The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Men who wanted to be privately cured of something?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘Doubtless—but I know of some eases in which very influential men, who had no malady at all, invited Jesus into their homes for a long conference. Once we waited at the gate of Nicodemus ben Gorion, the most widely known lawyer of this region, until the cocks crew in the early morning. And there was nothing the matter with Nicodemus; at least, nothing physical.’

  ‘Do you suppose he was warning Jesus to cease his work?’ wondered Marcellus.

  ‘No. Nicodemus came out with him, that night, as far as the gate. Jesus was talking earnestly to him. When they parted, each man laid a hand on the other’s shoulder. We only do that with social equals. Well—as I had meant to say—it would have taken a lot of courage for a gently bred woman of means to have invaded the crowd that thronged about Jesus.’

  ‘That’s quite understandable,’ agreed Marcellus.

  ‘One day, when Jesus was speaking in the public plaza in Capernaum, a well-to-do man named Jairus pushed his way through the crowd. The people made way for him when someone spoke his name. It was plain to see that he was greatly excited. He went directly to Jesus and said that his little daughter was sick unto death. Would Jesus come at once? Without asking any questions, Jesus consented, and they started down the principal street, the crowd growing larger as they went. When they passed Lydia’s house, she watched them from the-window, and saw Jairus, whom she knew, walking at Jesus’ side.’

  ‘Where were you, Justus?’ asked Marcellus. ‘You seem quite familiar with these details.’

  ‘As it happened, it was in the neighborhood of Lydia’s house that I joined the crowd. I had come with a message for Simon, who had serious illness at home. His wife’s mother was sick, and had become suddenly worse. I was as close to Jesus as I am to you when this thing happened. I don’t suppose Lydia would have attempted it if she hadn’t seen Jairus in the throng. That must have given her confidence. Summoning all her poor strength, she ran down the steps and into that crowd, desperately forced her way through, and struggled on until she was almost at Jesus’ side. Then, her courage must have failed her; for, instead of trying to speak to him, she reached out and touched his Robe. I think she was frightened at her own audacity. She turned quickly and began forcing her way out.’

  ‘Why didn’t some of you call Jesus’ attention to her?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘Well’—defended Justus—‘there was a great deal of confusion—and it all happened so quickly—and then she was gone. But, instantly, Jesus stopped and turned about. “Who touched me?” he demanded.’

  ‘You mean—he felt that contact—through his Robe?’ exclaimed Marcellus.

  Justus nodded—and went on.

  ‘Simon and Philip reminded him that there were so many crowding about. Almost any of them might have brushed against him. But he wasn’t satisfied with that. And while he stood there, questioning them, we heard this woman’s shrill cry. They opened the way for her to come to him. It must have been a very trying moment for Lydia. She had lived such a sheltered life. The crowd grew suddenly quiet.’

  Justus’ voice was husky as he recovered the scene.

  ‘I saw many pathetic sights, through those days,’ he continued, “but none more moving. Lydia came slowly, with her head bowed and her hands over her eyes. She knelt on the ground before Jesus and confessed that she was the one who had touched him. Then she lifted her eyes, with the tears running down her cheeks, and cried, “Master! I have been healed of my affliction!”’

  Overcome by his emotions, Justus stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. Steadying his voice with an effort, he went on:

  ‘Everyone was deeply touched. The people were all in tears. Jairus was weeping like a child. Even Jesus, who was always well controlled, was so moved that his eyes were swimming as he looked down into Lydia’s face. Marcellus—that woman gazed up at him as if she were staring into a blinding sunshine. Her body was shaking with sobs, but her face was enraptured! It was beautiful!’

  ‘Please go on,’ insisted Marcellus, when Justus fell silent.

  ‘It was a very tender moment,’ he said, thickly. ‘Jesus gave her both of his hands and drew her gently to her feet; and then, as if he were speaking to a tearful little child,’ he said, “Be comforted, my daughter, and go in peace. Your faith has made you whole.”’

  ‘That is the most beautiful story I ever heard, Justus,’ said Marcellus, soberly.

