‘Once we thought,’ said Dion, with a teasing smile for his sister, ‘that something might come of it.’
‘But we Greeks are never comfortable anywhere else,’ explained Ino, which made Marcellus wonder if their friendship hadn’t been serious.
No one had paid any attention to Demetrius, which was entirely natural, for Dion had probably advised the family that Marcellus was accompanied by his slave.
At the first pause in the conversation, Ino turned to him inquiring if he wasn’t a Greek. Demetrius bowed a respectful affirmative.
‘Where?’ inquired Ino.
‘Corinth.’
‘You have been in Athens before?’
‘Once.’
‘Do you read?’
‘Sometimes.’
Ino laughed a little. Glancing toward her brother, she was aware that he disapproved of this talk. So did Marcellus, she noticed. Demetrius retreated a step and straightened to a sentry’s posture. There was a momentary constraint before general conversation was resumed.
While they talked, a tall, strikingly beautiful girl sauntered in through the front door, apparently having just arrived from without the grounds, for she wore an elaborately fringed and tasseled pink himation, drawn about her so tightly that it accented her graceful figure. Her mother reached out an affectionate hand as she came into the circle.
‘Our daughter, Theodosia,’ she said. ‘My child, our guest is Marcellus, the son of Marcus Gallio, of whom you have often heard your father speak.’
Theodosia gave him a bright smile. Then her dark, appraising eyes drifted over his shoulder and surveyed Demetrius with interest. He met her look of inquiry with what was meant to be a frown. This only added to Theodosia’s curiosity. Obviously she was wondering why no one was inclined to introduce him.
It was an awkward moment. Marcellus did not want to hurt Demetrius. He felt it would be cruel to remark, casually, ‘That man is my slave.’ He heartily wished afterward that he had done so, instead of merely trying to be humane.
‘This is Demetrius,’ he said.
Theodosia took a step forward, looked up into Demetrius’ face, and gave him a slow smile that approved of him first with her candid eyes and then with pouting lips. Demetrius gravely bowed with stiff dignity. Theodosia’s eyes were puzzled. Then, after a little hesitation—for unmarried women were not accustomed to shaking hands with men, unless they were close relatives—she offered him her hand. Demetrius stared straight ahead and pretended not to see it.
‘He’s a slave,’ muttered her father.
‘Oh,’ said Theodosia. ‘I didn’t know.’ Then she looked up into Demetrius’ eyes again. He met her look, this time, curiously. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. Aften an instant she stammered in a tone that was almost intimate, ‘It is too bad—that we have to—to be this way—I think. I hope we have not—I didn’t mean—’ She floundered to a stop as Demetrius, with an understanding smile, nodded that it was all right, and she wasn’t to fret about it.
‘We will show you to your suite now,’ said Dion, abruptly.
Marcellus bowed to the women and followed his host, Demetrius marching stiffly behind him. Theodosia stared after them until they disappeared. Then she gave a quick little sigh and turned a self-defensive smile on her aunt.
‘Forget it, child,’ murmured Ino, sensibly. ‘How could you know he was a slave; certainly wasn’t dressed like one; certainly didn’t look like one. And we don’t have slaves standing about in here.’
‘Well—it shouldn’t have happened,’ said Phoebe, crossly. ‘You'll have to be careful now. If he takes any advantage of this, you must snub him—properly!’
‘Wasn’t he snubbed—properly?’ wondered Theodosia.
‘With words, perhaps,’ remarked Aunt Ino, with a knowing grin.
***
After a week, Demetrius, who had counted heavily upon this sojourn in Athens to relieve his master’s deep dejection, began to lose heart.
Upon their arrival at the House of Eupolis, Marcellus had been welcomed so warmly—and had responded to these amenities so gratefully—that Demetrius felt they had already gone a long way toward solving the distressing problem.
The new environment was perfect. Their sunny rooms on the ground floor looked out upon a gay flower-garden. In their stone-flagged little peristyle, comfortable chairs extended an invitation to quiet reading. Surely no one at all interested in sculpture could have asked for a better opportunity than the studio afforded.
