"The Opinionists"

The Opinionists is a companion piece, at least in format, to The Hills of the Tigers that I wrote about in my previous post. The two are similar as well in that they both combine art and public life.

I wrote the first drafts of both many years ago. I hope I've got them after many revisions to a state where people will enjoy reading them.

The heart of The Opininonists is a theological controversy that took place in the mid-17th century and resembles one from the archives of Massachusetts history.  Surrounding this story, in alternating chapters, is an account of a movie company in the early 1950's making a film based on the controversy that galvanized the small colony.   

Here's a part of a scene in which the cast and crew of the film come together for the first time.

Vincent Adair assembled the best cast he could. I remember his speech to the company after we arrived in Stilton Fields. He rented a meeting room in the town hall with a high ceiling and tall windows on two sides through which we could see the bluish curves of distant dusky hills. Fans turned briskly overhead, creaking like crickets, for it was the beginning of summer. Vincent kept us waiting, fifteen minutes, half an hour, but we pardoned him when he came on stage and stood before us like a benevolent emperor about to dispense favors, an actor among actors.


“I suspect you’ve heard stories about my working methods.” Vincent didn’t need a microphone, for the range of his fabled voice could hold in thrall even the most restive gathering. “Some of the tales are true. I like to get my way. Be patient with me. We’re going to make one of the best pictures ever. Begin, please, by thinking of yourselves as a community in colonial America. You’ve known each other a long time. You’ve had many adventures together; you’ve accomplished a lot. You don’t know many people apart from each other. There are no cities near you to lose yourselves in. No highways. No electricity. You’re strict, but kind and loving; you know how to withstand hard knocks. None of you is rich, though some plan for riches. Your families, your community, and God Almighty are the biggest factors in your lives. You’re in awe of nature and the new land you live in, the vastness of which you can’t imagine. You dream about the future. You have a profound trust that life will go well for you. Now, a new element comes into this community...”

And now three paragraphs from the 17th century part in which the narrator sees the woman who is about to change the colony for good.

I stopped my work when the sun overtopped the tallest of the masts in the harbor and made two neat piles of papers I’d scattered over the table. I pushed back my chair and went to the window, stretched, and put my hands on my hips, looking, I’m sure, like a forest animal, weasel or fox, ambling out of his lair for a look at the puzzling, glorious world that surrounds him. Though we lived nearly a mile from the center of town, I could hear the new bell in the cupola atop the meeting house calling our delegates to the General Court. Two shopkeepers heading for King Street walked by on the lane below. I heard Ned Boland announcing the return home of Pastor Allerton and the death of the Protector – news that took me away from scholarly work I’ve kept up since my student days at Cambridge – to present events in Botolph and the conference downstairs in half an hour.

The melancholy cry of a seagull interrupted my expectant musing. I watched the homely bird as it perched on my window sill. When the gull flew off, calling out again, I looked down at Harbor Lane and saw, walking around the base of Berryman’s Hill, a solitary woman wearing a crimson cape and a black hood that half-hid her face. She walked rapidly, as if toward an urgent task of mercy. The gull called again in its skyward flight. Her pace slackened, she looked up. A smile brightened her face as she watched the bird’s graceful dips and turns. Her happiness delighted my furry fox self. I waved, she returned my greeting. Before long, our seagull flew off in the direction of the Mary and John, and Lydia Bowstreet went on her way.

I watched five black-cloaked men, a team of penguins, making their way toward me up the lane. I gathered papers I thought I’d need and went downstairs to join my Antarctic colleagues for the second day of our meeting.

One of the themes that interest me most as I worked  on The Opinionists was how people love freedom and in North America we can usually find find freedom in parts of our lives at least.

rfrenchnovelist.com