The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  At that moment we heard a cock crow, and Emina stopped talking. The cock crowed a second time and a superstitious man might have expected the two beautiful girls to fly away up the chimney. This they did not do; but they none the less looked absent and preoccupied.

  Emina was the first to break the silence.

  ‘Dear Alphonse,’ she said to me, ‘the day is about to dawn and the time we are able to spend together is too precious to be passed in telling stories. We can only become your wives if you embrace our religion. But you can consort with us in your dreams. Would you consent to this?’

  I consented to everything.

  ‘But we need more than your consent,’ continued Emina with great solemnity. ‘You must swear by the sacred laws of honour never to betray our names, our existence or anything you know about us. Are you bold enough to dare to take this solemn pledge?’

  I promised all they asked.

  ‘Enough,’ said Emina. ‘Bring the sacred cup of Massoud, our forefather, here.’

  While Zubeida went to fetch the magic receptacle, Emina had prostrated herself and was reciting prayers in Arabic. Zubeida reappeared bearing a cup which seemed to me to have been fashioned from a single emerald. She moistened her lips in it as did Emina, and then ordered me to drain the cup at a single draught.

  I did as she asked.

  Emina thanked me for my compliance and embraced me tenderly.

  Then Zubeida pressed her lips to mine in a seemingly unending kiss. At last they left me, telling me that I would soon see them again; and they advised me to fall asleep as soon as possible.

  So many strange incidents and fantastic stories and such unexpected emotions would normally perhaps have led me to reflect upon them all night, but I confess that I was most interested in the dreams I had been promised. I undressed in haste and lay down on the bed which had been prepared for me. Once there, I noted with pleasure that my bed was very wide – wide enough, indeed, to accommodate more than just dreams. But I had scarcely had time to note this before my eyelids were closed by an irresistible drowsiness and the fantasies of the night overtook my senses. I was under the magic power of wayward fancies and my thoughts, transported on the wings of desire, carried me into the midst of African harems, where I contemplated the charms of those confined within their walls, rapturously enjoying them again and again in my imagination. I felt as though I was dreaming, but I was aware at the same time that it was not the creatures of dreams that I was embracing. I revelled in vague and wanton fancies, never leaving the company of my beautiful cousins. I fell asleep on their breasts and awoke again in their arms.

  I do not know how often I passed from one sweet illusion to the other…

  The Second Day

  When at length I awoke, the sun was burning my eyelids. I could scarcely open them. I saw the sky and I saw I was in the open air. But my eyes were still heavy with sleep. I was not really asleep but neither was I properly awake. Images of torture flashed through my mind one after the other. Terror took hold of me. I rose with a start and sat up.

  How can I express in words the horror which filled me then? I was lying below the gibbet of Los Hermanos. The corpses of Zoto’s two brothers were not hanging from it but were lying on either side of me. I had apparently spent the night with them. I was lying on pieces of rope, fragments of wheels and human remains and the revolting rags which had fallen from them as they had rotted.

  I thought that I was not fully awake and prey still to unpleasant dreams. I closed my eyes and tried to remember where I had been the night before. It was then that I felt claws sink into my side and saw a vulture had perched on me and was devouring one of my bedfellows. The pain caused by its talons as they dug into me woke me up altogether. I saw my clothes to hand and hastily put them on. Once dressed, I resolved to leave the gallows enclosure but found the door nailed fast and tried in vain to break it down. I was forced to scale its gloomy walls. I reached the top and, leaning on one of the uprights of the gallows, surveyed the surrounding countryside. I easily recognized where I was. I was indeed at the entrance of the valley of Los Hermanos and not far from the banks of the Guadalquivir.

  As I watched, I caught sight of two travellers near the river, one preparing a repast, the other holding two horses by their bridles. I was so overjoyed to see my fellow man that my first impulse was to shout at them ‘Agour! Agour!’, which in Spanish means ‘Good-day’ or ‘Greetings’.1

  On seeing themselves greeted thus from the top of a gallows, the two travellers seemed for an instant undecided what to do. They then suddenly jumped on their horses and urged them into a full gallop, taking the road to Los Alcornoques.

