strode off down the
street; they could still hear his laughter as he went. The Stranger,
with the people, seemed to listen. As the sound grew fainter He cried
to them with a loud voice:
'Save this woman and that man, is there none that knows Me? No, not
one!'
The traffic had been brought almost to a standstill. The dimensions
of the crowd had increased. There was a block of vehicles before it
in the street. From the roof of an omnibus, which was crowded within
and without with passengers, there came a shout as of a strong man:
'Lord, I know You! God be thanked that He has suffered me to see this
day!'
The Stranger replied, stretching out His arms in the direction in
which the speaker was:
'It is well with you, friend, and shall be better. Go, spread the
tidings! Tell those that know Me that I am come!'
There came the answer back:
'Even so, Lord, I will do Your bidding; and in the city there shall
rise the sound of a great song. Hark! I hear the angels singing!'
There came over the crowd's mood one of those sudden changes to which
such heterogeneous gatherings are essentially liable. As question and
answer passed to and fro, and the man's voice rose to a triumphal
strain, the people began to be affected by a curious sense of
excitation, asking of each other:
'Who, then, is this man? Is he really someone in particular? Perhaps
he may be able to do something for us, or to give us something, if we
ask him. Who knows?'
They began to press upon Him, men and women, old and young, rich and
poor, each with a particular request of his or her own.
'Give us a trifle!'
'The price of a night's lodging!'
'A drop to drink!'
'A cab-fare!'
'Tell us who you are!'
'Give us a speech!'
'If you can do miracles, do one now!'
'Cure the lot of us!'
'Make us whole!'
The requests were of all sorts and kinds. The Stranger looked upon
the throng of applicants with glances in which were both pity and
pain.
'What I would give to you you will not have. What, then, is it that I
shall give to you?'
There was a chorus in return. For every material want He was
entreated to provide. He shook His head.
'Those things which you ask I cannot give; they are not Mine. I have
not money, nor money's worth. There is none amongst you that is so
poor as I am.'
'Then what can you give?'
'Those who would know what I can give must follow Me. The way is
hard, and the journey long. At the end is the peace which is not of
this world.'
'Where do you go?'
'Unto My Father.'
'Who is your father?'
'Those that know Me know also My Father.'
Turning as he spoke, He began to walk in the direction of Hyde Park.
Some of the people, apparently supposing that His injunction to
follow Him was to be understood in a literal sense, formed in a
straggling band behind Him. At first there were not many. His
movement, which was unexpected, had taken the bulk of the crowd by
surprise. For some seconds it was not generally realised that He had
commenced to pass away. When all became aware of what was happening,
and it was understood that the mysterious Stranger was going from
them, another wave of excitement passed through the throng, and
something like a rush was made to keep within sight of Him. The
farther they went, the greater became the number of those that went
with Him. But it was observed that none came within actual touch. He
walked with people in front, behind, on either side, yet alone. He
occupied an empty space in their very midst, with no one within six
or seven feet, moving neither quickly nor slowly, with head bowed,
and hands hanging loose at His sides, seeming to see none of those
that went with Him; and it was as though an unseen barrier was round
about Him which even the more presumptuous of His attendants could
not pass.
Along Piccadilly, past the shops, past Green Park, the procession
went, growing larger and larger as it progressed. Persons, wondering
what was the cause of the to-do, asked questions; then fell in with
the others, curious to learn what the issue of the affair would be.
Traffic in the road became congested. Vehicles could not proceed
above a walking pace, because of the people who hemmed them in. Nor
did their occupants, or their drivers, seem loath to linger with the
throng. The police adapted their mood to that of the crowd. They saw
men and women pouring out of restaurants and public-houses to join
the Stranger's retinue, and were, for the most part, content to keep
pace with it, keeping a watchful eye for what might be the possible
upshot of the singular proceedings.
At Hyde Park Corner the Stranger stopped, and it could then be seen
to what huge proportions the throng had grown. The whole open space
was filled with people, and when, with the Stranger's, their advance
was stayed, pedestrians and vehicles seemed mixed in inextricable
confusion. Probably the large majority of those present had but the
faintest notion of what had brought them there. In obedience to a
sudden impulse of the gregarious instinct they had joined the crowd
because the crowd was there to join.
As He stopped the Stranger raised His head, and looked about Him. He
saw how large was the number of the people, and He said, in a voice
which was only clearly audible to those who stood near:
'It is already late. Is it not time that you should go to your homes
and rest?'
A man replied; he was a young fellow in evening dress; he had had
more than enough to drink:
'It's early yet. You don't call this late! The evening's only just
beginning! We're game to make a night of it if you are. Where you
lead us we will follow.'
The young man's words were followed by a burst of laughter from some
of those who heard. The Stranger sighed. Turning towards Hyde Park,
He moved towards the open gates. The crowd opened to let Him pass,
then closing in, it followed after. The Stranger entered the silent
park. Crossing Rotten Row, He led the way to the grassy expanse which
lay beyond. Not the whole crowd went with Him. The vehicles went
their several ways, many also of the people. Some stayed, loitering
and talking over what had happened; so far, that is, as they
understood. These the police dispersed. Still, those who continued
with the Stranger were not few.
When He reached the grass the Stranger stopped again. The people,
gathering closer, surrounded Him, as if expecting Him to speak. But
He was still. They looked at Him with an eager curiosity. At first He
did not look at them at all. So that, while with their intrusive
glances they searched Him, as it were, from head to foot, He stood in
their midst with bent head and downcast eyes. They talked together,
some in whispers, and some in louder tones; and there were some who
laughed, until, at last, a man called out:
'Well, what have you brought us here for? To stand on the grass and
catch cold?'
