II

When all these things had been accomplished Chandrapal was again in

Deadborough--a guest at the Rectory. It was Billy Rowe, an urchin of

ten, who informed me of the arrival. Billy had just been let out of

school, and was in the act of picking up a stone to throw at Lina Potts,

whom he bitterly hated, when the Rectory carriage drove past the village

green. At once every hand, including Billy's, went promptly to the

corner of its owner's mouth, hoops were suspended in mid-career, and

half-sucked lollipops, in process of transference from big sisters to

little brothers were allowed an interval for getting dry. The carriage

passed; stones, hoops, and lollipops resumed their circulation, and by

five o'clock in the afternoon the news of Chandrapal's arrival was

waiting for the returning labourer in every cottage in Deadborough.

That night I repaired to the Nag's Head, for I knew that the arrival

would have a favourable effect on the size of the "house." I am not

addicted, let me say, to Tom Barter's vile liquors; but I have some

fondness for the psychology of a village pub, and I was in hopes that

the conversation in this instance would be instructive. An unusually

large company was assembled, and to that extent I was not disappointed.

But in respect of the conversation it must be confessed that I drew a

blank. The tongues of the talkers seemed to be paralysed by the very

event which I had hoped would set them all wagging. It was evident that

every man present had come in the hopes that his neighbour would have

something to say about Chandrapal, and thus provide an opening for his

own eloquence. But nobody gave a lead, the whole company being

apparently in presence of a speech-defying portent. At last I broke the

ice by an allusion to the arrival. "Ah," said one. "Oh," said another.

"Indeed," said a third. "You don't say so," said a fourth. At length one

venturesome spirit remarked, "I hear as he's a great man in his own

country." "I dare say he is," replied the village butcher, with the air

of one to whom the question of human greatness was a matter of absolute

indifference. That was the end. Shortly afterwards I left, and presently

overtook Snarley Bob, who had preceded me. "Did you ever see such a lot

o' tongue-tied lunatics?" said Snarley. "What made them silent?" I

asked. "They'd got too much to say," answered Snarley, and then added,

rather mischievously, "They were only waitin' to begin till _you'd_

gone. If you was to go back now, you'd hear 'em barkin' like a pack o'

hounds."

* * * * *

Among the many good offices for which Snarley had to thank Mrs. Abel,

not the least was her systematic protection of him from the intrusions

of the curious. Plenty of people had heard of him, and there were not

wanting many who were anxious to put his soul under the scalpel, in the

interests of Science. Mrs. Abel was the channel through which they

usually attempted to act. But she knew very well that the thing was

futile, not to say dangerous. For some of the instincts of the wild

animal had survived in Snarley, of which perhaps the most marked was his

refusal to submit to the scrutiny of human eyes. To study him was almost

as difficult as to study the tiger in the jungle. At the faintest sound

of inquisitive footsteps he would retreat, hiding himself in some place,

or, more frequently, in some manner, whither it was almost impossible to

follow; and if, as sometimes happened, his pursuers pressed hard and

sought to drive him out of his fastness, he would break out upon them in

a way for which they were not prepared, and give them a shock which

effectually forbade all further attempts. Such a result was unprofitable

to Science and injurious to Snarley. For these reasons Mrs. Abel had

come to a definite conclusion that the cause of Science was not to be

advanced by introducing its votaries to Snarley Bob; and when they came

to the Rectory, as they sometimes did, she abstained from mentioning his

name, failed to answer when questioned, and took care, so far as she

could, that the old man should be left undisturbed.

But the reasons which led to this decision had no force in the case of

Chandrapal. She was certain that Chandrapal would not treat Snarley as a

mere abnormal specimen of human nature, a _corpus vile_ for scientific

investigation. She knew that the two men had something, nay, much, in

common; and she believed that the ground of intercourse would be

established the instant that Snarley heard the stranger's voice.

