The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Not so odd, when you stop to think about it. A talent for truth is real property. If a man loves truth better than things, people like to be around where he is. Almost everybody wishes he could be honest, but you can’t have the spirit of truth when your heart is set on dickering for things. That’s why people hung about this carpenter and listened to everything he said: he had the spirit of truth. Nobody had to be on guard with him; didn’t have to pretend; didn’t have to lie. It made them happy and free as little children.’

  ‘Did everybody respond to him—that way?’ asked Marcellus, seriously.

  ‘Almost everybody,’ nodded Justus. ‘Oh—sometimes people who didn’t know him tried to deceive him about themselves, but’—he grinned broadly as if remembering an occasion—‘but, you see, sir, he was so perfected in the truth that you couldn’t lie to him, or pretend to be what you weren’t. It simply couldn’t be done, sir; either by word, tone, or manner! And as soon as people found that out, they dropped their weapons and defenses, and began to speak the truth, themselves! It was a new experience for some of them, and it gave them a sensation of freedom. That’s why they liked him, sir. They couldn’t lie to him, and so they told the truth—and—the truth set them free!’

  ‘That’s a new thought!’ declared Marcellus. ‘Your friend must have been a philosopher, Justus. Was he a student of the classics?’

  Justus was briefly puzzled, and presently shook his head.

  ‘I do not think so,’ he replied. ‘He just—knew!’

  ‘I don’t suppose he had very many admirers among the well-to-do,’ ventured Marcellus—‘if he discouraged the accumulation of property.’

  ‘You would have been surprised, sir!’ declared Justus. ‘Plenty of rich men listened. I recall, one time a wealthy young nobleman followed him about for a whole afternoon; and before he left he came up closer and said, “How can I get that—what you have?”’

  Justus paused so long and the look in his eyes grew so remote that Marcellus wondered whether he had drifted off to thinking about something else.

  ‘And then—what did your carpenter say?’

  ‘Told him he was too heavily weighed with things,’ replied Justus. ‘“Give your things away,” he said, “and come along with me.”’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘No—but he said he wished he could. He went away quite depressed, and we were all sorry, for he was indeed a fine young fellow.’ Justus shook his head, and smiled pensively. ‘I suppose that was the first time he had ever really wanted something that he couldn’t afford.’

  ‘This carpenter must have been a very unusual man,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘He appears to have had the mind of a dreamer, a poet, an artist. Did he draw, perhaps—or carve?’

  ‘Jews do not draw—or carve.’

  ‘Indeed? How then do they express themselves?’

  ‘They sing,’ replied Justus—‘and tell stories.’

  ‘What manner of stories?’

  ‘Oh—the legends of our people, mostly; the deeds of our great ones. Even the little children can recite the traditions and the prophecies.’ Justus smiled benevolently, and seemed about to confide an incident. ‘I have a grandson, sir. His name is Jonathan. We called him Jonathan because he was born with a crooked foot, like Jonathan of old—the son of King Saul. Our Jonathan is seven. You should hear him tell the story of the Creation, and the Great Flood, and the Exodus.’

  ‘The Exodus?’ Marcellus searched his memory.

  ‘You do not know, sir?’ Justus was tolerant but surprised.

  ‘I know what the word means,’ said Marcellus, defensively. ‘Exodus is a going-away, or a road out; but I do not recall a story about it.’

  ‘I thought everyone knew the history of our people’s escape from bondage in Egypt,’ said Justus.

  ‘Oh—that!’ recalled Marcellus. ‘I didn’t know that was an escape. Our history teachers insist that the Jews were expelled from Egypt.’

  ‘That,’ declared Justus, indignantly, ‘is a vicious untruth! The Pharaoh tried to keep our fathers there—in slavery—to till their soil and build their monuments.’

  ‘Well—no matter,’ drawled Marcellus. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now. I’ll accept your version of the story, if you want to tell me.’

  ‘Little Jonathan will recite it for you when we visit Sepphoris. He is a bright boy.’ Justus’ sudden anger had cooled.

  ‘It is easy to see you are fond of him, Justus.’

