The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘I daresay there were plenty of men in the crowd who faced the same dilemma,’ surmised Marcellus.

  ‘Well—the disciples were around Jesus telling him he had better dismiss the people, so they could go to the little villages and buy food. Justus told me afterward that Jesus only shook his head and told them that the people would be fed. They were much bewildered and worried. There was a small boy, sitting very close and overhearing this talk. He had a little basket, his own lunch, not very much; just enough to feed a boy. He went to Jesus with his basket and said he was willing to share what he had.’

  Marcellus’ eyes lighted, and he leaned forward attentively.

  ‘Go on!' he demanded. ‘This is wonderful.’

  ‘Yes—it really was wonderful, sir. Jesus took the basket and held it up for the people to see. And then he told how the boy wanted to share his food with all of the people. And he looked up and thanked God for the little boy’s gift. It was very, very quiet, sir. Then he began breaking the small loaves into bits, and the fish he tore into little shreds; and he gave these fragments to his disciples and told them to feed the people.’

  ‘Did the crowd laugh?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘Well—no, sir. We didn’t laugh, though almost everyone smiled over such a big crowd being fed on almost nothing, as you might say. As I told you, I had been ashamed to bring out the food I had, and now I was ashamed not to; so I unwrapped my bread and fish, and broke off a piece, and offered it to the man next to me.’

  ‘Wonderfull’ shouted Marcellus. ‘Was he glad to get it?’

  ‘He had some of his own,’ said Hariph, adding, quickly, ‘But there were plenty of people who did not have any food along with them, sir. And everyone was fed, that day! After it was over, they gathered up a dozen basketfuls of fragments, left over.’

  ‘It sounds as if some other people, besides you and Reuben, had had the forethought to bring some provisions along,’ speculated Marcellus. ‘They probably wouldn’t have gone out into the desert with empty baskets. This is really a marvelous story, Hariph!’

  ‘You believe it, sir?’ Hariph was happily surprised.

  ‘Indeed I dol And I believe it was a miracle! Jesus had inspired those stingy, selfish people to be decent to one another! It takes a truly great man to make one harmonious family out of a crowd like that! I can’t understand the healing, Hariph; but I believe in the feeding! And I’m glad you wanted to tell me!’

  Chapter XVI

  THEY were on the way from Cana to Capernaum. All day their narrow road had been gaining altitude, not without occasional dips into shallow valleys, but tending upward toward a lofty plateau where the olive-green terrain met an azure sky set with masses of motionless white clouds.

  It had been a fatiguing journey, with many pauses for rest, and as the shadows slanted farther to the east, the two men trudged the steepening grade in silence, leaving the little pack-train far behind. They were nearing the top now. Justus had promised that they would make camp in the lee of the great rock they had sighted two hours ago. There was a cool spring, he said, and plenty of forage. He hoped they would find the spot untenanted. Yes—he knew the place well. He had camped there many times. There was a splendid view. Jesus had loved it.

  Throughout this your of Galilee, Marcellus had paid very little attention to the physical characteristics of the province. Until now, the landscape had been unremarkable, and he had been fully preoccupied by the strange business that had brought him here. Marcellus had but one interest in this otherwise undistinguished land of rock-strewn fields, tiny vineyards, and apathetic villages drowsing in the dust around an ancient well. He was concerned only about a mysterious man who had walked these winding roads, a little while ago, with crowds of thousands surging about him.

  It was not easy today, on this sleepy old highway, to picture either the number or the temper of that multitude. The people must have come from long distances, most of them, for this country was not thickly populated. Nor was it easy to imagine the confusion, the jostling, the shouting. Such Galileans as Marcellus had seen were not emotional, not responsive; a bit stolid, indeed.

  That weary, weather-beaten woman, leaning on her hoe, in the frowsy little garden they had just passed—had she, too, bounded out of her kitchen, leaving their noonday pottage on the fire, to join in that curious throng? This bearded man in the meadow—her husband, obviously; now sluggishly mowing wisps of grass with his great-grandfather’s scythe—had he run panting to the edge of the crowd, trying to scramble through the sweating pack for a glimpse of the face of Jesus?