  ‘I hardly know why I told you,’ muttered Justus. ‘I’ve no reason to think you could believe that Lydia was cured of her malady merely by touching Jesus’ Robe.’

  He sat waiting, with an almost wistful interest, for a further comment from Marcellus. It was one thing to say of a narrative that it was a beautiful story; it was quite another thing to concede its veracity. Marcellus had been adept in contriving common-sense explanations of these Galilean mysteries. The story of Lydia’s healing had obviously moved him, but doubtless he would come forward presently with an attempt to solve the problem on natural grounds. His anticipated argument was so long in coming that Justus searched his face intently, astonished at its gravity. He was still more astounded when Marcellus replied, in a tone of deep sincerity:

  ‘Justus—I believe every word of it!’

  ***

  Notwithstanding his weariness, Marcellus had much difficulty in going to sleep that night. Justus’ story about Lydia had revived the memory of his own strange experiences with the Robe. It had been a long time since he had examined his mind in respect to these occurrences.

  He had invented reasons for the amazing effects the Robe had wrought in his own case. His explanation was by no means conclusive or satisfying, but he had adopted it as less troublesome than a forthright admission that the Robe was haunted.

  The case, viewed rationally, began with the fact that he had had a very serious emotional shock. The sight of a crucifixion was enough to leave scars on any decent man’s soul. To have actually conducted a crucifixion was immeasurably worse. And to have crucified an innocent man made the whole affair a shameful crime. The memory of it would be an interminable torture, painful as a physical wound. Not much wonder that he had been so depressed that all his mental processes had been thrown into disarray.

  There was that night at the Insula when he had drunkenly consented to put on the blood-stained Robe. Apparently his weighted remorse over the day’s tragedy had reached a stage where it could not endure this one more perfidy. A wave of sickening revulsion had swept through him, as if some punitive power—resident in the Robe—had avenged the outrage.

  For a long time Marcellus had suffered of that obsession. The Robe was possessed! He shuddered when he thought of it. The Robe had become the symbol of his crime and shame.

  Then had come his remarkable recovery, that afternoon in Athens. His mental affliction had reached a moment of crisis. He could bear it no longer. The only way out was by suicide. And at that critical juncture, the Robe had stayed his hand.

  For a few hours thereafter, Marcellus had been completely mystified. When he tried to analyze the uncanny thing that had happened to him, his mind refused to work on it. Indeed, he had been so ecstatic over his release from the bondage of his melancholia that he was in no mood to examine the nature of his redemption. Such brief and shallow reasoning as he put upon it was as futile as an attempt to evaluate some fantastic, half-forgotten dream.

  The time came when he could explain his recovery even as he had explained his collapse. The Robe had been a focal point of interest on both occasions. But—did the Robe actually have anything to do with it? Wasn’t it all subjective?

  The explanation seemed sound and practical. His mind had been deeply wounded, but now it had healed. Evidently the hour had arrived, that afternoon in the cottage at the inn, when his harassed mind determined to overthrow the torturing obsession. It was a reasonable deduction, he felt. Nature was always in revolt against things that thwarted her blind but orderly processes. For man
y years a tree might wage a slow and silent warfare against an encumbering wall, without making any visible progress. One day the wall would topple; not because the tree had suddenly laid hold upon some supernormal energy, but because its patient work of self-defense and self-release had readied fulfillment. The long-imprisoned tree had freed itself. Nature had had her way.

  Marcellus had contented himself with this explanation. He had liked the analogy of the tree and the wall; had liked it so well that he had set it to work on other phases of his problem. You had had a peculiar experience that had forced you to a belief in the supernatural. But your mind—given a chance to resume its orderly functions—would begin to resist that untenable thought. It wasn’t natural for a healthy mind to be stultified by alleged supernatural forces. No matter how convincing the evidences of supernatural power, one’s mind would proceed—automatically, involuntarily—to push this intrusive concept away, as a tree-root pushes against an offending wall.

