The Radiant Robe.
Fagir, the government clerk, sat in his house, when the work of the
day was over. He had partaken of his evening meal; he had smoked his
hookah;[1] his bodily frame was at ease, but his mind was working with
many thoughts. His wife was beside him—Kasiti, the gentle and obedient.
Kasiti had long ago embraced the gospel and become a Christian in heart,
but many months had passed before her husband had suffered her to be
baptized. He had chidden her, and she had not answered again; he had been
harsh, and she had been loving. Kasiti[2] had made her faith appear
beautiful by her life, and her patience had at length won the victory.
Fagir had not only consented to his wife’s baptism, but he had read her
Bible; he had searched its pages diligently, comparing the Old Testament
with the New. And now Fagir’s intellect was convinced of the truth of
Christianity; light dawned upon his soul, but it was as light without
warmth. Fagir believed in Christ as the Messiah, but refused still to
receive Him as a Sacrifice for sin.
“Such a sacrifice is not needed; at least, for those who walk uprightly
and in the fear of God,” said Fagir to Kasiti, who was seated at his
feet, with a Bible on her knees. “It would be mockery for such as I am
to repeat what the Christians are taught to say—‘God be merciful to me,
a sinner.’ I, at least, am no sinner, but a just and upright man, even
judged by the laws contained in that Bible. I can hold my head erect
before God and man; for I serve God with fasting and prayer, and man have
I never wronged, but have bestowed large alms on the poor.”
It was not for Kasiti to reply; she read to herself in silence; but the
thought of her heart was, “Had not Christ died for sinners, there would
have been no heaven for me.”
The evening was hot; the motion of the gently-moving punkah[3] disposed
Fagir to sleep. His eyes gradually closed, and slumber stole over him
where he sat, reclining on soft cushions. And as the weary man slept he
dreamed, and his dream was as vivid as the realities of daily life could
be.
Behold in his dream a beautiful angel appeared unto Fagir. A crown of
light was on the head of the messenger of Heaven; glory was as a mantle
around him, and when he shook his silvery wings a shower of stars seemed
to fall upon earth. Fagir trembled at the sight of the pure and holy
being who floated in the air before him without touching the ground with
his shining feet.
“O Fagir, thou art bidden to the banquet of Paradise!” said the angel;
and his voice was as music at night. “Receive this white robe, in which,
if it retain its whiteness, thou mayst be meet to appear in the presence
of the great King. But beware of sin; for every sin shall be as a stain
on thy robe. Keep it white for but _one day_, and all the joys of
Paradise shall be thine eternal reward.”
As the angel spake, he cast round the form of Fagir a radiant robe, white
as the snow on the mountains. Then the angel touched the broad border of
the robe, and on the border appeared in letters of gold, _Fear God, and
keep his commandments_ (Eccles. xii. 13). Fagir gazed in wonder on the
inscription; but even as he gazed it faded away. He turned to look on the
angel, but behold! the bright messenger had vanished. Nothing remained
but the pure white robe, which Fagir still wore in his dream.
Then the soul of Fagir was filled with hope and triumph. “I have kept
the commandments from my youth!” he exclaimed; “and shall I break them
now, when my reward is so near at hand? Only one day of trial, and then
I shall be walking in my radiant robe in the garden of celestial beauty,
and have for companions such beings as the bright angel who left heaven
to bear a message to me, the upright and the pious.”
Then there came a change in the dream of Fagir: he deemed that he had
risen, as was his wont, at sunrise, to go forth to the business of the
day. His thoughts were not now on Paradise, nor on the message borne by
the holy one; but still he wore the mysterious robe which the angel had
thrown around him.
And on what were the thoughts of Fagir intent as he took his early meal
before starting for the cutcherry, in which, as a government official,
he worked day after day? It might have been supposed that one so pious
would have reflected on holy things, when the first rays of the morning
sun bade him thank God for sleep and protection during the hours of
darkness. But no; the thoughts of Fagir were all on his worldly gains.
He had for years set his heart on buying a piece of land which belonged
to a neighbour of the name of Pir Bakhsh, feeling certain that he could
derive much profit from its possession; but Pir Bakhsh had always refused
to sell the ground. But Fagir thought in his dream that Pir Bakhsh had
suddenly died in the night; his heir was only a child, and Fagir rejoiced
in the hope that the land would now be sold, as the estate was encumbered
with debt.
“The piece of ground is worth four hundred rupees[4] at least,” Fagir
said to himself, “and I shall manage now to buy it for two hundred
rupees. I shall then contrive to make the Magistrate Sahib purchase it
for a garden, as it lies so close to his bungalow;[5] and a goodly sum he
shall pay! I am a less sharp fellow than I take myself to be, if, before
the year is over, my two hundred rupees have not swelled into seven
hundred rupees at the least.”
