The village of Zanah awoke at sunrise. Looking from the front window of
the inn, the stranger, Stephen Everett, saw the quaint folk moving up
and down the little street. In the porches of a near-by kitchen women
were preparing breakfast. There was a strange quiet that at first
oppressed the visitor from the outside world. The men and women were
silent; the children walked with decorous steps; there was no unseemly
laughter.
It was a perfect morning of late summer. Beyond flat breadths of fertile
fields the bluffs rose gently, and hill-side and plain were dotted with
vineyards. Winding roads led through interlocking trees from which birds
were taking flight. The flowers, heavily laden with dew, gave out a
delightful fragrance. In the sky was the pink flush of dawn, and the
morning star still kept watch over the hamlet from which the bustling,
every-day world was shut out.
The stranger in Zanah went in to breakfast, which was served in a long,
low room that had a sanded floor. While he was standing at the table,
upon which the blue-gowned women waited, Adolph Schneider, the head of
the colony, came to him. Adolph Schneider showed that he was a man of
importance. He was stout and bald. A grizzled fringe of beard encircled
his chin, which, on account of his short neck, rested upon his black
cravat. He had small eyes, set close together, and he gave the
impression that shrewdness was the key-note of his character.
“I am president of the Society of Zanah,” he said, in good English, “and
I am come to inquire wherefore thou hast visited the colony in which the
Lord’s people try to do his will in all humbleness and meekness.”
The broad-rimmed straw hat that he wore set well down upon his ears: he
had the appearance of retiring into it and his black cravat for the
purpose of watching the stranger. Everett rose to meet him.
“Chance brought me here,” he said, looking down upon the Herr Doktor. “I
am something of a student, and I want to see the books printed in Zanah.
Perhaps you will sell some of them to me?”
Adolph Schneider leaned on the stout cane he carried to aid him in the
difficult process of walking, for he had gout, which was the result of a
long diet of fat meats, sauerkraut, and hot breads. He glanced at
Everett with a look of suspicion.
“We have many strangers from the outside world,” he said, “but all come
here to buy the blankets and printed cloths of Zanah. We have none who
would look into our books.”
His small eyes rested upon the fine face of the stranger, and there was
much in it to give any man confidence. The dark eyes had a frank
expression, and the lips and chin told that they belonged to one who had
command of himself while he was fitted to rule others.
“I have heard that your German books are good specimens of hand-work,
and I coveted some of them because I am a collector,” said Everett.
Schneider looked puzzled and repeated the word “collector.” Everett
explained about his library, and he was soon talking in the most
friendly manner to the Herr Doktor, whom he persuaded to sit at the
table and to drink coffee with him. When Everett had finished breakfast,
they went into the front room of the inn, where Mother Werther, the
landlord’s wife, sat behind a high counter keeping an eye on the
dog-eared register and the blue china match-safe. Everett offered cigars
to the Herr Doktor, who declined them, but was easily persuaded to try
the tobacco that was produced from the pocket of the stranger’s coat.
After they had smoked together Everett knew more about Zanah than he had
expected to learn, although his direct questions had been parried, and
it had required adroitness to obtain any information concerning the
colony. The prospect of a sale of books melted the heart of the village
president, who explained that he managed the money of the people.
“If thou wouldst see the books, come with me to the school-master,” said
Schneider. “Gerson Brandt was an artist before he came into the colony,
fifteen years ago. He hath a rare gift in the laying on of colors, and
he hath made some of the books of Zanah good to look at.”
They walked along the quiet street, crossed the rustic bridge, and
climbed the little hill to the meeting-house, which was a low stone
building covered with vines. In place of the steeple a modest little
belfry rose above the peaked roof. Beyond the meeting-house, and
separated from it by a stone wall, was the school-house, such a
rambling, weather-beaten wooden building as any artist would delight in.
It was entered from a latticed porch with long seats on either side of
the door. There was a garden in front of it—a well-kept garden, with
trim walks and well-weeded flower-beds. Over the porch a sturdy
rose-bush climbed. The hinged windows were thrown open and the buzz of
children’s voices could be heard. Suddenly all sounds were hushed.
Everett and the Herr Doktor ascended the wide steps, and as they were
about to push open the door a woman’s voice rose in a hymn. It was a
voice clear and sweet, and its minor cadence was sustained with
wonderful power. The words were German, and the tune was monotonous, but
the man from the outside world was strangely moved by the melody.
