What Became of the White Savage (22 page)

You have congratulated me for the notebooks I have been keeping from the very first day and have said that my work is “worthy of praise”. These notebooks will be testament to the fact that I have invented nothing. For the temptation to romanticise the life of this unfortunate soul could indeed be irresistible: imagine Narcisse’s travails being turned into a musical entertainment for the
Opéra-Comique
!

The culminating event of these few days was the plenary session of the Geographical Society which took place three days later. I now reproach myself for not having prepared sufficiently for this occasion. I had previously attended several of these illustrious lectures, seated at the back on the benches reserved for associate members of the society, and had listened to the scholarly discussions that followed, even venturing to ask a question myself on one or two occasions. I believed I was sufficiently acquainted with this ceremony, its rituals and high priests. I knew too that under your wise presidency, the discussions would be of the highest order. I felt that Narcisse’s presence could not fail to surprise or perhaps disappoint the audience. I was aware that he might himself be overawed by the solemnity of the lecture theatre. But being only too familiar with his taciturn nature, my greatest fear was that he would retreat behind a wall of silence. You and I prepared some questions, and both hoped that he would speak, albeit briefly but enough to flesh out the bones of his story. In short, I thought, somewhat naively, that I would merely have to step up to the podium and recount the tale, for the audience to be won over. I imagined myself acknowledging their applause and answering questions from admiring listeners.

You said nothing to dissuade me from harbouring these illusions; how could you have anticipated the turn the presentation would take? During our earlier meeting, we decided together what Narcisse would wear, rehearsed the ways in which we would prepare him to speak, and discussed when we should come to his assistance. We agreed on the maps to be displayed on the walls and on the length of my initial speech. You indicated to me that the singular character of this adventure would certainly attract a large and elegant crowd as well as several journalists. We were happy working together to make our contribution to a page that would surely be a notable one in the annals of our Society’s history.

Word of the presence of the “white savage” spread all over Paris and reached the newspapers, none of whom managed to contact me – perhaps they did not even try. Indeed, why would they when it required much less effort to translate the nonsense from the Daily Mirror of one month ago. Our adventure was the talk of every Paris salon, and the echoes I heard of this gossip would have been enough to make a misanthrope of any explorer. When we arrived at the seat of the Geographical Society yesterday afternoon, the street had already been invaded by a crowd, which the constables were struggling to contain. The majority of these idle onlookers did not have a ticket to attend the lecture, nor indeed did they have any interest in geography. We were ushered in through the rear entrance by your secretary who let us know that never before had an event at the Geographical Society attracted such interest. I was beginning to feel that the affair had been taken out of my hands. For reasons I do not understand, Narcisse looked as if he was enjoying himself, which was a rarity for him. We were told that there were a number of well-known individuals present, among them Prince Charles-Augustus of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, the composer Mr. Rossini, Mr. Alexandre Dumas fils, the critic and man of letters Sainte-Beuve, and many society ladies whose names I do not recall, although I did get a good look at their impressive hats.

I must confess, Sir, that I was somewhat taken aback by the light-hearted tone of your introductory remarks and that I had been expecting you to address the audience with your customary gravitas. But, faced with such an unusually large audience and in the presence of so many ladies, you chose to speak on a lighter note in keeping with the best rules of rhetoric, and thereby succeeded in surprising your listeners and capturing the attention of all those present. You introduced Monsieur Pelletier, seated at the foot of the stage facing the audience. Attired as he was, he cut an unremarkable figure. Some were no doubt expecting to see him dressed in animal skins, or in an African mask or the feathered headdress of an Indian. Perhaps they were expecting him to be uttering inarticulate cries, or jumping about like a monkey. But his sober bearing set the tone of the proceedings: this was to be no fairground spectacle. The afternoon would be devoted to scientific enquiry.

