What Became of the White Savage (23 page)

There was of course nothing to prevent you, as President of the Society, from taking a stand on this point, aware as you are of the circumstances under which I accepted this invitation.

Monsieur Collet-Hespas, who spoke next, had clearly had an excellent lunch. He began by recalling a previous occasion, some four years earlier, when he had interviewed me on the prospects for fishing in Iceland. I acknowledged that I remembered this. He then asked for your permission to address a question to “this fine young man”. You will recall that we had anticipated this eventuality and had agreed that to refuse such a request would perhaps suggest that we had something to conceal. We would therefore grant the request but you would ask me to rephrase the questions as I saw fit. Not remembering to take this precaution, you invited the worthy ship owner to address his question to the hero of the day. Narcisse, who had revealed nothing of substance to me, and had intimated nothing further to you or to his parents in Saint-Gilles, would surely not impart anything to this man whom he was meeting for the first time in front of a noisy, curious crowd.

“Tell me, my good man, do the savages practise polygamy? Does each man have several women?”

“Yes… just like people here.”

This remark was greeted with a clamour of objections and with much amusement. It was only later, when I discussed the exchange with Narcisse that I perceived the source of the misunderstanding. Narcisse explained to me that counting on his fingers, he had “had” several women: the English woman on the
Strathmore
, the chambermaid and the German woman at the Savoy, and three days ago, a new mistress in Paris, a liaison of which I had previously been unaware. Narcisse had given a candid response without understanding the reference to polygamy. But the audience had assumed that he had answered with an indecent witticism in order to avoid that very question – when in truth both repartee and the conventions of morality are a mystery to him.

I passed a note to you with the suggestion that we take a break in the proceedings or perhaps call a halt to the session altogether. But to no avail. Father Leroy had asked to speak.

“Tell us, my boy, what did you eat when you were over there?”

“Fish… meat… mussels… clams…”

“Very good. Very interesting. And tell me, what is the religion of these savages?”

I was somewhat alarmed to see the reverend father raise the subject of theology, but not daring to venture a reference to the sermon given by the curate in Saint-Gilles – it would have necessitated too much explanation – I muttered something about the question being too abstract for Narcisse. And indeed he did not say anything in response to the question.

“Let me put it more simply. Do they worship their ancestors? Spirits? The gods of hunting, rain, good health? The sun?”

For Narcisse, words such as “worship” and “religion” were equally obscure. Imagine my surprise therefore when he said, very slowly: “Sun…”

Sometimes, he repeats the last word said to him, in order to give some kind of response and as a courtesy to the speaker. But on this occasion, he repeated the word “sun” several times, with an unfamiliar intensity, as if he were elsewhere, not there with us at the meeting. Then he stood up.

The speaker too appeared somewhat surprised by the reaction he had elicited. Seated as he was in the front row he seemed afraid that Narcisse might raise his hand to him – even though I had repeatedly stressed Narcisse’s gentle nature. Narcisse turned round, looked me directly in the eyes, and proclaimed in a loud voice: “Narcisse Pelletier… Sun.”

What did he mean? What was it he wanted to say specifically to me?

You asked me what this meant and I found myself unable to conceal my bewilderment. My frankness provoked some sniggering.

Father Leroy then stood up too and addressed Narcisse: “Very good. Most interesting. But I fail to see what we can conclude from this. Let us try another approach. Tell us about the savages’ dwellings. What are they made of? Do they build huts? Are they round, square? Are they made of wood, palm fronds, stone, cob? Is there one for each family or are the men separated from the women? Do they perhaps sleep in caves? Or in tents? Igloos?”

Such a torrent of questions could only have the effect of paralysing Narcisse. I was of a mind that Father Leroy was aware of this and was doing it intentionally. Narcisse remained silent. I was reluctant to intervene, fearing that I might add to his confusion.

“And the children? Who is responsible for their education? The father? The mother? The old women? Up to what age? Do they have any initiation ceremonies? What form do they take?”

