François Péron and
the Tasmanians: an unrequited romance |
Table of Contents
François Péron was my first. A
slight man with a sickly aspect, blind in one eye and possessing a long patrician
nose that gave him an imperious air,[1] he had a tendency to be
self-indulgent, was intensely political in his relationships, and was not
averse to machination against anyone he developed a dislike for. He could
easily tell the odd lie or bend the truth if he saw any benefit to himself in
it. He certainly could not be accused of mincing his words. His dedication to
self-justification and self-aggrandising was exasperating to say the least.
I first encountered Péron when I
was an undergraduate history student. I found him repellent; almost everything
he said was disagreeable. Initially I was only interested in refuting him, dissecting
his words and proving that he was an ignorant egomaniac. It was what he said
about indigenous people and how he perceived women that offended me. He could
be callously clinical in his descriptions. He never refrained from running his
cold eye over the body of a black man or woman, focussing on any physical
quality he saw as lacking, aberrant, or simply unattractive. At times, he even
seemed ridiculous. He lacked self-awareness and humility, so never missed an
opportunity to present himself as a hero, a role that rested precariously on
his slender frame.
Encountering others who felt the
same way I did, it seemed that his way with words and his negative appraisals
provoked strong reactions.[2] He is indeed a treasure trove of
objectionable quotations. Yet, over the years I have begun to look beyond the
snatches of description that spark such ire, humoured his ludicrous self-aggrandising,
and slowly began to change my opinion of Monsieur Péron. When once I just
dismissed him, now I try to engage with him. Without realising it I have
developed a relationship with him, and like all romances it is turbulent. At
times he appals me and I detest him. Then at other times, I affectionately
imagine I see through his pompous façade, and see how he truly is. I guess I
have cast myself in the role of tragic heroine, and want to redeem my man.
François Péron significantly
changed my life. He was the first to make me want to become an historian. He
was my first primary source — his writings, the first object of my study. While
I have since developed relationships with others, he is still my first, and as
such the most significant. I have journeyed to the other side of the world to
see his handwritten letters and journals, to study the marginalia he wrote on
drawings and texts, to touch the same paper on which he spent the last years of
his short life writing, to feel whether he left any hidden remnant of himself
imprinted on the surface. I also wanted to walk through the town from which he
departed on his epic voyage; the town whose people he imagined had
affectionately wished ‘Ah, may you … return once more to your country, and the
gratitude of your fellow citizens!’[3] as he set sail for my side of the
world. I have done all this in order to understand him better; to grasp what it
was exactly that made him say those terrible things.
In 1800, at the tender age of 25,
Péron was the last to join the expedition to the Great South Land. This was a
scientific expedition devised by the veteran seadog, Post-Captain Nicolas
Baudin, a voyage to the Southern Ocean and Terra Australis, to
discover the natural history of this still incompletely charted territory. This
expedition would eventually be co-opted by the newly formed Société des
Observateur de l’Homme and intrigue none other than the future emperor
Napoleon Bonaparte. The expedition was to transcend Baudin’s humble amateur
naturalist fantasies. However, I am jumping ahead, for how are you to know the
significance of these things? I must return to Péron’s life prior to the
expedition so we can discern how he became that self-confessed ‘irresponsible,
scatter-brained, argumentative, indiscreet’, opinionated, and alienating man,
‘incapable of ever giving way for any reason of expediency’.[4]
François was not born into a
wealthy family, and his father died at an early age. So he was guided on the
usual trajectory of an intellectually curious, eighteenth-century French man
from the lower orders: he was encouraged to join the seminary. In the course of
one of Napoleon’s numerous campaigns he was forced to enlist, and became a
prisoner of war at the age of 19. After his release he moved to Paris, and under
the patronage of Master Petitjean, he enrolled in a medical degree, becoming a
student of the esteemed men of science, and members of the Société,
Antoine-Laurent de Jussieu and Georges Cuvier.[5] Upon hearing of the expedition to
Terra Australis, Péron abandoned his studies and immediately entreated
his mentors to recommend him to the expedition. He was promptly assigned the
post of zoologist. More importantly, he was also to serve as the expedition’s
anthropologist, a science still in its infancy. An artefact of its recent
inception was the disparity between the two anthropological treatises that
served as Péron’s guidelines. Georges Cuvier’s was inspired by the nascent
nineteenth-century science of comparative anatomy, while Joseph-Marie
DeGérando’s Instructions were more commensurate with the
eighteenth-century philosophical approach of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.[6] Péron’s own ethnography
precariously straddles both approaches, revealing his inexperience and naïvety.
Figure 1.1. Fois.
