The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Not since that summer when, at fifteen, Marcellus was slowly convalescing from a serious illness, had he experienced so keen an awareness of life’s elemental properties. The wasting fever had left him weak and emaciated; but through those days of his recovery his senses had been abnormally alert. Especially in the early morning: all colors were luminous, all sounds were intensified, all scents were heady concentrates of familiar fragrances.

  Until then, the birds chirped and whistled, each species shrieking its own identifying cry; but it was silly to say that they sang. Now the birds sang, their songs melodious and choral. The dawn breeze was saturated with a subtle blend of newmown clover and sweetish honeysuckle, of jasmine and narcissus, welcoming him back to life’s brightness and goodness. An occasional cool wisp of dank leaf-mould and fresh-spaded earth momentarily sobered him; and then he would rejoice that he had escaped their more intimate acquaintance.

  For those few days, as a youth, Marcellus had been impressed by his kinship with all created things. It stilled and steadied his spirit to find himself so closely integrated with Nature. Then, as he regained his bodily vigor, this peculiar sensitivity gradually ceased to function. He still enjoyed the colors and perfumes of the flowers, the liquid calls of the birds, and the insistent hum of little winged creatures; but his brief understanding of their language was lost in the confusion of ordinary work and play. Nor did he expect ever to reclaim that transient rapture. Perhaps it could be experienced only when one’s physical resources had ebbed to low tide, and one’s fragility had made common cause with such other fragile things as hummingbirds and heliotrope.

  This morning, to his happy amazement, that higher awareness had returned, filling him with a mystifying exaltation. He had somehow recaptured that indefinable ecstasy.

  It had rained softly in the night, bathing the tall sycamores until their gaily fluttering leaves reflected glints of gold. The air was heavy with the scent of refreshed roses. Perhaps it was on such a morning, mused Marcellus, that Aristophanes had composed his famous apostrophe to the Birds of Athens.

  Doubtless it was inevitable that yesterday afternoon’s strange experience should have produced a sequence of varied reactions. The immediate effect of his dealings with the Robe had been a feeling of awe and bewilderment, quickly followed by an exhilaration bordering on hysteria. But the protracted neural strain had been so relentless, and had taken such a heavy toll, that this sudden release of tension had produced an almost paralyzing fatigue. Marcellus had gone supperless to bed and had slept like a little child.

  Rousing, wide-awake, with an exultant sense of complete cleansing and renewal, he had wished he could lift his eyes and hands in gratitude to some kindly spirit who might be credited with this ineffable gift. As he sat there in the rose-arbor, he mentally called the roll of the classic gods and goddesses, questing a name worthy of homage; but he could think of none who deserved his intellectual respect; much less his reverence. He had been singularly blest; but the gift was anonymous. For the first time in his life, Marcellus envied all naive souls who believed in the gods. As for himself, he was incapable of belief in them.

  But this amazing experience with the Robe was something that could not be dismissed with a mere ‘I do not understand; so—let it be considered a closed incident.’

  No—it was a problem that had to be dealt with, somehow. Marcellus gave himself to serious reflection. First of all, the Robe had symbolized that whole shameful affair at Jerusalem. The man who wore it had been innocent of any crime. He had been unfairly tried, unjustly sentenced, and dishonorably put to death. He had borne his pain with admirable fortitude. Was ‘fortitude’ the word? No—murmured Marcellus—the Galilean had something else besides that. The best that ‘fortitude’ could accomplish was courageous endurance. This Jesus had not merely endured. It was rather as if he had confronted his tragedy!—had gone to meet it!

  And then—that night at the Insula—dully sobering from a whole day’s drunkenness, Marcellus had gradually roused to a realization that he—in the face of this incredible bravery—had carried out his brutal work as if the victim were an ordinary criminal. The utter perfidy of his behavior had suddenly swept over him like a storm, that night at Pilate’s banquet. It was not enough that he had joined hands with cowards and scoundrels to crucify this Jesus. He had consented to ridicule the dead hero by putting on his blood-stained Robe for the entertainment of a drunken crowd. Not much wonder that the torturing memory of his own part in the crime had festered—and burned—and poisoned his spirit! Yes—that part of it was understandable. And because the Robe had been the instrument of his torture, it was natural, he thought, that he should have developed an almost insane abhorrence of it!

