When I knew that it was irrevocably fixed for the next day’s dawn, I wished Monsieur de La Pérouse and the ship’s officers goodnight after supper and, in the middle of the night—which was, by a rare stroke of luck, exceedingly dark—I left my cabin, went up on deck, left my snuff-box there, threw my jacket, doublet and a few objects that I thought capable of floating into the water, dived in silently after them, and reached land by swimming vigorously.
The following day, I had the inexpressible joy of seeing, from the top of a hill, that my stratagem had had the greatest success. No one aboard had doubted that I had drowned. The frigate raised anchor and set sail at the appointed hour.
It was thus that I became a guest of the Oyas. It was sufficient for me to reveal myself to those honest folk to be immediately admitted to the bosom of their virtuous community, to the mores of which I took care to accommodate myself scrupulously.
Having observed that each of them bore on the breast the figure of a sacred animal, I made the choice, on a whim, of the crab, my studies having been preferentially devoted to crustaceans of that variety. It happened that the animal in question, the features of which one of their artists engraved in my flesh, was that of their most illustrious clan. Thus, in the measure to which any inequality can exist among these simple children of nature, I found myself connected with their finest clan.
According to their custom, disdainful of all the prejudices that are the fruit of our egotism and our corruption, it was given to me to enter into the most pleasant relationship with a few of the women of the tribe, those most graciously modeled by nature. Thus I experienced the sensuality of innocent amours untroubled by the paltriness of our jealousy. Similarly, I knew the healthy joys of an abundant paternity. After a few years, the children of the crab, whose race had seemed to be on the brink of extinction when I arrived, enjoyed a new numerousness on the sunlit shores and among the cheerful arbors.
Will it be given to these people that the decline to which they seem doomed might be reversed? I dare not count on it. It cannot, however be doubted that Oaleya, in the ensemble of the created world, constitutes an anomaly that seems bound to disappear.
Here, humans live exempt from the deadly passions and pitiless necessities that have darkened their existence elsewhere. Here, they do not nurture the furious mania of property, aggressive egotism, the need to command and the instinct of combat. A prodigal Nature provides all their needs without their being subjected to the harsh law of labor. Cheerfully sharing the fruits that she offers to all, the Oyas have conserved the habits of confidence, friendship and fraternal generosity that have been replaced elsewhere by unsociability, envy and hatred. No Oya is fully happy save in the midst of the happiness of his fellows.
Alas, I cannot doubt that this adolescent regime is not within the present aims of pitiless destiny. In spite of the delightful climate that cradles them, and in spite of the simplicity of their mores, these natives have been attained by an implacable evil. As far as I can remember, I have had fourteen or fifteen spouses, who have all preceded me to the tomb, and of the forty or so children that have been accorded to us, more than half have already returned the spirit that animated them to the Unknown. Since my arrival in the fortunate isle, the population has been reduced by at least a quarter or a third, Undoubtedly, it does not enter into the plan of Providence that this intermediary link between atrocious wig-wearing humankind and unconscious animality will be preserved.
I am convinced that there are several other species of which individuals still subsist here that have already disappeared elsewhere. I have encountered, wandering languidly among the thickets, the last of the melancholy Moas, of which only the whitened bones remain today. Thus will disappear the ornithorhynchi, the kiwis, the armadillos and so many other singular beasts, indecisive sketches that Nature, having made her choice, has decided to destroy.
That our pride should persuade us that we and the animality we know, enslave and exploit have the prerogative any character of permanence is, however, irreconcilable with the weakness of creatures. I consider it certain that the furious appetite of humans to dominate the planet will gradually banish the majority of the beings that populate it. All those will be seen to disappear that are offend humans, that are inconvenient to them, the appetites of which require large spaces and abundant nourishment. I regard as already condemned the superb big carnivores, the great proboscidians, the paradoxical giraffes, and the strange tapirs. Other species will follow them to the tomb, and if humans go all the way to the conclusion of their vocation, they will end up as the sole masters of the globe, surrounded by slaves and beasts of burden.
