Authors: Unknown
It was quite clear now to Marcellus that the time for decisive action
had arrived. Life, under these humiliating conditions, was no longer to be
endured.
He had not fully shared his father's earnest hope that a sojourn in
Athens, with plenty of leisure and no embarrassing social responsibilities,
would relieve his mental strain. He knew that it would be carrying his burden
along with him.
It was possible, of course, that time might dim the tragic picture that
filled his mind. He would pursue a few distracting studies, give his restless
hands some entertaining employment, and try to resume command of his thoughts.
But it was hopeless. He had no interest in anything! Since his arrival
in Athens, far from experiencing any easing of the painful nervous tension, he
had been losing ground. The dread of meeting people and having to talk with
them had deepened into a relentless obsession. He was afraid to stir from the
house. He even shunned the gardeners.
And now he had gone to pieces. In an utter abandonment of all emotional
control, he had made a sorry spectacle of himself in the sight of his loyal
slave. Demetrius could hardly be expected to maintain his patience or respect
much longer.
This afternoon, Marcellus had been noisy with his threats and
recriminations. At the rate he was going to pieces, by tomorrow afternoon he
might commit some deed of violence. It was better to have done with this
dreadful business before he brought harm to anyone else.
His people at home would be grieved when they learned the sad tidings,
but bereavement was much easier to bear than disgrace. As he sat there in the
peristyle, with his head in his hands, Marcellus made a mental leave-taking of
those he had loved best. He saw Lucia, in the shaded pergola, her slim legs
folded under as she sat quietly reading. He briefly visited his distinguished
father in his library. He didn't worry so much about his father's reception of
the bad news. Senator Gallio would not be surprised; he would be relieved to
know that the matter was settled. He went on to his mother's room, and was glad
to find her quietly sleeping. He was thankful that his imagination had at least
spared him the anguish of a tearful parting.
He bade good-bye to Diana. They were together in the pergola, as on that
night when he had left for Minoa. He had taken her in his arms, but rather
diffidently, for he felt he would not be coming back; and it wasn't quite
honest to make promises. This time he held Diana tightly--and kissed her.
Demetrius had unquestionably deceived him about a dagger he had bought
in Corfu. Previous to this, the silver-handled dagger he had carried for years
had been lost somehow on the
Vestris.
Marcellus had doubted that.
Demetrius, alarmed over his melancholy state, had taken the weapon from him.
However, the theft had been well enough meant. Marcellus had not pressed the
matter; had even consented unprotestingly to the theory that the dagger was
lost. So at Corfu he had found another. It was less ornamental than
serviceable. Next day after leaving Corfu, it was missing. Marcellus had
thought it unlikely that any of his fellow passengers would steal a dagger of
such insignificant value. Demetrius had it: there was no question about that.
Very likely, if he searched his slave's gunny-sack, he would find both of them.
Of course, it was possible that Demetrius might have thrown the weapons
overboard, but he was so scrupulously honest that this seemed improbable.
Demetrius would hold them against the arrival of a day when he thought it safe
to restore them.
Unbuckling the belt of his tunic and casting it aside, Marcellus entered
the Corinthian's small bedchamber, and saw the gunny-sack on his couch. His
hands were trembling as he moved towards it; for it was no light matter to be
so close to death.
Now he stopped! There it was--the
Thing!
He slowly retreated and
leaned against the wall. Ah! so the ingenious Demetrius had anticipated his
decision! He was using the robe to safeguard his stolen daggers!
Marcellus clenched his hands and growled. He would have it out with this
Thing!
Resolutely forcing his feet to obey, he moved slowly to the couch and
stretched out a shaking hand. The sweat was pouring down his face and his legs
were so weak he could hardly stand. Suddenly he brought his hand down with a
violent movement as if he were capturing a living thing.
For a long moment Marcellus stood transfixed, his fingers buried in the
dreaded, hateful garment. Then, sitting down on the edge of the couch, he
slowly drew the robe toward him. He stared at it uncomprehendingly; held it up
to the light; rubbed it softly against his bare arm. He couldn't analyse his
peculiar sensations, but something very strange had happened to him. His
agitation was stilled. Rising, as if from a dream, he laid the robe over his
arm and went out into the peristyle. He sat down and draped it across the broad
arms of his chair. Smoothing it gently with his hand, he felt a curious
elation; an indefinable sense of relief. A great load had been lifted. He
wasn't afraid any more!
Hot tears gathered in his eyes and overflowed.
After a while he rose and carried the robe back to Demetrius's room,
replacing it where he had found it. Unaccustomed to his new sense of wellbeing,
he was puzzled about what to do next. He went into the studio and laughed as he
looked at Demetrius's poor little statuette. The house wasn't quite large enough
to hold him; so, donning his toga, he went out into the garden.
It was there that his slave found him.
Demetrius had approached the house with a feeling of dread. He knew
Marcellus well enough to surmise that he wasn't going to be able to endure much
more humiliation.
Entering the house quietly, he looked into his master's bedchamber and
into the studio. Then he went out to the peristyle. His heart sank.
Then he saw Marcellus sauntering in the garden. He walked toward him
eagerly, realizing instantly that a great change had come over him.
'You are feeling better, sir, are you not?' he said, staring into his
face incredulously.
Marcellus's lips twitched as he smiled.
'I have been away from you a long time, Demetrius,' he said, unsteadily.
'Yes, sir. I need not tell you how glad I am that you have returned. Is
there anything I can do for you?'
'Did you tell me that you had heard of a good weaver; one who might mend
that robe?'
Enlightenment shone in Demetrius's eyes.
'Yes, sir!'
'After we have had our supper,' said Marcellus, 'we will try to find
him.' He sauntered slowly toward the house, Demetrius following him, his heart
almost bursting with exultation. When they reached the peristyle, Demetrius
could no longer keep silent.
'May I ask you, sir, what happened? Did you touch it?'
Marcellus nodded and displayed a bewildered smile.
'I was hoping you would, sir,' said Demetrius.
'Why? Have
you
had any strange experiences with it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What did it do to you?'
'I can't quite define it, sir,' stammered Demetrius. 'There's a queer
energy--belonging to it--clinging to it, somehow.'
'Don't you know that's a very crazy thing to say?' demanded Marcellus.
'Yes, sir. I have tried to account for it. I saw him die, you know. He
was very brave. Perhaps I invested this robe with my own admiration for his
courage. When I look at it, I am ashamed of my own troubles, and I want to
behave with fortitude, and--'
He paused, uncertain how to proceed.
'And that explains it, you think?' persisted Marcellus.
'Y-yes, sir,' stammered Demetrius. 'I suppose so.'
'There's more to it than that, Demetrius, and you know it!'
'Yes, sir.'
Waking at dawn, Marcellus was ecstatic to find himself unencumbered by
the weight that so long oppressed him. It was the first time he had ever
realized the full meaning of freedom.
Pausing at Demetrius's open door he noted with satisfaction that his
loyal slave, whose anxiety had been as painful as his own, was still soundly
sleeping. That was good. Demetrius deserved a rest--and a forthright apology,
too.
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 colours 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 new-mown 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
vigour, this peculiar sensitivity gradually passed from him. He still enjoyed
the colours 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 nervous
strain had been so relentless, and had taken such a heavy toll, that this
sudden release of tension had produced an almost paralysing 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-arbour, 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 naïve 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 up 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 dishonourably
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 behaviour 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 astounding 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 entirely imaginary? or was the robe actually
possessed of magical power?
This latter suggestion was absurd, 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.