Nevertheless, the matter was difficult. It was well-nigh impossible to

determine the conditions under which Snarley would be at his best, and,

whatever arrangements were made, his animal shyness might spoil them

all. To take him by surprise was known to be dangerous; and we had

already found to our cost that the attempt to deceive him by the

pretence of an accidental meeting was pretty certain to end in disaster.

How Mrs. Abel succeeded in bringing the thing off I don't know. There

may have been bribery and corruption (for Snarley's character had not

been formed from the fashion-books of any known order of mystics), and,

though I saw nothing to suggest this method, I know nothing to exclude

it--as a working hypothesis. But be that as it may, the arrangement was

made that on a certain Wednesday evening Snarley was to come down to the

Rectory and attend in the garden for the coming of Chandrapal. I had

already learnt to regard Mrs. Abel as a worker of miracles to whom few

things were impossible; but this conquest of Snarley's reluctance to be

interviewed, and in a manner so exceptional, has always impressed me as

one of her greatest achievements. If the reader had known the old

shepherd only in his untransfigured state--when, in his own phrase, he

was "stuck in his skin"--I venture to say he would as soon have thought

of asking a grisly bear to afternoon tea in his drawing-room as of

inviting Snarley Bob to meet an Indian sage in a rectory garden. But the

arrangement was made--whether by the aid of Beelzebub or the attractions

of British gold, no man will ever know.

Nothing in connection with Snarley had ever interested me so much as the

possible outcome of this strange interview; so that, when informed of

what was going to happen, I sent a telegram to Mrs. Abel asking

permission to be on the spot--not, of course, as a witness of the

interview but as a guest in the house. The reply was favourable, and on

Tuesday afternoon I was at Deadborough.

I had some talk with Chandrapal, and I could see that he was not pleased

at my coming. He asked me at once why I was there, and, on receiving a

not very ingenuous answer, he became reserved and distant. Indeed, his

whole manner reminded me forcibly of the bearing of Snarley Bob on the

occasion of our ludicrous attempt on Quarry Hill to introduce him to the

poetry of Keats. I had come prepared to ask him a question; but I had no

sooner reached the point than the whole fashion of the man was suddenly

changed. His face, which usually wore an expression of quiet dignity,

seemed to degenerate into a mass of coarse but powerful features, so

that, had I seen him thus at a first meeting, I should have thought at

once, "This man is a sensualist and a ruffian!" His answers were

distinctly rude; he said the question was foolish (probably it

was)--that people had been pestering him with that kind of thing ever

since he left India; in short, he gave me to understand that he regarded

me as a nuisance. I had never before seen in him any approach to this

manner; indeed, I had continually marvelled at his patience with fools,

his urbanity with bores, and his willingness to give of his best to

those who had nothing to give in return.

As the evening wore on he seemed to realise what he had done, and was

evidently troubled. For my part, I had decided to leave next morning,

for I thought that my presence in the house was disturbing him, and

would perhaps spoil the chances of tomorrow's interview. Of this I had

breathed no hint to anyone, and I was therefore greatly surprised when

he said to me after dinner, "I charge you to remain in this house. There

is no reason for going away. I was not myself this afternoon; but it has

passed and will not return. Come now, let us go out into the woods."

Mrs. Abel came with us. Her object in coming was to guide our walk in

some direction where we were not likely to encounter Snarley Bob, whose

haunts she knew, and whom it was not desirable that we should meet

before the appointed time; for the nightingales were now in full song,

and Snarley was certain to be abroad. We therefore took a path which led

in an opposite direction to that in which his cottage lay.

Chandrapal had his own ways of feeling and responding to the influences

of Nature--ways which are not ours. No words of admiration escaped him;

but, on entering the woods where the birds were singing he said, "The

sounds are harmonious with thought." There was no mistaking the hint.

Guided by the singing of the birds, we turned into an unfrequented lane,

bordered by elms. The evening was dull, damp, and windless, and the air

lay stagnant between the high banks of the lane. We walked on in

complete silence, Chandrapal a few yards in front; none of us felt any

desire to speak. Three nightingales were singing at intervals: one at

some distance in the woods ahead of us, two immediately to our right.

