Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet Content!
Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
O Punishment!
Then he that patiently Want’s burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king.
O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace,
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
—THOMAS DEKKER, 1600.
A valley, two thousand feet above the sea level, narrowing at its upper
or northern end to a ravine piercing thickly wooded hills, but widening
gradually southward, until, a mile lower down the mountain stream which
issues from the gorge, it becomes a broad sunny meadow land.
On a day in the middle of March, when the sun shone warm and a turquoise
sky arched smiling over this valley, signs of human activity and energy
prevailed on every side. In the bottom lands men were ploughing the
broad level fields; here the river had been dammed, forming a pond, on
the bank of which stood a large picturesque building sheathed with
dark-green shingles. From the wide and open windows of this building the
sound of whirring spindles and the joyous laughter of girls and men
issued.
Higher up the valley men were at work building a light bridge of plank
across the creek, while others were carting newly sawed lumber, with its
strong pungent smell, from the sawmill below. On the eastern side of the
valley, between this bridge and the mills half a mile south, were
scattered or grouped at irregular intervals, forty or fifty small
cabins, some of log, others of unplaned boards; thatched, or covered in
red tile. Men and women were at work in the damp mould of the gardens by
which these cabins were surrounded, and fresh green things were shooting
up. On the opposite side of the stream, on a wooded knoll, stood a
large, low, barrack-like building with a red roof, and near it a few
cabins. It was opposite this group of buildings that the foot-bridge was
in process of making, to supersede a single plank and rail which had
hitherto connected the banks of the stream. Down the valley from this
small and separate settlement stretched fields already under
cultivation, for corn, potatoes, and cotton.
There were no streets in this rustic settlement. Footpaths led to the
cottage doors through the thin, coarse grass, and along the eastern side
of the little river; and between its bank and the houses ran a rough
wagon road, deeply rutted now by the wheels of the lumber wagons in the
soft, red soil. To the north and east the hills rose abruptly, covered
with oak and pine, and the aromatic fragrance of the latter was in the
air, mingling with the scent of the soil. Beyond the lower hills to the
west loomed the shoulders of dim, blue mountains, while looking south,
down the shining river, beyond a belt of woodland, the valley broadened
out to the sunny plain stretching to the horizon line.
The limpid clearness of the air, the fragrance of the forest and the
earth, the musical flow of the little river, the wonderful brilliancy of
the sky, with the vast uplift of the mountains, gave a sense of wild
perfection to the _ensemble_. Such was Fraternia in the morning of its
second spring.
It was during that decade which saw the sudden springing into life of so
large a number of communistic organizations and settlements throughout
the country, mainly in the south and west. Many of these experiments
were crude and obscure; most of them were shortlived. They were founded
on widely different social conceptions, ranging from those of unlimited
license and rank anarchism up to the high ideals of the life of
Christian brotherhood set forth in the early church.
The latter was the foundation of John Gregory’s colony in Fraternia.
Inflexible morality and blamelessness of Christian living were his
cardinal laws. Built upon them was the superstructure of economic and
social equality, of labour sharing, and of domestic simplicity.
Thus far unusual promise attended the adventure, and peace and good will
reigned in the little community.
Toward the upper end of the village half a dozen men were at work around
a circular excavation not more than five or six feet in diameter, which
had been lined with irregular slabs and blocks of stone patched together
with clay. In blue overalls thickly bespattered with red mud and the
sticky clay, a man was working on his knees at the edge of this basin.
It was Keith Burgess. Near him, measuring with rule and line and marking
out the width of the coping, stood the artist, Pierce Everett. Their
fellow-workmen were two Irishmen—big, active fellows, with honest
eyes—and a wiry little black-a-vised Jew, a quondam foreman in a New
York sweat-shop. He was mixing clay and laying the stone of the coping,
while the Irishmen were at work in an open trench through which ran the
pipe which was to conduct the water from a spring in the ravine above
into the new reservoir.
Emerging from the woods below the dam a little crowd of children came
straying up the valley, laughing and shouting, and jumping gayly over
the pools of red mud in the road. Their hands were full of wild
flowers,—bloodroot, and anemones, and arbutus; their hair was blown
about in the wind; their eyes were shining. Among them, giving her hand
to a little girl who walked with a crutch, walked Anna Burgess, her face
as joyous as theirs, and a free, unhampered vigour and grace in every
line of her figure. She was the head teacher in the village school, and
was known to her scholars, and, indeed, quite generally in the little
community, as “Sister Benigna.”