The Stranger answered, without raising His eyes from the ground:
'Is it I that have brought you here? Then it is well.'
There was a titter--a woman's giggle rising above the rest. The
Stranger, raising His head, looked towards where the speaker stood.
'It were well if most of you should die to-night. O people of no
understanding, that discern the little things and cannot see the
greater, that have made gods of your bellies, and but minister unto
your bodies, what profiteth it whether you live or whether you die?
Neither in heaven nor on earth is there a place for you. What, then,
is it that you do here?'
A man replied:
'It seems that you are someone in particular. We want to know who you
are, according to your own statement.'
'I am He on whose name, throughout the whole of this great city, men
call morning, noon, and night. And yet you do not know Me. No!
neither do those know Me that call upon Me most.'
'Ever heard of Hanwell?' asked one. 'Perhaps there's some that have
known you there.'
The questioner was called to order.
'Stow that! Let's know what he's got to say! Let's hear him out!'
The original inquirer continued.
'For what have you come here?'
'For what?' The Stranger looked up towards the skies. 'It is well
that you should ask. I am as one who has lost his way in a strange
land, among a strange people; yet it was to Mine own I came, in Mine
own country.'
There was an interval of silence. When the inquirer spoke again, it
was in less aggressive tones.
'Sir, there is a music in your voice which seems to go to my heart.'
'Friend!' The Stranger stretched out His hand towards the speaker.
'Friend! Would that it would go to all your hearts, the music that is
in Mine--that the sound of it would go forth to all the world! It was
for that I came.'
This time there was none that answered. It was as though
there was that in the Stranger's words which troubled His listeners--
which made them uneasy. Here and there one began to steal away.
Presently, as the silence continued, the number of these increased.
Among them was the inquirer; the Stranger spoke to him as he turned
to go.
'It was but seeming--the music which seemed to speak to your heart?'
Although the words were quietly uttered, they conveyed a sting; the
man to whom they were addressed was plainly disconcerted.
'Sir, I cannot stay here all night. I am a married man; I must go
home.'
'Go home.'
'Besides, the gates will soon be shut, and late hours don't agree
with me; I have to go early to business.'
'Go home.'
'But, at the same time, if you wish me to stop with you--'
'Go home.'
The man slunk away, as if ashamed; the Stranger followed him with His
eyes. When he had gone a few yards he hesitated, stopped, turned,
and, when he saw that the Stranger's eyes were fixed on him, he made
as if to retrace his steps. But the Stranger said:
'Go home.'
Taking the gently spoken words as a positive command, the man, as if
actuated by an uncontrollable impulse, or by sudden fear, wheeling
round again upon his heels, ran out of the park as fast as he was
able. When the man had vanished, the Stranger, looking about Him,
found that the number of His attendants had dwindled to a scanty few.
To them He said:
'Why do you stay? Why do you, also, not go home?'
A fellow replied--his coat was buttoned to his chin; his hands were
in his pockets; a handkerchief was round his neck:
'Well, gov'nor, I reckon it's because some of us ain't got much of a
'ome to go to. I know I ain't. A seat in 'ere'll be about my mark--
that is, if the coppers'll let me be.'
Again the Stranger's glance passed round the remnant which remained.
As the fellow's speech suggested, it was a motley gathering. All
told, it numbered, perhaps, a dozen--all that was left of the great
crowd which had been there a moment ago. Three or four were women,
the rest were men. They stood a little distance off, singly--one here
and there. As far as could be seen in the uncertain light, all were
poorly clad, most were in rags--a tatterdemalion crew, the sweepings
of the streets.
'Are you all homeless, as I am?'
A man replied who was standing among those who were farthest off; he
spoke as if the question had offended him.
'I ain't 'omeless--no fear! I've got as food a 'ome as anyone need
want to 'ave; 'm none o' yer outcasts.'
'Then why do you not go to it?'
'Why? I am a-goin', ain't I? I suppose I can go 'ome when I like,
without none o' your interference!'
The man slouched off, grumbling as he went, his hands thrust deep
into his trousers pockets, his head sunk between his shoulders. And
with him the rest of those who were left went too, some of them
sneaking off across the grass, further into the heart of the park,
bent nearly double, so as to get as much as possible into the shadow.
The cause of this sudden and general flight was made plain by the
approach of a policeman, shouting:
'Now, then! Gates going to be closed! Out you go!'
The Stranger asked of him: 'May I not stay here and sleep upon the
grass?
The policeman laughed, as if he thought the question was a joke.
'Not much you mayn't! Grass is damp--might catch cold--take too much
care of you for that.'
'Where, then, can I sleep?'
'I don't know where you can sleep. I'm not here to answer questions.
You go out!
The Stranger began to do as He was bid. As He was going towards the
gate, a man came hastening to His side; he had been holding himself
apart, and only now came out of the shadow. He was a little man; his
eagerness made him breathless.
'Sir, it's not much of a place we've got, my wife and I, but such as
it is, we shall be glad to give You a night's lodging. I can answer
for my wife, and the place is clean.'
The Stranger looked at him, and smiled.
'I thank you.'
Together they went out of the park, the new-comer limping, for he was
lame of one foot, the Stranger walking at his side. And all those
whom they passed stopped, and turned, and looked at them as they
went; some of them asking of themselves:
'What is there peculiar about that man?'
For it was as though there had been an unusual quality in the
atmosphere as He went by.