1) October 3, 1853. The Battle-Axe & Weapons of War.
Four days before the trial, Theophilius Drinkwater published a special issue, a number devoted to Joseph Benton Hope. The front leaf read IN DEFENSE OF PERFECTIONISM, and thereafter, for sixteen pages, Theophilius Drinkwater did what he could to save Joseph’s besmirched reputation. Theophilius was very eloquent and persuasive. The main thrust of his argument seemed to be that it was all right to have carnal relations with hedgehogs if that’s what one wanted to do. The Reverend Doctor McDougall used the periodical throughout the trial, quoting from it, alluding to it, even handing out copies to the members of the jury. Of course, Drinkwater, a man known to bear a grudge for a long time, knew exactly what effect his “defense” of Perfectionism would have on Hope’s trial. Joseph Benton Hope stated over and over that he could not be held accountable for Drinkwater’s philosophizing, but McDougall simply twisted that, implying that Hope felt Theophilius had been too tame.
2) May-June 1853. Medical Synchronicities.
Cairine McDiarmid became pregnant around this time. In a few months, when she attended the trial of Hope, her belly would be swelling magnificently, carrying as she was the twins Lemuel and Samuel. Cairine’s marital status would not go unnoticed, and although she claimed under oath that the impregnation was accomplished by a young man she’d met somewhere, a young man whose name she could not recall and had no curiosity to rediscover, McDougall and most people believed that J. B. Hope was the father.
A further medical synchronicity, a rather distasteful one, is that in July of that year the Rev. Dr. I. J. R. McDougall, Barr. & Sol., developed a horrendous case of hemorrhoids. His other end became as red as his face, swelling with pustules. This may well account for his disposition throughout the proceedings, which was cranky to say the least.
3) July 22, 1853. An Extraordinary Demise.
There are seventeen authenticated cases of spontaneous combustion in North America (at least, seventeen cases where no other satisfactory explanation has been offered), and the death of Buford Scrope Davies is one of them. The fat, club-footed clergyman had been preaching in front of his congregation. In the middle of a sentence (popularly held as referring to the fires of perdition, in fact an etymological argument concerning the Hebrew word Nacham) the Reverend Buford Scrope Davies made a sound like a five-cent firecracker, a tiny little pop, and burst into flame. The effect, I take it, was rather dramatic, and many people accepted this as some sort of divine sign, the Almighty singling out Buford Scrope Davies above all others. Today, in fact, there are some four thousand Daviesians scattered about North America, a sect that believes that, if you behave very well, you might go poof and get swallowed up in black flame.
(An intrusion here from the Biographer, one of a personal nature. Elspeth’s mother, a monumentally crazy old woman, is a Daviesian. This has had a definite influence upon my wife. Elspeth has told me that throughout her childhood, fevers occasioned great joy on her mother’s part. Once, when Ellie’s temperature pushed 103° F, her mother called in several fellow Daviesians and they laid Elspeth down on some aluminum foil and waited for fireworks. Today, Elspeth does not get sick. She refuses to let germs anywhere near her, mortally fearful of fever. I do not know what will kill Elspeth, but I know it won’t be disease; my money is on a bus, but Ellie would have to be ninety-four years old and never know that it was coming.)
Polyphilia was somewhat distressed by the loss of her husband, particularly by the bizarre nature of his earthly exit, and she didn’t know where to turn. After a few weeks of moping about her father’s house, she decided to go to Lowell, to be with her friends at their time of need. This she did, taking her son, the two-year-old (and already markedly obese) Ephraim. Polyphilia arrived at the courthouse at the precise moment that Joseph Benton Hope began to speak in his own defense. Polly sat down in the front row, squeezing herself in between George and Martha. She smiled encouragingly at Joseph.
Hope’s testimony was eloquent and thoughtful, and might well have swayed many minds, had he not been clearly possessed of an enormous erection. Unconsciously, Joseph repeatedly adjusted his rod, shifting it to more comfortable positions within his trousers.
Polyphilia smiled at him throughout.
4) September 1853. The arrival of the Marquis siblings.