[i.e. Francois] Peron, nd, engraving by Lambert designed by Lesueur, Charles
Alexandre, 1778-1846, Allport Library and Museum of Fine Arts, Tasmania
I had not anticipated arriving at
Rousseau so early in this story. In order to best describe his significance, I
need to jump ahead from Péron joining Baudin’s expedition, skipping over the
departure of the Geographe and the Naturaliste from Le Havre
on the 19 October 1800 amid the fanfare and delight of the local citizens.[7] I also need to skip past the
ships’ stop at the Île de France (Mauritius) where they lost a significant
proportion of their crew, disaffected by the slow trip and scant provisions for
which Post-Captain Baudin was apportioned most of the blame.[8] I want to pass over the brief
visits the Geographe and the Naturaliste made to Western
Australia including their first encounters with Aboriginal people, and even
skip their longer sojourns in Tasmania and Port Jackson.[9] In fact I want to skip over all
of the events on the journey that changed him. Instead, I want to introduce you
to Péron about halfway through the expedition, just after his departure from
Port Jackson on 18 November 1802, when as we will see he had already become a
disappointed man.[10]
It is at this stage of the
journey that Péron chose to conclude the first volume of his journal. Although
he and Louis de Freycinet are the joint authors of the four volume journal of
the expedition, Voyage of Discovery to the Southern Hemisphere, Péron
wrote volume one by himself. At this stage of the voyage the ships were about
to return to France, by way of the southern coast of Western Australia. The
last chapter describes the results of his dubious experiment intended to
compare the physical strength of indigenous men with that of European men,
using a newly invented mechanical contraption known as Regnier’s dynamometer.[11]
It is within this apparently
objective and empirical context that Péron launches into a typically derogatory
and bitter description of the Tasmanian people. He begins his attack with a
minutely detailed disquisition on their bodies,[12] easing into his subject matter
by stating that the Tasmanians’ height is similar to that of Europeans. The
head attracts Péron’s attention because he thinks it ‘uncommonly large’, and
oddly proportioned, being much longer than it is wide. His eye sweeping down
the length of the body, François turns to the torso, and appears to take a more
positive tack. The Tasmanian men’s shoulders are broad, their loins ‘well
formed’, and their buttocks ‘sizeable’,[13] though due to his economic
phrasing it is difficult to say whether he appreciates their form or not.
However, as his eye descends to
the legs Péron’s aim becomes clear. He has elaborated on the muscular
stockiness of their torso only to heighten the feebleness of the Tasmanians’
extremities. His eye can discern ‘scarcely any muscle’. Even Péron’s syntax
highlights their scrawniness, for he ends the sentence by describing the way
their abdomens project over their spindly legs like an inflated ‘balloon’. This
vignette on the Tasmanians’ bodies is classic ethnography à la Péron, a dish
that has often been tasted.[14]
But it is not just their bodies
that come under attack — he also dismisses Tasmanian society, polity, abode,
arts and diet. Péron’s entire description is damning. It inexorably and
predictably leads to his pronouncement that ‘the inhabitant of these regions
unites all the characters of man in an unsocial state, and is, in every sense
of the word, the child of nature’.[15] This is a familiar sentiment to
any student of Aboriginal history. And it is here, with his self-indulgent use
of italics, that the reason for Péron’s ire reveals itself. He is striking out
against those ‘vain sophists’ who ‘attribute to savages all the sources of
happiness and every principle of virtue’.[16]
Now Rousseau can enter the story.
As a student François had been influenced by that eminent philosopher. He was
seduced by the fantasy of the Noble Savage, a child of nature, not only more
virtuous than civilised man, but physically superior in both form and function.
So at first glance Péron’s vitriolic attack on the body of the Tasmanians
appears to be fuelled by the bitter disappointment of a former acolyte; by the
realisation that his deeply held faith was a mere phantasm.
My first sympathetic
understanding for François came from believing that his disillusionment with
‘J.J’[17] (as he intimately referred to
Rousseau) was heartfelt and emotional, perhaps nourished by the passion of
losing his father. His filial tragedy led me to suspect that he could not take
the disappointment of a fallen paternal figure such as Rousseau lightly. I
believed that the tragic romance was between Rousseau the mentor and Péron the
succeeding disciple. Naturally, I concluded that the Tasmanians were merely
innocent unfortunates caught in the crossfire, purely a means to Péron’s end of
proving that Rousseau was a charlatan philosophe. The idea that the
Tasmanians themselves played almost no role in shaping these derogatory
European attitudes was compelling, and seemed to be a view commonly held by
other writers.[18]
However, re-reading Péron again
and again, I have come to question this belief, for Péron was not always
damning in his appraisals of the Tasmanians. It seems that his vitriolic fire
was not sparked by Rousseau alone, but also fanned by the Tasmanians: not by
their debasement and corporeal deviancy as Péron implies, but rather by their
cool indifference to him, their reluctance to play the foil to his heroic
self-imaginings. So I have come to the conclusion that François’ unrequited
romance was not with Rousseau at all, but instead with the Tasmanians.