Fagir laughed to himself at the double profit which he would make, first
as purchaser, then as seller. But his mirth suddenly ceased when his
glance chanced to fall on his mysterious robe.
“I thought that this garment was whiter than milk!” he exclaimed; “whence
comes, then, this dull gray tint upon it?” The answer to his question
came in an inscription which for a moment, and only a moment, appeared on
the border,—_The love of money is the root of all evil_ (1 Tim. vi. 10).
Fagir felt pained and surprised; he had often heard the Christian
padre[6] say that the religion of the Lord Jesus reached even to the
thoughts and desires of the heart, but he had never till this time
clearly perceived that covetousness is sin in itself, even if it lead to
no open violation of the laws of God or of man. As if hoping by prayer to
restore his robe to its former whiteness, Fagir now prostrated himself
on his carpet, and repeated a long form of prayer. His lips moved, and a
murmuring sound of prayer was heard; but even while he seemed to offer
supplication and praise, the mind of Fagir was still fixed on the coveted
field: he was thinking how he should persuade the orphan’s relatives
that the ground was of little value, and how he should make the Sahib[7]
regard it as worth at least seven hundred rupees. Every time that Fagir
repeated the name of God—and very often did he utter the holy word in his
prayer—there fell, as it were, an ink-drop upon the garment given by the
angel. Suddenly Fagir perceived this, and started up from his knees.
“Can I sin even in the act of prayer?” Fagir exclaimed in dismay.
Then for an instant appeared on the border of the robe the words uttered
by the Almighty Himself, amidst thunder and lightning, on Sinai,—_Thou
shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will
not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain_ (Ex. xx. 7).
“I will think no more on this robe,” said Fagir, with bitterness; “if my
thoughts be tainted with imperfection, my acts at least are blameless. It
is enough if a man live righteously; he is not master of his own heart.”
Here was at least an admission, and that from one of the proudest of
men, that the heart has a root of bitterness in it that even the most
righteous of mortals have no power in themselves to root up.
And now in the dream of Fagir it came to pass that, as he was about to
quit his dwelling, a messenger arrived with a chit from Delhi. Fagir
opened and read it, and then, turning towards his wife, he thus spake:—
“Kasiti, this note brings good tidings. Hosein, the head of my family,
is coming from Delhi, and will abide for ten days in this city. We must
receive him with great honour, for Hosein is a wealthy and distinguished
man, much esteemed in the place where he dwells. There must be plentiful
feasting here during the days of his sojourn; I will throw my doors
wide open, and invite hundreds of persons from far and near to meet my
kinsman.”
Kasiti mildly made reply,—“Oh! my lord, your salary is but one hundred
and fifty rupees; whence, then, will you spread the table for hundreds of
guests?”
“I will borrow what I need,” said Fagir.
“Oh! my lord,” said the gentle Kasiti, “the padre hath said in my
hearing, that debt is as a chain, with which no servant of God should
ever be bound.”
“A woman’s best eloquence is silence!” exclaimed Fagir with impatience.
“Bring me the pen and ink; I at once will write to the money-lender for
two hundred and fifty rupees; he will send the sum without delay, for he
knows that I am in government employ.”
As Fagir stretched forth his hand for the pen, his glance fell on the
border of his stained garment, and he read the words on it,—_Owe no man
anything, but to love one another_ (Rom. xiii. 8).
It seemed as if Kasiti also had read the inscription, for she ventured
again to speak. “Were it not well to welcome my lord’s kinsman with due
honour,” she said, “but with less of expense and show? We have enough to
enable us to show him hospitality, not for ten days only, but for thrice
ten, if your guest be content to live as we live.”
“If Hosein should be content with so mean a reception, _I_ should not be
content!” exclaimed Fagir, his voice rising in wrath. “What! shall he who
is the head of ten villages come for the first time under my roof, and
find me living like a beggar? Wouldst thou have me to be dishonoured in
his eyes, O thou ignorant and foolish woman? No! Hosein shall return to
Delhi and report to all his neighbours that wealth and honour, much gold
and many friends, are the portion of his relative Fagir!”
It was then as if a dust-storm had swept over the robe of Fagir: it
darkened even as he spake; and black on the edge of the garment he beheld
the inscription,—_Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit
before a fall_ (Prov. xvi. 18).
Vexed with himself, and all the more so because he saw tears in the eyes
of Kasiti, Fagir quitted his dwelling to go, as usual, to his work at the
cutcherry. The words of his wife, though slighted, rested on Fagir’s
memory still: “Debt is a chain with which no servant of God should ever
be bound.” It was a thing forbidden in the Bible! Fagir knew that there
was no necessity for him to incur debt; it was pride alone, and thirst
for the praise of men, which made him submit to be bound like a slave
with the chain of debt.
