What Became of the White Savage (20 page)

The cloth from the Cape was aboard the
Saint-Paul
, and he was here on this beach. When a sailor perishes at sea, his shipmates divide up his meagre possessions. Had they already opened his trunk? Had they set his belongings out on the ’tweendecks, his seaman’s slops, his hat and socks, his comb, his pewter mug, his razor? Had they already chosen what they wanted, the old hands taking first pick? And after one of them had unwrapped the tissue paper and shown his Cape purchase to admiring eyes, which of his shipmates would have claimed the purple cloth?

Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie, 16th August 1861

Monsieur le Président,

Upon my arrival in Paris, I found your note informing me that you had been called away to the provinces to settle a matter of family business and that you would be away for some ten days. I extend my best wishes to you and trust that you will succeed in resolving the matter to your satisfaction. Narcisse and I are of course disappointed at this unexpected delay, but since it is now five months since our work began, an additional wait should be of little consequence.

A second letter, from Saint-Gilles, informed us that the whole town was eagerly awaiting our arrival and had been anticipating that day ever since the mayor, reassured by my explanations, had imparted the glad tidings to the family. I therefore decided to modify our programme and begin by taking Narcisse home to his family.

But first, I must tell you about our journey from London. For much of the day, Narcisse remained downcast and lachrymose, saying nothing. The silence weighed heavily on me as the train sped through the English countryside. It was raining in Dover, and in spite of the rough seas, Narcisse insisted on standing outside on deck for the duration of the crossing. I felt duty-bound to stay with him, all the more so since I was momentarily struck by the distressing notion that he had perhaps chosen this spot in order to be able to throw himself into the sea and find eternal oblivion. Even to entertain this dread possibility was to acknowledge that he might consider his life with me to be worse than anything he had endured in Australia. And if he had really resolved to take his own life, what right did I have to stop him from doing so? Who was I to take it upon myself to prevent him from exercising his free will? Just as Socrates resolved to drink the hemlock draft, Narcisse must be at liberty to choose his own path. My sole and fervent desire is that he will be able to find some pleasure in returning to live among us. And with such sombre musings, buffeted by the rain and high seas, we crossed the Channel and arrived in Calais soaked to the skin, but somewhat mollified. I have often perceived that when Narcisse is troubled, contact with nature and the elements provides a powerful antidote to his malaise. A meadow, a river, a park, an estuary, and most of all the open sea, have the power to soothe and calm him.

He was much in need of that equilibrium in Calais where a suspicious and blinkered police inspector insisted on conducting a thorough examination into Narcisse’s situation. Brushing aside disdainfully the document from the colonial judge in Sydney – an English judge could have no jurisdiction over the legal status of a Frenchman – he announced triumphantly that Pelletier the sailor, having not completed the voyage on which he had originally embarked, and being unable to present his papers, was in a most irregular situation and was liable to a substantial fine. Moreover, what proof did he have that this suspicious looking individual in dripping wet clothes was indeed the said Pelletier, and not some imposter? I explained, calmly at first and then in a more light-hearted fashion, that having survived a shipwreck on hostile shores and been taken in by savages amongst whom he had lived for eighteen years, Narcisse had been somewhat preoccupied with matters other than his civil status. As for his precious papers, they had long ago been devoured by fish. To which the dullard responded by demanding to see the consul’s statement confirming the loss of the ship. And furthermore, he added, who was I to speak for Pelletier the sailor, or indeed for the individual claiming to be Pelletier? The affair was none of my business and I should extract myself from the matter forthwith. The suspect would have to accompany him to the station and remain there until his situation was clarified. The security of the Empire could not be compromised; on no account could he permit this individual to enter France on the strength of such a ridiculous fable.