This name, “Benigna,” which had come down in Anna’s family for
generations, and had been given her as a second name, had not been used
for many years, save by her mother, who still clung loyally to the full
“Anna Benigna.” Who it was in Fraternia who had revived the beautiful
old Moravian name was not known, but the use of it had been quickly
established, especially among the children and the foreign folk.
The habit of using “Brother” and “Sister” with the given name in
ordinary social intercourse was common, although not universal, in
Fraternia. Anna’s assistants in the school—a pale, little English
governess, who had apparently never known stronger food than tea and
bread until she came to Fraternia, and a rosy-cheeked German
kindergartner—were among the little flock, their hands overflowing with
wild flowers, and their faces with the high delight the spring day
brought them. It was Saturday morning, and a holiday.
Suddenly there was a shout from some boys who were foremost in the
company, and they came scampering back to Anna exclaiming that the
“fountain” was almost finished, and, perhaps, the water would soon be
turned into it. By common consent the whole party hastened on and soon
encircled the workmen at the basin with noisy questions and merry
chatter. It was to be so fine not to have to go up to the spring in the
ravine with pails and pitchers any more. Could they surely have the
water here for Sunday? Then Fräulein Frieda told them how the girls in
her country came to such fountains with their jugs, and carried them
away full on their heads. She showed them with a tin pail, found lying
in the clay, just how it was done, walking away with firm, balanced
step, the pail unsupported on her pretty flaxen-haired head, on which
the sun shone dazzlingly. The little girls were greatly delighted, and
all declared they should learn to carry their water pots home on their
heads from the _Quelle_, as Fräulein Frieda called it.
Anna stood at the edge of the basin, Keith at her feet, on his knees,
with the trowel in his hands, smiling up at her, the little lame girl
still at her side, a trace of wistfulness in her eyes as she watched the
others.
“We will not carry our water pails on our heads, you and I, will we,
little Judith?” Anna asked, kind and motherly. “_We_ want our brains to
grow, and it might crowd them down; don’t you think so?”
The swarthy Jew looked up from the clay he was mixing with quick,
instinctive gratitude. Judith was his child. He grinned a broad and
rather hideous grin, and exclaimed in a broken dialect:—
“Das ist so, Kleine; shust listen to our lady! She knows. She says it
right.”
Pierce Everett’s dark eyes flashed with sudden enthusiasm. Turning to
Anna he bowed profoundly and said low to Keith, as well as to her:—
“There you have it! Barnabas has found your title—‘our lady’!”
Anna looked into Everett’s dark eager eyes with her quiet smile, and was
about to speak, when a sudden noise of grating and rattling and horses’
hoofs behind them caused them all three to turn and look down the river.
A horse and stone drag were approaching rapidly, driven by John Gregory,
who stood on the drag, which was loaded with big clean pebbles from the
river-bed. He wore a coarse grey flannel shirt, the collar turned off a
little at the throat, and rough grey trousers tucked into high rubber
boots, which reached to the thighs. The cloth cap on his head with its
vizor bore a certain resemblance to a helmet, and altogether the
likeness of the whole appearance to that of a Roman warrior in his
chariot did not escape the three friends who watched its approach in the
motley crowd around the basin.
Gregory drove his drag close up to the edge of the coping, now nearly
laid, greeted the company with a courteous removal of his hat and a
cordial Good-morning, then discharged the load of pebbles in a glinting
heap on the soft red earth.
There was no conscious assumption of mastery or direction in Gregory’s
manner, nothing could have been simpler or more democratic than the
impartial comradery with which he joined the others, nevertheless the
sense that the master was among them was instantly communicated
throughout the little group. Up in the trench, nearly to the base of the
cliffs which marked the entrance to the ravine, one Irishman said to the
other, in a tone of satisfaction not unmixed with good-natured sarcasm:—
“Himsilf’s come now. The gintlemin masons will git to rights or they’ll
lose their job, d’ye mind, Patrick?”
“Oh, ay,” said the other, “an’ the same to yersilf, if ye ivir noticed
it.”
There was a little silence even among the chattering children as Gregory
stooped by Everett’s side, pulled up with the ease of mighty muscle two
or three stones, took the trowel from Keith’s hand and a hod of mortar
from the waiting Barnabas, and set the stones over on a truer line,
laughing the while with the men and turning aside the edge of criticism
with frank self-disparagement, as being himself but a tyro.