“I shall soon cast it from me,” said Fagir to himself, as he went on his
way. “If I manage skilfully, perhaps I may get that piece of land for
even less than two hundred rupees, for the friends of that child know no
more of business than I do of weaving shawls. But I must make my bargain
quickly, or Mahmud, the man who ever crosses my path like a snake, will
be purchasing the land himself; I know that he has for some time had his
eye upon it. He is a grasping, unscrupulous fellow, and his presence to
me is as the simoom to the traveller in the desert. But lo! do I not
behold him coming towards me!”
Yes, it was Mahmud himself whom Fagir beheld approaching him in his dream.
“Salám!”[8] cried Mahmud; and Fagir respectfully returned the greeting,
wishing the man whom he disliked health and all prosperity. The stain of
deceit and hypocrisy was on the garment worn by Fagir.
“Have you heard of the sudden death of Pir Bakhsh?” asked Mahmud,
detaining Fagir, who was about to pass on.
“I have heard of it,” was the reply.
“I saw Pir Bakhsh but yesterday,” Mahmud went on; “my good fortune led
me to his house then, for had I gone to-day I should have found him a
corpse. The poor fellow’s last act before his death was to sell me that
bit of land which lies close to the Magistrate Sahib’s garden.”
The eyes of Mahmud glittered with satisfaction as he spake; there was
triumph in them, and in the smile on his lips, which seemed to the
enraged Fagir to say, “I have forestalled thee and overreached thee. I
know that thy heart hath been set on that piece of ground; it is now
mine, and thou never shalt have it, nor so much as set thy foot upon it!”
The two men parted without words of anger, but the soul of Fagir was
filled with disappointment, envy, and anger. He clenched his hand,
gnashed his teeth, and, turning round, he looked after the retiring form
of Mahmud with a withering glance of hatred.
“I detest that man,” muttered Fagir to himself; then he started in
horror, for behold red spots, as of blood, were staining his once
white robe, and in blood-coloured letters on the border appeared the
inscription,—_Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer; and ye know
that no murderer hath eternal life_ (1 John iii. 15).
Fagir now loathed his polluted garment, and would fain have cast it from
him, but he had no power to do so; that which he had received from the
angel had become as a part of himself. That robe was Fagir’s own boasted
righteousness, and his eyes had been opened to see that his righteousness
was but as _filthy rags_ (Isa. lxiv. 6). But the eyes may be opened
without the heart being converted; and thus it was with Fagir. The
downfall of his hopes regarding the piece of ground made him but the more
eager to make money in other ways, that he might indulge his pride and
ostentation.
Then, in his dream, Fagir found himself seated at his desk in the
cutcherry, with his piles of papers before him. Amongst them was a
chit[9] from the Collector Sahib, and the contents of it were as follows:—
“There are two applicants for the office of under clerk: the one, Patras,
a Christian, has been highly recommended to me; the other is Abbas, the
son of a wealthy merchant. I have desired them both to call upon you,
that you may examine them as to their qualifications for the office, as I
have not myself time to do so thoroughly.”
“Not time, indeed! the Sahib might better have said, not sufficient
knowledge of the language and the people,” muttered Fagir to himself, as
he laid down the chit. Then calling an attendant who was outside, he said
to him, “Is any one waiting to see me?”
“A young man, of the name of Patras, has been waiting your lordship’s
pleasure for this last half-hour,” answered the man.
“Let him enter,” said Fagir; and forthwith the Christian entered, and
made his respectful salám.
The head-clerk had no prejudice now against Christians; on the contrary,
Fagir was convinced that they held the true faith, and that if they
followed the example of Him in whom they believed, they would be the most
upright and holy of men. Fagir moreover knew something of Patras, and
was aware that he was one who had had to bear losses for righteousness’
sake. With kindliness of manner Fagir received the young man, and began,
after the customary salutation, to examine him as regarded his knowledge
of accounts and of other matters connected with the work of the office.
The replies of Patras were all that could be desired; he was quick in
answering, and made no mistakes. It was clear to the mind of Fagir that
here was a man who would intelligently and faithfully fulfil the duties
of the office.
Yet there was something wanting in that young man,—at least, in the
judgment of the government clerk. Though every answer given to his
questions was satisfactory, Fagir did not look satisfied yet. Patras had
knowledge in his head and wisdom on his lips; but the young Christian had
brought nothing in his hand!
“I will see Abbas also before deciding on recommending Patras to the
Collector Sahib,” thought Fagir. He dismissed the Christian from his
presence; and, hearing from the attendant that Abbas was waiting at the
entrance, Fagir gave permission that he should appear before him.