I will now return to François, as
he was on 13 January 1802: a prodigy in the science of natural history,
idealistic, expectant, and full of vim and vigour. His enthusiasm should no
doubt partly be attributed to the relief of finally catching sight of Tasmania after
an arduous 61-day journey from Timor marked by dysentery, death and despair. It
was on this fateful day that he first encountered the Tasmanians.
François beheld an Arcadian
vision when he saw the Tasmanian coast. Despite the brisk temperatures he stood
on the deck of the Geographe transfixed by the sight of the ‘lofty
mountains’, the inland plains which rose ‘in amphitheatres’ over the whole
island and the ‘immense forests’.[19] He listened to the calls of the
seabirds that circled the ships and the dolphins’ splashes as they danced in
the Geographe’s wake. All the sights and sounds contributed to
François’ solemn feeling that he had ‘touched the extreme boundary of the
southern world’.[20]
His admiration of the landscape
grew as the ships sailed into the d’Entrecasteaux Channel in search of fresh
water. The lush green of the vegetation and prodigious mountains, combined with
the beautiful plumes of the local parrots and majestic swans led François to
declare that it was the ‘most picturesque and pleasant’ place they had seen
during their long voyage.[21] It was in this halcyon
environment that Péron first glimpsed the Tasmanians.
As the ships approached the shore
two men fleetingly appeared on the beach, disappearing as the ships neared.
Then, shortly after the French disembarked, another two men appeared. The
braver of the two immediately bounded down the rise to greet them. This young
man captivated Péron with his athleticism for he ‘seemed rather to spring from
the top of the rock than to descend from it’.[22] His physicality made him appear
‘strong’ and the only defect he appeared to have was an apparent looseness to
his joints. François scanned the Tasmanian’s face, and upon seeing that his
eyes were ‘lively and expressive’, concluded that his ‘physiognomy had nothing
fierce or austere’ about it.[23]
This figure bewitched François.
He was his Noble Savage, a man of impressive physical strength and dexterity
with an open and guileless demeanour. Péron’s compatriot Freycinet immediately
embraced the man and François followed suit. It was in this fleeting caress
that Péron got his first inkling that his appreciation was not reciprocated.
The aloof Tasmanian seemed to receive the French embrace with an ‘air of
indifference’. But in the fever of excitement from finally beholding this
fabled noble savage, Péron overlooked this minor rebuff. Instead, he
interpreted this distance as a sign that physical displays of affection had
little meaning to the man, a theory he would later apply to all Tasmanians.[24] But for the time being, Péron
was enchanted by the man’s insatiable curiosity.
Immediately after their embrace,
or possibly even during, the Tasmanian ran his hands over the Frenchmen’s
clothes, marvelling at their white skin and their layers of attire. Opening
their jackets and lifting their shirts, perhaps even rolling up their sleeves
and tugging at their waistbands, he inspected their skin, punctuating his
fervid manoeuvring with ‘loud exclamations of surprise’ and stamping a rapid
little tattoo with his feet.[25] The French boat then caught his
eye, and he rushed over to inspect it with the same zeal. Ignoring the men still
seated aboard he jumped in and immediately began running his hands along the
boards, the mast and so forth.
He was distracted momentarily by
a bottle of arrack given to him by one of the bemused sailors. Holding the
bottle in the sun he slowly turned it, catching the rays of light that glinted
off its surface, but then promptly threw it overboard, returning his attentions
to the boat.[26] The flurry of activity as one of
the ‘vexed’ sailors splashed into the water to rescue the valuable liquor did
not distract the Tasmanian who by then was endeavouring to push the boat off
and master the art of sailing for himself. François was charmed by the man’s
display of energetic inquisitiveness, and impressed by his deductive reasoning,
for he would later write with patronising warmth that they were ‘the most
striking demonstrations of attention and reflection which we had ever seen among
savage nations’.[27]
While this scene was being played
out in the water, Péron and Freycinet wandered further ashore to meet the
second Tasmanian in a somewhat less frantic exchange. This man’s
salt-and-pepper hair and beard suggested that he was more than 50 years old.
While obviously anxious and frightened by the strangers’ sudden appearance, he
still managed to give an impression of ‘kindness and candour’.[28] After the obligatory
scrutinising of their white skin and dishevelling of their clothes, he beckoned
two women to join them on the beach.
