What Became of the White Savage (18 page)

If he was born in 1825, Narcisse must have been eighteen when for some reason as yet to be discerned, he ceased to be a seaman aboard the
Saint-Paul
, and was cast adrift in the wilds of Australia. He must have spent eighteen years living among the savages. Eighteen years! Some unknown drama had cut his life into two halves of equal length. Two halves that each ended in the same sudden and brutal change from one life to the other. Twice he had had to make the leap between ignorance and civilisation. Eighteen years! How could a man stand such a degree of isolation? Impossible even to imagine it.

I replied immediately to the mayor of Saint-Gilles, explaining to him briefly how I had met a citizen of his administration in Australia: a sailor by the name of Narcisse who had spent many years living amongst the natives, and had forgotten everything of his past. I concluded my account with a brief description of Narcisse, not mentioning his tattoos. I begged him to inform Narcisse’s parents of his imminent return, approaching the matter with all due sensitivity as befits the announcement of such unexpected happiness. I stressed that it is, of course, essential that Narcisse be returned to his family. Once all the preparations were made for the prodigal son’s return, the mayor could then inform us in Paris, and I would bring Narcisse to them without further delay.

“Sees-Ti-Ay-Oo-Pawl.” Now I understood the meaning of those inarticulate cries uttered by the white savage in the first days of our acquaintance. Those meaningless syllables that had puzzled me so much were none other than the words: “Narcisse Pelletier of the schooner
Saint-Paul.
” These fragments of words, their meaning lost to him, were the last thread linking him to his past, a final mark of identity to which he had clung.

No sooner had I finished penning this letter to the mayor, than I was informed that a journalist from the Daily Mirror wished to speak to us. I went down alone to receive him in the reception area. The young man in question informed me, somewhat nonchalantly, that he had learnt of Narcisse’s story. When I asked him how he had done so he replied that an English lady, recently arrived in San Francisco from Sydney, had recounted the story to her brother in California. Silently I cursed the woman, this unscrupulous adventuress and her thoughtless chatter. I listened with mounting irritation to the fatuous questions of this ignorant scribbler who was undoubtedly incapable of finding Australia on a map. Was Narcisse a cannibal? Were his extraordinary tattoos a record of the enemies he had killed in battle? Had he married the chief’s three daughters? Why had he attacked the sailors who rescued him, leaving the ship’s captain no choice but to use a fishing net to capture him? I calmly disabused him of all this nonsense and did my best to give an account of Narcisse’s gentle nature, his rapid progress in regaining his French and his manners. I was careful to avoid mentioning the failures and misunderstandings, the episode with the so-called English lady and his refusal to divulge any information about the time he had spent among the savages. And of course, I said nothing that might reveal his identity. The journalist took notes, only half listening to what I was saying, and said that he wished to speak to Narcisse, to which I said no. Perhaps I was wrong to do so, but the journalist did not insist and left without further ado.

Scarcely had I returned to my room and sat down at my desk than Narcisse burst in, his clothing all awry and with an expression of confusion that I had not seen in him before. He simply said: “Come,” in a tone of voice that brooked no opposition and went back towards his adjoining room. There I beheld a serving woman from the hotel, in her underskirts, adjusting her bodice and muttering insults under her breath. I asked her what had happened and she replied in the appalling accents of the lower classes of London:

“Your friend there, wot don’t understand a word of English. ‘E was quite ‘appy to come on all luvvy-duvvy and get me into ‘is bed. But now ‘es got wot ‘e wanted, ‘e won’t give me my little present.”

It took only a few shillings to persuade the girl to leave. I then had to try to explain to Narcisse what had happened. It is incomprehensible to him that the act of love should be purchased. It appears that for him, love between a man and a woman is justified in and of itself. He cannot conceive of seeking to derive any benefit other than the immediate pleasure bestowed by the act itself. And whatever the peculiarities of this particular commercial transaction, it is merely one manifestation of a wider reality that Narcisse understands even less: the question of money. He cannot eat the coins that I place in his hand, he cannot warm himself with them. They serve no purpose. I have failed utterly in trying to impart this dual lesson.

