It was the beginning of spinning-time in Zanah. The grape crop had been
gathered, the bare fields had been raked, and nothing remained to be
done outside that could not be accomplished by the men and boys.
Therefore the women of the colony were assigned the task of making the
linen used in the households at Zanah. Although the very latest
machinery had been installed in the mills, it was still the custom among
the women to spin the colony sheets and table napery. The large
dining-room in the inn had been cleared, and twenty wheels had been
distributed here and there for the use of the favored “mothers”
privileged to enjoy what was really an annual week of gossip. Gathered
in the great dining-room were Mother Schneider, Mother Kaufmann, Mother
Werther, and their nearest cronies. It was a bright afternoon, and the
sun came in through the vine-covered windows. The door on the wide porch
was open, and near it, in the choicest place in the room, sat Mother
Schneider busy at her wheel. She paused to put back one of the strings
of her black cap and asked:
“What say they up at the school-house concerning the lost Bible, Sister
Kaufmann?”
“They speak naught of it,” replied the sour-visaged woman, as she broke
her thread. “Many times have I tried to make Brother Brandt tell me what
he really thinks, but thou knowest he hath a way of holding his tongue.”
“Walda Kellar hath made a good nurse,” said Mother Werther, who was busy
sorting the flax. “Anything that she undertaketh she doeth well.”
“She hath too much freedom in that sick-room,” declared Mother
Schneider.
“Yea, she hath,” agreed Mother Kaufmann. “There are many hours that I
cannot be there to watch her.”
“Thou forgettest that Walda Kellar needeth not watching as do other
girls. She who hath been chosen to speak for the Lord surely can be
trusted. And then thou knowest she is with her own father.”
Mother Werther cast an indignant glance at the wife of the Herr Doktor,
who had started the conversation.
“I trust not that physician from the outside world,” said Mother
Kaufmann. “He hath queer ways that are not like those of the men of
Zanah.”
“He is always most kind and thoughtful; he treats women with much
reverence,” said Mother Werther. “I know him best of all persons in
Zanah, for doth he not stay here at the _gasthaus_?”
“Since when didst thou become a good judge of men?” asked Mother
Kaufmann, with a taunting laugh that showed her ugly tusks. “The wife
who after fifteen years hath not discovered the faults of her husband is
not fitted to pass judgment on any man. I do not like that Stephen
Everett.”
“He is helping Wilhelm Kellar to regain his health,” said a meek,
middle-aged woman who sat in a far corner.
“It is a fortnight since Brother Kellar was taken ill, and he is still
in bed,” said Mother Kaufmann.
“Thou forgettest that Brother Kellar hath been nigh unto death,” said
Mother Werther.
“That doctor from the world is a handsome man,” remarked Gretchen
Schneider, who had come in and taken her seat near her mother.
“Tut, tut; I am ashamed of thee,” said Mother Schneider, in a tone of
reproof. “Thou forgettest that the maidens of Zanah must not look upon
men, and must not care whether they be handsome or hideous.”
“Dost thou find him more comely than Karl Weisel, our respected elder?”
inquired Mother Werther; and, despite the scowl of the wife of the Herr
Doktor, smothered laughs were heard from various parts of the room.
Gretchen Schneider’s pale face flushed. Before she could reply her
mother retorted:
“Thy words are unseemly, Sister Werther. I bid thee keep silence.”
“I have the right of free speech,” the innkeeper’s wife answered; “and
there is none in Zanah who doth not know there would have been a wedding
long ago if the head of the thirteen elders had not loved his place of
authority better than the daughter of the Herr Doktor.”
In a moment Mother Schneider flew into a rage, quite inconsistent with
the religious principles of Zanah.
“Hold thou thy clattering tongue,” she commanded; and for the space of
two minutes not a word was spoken in the room. The whirring of the busy
wheels alone disturbed the quiet.
The entrance of Frieda Bergen fortunately relieved the situation of its
tensity. The girl came into the room bearing on her head a bundle of
flax, which she deposited before Mother Werther.
“This I brought from the station, whither I went with Mother Schmidt,”
she said.