Taking a moment to deliberate,
the women approached, though this time the elder of the two took the lead. Her
complete nakedness revealed that the skin of her belly was a topography of
‘furrows’ and ridges, a telltale sign for Péron that she had mothered many
children.[29] The younger woman nursed a baby
girl, giving Péron an excuse to linger over his description of the shape and
fullness of her bosom. But when he lifted his gaze to her face he was taken
aback by her expression as she openly returned his stare. Unlike the ‘kind and
friendly’ countenance of the older couple, this young woman had ‘fire’ burning
in her eyes.[30] Yet, as her eyes flitted back to
her baby they changed, becoming warm with affection as she fondled and cared
for it in a display of ‘maternal love’ that François could only assume was a
peculiarity of women the world over. Again, Péron overlooked her momentary
flintiness in his enchantment of their presence.
After this meeting Péron’s
compatriots wished to move on to begin their scientific transactions, but
François opted to stay with the two women and the Tasmanian patriarch in an
endeavour to ‘collect some words of their idiom’.[31] Meanwhile the young man
continued his active engagement with the sailors, gathering wood and lighting a
fire upon realising the Frenchmen’s desire to warm themselves. As both parties
converged at the fire François had another opportunity to delight in the
innocence of these children of nature.
Suddenly the young woman let out
a scream, which ‘alarmed’ everybody. Upon realising the cause of her distress
the French were filled with mirth, laughing heartily at her childlike mistake.
Having mistaken a sailor’s gloves for a hand, she feared that this alien man
could simply detach it ‘at pleasure’.[32] It is this first stage of the
romance, during the attraction that François feels at first sight of the
Tasmanians, that the ill-fated bottle of arrack again re-enters the story.
During this initial flirtation, Péron’s
boorish seduction routine of condescendingly laughing at the Tasmanian woman
soon causes the romance to stall. Under the cover of this distraction, the
elderly patriarch takes the opportunity to take the same bottle of arrack that
had been given his son and carry it off towards his camp.[33] The loss of such a valuable
resource, comprising ‘a great part’ of their ‘stock’, necessitates the sailors’
vigorous repossession of the bottle, but the erratic behaviour of the Frenchmen
concerning this gift incites much discontent in the old man, and
ignoring the French gestures of appeasement and requests to stay, the Tasmanian
family immediately take their leave, and temporarily exit the story.
Despite this hiccup in the
budding relationship, François was still confident in his ability to worm his
way into the noble savages’ affections, for tomorrow is another day,
so he replaces his anthropologist hat with his zoologist one for a spot of
shell collecting.
Now I would like to open on a new
scene. Later that afternoon a party of Frenchmen, hoping to alleviate their
disappointment at not finding fresh water with a collecting success, ventured
further along the shore and discovered a Tasmanian hut and canoes.[34] After inspecting them and
evaluating their apparent lack of sophistication and workmanship, they again
met the Tasmanian family whose number had since swelled to nine.
The family rushed towards their
visitors with cries of delight and joy, the earlier altercation forgotten.[35] They took the sailors back to
their hut where the hospitable family prepared a simple meal of broiled
shellfish, which the Frenchmen found to be ‘succulent and well-flavoured’. In
reciprocation for their fine meal the guests decided to regale the Tasmanians
with a spirited rendition of La Marseillaise,[36] though Péron insisted that its
true anthropological purpose was to ‘see what effect our singing would have on
our audience’.[37] The Tasmanians did not appear
surprised by the sudden rendition, though responded to the music with ‘diverse
contortions’ and ‘odd gestures’; the French could barely contain their
laughter. But the Tasmanians’ immediate ‘exclamations of admiration’ at the
conclusion of the stirring anthem led Péron to infer that their strange
reactions were positive. Encouraged by this reaction Péron decided to entertain
them with another song.[38]
Almost imagining the lights
dimming and a change in tempo, François advanced his romantic dalliance one
step, from attraction to seduction. The French began by crooning some of their
‘tender airs’. Even though the Tasmanians appeared to ‘comprehend the sense of
these’ romantic ballads, they seemed strangely unaffected.[39] After what I can only imagine
was an uncomfortable period of silence, a new character entered, the Tasmanian
belle Ouré-Ouré, who broke the awkward atmosphere as she introduced the next
scene.