Whether it was due to the dampness in the air or the song of the birds,

I cannot tell; but I felt the "drowsy numbness," of which the poet

speaks, stealing upon me irresistibly. We presently crossed a stile into

the fields; and as I sat for a moment on the rail the drowsiness almost

overcame me, and I wondered if I could escape from my companions and

find some spot whereon to lie down and go to sleep. It required some

effort to proceed, and I could see that Mrs. Abel was affected in a

similar manner.

By crossing the stile we had disturbed one of the birds, and we had to

wait some minutes before its song again broke out much further to the

right. For some reason of his own Chandrapal had found this bird the

best songster of the three; and, wishing to get as near as possible, he

again led the way and gave us a sign to follow. We cautiously skirted

the hedge, making our way towards a point on the opposite side of the

field where there was a gate, and beyond this, in the next field, a shed

of some sort where we might stand concealed.

We passed the gate, turned into the shed, and were immediately

confronted by Snarley Bob.

Both Mrs. Abel and I were alarmed. We knew that Snarley Bob when

disturbed at such a moment was apt to be exceedingly dangerous, and we

remembered that it was precisely such a disturbance as this which had

brought him some years ago within measurable distance of committing

murder. Nor was his demeanour reassuring. The instant he saw us, he rose

from the shaft of the cart on which he had been seated, smoking his

pipe, and took a dozen rapid steps out of the shed. Then he paused, just

as a startled horse would do, turned half round, and eyed us sidelong

with as fierce and ugly a look as any human face could wear. Then he

began to stride rapidly to and fro in front of the shed, stamping his

feet whenever he turned, and keeping his eyes fixed on the swarthy

countenance of Chandrapal, with an expression of the utmost ferocity.

Chandrapal retained his composure. Whatever sudden shock he may have

felt had passed immediately, and he was now standing in an attitude of

deep attention, following the movement of Snarley Bob and meeting his

glance without once lowering his eyes. His calmness was infectious. I

felt that he was master of the situation, and I knew that in a few

moments Snarley's paroxysm would pass.

It did pass; but in a manner we did not expect. Snarley, on his side,

had begun to abate his rapid march; once or twice he hesitated, paused,

turned around; and the worst was already over when Chandrapal, lifting

his thin hands above his head, pronounced in slow succession four words

of some strange tongue. What they meant I cannot tell; it is not likely

they formed any coherent sentence: they were more like words of command

addressed by an officer to troops on parade, or by a rider to his horse.

Their effect on Snarley was instantaneous. Turning full round, he drew

himself erect and faced us in an attitude of much dignity. Every trace

of his brutal expression slowly vanished; his huge features contracted

to the human size; the rents of passion softened into lines of thought;

wisdom and benignity sat upon his brows; and he was calm and still as

the Sphinx in the desert.

Snarley stood with his hands linked behind his back, looking straight

before him into the distance; and Chandrapal, without changing his

attitude, was watching him as before. As the two men stood there in

silence, my impression was, and still is, that they were in

communication, through filaments that lie hidden, like electric cables,

in the deeps of consciousness. Each man was organically one with the

other; the division between them was no greater than between two cells

in a single brain; the understanding was complete. Thus it remained for

some seconds; then the silence was broken by speech, and it was as

though a cloud had passed over the sun. For, with the first word spoken,

misunderstanding began; and, for a time at all events, they drifted far

apart, each out of sight and knowledge of the other's soul. Had Snarley

begun by saying something inconsequent or irrelevant, had he proposed to

build three tabernacles, or cried, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful

man," or quoted the words of some inapplicable Scripture that was being

fulfilled--there might have been no rupture. But, as it was, he spoke to

the point, and instantly the tie was snapped.

"Them words you spoke just now," he said, and paused. Then, completing

the sentence--"them words was full o' _sense_."

I could see that Chandrapal was troubled. The word "sense" woke up

trains of consciousness quite alien to the intention of the speaker. To

his non-English mind this usage of the word, if not unknown, was at

least misleading.