  Yesterday afternoon, its touch had healed his wounded mind. How was he to evaluate this astonishing fact? Perhaps it was more simple than it seemed: perhaps he was making it all too difficult. He had shrunk from this Robe because it symbolized his great mistake and misfortune. Now—compelled by a desperate circumstance to lay his hands upon the Robe—his obsession had vanished! Was this effect purely subjective—or was the Robe actually possessed of magical power?

  This latter suggestion was absurd! It was preposterous! It offended every principle he had lived by! To admit of such a theory, he would have to toss overboard all his reasonable beliefs in an impersonal, law-abiding universe—and become a confessed victim of superstition.

  No—he could not and would not do that! There was no magic in this Robe! It was a mere tool of his imagination. For many weeks it had symbolized his crime and punishment. Now it symbolized his release. His remorse had run its full measure through the hourglass and the time had come for him to put his crime behind him. The touch of the Robe in his hands had simply marked the moment for the expiration of his mental punishment. He was not going to admit that the Robe was invested with power.

  Today he would find that weaver and have the Robe repaired. He would at least show it that much honor and respect. It was nothing more than a garment—but it deserved to be handled with gratitude—and reverence! Yes—he would go that far! He could honestly say that he reverenced this Robe!

  Demetrius had joined him now, apologetic for tardiness.

  ‘I am glad you could sleep,’ smiled Marcellus. ‘You have had much worry—on my account. In my unhappiness, I have been rough with you. You have been quite understanding, Demetrius, and immensely patient. I am sorry for the way I have treated you; especially yesterday. That was too bad!’

  ‘Please, sir!’ pleaded Demetrius. ‘I am so glad you are well again!’

  ‘I think we will try to find your weaver, today, and see if he can mend the Robe.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I order your breakfast now?’

  ‘In a moment. Demetrius—in your honest opinion—is that Robe haunted?’

  ‘It is very mysterious, sir.’ Demetrious was spacing his words deliberately. ‘I had hoped that you might be able to throw a little light on it. May I ask what conclusion you have come to?’

  Marcellus sighed and shook his head.

  ‘The more I think about it,’ he said, slowly, ‘the more bewildering it is!’ He rose, and moved toward the house.

  ‘Well, sir,’ volunteered Demetrius, at his elbow, ‘it isn’t as if we were required to comprehend it. There are plenty of things that we are not expected to understand. This may be one of them.’

  ***

  Across the street from the main entrance to the sprawling, open-air Theater of Dionysus, there was a huddle of small bazaars dealing in such trifles as the playgoers might pick up on their way in; sweetmeats, fans, and cushions. At the end of the row stood Benjamin’s little shop, somewhat aloof from its frivolous neighbors. There was nothing on the door to indicate the nature of Benjamin’s business; nothing but his name, burned into a cypress plank, and that not plainly legible; dryly implying that if you didn’t know Benjamin was a weaver—and the oldest and most skillful weaver in Athens—you weren’t likely to be a desirable client.r />
  Within, the shop was suffocatingly stuffy. Not a spacious room to begin with, it contained—besides the two looms, one of them the largest Marcellus had ever seen—an ungainly spinning-wheel, a huge carding device, and bulky stores of raw materials; reed baskets heaped high with silk cocoons, big bales of cotton, bulging bags of wool.

  Most of the remaining floor space was occupied by the commodious worktable on which Benjamin sat, cross-legged, deeply absorbed in the fine hem he was stitching around the flowing sleeve of an exquisitely wrought chiton. He was shockingly lean and stooped, and his bald head seemed much too large for his frail body. A long white beard covered his breast. His shabby robe was obviously not worn as a specimen of his handicraft. Behind him, against the wall and below the window-ledge, there was a long shelf well filled with scrolls whose glossy spools showed much handling.

  Benjamin did not look up until he had reached the end of his thread; then, straightening with a painful grimace, he peered at his new clients with a challenge that wrinkled his long nose and uptipped his lip, after the manner of an overloaded, protesting camel. Except for the beady brightness of his deeply caverned eyes, Benjamin was as old as Jehovah—and as cross, too, if his scowl told the truth about his disposition.

