Authors: Unknown
'But you must be rich,' insisted Jonathan, 'to be giving your things
away. Did Jesus tell you to do that?' He thrust his small face forward and
studied Marcellus's eyes with childish candour. 'You knew Jesus, didn't you?
Did my grandfather tell you that Jesus straightened my foot, so I can walk and
run?'
The children were quiet now. Marcellus found himself confronted with the
necessity of making a public address, and was appropriately tongue-tied. After
a difficult interval, he stammered:
'Y-yes--your grandfather told me--about your foot, Jonathan. I am very
glad it got well. That's splendid!'
'Let us go now,' muttered Justus, uneasily. 'My house is close by. Come!
I want you to meet my daughter.'
Marcellus needed no urging. They proceeded up the street, their numbers
increasing as they went. The news had travelled fast. People came out of their
houses, wide-eyed with curiosity; children of all sizes ran to join the
procession. One small boy on crutches, dangling a useless leg, waited for the
parade, his pinched face alight with wonder. Justus stepped to the side of the
road and gave him a friendly pat on the head as he passed.
Now they had arrived at the modest little home. The door-yard was
scrupulously tidy. The narrow walk was bordered with tulips. Rebecca, a
gentle-voiced, plain-featured matron of thirty-five, met them, considerably
puzzled by all the excitement. Justus, on the doorstep, briefly explained; and,
with a new cordiality, presented Marcellus.
'Oh, you shouldn't have done that, sir,' murmured Rebecca, though her
shining eyes were full of appreciation. 'That is quite an expensive gift to
make to a little boy.'
'I'm fully repaid,' smiled Marcellus. 'It is evident that the donkey is
a success.'
'Look, Mother!' shouted Jonathan, waving his arm. 'It's
mine!'
Rebecca nodded and smiled, and the noisy pack moved on in the wake of
the town's young hero.
'This is a great day for Jonathan,' said Rebecca, as she led the way
into their small, frugally furnished parlour.
'Yes, yes,' sighed Justus, sinking into a chair. He was frowning
thoughtfully. 'It's a great day for the lad--but Jonathan's rather young for a
responsibility like that.'
'Oh, he's old enough,' remarked Marcellus. 'That lazy little donkey
really should belong to a child. Jonathan will get along with him splendidly.'
'As for that--yes,' agreed Justus, soberly. He stroked his beard
moodily, nodded his head several times and muttered to himself, 'Yes, yes;
that's a good deal to expect of a little boy.' Then suddenly brightening he
said to his daughter, 'Rebecca, we will pitch Marcellus Gallio's tent there
beside the house. And he will have his meals with us.'
'Of course, Father,' responded Rebecca, promptly, giving their guest a
hospitable smile. 'Is there anything you are enjoined not to eat, sir?' And
when Marcellus looked puzzled, she hesitatingly explained, 'I am not acquainted
with the Roman customs. I thought perhaps your religion--like ours--forbids
your eating certain things.'
'Oh, no,' declared Marcellus, amiably. 'My religion has never
inconvenienced anyone--not even me.' He quickly repented of his flippancy when
he observed that his remark had drawn down the corners of his host's mouth.
'Do you mean that your people have no religion at all?' queried Justus,
soberly.
'No religion!' protested Marcellus. 'Why, we have gods on every corner!'
'Idols, you mean,' corrected Justus, dourly.
'Statues,' amended Marcellus. 'Some of them quite well done, too.
Imported from Greece, most of them. The Greeks have a talent for it.'
'And your people worship these--statues?' wondered Justus.
'They seem to, sir. I suppose some of them are really sincere about it.'
Marcellus was tiring of this inquisition.
'But you, personally, do not worship these things,' persisted Justus.
'Oh, by no means!' Marcellus laughed.
'Then you do not believe in any Supreme Power?' Justus was shocked and
troubled.
'I admit, Justus, that all the theories I have heard on this subject are
unconvincing. I am open to conviction. I should be glad indeed to learn of a
reliable religion.'
Rebecca, scenting a difficult discussion, moved restlessly to the edge
of her chair, smiling nervously.
'I shall go and prepare your supper,' she said, rising. 'You men must be
starving.'
'I didn't mean to be offensive, Justus,' regretted Marcellus, when
Rebecca had left the room. 'You are a sincerely religious person, and it was
thoughtless of me to speak negligently of these matters.'