But it was of no use. Marcellus’ melancholy was too heavy to be lifted. He was not interested in Demetrius’ suggestion that they visit the Acropolis or Mars’ Hill or some of the celebrated galleries.
‘How about strolling down to the agora?’ Demetrius had pleaded, on the second morning. ‘It’s always interesting to see the country people marketing their produce.’
‘Why don’t you go?’ countered Marcellus.
‘I do not like to leave you alone, sir.’
‘That’s true,’ nodded Marcellus. ‘I dislike being alone.’
He wouldn’t even go to see the Temple of Heracles, directly across the street, within a boy’s arrow of where he sat slowly examining his fingers. Demetrius expected that he would surely want to show some civility to the Eupolis family. Dion had called twice, frankly perplexed to find his guest so preoccupied and taciturn. Theodosia had appeared, one morning, at the far end of the garden; and Marcellus, observing her, had come in from the peristyle, apparently to avoid speaking to her.
Demetrius thought he knew what was keeping Marcellus away from the Eupolis family. He never could tell when one of these mysterious seizures would arrive to grip him until the sweat streamed down his face, in the midst of which he would stun somebody with the incomprehensible query, ‘Were you out there?’ Not much wonder he didn’t care to have a friendly chat with Theodosia.
True, it was not absolutely necessary for Marcellus to make further connections with his host’s family. Meals were sent over to their suite. Household slaves kept their rooms in order. Demetrius had practically nothing to do but wait—and keep a watchful but not too solicitous eye on his master. It was very trying, and he was bored almost to death.
On the morning of the eighth day, he resolved to do something about it.
‘If you are not quite ready to do any modeling, sir,’ he began, ‘would you object if I amused myself with some experiments in clay?’
‘Not at all,’ mumbled Marcellus. ‘I know this must be very tiresome for you. By all means, get the clay.’
So—that afternoon, Demetrius dragged the tall, stout modeling-table into the center of the studio and began some awkward attempts to mould a little statuette. After a while, Marcellus came in from his perpetual stupor in the peristyle and sat down in the corner to watch. Presently he chuckled. It was not a pleasantly mirthful chuckle, but ever so much better than none. Realizing that his early adventure in modeling was at least affording some wholesome entertainment, Demetrius persisted soberly in the production of a bust that would have made a dog laugh.
‘Let me show you.’ Marcellus came over to the table and took up the clay. ‘To begin with, it’s too dry,’ he said, with something like critical interest. ‘Get some water. If you’re going to do this at all, you may as well give yourself a chance.’
Now, thought Demetrius, we have solved our problem! He was so happy he could hardly keep his joy out of his face, but he knew that Marcellus would resent any felicitations. All afternoon they worked together; rather, Marcellus worked, and Demetrius watched. That evening Marcellus ate his supper with relish and went early to bed.
After breakfast the next morning, it delighted Demetrius to see his master stroll into the studio. He thought he would leave him alone. Perhaps it would be better for him to work without any distraction.
In a half-hour, Marcellus trudged out to the peristyle and sat down. He was pale. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His hands were trembling. Demetrius turned away with a deep sigh.
That night he decided to do the thing he had resolved to do if all other expedients failed. It would be drastic treatment. In Marcellus’ mental condition, it might indeed be the one tragic move that would put him definitely over the border line. But he couldn’t go on this way! It was worth a trial.
After Marcellus had retired, Demetrius went over to the kitchen and asked Glycon, the steward, whether he could tell him the name of a firstclass weaver: he wanted to have a garment mended for his master. Glycon was prompt with the information. Of course! A skillful weaver? Who but old Benjamin? That would be down near the Theater of Dionysus. Anybody could tell you, once you got to the theater.
‘Benjamin sounds like a Jew,’ remarked Demetrius.
‘So he is,’ nodded Glycon, ‘and a fine old man; a scholar, they say.’ Glycon laughed. ‘There’s one Jew not interested in getting rich. I’ve heard it said that if Benjamin doesn’t like your looks he won’t do business with you.’
‘Perhaps he wouldn’t care to talk with a slave,’ wondered Demetrius.