  It was almost incredible that this silent, solemn, stodgy province could ever have been haled out of its age-long lethargy and stirred to such a pitch of excitement. Even Justus, looking back upon it all, could only shake his shaggy head and mutter that the whole affair was quite beyond comprehension. You could think what you liked about the miracles, reflected Justus, soberly: many of the people were hysterical and had reported all manner of strange occurrences, some of which had never been satisfactorily confirmed. The air had been full of wild rumors, Justus said. A few Nazarenes had been quoted as remembering that when Jesus was a lad, at play with them, he had fashioned birds of clay, and the birds had come to life and had flown away. You could hear such tales by the score, and they had confused the public’s estimate of Jesus, making him seem a mountebank in the opinion of many intelligent people.

  But these passionate throngs of thousands who followed, day after day, indifferent to their hunger and discomfort—all Galilee knew that this was true because all Galilee had participated. You might have good reasons for doubting the validity of some of these miracle stories, but you couldn’t doubt this one! Obscure little Galilee, so slow and stupid that its bucolic habits and uncouth dialect were stock jokes in Judea, had suddenly come alive! Its dull work was abandoned. Everybody talking at once! Everybody shouting questions which nobody tried to answer! Camels were left standing in their harness, hitched to water-wheels. Shuttles were left, midway of the open warp. Tools lay scattered on the floor of the carpenter shop. Plows stopped in the furrow. Fires burned out in the brick-kiln. Everybody took to the road, on foot, on donkeys, on carts, on crutches. Helpless invalids who couldn’t be left were bundled up on stretchers and carried along. Nothing mattered but to follow the young man who looked into your eyes and made you well—or ashamed—or tightened your throat with longing for his calm strength and floral purity.

  Now the bright light had gone out. The great crowds had scattered. The inspired young man was dead. Galilee had gone back to sleep. It was a lonesome land. Perhaps the Galileans themselves were now conscious of its loneliness, after having briefly experienced this unprecedented activity.

  Marcellus wished he knew how much of Jesus' influence still remained alive. Of course, you could depend upon a few of them—those who had known him best and owed him much—to remember and remember until they died; people like Miriam. Or were there any more like Miriam? Justus had said that some of these Galileans had been completely transformed, almost as if they had been born again. Certain men of low estate had learned new occupations. Certain beggars had become productive. A few publicans had become respected citizens. Women who had been known as common scolds were going about doing deeds of kindness. But perhaps the majority had been unable to hold on to their resolutions. He must press Justus for some more information about that.

  Now they had arrived at the top of the terrain, every step adding depth to the view. Far to the north lay a range of snow-capped mountains. A few steps farther on, and the distant turrets and domes of a modern city glistened in the declining sun. There was no need to inquire its name: it had to be Tiberias. Marcellus lengthened his stride to keep pace with Justus who was moving swiftly toward the northern rim, turning his head from side to side, and peering intently in all directions, as if he had expected to meet a friend up here.

  Suddenly the whole breath-taking panorama was spread before them and Marcellus had his first sight of the de
ep-blue lake that had figured so much in his guide's conversation. It had been around this little sea that Jesus had spent most of his days. Justus dropped wearily to the ground, folded his arms, and sat in silent contemplation of the scene. Marcellus, a little way apart, reclined on his elbows. Far in the distance was a slanting sail. All along the shoreline, flat-roofed villages straggled down to the water’s edge.

  After a long interval, Marcellus stirred.

  ‘So—this is the Sea of Galilee!’ he said, half to himself.

  Justus nodded slowly. Presently he pointed to the farthest settlement that could be seen.

  ‘Capernaum,’ he said. Eight miles.’

  ‘I daresay this lake has some tender memories for you, Justus,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, with a slow gesture that swept the landscape, ‘has the general behavior of those people been greatly altered by the career of Jesus?’

  ‘It is hard to say,’ replied Justus. ‘They do not talk much about it. They are afraid. The Roman fort is close by. One could easily get into trouble by asking questions. One only knows what has happened in the lives of one’s friends. I expect to visit some of them while we are here.’

  ‘Will I see them?’ inquired Marcellus, doubtfully.