'No harm done,' said Justus, gently. 'You wish you could believe. That
is something. Is it not true, in our life, that they find who seek? You are a
man of good intent. You are kind. You deserve to have a religion.'
Marcellus couldn't think of an appropriate rejoinder to that, so he sat
silent, waiting for further directions. After a moment, Justus impulsively
slapped his big brown hands down on his knees in a gesture of adjournment; and,
rising, moved toward the door.
'Let us put up your tent, Marcellus,' he suggested kindly. It was the
first time he had spoken Marcellus's name without the formal addition of
'Gallio.'
Shortly after the family supper, which he had been too busy to attend,
Jonathan appeared at the open front of the brown tent. He stood with his feet
wide apart, his arms akimbo, and an expression of gravity on his sensitive
lips. It was apparent that the day's experiences had aged him considerably.
Marcellus, writing at the small collapsible table, put down his stylus,
regarded his caller with interest, and grinned. He mistakenly thought he knew
what had been going on in Jonathan's mind. At the outset, his amazing windfall
had dizzied him into a state of emotional instability that had made his voice
squeaky and his postures jerky; but now that the crowd had gone home, and Jasper
had been shown into the unoccupied stall beside the cow, and had been handfed
with laboriously harvested clover, Jonathan's excitement had cooled. He was
becoming aware of his new status as a man of affairs, a man of property, sole
owner and proprietor of a donkey--the only man of his age in all Sepphoris who
owned a donkey. Even his grandfather didn't own a donkey. Marcellus felt that
Jonathan's behaviour was approximately normal for a seven-year-old boy, in
these circumstances.
'Well--did you put him up for the night?' he inquired, as one man to
another.
Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded gravely.
'Will you come in and sit down?'
Jonathan came in and sat down, crossing his legs with mature
deliberation.
'Did Jasper behave pretty well?'
Jonathan nodded several times, facing the ground.
Marcellus felt in need of some co-operation, but pursued his inquiries
hopefully.
'Didn't bite anybody? Or kick anybody? Or lie down in his harness and go
to sleep in the road?'
Jonathan shook his head slowly, without looking up, his tongue bulging
his cheek.
Not having conversed with a small boy for many years, Marcellus began to
realize that it wasn't as simple a matter as he had supposed.
'Well!' he exclaimed brightly. 'That's fine! Is there anything else
you'd like to tell me about it?'
Jonathan glumly raised his head and faced Marcellus with troubled eyes.
He swallowed noisily.
'Thomas asked me to let him have a ride,' he muttered, thickly.
'Something tells me that you refused,' ventured Marcellus.
Jonathan nodded remorsefully.
'I shouldn't fret about that,' went on Marcellus, comfortingly. 'You can
let Thomas ride tomorrow. Perhaps he shouldn't have expected you to lend him
your donkey on the very first day you had him. Is this Thomas a good friend of
yours?'
'Did you see the boy with the crutches, the one with the limber leg?'
'The little boy your grandfather stopped to speak to?'
Jonathan nodded.
'Well, you can make it up with Thomas,' Marcellus said soothingly.
'He'll have plenty of chances to ride. See here--if you feel so upset about
this, why don't you run over to Thomas's house now and tell him he may ride
Jasper, first thing in the morning.'
'They're going away tomorrow,' croaked Jonathan, dismally. 'Thomas and
his mother. They don't live here. They live in Capernaum. They came here
because his grandmother was sick. And she died. And now they're going back to
Capernaum.'
'That's too bad,' said Marcellus. 'But it isn't your fault. If you're
troubled about it, perhaps you'd better talk it over with your grandfather. Did
you ever sleep in a tent, Jonathan?'
Jonathan shook his head, the gloom lifting a little.
'There's another cot we can set up,' said Marcellus. 'You go and talk to
your grandfather about Thomas, and ask your mother if you may sleep in the
tent.'
Jonathan grinned appreciatively and disappeared.
It was impossible not to overhear the conversation, for Justus was
seated near the open window within an arm's reach of the tent. After a while,
Marcellus became conscious of the deep, gentle voice of Justus and the rather
plaintive treble of his troubled grandson. Immensely curious to learn how all
this was coming out, he put down his stylus and listened.