“Thou shouldst not have been allowed to go to the railroad,” said Mother
Kaufmann. “But what didst thou see there?”
“A train came by while I stood on the platform. I looked through one of
the windows and saw silken-cushioned seats, and mirrors that showed
gayly dressed men and women. There was also a car in which were
dining-tables. Black men waited on women, who laughed and talked with
men. Some of the women wore on their fingers jewels that looked like
sparkling glass.”
The wheels had all stopped. Every “mother” in the room was listening.
“The sparkling glass that thou sawest was what is called a diamond,”
said Gretchen Schneider. “Jewels are worn by those who have vanity in
their souls.”
“Truly, the rings were very beautiful,” said Frieda Bergen.
“Thou wert ever a foolish maid,” said Mother Schneider, in a tone of
severe reproof. “Put out of thy thoughts what thou hast seen to-day. I
shall have the Herr Doktor forbid thee from going to the station.”
“Nay, Sister Schneider, scold not Frieda. She hath done no harm,” said
Mother Werther. “It should not hurt her to get a glimpse of the vanities
of the world, for she is well grounded in the faith of Zanah. She
knoweth that the costly gauds are but the playthings of sin-ridden
women.”
Standing in the middle of the room, Frieda Bergen shook her head
doubtfully.
“Truly, those worldly ones appeared happy,” she said. “There were some
that read books and leaned back on velvet cushions. They looked as if
they never worked. Some of the women were beautiful. They wore no caps
upon their hair. Their frocks were not all alike, as they are here in
Zanah.”
“See, the daughter of Zanah is touched by the temptations of the world,”
said Mother Schneider. “We have heard enough. Begin thy work, Frieda
Bergen.”
“If what I hear is true, the elders should discipline Frieda,” said
Mother Kaufmann, with a sneer. “It hath come to my ears that she hath
often spoken with Joseph Hoff.”
Frieda Bergen bent her head over her work. A telltale blush overspread
her delicate skin, and her hand trembled as she took up her distaff.
“Frieda Bergen hath the right to love Joseph Hoff if she chooseth,” said
Mother Werther, rising from her chair and walking the length of the room
to the place where the girl sat. “Love may be a foolish thing in the
eyes of Zanah, but it bringeth its reward.”
“Thou art teaching heresy, Sister Werther,” said Mother Schneider. “If
the elders knew of thy heterodoxy thou wouldst have to do penance
through some hard task.”
Mother Werther smiled in a tantalizing way. She drew in a long breath as
she were about to retort, and then, thinking better of it, went back to
her work.
“If Frieda is wise she will follow the example of some of us who have
served God faithfully all unmindful of man,” said Mother Kaufmann. Her
remark was too much for Mother Werther. Dropping her flax, the
innkeeper’s wife put her hands upon her hips and laughed.
“And hast thou always been unmindful of Gerson Brandt?” she inquired.
“Mother, thou shouldst put an end to this unseemly talk,” said Gretchen
Schneider.
“Yea, thou hast something to fear lest it be remembered how narrowly
_thou_ hast escaped love,” said Mother Werther.
“Stop thine unruly tongue,” admonished Mother Schneider.
“Thou forgettest that in Zanah all men and women are equal,” said Mother
Werther. “Thy husband, the Herr Doktor, is enjoying but a brief
authority. Thou art not greater than any other woman in the colony.”
Mother Schneider gasped in anger, but before she could reply a shadow
was cast upon the floor and Walda Kellar entered. Her sweet face wore an
untroubled look. She smiled upon all the women gathered in the room.
“Something brought me here among you,” she said. “I have but just come
from my father’s sick-room, and as I walked long, thinking of the coming
_Untersuchung_, I felt that I wanted once more to spin with the women of
Zanah.”
“Thou bringest peace with thee,” said Mother Werther.
Frieda Bergen rose from her little, low-backed chair, and Walda Kellar
seated herself before the girl’s wheel.
Silence fell upon the room. The girl’s presence commanded reverence. In
her eyes was a peculiar light, and her face was radiant. Slowly she
began to turn her wheel.