Pelletier the sailor followed this exchange in wide-eyed silence – I hoped against hope that he understood little of it. The discussion became more heated, the inspector invoking obscure regulations which I countered with mention of my contacts in high places and by alluding to the fundamental principles of human rights. Other travellers clustered around us, amused by the spectacle, interjecting disparaging comments. I was determined not to cede any ground: I would either enter France freely with Narcisse, or we would both be clapped into handcuffs. Finally, the Calais Chief of Police, alerted by the commotion, summoned us to his office. He listened to our tale, read the letters from the mayor of Saint-Gilles, and issued a pass for Narcisse allowing him to travel freely in France.

We booked into the Grand Hotel in Paris for three days. After an absence of more than three years from my native land I had pressing matters of personal business to attend to. Once this was accomplished, I organised our journey to Saint-Gilles.

We travelled to Orleans on the new railway, which had not yet been constructed when I was last in France, and thence by diligence as far as Poitiers. From there we took a smaller, less comfortable horse-drawn conveyance and arrived in Saint-Gilles on the appointed day.

I shall not trouble you with a lengthy description of the celebrations held in Saint-Gilles, although they certainly lacked neither pomp nor noble sentiments. But those details – the archway garlanded with leaves, the mayor’s speech, the bonfire, the emotional crowd, the applause, the tears, the singing by the whole commune – tell us more about the honest natives of the Vendée than about Narcisse himself and his adventure; were you or I to entertain the fanciful notion of undertaking a study of the people of this region, all this would be of greater import.

As the celebrations and reunions continued that afternoon and evening, I kept my distance. The mayor, an astute and efficient official, had made arrangements for me to be lodged with the curate. This proved to be eminently practical since the Pelletier household was already quite crowded, accommodating as it did the eldest son, his wife and their three children, in addition to Narcisse’s parents.

Desirous of making a good impression, and not wishing to be suspected of having neglected my protégé, I had dressed Narcisse as a gentleman about town. Perhaps I should have been less extravagant in this choice of attire, for I perceived that while Narcisse, the shoemaker’s son, was elegantly shod in leather boots, all around him were wearing wooden clogs. Presented with this well-dressed stranger, the family showed some surprise: it was almost as if they had been expecting to see a youngster of eighteen years old. But it was not long before his mother gathered him into her arms amidst floods of tears, and Narcisse was recognised as the youngest son of the family.

I soon observed that Narcisse was sharing neither in the general delight nor in the emotional transports of his family. I was hardly surprised at his detachment: he participated to be polite, to play the part expected of him. He would have responded in much the same way to the embrace of any matronly woman presented to him as his mother. Memories of childhood seemed to elude him: the names of his brothers and sister, the disposition of the rooms in the house, the myriad family anecdotes. He did not throw himself enthusiastically into the open arms of those who welcomed him and responded laconically when addressed.

All of this began to engender a barely discernible sense of malaise, to which the mayor responded by choosing this moment to introduce me to the family. He reminded them of my role in the affair, upon which the curiosity of the family and the villagers turned towards me and I was assailed by hundreds of questions. I confessed that I knew nothing of the circumstances aboard the
Saint-Paul
and very little about Narcisse’s life among the savages. I might have embellished my responses with tales of the South Pacific, but to what end? How much would they have understood of life in Fiji or Espiritu Santu and what would they have made of such accounts?

Narcisse had now been returned to the bosom of his family; his time of suffering and exile was over and he was back among his own people. I took my leave, as did the mayor and curate, and we left the Pelletiers to themselves.

The next day, being Sunday, a mass and
Te Deum
were to be offered in Narcisse’s honour. The church was full to overflowing as the curate solemnly displayed to the faithful the baptism register opened at the page where Narcisse’s baptism thirty-six years earlier was recorded. Seated with the family in the front row was a beribonned matron, Narcisse’s godmother. But his godfather, the uncle who had regaled the young Narcisse with his tales of the Napoleonic campaigns and given the boy a taste for travel, was not beside her, having long since departed this world.