'When Jesus told people to give their things away, he said that just to
rich people; didn't he, Grandfather?'
'Yes, just to people who had things they could divide with others.'
'Is Marcellus rich?'
'Yes, and he is very kind.'
'Did Jesus tell him to give his things away?'
There was a long pause here that made Marcellus hold his breath.
'I do not know, Jonathan. It is possible.'
There was another long silence, broken at length by the little boy.
'Grandfather, why didn't Jesus heal Thomas's leg?'
'I don't know, son. Perhaps Jesus wasn't told about it.'
'That was too bad,' lamented Jonathan. 'I wish he had.'
'Yes,' sighed Justus. 'That would make things much easier for you,
wouldn't it?'
'I'm glad he straightened my foot,' murmured Jonathan.
'Yes, that was wonderful!' rumbled Justus. 'Jesus was very good to you!
I know that if you could do anything for Jesus, you would be glad to; wouldn't
you?'
'I couldn't do anything for Jesus, Grandfather,' protested Jonathan.
'How could I?'
'Well, if you should find that there was something Jesus hadn't done,
because they hadn't told him about it, something he would have wanted to do, if
he had known; something he would want to do now, if he were still here--'
'You mean--something for Thomas?' Jonathan's voice was thin.
'Had you thought,' asked Justus, 'there was something you might do for
Thomas?'
Little Jonathan was crying now; and from the sounds of shifting
positions within the room, Marcellus surmised that Justus had taken his unhappy
grandson in his arms. There was no more talk. After a half-hour or more,
Jonathan appeared, red-eyed and fagged, at the door of the tent.
'I'm going to sleep with Grandfather,' he gulped. 'He wants me to.'
'That's right, Jonathan,' approved Marcellus. 'Your grandfather hasn't
seen you for a long time. You may play in the tent tomorrow, if you like.'
Jonathan lingered, scowling thoughtfully and blinking his eyes.
'Would it be all right with you if I gave Jasper away?' he asked, with
an effort.
'To Thomas, maybe?' wondered Marcellus.
Jonathan nodded, without looking up.
'Are you sure you want to?'
'No, I don't want to.'
'Well, you're a pretty brave little boy, Jonathan! I'll say that for
you!' declared Marcellus. This fervent praise, being altogether too much for
Jonathan, led to his sudden disappearance. Marcellus untied his sandal-straps
and lounged on his cot as the twilight deepened. This Jesus must have been a
man of gigantic moral power. He had been dead and in his grave for a year now,
but he had stamped himself so indelibly on the house of Justus that even this
child had been marked! The simile intrigued him for a moment. It was as if this
Jesus had taken a die and a hammer, and had pounded the image of his spirit
into this Galilean gold, converting it into the coins of his kingdom! The man
should have lived! He should have been given a chance to impress more people! A
spirit like that--if it contrived to get itself going--could make the world a
fit habitation for men of good will! But Jesus was dead! A little handful of
untutored country people in Galilee would remember for a few years, and the
great light would be extinguished. It would be a pity! Little Jonathan would
give up his donkey to a crippled boy, but only Sepphoris would ever know about
it. Miriam would sing her inspired songs, but only for sequestered little Cana.
Jesus' kingdom belonged to the world! But its coinage was good only in the
shabby villages of Galilee. He would write that tomorrow, to Demetrius.
Marcellus ate his breakfast alone, Rebecca attentive but
uncommunicative. He had ventured upon several commonplace remarks, to which she
had replied, amiably enough, in listless monosyllables. Yes, Jonathan and his
grandfather had had their breakfast early. No, she didn't think they would be
gone long.
After he had eaten, Marcellus returned to the tent and continued writing
the letter he had begun to Demetrius; writing it in Greek, with no present
plans for its delivery. Everybody who was likely to be journeying to Jerusalem
at this season had already gone.
Presently Justus appeared at the tent-door. Marcellus signed to him to
come in, and he sat down on a camp-chair.
'Well,' began Marcellus, breaking a lengthy silence, 'I suppose little
Jonathan has done a generous deed--and broken his heart. I am sorry to have
caused him so much distress.'
'Do not reproach yourself, Marcellus. It may turn out well. True, the
child is a bit young to be put to such a severe test. We can only wait and see
how he behaves. This is a great day for Jonathan--if he can see it through.'
Justus was proud, but troubled.