“It is very good to be here,” she said, presently. “If the Lord giveth
me the tongue of inspiration there will be other tasks for me, and now
and then, when I am not quite so strong in the faith as I ought to be, I
wonder whether I shall not sometimes be an unworthy instrument of the
Lord, because the little things of life, it seemeth, will always have a
charm for me. While the great, leather-bound books of Zanah have much to
teach me, there are days when my inclinations draw me towards the labors
which belong to the women of the colony.”
No one answered. For a few moments the wheels whirred again, and not a
word disturbed the pleasant hum of industry. Presently Walda’s voice
rose in a minor hymn. The deep, rich cadences swelled above the sound of
the wheels. It was a weird, plaintive tune to which she sang German
words which breathed a prayer for light upon the way that led through
the sin-encompassed world. She paused after the first verse. Appearing
to forget her work, she clasped her hands in her lap and sang again with
such sweetness and such pathos that Mother Werther wiped her eyes. The
singing had brought some one to the porch outside, but Walda appeared
not to hear the footstep. She sang on and on, and when the last verse
died upon her lips she sat very still, as if her soul had gone out with
the strange melody.
Everett, who had come to the window, looking through the blinds, beheld
the prophetess. For the moment the woman was lost, and he felt an
overwhelming sense of her aloofness from him. There came to him a full
realization of the gulf between him and this woman of Zanah, who
belonged so little to the world and so much to heaven. For several
minutes he stood fascinated as he gazed upon her, but, summoning all his
will-power, he turned away lest he should be discovered spying upon the
women of Zanah. As he walked towards the bluffs he met Hans Peter moving
along in a leisurely manner. The witchery of Walda’s song was still upon
him, and he would have passed the simple one without a greeting, but
Hans Peter stepped directly in his path.
“Thou hast made trouble in Zanah,” said the simple one, staring at him
with unblinking eyes and doubling up one fat fist. “The day that thou
goest hence to the wicked world where thou belongest will be a happy
one.”
“You speak with but scant respect for the stranger within your gates,”
said Everett, who was amused by the vehemence of the village fool.
Hans Peter removed his ragged cap. “Thou hast brought sorrow to Gerson
Brandt,” he continued, “for thou wouldst have taken the Bible that he
was making beautiful for Walda Kellar.”
Everett studied the odd little figure before him for a moment. It was
the first time that Hans Peter had betrayed, in manner or countenance,
the least trace of emotion. Even now, as the simple one stood blinking
his eyes, the man of the world could not comprehend his motive in making
the unexpected accusation.
“You seem almost excited, Hans Peter,” said Everett, presently, when the
boy had begun to show that the silence was uncomfortable. “And why are
you concerned about the Bible?”
“The school-master setteth great store on the Sacred Book,” replied the
simple one. “He hath been kind to me, and I like not to see him
troubled.”
“And is not every one kind to you, Hans Peter?”
The simple one thrust his hand into his deep pocket and hung his head.
“The people of Zanah are many times vexed with the fool,” he said. “They
have scant patience with one who believes not as they do. In all the
colony there are only three who seem to forget that Hans Peter is the
village fool.”
“And who are they? Gerson Brandt is one, I know. Who are the others?”
“The prophetess of Zanah and Mother Werther.”
“And do you not believe in the prophetess of Zanah? Have you not faith
that she will be the inspired one?”
“Why do you question the village fool?” asked Hans Peter, suddenly, wary
lest he should tell something that he wished to conceal. “Thou knowest
that to all the colony Walda Kellar is the revered one. Truly, she
walketh near to God.”
“Then perhaps some day she will lead you into the full faith of Zanah?”
said Everett. But the fool shook his head.
“Hans Peter loveth earth, not heaven. He would not be wise as the men of
Zanah are wise, for verily their wisdom bringeth them no joy.”
“Hans Peter, you speak as one who has much knowledge, after all. I am
beginning to think that you are the wisest man in the colony.”
“If there is wisdom in knowing one is a fool and being content in his
own folly, then am I wise. They say that the fool is often given the
power of prophecy; and when I was carving the day of the month upon one
of the gourds I keep to help my memory, there came to me the fear that
something was coming to Zanah through thee. I ran to seek thee that I
might give warning of the trouble thou art bringing to the colony.”