  ‘Yes—little Jonathan is all we have. My wife entered into her rest many years ago. My daughter Rebecca is a widow. Jonathan is a great comfort to us. Perhaps you know how it is, sir, in a home where a child is sick or crippled. He gets a little more care; a little more love, maybe, to make up for it. Jonathan still gets it, though he is all well now.’

  ‘Well?’ queried Marcellus. ‘His foot—you mean?’

  Justus nodded slowly, turning his face away.

  ‘Is that not unusual?’ persisted Marcellus.

  The crow’s-feet on Justus’ temple deepened and his face was sober as he nodded again without looking up. It was plain now that he did not wish to be questioned further. Presently he tugged himself loose from his meditative mood, returned with a smile, stretched his long, bronzed arms, and rose to his feet.

  ‘It is time we moved on, sir,’ he declared, ‘if we expect to reach Sychar by sunset. The town does not have a good inn. We will make camp this side, near Jacob’s well. Ever hear of Jacob, sir?’ He grinned, good-humoredly.

  ‘I believe not, Justus,’ confessed Marcellus. ‘Is it such a good well?’

  ‘No better than plenty of other wells, but a landmark; fifteen centuries old.’

  They were on the highway again. The lout with the browsing donkeys had dragged his stubborn caravan out of the weeds. Justus turned about; and, shielding his eyes with his cupped hands, gazed intently down the road over which they had come. Marcellus’ curiosity was rekindled. It was not the first time that Justus had stopped to look backward. And whenever they had come to a crossing, he had paused to look carefully in all directions. He did not seem to be apprehensive of danger. It was rather as if he had made an appointment to meet someone up here. Marcellus was on the point of asking if that were true, but discreetly decided it was none of his business.

  For more than three hours they plodded along the dusty highway, not meeting many travelers, not making much conversation. It was late afternoon. A half-mile ahead, a cluster of sycamores was sighted and a few scattered dwellings.

  ‘There are the outskirts of Sychar,’ said Justus, lengthening his stride.

  In a little while they reached the little suburb, a sleepy, shabby community of whitewashed, flat-roofed houses. In its center, by the roadside, was the historic well. Two women were walking away with water-jars on their shoulders. A third was arriving. Justus’ steps lagged to give her time to draw up the huge bucket and fill her jar. She glanced apathetically in their direction, put down her jar, stared; and then proceeded vigorously with her task. Hurriedly filling the jar, and spilling much water about her feet, she shouldered her burden and made off toward one of the small houses.

  ‘Have we alarmed her?’ asked Marcellus, grinning. ‘I had not thought we looked so fierce.’

  ‘She is not frightened,’ said Justus soberly.

  It was a large well. The ancient stonework around it was of the height of a sheep, and broad enough to be sat upon comfortably. Justus, who had suddenly become preoccupied, sank wearily onto the ledge with his back toward the small group of dwellings. After standing about for some moments, wondering how long they were to linger here, Marcellus sat down on the opposite side to wait until Justus was ready to move on. His eyes idly followed the rapidly retreating figure of the woman until she entered one of the houses.

  Almost immediately she reappeared without her water-jar and ran across the highway to a neighbor; entered, and came out in a moment accompanied by another younger and more attractive woman. They stood for a while loo
king toward the well; then advanced slowly, stopping frequently to parley, their faces full of perplexity.

  ‘That woman is coming back, Justus, and bringing another along, and they are not coming for water,’ drawled Marcellus.

  Justus roused with a little jerk and turned his head. Then he rose and walked toward the woman who came quickly to meet him. They held a brief, low-voiced conversation, Justus solemnly shaking his head. The younger woman, her eyes—very pretty eyes, too—wide with curiosity, continued to press her queries, and Justus shook his head, as if saying, No—no—no. Finally he tipped his head slightly in Marcellus’ direction, and the woman’s eyes instantaneously followed the gesture. Justus was cautioning them not to pursue the matter, whatever it was.

