She had simply asked the price of the fan—but this proved to be the difficulty. The Chinese man, on île de France for only a few days, spoke neither French, nor English, nor Italian, and had stood in silent confusion when the girl repeated her question in each of those languages. The ignorance of the man from the banks of the Yellow River was already so well known around the colony that the inhabitants of Port Louis called him by the same single name—Miko-Miko. This was what the merchant repeated endlessly as he hawked his wares around the city; it meant nothing more than “Buy, buy.” Miko-Miko had managed to communicate via hand gestures until now, but as the girl had never had the chance to study the sign language of the Abbot de l’Épée, she was unable to understand him or make him understand her. It was at this opportune moment that the stranger approached her.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice your predicament. Might I be of some service? I would be glad to act as your interpreter.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the governess, while the girl blushed prettily. “You see us at our wits’ end! Mademoiselle Sara and I have tried for ten minutes together to make this man understand us. We have spoken to him in French, English, Italian, but he comprehends nothing!”
“Perhaps this gentleman can speak another language he might understand, dear Henriette,” interjected the girl. “If he can find out the price of this fan, he will have done me a great service—I simply long to have it, you know.”
“But it is impossible,” said dear Henriette. “This man doesn’t seem to speak any language at all!”
“He speaks the language of his home country, surely,” said the stranger.
“Yes, of course, but he is from China—and who on earth speaks Chinese?”
The stranger smiled. Turning to the merchant, he spoke several words unintelligible to the women. It would be impossible to describe the expression of astonishment that spread across poor Miko-Miko’s face when he heard the beloved accents of his far-off mother country, resonating like the echoes of distant music in his ears. He let the fan drop from his grasp and, seizing the strange newcomer’s hand, kissed it again and again. The dark-haired man repeated his question, and Miko-Miko answered it in tones of rapture and wonder a bit ill suited to such practical subject matter as the price of a fan.
“It’s twenty pounds sterling, mademoiselle,” the stranger said, turning back to the young woman. “Around ninety piastres.”
“Oh, I do thank you, monsieur,” said Sara, blushing again. “Isn’t it lucky, dear Henriette,” she continued in English, turning to her governess, “that monsieur speaks this man’s language?”
“Quite astonishing,” dear Henriette agreed.
“There is a simple explanation,” the young man assured them, switching to English as well. “My mother died when I was just three months old, and I was nursed by a poor woman from the island of Formosa who was in service to our family. Her language was the first one I learned to speak, and even though I rarely have occasion to use it, I still remember a few words of it—an ability for which I am quite thankful indeed, since it has allowed me to do you this small service today.” He pressed a Spanish doubloon into Miko-Miko’s hand; then, signaling the servant to follow him, he gave the two women an easy salute and departed.
Following the Moka road, the stranger had just arrived at the path leading to the Pailles at the foot of Mont Découverte when he stopped short and stared at a point halfway up the hill, where an old man sat on a wooden bench with hands folded and eyes fixed on the sea. The stranger stood frozen for a moment as if he could not believe his eyes, and then all doubt seemed to vanish. “It is him,” he murmured. “My God! How he has changed!”
Taking care not to be seen, the stranger made his way up the slope. Two or three times he stopped and pressed his hand to his heart, as if trying to repress some emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. The old man did not move at the newcomer’s approach, but he was obviously aware of it; he turned his head when the young man sat down next to him, and with a timid salute stood and took several steps back.
“Oh, pray, do not disturb yourself on my account, monsieur!” said the stranger.
The other man sat down again, but this time at the farthest edge of the bench. A lengthy silence passed, during which the old man continued to gaze at the sea and the stranger, at his companion.
Finally the young man ventured to speak. “Monsieur,” he said, “were you here, about an hour and a half ago, when the Leicester dropped anchor in the port?”
“Why—yes, I was, monsieur,” the old man replied humbly, surprise evident in his voice.
“The arrival of ships from Europe does not interest you?”
“But why do you ask me such a thing, monsieur?”
“Surely,” said the young man, “if you were interested, you would have gone to the dock like everyone else.”
“You are wrong, monsieur,” the old man answered, shaking his gray head sadly. “Very wrong, indeed. No one is more interested in the arrival of European ships than I. For fourteen years I have come to this hillside every time such a vessel arrives, no matter its country of origin, in the hope that it might bear letters from my children—or even my children themselves. It tires me to stand for very long, though, so I come and sit here, in the same place I watched them sail away so long ago.”
“And why do you not go down to the port yourself?” inquired the stranger.
“I did, for the first few years,” the old man replied. “But the disappointment became too much to bear. Eventually I sent my Negro Télémaque in my place. Waiting for him here allows me to hope a little longer. If he returns quickly, I imagine that he is bringing word that my children are here at last; if he is delayed, I tell myself he is collecting a letter. Usually, though, he comes back empty-handed, and I go home alone and weep, always telling myself that the next ship will surely bring happier tidings.”