He replied, "Those words have nothing to do with 'sense.' Yet you seemed

to understand them."

"Not a bit," said Snarley. "But I _felt_ 'em. They burnt me like fire.

Good words is allus like that. There's some words wi' meanin' in 'em,

but no sense; and they're fool's words, most on 'em. You understand 'em,

but you don't feel 'em. But when they comes wi' a bit of a smack, I

knows they're all right. You can a'most taste 'em and smell 'em when

they're the right sort--just like a drop o' drink. It's a pity you

didn't hear Mrs. Abel when she give us that piece o' poetry. That's the

sort o' words folks ought to use. You can feel 'em in your bones. Well,

as I was a-sayin', your words was like that. They come at me smack,

smack. And I sez to myself as soon as I hears 'em, 'That's a man worth

talkin' to.'"

Chandrapal had listened with the utmost gravity, seeming to catch

Snarley's drift. The diction must have puzzled him, but I doubt if the

subtlest skill in exposition would have availed Snarley half so well in

restoring the mutual comprehension which had been temporarily broken.

Chandrapal was evidently relieved. For half a minute there was silence,

during which he walked to and fro, deep in thought. Then he said, "Great

is the power of words when the speaker is wise. But the Truth cannot be

_spoken_."

"Not _all_ on it," said Snarley, "only bits here and there. That's what

the bigness o' things teaches you. It's my opinion as there are two

sorts o' words--shutters-in and openers-out. Them words o' yours was

openers-out; but most as you hears are shutters-in. It's like puttin' a

thing in a box. You shuts the lid, and then all you sees is the box. But

when things gets beyond a certain bigness you can't shut 'em in--not

unless you first chops 'em up, and that spoils 'em.

"Now, there's Shoemaker Hankin--a man as could talk the hind-leg off a

'oss. He goes at it like a hammer, and thinks as he's openin' things

out; but all the time he's shuttin' on 'em in and nailin' on 'em up in

their coffins. One day he begins talkin' about 'Life,' and sez as how he

can explain it in half a shake. 'You'll have to kill it first, Tom,' I

sez, 'or it'll kick the bottom out o' _your_ little box.' 'I'm going to

_hannilize_ it,' he sez. 'That means you're goin' to chop it up,' I sez,

'so that it's bound to be dead before we gets hold on it. All right,

Tom, fire away! Tell us all about dead Life.'

"Well, that's allus the way wi' these talkin' chaps. There was that

Professor as comes tellin' me what space were--I told that gentleman"

(pointing to me) "all about _him_. Why, you might as well try to cut

runnin' water wi' a knife. Talkin' people like him are never satisfied

till they've trampled everything into a _muck_--same as the sheep

tramples the ground when you puts 'em in a pen. They seems to think as

that's what things are _for_! They all wants to do the talkin'

themselves. But doesn't it stand to sense that as long as you're talkin'

about things you can't hear what things are sayin' to you?

"When did I learn all that? Why, you don't _learn_ them things. You just

finds 'em when you're alone among the hills and the bigness o' things

comes over you. Do you know anything about the stars? Well, then, you'll

understand.

"All the same, I were once a talkin' man myself; ay, and it were then as

I got the first lesson in leavin' things alone. It happened one day when

I were a Methody--long before I knew anything about the stars. I'd been

what they call 'converted'; and one day I were prayin' powerful at a

meetin', and we was all excited, and shoutin' as we wouldn't go home

till the answer had come. Well, it did come--at least it come to me. I

were standin' up shoutin' wi' the rest, when all of a sudden I kind o'

heard somebody whisperin' in my ear. 'The answer's comin',' I sez; 'I'm

gettin' it,' So they all gets quiet, waitin' for me to give the answer.

I suppose they expected me to say as a new heart had been given to

somebody we'd been prayin' for. But instead o' that I shouts out at the

top o' my voice--though I can't tell what made me do it--'Shut up, all

on you! Shut up, Henry Blain! Shut up, John Scarsbrick! Shut up, Robert

Dellanow--_I'm tired o' the lot on you!_' That's what made me give up

bein' a Methody. I began to see from that day that when things begins to

open out you've got to _shut up_."