  Then the older woman left them and began slowly retracing her steps toward her house; and Justus, frowning heavily and nodding what seemed to be a reluctant consent, turned back toward the well. Yes—he would try to talk with her again, his manner plainly said. He would talk with her again, as soon as he could do so without arousing the curiosity of this Roman.

  After Justus had unpacked their camping equipment and put up the sleeping-tent under a pair of rangy sycamores, he had mumbled something about having to go back to the village for bread, though Marcellus knew they had enough for their supper and suspected that his more urgent errand was to talk with that woman again; for his manner had made it plain that he wished to go alone.

  Wearied by the long day’s tramp and annoyed by his guide’s secretiveness, he flung himself down on the rug that Justus had spread in front of the tent and moodily watched the sun going down over the tree-tops and house-roofs of the village.

  Why did Justus want to have a private interview with this woman? What did they have to talk about? Something quite serious, apparently. Perhaps they would discuss this mystery. But why should there be a mystery? The Galilean was dead. Who was going to persecute these people for what the carpenter had said or done; or for their tender remembrance of him?

  Marcellus was offended. Surely Justus had no reason to think that he had come up into this poverty-stricken land to harass the simple-hearted country-folk. There was no occasion for this fellow to treat him as if he were an ordinary eavesdropper!

  Well—if Justus did not trust him, it was conceivable that he might secretly go through his belongings, looking for some evidence. If he did so—he would get a stunning surprise! There was one article of Galilean homespun, at the bottom of his gunny-bag, that Justus must not seel.

  Chapter XIII

  IT WAS well on toward sunset when they sighted Cana, after a fatiguing tramp from the village of Nain where Justus’ insistence on observing the Sabbath had kept them off the road for a day—one of the most tedious and profitless days that Marcellus had ever experienced.

  Justus had gone to the little synagogue in the morning. Had he been invited, Marcellus would have accompanied him, so hard up was he for diversion in an unkempt town where there was nothing of interest to see or do. But Justus had set off alone, after assuring Marcellus that there were ample provisions for his noonday meal.

  About the middle of what threatened to be an interminable afternoon, Marcellus, lounging on the ground in front of the tent, observed Justus returning in the company of an elderly woman and a tall, sober-faced young man. They walked slowly, preoccupied with serious conversation. When within a stadium of the camp, they came to a stop and continued their earnest talk for a long time. Then the woman and the young man who, Marcellus surmised, might have been her son, reluctantly turned back toward the village, arm in arm, while Justus came on wearing a studious frown.

  Marcellus knew it was childish to feel any resentment over the quite obvious disinclination of Justus to acquaint him with his local friends. When there was trading in prospect, Justus was promptly polite with his introductions, but he was making it plain that their relationship was strictly on a business basis.

  It wasn’t that Marcellus had any considerable interest in meeting this gray-haired woman, or the thoughtful young man on whose arm she leaned affectionately; but he couldn’t help feeling a bit chagrined over the snubbing. Of course, in all fairness to Justus, he reflected, the fellow had contracted only to take him into households where homespun might be purchased. He had not promised to introduce the young Roman merchant as his friend. Nor could Justus be expected to know—nor might he be permitted to suspect—that his patron had no interest whatsoever in this merchandising, but wanted only to meet and talk with persons who had known Jesus.

  Returning to the tent, with an absent nod toward his idle client, Justus had sat silently staring at the distant hills. Occasionally Marcellus stole a glance in his direction, but he was completely oblivious. It could not be divined whether this retreat into silence was of a piece with Sabbath observance or whether some new reason accounted for his taciturnity.

  Early the next morning, Justus had been suddenly animated with a desire to be on the highway. Breakfast was dispatched at top speed. The pack-asses and their socially inferior custodian were advised that there would be no nonsense on this day’s journey. The sun was hot, but the determined guide led the little caravan with long, swinging strides. Marcellus was mightily relieved when, at high noon, Justus turned off the road and pointed to a near-by clump of olives.

  ‘Shall we rest now, and eat?’ he inquired.

  ‘By all means!’ panted Marcellus, mopping his brow, ‘Is this Cana such an interesting city, then, that we must walk our legs off to get there today?’