It was at this time that Chester Marquis and his sister Charlotte came to Lowell, turning up at 42 Dutton Street and declaring themselves Perfect. Chester was a slender, buck-toothed lad, obviously dying from consumption; his sister was a squat girl of a somewhat unfortunate aspect. No daguerreotypes exist of Charlotte, but one suspects from various sources that she suffered from a thyroidal imbalance, the ailment causing her eyes to bulge, making Charlotte appear constantly amazed or horrified.
The significance of the Marquis siblings upon the life of Hope is marked, although one gets the impression that Joseph was hardly aware of their existence prior to the trial. Chester Marquis died on September 17, just a few days after his arrival. The following day, Charlotte Marquis emerged from the house in a hysterical state, shrieking incoherencies about Mr. Opdycke. She ran right into the arms of the Reverend Doctor Ian John Robert McDougall.
Through the sort of devious ploy for which he was reknowned, McDougall managed to have all this come out at Hope’s trial, some days later, for violating the antiobscenity postal statute. Charlotte’s testimony was to the effect that Mr. Opdycke had convinced her to indulge in sexual intercourse, and he’d convinced by means of Perfectionist theory. She reluctantly complied, until it became clear that Mr. Opdycke wished to indulge himself in a depravity. The exact nature of the depravity went undisclosed, although McDougall did rhyme off seventeen possibilities, each more disgusting than the previous. The ugly girl turned red and lowered her bulging eyes in shame.
Mr. Opdycke took the stand and calmly denied it all. Unfortunately, Mr. Opdycke was so calm that he gave the impression of being an old hand at denying things in courtrooms. During the course of his questioning, Rev. Dr. Ian John Robert McDougall seemed to imply that Mr. Opdycke was in reality a Mr. Ogilvy of Vermont and that, furthermore, there was still some question, originally brought forward by a court in that state, as to the manner in which Mrs. Ogilivy had disappeared. Mr. Opdycke denied it all, of course, calmly shaking his head.
5) October 7, 1853. George Quinton’s ruckus.
After the first day of the trial, several men had waited outside the courthouse in order to taunt Joseph Benton Hope. George Quinton, walking beside his master, had suggested they be quiet. The men, employing what was then a fairly novel retort, demanded to know who was going to make them. George replied that he would, whereupon ensued a donnybrook. George emerged from the fray bloodied, his face a monstrous configuration of cuts, welts and bruises. He did look better than any of the taunters, several of whom had broken limbs. It is felt by modern scholars that of all the negative influences at Hope’s trial (Drinkwater’s tract, Cairine’s immodest pregnancy, Hope’s penile engorgement, Chester Marquis’s recent death, Charlotte’s testimony and Mr. Opdycke’s smug denials) none was so damning as the daily front-row presence of George Quinton, a huge and hideous creature.
Hope was incarcerated for a period of three months. During this time, he studied the Bible constantly and read an astronomical number of books, things like The Social Destiny of Man and A Treatise on Fourieristic Phalansteries. During this time in jail Hope’s main body of ideas was established: that man should live communally; that private ownership was in direct opposition to God’s will; that hitherto women as a class had been treated as chattels by man and should be freed from the burden of child rearing; that man (and woman) had a dual nature, amative and propagative; that erections were caused by a direct infusion of the Holy Spirit; and that marriage was a man-wrought construct never intended and wholly unheeded by the Almighty.
Upon his release, Joseph Benton Hope instructed his followers that the time had come to begin experiments in complex marriage. The fi
rst step, Hope announced, would be that he would have amorous congress with Polyphilia Drinkwater.
This experiment was a success.
The next step, Hope told them, was that he would have amorous congress with Abigal Skinner, and Abram Skinner would have amorous congress with Polyphilia.
Another success.
Next, Hope had amorous congress with Mary Carter De-la-Noy, Mr. Opdycke had amorous congress with Abigal Skinner and Adam De-la-Noy had amorous congress with Polyphilia Drinkwater.