Ouré-Ouré was about 16 or 17
years of age, and thought to be the younger sister of either the energetic
young man or his flinty wife. François freely admitted that she attracted their
keenest attention. Her complete nudity and ‘delicate’ form could not be
ignored, but François, in a moment of chivalry, refrained from clinically
describing her body, and only conceded that she seemed beguilingly unaware that
there could be anything indecent or immodest about her ‘absolute nudity’.[40] He perceived her glances toward
them to be ‘affectionate and expressive’, though acknowledged that Freycinet
had drawn more of her attention. François and the Tasmanians were now advancing
to the next stage of the romance, the mutual flirtation.
For François, Ouré-Ouré was a
natural coquette: delivering affectionate glances and winning smiles, and
possessing a fine figure. Yet, when she took a more active role in the
flirtation Péron’s reaction became ambivalent, perhaps belying either the
limited experiences that almost saw him join the seminary, or his unmediated
preference for white skin.[41] In short, her coy preening was
simultaneously enticing and disturbing. ‘Taking some burnt charcoal in her
hands, she crushed it so as to reduce it to a fine powder’ then daubed it all
over her face, expressing a confident and satisfied attitude towards her beauty
regimen.[42] The Frenchmen were flattered by
her attentions and amused to discover that ‘fondness for adornment … prevails
in the hearts’ of all women, but Péron was also distressed by how ‘frightfully
black’ it made her.[43] Yet in a romantic gesture
François accepted this new look of Ouré-Ouré’s and later seized the opportunity
to try to usurp Freycinet in her affections. Noticing that she owned a bag made
of rushes he thought to himself ‘as this girl had also shewn me some marks of
regard’ I will venture ‘to ask her for this little trifle’.[44] At his behest she immediately
gave him the bag, and moreover accompanied it with ‘an obliging smile’ and
‘some tender expressions’ that he lamented not being able to understand. In
response to this flirtation François inundated her with presents, including a
handkerchief, a hatchet and a hammer, despite having been ordered by his
captain to be sparing with his gifts.[45]
François was enamoured not only
with the Tasmanians’ hospitality and camaraderie, or Ouré-Ouré’s affections,
but also with the playful mischievousness of the children, and the ease with
which he felt he had conversed with the Tasmanians despite their not being able
to understand each other. Upon bidding their adieus the French were accompanied
back to their boat by the Tasmanians who met the other French sailors, most of
whom also noticed Ouré-Ouré’s considerable attractions and festooned her with
even more gifts. The Tasmanians’ seeming commitment to the budding relationship
was evident in their reluctance to allow the Frenchmen to leave.[46]
This day would be François’ most romantic
with the Tasmanians, full of laughter and affection. He was impressed not only
by how the family had embraced their visitors but also the warmth they had
shown one another. Later he would reflect that on that day he ‘saw realized
with inexpressible pleasure, those charming descriptions of the happiness and
simplicity of a state of nature, of which I had so often read, and enjoyed in
idea’.[47] Yet only two days later, on 15
January, Péron would begin to rethink this evaluation.
On that fateful day Péron was
completely oblivious to how events would play out. In fact he was not even
thinking of the Tasmanians, but instead was busy charting the marshy Port of
Swans in a small boat, marvelling at the local countryside and wildlife. The
party of naturalists discovered a river, which they named after the celebrated
hydrographer Fleurieu, and Péron decided that a European colony should be
established there, as the river would supply the settlement with water all year
round.[48]
Meanwhile, hostilities between
the French and indigenes flared over on Bruny Island. That day a small party of
the French had ventured out on a fishing expedition. Shortly after landing they
encountered a group of Tasmanians. Péron later learned that a burly midshipman
by the name of Jean Maurouard, anticipating the study Péron would later conduct
with his dynamometer, had also decided to test the strength of the infamously
physically adept noble savages.[49]
Upon meeting the Tasmanians the
French again presented them with gifts, and to all intents and purposes the
‘natives’ seemed friendly, inducing Maurouard to feel at liberty to try
something new. Selecting the Tasmanian who ‘appeared to be the most robust’, he
indicated his desire to engage in a little roughhousing. Planting his feet
firmly in the sand, the Frenchman grabbed the Tasmanian’s wrist and gestured
that both should ‘pull as hard as possible’.[50] Assuming that his gestures were
fully comprehended the midshipman engaged in numerous feats of strength,
repeatedly toppling or throwing his opponent into the sand. Mighty Maurouard
won out every single time, but as the game was played amid much laughter and
frivolity he did not anticipate the Tasmanian reaction.
