What Became of the White Savage (4 page)

One evening, sitting on the terrace at the house of Mr. Wilton-Smith, a respectable merchant, I was approached by the captain of the ship that had brought me back from Fiji fifteen months earlier. He asked me for my opinion, as an explorer, on the subject of the white savage. Believing I had misunderstood him, or that this was said in jest, I asked him to forgive the inadequacy of my English and to repeat what he had said.

The captain replied, in short, that an armed ketch had happened upon a white savage while trepang fishing. The savage spoke only gibberish and was found running about on the beach, naked and tattooed from head to foot. The man was clearly European: his hair, his height and the colour of his skin, burnt as it was by the sun, all confirmed that he was a white man. The crew had taken him by force and brought him on board, but had soon grown tired of this singular being. In Sydney, the governor had seized the man and thrown him into the city’s gaol, where he had languished for the last week.

Like me, you will often have heard tales in various ports of women with the body of a fish, or men with three heads. Thinking this was just such a rumour from the taverns, I accorded the captain’s remarks no more than polite attention. I replied only that I believed explorers had quite enough to do studying black savages without having to deal with a white savage. At that moment, the music struck up and put an end to our exchange.

I could not have been more mistaken, my witty riposte more misguided.

Three days later I was called to a meeting in the governor’s office. I recognised some of the others present: a German merchant, an Italian priest, a Russian baron, a Dutch captain and a swarthy Hidalgo with the arrogant look of Spaniards the world over. All the principal nations of Europe, or at least speakers of all its main languages, were seated around the table.

The governor explained his difficulty to us. He had put the aforementioned white savage in his gaol and now did not know what to do with him. Having examined the man, the governor too was convinced that this man was European, that he was of white parentage and not of native or mixed blood. But where did he come from? He spoke only in gibberish and had about his person no object or symbol that might indicate his origins.

A convict dressed in servants’ livery brought us some port, no doubt to lighten our spirits. The governor then set out his plan: each of us would address the savage in our own language to see if he recognised one as his mother tongue. We discussed this ingenious plan for a while. The priest then declared that he would only address the man in the Neapolitan dialect if this could be followed by some phrases in Latin. This was agreed to and the Spaniard muttered that he could also say a few words in Portuguese.

The businessman from Königsberg objected, asking why the consuls from our respective countries could not be contacted? Only an official representative of His Prussian Majesty could recognise a subject as one of his own.

The governor sighed in agreement. He could only address the consuls in an official capacity. What would happen if two of the consuls were to disagree over the white savage? Or if one of them were to take offence at the suggestion that this naked, tattooed individual were a compatriot of his. This could give rise to diplomatic embarrassment, protestations, official despatches and reports in every capital. The confusion might continue for years, perhaps even become a subject of conflict between powers. Who knows where it might end? Mindful of these potential complications, he had invited the cream of the colony’s foreigners to this unofficial audience, in the hope of finding a satisfactory way of proceeding.

Aside from a certain admiration for our host’s acute political sensitivity, I will admit that I felt at the time no more than a passing curiosity towards the man they called the white savage. Sitting at the governor’s table, I understood that this was not merely a fanciful hoax; I was intrigued to set eyes upon this person, and to learn a little more about him. Perhaps his story would form the subject of an entertaining anecdote in a Parisian salon at a later date. Ladies are invariably charmed by travellers’ tales, and the strange tale of the white savage would be sure to amuse the gentlemen and set the ladies aquiver.

We were then introduced to a tall, somewhat shy young man, who seemed intimidated by the prospect of addressing us. The governor identified him as the assistant medical officer of the garrison and asked him to read us his report, which he proceeded to do.

“In accordance with your instructions, I have examined the stranger known as the white savage. This man is aged about fifty years and is five feet, six inches in height. He seems to be in good health, although he is somewhat thin. His chest, shoulders, arms and legs are covered in tattoos and scarrings. I observed two scars which had apparently not been properly treated: one on the left ear, where the lower part of the lobe was torn and partly ripped away, and the other on the right thigh, which could have been made from a knife or the tip of an arrow.”