‘Oh—that wouldn’t matter to Benjamin,’ Glycon declared. ‘Why should it? Haven’t his own people rattled plenty of chains?’
***
All the next day until mid-afternoon, Marcellus sat slumped in his big chair outside the doorway, staring dully at the garden. In the adjacent studio, Demetrius disinterestedly toyed with the soft clay, listening for any movement in the little peristyle. Twice he had gone out, with an assumption of cheerfulness, to ask questions which he thought might stir his moody master’s curiosity about his absurd attempts at modeling; but there was no response.
The situation had now become so desperate that Demetrius felt it was high time to make the dangerous experiment which—if everything else failed—he had resolved to try. His heart beat rapidly as he turned away from the table and went to his own room, and his hands were trembling as he reached into the depths of the large sailcloth bag in which the cherished Galilean garment had been stowed.
It had been many weeks since he had seen it himself. He had had no privacy on The Clytia, and the enchanted Robe that had so profoundly affected Marcellus’ mind had not been unpacked since they had left Rome.
Sitting down on the edge of his couch, Demetrius reverently unfolded it across his knees. Again he had this strange sensation of tranquility that had come to him when he had handled the Robe in Jerusalem. It was a peculiar sort of calmness; not the calmness of inertia or indifference, but the calmness of self-containment. He was stilled—but strengthened.
There had never been any room in his mind for superstition. He had always disdained the thought that any sort of power could be resident in an inanimate object. People who believed in the magical qualities of insensate things were either out-and-out fools, or had got themselves into an emotional state where they were the easy victims of their own inflamed imagination. He had no patience with otherwise sensible men who carried lucky stones in their pockets. It had comforted him to feel that although he was a slave his mind was not in bondage.
Well—be all that as it might—the solid fact remained that when he laid his hands upon the Galilean’s Robe, his agitation ceased. His nervous anxiety vanished. After the previous occasion when he had sensed this, he had told himself that the extraordinary experience could be accounted for on the most practical, common-sense terms. This Robe had been worn by a man of immense courage; effortless, inherent, built-in, automatic courage! Demetrius had seen this Jesus on trial, serene and self-assured with the whole world arrayed against him, with death staring him in the face, and not one protesting friend in sight. Was it not natural that his Robe should become a symbol of fortitude?
With far too much time on his hands during these recent weeks, Demetrius had deliberated upon this phenomenon until he had arrived at the reasonable explanation of his own attitude toward the thorn-torn garment: it was a symbol of moral strength, just as his mother’s ring was a symbol of her tender affection.
But now!—with the Robe in his suddenly steadied hands—he wasn’t so sure about the soundness of his theory. There was a power clinging to this homespun Galilean Robe which no cool rational argument was fit to cope with. Indeed, it seemed rather impudent to attempt an analysis of its claims upon his emotions.
Folding the Robe across his arm, Demetrius walked confidently to the open door. Marcellus slowly turned his head with a listless expression of inquiry. Then his eyes gradually widened with terror, his face a contorted mask of amazement and alarm. He swallowed convulsively and slowly bent backward over the broad arm of his chair, recoiling from the thing that had destroyed his peace.
‘I have learned of a good weaver, sir,’ said Demetrius, calmly. ‘If you have no objections, I shall have him mend this Robe.’
‘I told you’—Marcellus’ dry throat drained the life out of his husky tone—‘I ordered you—to destroy—that thing!’ His voice rose, thin and shrill. ‘Take it away! Bum it! Bury the ashes!’ Pulling himself to his feet, he staggered to the corner of the peristyle, with the feeble steps of an invalid; and, hooking an arm around the pillar, he cried: ‘I had not thought this of you, Demetrius! You have known the nature of my distress! And now—you come coolly confronting me with this torturing reminder; this haunted thing! I tell you—you have gone too far with your callous disobedience! I had always treated you as a friend—you who were my slave. I am finished with you! I shall sell you—in the market-place!’ Thoroughly spent with rage, Marcellus slumped down upon the stone bench. ‘Leave me,’ he muttered, hoarsely. ‘I can bear no more! Please go away!