Everett uncovered his head and listened reverently. Adolph Schneider
leaned against the door-frame, smoking, as if he did not hear. When the
hymn was ended Everett asked, in a low tone:
“Who is the woman that sang?”
“Walda Kellar,” answered the old man. He took several puffs of his pipe
and then he added, “She is one called of God.”
The Herr Doktor lifted the latch and stepped into the long school-room,
while Everett paused on the threshold. It was a strange scene that met
his gaze. Seated in orderly rows, more than one hundred boys faced the
school-master, who stood beside his high desk, but Gerson Brandt’s face
was turned away from his charges; his eyes were fixed upon a figure that
chained Everett’s attention. On the platform stood Walda Kellar. She was
turning the leaves of a big Bible which was held before her by the
village fool. The girl was as tall and straight as a sapling. The ample
folds of her blue print gown did not hide the slender grace of her
figure. The white kerchief crossed over her bosom revealed a rounded
neck, upon which her beautiful head was well set. Her cap was white
instead of black, like the head-coverings worn by the other women, and
beneath it her shining hair curled about a broad, low forehead. The face
was nobly moulded. Everett could not see each feature, but he knew that
a pair of wonderful eyes were the glory of her countenance, which had an
expression of exaltation he had never seen before on any face.
Back of the girl, knitting as if all Zanah were dependent upon her for
winter mittens, sat a woman of sour visage. As her needles moved she
watched the school-master and the girl. When Adolph Schneider entered
the room Walda Kellar looked past him, and her eyes met those of the
stranger with a look that betrayed no consciousness of his presence,
although he blushed like a school-boy. Walda greeted the Herr Doktor
with a slight inclination of her head. Then she whispered to the simple
one, who closed the Bible, gave it to the school-master, and took his
place on a stool near the teacher’s platform.
“Mother Kaufmann, we will go back to the _kinderhaus_,” said Walda
Kellar. She spoke the German so that it seemed the most musical tongue
Everett had ever heard. The elder woman rolled up her knitting and put
it into the capacious pocket of her gingham apron.
“Gerson Brandt, thy boys are truly well behaved; thou hast done much
with them.”
Walda spoke to the school-master, who bestowed upon her a look of
gratitude and tenderness.
“It is thou who tamest all that is unruly in the children of Zanah,” he
said. And then he walked down the narrow aisle between the rows of
tow-headed urchins and flung open the door that she might pass out.
“Come hither, friend Everett,” said Adolph Schneider, advancing to the
platform, where he met the school-master. “I want to make you acquainted
with Brother Brandt. Brother Brandt might have had that bubble men call
fame if he had continued to disobey the law of the Lord, for he made
images of the earth and sky, which is forbidden in the commandments. But
he forsook his idols before he was one-and-twenty and came into the safe
refuge of Zanah.”
“Yet even now I long to behold great pictures,” declared Gerson Brandt,
as if he were confessing some secret vice. “It is a quarter of a century
since I have looked on one.”
“Tut, tut, Brother Brandt,” said Schneider; “if thou wilt talk of
forbidden things, dismiss thy pupils.”
The school-master lifted his hand, and with a benediction sent the
tow-headed boys homeward. The village fool alone of all the school
remained in his place. With his head bent forward he appeared to be
asleep.
“We have come to see thy books,” said Adolph Schneider, when he had
taken the only chair in the room and placed his cane against the
black-board. “Is that thy Bible that thou hast put so much work upon?”
He pointed to the big volume from which Walda had been reading. It had a
linen cover neatly sewn upon it, and might have been the wordbook so
much thumbed by the pupils.
Gerson Brandt went to the desk, and, putting his hand on the book,
answered:
“This is my Bible, and I have been making the letters that begin the
chapters. I learned the secret of the colors long ago from a monk. It is
no sin to make the Holy Book beautiful, for I have put in it no images,
only the letters in colors that are symbolic.”
He spoke as if he were making excuse for some transgression, but the
Herr Doktor laughed leniently.
“Surely Zanah hath no fault to find with thy book,” Adolph Schneider
said. “I want the stranger to see the letters in it.”
Gerson Brandt opened the Bible, and as he turned the pages Everett, who
stood beside him, felt an overwhelming desire to possess the volume. The
old German text was printed upon parchment. The pages had broad margins,
and the letters beginning the chapters were illuminated with designs so
delicate and so minutely worked out that each repaid long study. The
coloring was exquisite, and gold, of a brilliancy equalled in few books
Everett had ever seen, was applied with a generous hand.
“How long have you worked on it?” he asked.