I ascended to the podium like a preacher preparing to inspire the faithful during Lent. From the lectern, I was able to survey the hall in all its majesty. Seeing the people standing in the aisles I became aware of the size of the crowd. Until this moment I might have imagined myself to be at the theatre waiting for the matinée performance to begin. Now I imagined myself making a speech in front of the Chamber of Deputies, an idea that bolstered my courage. I thought briefly too of my brother Louis, whose ambition it is to one day be a member of the city council of Grenoble. I looked out at the audience waiting in absolute silence after your skilful introduction, and began to speak. Nature has endowed me with a voice that carries well; I was at last going to be able to give something back to the Geographical Society in recognition of all it had done for me.

I heeded your counsel and spoke without notes for almost an hour. I began by summarising what we know about the discovery of Australia and its geography, in particular the north-east and the mysterious tribes that live there; then I went on to discuss the white savage and his gradual return to civilisation. I spoke perhaps at too great a length about the rare intimations he had given revealing certain singular details about some of the practices of the tribe. I concluded with some remarks explaining how I had managed to establish his identity, and a few words on his return to his family in Saint-Gilles and to the embrace of his parents.

My presentation was greeted with sustained applause, the ladies taking out their handkerchiefs, and I felt that I had succeeded in conveying the essential elements of this tale. I was barely able to see Narcisse Pelletier, who was seated two metres below me, immobile and perhaps smiling. You were gracious enough to speak again and announce that this venture qualified me to be promoted from associate to full member of the Geographical Society, at which the applause redoubled. I was taken by surprise, for you had given me no prior indication of this; it was not only as a result of the temperature in the hall that a flush rose to my cheeks.

With a smart tap of the hammer, you silenced the audience and opened the floor to questions. The first two were requests for me to clarify certain points about our stay in Sydney, and the governor’s role in the affair. I gave my answer, somewhat disconcerted by the dazzle of the lighting on the stage, which made it difficult for me to distinguish the faces of my interlocutors.

The third question came from the Reverend Father Leroy, whom I knew only through his essays on northern Quebec and the Indian populations of that region. I scarcely need to remind you of the insidious nature of the attack he proceeded to mount. He began by congratulating me for having played the part of the Good Samaritan, and went on to say how sorry he was not to have heard this story from the lips of the individual concerned, who was himself present in our midst. Once more, I explained the problem that you, Sir, had intuitively understood: that Narcisse Pelletier has neither the desire nor the experience necessary to speak in such a setting. And then came the coup: how could the Society be sure that it was not dealing with an imposter? Father Leroy excluded me from this accusation and assured me that my good faith was not being called into question. But was this sailor not in league with the crew of the ship that claimed to have discovered him? Was he not indeed just a common deserter who had concocted an ingenious means of returning to France at absolutely no cost and absolved of all charges?

You too sensed the shiver that ran through the audience, who were enticed by the prospect of polemic and scandal. The question, offensive as it was to both you and me, was cleverly worded in such a way as not to seem insulting.

My answer was twofold: firstly, for a sailor, deserter or otherwise, to invent such a complicated story with so many people involved seemed most improbable. Who would risk so many uncertainties for such a meagre reward? And to successfully deceive not only the captain and crew of the
John Bell
, but also the soldiers, the doctor and Governor Young, without ever giving himself away? I reminded the Reverend Father that I have observed Narcisse continuously since the beginning of March and witnessed his struggle to learn to speak our language again. Had I too been deceived? I, who have observed that notions as basic as money and property remain completely foreign to him. Never has he given me the slightest indication of anything suspicious or untoward. The impressive tattoos and scarifications that cover almost all of his body alone would guarantee the veracity of his story.

This last remark was no doubt misjudged. Cries of “Show us his tattoos!” and “Take off his shirt!” rang out through the audience. Aware of the risk of allowing the plenary session to turn into a circus act, you called the trouble-makers to order, and threatened them with expulsion. Father Leroy appeared to be satisfied with my response.