  ‘I am sorry to have pressed you,’ said Justus. ‘I did not explain because I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise at the end of the day. There is a young woman in Cana who sings every evening in the park.’

  ‘Indeed!’ muttered Marcellus, wearily. ‘Well—she’d better be good!’

  ‘She is good.’ Justus began unpacking their lunch. ‘The people of Cana have their supper early; and afterward a great many of them—both young and old—assemble about the fountain where this crippled girl sings the songs that our people love. Her family and the neighbors carry her there on her cot, and the people sit down and listen until dark.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ commented Marcellus, rubbing his lame muscles. ‘You say she’s a cripple? I shall want to meet her. At the rate we’re traveling, by the end of the day she and I may have a common cause.’

  Justus acknowledged the raillery with a grin, broke a wheaten loaf, gave half of it to Marcellus, and seated himself on the grass.

  ‘Miriam is a beautiful young woman,’ he went on, munching his bread hungrily. ‘She is about twenty-two now. Some seven years ago she was suddenly stricken with paralysis. That would have been a great misfortune in any case, but for Miriam it was a calamity. She had been very active in games, and a leader in the children’s sports. Now she was unable to walk. Moreover, she added to her unhappiness by resenting her affliction, spending her days in such pitiful lamentations that her parents were beside themselves with grief, and their house was in mourning.’

  ‘I take it that you knew them well,’ contributed Marcellus, mildly interested.

  ‘Not at that time,’ admitted Justus, ‘but the day came when that part of Miriam’s story was quite widely discussed. For all of three years she lay on her bed, inconsolable, peevish, so embittered by her trouble that she rejected all the kindly efforts made to divert her mind. As time passed, she refused to admit her friends into her room; and sat alone, sullen and smouldering with rebellion.’

  ‘And now she sings? What happened?’

  ‘Now she sings,’ nodded Justus; adding, after a meditative moment: ‘I do not know the particulars, sir. I am not sure that anyone does. Miriam refuses to discuss it. Her parents profess not to know. When people have inquired of them, they have replied, “Ask Miriam.”’

  ‘Perhaps they are telling the truth when they say they do not know.’ Marcellus was becoming concerned. ‘Surely they could have no motive for refusing to explain the improvement in their daughter’s dispo
sition.’

  Justus had nodded a few times, without comment.

  ‘Maybe Miriam herself doesn’t know,’ speculated Marcellus, hopeful that the story had not come to an end. ‘Maybe Miriam found that she had finally exhausted her resentment—and might as well make the best of it.’ He paused to give Justus a chance to contradict this inexpert opinion; and, meeting no rejoinder, ventured another guess. ‘Maybe she woke up one moming and said to herself, “I’ve been making everybody miserable. I’m going to pretend that I’m happy. I’ll be cheerful—and sing!” Maybe she just reached that decision, after proving that the other course was futile.’

  ‘Maybe,’ murmured Justus, remotely.

  ‘But you don’t think so,’ declared Marcellus, after a long interval of silence.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Justus shook his head decisively. ‘One of her girl friends, whom she hadn’t seen for a couple of years, was to be married. They had urgently pleaded with Miriam to attend the wedding, but she would not go; and all that day she wept bitterly. But—that evening—when her parents returned from the wedding-feast—she met them with gladness; and sang!’

  ‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Marcellus. ‘And has she a voice—really?’

  ‘You may decide that for yourself, sir, when you hear her,’ said Justus. ‘And you may meet her in her home tomorrow. Naomi, her mother, does beautiful weaving. I shall take you there. She may have some things that might interest you. If you are rested now, sir, shall we be on our way?’

  ***

  They pitched their tent at the edge of little Cana, ate their supper quickly, and walked to the center of the village, overtaking many people headed in the same direction. Already fifty or more were seated on the ground in semicircular rows facing a natural fountain that gently welled up into the huge brick basin.

  ‘I suppose this is Cana’s drinking water,’ said Marcellus, as they moved toward an unoccupied spot on the lawn.

  ‘It is warm water,’ said Justus. ‘Hot springs abound in this region.’ They seated themselves cross-legged on the ground.