  Marcellus advanced confidently with Demetrius at his elbow.

  ‘This garment,’ he began, holding it up, ‘needs mending.’

  Benjamin puckered his leathery old mouth unpleasantly, sniffed, licked his thumb, and twisted a fresh thread to a sharp point.

  ‘I have better things to do,’ he declaimed, gutturally, ‘than dam holes in old coats.’ He raised his needle to the light, and squintingly probed for its eye. ‘Go to a sailmaker,’ he added, somewhat less gruffly.

  ‘Perhaps I should not have bothered you with so small a matter,’ admitted Marcellus, unruffled. ‘I am aware that this garment is of little practical value, but it is a keepsake, and I had hoped to have it put in order by someone who knows how.’

  ‘Keepsake, ch! Old Benjamin reached for the Robe with a pathetically thin hand and pawed over it with well-informed fingers. ‘A keepsake,’ he mumbled. ‘And how did this get to be a keepsake?’ He frowned darkly at Marcellus. ‘You are a Roman; are you not? This Robe is as Jewish as the Ten Commandments.’

  ‘True!’ conceded Marcellus, patiently. ‘I am a Roman, and the Robe belonged to a Jew.’

  ‘Friend of yours, I suppose.’ Benjamin’s tone was bitterly ironical.

  ‘Not exactly a friend—no. But he was a brave Jew and well esteemed by all who knew him. His Robe came into my hands, and I wish to have it treated with respcet.’ Marcellus leaned closer to watch as the old man scratched lightly at a dark stain with his yellow finger-nail.

  ‘Died fighting—maybe,’ muttered Benjamin.

  ‘It was a violent death,’ said Marcellus, ‘but he was not fighting. He was a man of peace—set upon by enemies.’

  ‘You seem to know all about it,’ growled Benjamin. ‘However—it is naught to me how you came by this garment. It is clear enough that you had no hand in harming the Jew, or you would not think so highly of his old Robe.’ Thawing slightly, he added, ‘I shall mend it for you. It will cost you nothing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Marcellus, coolly. ‘I prefer to pay for it. When shall I call?’

  Benjamin wasn’t listening. With his deep-lined old face upturned toward the window he was inspecting the Robe against the light. Over his thin shoulder he beckoned Marcellus to draw closer.

  ‘Observe, please. It is woven without a seam; all in one portion. There is only one locality where they do that. It is up in the neighborhood of the Lake Gennesaret, in Galilee.’ Benjamin waggled his beard thoughtfully. ‘I have not seen a piece of Galilean homespun for years. This is from up around Capernaum somewhere, I’d say.’

  ‘You are acquainted with that country?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘Yes, yes; my people are Samaritans, a little way to the south; almost on the border.’ Benjamin chuckled grimly. 'The Samaritans and the Galileans never had much use for one another. The Galileans were great Temple people, spending much time in their synagogues, and forever leaving their flocks and crops to look after themselves while they journeyed to Jerusalem for the ceremonies. They kept themselves poor with their pilgrimages and sacrifices. We Samaritans didn’t hold with the Temple.’

  ‘Why was that?’ wondered Marcellus.

  Benjamin swung his thin legs over the edge of the table and sat up prepared to launch upon an extended lecture.

  ‘Of course,’ he began, ‘you have heard the story of Elijah.’

  Marcellus shook his head, and Benjamin regarded him with withering pity; then, apparently deciding not to waste any more time, he drew up his legs again, folded them comfortably, and resumed his rethreading of the needle.

  ‘Was this Elijah one of the gods of Samaria?’ Marcellus had the misfortune to inquire.

  The old man slowly put down his work and seared his young customer with a contemptuous stare.

  ‘I find it difficult to believe,’ he declared, ‘that even a Roman could have accumulated so much ignorance. To the Jew—be he Samaritan, Galilean, Judean, or of the dispersed—there is but one God! Elijah was a great prophet. Elisha, who inherited his mantle, was also a great prophet. They lived in the mountains of Samaria, long before the big temples and all the holy fuss of the lazy priests. We Samaritans have always worshiped on the hilltops, in the groves.’

