The first Moravians settled in eastern Pennsylvania, probably welcomed by the Quakers, who were more tolerant than New England Protestants or Southern Catholic states. These early worshipers came from England, the Low Countries, and various parts of Germany. They took refuge on Count Zinsendorff’s estate in Moravia. He organized their transatlantic journey. Thus a polyglot group founded Bethlehem. The language spoken was a species of German, the tongue of the majority.
The Moravians are not to be confused with the Amish or other Pennsylvania Dutch sects, from whom they differed by having a livelier interest in learning and culture. Music was an essential part of their lives. Many of the Moravians were skilled artisans. Their work is evident in the church and academy buildings of Bethlehem.
Their belief was a literal following of the Bible, and they were especially peace-loving. They soon made friends with the Indians, many of whom they converted, even to the extent of turning nomadic warlike tribes into peaceful tillers of the soil like themselves.
They devised an original and enchanting method of communication in those pre-telephone days. A quartet of trombonists gathered on a balcony atop the church tower, facing the four points of the compass. The changes they played were familiar to all. One heralded a birth, one sounded an alarm, another a death — and so on. Every citizen, musical or not, was trained to interpret the notes drifting out over the town and countryside from those golden horns.
Wunden Eiland—Isle of Wounds. There must have been occasional dissensions, tribal clashes, and confrontations.
Mamalie rambled on, further and further into the past. The child couldn’t take it all in. She pieced it together, later. She became aware of “the Thing”—synonymous with the Gift — atavism, transmigration of souls, the weight of past events. She couldn’t understand it. She felt haunted, trapped within it. Never free until “again there was a whistling of evil wings, the falling of poisonous arrows, the deadly signature of a sign of evil magic in the sky.” The London Blitz, that unreal — and all too real — time, which she describes in the final chapter, or epilogue. When writing was her therapy. Some of it was wrought from direct experience:
An incident here and there,
and rails gone (for guns)
from your (and my) old town square
The Gift provided escape. Her mind was obviously deep into it and far away, on the afternoon of the exploding apple jelly.
The original manuscript of The Gift was much longer. Judicious cutting has not affected the spirit, or the quality, but has made a better book.
Forty years have passed since The Gift was written. The Gift continues on, following its own course. It can’t be pushed or pulled. I ponder my oldest son’s interest in astrophysics, his way with the written word, and his great appreciation of music. His three siblings are also “into” literature and the arts. Their musical tastes might seem eclectic, but it’s all part of the whole. I’m sure Uncle Fred would have loved the Beatles.
On September 10th, H. D.’s birthday, we travel to Bethlehem. Hospitable friends have entertained us there over the years, always after funerals. We now meet annually, to celebrate a happy occasion. There is a reading, and a tea, and a twilight procession to Nisky Hill Cemetery. We lay flowers alongside the beautiful inscription—“Greek flower; Greek ecstasy… — saving some for the other Doolittles and Wolles. Professor Charles Doolittle and my grandmother and Aunt Laura. And Uncle Gilbert and Uncle Fred. All weathered and mossy, barely legible. And Uncle Harold, Uncle Melvin, and Aunt Dorothy — shiny new by comparison.
Just beyond this enclave there is a stone book, half open, and anonymous; the pages are blank. An innocent’s grave, maybe. A baby, or a fragile young girl, whose life was an open book. Or a renegade whose story could not be told. A venerable scholar — or a poet. The Gift, in another family.
PERDITA SCHAFFNER
THE GIFT
The brain comes into play, yes, but it is only
the tool. … the telephone is not the person speaking
over it. The dark room is not the photograph.
DARK ROOM
There was a girl who was burnt to death at the seminary, as they called the old school where our grandfather was principal.
For a long time we were under the impression that we had two fathers, Papa and Papalie, but the children across the street said Papalie was our grandfather. “He is not,” we said, “he is our Papalie.” But Ida, our devoted friend, who did the cooking and read Grimm’s tales to us at night before we went to sleep, said yes, Papalie was our grandfather, people had a grandfather, sometimes they had two. The other grandfather was dead, he was Papa’s father, she explained. But the girl who was burnt to death, was burnt to death in a crinoline. The Christmas tree was lighted at the end of one of the long halls and the girl’s ruffles or ribbons caught fire and she was in a great hoop.
The other girls stand round. There is Mama, who is a tiny child, and Aunt Laura, who Mama said was the pretty one, two years older, and Aunt Agnes in her long frock, who in the daguerreotypes and old photographs looked like the young mother of the two little girls and the three boys, the uncles.
Mamalie had married twice; there was a picture of one of Aunt Agnes’ family in a wig with a sword; he had been at the Court of Czar Alexander, in Russia; that was a long time ago. Aunt Agnes’ children were young men, almost like uncles. There had been eight altogether; five grew up. There had been a little girl; and in our own plot at Nisky Hill, there was a little girl who was our own sister and another little girl who had been the child of the Lady who had been Papa’s first wife. But the girl in the crinoline wasn’t a relation, she was just one of the many girls at the seminary when Papalie was there and she screamed and Papalie rushed to her and Papalie wrapped a rug around her, but she is shrieking and they can not tear off her clothes because of the hoop.
“Why are you crying?” This is Mama and her younger brother, little Hartley. Mamalie finds them crouched at the turn of the stairs under the big clock that Mamalie’s father had made himself.
“It is a grandfather clock,” we said proudly, “and it was made by Mamalie’s family.”
“Ah, so it is really a grandfather’s clock,” one out-of-town visitor remarked; we felt indifference, even irreverence in her unfamiliar low drawl. Wasn’t it a thing to be proud of, that Mamalie’s father made clocks? We were very proud of it. Mamalie’s father had even been asked to Philadelphia to sing in a great choral-service; he kept bees and he played the trombone at the Easter service in the old graveyard when we went out and said the Lord is risen indeed and watched the sun come up over the graves.