  Until long after midnight, Marcellus lay on his cot, wide awake, re-examining his own rationalizings about the Robe in the light of Lydia’s experience, and getting nowhere with it. He had impulsively told Justus that he believed the story. There was no reason to doubt the good man’s integrity; but, surely, somewhere along the line there must be an explanation. Maybe Lydia’s malady had run its course, that day, needing only this moment of high emotional stress to effect her release. He silently repeated this over and over, trying to make it sound reasonable; trying to make it stick. Then he agreed with himself that his theory was nonsense, and drifted off to sleep.

  Rousing with a start, Marcellus cautiously raised up on one elbow and peered out through the open tent-door. In the gray-blue, predawn twilight he dimly saw the figure of a tall, powerfully built, bearded man. It was quite too dark to discern the intruder’s features.

  His attitude did not denote furtiveness. He stood erect, apparently attempting to identify the occupants of the tent, and probably finding it impossible. Presently he moved away.

  As soon as he had disappeared, Marcellus arose, quietly strapped his sandals, buckled his belt, and slipped out. There had been nothing sinister in this unexpected visitation. Obviously the man was neither a thief nor an ordinary prowler. He had not acted as if he had plans to molest the camp. It was quite conceivable that he had arranged to meet Justus up here and had been delayed. Finding the campers still asleep, he had probably decided to wait awhile before making himself known.

  This seemed a reasonable surmise, for upon their arrival at the hilltop yesterday afternoon Justus had scrutinized the terrain as if expecting to be joined here by some acquaintance; though that was a habit of his; always scanning the landscape whenever an elevation presented a farther view; always peering down cross-roads; always turning about with a start whenever a door opened behind him.

  It was still too dark to explore the terrain in quest of the mysterious visitor. Marcellus walked slowly toward the northern rim of the narrow plateau where he and Justus had sat. Low in the east, beyond the impenetrable darkness that mapped the lake, the blue was beginning to fade out of the gray. Now the gray was dissolving on the horizon and a long, slim ribbon of gleaming white appeared. Outspread lambent fingers reached up high, higher, higher into the dome from beyond a dazzling, snow-crowned mountain. Now the snow was touched with streaks of gold. Marcellus sat down to watch the dawn arrive.

  At not more than a stadium’s distance, also facing the sunrise, sat the unidentified wayfarer, not yet aware that he was observed. Apparently absorbed by the pageant in the east, he sat motionless with his long arms hugging his knees. As the light increased, Marcellus noted that the man was shabbily dressed and had no pack; undoubtedly a local resident; a fisherman, perhaps, for the uncouth knitted cap, drawn far down over his ears, was an identifying headgear affected by sailors.

  With no wish to spy on the fellow, Marcellus noisily cleared his throat. The stranger slowly turned his head; then arose nimbly and approached. Halting, he waited for the Roman to speak first.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Marcellus? ‘And what do you want?’

  The newcomer ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled broadly. Then he tugged off the wretched cap from a swirl of tousled hair.

  ‘This disguise,’ he chuckled, ‘is better than I had thought.’

  ‘Demetrius!’ Marcellus leaped to his feet and they grasped each other’s hands. ‘Demetrius!—how did you find me? Have you been in trouble? Are you being pursued? Where did you come by such shabby clothes? Are you hungry?’

  ‘I learned yesterday afternoon in Cana that you were on the way to Capernaum. I have not been in much trouble, and am not now pursued. The clothes’—Demetrius held up his patched sleeves, and grinned—‘are they not befitting to a vagrant? I had plenty to eat, last night. Your donkeyboy helped me to my supper and lent me a rug.’

  ‘Why didn’t you make yourself known?’ asked Marcellus, reproachfully.

  ‘I wanted to see you alone, sir, before encountering Justus.’

  ‘Proceed, then,’ urged Marcellus, ‘and tell me as much as you can. He will be waking presently.’

  ‘Stephanos told you of my flight from Jerusalem—’

  ‘Have you been back there?’ interrupted Marcellus.

  ‘No, sir; but I contrived to send Stephanos a message, and he wrote me fully about your meeting.’ Demetrius surveyed his master from head to foot. You are looking fit, sir, though you’ve lost a pound or two.’