  I shouted to them to stop but to no avail. The more I shouted the more they spurred their horses on. When they were lost to sight, I thought about leaving my eerie vantage point. I jumped down and in jumping down did myself a small injury.

  Limping badly, I reached the banks of the Guadalquivir and found there the meal abandoned by the two travellers. Nothing could have been more welcome to me for I felt exhausted. There was chocolate still cooking, with esponajas2 steeped in Alicante wine, bread and eggs. The first thing I did was to recover my strength. Then I thought about what had happened to me the previous night. My recollections were confused but I remembered with great clarity that I had given my word of honour to keep what had happened a secret, and I was firmly determined to do so. Once I had resolved this it only remained to decide what I should do at that instant; that is to say, which way I ought to go. And it seemed to me that I was more than ever honour bound to go by way of the Sierra Morena.

  It may come as a surprise that I was so much preoccupied with my reputation and so little with the events of the previous evening. But my manner of thinking was a consequence of the education which I had received, as will become clear in the course of my story. For the moment I shall return to that of my journey.

  I was very eager to find out what those devils of the previous evening had done with my horse, which I had left at the Venta Quemada. As the inn was on my way, I decided to pass by. I had to walk the full length of the valley of Los Hermanos and that of the venta itself, which duly tired me out and made me dearly hope to find my horse again, as indeed happened. It was in the same stable where I had left it and seemed frisky, in good shape and recently groomed. I had no idea who could have looked after the animal, but I had seen so many extraordinary things that this did not preoccupy me for long. I should have set out immediately on my journey if I had not been curious to search the inn one more time. I found the room in which I had slept, but however much I looked I could not find the one in which I had seen the two beautiful African girls. I grew tired of the search after a while, mounted my horse and continued on my journey.

  When I had awoken beneath the gallows of Los Hermanos, the sun had already run half its course. I had then taken over two hours to reach the venta, so that after I had ridden for about two leagues, I had to turn my mind to finding shelter for the night. None was in sight, so I rode on. At last I saw a Gothic chapel in the distance, together with a cabin which looked like the dwelling of a hermit. Both were far from the road, but I turned unhesitatingly from my path as I was beginning to feel hungry and wanted to obtain food. I knocked at the door of the hermitage and a monk with a most venerable face emerged. He embraced me in a warm paternal way and said:

  ‘Come in, my son. Do not linger! Do not spend the night outside! Beware of the tempter! The Lord has withdrawn his protection from us.’

  I thanked the hermit for the kindness he had shown me and said that I was sorely pressed by hunger.

  ‘Think rather of your soul, my son. Go into the chapel. Prostrate yourself before the cross. I shall take care of the needs of your body. It will only be a frugal meal, such as you might expect of a hermit.’

  I went into the chapel and did indeed pray, for I was no freethinker and did not even know then of their existence. This again was an effect of the way I had been brought up.

 
The hermit came to fetch me after about a quarter of an hour and led me to the cabin, where I found the table already laid in a wholesome if simple way. There were excellent olives, chards pickled in vinegar, sweet onions in sauce and biscuits instead of bread. There was even a small bottle of wine. The hermit assured me that he never drank any but only kept it for the celebration of Mass. So I did not drink any more wine than did the hermit, although I greatly enjoyed the rest of my supper. As I was doing justice to it I saw a person of yet more terrifying aspect than any I had seen up to then come to the cabin. It was a man still young-looking but hideously emaciated. His hair stood on end and from the socket of his missing eye blood was oozing. A slobbery froth dribbled from his tongue, which hung out of his mouth. He was dressed in a respectable black habit but this was all he wore, having neither shirt nor hose.

