“Not including,” I interrupted, “those modern conveniences — a few of which have accidentally come to our attention — items that we must assume were never meant for common Dinglian consumption.”
Miss Wolf nodded as all of our thoughts descended into Pupker’s subcellar.
“It’s quite fascinating,” said Antonia, “this attempt to keep us married to the 1880s. Though in a good many cases we proceeded along entirely different lines from that fusty decade. You will note that the corset is rarely worn these days. The shelf bustle, in fact, disappeared back in the 1920s.”
“And the wearing of layers and layers of petticoats, I note, has also gone out of fashion,” said Miss Wolf. “Much to the delight, I am sure, of every woman in the Dell.”
Antonia nodded as Ruth Wolf grinned. “At all events,” continued the nurse, “everything went quite according to plan for the organisation, which early on acquired the name ‘The Tiadaghton Project.’ That plan included first and foremost the eventual prescribed exit of all of the orphans’ vocational instructors. Indeed, every adult in the valley.”
“Their departure being facilitated by that most deceitful of all deceptions — a worldwide pandemic,” said Antonia. “Mr. Traddles figured this out for himself, though few others could make such a leap with certainty.”
“It was the only pretext by which the children could be left to their own wits and industry. But things hardly ever go as planned. Miss Johnson and her illicit pupil Miss Henrietta Weatherfield were the first flies to befoul the ointment. How dare that kind lady teach her little sewing pupil how to read when the experiment expressly forbade the acquisition of any written language not of the subjects’ own creation? It was at that moment that Tiadaghton was well nigh abandoned, for it was the development of a unique written form of language that the philological members of that original scientific cadre most sought to study and analyse. Things were upended further when that renegade cache of books was inconveniently discovered in the fruit cellar.”
“How did they come to be there?” asked Muntle. “Generations of Dinglians have wondered.”
Miss Wolf looked to Miss Bocker. “Does your Mr. Traddles have a theory?”
“He has none. It could have been accidental divestment, or the books could have been left behind quite deliberately. Do you know, Miss Wolf?”
Ruth Wolf smiled mischievously. “I do happen to know. Or at least I know the legend that was passed down to us over the years. But I’ll not tell you now.”
A collective groan rose up and then receded. We had reverted to schoolchildren. It was quite an amazing thing to behold.
“But rather than jettison the experiment and ship all the children off to various and sundry orphanages, and then fall into desponding wistful musing over what might have been, the conductors of this unprecedented sociological and anthropological experiment chose, instead, to adapt themselves to modified circumstances and to entirely recalibrate their objectives. Ultimately they decided to sit back, clipboards still in hand, and observe the effect that David Copperfield and Great Expectations and the
Encyclopædia Britannica (Ninth Edition) and the Holy Bible (King James Version) might have upon their subjects. Could it be possible for those subjects to inadvertently replicate Victorian/Dickensian England here in Lycoming County, Pennsylvania? With access to the Christian Bible, would they become a Christian society? How much value would they put on education? Would the voluminous Ensyke make them intellectually inquisitive? The overarching answer to all of the above, as you all well know, was yes in capital letters.”
“What is ‘Tiadaghton’?” This from the ever-enquiring Uriah Graham. “The name of a forest nearby. Shall I freshen your drink?” Graham shook his head. No doubt the sharp mind within that
thoughtful man’s head was reeling to the same degree as was my own. It was difficult to hear of the sheer nerve and audacity that characterised the actions of those who in their pre-murderous incarnation had nonetheless criminally uprooted our ancestors from their childhood homelands and deposited them in this orographically anomalous test tube to try out “theories” upon them and upon their every descendent.
I essayed to steady myself and suppress my outrage. I knew that my anger would only grow in intensity as the baneful perpetrations being detailed and expounded upon by the informative Miss Wolf began, themselves, to intensify in perniciousness — as by little and little that picture of abominable, villainous exploitation began to take form and shape.“So they observe us?” I asked, attempting to compose myself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Observe us, Miss Wolf. Have the administrators of the Tiadaghton Project always been about the business of observing and studying the residents of this valley whose ancestors they intentionally placed here?”
“Yes, in one way or another. What began as a scientific endeavour transformed itself in short order into quite a commercial one. You see, Dingley Dell became, to put it bluntly, big business.”
“Business?” Antonia, the only merchant in the room, took especial note of the word.
“Yes, Miss Bocker. It was a natural progression, this being America, the most capitalistic country on earth. And remember that Tiadaghton came along in the 1880s during that first golden age of capitalistic excess. It was a time of unprecedented agglomeration of individual wealth, during which an industrial titan could make as much money as he was able to squeeze from the strained sinews of the men who laboured beneath him. This was the period during which Dingley Dell came into its own. You have somewhat the same sort of dynamic at work here in the Dell, albeit in microcosm: the privileged, entitled few lording their privileges and sense of entitlement over all the rest of you. From very early on we sought out your Bashaws for their inside assistance in our undertaking in exchange for generous compensation.”
“You’re speaking of the ones that Graham and I have come to call the Moles,” said Upwitch.
“Yes. It is they who have always helped us to keep things running smoothly, they to whom the Project has always been historically indebted.”
“And their compensation—?” asked Upwitch.
“The Moles, as you call them, have been and continue to be rewarded for their assistance with those little baubles of modern civilisation that we felt inclined to bestow upon them — all of which have been kept largely out of the view of the rest of you — the calculators, the radios, the televisions, the phonographs, the laptop computers, the food processors, the espresso makers, the hand-vacs, the Walkmans, the iPods—”
Upwitch shook his head in stupefaction. “Aside from the calculator, I don’t know what—”
“I’ll explain them all in time, Reverend Upwitch. My point is that the world has progressed apace. Electricity alone powers a good many things that serve to make a Beyonder’s life far less toilsome than your own. What was shared with the Moles was always meant to be kept well hidden. Unfortunately, Mr. Pupker, for his part, hasn’t been as scrupulous in recent days with the distribution of these twenty-first century lagniappes to his comrades as the administrators would like to see, but that’s a subject for some later discussion.”
“So you know about the sub-cellar?” I asked.
Miss Wolf nodded. “It served, until Wednesday night, as the subterranean warehouse for all of our little gifts of gratitude to our inside agents.”