In time, Cairine McDiarmid gave birth to the twins, Samuel and Lemuel, allowing her to take part in the experiments. This was fortunate, because Abigal Skinner soon became with child.
Over the next four years the experiments continued unabated. Six children were born: Samuel and Lemuel McDiarmid, Theodore De-la-Noy, Anne and Alice Skinner, Gregory Drinkwater Opdycke (Polyphilia’s child by Mr. Opdycke, or so she calculated) and, finally, little Isaiah Hope, who popped out premature, gray and wrinkled, from Martha’s huge groin.
One night, two young girls ran out of the house at 42 Dutton Street and removed all of their clothing. They were discovered by one of the fathers, who immediately called for the constabulary. Joseph Benton Hope feared that he would not fare well should there be another trial; moreover, he recalled that the citizens of Illinois had recently ripped his contemporary, the Mormon leader Joseph Smith, to bits.
Hope decided to continue his social experiments elsewhere, perhaps in an unsettled place where the Perfectionists would be removed from established communities.
They journeyed northward into Upper Canada.
PART FOUR
“Elspeth?”
Hope, Ontario, 1983
Wherein our Biographer has Discourse with His Better Half.
“Elspeth?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Whaddya mean, what’s the matter? You’re supposed to say, ‘You’re drunk’.”
“All right. You’re drunk. What’s the matter?”
“Damn right, I’m drunk.”
“We’ve established this. You’re drunk. Now tell me what’s the matter.”
“Well, things are a little weird out here.”
“How so?”
“Lemme ask you this. Did Jonathon just see what was gonna happen, or did he have something to do with it? See what I’m getting at?”
“Who’s Jonathon?”
“That is what I’d like to know! Fucking guy has been alive for about 170 years, for one thing!”
“Paul …”
“They got some secret out here. There is a mystery! And I think it’s got something to do with Joseph Benton Hope. And they don’t want me to find out what it is.”
“Who’s they?”
“Mona and Jonathon and the Bernies and the Kims and even Edgar the axe-murderer!”
“Edgar the axe-murderer?”
“What they don’t know is, I signed them out.”
“What?”
“I have the books. And the magazines. And the newspapers. Deedee let me sign them out.”
“Who’s Deedee?”
“You care for a sip of this here scootch? Irish scotch, my fave, yummy-yum-yum.”
“We’re on the telephone, dickhead.”
“Too bad for you. So, are you getting fucked regular or what?”
“Paul, do you want to tell me what’s the matter, or do I have to hang up?”
“Sheesh, what a grouch.”
“Are you crying?”
“No way, Jose! The whiskey is leaking out my eyes, that’s all.”
“Who’s Deedee?”
“Ellie, I’m fucked up. I can’t talk now.”
“What did you phone for?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay. I’ll say goodnight.”
“Can you come and tuck me in?”
“Afraid not.”
“It’ll probably be in the papers. About the library.”
“The library out there?”
“Yeah. The Hope Public Library.”
“What about it?”
“Exploded. Burned down. Kablooey!”
“Oh.”
“The, um, head librarian …”
“That whiskey’s really leaking a lot now.”
“Yeah, well, the thing of it is, is, the head librarian …”
“Deedee?”
“That’s right. Deedee. Short for Dierdra. She was in there.”
“In the library.”
“Yeah.”
“Was she a friend of yours?”
“Well, I didn’t hardly know her, Elspeth, I just met her, but she was a really sweet old lady, and she knew everything, I mean, she was as smart as God, she could answer every question on every game show. And we had a few brew together. And she called me ‘Phillip’ and ‘Patrick’ and ‘Peter’ and I carried her around.”
“It’s sad.”
“But what’s worse is … maybe it was my fault, because I was snooping around, and they decided they had to get rid of the Hope Room. But what they don’t know is …”
“You signed them out.”
“I have them right here!”
“Maybe you should come back to Toronto.”
“Back home?”
“I—I don’t think we should live together anymore. But maybe you should come back from out there. It sounds like you’re deteriorating.”
“What kind of fucking word is that? Deteriorating.”
“Getting worse.”