However—thank God!—the murderous species carries the seeds of its own destruction within it. Its members will devour one another with their own teeth, will tear one another apart with their own claws, will poison one another with venoms that they cultivate internally. The species will take responsibility, with regard to itself, for executing the decrees on Nature, which prescribe perpetual annihilation and perpetual renaissance.
And it is, I am convinced, in the same crucible that will see the obsolete forms of the creature fade away and die that those of the future will be elaborated. Here, the fatalities demanding that we perish are ineluctably manifest. Here too, the equally-fatal resurrections are formidably manifest. In this embalmed atmosphere, in these thickets, marshes and river-banks, germs are pullulating. Even more prodigious are the powers of fecundity slumbering and seething in the oceans, from which all past lives have emerged.
Here, perhaps, like that of the giant birds, the innocent race of the Oyas will be extinct in a few hundred years. But I have discovered surprising vestiges of enigmatic creatures on their beaches. Perhaps, nearby, in the great depths, the masterpieces of animality that are yet to be are being sketched out. In the nameless debris and bizarre jellies that I have trampled underfoot in the sand in the wake of tempests, are the first lineaments of the Voltaires and Diderots of the day after tomorrow. I do not mean individuals, as we understand them, but the superior cells of the collective species, a hundred times superior to humans, which will succeed humans, and whose diffuse soul, glimpsed in advance by the simple Oyas in the multitude of spirits that they believe to be surrounding them, will far surpass our poor petty horizons, and will rise far above the Lilliputian successes of the spoiled pygmies and pretentious ants that we are.
Eternal God—no, Inconceivable Nature—thanks be rendered to you that here, for thirty years, sheltered from your traps, innocent of your crimes, I have known a peaceful existence, between the corals, the sea and the sky, among the least harmful of humans, learning to detach myself from the unhealthy and ridiculous egotism of ephemera, to nourish myself on the idea of permanence, and to consent, in scorning it, to your indefinite evolution.
Tomorrow, full of days and feeling my strength diminishing, I shall drink the Black Flower. I shall not wait for the decadence of senility to make a hideous wreck of me, clinging to the last flotsam of my shipwreck. I shall depart, an octogenarian patriarch, satiated with days, leaving behind me a numerous posterity, exempt from superfluous fears and vain hopes. It pleases me to be swallowed up by this gracious, perfumed earth, full of spirits, cradled by the murmurous sea, thinking that the atoms that made me will melt into it in order to be recombined here.
And it is not without a surge of gratitude for destiny that, on the brink of effacing myself, I turn one last time toward the unhappy Europe that I quit thirty years ago. King Louis XVI has doubtless terminated his monotonous reign and his successor, the young Louis XVII, is doubtless seeing the egotism of the privileged and the covetousness of the jealous poor conflict. Perhaps, to the internal dissensions of the State, external convulsions are added. Or perhaps—who knows?—after the fever whose tremors were felt, Europe might have gone back to sleep, in advance of centuries of torpor. No matter. Here, I have lived in accordance with the truth.
I am going to die.
In accordance with my instructions,
the children of the crab will deposit my body in the grave that they will dig on the coral cape, near the cottage in which I was happy. In memory of my origins, I wanted a cross to designate my tomb. I am pleased that my body, covered worth earth, will dissolve there without being prey to beasts. In a carefully-sealed casket, I shall deposit these sheets of paper, along with the last objects connected with my sojourn among the civilized. I hope that this legacy, remaining inviolate, will slowly fall into impalpable dust.
My future brother, of whom I know so little, if hazard nevertheless permits you to unseal that stone and open this box, may this supreme advertisement of a dead man, who was almost as mad as you are, salute you and, at least, spare you from one crime.