In his sermon, the curate took up the parable of the prodigal son – a tale to which I myself had on occasion had recourse – to obviate any comparison with Narcisse. He reminded the faithful that the prodigal son of the parable had impulsively claimed his share of his inheritance, squandered it of his own accord, and returned penniless to throw himself at his father’s mercy. In spite of this profligacy, his father had forgiven him and killed the fatted calf to celebrate his return. For God is merciful: his mercy is greater than all our sins. Narcisse, by contrast, had shown nothing but courage. He had left his home to embark upon the life of a sailor; he had confronted storms and been separated from those he loved. God had placed formidable trials before him: he had endured eighteen years of exile among fearsome savages. But he had never lost heart; he put his fate in the hands of the Lord. Who could reproach him for having forgotten the words of the Lord’s Prayer and the Credo? He had borne his cross in every sense of the word. And God had not forgotten his child, lost at the ends of the earth. He had reached out to him with His merciful hand and had brought him back to the bosom of his family, and here today to the church where he was baptised.

I cannot say what was the provenance of the curate’s spiritual reflections; I had not dared to tell him that Narcisse probably had no understanding of who this priest was. He had conducted two long conversations alone with Narcisse, and I did not doubt that Narcisse’s part in those dialogues had been to say what he believed the holy father wished to hear; he has the ability to reflect the image that each individual expects of him and does so spontaneously and entirely without malice.

The mass was followed by an outdoor feast in which most of the population of Saint-Gilles participated. Narcisse continued to give the impression of being present and yet absent from the proceedings.

Three of his childhood friends came over to congratulate him, admiring his tattoos and recalling the days when they had been a band of four wastrels, recklessly raiding apple orchards and hunting thrushes. But who were these men to Narcisse now, this Julien, Mathieu and Pierre, these married men following their fathers’ professions? Narcisse consistently refused the glasses of wine they continued to press on him, thus causing further consternation.

After the feast, the villagers surrounded Narcisse and led him home to the accompaniment of the strains of a violin and a clarinet.

As a result of the afternoon’s events, there ensued much diplomatic manoeuvring between Narcisse’s father, the curate, the mayor and your faithful servant. At times, two or three of us would organise a
tête-à-tête
, at others, we met in ostensibly chance encounters to discuss what would become of Narcisse. The talks culminated in a discussion around the table after dinner with the curate. I was initally flattered to be included for I had no official relationship to Narcisse. The mission conferred upon me by the governor of New South Wales was coming to an end, my duty fulfilled once I had brought Narcisse to Paris to present him to you.

After much prevarication, and circumlocution, and with many repetitions, veiled allusions and references to sayings and proverbs, I was given to understand that the parameters of my mission might perhaps be adjusted. The protracted nature of these pronouncements was all too familiar to me from my dealings with the peasants of my estate in Isère: insisting on further clarification at this point would have been fruitless. I too wondered what kind of a life there would be henceforth for Narcisse in Saint-Gilles. All concurred that his position in the family was no longer what it had been. Of course there would always be a place for him at the family table, a bed to lie on in the barn. But how would he earn his living? His father and brother eked out a meagre living from the shoemaking workshop. And as it was, his brother relied on the small patch of land he farmed, the sheep and the cow he kept to supplement that living. Narcisse no longer knew how to use the cobbler’s awl. He had forgotten how to milk the cow and shear the sheep. He had no facility with a hoe and could neither till the soil nor prune the vines. Who would have the time to teach him all these skills again? And the family holdings were too modest to support even one farmhand. Marriage with a local girl was out of the question, for who would want such a man with no property to call his own. Interest in him would soon begin to fade. He would risk becoming dependent on public charity, a most undesirable eventuality.

When all of this had more or less been made clear, I interjected, perhaps a little too light-heartedly:

“Well what should he do? Go back to sea?”

My suggestion was met with a general consternation, which I believed to be quite sincere. If Narcisse were to remain in Saint-Gilles he would not starve, but it was a paltry existence that awaited him. At thirty-six, he displayed the naivety and ignorance of a child. What could be done with such a child? And at forty and fifty years of age, what lay in store for him? Narcisse’s future no longer lay in Australia or at sea, but nor could it be here in Saint-Gilles.