  ‘Not many,’ said Justus, frankly. ‘You will see old Bartholomew, as I told you. He has a story I want you to hear. Bartholomew will not be afraid to talk to you, after I assure him it will be safe.’ He turned about and faced Marcellus with a reminiscent smile. ‘You might be interested in knowing how Jesus and Bartholomew first met. The old man was sitting out in his little fig orchard, one morning, when Jesus and Philip passed the house. And Jesus cheerily waved a hand and said, “Peace be upon you, Nathanaell”’

  ‘I thought his name was Bartholomew,’ put in Marcellus.

  ‘That’s the amusing part of it,’ chuckled Justus, it is not customary with us to call venerable men by their given names. I don’t suppose old Bartholomew had heard himself called Nathanael for at least twoscore years. And here was this young stranger taking an immense liberty with him.’

  ‘Was he offended?’ asked Marcellus, with a grin.

  ‘Well—perhaps not seriously offended, but certainly astonished. He called Jesus to come to him, perhaps intending to take him to task for what looked like a bit of impudence. Philip told me the story. He said that old Bartholomew was looking stem as he waited for Jesus to approach. Then his eyes widened and softened; and he smiled and said, “You knew my name.” “Yes,” replied Jesus, “and because it means ‘Godgiven’ it is fitting, for you are an Israelite of high integrity.”’

  ‘That should have pleased the old man,’ observed Marcellus.

  ‘It did,’ said Justus, soberly, it made him a disciple.’

  ‘You mean—he came along—and followed after Jesus?’

  ‘Yes. There was something strange about that. The old man had long since taken to his chair in the garden, thinking his active days were ended. But he got up and went along with Jesus—and he rarely left his side for nearly three years.’

  ‘His vigor was restored?’ Marcellus’ face showed disbelief.

  ‘No—he was still an old man. It was hard work for him to keep up with the others. He got very weary indeed, and he wheezed and panted like any other hard-pressed old man—’

  ‘But he came along,’ assisted Marcellus.

  ‘Yes—Bartholomew came along. No one else would have ventured to call him Nathanael—but Jesus did, invariably. And Bartholomew liked it.’

  ‘Perhaps Jesus did that to keep the old man going,’ suggested Marcellus. ‘Maybe it made him feel younger.’

  ‘Well—it wasn’t only Bartholomew who felt young and immature in the company of Jesus.’ Justus frowned and stroked his beard, his habit when groping for an elusive memory. ‘With the exception of John, all of the close friends and disciples of Jesus were older than he—but he was our senior—by years and years. Sometimes, after we had slipped away for an hour’s rest, he would say, “Come, children: we must be on our way.” But no one smiled—or thought it peculiar.’

  ‘He seemed remote?’ asked Marcellus.

  Justus deliberately pondered a reply, then shook his head.

  ‘No—not remote. He was companionable. You wanted to get closer to him—as if for protection. I think that’s why the people were always crowding about him—until he hardly had room to move.’

  ‘That must have put him under a great strain,’ said Marcellus. ‘Didn’t he ever seem weary?’

  ‘Very, very weary!’ remarked Justus. ‘But he never protested. Sometimes men would brace a shoulder against the crowd and push their way in, knocking others off their footing, but I can’t recall that he ever rebuked anyone for it.... Marcellus, did you ever see a flock of little chickens climbing over one another to get under the hen’s wings? Well—the hen doesn’t seem to notice; just holds out her feathers, and lets them scramble in. That was his attitude. And that was our relation to him.’

  ‘Very strange!’ murmured Marcellus, abstractedly. ‘But I think—I understand—what you mean,’ he added, as from a distance.

  ‘You couldn’t!’ declared Justus. ‘You think you understand—but—you would have had to know Jesus to comprehend what I am saying. Some of us were old enough to have been his father—but we were just—just little chickens! Take Simon, for example. Simon was always the leader among the disciples. I hope you meet him when you go back to Jerusalem. Simon is a very forceful, capable man. Whenever Jesus happened to be absent from us, for an hour, Simon was far and away the big man of the company, everyone deferring to him. But—when Jesus would rejoin us’—Justus grinned, pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head—‘Simon was just a little boy; just a humble, helpless little boy! A little chicken!’