  This horrendous apparition did not address either of us but squatted in a corner, where he remained without moving as though he was a statue, his eye fixed on a crucifix which he held in his hand. When I had finished eating, I asked the hermit who this man was.

  ‘My son,’ he replied. ‘He is possessed of a devil whom I am exorcizing. His terrible story proves the dread tyranny that the angel of darkness exercises over this unfortunate land. His story may help you to win your salvation and I shall command him to tell it to you.’

  Then turning to the possessed man he said, ‘Pacheco, Pacheco, in the name of your Redeemer, I command you to tell your story.’

  Pacheco uttered a terrible cry and began as follows:

  THE STORY OF PACHECO THE DEMONIAC

  I was born in Córdoba, where my father lived a more than comfortable existence. Three years ago my mother died. At first my father seemed to mourn greatly for her but, after several months, having occasion to travel to Seville, he fell in love with a young widow whose name was Camilla de Tormes. She did not enjoy a very good reputation and some of my father’s friends tried to keep him from her company, but in spite of their assiduous efforts my father married her two years after the death of my mother. The wedding took place in Seville and a few days later my father returned to Córdoba with Camilla, his new wife, and one of her sisters, called Inesilla.

  My new stepmother lived up to her bad reputation in every way and began by trying to make me fall in love with her, in which she did not succeed. But I did fall in love, not with her but with her sister Inesilla. Soon my passion grew so strong that I went to see my father, threw myself at his feet and asked for the hand of his sister-in-law in marriage.

  My father gently raised me to my feet and said, ‘My son, I forbid you to think of such a match, for three reasons. First, it would be undignified for you to become in a sort of way the brother-in-law of your father. Second, the sacred canons of the Church do not give their blessing to such unions. Third, I do not wish you to marry Inesilla.’

  Having informed me of these three reasons, my father turned his back on me and went away.

  I retired to my bedchamber, where I succumbed to despair. My father had at once told my stepmother what had happened. She came to see me and told me that I was wrong to be so upset; if I could not become the husband of Inesilla then at least I could become her cortejo, that is, her lover, and that she would arrange this for me. But at the same time she declared her own love for me and stressed the sacrifice she was making in surrendering me to her sister. I was only too ready to listen to what she said, for it flattered my own desires. But Inesilla was so modest that it seemed to me impossible to bring her ever to return my love.

  At about that time my father decided to travel to Madrid to solicit the position of corregidor3 of Córdoba, and took his wife and sister-in-law with him. His absence was only to last two months but the time seemed interminable to me, because I was separated from Inesilla.

  After about two months I received a letter from my father, telling me to come to meet him and to wait for him at the Venta Quemada in the foothills of the Sierra Morena. Some weeks before I would not readily have taken the decision to travel through the Sierra Morena, but Zoto’s two brothers had just been hanged. His band had been dispersed and the roads were said to be reasonably safe.

  So I set out from Córdoba just before ten in the morning and reached Andújar, where I stayed the night with one of the most talkative innkeepers in Andalusia. I ordered a large supper at his inn, of which I ate part and kept what remained for the rest of the journey.

  The next day I had a midday meal at Los Alcornoques, consisting of what I had kept from the night before, and arrived that same evening at the Venta Quemada. I did not find my father there, but as he had told me in his letter to wait for him, I decided to do so, all the more willingly because I found myself in a spacious and comfortable hostelry. The innkeeper at that time was a certain Gonzalez de Murcia, a decent sort of fellow even if given to boasting. He duly promised me a supper worthy of a Spanish grandee. As he set about preparing it I went for a walk along the banks of the Guadalquivir, and on returning to the hostelry I found the supper laid out. And indeed it was not at all bad.

  After eating I told Gonzalez to make up my bed. I saw at once that I had upset him. What he said to me in reply did not make much sense. In the end he confessed to me that the inn was haunted by ghosts and that he and his family slept in a little farmhouse on the banks of the river, adding that if I should care to sleep there also he would make up a bed for me next to his own.

