Cliff Ashcroft |
The 'wild boy' Victor was found naked in the forests of Averyon in 1799. He was taken in by the physician Jean Itard who attempted to educate Victor at his institute in Paris. Itard's moving account of his relationship with Victor is called 'The Wild Boy of Averyon'.
They found him perched in an apple tree
one mild September evening.
They offered him water in a pail,
shining beneath his swinging feet.
He considered it only a little while
before clambering down to drink.
I gathered the boy from his temporary keeper
into my housekeeper's lodging.
He murmured as he ate, he liked fires.
He slept according to the sun,
tried constantly to escape,
but we held him fast like money.
I had papers to write, insights to acquire,
and this boy was my valuable subject.
So we began our work, cutting paper,
tracing the letters' soft contours,
fetching this, carrying that,
removing chestnuts from a glass jar.
And at each close of day
I made my surrender.
He never learned to speak.
He lived within the woodland shelters,
finding crows in the wet ink,
mice in the swift pass of my hand.
And I, like a good examiner,
noted his mistakes and stupefaction,
led him to bed for the night's relief.
Now and then I would visit his room,
shift the hair from his eyes and listen.
From the darkness he would call
like a bird in the high and silent canopy
unseen except for the hoop of its song
circling like a lost query.
And each morning he would stand
at his bedroom window, eyes turned
to the fall of the forest beneath him,
holding a glass of water to his lips,
drinking a little and watching in calm
the deep green ocean before him.
Eventually Victor reached puberty.
I looked forward to this moment.
Like a guiding touch it would push him out
of the proscribed compass of his boyish movement
into a new and expansive chamber.
There was so much waiting for him,
shining like a held gaze,
like the brush of a slender wrist.
And the perfumes of it unsteadied him,
sent him spinning on fruitless pursuits
he could never understand.
And through his frantic dumb show
all I heard was- What is this for?
What do I want?
I never explained it of course, how could I?
Unashamed in boulevard restaurants
he would simply grab the food he wanted.
If I told him what this all meant
he would not hesitate.
He always stole from the kitchen larders.
I was sure he would steal again.
Puzzled, tentative, always unsure
he could only express a hazy preference.
Women, for some reason, were good.
And I have seen him in their company
squeezing a girl's arms or hands,
pulling her gently to the study's alcove
where stood in confusion he would circle her,
hug her, offer his cheek
for the warmth of her definite finger.
But, so quickly, the caress was over;
she was pushed aside like an empty plate.
Unsatisfied and unanswered, weeping,
the room blossomed with invitations
that drowned his sense like encompassing sound.
He could not sleep. Tearing his clothes
through the day's fury I was nurse to his face
bleeding and swollen from nose and ear.
What was I to do?
I could only prescribe sleeping draughts,
and his warder's secure company.
I have had my loves and affairs,
have felt the compass spin in my heart,
but have learnt to focus inside the garden's
colour and light, or so I think.
From each warm mouth I received an answer,
an explanation, clear and steady.
She speaks to me at night with all
her human tenderness, but
I don't understand that guiding touch.
Her face, like a mask, obscures
the brimming features within.
Something like the moon tugs inside her.
Something like the sun walks behind her.
I cannot express it.
I tear my clothes to shreds.
Cliff's first collection Faithful was published by Carcanet in 1996. He was awarded an Arts Council Writer's Award in 2002 for his forthcoming collection Dreaming of Still Water.