"The voices of the world are many; and the speech of man is only one,"

said Chandrapal.

"You're right," said Snarley, "but I'm not sure as you ought to call 'em

voices. Most on 'em's more like faces nor voices. It's true there's the

thunder and the wind--'specially when it's blowin' among the trees. And

then there's the animals and the birds."

"It is said in the East that once there were men who understood the

language of birds."

"No, no," said Snarley, "there's no understandin' them things. But

there's one bird, and that's the nightingale, as makes me kind o'

remember as I understood 'em once. And there's no doubt they understand

one another; and there's some sorts of animals as understands other

sorts--but not all. You can take my word for it!"

* * * * *

The light had failed, and the song of the birds, driven to a distance by

our voices, seemed to quicken the darkness into life. 'Darkling, we

listened'--how long I know not, for the subliminal world was awake, and

the measure of time was lost. Snarley was the first to speak, taking up

his parable from the very point where he had left it, as though he were

unconscious that a long interval had elapsed. He spoke to Chandrapal.

"I can see as you're a rememberin' sort o' gentleman," he said. "If you

weren't, you wouldn't ha' come here listenin' to the birds. The animals

remember a lot o' things as we've forgotten. I dare say you know it as

well as I do. Now, there's the nightingale--_that's_ the bird for

recollectin' and makin' you recollect; and you might say dogs and 'osses

too. You can see the memory in the dog's eyes and in the 'oss's face.

But you can _hear_ it in the bird's voice--and hearin' and smellin' is

better nor seein' when it comes to a matter o' rememberin.'

"Yes, and it's my opinion as animals, takin' 'em all round, are wiser

nor men--that is, they've got more sense. You let your line out far

enough, and I tell you there's some animals as can make you find a lot

o' things as you've forgotten. That's what the bird does. When I

listens, I seems to be rememberin' all sorts o' things, only I can't

tell nobody what they are.

"Yes, but you ought to ha' been here that night when Mrs. Abel give that

piece! Why, bless you, she'd got the nightingale to a T, especially the

rememberin'. Eh, my word, but it were a staggerer! I _wish_ you'd been

there--a rememberin' gentleman like you! You get her to give you that

piece when you goes home, and it'll make you reel your line out to the

very end."

Some of those allusions, I imagine, were lost on Chandrapal. But once

more he showed that he caught the "sense."

"In my country," he said, "religion forbids us to take the lives of

animals."

"That's a good sort o' religion," said Snarley. "There's some sense in

that! Them as holds with it must ha' let their line out pretty far. Now,

it wouldn't surprise me to hear as folks in your country are good at

rememberin' things as other folks have forgotten."

"Yes, some of us think we can remember many things." And, after a pause,

"I thought just now that I remembered you."

"And me you!" said Snarley, "blessed if I didn't. The minute you said

them funny words, danged if I didn't feel as though I'd knowed you all

my life! It was just like when I'm listenin' to the bird--all sorts o'

things comes tumblin' back. Same with them words o' yours. It seemed as

though somebody as I knowed were a-callin' of me. I must ha' travelled

millions o' miles, same as when you lets your line out to the stars. And

all the time I were sure that I knowed the voice, though I couldn't

understand the meanin'. I tell you, it were _just_ like listenin' to the

bird."

Chandrapal now turned and said something to Mrs. Abel. She promptly

slipped out of the shed, giving me a sign to follow. Chandrapal and

Snarley were left to themselves.

* * * * *

Late at night Chandrapal returned to the Rectory. He was more than

usually silent and absorbed. Of what had passed between him and Snarley

he said not a word; but, on bidding us good-night, he remarked to Mrs.

Abel, "The cycle of existence returns upon itself." And Snarley, on his

part, never spoke of the occurrence to any living soul. "The rest is

silence."