Tiring of wrestling and
collecting fish, the Frenchmen decided to withdraw to the ship, so again said
their goodbyes and presented more gifts. His back turned to the Tasmanians as
he pushed the boat out into the water. Maurouard was struck in the shoulder
with a spear.[51] The point grazed the
midshipman’s shoulder blade and lodged in the flesh between his neck and
shoulder. The Frenchmen immediately sprang into action. Sub-lieutenant St. Cricq
drew his pistol, and with the unstoppable Maurouard charged back up the rise to
find the attacker. Baudin reports in his journal that they then noticed seven
or eight armed men, who did not react upon spying the pursuing Frenchmen. The
Frenchmen, seemingly struck by their peculiarly uninterested demeanour, decided
that it was most prudent to return to the ship, and retreated back down the
rise without any further incident.[52] But Péron reports the story
slightly differently.
When Péron heard news of this
attack a few days later on his return from the Port of Swans he was filled with
horror. How could those noble savages whose company he had so thoroughly
enjoyed only days earlier have behaved so barbarically? But then perhaps he
recalled those brief incidents during his first day when their response had
been cool or indifferent, not to mention their attempt to steal the arrack.
Perhaps those minor rebuffs by the Tasmanian men preyed on him. He certainly
remembered the hostile attacks that they had suffered on the west coast of New
Holland. Possibly the Tasmanian men were not as different from their mainland
neighbours as he first thought. Péron judged this attack to be a ‘perfidious
and cowardly’ display of brutality.[53] He immediately assumed that it
was a vindictive response to their resounding defeat at the hands of Maurouard.
It never occurred to him that the
Tasmanians might have been demonstrating their own indigenous game of skill,
the art of spear dodging, or that the Tasmanians might have tired of their
presence and wanted the interlopers to leave. In fact Péron cannot even
entertain the notion that the Tasmanians have any motivation other than an
inherent ‘destructive instinct’,[54] because to him they are little
more than a cipher for his fanciful projections. His penchant for melodrama,
which becomes more and more pronounced over the course of his journey, reveals
itself in his retailing of this incident. According to his narrative the French
immediately gave pursuit, and he claims they would have ‘punished them as they
deserved’ had the cowards not already ‘escaped among the rocks, or hid
themselves among the brambles’.[55] This would not be the only time
that Péron allowed his fantasies to obscure the truth.
After a reprieve of only a few
days, the French had another encounter with the Tasmanian men that played out
in a similar fashion, again resulting in ‘violent aggression’.[56] For a second time Péron was
absent so missed out on the action, but at his request the botanist Leschenault
wrote him a report, so he had all of the important details. That is to say, the
report described the violent events, mentioning neither how the Tasmanians were
encountered nor what their attitude had been, because after the spearing of
Maurouard the French could only see the Tasmanian men’s actions as inexplicably
and instinctively violent.
This day began with a party of
Frenchmen, led by Jean Félix Emmanuel Hamelin, captain of the Naturaliste,
and including the artist Nicolas-Martin Petit, setting out in order to make
some progress on their ethnographic research. After meeting a group of
Tasmanians Petit drew some portraits of the men as they sat in repose smiling
and talking. Despite their relaxed demeanour Petit was soon to realise that
they were not merely passive anthropological subjects, for once Petit had
finished the portraits, one of his subjects suddenly grabbed hold of the
drawing. In the ensuing struggle of wills Petit steadfastly held on to his
work, forcing the Tasmanian to relinquish his hold and up the ante by seizing
and brandishing ‘a log of wood’ at Petit. Thanks to the spearing of Maurouard
the French were on guard against potential attacks, so the rest of the party
immediately rallied to the artist’s side. The increased support induced the man
to surrender his claim to his portrait, though not his indignation. Despite
French attempts to placate the Tasmanians with another round of gifts, they
were sent running back to their ships with a volley of rocks.[57]
The botanist Jean-Baptiste Louis
Claude Leschenault reported this second attack to Péron, who included it in the
official journal of the voyage. Leschenault’s report contained the critique of
Jean-Jacques Rousseau which would come significantly to influence Péron: ‘I am
astonished, … to hear sensible people aver, that men in a state of nature are
not wicked.’[58] He goes on to say it is
preposterous to believe that the natives never played the role of aggressor.
Two attacks were evidently enough for Leschenault to reject the claim that the
Tasmanians were noble savages. François on the other hand, with lingering
memories of Ouré-Ouré, still had a soft spot for the women.
On the last day of the month,
after almost two weeks with little contact, Péron came across a group of
Tasmanians. Following Leschenault’s advice to the letter he turned back
‘without hesitating a moment’.[59] Beating a hasty retreat along
the shoreline he happened to meet sub-lieutenant François Antoine Boniface
Heirisson. Bolstered by this extra support, he decided to return to where he
had seen the ‘natives’. Realising that they had no chance of catching the
Tasmanians if they chose to avoid them, Péron and Heirisson signalled their
good intentions by calling out, holding up their presents so they could be
seen, and ‘waving their handkerchiefs’.[60] The group eventually submitted
to these entreaties and stopped, allowing Péron and Heirisson to catch up. It
was as he approached that François realised that ‘they were women, and that
there was not a single male among the party’.[61] This realisation instantly
lifted his spirits. Unfortunately these women were not to live up to Péron’s
fantasies, for they were hardly shy and malleable coquettes.