  ‘That sounds quite sensible to me,’ approved Marcellus, brightly.

  ‘Well,’ grunted the old man, ‘that’s no compliment to our belief; though I suppose you intended your remark to be polite.’

  Marcellus spontaneously laughed outright, and Benjamin, rubbing his long nose, grinned dryly.

  ‘You are of a mild temper, young man,’ he observed.

  That depends, sir, upon the nature of the provocation,’ said Marcellus, not wishing to be thought weak. ‘You are my senior—by many, many years.’

  ‘Ah—so—and you think an old man has a right to be rude?’

  ‘Apparently we share the same opinion on that matter,’ drawled Marcellus, complacently.

  Benjamin bent low over his work, chuckling deep in his whiskers.

  ‘What is your name, young man?’ he asked, after a while, without looking up; and when Marcellus had told him, he inquired, ‘How long are you to be in Athens?’

  The query was of immense interest to Demetrius. Now that conditions had changed, Marcellus might be contemplating an early return to Rome. He had not yet indicated what his intentions were, or whether he had given the matter any thought at all.

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Marcellus. ‘Several weeks, perhaps. There are many things I wish to see.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Benjamin.

  Marcellus turned an inquiring glance toward Demetrius, who supplied the information.

  ‘Been on Mars’ Hill?’ queried the old man.

  ‘No,’ replied Marcellus, reluctantly.

  ‘Acropolis?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You have not been in the Parthenon?’

  ‘No—not yet.’

  ‘Humph! What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Resting,’ said Marcellus. ‘I’ve recently been on two long voyages.’

  ‘A healthy young fellow like you doesn’t need any rest,’ scoffed Benjamin. ‘Two voyages, eh? You’re quite a traveler. Where were you?’

  Marcellus frowned. There seemed no limit to the old man’s inquisitiveness.

  ‘We came here from Rome,’ he said, hoping that might be sufficient. ‘That’s one voyage,’ encouraged Benjamin.

  ‘And—before that—we sailed to Rome from Joppa.’

  ‘Ah—from Joppa!’ Benjamin continued his precise stitching, his eyes intent upon it, but his voice was vibrant with sudden interest. ‘Then you were in Jerusalem. And how long ago was that?’

  Marcellus made a mental calculation, and told him.

&
nbsp; ‘Indeed!’ commented Benjamin. ‘Then you were there during the week of the Passover. I am told there were some strange happenings.’

  Demetrius started; restlessly shifted his weight, and regarded his master with anxiety. Benjamin’s darting glance, from under shaggy eyebrows, noted it.

  ‘Doubtless,’ replied Marcellus, evasively. The city was packed with all sorts. Anything could have happened.’ He hitched at his belt, and retreated a step. ‘I shall not interfere with your work any longer.’

  ‘Come tomorrow—a little before sunset,’ said Benjamin. The Robe will be ready for you. We will have a glass of wine together—if you will accept the hospitality of my humble house.’

  Marcellus hesitated for a moment before replying, and exchanged glances with Demetrius who almost imperceptibly shook his head as if saying we had better not risk a review of the tragedy.

  ‘You are most kind,’ said Marcellus. ‘I am not sure—what I may be doing—tomorrow. But—if I do not come, I shall send for the Robe. May I pay you now?’ He reached into the breast of his tunic.

  Benjamin continued stitching, as if he had not heard. After a long minute he searched Marcellus’ eyes.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, patting the Robe with gentle fingers, ‘I think you do not want to talk—about this Jew.’

  Marcellus was plainly uncomfortable, and anxious to be off.

  ‘It is a painful story,’ he said, shortly.

  ‘All stories about Jews are painful,’ said Benjamin ‘May I expect you tomorrow?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ agreed Marcellus, indecisively.

  ‘That is good,’ mumbled Benjamin. He held up his bony hand. ‘Peace be upon you!’

  ‘Er—thank you,’ stammered Marcellus, uncertain whether he, in turn, was expected to confer peace upon the old Jew. Maybe that would be a social enor. ‘Farewell,’ he said, finally, feeling he would be safe to leave it at that.

  Outside the shop, Marcellus and Demetrius traded looks of mutual inquiry and sauntered across the road to the empty theater.