“Five years,” the school-master said, “and it is not finished yet.”
Gerson Brandt loosened the linen that he might display the binding of
calfskin. On the front cover was a monogram, but before Everett could
decipher the letters the linen was replaced.
“This is a beautiful book,” said Everett, taking it in his hand and
turning the pages. “I would give much for it. Will you sell it to me?”
Gerson Brandt’s thin face paled. He stretched out a trembling hand and
seized the Bible as he answered, coldly:
“This book was not made to be bartered to any man. It is mine. If there
is aught in it that commands thy favor it is because the making of the
letters has been a pleasant labor done with all my heart.”
The school-master held the volume close to his breast. The simple one,
who had not left his place on the stool, opened his eyes. The Herr
Doktor glanced from beneath his bushy brows with a look of surprise.
“Brother Brandt, thou speakest without proper forethought,” said
Schneider; “thou knowest that in Zanah all things belong to the Lord and
that thou hast not the right to say ‘my’ or ‘mine.’”
A dull red swept over the face of the school-master, and in his eyes was
a look that told of rebellion in his soul.
“For the good of Zanah we might be persuaded to sell this Bible,” the
Herr Doktor continued. “It is worth a great deal of money, for Brother
Brandt hath spent upon it much of the time that belonged to the colony.
How much wouldst thou give for it?”
“I should not think of buying the Bible if the artist who illuminated it
is unwilling to give it up,” Everett declared. The fear in the
school-master’s face touched his heart. For the moment Gerson Brandt had
lost the look of youth which strangely sat on features that told of
suffering. There was a new dignity in the gaunt figure, clad in its
queer garments. Gerson Brandt’s head was thrown back and his lips were
tightly closed. The habit of repression, learned in the long years of
colony life, was not easily thrown off, and he stood motionless while
Adolph Schneider scowled at him.
“Wouldst thou think one hundred dollars too much for the Bible?” the
village president inquired. He had risen and was leaning on his cane.
“Zanah needs money, for the harvests have been poor. Brother Brandt will
sell the book if thou canst pay the price.”
“One hundred dollars is little enough for the Bible,” said Everett; “but
we shall not discuss its purchase now.”
“Yet thou wilt buy it if it is offered to thee by Brother Brandt?”
Adolph Schneider asked, persistently pressing the subject of the sale.
Everett looked straight at the school-master, and his friendly eyes gave
Gerson Brandt confidence.
“I would buy it if it was cheerfully offered by Mr. Brandt,” he replied.
The village fool aroused himself and stretched lazily. Then, taking from
his pocket a little yellow gourd, he marked upon it with a big
pocket-knife.
As Schneider and Everett left the school-house they saw that something
unusual had happened, for a crowd was moving up the street. Women were
leaning over fences. Children followed the crowd at a distance.
The Herr Doktor stood for a moment as if uncertain what to do. It was
quite impossible for him to hasten, and he was of a phlegmatic nature
not easily excited.
“Some one must be hurt,” Everett remarked. “I think they are carrying a
man.”
In an instant Hans Peter had run down the hill. The school-master, who
had remained in the school-house to put away the precious Bible, came to
the door to look out. The crowd had crossed the rustic bridge.
“They are coming here,” Gerson Brandt exclaimed. “Can it be that aught
hath happened to Wilhelm Kellar?”
He hastened down the street, and Schneider stepped out on the sidewalk.
“Wilhelm Kellar hath charge of our flannel-mill. He liveth with Brother
Brandt,” explained the Herr Doktor. “I trust that no accident hath
befallen him.”
It was plain that Adolph Schneider’s anxiety was twofold, and that he
thought of the loss which might be unavoidable in case the mill
superintendent became incapacitated.
When Everett and the Herr Doktor met the villagers, Gerson Brandt had
stopped the crowd and was bending over the rude stretcher upon which lay
the unconscious form of an old man.
“Wilhelm Kellar hath been stricken with a sudden illness,” said the
school-master. “The apothecary hath worked over him and cannot restore
him. Will not the Herr Doktor send for a physician?”
“The nearest chirurgeon is eight miles away,” replied Adolph Schneider.
“Let the apothecary bleed Brother Kellar as soon as he is taken to his
bed.”
Seeing that the man was emaciated and had no blood to lose, Everett
stepped forward.
“I am a physician,” he said. “I will do what I can.”
He directed the crowd to fall back so that the sick man could have more
air, and helped to carry the stretcher into an upper room of the
school-house.