  ‘Walking,’ explained Marcellus. ‘Good for the torso; bad for the feet. Keep on with your story now. We haven’t much time.’

  Demetrius tried to make it brief. He had fled to Joppa, hoping to see his master when his ship came in. He had been hungry and shelterless for a few days, vainly seeking work on the docks.

  ‘One morning I saw an old man dragging a huge parcel of green hides along the wharf,’ he went on. ‘I was so desperate for employment that I shouldered the reeking pelts and carried them to the street. The old Jew trotted alongside protesting. When I put the loathsome burden down, he offered me two farthings. I refused, saying he had not engaged me. He then asked what I would take to carry the hides to his tannery, a half-mile up the street that fronted the beach. I said I would do it for my dinner.’

  ‘No details, Demetrius!’ insisted Marcellus, impatiently. ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘These details are important, sir. The old man wanted to know what part of Samaria I had come from. Perhaps you have discovered that our Aramaic is loaded with Samaritan dialect. His people had lived in Samaria. His name was Simon. He talked freely and cordially, asking many questions. I told him I had worked for old Benjamin in Athens, which pleased him, for he knew about Benjamin. Then I confided that I had worked for Benyosef in Jerusalem. He was delighted. At his house, hard by the tannery, he bade me bathe and provided me with clean clothing.’ Demetrius grinned at his patches. ‘This is it,’ he said.

  ‘You shall have something better,’ said Marcellus. ‘I am a clothing merchant. I have everything. Too, too much of everything. So—what about this old Simon?’

  ‘He became interested in me because I had worked for Benyosef, and asked me if I were one of them, and I said I was.’ Demetrius studied Marcellus’ face. ‘Do you understand what I mean, sir?’ he asked, wistfully.

  Marcellus nodded, rather uncertainly.

  ‘Are you, really—one of them?’ he inquired.

  ‘I am trying to be, sir,’ responded Demetrius, it isn’t easy. One is not allowed to fight, you know. You just have to take it—the way he did.’

  ‘You’re permitted to defend yourself; aren’t you?’ protested Marcellus.

  ‘He didn’t,’ replied Demetrius, quietly.

  Marcellus winced and shook his head. They fell silent for a moment.

  ‘That part of it,’ went on Demetrius, ‘is always going to be difficult; too difficult, I fear. I promised Stephanos, that morning when I left Jerusalem, that I would do my best to obey the injunctions—and in les
s than an hour I had broken my word. Simon Peter—he is the chief of the disciples—the one they call “The Big Fisherman”—he baptized me, just before dawn, in the presence of all the others in Benyosef’s shop, and, sir—’

  ‘Baptized you?’ Marcellus’ perplexity was so amusing that Demetrius was forced to smile, in spite of his seriousness.

  ‘Water,’ he explained. ‘They pour it on you, or put you in it, whichever is more convenient—and announce that you are now clean, in Jesus’ name. That means you’re one of them, and you’re expected to follow Jesus’ teachings.’ Demetrius’ eyes clouded and he shook his head self-reproachfully as he added, ‘I was in a fight before my hair was dry.’

  Marcellus tried to match his slave’s remorseful mood, but his grin was already out of control.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, suppressing a chuckle.

  Demetrius glumly confessed his misdemeanor. The legionaries had a habit of stopping unarmed citizens along the road, compelling them to shoulder their packs. A great hulk of a soldier had demanded this service of Demetrius and he had refused to obey. Then there was the savage thrust of a lance. Demetrius had stepped out of the way, and the legionary had drawn up for another onslaught.

  ‘In taking the lance from him,’ continued Demetrius, ‘I broke it.’

  ‘Over his head, I suspect,’ accused Marcellus.

  ‘It wasn’t a very good lance, sir,’ commented Demetrius. ‘I am surprised that the army doesn’t furnish these men with better equipment.’

  Marcellus laughed aloud. ‘And then what?’ he urged.

  ‘That was all. I did not tarry. Now that I have broken my promise’—Demetrius’ tone was repentant—‘do you think I can still consider myself a Christian? Do you suppose I’ll have to be baptized again?’