Abbas was a contrast to Patras. The face of the merchant’s son expressed
cunning rather than talent; his eyes avoided meeting those of Fagir; and
when questioned regarding accounts, the replies of Abbas betrayed his
imperfect knowledge of business. Fagir saw that the young man had little
to recommend him, and was about to dismiss him, when Abbas slowly, and
as it were stealthily, drew forth a heavy bag of rupees. There was no
need for speaking a word; this was not the first nor the second time
that Fagir—the self-righteous Fagir—had been offered a bribe, and had not
declined it!
Behold, O reader! how one sin draws on another, even as do the divers
links of a chain. With Fagir pride led to extravagance, extravagance
to debt, debt to covetousness, covetousness to malice, meanness, and
dishonour. For shameful was the readiness of Fagir, for the sake of
money, to betray the confidence reposed in him by his superior, to
sacrifice the interests of the public service, and to wrong a deserving
man. Fagir felt lowered in his own eyes as he took the bag of rupees, and
saw the words on the border of his robe,—_He that walketh righteously,
and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppression, that
shaketh his hand from holding of bribes; ... he shall dwell on high_
(Isa. xxxiii. 15, 16).
Then, in his dream, Fagir found himself standing in the presence of the
collector, who wished to hear his opinion of the two candidates for the
office of under clerk.
“Have you examined the two men?” inquired the English Sahib; and Fagir
made reply,—
“I have done so, your honour.”
“I hope that Patras is the one best suited for the situation,” said the
collector; “for he has been highly recommended to me as a perfectly
trustworthy man.”
“Patras may be a good man, Sahib,” replied Fagir; “but he would make
a very bad clerk. In everything connected with work, I find him far
inferior to Abbas.”
“Then Abbas must have the place,” said the Englishman; “the public
interest must ever be considered first of all.”
Fagir heard not the Sahib’s answer, for a feeling of horror had stolen
over the soul of the guilty clerk. The robe which he wore had suddenly
rent into rags as he had spoken the words of falsehood, and in letters of
flame had appeared on the border,—_Lying lips are an abomination unto the
Lord_ (Prov. xii. 22). _All liars shall have their part in the lake which
burneth with fire and brimstone_ (Rev. xxi. 8).
And at that moment again Fagir beheld before him the bright angel from
whom he had received the robe—that garment once so white, but now
stained, ragged, and polluted! The angel spake; but the voice which had
been sweeter than music now sounded more terrible than the blast of the
trumpet of the archangel which shall call forth the dead from their
graves.
“O Fagir!” cried the angel, “thou art summoned this moment to appear in
the presence of the great King.”
Then a horrible fear and dread seized upon the soul of him who had
been so confident in his own righteousness—of him who had said in his
blindness of heart, “I can hold my head erect before God and man.” How
should a poor wretch clad in loathsome rags dare to appear before Him
who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity; how should he venture into
the presence of the terrible King! Fagir felt as if he would rather call
on the rocks and the mountains to hide him; and, in his agony, he cried
out so loudly, “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” that he awoke from his
dream. And, behold, he was reclining on cushions, with his hookah beside
him, the punkah swinging to and fro, and Kasiti, with her Bible still on
her knees, sitting at his feet.
“My lord[10] has had troubled sleep,” said the wife, raising her mild
eyes from her book.
“O Kasiti!” exclaimed Fagir, still trembling from the effects of his
dream; “how can a poor sinner, such as I am, weak, guilty, and full of
evil, become fit to appear before God?”
Kasiti glanced down again at her Bible, and read aloud the prayer of the
penitent David from the page which lay open before her,—_Purge me with
hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me_
(Ps. li. 7, 10).
“Can those who have stained the garments of the soul ever renew their
whiteness?” exclaimed Fagir.
Kasiti knew not how to reply to her husband in words of her own; but she
turned over the leaves of her Bible till she came to the description of
the blessed in heaven, and then silently pointed to the words of the
angel: _These are they which have come out of great tribulation, and have
washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb_ (Rev.
vii. 14).
Fagir prostrated himself before the Lord in deep humility of soul. Having
discovered that he was a great sinner, he now felt his need of a great
Saviour. Having seen that his own righteousness was as filthy rags, he
desired that his soul might be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb of
God which taketh away the sin of the world. Fagir soon afterwards sought
baptism; but not only the outward sign, the water upon the brow, but the
inward baptism of the Holy Ghost, the Spirit which toucheth the heart.
Having received free pardon and found mercy through Christ, Fagir
thenceforth manfully struggled against the world, the flesh, and the
devil. He strove to put away sin—the proud heart, the covetous desire,
malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Fagir became one who shaketh
his hand from holding of bribes, and keepeth his tongue as with a bridle.
All who knew him said of Fagir, “Behold one who walketh uprightly.”
But Fagir himself never ceased every day to utter the prayer,—_God be
merciful to me, a sinner._