Still Narcisse did not react.

The speaker spread his arms wide and spun round towards the audience, his cassock swinging out as he turned. Against all precedent for a session of this nature, he addressed the hall.

“I for one have heard quite enough. Or rather I have heard nothing at all. This man is clearly an imbecile. One can learn nothing from him. I fail to see what he can add to our understanding of Australia. During my time as a minister in Quebec, I produced a description of the curious practices of the natives of that region. I spoke every evening with elderly Indians and through the intermediary of a half-caste, wrote down all that they told me. Monsieur le Vicomte’s contribution to the science of geography, his only innovation, is to introduce the singular notion of the researcher who has nothing to say. His introductory address was most exciting, but upon approaching the source of his study, I find that the spring has run dry, if indeed it ever flowed at all. We are told that the unfortunate individual before us today reveals his confidences exclusively to the Viscount. No doubt that gentleman brings talent and imagination to his interpretation of this man’s grimaces and silence. But what is the good of bringing us here on this account? We are told that he is not an imposter. We are told that he has experienced terrible things and we are asked to accept that he does not wish to speak to us of these unfortunate events. Well then, I shall be happy to offer up prayers to God on his behalf, but I refuse to consider him as useful to the study of geography. And that, after all is the purpose for which we are assembled here today.”

In the hubbub that followed this diatribe, applause was heard from many of the benches around the hall and everyone seemed to have something to say about the Reverend Father’s philippic. You invited me to speak, but in the general confusion no one paid attention, all the more so since Father Leroy had launched into a loud discussion with several of his neighbours. Narcisse was watching the general confusion, his face set in the half-smile I know to mean he is bemused. I cannot but confess to you that I felt utterly despondent.

You called the meeting to order several times and calm was eventually restored. I responded to your reiterated request for me to speak, and appeared inevitably to be on the defensive. Indeed, the image of an accused man summoned to defend himself before a hostile and partisan audience comes to mind. I evoked yet again the circumstances of Narcisse Pelletier’s return to civilisation. I spoke of the difficulty he had in communicating and the need to adjust to his limitations in this regard. One had to know how to listen attentively to what he said and learn how to extract the information he let slip in spite of himself, as it were. In the middle of my address, the Reverend Father stood up and left. Several other members of the Society followed suit as did some of the members of the public. My words were drowned by the sound of footsteps and chairs scraping against the floor. Realising that there was little point in continuing, I was constrained to radically curtail my remarks.

And with this you brought the session to a close.

I shall not dwell on the humiliation – it is not too strong a word – that I experienced, nor on the feeling of being supported by no one. Upon reflection, I wish only to underline that whatever might have caused Father Leroy to arrive at his position, his attitude does not seem to me to be scientific. And that alone should suffice to discredit it.

He claims that the rare statements offered by Narcisse are difficult to interpret, that he is not as forthcoming as the Indians of Quebec and there is no more to be said.

Let us consider Champollion, my illustrious fellow countryman. Would we know his name if he had merely learnt to read and write hieroglyphs at the dictation of an elderly Egyptian? It is precisely the difficulty of the enigma, impenetrable to all those who came before him, that is the basis of Champollion’s fame. Narcisse is my Rosetta Stone. The fact that Reverend Father Leroy does not wish to make the effort to learn to read the stone’s message proves nothing at all. I am engaged in deciphering it, patiently, slowly and with great difficulty. I am proud of this work.

It seemed necessary to inform you of my perspective on the events of yesterday. I trust that you will understand why I am sending a copy of this letter to the President of the editorial committee of our Review, to assist with the editing of the account of the session, which will no doubt appear in a future edition.

I remain, nevertheless, your faithful servant…

They used mussel shells for knives. He watched as the women cut up the fish with the sharp edge of the rounded blue-coloured shells, around the point where the two sides of the shell joined. They shaved the children’s heads with them too, coating their skulls with paste made of loam and sand first.