  ‘And Bartholomew—he was a little chicken, too?’

  ‘Well,’ deliberated Justus, ‘not quite in the same way, perhaps. Bartholomew never expressed his opinions so freely as Simon when Jesus was away from us. He didn’t have quite so far to drop—as Simon. It was amazing how much fatigue the old fellow could endure. He attended the last supper they had together on the night Jesus was betrayed. But when the news came in that the Master had been arrested, it was too much for Bartholomew. He was very sick. They put him to bed. By the time he recovered—it was all over.’ Justus closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and an expression of pain swept his face, it was all over,’ his lips repeated, soundlessly.

  ‘He must be quite infirm, by this time,’ said Marcellus, anxious to lift the gloom.

  ‘About the same,’ said Justus. ‘Not much older. Not much weaker.’ He grinned a little. 'Bartholomew has a queer idea now. He thinks he may never die. He sits all day in the fig orchard, when the weather is fair.’

  ‘Looking up the road, perhaps,’ speculated Marcellus—‘and wishing he might see Jesus again, coming to visit him.’

  Justus had been gazing down at the lake. Now he turned his eyes quickly toward Marcellus and stared into his face. After a rather tense moment, which left Marcellus somewhat bewildered, Justus returned his gaze to the lake.

  ‘That is exactly what old Bartholomew does,’ he murmured. ‘All day long. He sits—watching the road.’

  ‘Old men get strange fancies,’ commented Marcellus.

  ‘You don’t have to be old,’ said Justus, ‘to get strange fancies.’

  The little caravan, which had lagged on the last steep climb, now shuffled over the shoulder of the hill. Jonathan came running across, and snuggled down beside Justus.

  ‘When do we have supper, Grandfather?’ he wheedled.

  ‘Quite soon, son,’ answered Justus, gently. ‘Go and help the boy unload. We will join you presently.’ Little Jonathan scampered away.

  ‘The lad seems in quite good spirits today,’ observed Marcellus.

  ‘That’s Miriam’s work,’ declared Justus. ‘She had a long talk with Jonathan yesterday. I think we need not worry about him now.’

  ‘That conversation
must have been worth hearing,’ said Marcellus.

  ‘Jonathan didn’t seem inclined to talk about it,’ said Justus, ‘but he was deeply impressed. You noticed how quiet he was, last night.’

  ‘I doubt whether there is another young woman—of Miriam’s sort—in the whole world!’ announced Marcellus, soberly.

  ‘There is a widow in Capernaum,’ said Justus. ‘Perhaps you may have an opportunity to meet her. She spends all of her time with the very poor who have sickness in their houses. Her name is Lydia. You might be interested in her story.’

  ‘Tell me, please.’ Marcellus sat up and gave attention.

  ‘Lydia lost her husband, Ahira, while still quite a young woman. I do not know how it is in your country, but with us the predicament of a young widow is serious. She goes into retirement. Lydia was one of the most beautiful girls in Capernaum so everyone said. Ahira had been a man of considerable wealth, and their home was in keeping with his fortune. Shortly after his death, Lydia became grievously afflicted with an ailment peculiar to women, and gradually declined until her beauty faded. Her family was most sympathetic. At great expense, they summoned the best physicians. They carried her to many healing springs. But nothing availed to check her wasting disease. The time came when it was with great difficulty that she could move about in her room. And now the whole country began to be stirred by reports of strange things that Jesus had done for many sick people.’ Justus hesitated, seemingly in doubt as to his procedure with the story. Marcellus waited with mounting curiosity.

  ‘I think I had better tell you,’ continued Justus, ‘that it wasn’t always easy for substantial people to have an interview with Jesus. As for the poor, they had no caste to lose. Most of them were in the habit of begging favors, and were not rcticcnt about crowding in wherever they thought it it might be to their advantage. But men and women in better circumstances—no matter how much they wanted to see Jesus—found it very hard to put down their natural pride and push into that clamorous multitude. Jesus regretted this matter. Often and often, he consented to talk alone with important men, late in the night, when he sorely needed his rest.’