Everett reached into the pocket of his coat, took out a cigar, and
lighted it. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me in just what way
I am to bring more trouble to Zanah,” he said, with a smile. “I had
nothing to do with the loss of the Bible, for I have refused to buy it,
and I give you my word now, Hans Peter, that I will never take it away
from Gerson Brandt.”
“Thy word is not needed now,” answered the fool. “The Bible is where
thou canst not get it.”
“And you know where it is,” said Everett, so quickly that the fool was
taken off his guard.
“And if I do, no one shall find it,” the simple one declared, with a
gesture of his arm and a stamp of his bare foot.
“Don’t you think it would be wise for you to take back the Bible to
Gerson Brandt?” Everett inquired, walking a few steps to his right,
where there was a great tree against which he leaned.
“If the Bible could be found it would not again be put in Gerson
Brandt’s hands. It is better that it should be lost forever than that he
should see it owned by another man.”
“Why is this Bible so precious to the school-master? Can’t you tell me,
Hans Peter? Perhaps I may help you to restore it to him. You see, I
might buy it and give it back to Gerson Brandt.”
“No man in Zanah can own anything. If the Bible should be given to
Gerson Brandt it would still belong to the colony, and it could be sold
again.” The simple one had thrown himself upon the ground, and, with
chin in his hands and elbows dug deeply in the earth, he appeared to be
thinking.
“Tell me about the Bible,” urged Everett, and he waited as impatiently
for the village fool to speak as if some matter of tremendous importance
to him, the man of affairs out in the great world, hung in the balance.
There was something almost absurd in the contrast between the two who
talked there in the summer afternoon. Stephen Everett was a man to be
noticed anywhere. It was not altogether his physical beauty that
invariably commanded attention; he had an unusual charm of personality.
Hans Peter, with his long, straight tow hair tangled upon his big, round
head, kicked his earth-stained feet in the air as he lay at length upon
the ground. His blue cotton shirt, torn down the back, revealed a strip
of white skin, and his baggy trousers were held by the one button which
attached them to a knitted suspender. The pocket in the back of his
trousers bulged with one of the gourds that he carried with him wherever
he went.
“I am waiting for you to tell me about the Bible,” Everett remarked,
when he had smoked half of his cigar.
Hans Peter reached back and removed the gourd from his pocket. Then,
sitting up, he began to examine it carefully.
“It was long ago that it came to Hans Peter one day, as he watched
Gerson Brandt at work with his bright inks, that the school-master’s
thoughts were on Walda Kellar as he made the gay letters in the great
book. Lest the fool might forget, he marked on his gourd some lines to
make him remember. Many times after that he saw that the school-master
was praying for her who would be inspired. Hans Peter knew that the
Bible was for Walda Kellar, and that the school-master meant it for her
to read every day when she should become an instrument of the Lord. That
is why Gerson Brandt loved the Bible. That is why no other man should
have it.”
Everett left his place at the tree, and, pacing back and forth, pondered
for a few moments upon the information that the simple one had given
him.
“Ah, the school-master is a second father to Walda Kellar, I suppose?”
he said, presently, casting a furtive glance at the fool.
“Nay, he hath not years enough to make it right he should love her as a
father,” declared Hans Peter, nodding his head. “The simple one hath
been taught that love is a wicked thing, but there is in Gerson Brandt’s
heart something that may be love, like that with which he worships
angels.”
“Again I tell you, Hans Peter, you are the wisest of all the colonists
in Zanah,” said Everett. “There, go about your errands.”
“But thou wilt promise not to buy the Bible, even if it is ever found?”
said Hans Peter, coming close to Everett and lowering his voice.
“Yes, yes; you have my word for it. I shall not buy it unless it is to
aid Gerson Brandt,” Everett replied. “And, Hans Peter, give me your
hand. I pledge my word.”
The fool hesitatingly put out his fat, work-hardened hand, and Everett
gave it a hearty clasp.