We continued to discuss this for almost an hour. To an observer, our exchange might have seemed quite scurrilous at times, at others, frankly comical.

I now understand how naïve I have been. Narcisse may wear trousers and drink from a glass, but does this mean that he has returned to our world? Narcisse, who is so far removed from us and from the fundamental principles of our societies, imitates what he can of our behaviour. I may think that I am leading him along a straight and well-marked path, but he is undoubtedly lost in a dense forest where all is strange to him. Am I simply taming him as one would an animal? A performing dog who does tricks? A mere illusion? I perceive that with every step he takes towards more civilised behaviour, Narcisse still remains implacably beyond my grasp.

Have all the inhabitants of London conspired to disturb me? Now the local detective constable has come to see me saying that he has been informed of the presence of a Frenchman not possessed of the requisite documents. I showed him the statement from the colonial judge in Sydney to satisfy him on this point, but he still wished to see Narcisse to ask him a few questions. I translated for Narcisse who did his best but had great difficulty following the constable’s enquiries. Eventually, he appeared satisfied and left us alone.

In the evening I was able to peruse at leisure the appendix to your letter, in which you replied to a suggestion I had taken the liberty of making to you three months ago. In particular, I thank you for the research into published reports of survival tales from sailors shipwrecked in hostile lands.

I must exclude accounts of those unfortunates who were nevertheless blessed in having companions. Even if there were only two survivors in the group, they would derive strength and courage from each other and would have the advantage of speaking their mother tongue daily, all of which were denied to Narcisse. Similarly, I must exclude any modern Robinson Crusoe cast away on a desert island. I do not wish to imply that their sufferings were not as great. But the trials of those whose only adversary was nature itself cannot be compared to the travails faced by Narcisse.

The only cases that remain are those of lone sailors among native peoples. The majority of these were deserters. The attractions of a tropical island and the prospect of an idle and carefree existence, with smiling women and fertile soils have often proved too much of a temptation for sailors, especially for those disreputable individuals only too happy to escape the discipline of life aboard ship. Ensconced within the tribe, and having usually taken a wife and put down some roots, they generally become involved in trading, facilitating negotiations between passing ships and their adopted family. Some of them, living in the islands of the South Seas rich in sea cucumber and sandalwood have secured advantageous positions. Having never forgotten the life they have chosen to leave, these men are intermediaries between two worlds, and know how to negotiate to their own best advantage.

We must also consider as unique the situation of missionaries, both Catholic and Protestant. The strength they derive from their devotion to the service of God is unequalled. Deserters and missionaries alike may indeed live alone among natives, sometimes among the most terrifying savages, but they have chosen to do so.

After this sifting of accounts, we are left with seven recorded cases of lone sailors washed ashore into the arms of some tribe or other. I note, however, that according to these precious records, they were rescued after a sojourn of three to twenty months. A period of time, impossible to know in advance, that must have seemed terrifying to them. But nevertheless, I cannot accept that they would have been as profoundly affected as Narcisse. I do not wish to diminish their suffering or their courage, but I must stress that Narcisse endured a sojourn more than ten times as long, and that this difference in length of time must surely change the nature of the experience.

There is one more factor that is perhaps significant: of all these unfortunates whose stories we know, the youngest was twenty-six, in other words, an adult. When he arrived among the natives, Narcisse was only eighteen, still a child, or very much a youth. How important was this? Did he perhaps, because of his young age, succumb more easily to the pressures that were exerted upon him, whatever they were? I do not know.

There were other accounts, no doubt. Shipwrecked sailors, picked up by natives, who survived hoping to be rescued, and who succumbed in the end to the blows of life’s vicissitudes. Perhaps they died of hunger, sickness, sorrow or old age, after one year, five, twenty or thirty years, without ever setting eyes on a white man again. We cannot know. Such tragedies will remain forever forgotten, their only legacy the occasional blond or redheaded native on some far-flung shore, testament to the presence of a sojourner from northern shores a few generations earlier.