Demetrius slowly and silently withdrew into the house, shaking his head. His experiment had failed. It had been exactly the wrong thing to do. The patient, wearisome game of restoring Marcellus was now lost. Indeed, he was ever so much worse off; quite out of reach.
Returning to his own small bedchamber, Demetrius sat down, with the Robe still clutched tightly in his arms, and wondered what should be the next step to take. Curiously enough, Marcellus’ complete breakdown had not upset him: he was unspeakably sorry, but self-controlled. The hysterical threat of being sold in the agora did not disturb him. Marcellus would not do that. Nor was he going to permit himself to be offended by the savagery of his master’s rebuke. If ever Marcellus needed him, it was now.
Clearly the next thing to be done was to do nothing. Marcellus must be given time to compose himself. There would be no sense in trying to reason with him in his present state. It would be equally futile to plead for pardon. Marcellus had far better be left alone for a while.
Laying the folded Robe across the top of the capacious gunny-bag, Demetrius slipped quietly out through the front door and strolled through the cypress grove toward the street. Deeply preoccupied, he did not see Theodosia—in the swing—until he was too close to retreat unobserved. She straightened from her lounging posture, put down the trifle of needlework beside her, and beckoned to him. He was quite lonesome enough to have welcomed her friendly gesture, but he disliked the idea of compromising her. Theodosia was evidently a very willful girl, accustomed to treating the conventions with saucy indifference.
With undisguised reluctance, he walked toward the swing; and, at a little distance, drew up erectly to listen to whatever she might want to say. He was far from pleased by the prospect of getting them both into trouble, but there was no denying that Theodosia made a very pretty picture in the graceful white peplos girdled with a wide belt of paneled silver, a scarlet ribbon about her head that accented the whiteness of her brow, and gaily beaded sandals much too fragile for actual service.
‘Why is it,’ she demanded, with a comradely smile, ‘that we see nothing of your master? Have we offended him? Does he disapprove of us? Tell me, please. I am dying of curiosity.’
‘My master has not been well,’ replied Demetrius, soberly.
‘Ah—but there’s more to it than that.’ Theodosia’s dark eyes were narrowed knowingly as she slowly nodded her blue-black head. ‘You’re troubled too, my friend. Needn’t
tell me you’re not. You are worried about him. Is that not so?’
It was evident that this girl was used to having her own way with people. She was so radiant with vitality that even her impudence was forgivable. Demetrius suddenly surprised them both with a candid confession.
‘It is true,’ he admitted. ‘I am worried—beyond the telling!’
‘Is there anything that we can do?’ Theodosia’s eager eyes were sincerely sympathetic.
‘No,’ said Demetrius, hopelessly.
‘He has puzzled me,’ persisted Theodosia. “When you arrived, the other night, Marcellus struck me as a person who was trying to get away from something. He didn’t really want to talk to us. You know that. He was polite enough—but very anxious to be off. I can’t think it was because he did not like us. He had the air of one wanting to escape. It’s clear enough that he is not hiding from the law; for surely this is no place for a fugitive.’
Demetrius did not immediately reply, though Theodosia had paused several times to give him a chance to say something. He had been busy thinking. As he stood listening to this bright girl’s intuitive speculations, it occurred to him that she might be able to offer some sensible advice, if she knew what the problem was. Indeed, it would be better for her to know the facts than to harbor a suspicion that Marcellus was a rascal. He knew that Theodosia was reading in his perplexed eyes a half-formed inclination to be frank. She gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Let’s have it, Demetrius,’ she murmured, intimately. ‘I won’t tell.’
‘It is a long story,’ he said, moodily. ‘And it would be most imprudent for the daughter of Eupolis to be seen in an extended conversation with a slave.’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Your father is already annoyed, you know, because you made the mistake of treating me cordially.’
Theodosia’s pretty lips puckered thoughtfully.
‘I do not think anyone is watching us,’ she said, glancing cautiously toward the house. ‘If you will walk briskly down the street, as if setting out on an errand, and turn to the right at the first corner—and again to the right, at the next one—you will come to a high-walled garden to the rear of that old temple over there.’
The Robe Page 20