Colonel Sebastiani’s question about cannibalism came as no surprise. I freely admitted that I had no precise data on this subject, but expressed my conviction that Narcisse Pelletier was not at all aggressive and showed none of the characteristics of a warrior. The injuries to his left ear and right leg must have been sustained in a context other than battle. And above all, his calm, restrained character seemed to exclude any possibility of him ever having participated in tribal wars or in any form of barbarous feasting after victory in battle. I pointed out that when an Australian convict had raised his hand to him, Narcisse Pelletier had not sought to hit back but had evaded the blows. This was testimony to his gentle nature – I remembered the words I had used in an earlier letter to you – he had behaved with truly Christian forbearance. With this final point I turned towards Father Leroy and bowed ironically. The audience smiled. I did not realise then that I had quite needlessly made a lifelong enemy of this gentleman.

Monsieur Decouz – whom you had described to me earlier as a “generous patron and meticulous compiler of records, whose most exotic expeditions have never ventured beyond Clermont-Ferrand” – then opened the debate on an important question whose pertinence I acknowledge even though the conclusions I draw from it are altogether different. He began by acknowledging amicably that he did not doubt the authenticity of this affair and went on to draw attention to the youth and limited intellect of the sailor Pelletier. If the hero of this adventure had been a man of substance, an officer or some other person of rank, would he have forgotten everything of his past in the same way? Would such a man have sunk like this sailor to the level of the lowliest of savages? Would he not have found in the treasures of his intelligence and of his culture, as well as in the consolations of religion – and here he too bowed towards Father Leroy – would he not have found the strength to resist the moral abasement of which this sailor bore all the scars? A man of standing would certainly have survived in the midst of the savages, but he would have done so by reciting to them the most moving passages from the
Pontic Epistles
or from
The Odyssey.
He would have spent his time in exile in the company of Ovid and Homer.

I had, as you know, already asked myself this same question. To provide a definitive answer, I countered, would it not be necessary to conduct a scientific experiment? Would we not have to abandon an engineer, a master of the Sorbonne, a frigate captain on various far-flung shores? And return eighteen years later to see if they had successfully taught the savages their multiplication tables or the fables of Lafontaine? Formulated aloud from the platform, my question lost much of its incisiveness and conferred upon me an air of arrogance, entirely foreign to my intentions.

You interceded, skilfully moving the discussion on and enabling me to clarify my position. During his sojourn with the savages Narcisse Pelletier had lost not merely what he had learnt in his training as a sailor at fifteen years of age. He had lost the basic notions we acquire at ten or five years of age: the ability to talk about, to think about the future, to evoke the gamut of emotions, the vocabulary of everyday life. He had even forgotten the things we learn almost in the cradle: the names of his brother and sister, his mother’s face, the fundamental elements of our language. I believe that a man’s education can be likened to a house with many storeys; the knowledge to which Monsieur Decouz believed one could cling was the third story of that edifice, whereas Narcisse had lost the entire structure, right down to the foundations. My explanation seemed to make little impression and was apparently no more convincing than those I had postulated earlier. But the worst was yet to come.

The next speaker, whom I did not recognise, had read my modest work,
Scenes from the Pacific
. He complimented me on the book and remarked that in it I had described the Melanesian archipelagos, and that my only reference to Australia had been a description of the port of Sydney. I inclined my head in acknowledgement of this. Was he therefore to conclude that I have no knowledge of the savages of Australia? I could not but concur, and repeated that I do not claim to have any particular expertise. The speaker had made his point with great skill.

From the associate members’ benches at the back of the hall, a voice with a marked English accent spoke up in my defence. The individual, whom I did not know, had been present at my appearance before the Royal Geographical Society on the 1st August. He observed that my presentation on that occasion, although less detailed than today’s, and without the presence of the sailor, had been scientifically rigorous in every respect and had provoked much interest. I bowed in acknowledgement of this unexpected support. Father Leroy then pointed out that it was not customary for an associate member to be the first to report on the activities of a foreign society, even one as prestigious as the Royal Geographical Society in London. This rancorous procedural remark invalidated any credit the gentleman at the back of the hall might have brought to my case and alienated me from a section of the audience. Not wishing to become involved in controversy, I did not comment.