From the outset the women were in
control. It was the women who allowed the Frenchmen to draw near, the women who
instructed them to sit, and the women who made them disarm.[62] The Frenchmen not only had to
submit to the women’s instructions but also had to tolerate their
interrogations and mockery. Péron thought that they seemed ‘often to criticise
our appearance’, and laughed ‘heartily at our expense’.[63] When the surgeon Jérôme Bellefin
attempted to repeat their earlier success with the Tasmanians by singing to
them, the women again seemed to appreciate it, but one, who they later learned
was called Arra-Maida,[64] mimicked his ‘action and the
tone of his voice’, and then began to sing and dance herself.[65] Her singing had such an
unfamiliar melody that Péron thought it difficult to ‘give any idea of music’
and her dancing plainly shocked Péron: her contortions and ‘attitude’ bordered
on ‘indecent’, forcing him to primly note that these savage people were still
absolute ‘strangers to all the delicacy of sentiment and conduct’ that was a
natural ‘consequence of complete civilization’.[66]
Péron’s earlier ambivalence
regarding Ouré-Ouré and her seduction routine was only exacerbated when he was
confronted by these brazen paramours. Having been tantalised by Ouré-Ouré and
entranced by her demure flirtations which allowed him to play the role of
chivalrous seducer, he was clearly taken aback at being forced into the role of
blushing coquette himself. However, his surprise at this inversion of roles
paled in comparison to the women’s attempt to transform the Frenchmen’s
appearance. Once Arra-Maida had finished her performance she approached Péron.
From her rush bag, similar to Ouré-Ouré’s, she took some charcoal and began
crushing it between her hands just as Ouré-Ouré had done, but instead of
powdering her own face she begun applying it to Péron’s. After finishing his
face Arra-Maida then blackened Heirisson’s. Even though both men ‘submitted to
this obliging piece of caprice’, and Péron even recognised that the Tasmanians
might have the same disdain for white skin that Europeans had for black, this
meeting with the women cooled Péron’s ardour for the Tasmanians.[67]
In contrast to his chivalrously
discreet account of the delectable Ouré-Ouré, Péron openly stared at these
women, and then described their bodies in clinical and derogatory detail,
picking out any flaw, no matter how minor. His description is loaded with
negative adjectives, and a sense of their utter degradation is suggested by his
syntax, which scans their bodies from top to bottom, cataloguing an exhaustive
account of imperfections.[68] He concluded his general
assessment of the women by stating that ‘in a word, all the particulars of their
natural constitution were in the highest degree disgusting’.[69] Péron acknowledged that the
young girls possessed an ‘agreeable form and pleasant features’ but
unfortunately their ‘nipples were rather too large and long’.[70] It seems that for Péron signs of
the women’s transgressive behaviour and nature were now physically manifested
in their bodies.
Even though Péron’s opinion of
the Tasmanian men and women had become jaded, he was not the one to end the
romance. Despite his ambivalence regarding the attractiveness of the women
Péron stayed with them as long as he could, playing the dupe to their ‘many
tricks’ and ‘drolleries’ and enjoying a ‘merry’ time. As he followed them home
from their fishing expedition musing on the unjust burdens imposed on savage
women, he was suddenly roused from his reflections by one woman’s ‘loud cry of
terror’. The women had just caught sight of the manned French boats.[71] The realisation that there were
more intruders waiting just off the shore ignited their fears, and all but one
of the women fled towards the forest. The indomitably courageous Arra-Maida
hectored her fleeing sisters and eventually convinced them to escort the party
back to their boat. As they neared the shore Péron realised that the ‘husbands’
of these women had also converged where the boats were moored, but instead of
being fearful they appeared to be filled with ‘malevolence’ and suppressed
anger, which Péron assumed to be consequent to their ‘inability to contend’
with the superior Europeans.[72] Yet the Tasmanians seemed to
have decided that the best way to contend with the French trespassers was to
spurn their advances by evading them and giving the Frenchmen an apparently
unambiguous sign of their disdain.