“I know what it goddam means, Elspeth! What I don’t know is why you have to use it! You sound like a fucking nurse or a social worker or a clinical psychologist or some fucking thing.”
“All right.”
“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”
“I just mean, I have nothing further to say. I’m sorry, that’s all. Sorry about your friend Deedee. Sorry about everything.”
“I didn’t phone for sympathy.”
“What did you phone for?”
“I am your husband, for Christ’s sake. I don’t need a reason.”
“Okay.”
“Anyways, I got work to do out here. Research. On the life of Hope.”
“The life of Hope.”
“Right.”
“When you find out about it, you let me know.”
“Okay. Goodbye, Elspeth.”
“Goodbye, Paul.”
“I love you.”
“Goodbye, Paul.”
The Fourieristic Phalanstery
Upper Canada, 1862
Regarding the original settlement at Hope, we know the following: that it owed much philosophically to Chas. Fourier; that it received attention in American newspapers and periodicals; that it attracted many curious visitors.
“So this, John, is our Phalanstery!” Adam De-la-Noy gesticulated proudly at the building. It was peculiar-looking at best, humpbacked and deformed. It had been designed by Abram Skinner, so its plan was simplistic and practical, long rows of bedchambers surplanting the various dining/work areas. The actual construction had been carried out almost singlehandedly by George Quinton, which accounted for the awkwardness of the angles and joinings.
Adam’s friend John seemed troubled by something. “That window,” he pointed out, “is the wrong way ’round.”
Adam De-la-Noy chuckled lightly. Mr. Opdycke had provided, somehow, from somewhere, an ornate stained glass depicting the crucifixion of our Lord Jesus. George Quinton had inserted it wrongly, topsy-turvy, recognizing it only as a window.
Samuel and Lemuel, Cairine’s twins, suddenly rushed up to the men. They were, at six-and-a-half years, the oldest of the Perfectionist children (Ephraim Davies was older, nine, but not born of their philosophy) and certainly the biggest, an enormous pair, especially given the diminutive stature of the woman who’d produced them.
“Stammed am delibber!” shrieked Lemuel.
“Your mommy or your libe!” added Samuel.
Both boys held wooden guns, ornately carved with
rococo handles and long, thin barrels.
“Oh!” Adam’s hand clutched at his heart melodramatically. “It is Ben Turpin and his fearsome Henchman!”
The twins grinned evilly. Sam waved his pistol in the air and hollered, “Stan am belibber!”
Adam’s friend John was taken with the boys’ toys. “How beautiful they are!” he said to Adam. “So lifelike! They look as real as real can be.”
Samuel and Lemuel scowled at this.
“John, do you have a copper or two?” Adam pulled at his pockets. “We have no truck with currency here, but we are, you know, being robbed.”
John took a coin out of his waistcoat (John was fashionably dressed, but probably boiling to death, given the heat of the day) and handed it to Lemuel. “May I see your pistol?” he asked.
Sam and Lem communicated through a series of shifting glances; finally, and reluctantly, Lemuel handed over the wooden gun.
John took the toy and fired off a number of imaginary shots, aiming with great care and precision. Lemuel looked disgusted; the man was wasting a lot of valuable ammunition.
At long last John handed the toy pistol back to Lem. The boys darted away.
“If you have no truck with currency,” wondered John, “why did the lads want money?”
Adam De-la-Noy laughed. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“What wonderful toys.”
“Yes, well, that’s one of the things we do, you know, wood carving. Each Phalanstery, Fourier said, should concentrate on particular crafts.”
“Fourier?” questioned John.
“Charles Fourier. He was a wonderful man, a Frenchman. He himself was aristocratic, but he gave it all up for the sake of communal living. According to Fourier, all of the great nations should be subdivided into little communities, and they should each live and work in separate phalansteries.”
“I see.”
George Quinton walked out of the Fourieristic Phalanstery carrying a mop and a pail of water. “Hello,” he said merrily. “Adam, I’ve just done the floah in the dining womb, so please don’t walk on it foh a while.”
The Life of Hope Page 20