  What he proposed seemed unsuitable to me and I told him that he could go and sleep where he wished, but that he should send my servants to me. Gonzalez obeyed me and went off shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

  My servants arrived a moment later. They had also heard talk of ghosts and tried to persuade me to spend the night at the farmhouse. I dismissed their advice somewhat curtly and ordered them to make up my bed in the same room in which I had eaten my supper. They obeyed me, albeit unwillingly, and when the bed had been made up pleaded with me again with tears in their eyes to come with them to sleep at the farmhouse. On this occasion their remonstrations made me really impatient and I allowed myself to show it in a way which made them all flee. As it was not a habit of mine to be undressed by my servants, I was able easily to do without them and to get ready for bed. They for their part had been more attentive to my needs than my treatment of them deserved, and had left next to my bed a lighted candle with another in reserve, a pair of pistols and some books to keep me awake. But the truth of the matter was that I lost all desire for sleep.

  I spent two hours reading, tossing and turning in my bed. Eventually I heard the sound of a bell or a clock strike midnight. This surprised me for I had not heard it strike the other hours. Soon after, the door opened and, as I watched, my stepmother came in, wearing night garments and bearing a candlestick. She tiptoed up to me, a finger on her lips as if to ensure that I remained silent. Placing the candlestick on my bedside table, she sat down on my bed, took one of my hands in her own and spoke to me as follows:

  ‘Dear Pacheco, the moment has come when I can give you the pleasures which I promised you. We reached the inn an hour ago. Your father has gone to sleep at the farm, but on learning that you were here I have obtained his permission to sleep here with my sister Inesilla. She is waiting for you and is disposed to refuse you nothing, but you must first know the conditions I have placed on your happiness. You love Insilla and I love you. Of the three of us, two must not be happy at the expense of the third. I intend therefore that we should all share one bed tonight. Come.’

  My stepmother did not give me time to reply. She took me by the hand and led me through one corridor after another, until we at last arrived at a door where she bent down to look through the keyhole.

  Having looked for long enough she said, ‘All is well, see for yourself.’

  I took her place at the keyhole, and indeed I saw the charming Insilla in her bed. But she was far from the modest girl I had known. Everything – the expression in her eyes, her heaving bosom, her heightened complexion, he
r posture – indicated to me that she was expecting a lover.

  Having let me watch for some time, Camilla said to me, ‘Pacheco, stay here at this door. When it is time for you to come in I shall come and get you.’

  After she had entered I put my eye to the keyhole again and saw many things which I find it difficult here to relate. First Camilla undressed in more or less the usual way and, getting into bed with her sister, she said to her:

  ‘My poor Insilla, do you really want a lover? My poor child, you have no idea of the pain that he will cause you. He will first throw you down, then press himself upon you, and crush you, and tear you apart.’

  When Camilla thought that her pupil had received enough instruction, she opened the door to me and led me to the bed where her sister was lying, and lay down beside us.

  What can I tell you about that fateful night? I drank the cup of criminal passion to the last drop. I long fought against my natural desire for sleep in order to prolong my sinful pleasures. I fell asleep at last and awoke the next day under the gallows of Zoto’s brothers, lying between their foul corpses.

  The hermit interrupted the demoniac to say to me, ‘Well, my son, what do you think of that? You would have been terrified, I think, to find yourself lying between two hanged men.’

  I replied: ‘You have offended me, Father. A gentleman must never feel fear, let alone a gentleman who has the honour of being a captain in the Walloon Guards.’

  ‘But have you ever heard, my son, of a similar adventure befalling anyone?’ continued the hermit.

  I hesitated a moment before replying. ‘If this adventure befell Señor Pacheco, father, it could have befallen others. I will be better placed to pass judgement if you would kindly command him to carry on with his story.’

  The hermit turned to the possessed man and said to him, ‘Pacheco, Pacheco, in the name of your Redeemer, I command you to continue your story.’