On 3 February, only a few weeks
after their first meeting, the French returned to Bruny Island.[73] On seeing two women walking down
the mountain to the sea, two of the French who had yet to encounter the
Tasmanian women immediately ran towards them hoping for a closer look. When the
women realised they were being pursued they sprinted off, disappearing before
the men were able to catch them. Disappointed, the entire French party
continued along the coast, and eventually spied a huge bonfire that appeared to
have been burning since the night before. As they approached the pyre they
realised that it was surrounded by ‘almost all the presents’ that the French
had given to the Tasmanians. Like any jilted lover Péron was in denial. Instead
of recognising that the Tasmanians were breaking up with him, he imagined that
this bonfire and deliberate return of their gifts was just a manifestation of
their ‘puerile curiosity’. He deluded himself by thinking that ‘these
uninformed men threw away what no longer pleased or amused them’,[74] and refused to recognise that it
was actually he and his compatriots who no longer pleased the Tasmanians.
Had this romance been a fiction
rather than being based on historical events the story would have ended here,
perhaps with Péron mourning the end of the affair, or moving on to look for
another race of impossible noble savages. But the harsh and prosaic reality of
the situation was that Péron and the French lingered, unwanted, in Tasmania for
a few more weeks, having other meetings with the Tasmanians and making further
attempts to study these children of nature. The French continued to try to draw
their portraits, document their vocabularies, discern whether or not they
indulged in ‘kisses and tender caresses’, and test their physical strength with
their dynamometer.[75] Their attentions were frequently
rebuffed, and encounters usually ended in violent or aggressive altercations,
with the French having to resort to drawing their weapons.
One particularly exciting
encounter for Péron involved a dispute over his jacket. Having been offered
many gifts, one of the Maria Island Tasmanians decided he wanted Péron’s jacket
and repeatedly asked for it. After being denied one too many times he grabbed
his spear and threatened the Frenchman with it. Péron later wrote that he
‘seemed to say, “Give it to me, or I will kill you”’.[76] This scene, in which Péron
portrays himself as the quintessential cool, calm, and collected hero,
continues with Péron laughing at the man and pretending it was all a joke.
Suddenly, Péron grabbed hold of the spear end, and pushed it away from his
face. Coolly, the hero then simply pointed at his handsome sidekick, First
Class Seaman B.J. Rouget, who had his musket aimed at the aggressor, and ‘added
one single word of his own language (mata), death’.[77] The man immediately surrendered
his claim to the jacket.
As I read over this scene again,
I have to wonder if it really did play out in this way. Was Péron so calm in
the face of death? Did the Tasmanians really have such a ‘treacherous
disposition’?[78] Or was it yet another example of
Péron’s overactive imagination and self-aggrandising fantasies? Having read
Péron numerous times I wonder if this scene isn’t a bitter and desperate
attempt to save face after being rebuffed and jilted by the Tasmanian noble
savages.
So why did I develop some
sympathy for François, this vindictive, ‘irresponsible, scatter-brained,
argumentative’, and ‘indiscreet’ man? It was not because he lost his father at
an early age, and not even because he was a prisoner of war held at three
different compounds while still a teenager. My change of heart was because
after years of reading him again and again, I recognised that he had been
searching and longing for something that did not exist. He had adopted such a
passionate faith in a singular idea that it bordered on religious zeal. He was
desperate to find the perfect noble savage, a tabula rasa on which to
project his fantasies of an ideal human society. When he finally found it on
the temperate shores of Tasmania, he did not anticipate that things would play
out the way they did. He never expected that his offerings and paternalistic
guidance would be rejected, that the noble savages would refuse to do his
bidding and be model subjects for his study, and that they would fail to behave
as Rousseau had led him to believe. So he reacted with the vindictiveness of a
rejected lover.
So you may ask again, why do I
sympathise with Péron? The answer is simply because his quest mirrored my own.
As an indigenous historian I have combed these first contact narratives for any
accounts and revelations about pre-contact Aboriginal people in order to
greater understand the heartbreaking experiences and momentous changes that
colonisation wrought for indigenous Australians. Despite seeing myself as
standing at the opposite end of a temporal and colonial abyss from François
Péron and his eighteenth-century European counterparts, I now realise that we
are in some instances uncomfortably aligned. For I, like François, have
idealistic fantasies about Aboriginal society and have attempted to impose this
romanticised vision on the historical record. In doing so I have come to
realise that I have inadvertently glossed over the complexities and
idiosyncrasies of pre-contact Aboriginal society, and that I have ignored the
playful and amicable relations that were formed in those first moments of
contact. I have been blind to the power that the indigenous people had in those
early colonial encounters. Like Péron I made the mistake of misinterpreting and
misjudging the agency of eighteenth-century Aboriginal people. I sympathise
with François because unlike him I eventually recognised this, and now I can
fall in love with the Tasmanians and other indigenous historical figures all
over again.
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