“Poor Father,” the stranger murmured.
The old man looked astonished. “You pity me, monsieur?”
“I do, most sincerely.”
“But—don’t you know who I am?”
“You’re a man, and you suffer,” the stranger said simply.
The old man’s voice trembled. “I am a mulatto,” he said in a low, embarrassed voice.
The young man’s face flushed red. “And so am I.”
“You, a mulatto?” cried the old man.
“Yes.”
“You, a mulatto!” the old man repeated, as if he could not believe it. He stared at the red-and-blue ribbon on the stranger’s lapel. “Ah! Now I understand your pity. I took you for a white at first, but I know now that we are friends—brothers.”
“Yes,” murmured the stranger, taking the old man’s hands in his. There was an expression of infinite tenderness on his face. “Perhaps even more than that.”
The old man seemed not to have heard him. “Well,” he said. “I feel I can tell you everything now! It will do my heart good to speak of my troubles. I have two sons, monsieur—or perhaps I should say I had two sons, for God only knows if they are both still alive! I loved both of them as much as any father could. I must confess, though, that one of them—the younger—held a special place in my heart.” The stranger seemed to tremble, and drew a little nearer his companion. “It might shock you,” the old man continued, “that a father can love one child more than the other. It is wrong, I know; but my younger boy was the weaker of the two. There; that is my only excuse.”
Here the old man paused and looked away, as if ashamed at the confession he had just made. The stranger quickly dashed a tear from his cheek.
“You would understand if you had known them, monsieur,” the old man said, turning back to his listener. “It wasn’t that Georges—that was my younger boy’s name—was the handsomer of the two. On the contrary; his brother, Jacques, was much better looking. But Georges’s frail body housed a mind of such strength and intelligence that if I had put him in school he
re in Port Louis, I’m certain he would have been the star pupil, though he was only twelve years old.” The old man’s eyes shone with pride and enthusiasm for an instant, but his expression quickly dimmed again. “I couldn’t send him to school here, of course. It was a white school, and we are only mulattoes.”
The stranger’s eyes flared, and a look of mingled fury and disdain flashed across his face. The old man appeared to take no notice. “That was why I sent them both to France,” he continued. “I hoped that a proper education might calm Jacques down a bit—cure him of his vagabond tendencies—and also, perhaps, teach Georges not to be so stubborn.” He sighed. “But it seems that God did not approve of my plan. Jacques shipped out on a privateer during a trip to Brest, and I have heard from him only three times since then—always from somewhere on the other side of the globe. Georges, on the other hand, has written to me often, from England, Spain, Egypt; I fear, though, that his obstinacy has only increased with age. His letters are beautiful, but I have never shown them to anyone.”
“Neither of them has ever written to you of returning home, then?”
“Never, and who knows if I will ever see either of them again? It would make me the happiest man on earth to be reunited with my sons, but I have never asked them to come home. If they have chosen to remain there, it is because they are happier in Europe than they would be here, and if they do not feel the need to see their old father again, it is because they have found people in Europe whom they love better. So be it. I wish only for their happiness—though, I confess, Georges’s absence has been most painful for me, and so has the fact that he has never spoken of returning to île de France.”
“Perhaps he hopes to surprise you, monsieur,” said the stranger in a voice quivering with emotion.
“Would that it were so!” The old man sighed, clasping his hands and raising his eyes heavenward.
“He might wish to come to you unrecognized,” the stranger continued tremulously, “so that he might bask in your presence, in your love and benediction.”
The old man shook his head. “Impossible! I should always recognize my Georges.”
“And yet,” the young man burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer, “yet you have not recognized me, dear Father!”
“You—you!” the old man cried, trembling violently. He searched the stranger’s face. “No—you cannot be Georges. There is some resemblance, but—you are so tall, so handsome! He is only a child, and you are a man!”
“It is indeed I, Father! You must know me!” Georges cried. “Do not forget that fourteen years have gone by since you last saw my face—I am nearly twenty-six now! Here—if you doubt me still, look at the scar on my forehead. It is the mark of a saber cut given to me by Henri de Malmédie, that day you so bravely captured the English flag. Open your arms, dearest Father, and press me to your heart, and you will know that I am your son!”
With these words, the stranger flung himself on the old man’s breast, repeating again and again that he was, truly, Georges. Pierre Munier, hardly daring to believe in so much happiness, clasped the young man hesitantly, then tightly, in his arms. Just then Télémaque appeared at the foot of the hill, shoulders slumped and face sorrowful, reluctantly bringing the news that there was still no word from either of his master’s beloved sons.
VI
TRANSFIGURATION
Let us leave the father and son to their joyful reunion now, and journey back in time to retrace the physical and mental transformation experienced by the hero of our story during the last fourteen years—years that changed him from a boy to a man.