The next morning, the hotel manager sent the Daily Mirror up to me at the earliest opportunity. The story of the “white savage” took up half of the front page. I will not do you the disservice of sending it to you or of providing a summary of the report. Every sentence is a lie, every detail an invention, apart from the fact that the man in question is a Frenchman. I received this journalist in order to prevent him from writing such nonsense, but I was wasting my time. I folded the newspaper and tried to put it out of my mind.

Alas! All of London had already read the article and I received a stream of extraordinary and astonishing letters throughout the day. A missionary society wished to meet us in order to discuss a Pacific ministry; a lady desired to take tea with the unfortunate sailor; a renowned writer begged me to provide him with all the details of the story for his next novel; an obscure scholar invited me to comment on the validity of his theories, with which I was no doubt unfamiliar, and so on.

The French Ambassador asked me to come and see him in order to clarify the position of this compatriot of ours. Constraints upon my time made it impossible for me to accede to his request.

One request for which I was to make an exception was the invitation proffered by the President of the Royal Geographical Society: both his friendship with you and his position as an associate member of our Society recommended him to me. Furthermore, I surmised that he would not be susceptible to the inventions of the press and that he was genuinely interested in our friend. Vanity too played a part: I was flattered to be invited to dine that evening in the company of a group of highly eminent British explorers, and willingly accepted the invitation. The President of the Society tactfully left it up to me to decide whether Narcisse should be included. I informed him that Narcisse would not be coming. I gave as my reasons Narcisse’s extreme shyness and the fact that he spoke no English; I did not add my true reason, which was that the Geographical Society in Paris should take precedence over the Royal Geographical Society in London.

Later that morning, I was busy dealing with my voluminous correspondence, when the manager of the hotel came to see me in my room. He led me over to the window, and looking out, I beheld a crowd of several hundred people jostling on the pavement and contained with some difficulty by the police. Who were these onlookers? What did they want? To see the white savage for themselves? Would Narcisse have to appear on the balcony? No, that was out of the question. Word of the spectacle would travel and attract an unceasing host of people drawn by idle curiosity. No, we would have to remain hidden, not go out, and ensure that Narcisse did not get caught up in a crowd. It was a regrettable situation, and one that was disturbing and worrying for the other guests. Before he had time to let me know that our presence was unwelcome, I ushered the manager to the door and reassured him that we would be taking our leave the next day.

That afternoon, Narcisse and I made our escape by a back door and went for a long walk. I did not burden him with commentaries on what we beheld: I wanted above all for him to look around him, take notice of what he saw and be immersed in the life of the city. He walked along looking unhappy, constantly jostled by people hurrying by, sighing every time he looked up at the buildings four and five storeys high. As we walked through Hyde Park, he seemed to become less agitated and trod the grass with obvious delight.

At the corner of Regent Street leading into a small dark alley, a red-haired beggar of indeterminate age, bearded and dressed in torn clothing, was holding out a hat to passers-by. Narcisse stopped abruptly in front of him and stared, whereupon the beggar began to grumble, muttering under his breath in the Irish tongue and only ceasing when I dropped a coin into his hat.

“Well, Narcisse? Shall we continue?”

He thought for a long time before answering: “All the people in London run. This man stands still.”

How could I explain to him that he was entirely wrong? And what was there to be gained in pressing home to him that he understood nothing of what he saw?

Upon our return, I found several dozen letters waiting for us. I had not the heart to open them all and after tea, to which I had now become accustomed, I left Narcisse in the hotel and hailed a carriage to take me to the Royal Society.

The majestic setting is familiar to you, as are the president and the majority of the members, all of whom hold you, Sir, in the highest esteem, regarding you with great respect and admiration. As I mounted the steps I thought of all those who had gone before me into this temple of British power and boldness. I was received with great warmth and the utmost cordiality. The evening began with a lecture on that still unresolved question, the subject of the sources of the Nile. A light supper was then served, during which I set out the most noteworthy aspects of the white savage’s adventures. My hosts listened in respectful silence and asked a few pertinent questions that testified to the quality of their attention. Finally, a speaker brought us up to date with the latest findings with regard to the North West Passage, bringing to a close a remarkable evening.