The young doctor seemed to gain in confidence as he progressed with his account and continued without looking at his notes:

“He belongs to neither the black nor the yellow races. This is evident from the colour of his skin, his build and the texture of his hair. Nor is he of the semitic races. This can be seen from his high forehead, straight nose, straight brown hair and full beard. I must also point out that he is circumcised, not in the way that Jews and Muslims are, but rather in the manner of the natives of this country.”

This rather disconcerting detail was greeted with a few discreet coughs.

“His appearance therefore strongly suggests, indeed confirms, that this man belongs to the white race. He seems to have some intelligence: he listens when spoken to, uses gestures to express simple wishes, and obeys when given orders such as, get up, come, do not go beyond a certain point. He is very sensitive to emotion conveyed by inflections of the voice: friendship, anger, fear and pain arouse in him both interest and compassion.

He does not say a word and does not understand English. He has been heard by the crew of the
John Bell
, the ship that brought him back, lamenting in incoherent gibberish. He is dressed only in a loincloth given to him by the sailors, and spends his days squatting on his heels, knees apart, with his elbows pressed to the insides of his thighs.

He does not like our food and accepts it only to avoid starving, eating it with obvious disgust. He eats with his hands and drinks from his cupped palms, not knowing what to do with a cup or a spoon. He is not repelled by brackish water, but when a sailor gave him some wine in a spirit of jest, he spat it out.”

This was the first report I heard on the subject of the white savage and I have presented it to you in its entirety, in the belief that you will find it useful. The Dutch captain objected, muttering that this could not be a portrait of a subject of His Majesty the King of the Netherlands. I found myself wondering for the first time about the life of this unfortunate soul. Others in the group saw in him a fairground oddity or a subject of controversy, but I began to think of him as someone to be pitied.

The governor invited us to step out into the garden, feeling that this would provide a less imposing setting for our discussions than the official reception room. In the shade of a large tree that swayed gently in the breeze, the white savage was squatting in the manner the doctor had described. He was guarded by two burly soldiers armed with clubs, who motioned to him to get up, but to come no closer. The man I beheld was as the doctor had described, and was indeed a member of the white race. I saw an oval face, with an aquiline nose, a well-defined chin and unremarkable mouth. There were lines on his face that told of sufferings he may have endured. His body was lean and well-muscled without an ounce of fat.

Although we had been prepared, we were all surprised by this spectacle: a white man, dressed only in a loincloth, tattooed from head to foot, mute and immobile, observing us.

I wondered which of these gentlemen would be the first to speak. The Russian baron stepped promptly forward and uttered a few words and phrases in his tongue. I noticed the man listening to him with interest, apparently desirous of establishing some contact. But the words and phrases held no resonance for him and his disappointment seemed equal to that of the baron, who rejoined the group, a disdainful look on his face. Lighting a cigar, he declared that this was certainly not a subject of His Majesty the Tsar.

Then it was the turn of the Italian priest, who stepped forward and recited a
Pater Noster
, as much for the benefit of us all as for his interlocutor. The prayer evoked no response, but the savage continued to listen with the same alert and concentrated attention. The priest then spoke a few phrases in the Neapolitan dialect, and this change in the sonority and inflection of the voice provoked a reaction in the man that confirmed the intelligence he was reputed to possess. But he uttered not a word. After several sentences yielding no result, the priest modulated his voice again and began to sing what could only have been a lullaby or a nursery rhyme. He sang in a falsetto that was both absurd and touching, and the savage understood the change from speech to song, but showed no signs of responding in Italian.

Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch and German all failed to elicit a response, but the white savage listened to them all with the same concentrated interest.

I allowed these gentlemen to try their chances before me in order to have some time to reflect on the best way to proceed. Faced with this unfortunate soul, they undoubtedly felt as disconcerted as I. What should I say to this man who was physically so clearly a white man, but whose demeanour was so astonishingly primitive?