Envy one of your peers who was able to remove his own existence from the general dementia of humankind and take from his example the resolution of imitating him to the extent that you can. If you are not able to do that, I adjure you, at least, if you have any compassion in your soul, to spare the innocent creatures who might perhaps still inhabit this locale.
Having read these lines, replace this message in the coffer that contains it, Reseal the coffer, bury it again underground, and, leaving this tomb behind you just as you found it, go away.
Go away and do not come back.
Forget it.
If a few Oyas are still alive, have pity on them. Do not commit the felony of attempting to convert them to civilization.
Go away. Leave them the pleasure of cradling themselves in their innocent dreams, thanks to which they have almost not been human, before becoming stones again, or—who knows?—ungraspable and inconceivable spirits, among which, perhaps, I shall be wandering tomorrow, a citizen of a world built on another plane than anything I am capable of imagining.
If you do that, my brother, receive the blessing of the man who lies here, May you go to sleep in the same peace as him, having had your fill of human beings, careless of gods, reconciled with unfathomable Nature, as disdainful of being as of nothingness!
I sign these pages with the name I bore among white men for fifty-three years:
Luc de Vesnage
18 June 1815
Hugues repeats: “18 June 1815—the day of Waterloo!”
Of the titanic epic that turned the world upside-down, Luc Vesnage lived and died as insouciant as he was of the work of the madepores and the courses of the stars.
Her eyes vague, Laurette stammers, in a wan, broken voice: “This is the Uncle, and this is his last adieu!”
Hugues inclines his head. Crouched at their feet, the brown children contemplate them with their tender and wild eyes. The officer adds: “And these, Laurette, really are our little cousins.”
On the great earth, indifferent and foreign, these two savage children are the only living links that still connect them to their bloodline.
Dr. Boujade has moved away, discreetly, and is botanizing.
Kouang is dreaming, his gaze on the horizon.
They have reread the testament, rereading it slowly, line by line. The great Ocean is purring. The breeze is moaning. Vast albatrosses are soaring high overhead. Lower down, a few seagulls are exchanging shrill cries. There is a grave, powerful and serene peace. Yes, the Uncle of the Crabs has chosen a good place to die and rest.
The sun is already sinking, however. The shadows are spreading.
Hugues touches his cousin’s arm. “It’s getting late, Laurette. What do you want to do?”
She looks at him. “We have to obey.”
“Obey?”
With her finger, the young woman indicates the open box. She makes a gesture.
He understands, but makes a suggestion: “We could wait until tomorrow.”
She shakes her head negatively, reassembles the sheets of paper, tucks them into the leather portfolio and replaces them, with the folded clothes, in the box. They close it and, aided by the children, pile up the fragments of coral and stone on the lid. Now, everything is invisible, as it was when they arrived.
Then, for a second time, they kneel down at the foot of the mound, put their hands together and implore the mercy of the inconceivable God. When they have prayed in accordance with the ancestral rite, they make the sign of the cross.
And Raramémé, whose blood is the same as theirs, understand that it is necessary to associate themselves with that solemn action.
The two savages also kneel down, and similarly raise their brown paws to their foreheads and their breasts, participating in the invocation.
Papeiti has transmitted a cablegram from the Rue Royale.
Invite you, as soon as repairs are concluded, to return Toulon. By reason of political situation, presidential council deems extremely urgent return of Delegate General Bedeau-Conflans, whose communication unanimously appreciated by Chambre.
After having conferred with the député, Monsieur de Kerfaouët has replied:
Repairs completed. Preparing depart tomorrow. Delegate General puts his devotion at disposal of Republic.
Initially, Monsieur Pittagol had written “At disposal of Ministry,” but Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans corrected him. The Ministry might fall; the Republic endures.
This is, therefore, the last day when the Citoyen’s passengers will tread the soil of the fortunate isle. The cruiser has taken aboard its full complement of fresh water, and loaded a cargo of fruits and roots. The fires are lit. The crew was ordered aboard two hours ago, except for the last service detachment.
