What Became of the White Savage (31 page)

As far as one can tell, Narcisse has adapted with relative ease to life on the Île de Ré. If there is a pressing concern, it is that he still does not understand the notion of private property. He gives away his hat or his jacket to anyone he deems to be in need of them, and avails himself of such items as he might require in a similar fashion. One cannot regard this as stealing: he borrows without malice, and his companions have become quite used to this eccentricity. The lighthouse master gives him his pay once a week, holding back sufficient funds to cover his clothing and heating expenses. The few coins that Narcisse receives slip through his fingers at the village shop where he purchases colourful trinkets, sweets for the children and tobacco for his colleagues, whose fondness for the pleasures of the pipe he has noticed.

As for conquests among the local women, I do not know if he has equalled the success he enjoyed with the ladies in London and Paris. The lighthouse master makes no mention of the subject – far be it from me to read anything into this silence.

I returned in person to the Île de Ré in August 1862 and found Narcisse to be, if not exactly happy – how could I ever be sure of this? – undoubtedly calm and accustomed to his new life. Constantly under the watchful, paternal eye of the lighthouse master, he enjoyed cordial relations with the five other keepers. When I had seen him last, he was still all lean muscle and sinew, his skin burnt nut-brown by the sun. Seeing him now, restored to health and strength, his cheeks plump and rosy, I believed I would learn no more from him. There would be no more interviews.

The report I received in October mentioned that Narcisse was feeling somewhat sad “on account of the little ones”. I was quite taken aback by this turn of phrase, and it was only after the exchange of several letters that I eventually understood – the lighthouse master had believed me to be better informed on matters than I was.

It transpired that one of the keepers had suffered the loss of his only son, a child of the age of three. Narcisse and his colleagues sat up with him during the vigil and offered condolences as befitted such an occasion. The grieving father had unthinkingly asked Narcisse a question:

“What about you? Do you have any children?”

“Yes, two.”

“Boys?”

“A boy and a girl.”

“How old?”

Narcisse did not give a direct answer, but indicated, by comparing them with the children around the lighthouse, that the boy was about eight years of age and the girl five. No one paid any attention to this brief exchange, and the vigil continued in silence.

For the next few days, Narcisse seemed melancholic “on account of the little ones”.

I was struck as if by lightning by this news. Never had Narcisse made the slightest allusion to children in my presence. His silence with regard to his experiences in Australia has remained complete and unfathomable. It is only when he is in the grip of powerful emotions that confidences slip out: at such moments he seems unable to maintain the strict silence to which he has apparently sworn himself. His admiration for Her Majesty led him to sing a ditty from that world, and now, the misfortune suffered by his colleague had caused him to speak of his own children.

Why I was unable to foresee this eventuality, I do not know. I had referred to the discovery of certain half-caste children in my letter to you from London on August 2nd of last year. My reflections on the documents you had sent me led me to allude to such children as providing the only evidence of the survival of a forgotten castaway. Why had I not thought of this possibility in Narcisse’s case? Had I raised the subject with him then, when his silence was less impenetrable, I might perhaps have been able to extract some definitive confidences from him. This was indeed a lost opportunity and one that will not present itself again.

It has been nigh on two years since he embarked on the
John Bell
, and in all that time he can have had no news of them. Nor has he received word of their mother, or their mothers, as the case may be. Not once has he complained of this – he never complains of anything – nor has he spoken of them or invoked their memory. At my request, the lighthouse master tried to speak to him of the children, with the intention of finding out their names at least. But his efforts were in vain. Narcisse smiles, but gives no answer. He will say nothing of the little boy and girl he has left behind over there.

You will not be surprised to learn that my thoughts immediately turned to seeking a way to reunite him with his children.

I considered going to Sydney at first in order to organise in person a search for the children. My sister, with her customary tact, promptly gave me her blessing for yet another absence, and one that might last for many months. I have sufficient means, I am yet in good health, and I have the time at my disposal for such a venture. Narcisse no longer needs me and there is nothing to hold me permanently in Vallombrun. I made enquiries about passage on forthcoming voyages to Australia and began to purchase books to fill the long hours at sea.

But the question arose of how I should proceed upon my arrival. Should I go to the beach where the
John Bell
had found Narcisse, and wait, perhaps for many weeks, in the hope that the savages would appear and present the children to me? But what if they believed that Narcisse had been kidnapped and were now afraid of the white man? The situation would necessitate mounting a veritable expedition, perhaps several. One would have to recruit a small group of steadfast men, sleep under canvas, explore and map constantly, penetrate further into the interior of unexplored territory, send out patrols in all directions and, always assuming that there were no hostile savages, interrogate any of them with whom communication was possible. I have no expertise in such ventures. I should be unsure of myself, lacking in experience, and no doubt a burden to an expedition in which each man must play his part in accordance with his appointed function.

If I am to undertake this venture, far better to make all necessary preparations and direct the expedition from a distance, from Sydney or even from Vallombrun, with a second in command in Sydney. My friend Harry Wilton-Smith, a well-known merchant in the colony seems eminently suited to the position. Indisputably one of the most well-informed individuals in Australia, he is accustomed to being in command of men of action. Efficient and precise he will be well placed to determine how best to find the children and repatriate them.

I have therefore written to him at length with the inclusion of a contract and a bill of exchange. My proposal, which I have every reason to believe he will accept, is as follows: at my expense, a series of exploratory campaigns is to be launched, radiating in all directions around the beach where Narcisse was found collecting shellfish. Mr. Wilton-Smith will choose the leader of the expedition, and determine the number of men to be engaged. He will supervise the logistics, register the expeditions and repeat the searches as many times as necessary in different seasons. He will also make sure that all relevant information is sought and that any rumours of half-caste children are followed up, specifically those that pertain to a boy and a girl, aged approximately eight and five years.