I meant, at first, simply to repeat the story exactly as Georges told it to his father—but since this is a tale made up of intimate thoughts and secret sensations, we may be justifiably skeptical that a man of Georges’s character will tell the entire truth—especially when he is speaking about himself! So I will tell it in my own way. I am quite familiar with every detail of it, and you may be assured that I am completely impartial. I will conceal no feeling, be it good or bad, nor any thought—honorable or otherwise.
I will begin just where Georges did: aboard the Bellone, sailing away from île de France.
Pierre Munier, whom we have already gotten to know a little, had from his earliest entry into active manhood adopted a line of conduct toward whites from which he never deviated. Lacking the strength of will to fight such overwhelming prejudice, he had resolved to disarm the whites with continual submission and humility. He had neither the strength nor the will to challenge any white man to a duel, no matter how offensive the man’s prejudice might be to him; despite his wealth and intelligence, he spent his life apologizing for his very existence. He never sought public or administrative office; he strove only to remain lost in the crowd.
The same attitude that kept him from public life governed his private actions as well. Generous and magnanimous by nature, he yet lived so simply as to be almost monastic. His home contained abundance but no luxury, the two hundred slaves he owned—worth a fortune in themselves—notwithstanding. He did not own a palanquin until age and sorrow induced him to give up his habit of traveling everywhere on horseback; even then, he chose the plainest equipage he could find. Always careful to avoid the slightest quarrel, invariably polite and submissive, he never displayed even the barest hint of dislike or resentment. Indeed, he would rather lose ten arpents of land than open or even support a court case that would have won him twenty. One could always be sure of finding a coffee or manioc plant or some sugarcane at the plantation of Pierre Munier, who invariably thanked the seeker for coming to him instead of someone else, and at the best price, too. His generosity, born of his excellent heart, to be sure, but also of his timid character, had earned the friendship of his neighbors, but it was rather passive in nature. No one ever thought of returning the favors he granted them; they simply tried to avoid hurting him. Even so, there were always those who, despite his immense wealth, his many slaves, and his spotless reputation, wished him ill on account of his skin color. M. de Malmédie and his son, Henri, were among this number.
Georges, who was born into the same circumstances as his father but whose weaker constitution had denied him the pleasures of physical exercise, had focused all his energies inward. Like many a sickly child he was mature beyond his years, and instinctively discerned the reasons for his father’s behavior. Even then, though, the man’s pride that surged in the child’s chest prevented him from acting likewise. He hated the whites who despised him and scorned the mulattoes who allowed themselves to be so despised. Very early on, he resolved to conduct himself in a manner completely opposite from his father’s. He would face such absurd and unreasonable oppression head-on and, as soon as he was strong enough, crush it, man by man, strangling it like a youthful Antaeus. The child Hannibal, spurred onward by his father, had declared war on an entire nation; young Georges, despite his father, would fight prejudice to the death with the same ferocity.
Georges left the colony after the battle described earlier in our narrative and arrived safely in France. Along with his brother, Jacques, he enrolled in the Collège Napoleon where, placed in the lowest grade, he immediately resolved to rise to the head of his class. For him, superiority could be gained solely through meticulous organization; he learned quickly and well. Initial success only stoked the fire; the more he achieved, the more he desired to achieve. True, such intense intellectual focus did not improve his physique; he remained small and frail. God, however, had provided a support to this slim young sapling. Thanks to the protection of his brother, the laziest yet strongest boy in class, Georges—the hardest worker, but the weakest body—was able to pursue his studies unmolested.
Unfortunately, this tranquil state of affairs did not last long. Two years after their arrival in France, Jacques and Georges spent a holiday in Brest with a merchant acquaintance of their father’s. Jacques—who had long heard the siren call of the sea—took the opportunity to escape their prison, as he called the school, an
d ship out aboard a privateer, which he described in a letter to Pierre Munier as a French military vessel. Upon returning to school, Georges immediately suffered the cruel consequences of his brother’s absence. Utterly defenseless in the face of the jealous resentment and even hatred aroused in his classmates by his academic prowess, he was shunned, beaten, and ill treated all around. Every boy seemed to have a favorite way of tormenting him. It was a trial indeed, but Georges bore it courageously.
Reflecting more seriously than ever on his position, Georges realized that moral superiority mattered little without physical strength to match. Until he possessed the latter, he would never be respected for the former. He must combine the two if he wished to be complete as a man. From that moment onward, he was altered. He exchanged shyness, isolation, and inactivity for sport, exuberance, and roughhousing; he spent only enough time at his books to maintain the intellectual preeminence he had attained during the preceding years. Clumsy and awkward at first, he was mocked by his peers—the shame of which only made him strive harder. Georges was not sanguine by nature; rather, his was a bilious courage, and he was inclined to avoid danger rather than actively seeking it out. He could act bravely only after reflection, and though this sort of courage is all the more admirable for being morally justified, in his private thoughts he feared he was a coward.
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