It has required the amicable authority of the officers to prevent regrettable defections. The removal from the delightful island is cruel. Not everyone could tear himself away. Yesterday, under the mango-trees, the lifeless body of Balissard from Ménilmuche was found, lying beside that of young Tao-Hoaré. It was thought at first to have been a murder, but a rapid examination sufficed for Monsieur Boujade to falsify that hypothesis. Balissard had simply absorbed the Black Flower.
That is an example whose contagion is to be feared; congestion has been recorded as the cause of death, and it has been resolved to hasten the departure.
Even so, the cruiser cannot quit these waters without the representative of France addressing a few words of farewell to the population.
That afternoon, therefore, the indigenes are assembled on the beaten iron esplanade that separates the huts. The companions of the sailors, who have almost understood for some days what is going on, have informed the tribe. It is understood that the whale-mountain is going to disappear, with the white gods, and that it is appropriate to honor them one last time.
The Oyas have acquired a profound knowledge of their mores during recent weeks. The simple sailors are not much different from humans, save for the color of their skin, but the chiefs who have golden totems on their clothing and head-dresses are very powerful. Commandant Kerfaouët and the prophet with the tricolor belly are elevated above the rest.
Dr. Boujade disposes of mighty spells. He can make rain fall, swell the sea, extinguish the sun.
Captain de Pionne and the young woman owe a less fearful veneration to the sign of Kroum.
Everything that emanates from such gods must be respectfully received until the end. That is why, this afternoon, the entire population assembles, and they prostrate themselves three times with long howls when the député, his breast striped by his sash, stands up, takes a step forward, clears his voice, and, when silence is reestablished, intones his swan song.
“Citizens of Oaleya! This is the hour when the fatherland, still at grips with the infamous aggressor, is reclaiming me. I would be neglecting a very pleasant duty if, before quitting this hospitable island, I did not assure you of the total benevolence of the Republic.
“Ancient ties, the discovery of which has been very moving for us”—the orator bowed solemnly toward Laurette de Vesnage, who is very pale—“have linked our races for more than a century. The pious care with which you have honored the tomb of a Frenchman who was the precursor of the humanitarian ideals for which our fatherland is fighting today, a
ttest to the ideal community that unites us, beneath differences of mentality.
“For three-quarters of a century the tricolor flag planted by one of the celebrated forebears or our commandant”—inclination of the head toward Monsieur de Kerfaouët—“has been revered by you. Your diligent care, of which, when I return to France, I shall have the honor of rendering an account to my compatriots, who are yours, attest to the degree to which the free choice of your hearts has ratified our alliance. The Great War has given you an opportunity to furnish a new proof of your sentiments to the metropolis. Even in these peaceful regions, the monstrous barbarism of the Boche”—at this point, a snort in the orator’s voice generated a frisson—“has been unleashed. Here, you have crushed it. The work commenced against the pirates by your rocks, your indomitable arms have completed.
“Here, the U-37A and its crew of pirates have found the punishment for their crimes. Why was it necessary for a premature death to steal from our affection the hero whom your suffrage designated to the government of the Republic to bear on his beast the glorious emblem that I was proud to pin upon him with my own hand? Let him remain an example for us. Lift up your hearts!”
At this declaration a band of macaws flies away and several women emit screeches of fright.
“I am departing for France, having taken an exact account of your aspirations and needs. I shall say over there that your devotion continues to be acquired by the motherland. In exchange, have no doubt that, on receipt of my report, she will show herself disposed to accord you an increasingly narrow participation in the gestation of our common destiny. I do not despair of soon seeing Oaleya, through the intermediary of a representative that she has freely chosen, making her voice heard in the harmonious chorus of the greater France of tomorrow!”
After all, who can foresee the whims of universal suffrage? An accident can happen quickly. In case of a metropolitan misadventure, Oaleya might be worth as much as Chandannagar or Martinique.
The Children of the Crab Page 15