The orders for the leader of the expedition are simple: to find these children who are French by birth (I underlined this), and to bring them back, of their own free will if possible, by force if necessary. The mother will be left among her own people, even if she exhibits a desire to accompany them. Any violence against her person should be avoided, especially within sight of the children.

How to be sure that such children are indeed Narcisse’s? The captain of the
John Bell
had spoken frequently of his men’s dissolute behaviour with the native women; a few children of mixed blood might indeed have resulted from those encounters. But a half-caste brother and sister of eight and five years old? Surely there could be neither error nor deception involved in this case.

My orders are that as soon as the children are found, they are to be embarked on the first ship leaving for Europe. I have insisted that they be spoken to only in English, and as little as possible. It is my intention to meet them in London and to be the first to speak to them in their father’s tongue. These precautions are to ensure a truly scientific observation of the development of these two half-caste children.

Scientists have had much opportunity to study the mixing of races: the full spectrum of interbreeding between white and negro races can be seen in the mulattos and quadroons of the West Indies. Many examples of the offspring of whites and Polynesians can be observed in the South Pacific islands. But of the mixing of white races and the savages of Australia, very little is known. There are indeed a few such persons, unfortunate creatures leading a miserable existence in the backstreets of Sydney, but not one has been, to my knowledge, scientifically examined. These two children will thus provide the opportunity for an original study.

Like their father before them, they will progress slowly towards acquiring the benefits of civilisation: they will renounce their dietary practices, their language, their ways, and gradually, alas, all or almost all of their memories. My interest is not merely in creating two more French citizens, let alone persons of the lower orders. But to observe on a daily basis their transition towards a new condition, to record all that their babbling, their errors and their setbacks reveal about their previous state; this will be of profound interest.

In making the journey back towards the world of the white man, their father has not taught me as much as I would have wished about that other world which he inhabited for eighteen years. I do not begrudge him for this. But the children will arrive without preconceptions straight from their desert, with all the ignorance of their tender years, exulting in being reunited with their father. They will be a precious source of information.

One may even hope that once he is reunited with his children, Narcisse Pelletier will himself begin to speak the language of the savages again with them, and that he will at last yield some of his memories. The shock of the return of his children could well have this salutary effect. And it seems to me, although I cannot say why this should be, that he would be happier and freer were he able to tranquilly evoke his past. May his children be the first to hear those memories.

I have not forgotten the question raised during the Society’s plenary session on 2nd September 1861 pertaining to Pelletier’s intelligence. It was suggested that his undoubtedly limited intelligence had caused him to sink to the level of the savages, whereas an educated man suffering the same trials would not have abandoned his learning and culture. The more I reflected upon this notion the more it seemed to me to be erroneous; the children will provide the confirmation of this.

Imagine if you will, Sir, a new plenary session in which Pelletier, his son and daughter at his side, responds to the legitimate curiosity of our members, at long last breaking his silence to reveal all that he knows about north-east Australia. Who can doubt that he would then hold centre stage on the platform?

You will say, no doubt, that I am allowing my imagination to run away with me, and I cannot but concur.

I remain your faithful servant…

Post Scriptum

It will not have escaped your attention that the Review has not published a single line of my response in its Spring-Summer edition of 1862. I find it intolerable that those two pages of inane and sneering remarks should constitute the only record of Pelletier’s tale. My own account of the affair, which I have begun to draft, begins with the facts. I have set them all out as accurately as possible and followed them with my remarks and reflections. I cannot yet say what form this work will take but it is my hope that interest in it will be stimulated by the children’s arrival.

It is also incumbent upon me to inform you that the execrable article in the Review afforded me an abundance of correspondence in the months that followed its publication.

The majority of the correspondents write from all over Europe to congratulate me: for my work with Narcisse, for the advancement of the cause of science, and some in the name of morality or religion. I confess that my vanity has not remained untouched by this. For, with the exception of Her Majesty, who until now has sought to hail my actions? I have so often felt alone in this venture that I have begun to doubt the wisdom of my own actions. I have been much affected by these tributes (naïve though some of them are), more so than I would care to admit. Some letters were even accompanied by a banknote “for the unfortunate sailor”.

Two or three small-minded individuals, still under the influence of the bitter words they had read, took violently against the “wretched imposter”. I did not hesitate in consigning these letters to the flames.

Captain Varot, recalling his years spent sailing around the Pacific is preparing a scholarly paper on the tattoos of the Tahitians, Marquesans, Wallisians and Maoris. He begs me to provide him with a full description of Pelletier’s tattoos, to assist him in classifying the various styles he has identified. This description is of course to be found in my notebooks, and I have sent him a copy of those notes.

I have also received from the eminent neurologist Professor Guarneri of the University of Bologna a summary of his work, citing the most notable of the cases that provide the foundation of his theories. Having thus introduced himself, he asks my permission to proceed with an experiment that could lead Narcisse to candidly reveal his memories of his time in Australia. The benefits promised are clearly considerable, but this cannot be said of the method he proposes. He wishes in fact to perform a trepanation and to remove a certain area of the right frontal lobe of the brain. The professor is sufficiently honest to point out that the operation is not without danger for the patient and that its success cannot be guaranteed, with implications for the patient’s intelligence and indeed for his survival. I hesitated. I could not ask for the opinion of the subject himself, since he would have understood neither the procedure nor the purpose of the operation. Although I am neither guardian nor parent, it fell to me to make a decision on Narcisse’s behalf. After much thought, and a discussion with a medical friend, I declined the offer.