“So, my good fellow. Do you come from France, as I do? Did you board ship in Marseilles, or in Nantes? Dieppe perhaps? Your friends and family await you at home. Do you not wish to return to them? You must help me to help you.”

It was apparent that he did not understand. I held out my hand to him, which none of the others had done. He looked intently at my hand, without seeming to think of grasping it.

“I do not know how long you have been wandering on these shores. Several years, certainly. Perhaps you were shipwrecked during the reign of Louis-Philippe? Do you know that France is once more a glorious Empire? That our destiny has been guided for ten years now by the Emperor Napoleon III?”

Why I spoke to him of our government I do not know, but to the consternation of all, he replied slowly and with great effort: “Po-lon.”

Until this moment, he had not repeated a single word in any of the languages attempted; he had not even made a sound. Silence befell the group of onlookers behind me.

“Napoleon. Yes. Do you remember the name? Napoleon. The Emperor Napoleon.”

He stared intently into my eyes, as if he might find there his forgotten memories.

“Po-lon.”

Profoundly moved by this first exchange, we continued to repeat these sounds, absurdly united in our incomprehension of a code neither of us had the tools to decipher.

“Napoleon, Emperor of France.”

“Po-leon. Po-leon.”

He gazed at me with an intensity impossible to describe, while the other gentlemen, astounded and attentive, moved closer to form a semi-circle around us as we groped our way towards a dialogue.

Suddenly, the white savage leapt backwards and ran towards the wall, taking the soldiers guarding him by surprise. Never before had he moved with such swiftness. Until this moment he had seemed merely apathetic and resigned to his fate. There was no hope of escaping from this enclosed garden. He made no attempt to scale the wall or climb a tree, and showed no signs of attacking any of us. The governor gestured to the guards not to make a move, but the white savage paid them no attention. Turning his gaze towards the sea beyond the stables and the garrison, he declared in a loud voice:

“Sees-Ti-Ay-Oo-Pawl.”

These strange syllables, which could perhaps have come from our language, were mingled with sounds that bore no resemblance to any recognisable idiom.

I approached him calmly, and he made no move to escape. I repeated, to the best of my ability, these nonsense syllables. He continued to look at me encouragingly, repeating them more slowly and softly to himself several times. Hearing what I thought might be a rolled R before the first syllable, an N before the last, I tried further sounds: Ra –Na – Pa – Sa. Together we arrived at the following mysterious formula:

“Arr-sees. Ti-ay. Oo-na. Pawl.”

What was there in this utterance that he wished me to understand? Why had he recoiled from the group, and made this proclamation to me alone? What was he trying to tell me? What was it that he had not wanted, or perhaps not been able to communicate to the others?

When two men without a common language meet, what is the first thing they say to each other? My travels from Iceland to the Pacific had shown me that the first exchange is always of names. I placed my hand on my heart in what I hoped was a universal gesture of respect and said:

“Octave de Vallombrun.”

He returned the gesture, once more mirroring my actions in a way he had not previously done, and said again:

“Arr-sees. Ti-ay. Oo-na. Pawl.”

Was he trying to introduce himself, repeating his name again and again? I tried:

“Narcisse?”

“Ar-cisse!”

His joy was plain to see, but the words resisted memory, bringing tears to his eyes. I tried again, more insistently:

“Narcisse? Is that it, my good fellow? Your name is Narcisse?”

“Ar-cisse,” he said in acknowledgement, placing his hand over his heart.

We stood there in silence, both overcome by the emotion of this first step towards some form of communication. I stared hard at this mystery in flesh and blood, as though his face might reveal the secret of who he was.

Speaking softly, I repeated his words: “Arr-sees. Ti-ay. Oo-na. Pawl.”

It seemed that Narcisse was indeed his name, and all that had persisted in his peculiar speech was the single sound “Sees”. Might one surmise that the other nonsense syllables were also fragments of whole words? Perhaps the accented syllables of words? How could I test this hypothesis? Would I need a dictionary of sailing terms? The sound “Pawl” suggested something to me. Perhaps he meant “pol”. Was he trying to say that he came from Paimpol in Brittany?