They chopped off branches with another kind of shell: this one was white, elongated and shaped like a finger, with a bevelled edge. Grabbing the shells firmly in their fists, the women hacked at the branches with short sharp downward swipes. Even the thickest of branches yielded to their blows, and if the shells broke as they worked, they simply threw them down and replaced them.

And then there were the tiny white button-sized shells they used for cuts and grazes. Passing a shell lightly over the skin they made a small incision before cleaning and tending the wound.

He watched the women at work, trying to make sense of what he saw. At first, he simply wanted to trim his beard, which was beginning to grow thick and making his skin itch. On board ship he used to shave about once a week, and this feeling of having his cheeks covered with hair was new to him. Now he could see what kind of shell was best to use and what to do with it. He tried it out on his forearm a few times, experimenting with the consistency of the paste he needed to apply. He did not worry too much about grazing the skin a few times and eventually found a way to use his makeshift razor without hurting himself too much. No one paid any attention to him or to his experiments. When he felt he’d perfected the technique, he coated his face with damp earth and scraped his cheeks and chin slowly and carefully with the shell. There was a little blood on his hands, but he didn’t seem to have cut himself any more than he would have done with a dull cutthroat razor. A quick dip in the sea was enough to clean the nicks and cuts and ensure that they healed.

He felt encouraged by this small victory.

It meant that he had an implement for cutting once again. It was obviously no substitute for his knife, which must have been discarded somewhere in the forest. He felt its lack keenly and missed it now more than his clothes. The knife was a gift from his father. He’d given it to him after his second voyage as a cabin boy to mark his passage into adulthood. The blade in its leather case fixed to his belt had never left him, on land or at sea, working or sleeping.

If he could cut things again, he’d be able to take some branches, shape them, secure them together with vines or pegs; he would become a ship’s carpenter and make himself a canoe. He’d need some sort of grease for caulking, good strong wood for the paddle, a large rock wrapped in vines for an anchor: it’d be a perilous undertaking, navigating along the coast. There were a lot of questions still to be answered, he would undoubtedly have to endure many hardships, but he felt that he was making progress.

It was futile to cut himself off from the savages, sulking and nursing his wounded pride: he should be spending all his time watching them. He needed to see how they did everything, learn all their secrets. He was resourceful and resolute, and he was determined to get through this. If he could learn the savages’ secrets, he’d be able to overcome the obstacles in the way of his escape. He would deal with them one by one. There was no point in being impatient, in trying to rush things. Time passed differently now.

It was boredom that had made him decide he needed to shave. That was why he’d worked out what they used for cutting things, and how they shaved the children’s heads. From now on, he would have to dedicate all his efforts towards watching them constantly, observing every detail of what they did so that he could learn from them and acquire the skills he needed. Now he had something better than a goal: he had a plan of action.

Using the elongated shell by turns as an axe, a plane and an adze, he went to work. He cut down a branch, stripped off the bark and began to hew the branch into shape. The tool slipped and he cut his hand, but after three shells and an hour of hard work, he had managed to fashion a rudimentary plank. The ship’s carpenter on the
Saint-Paul
, a taciturn sort from Dieppe, would have shaken his head in disdain and thrown this shapeless barely trimmed pole onto the scrap heap. But with these meagre tools, could the carpenter have done any better?

He started on a second piece straight away; with practice he was becoming more adept at this, working more efficiently. And besides, he had nothing else to do. He wondered if these three primitive planks were the first pieces, the beginnings of the vessel he’d construct. He gazed at them with pride. Not wanting to alert the savages to anything unusual, he decided to use them for his hut: it paid to be careful. He knocked down his shelter from the night before and began to reconstruct it. Using his three makeshift planks gave him more ideas. By anchoring forked branches to holes in the limestone rock, he managed to make a basic frame and create a space where he could almost stand up. With the materials from his original hut and some more branches and palm fronds he was able to construct the semblance of a roof and walls. They did little to keep out the sun and the wind, but still, he wasn’t unhappy with his creation.