A curious consequence of Gregory’s appearance on the scene after this
sort, was the dwarfed effect of the men around him, who suddenly seemed
to have shrunk in stature and proportions, and whose motions, beside the
virile force and confident freedom of his, appeared incompetent and
weak.
Anna had drawn back from her place near the basin’s edge. Gregory had
not looked at her nor she at him directly. In fact, they habitually, for
some reason they themselves could not define, avoided each other, and
yet could not avoid a piercing consciousness, when together, of every
look and word of the other. A sudden shyness and subduing had fallen
instantly upon Anna’s bright mood, and, while the others watched every
look and motion of Gregory with almost breathless interest, she stood
apart and arranged little Judith’s flowers with apparent preoccupation.
Tossing the trowel back to Keith, with whom he exchanged a few words of
question, Gregory next hastened with long strides up the line of the
trench to the place where the Irishmen were at work. Here was a
primitive moss-grown trough, into which the water of the spring had
hitherto been conducted, and to which all the people had been obliged to
come for their supply of drinking water. The new iron pipe already
replaced the rude wooden conduit which had done duty until now, but the
water still flowed into the trough, and would do so until, the basin
completed, the connection might be made between the two sections of
pipe.
Under Gregory’s direction this was now effected, and the water of the
spring, if there was no flaw, should now flow unimpeded into the basin
below. To test the basin, it was Gregory’s purpose to make the
experiment at once.
Presently there was a shout, exulting and joyous, from the company
below.
“The water is here! The water! The water!” rose the cry into the
stillness of the valley. The men at work upon the bridge left their
work, and hastened to join the little crowd.
With strides even longer than before, Gregory came down again, the
Irishmen following him in a scramble to keep up. Joy was in all their
faces, and the deepest joy of all in that of Gregory. They stood
together and watched the jet of water as it sprang from the mouth of the
pipe, turbid at first, but gradually becoming clear and sparkling, and
fell with a gentle, musical plashing into the stone fountain. There was
complete silence for a little space, as they looked intently at the
increasing depth of the gathering pool, and then, bringing down his
hands with a will on the shoulders of Keith and Everett, Gregory
exclaimed:—
“Men, you have done well, all of you! It holds, do you see? It is tight
as a ship. Hurrah!”
They all joined in a great cheer, and then, swiftly finding where she
stood, or knowing, as he always seemed to know, instinctively, Gregory’s
eyes sought Anna Burgess.
“Will Sister Benigna come up here?” he asked quietly, with the
unhesitating steadiness of the man who knows just what he means to do.
Anna came slowly forward, and stood on the new-laid coping, by the side
of Gregory, greatly wondering. Just beyond her was Keith, side by side
with Barnabas Rosenblatt. Meanwhile, Gregory had taken from his pocket a
small folding drinking cup of shining metal, which he had held in the
flow of the spring water until it was thoroughly purified. Turning now
to look at all those who stood round about, he said:—
“Brothers, sisters, little children, this water is the good gift of God.
Let this fountain be now consecrated to all pure and holy uses. By the
wish which I believe to be in every one of you, let the first who shall
drink of this living water from the new fountain be our Sister Benigna.”
With these words Gregory filled the cup from the sparkling outgush of
the spring, the water so cold that the polished cup was covered with
frosty dimness, and with simple seriousness handed it to Anna. Affection
and reverence were in the eyes of all the people as they watched her
while with uncovered head, calm brow, and the fine simplicity of
unconsciousness she took the cup and drank. But with the first touch of
her lips to the cup the hand in which she held it trembled; and when she
drained the last drop, it trembled still. As Anna stepped back, having
drunk, into the ranks, Gregory lifted his hand, and with the gesture
which commands devotion repeated the ancient words,—
“‘O most high, almighty, good Lord God, to thee belong praise, glory,
honour, and all blessing!
“‘Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and cloud,
calms and all weather, by the which thou upholdest in life all
creatures.
“‘Praised be my Lord for our sister, water, who is very serviceable unto
us, and humble, and precious, and clear.’”
Then with a deeper solemnity and significance in face and voice, he
continued:—
“‘If thou knewest the gift of God and who it is that saith to thee, Give
me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him and he would have given
thee living water.’
“‘Jesus said, If any man thirst, let him come to me and drink.’”
It was noon, and turning they all dispersed, each to his own place, a
deepened gladness in their faces. But as for Anna Burgess, a dimness was
upon her joy, a thrilling undercurrent of dread and wonder which she
could not understand; for she had drunk of the Cup of Trembling—and knew
it not.