by Jan Potocki
While work on the most urgent repairs was proceeding at a feverish pace, my father received a letter which filled him with joy. It was signed by the Maréchal de Tavannes, and in it this gentleman asked his opinion on a point of honour which was then occupying the tribunal. This genuine sign of favour seemed so important to my father that he resolved to celebrate it by giving a feast to the whole neighbourhood. But as we had no neighbours the revels were restricted to a fandango performed by the fencing master and Señora Frasca, who was my mother’s first chambermaid.
In his reply to the maréchal my father asked if he could be permitted to see in due course the résumé of the tribunal’s deliberations on matters placed before it. This favour was granted him, and on the first day of every month he received a dispatch which provided the subject-matter for four weeks’ conversation and small talk. In winter this took place around the great fireplace and in summer on two seats placed in front of the castle door.
Throughout my mother’s pregnancy my father spoke to her about the son she would have and thought about the choice of godfather. My mother suggested the Maréchal de Tavannes or the Marquis d’Urfé. My father agreed that such a choice would do us great honour. But he was afraid that these great noblemen might consider that they were doing him too great an honour, and decided with thoughtfulness and tact to ask the Chevalier de Belièvre, who for his part was honoured and grateful to accept.
At last I was born. At the age of three years I could already hold a little foil, and at six I was able to discharge a pistol without blinking. I was about seven when my godfather visited me. This gentleman had married at Tournai, where he occupied the post of lieutenant to the high constable and recorder of the tribunal which settled matters of honour. Both posts go back to the time of trial by champions. Later they were transferred to the tribunal of maréchaux.
Madame de Belièvre was of delicate health and her husband used to accompany her to Spa for the waters. Both took me to their hearts and, not having children themselves, they implored my father to entrust them with my education, which could not have been properly attended to in as remote a place as the castle of Worden. My father agreed, persuaded above all by the office of recorder of the tribunal settling matters of honour, which ensured that in his house I could not fail to be imbued at an early age with the principles that should govern my conduct when I grew up.
At first there was talk of Garcías Hierro accompanying me, because my father considered that the most noble manner of combat was to fight with a sword in the right hand and a dagger in the left, this way of fencing being wholly unknown in France. But as my father had become accustomed to fencing on the battlements every morning with Hierro and this exercise had become necessary for his health, he thought that he could not do without him.
There was talk also of the theologian Iñigo Vélez going with me. But as my mother still only spoke Spanish, naturally she could not do without a confessor who understood that language. So it turned out that neither of the men who had been chosen to provide me with an education came with me. But I was given a Spanish manservant whose duty it was to instruct me in the Spanish language.
I set out for Spa with my godfather and spent two months there. We travelled on to Holland and arrived back in Tournai towards the end of autumn. The Chevalier de Belièvre lived up to the trust placed in him by my father in every way, and for six years neglected nothing that might contribute to making me one day an excellent officer. Then Madame de Belièvre died and her husband left Flanders and took up residence in Paris, while I was recalled to my father’s house.
After a journey which was made wearisome by the lateness of the season, I reached the castle about two hours after sunset and found its inhabitants gathered around the great fireplace. My father was overjoyed to see me but did not give himself over to those demonstrations of affection which might have compromised what you Spaniards would call his gravedad. My mother wept copiously over me. The theologian Iñigo Vélez gave me his blessing and the fencing master Hierro presented me with a foil. We then fought and I acquitted myself in a manner beyond my years. My father was too well versed in such things not to notice, and his gravity gave way to great warmth and affection. Supper was served and everyone was jolly.
After supper everyone reassembled around the fireplace and my father said to the theologian: ‘Reverend Don Iñigo, be so kind as to fetch your great book, in which there are many fantastic tales, and read us one.’
The theologian went up to his bedroom and returned carrying a folio volume bound in white parchment which was yellowed with age. He opened it at random and read aloud the following tale:
THE STORY OF TRIVULZIO OF RAVENNA
Once upon a time, in an Italian town called Ravenna, there lived a young man whose name was Trivulzio. He was handsome, rich and had a very high opinion of himself. The girls of Ravenna would come to their windows to see him go by, but none of them took his fancy. Or rather, if one or other of them did attract him, he did not let it show for fear of showing her too much honour. But in the end all his conceit was not a match for the charms of the young and beautiful Nina die Gieraci. Trivulzio deigned to declare his love for her. Nina replied that she was touched; Signor Trivulzio did her much honour, but since her childhood she had been in love with her cousin, Tebaldo dei Gieraci, and would, she was sure, never love anyone but him.
At this unexpected reply, Trivulzio departed, showing signs of extreme rage.
A week later, on a Sunday, as all the citizens of Ravenna were on their way to the metropolitan church of S. Pietro, Trivulzio caught sight of Tebaldo in the crowd with his cousin on his arm. He covered his face with his cloak and followed them. They went into the church, where it is not permitted to cover your face with a cloak, and the two lovers might easily have noticed Trivulzio following them had it not been for the fact that they could only think of their love for each other to the exclusion even of the Mass, which is a great sin.
Meanwhile, Trivulzio had sat behind them in a pew. He could hear what they were saying to each other and this made him more and more furious. Then a priest went up into the pulpit and said, ‘Brethren, I am here to publish the banns of the marriage of Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci. If any of you know cause or impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony ye are to declare it.’
‘I know of cause and impediment!’ cried Trivulzio, who, as he spoke, stabbed the two lovers twenty times. An attempt was made to arrest him but, striking out with his dagger, he fled from the church, left the town and crossed the border into the state of Venice.
Trivulzio was conceited and spoiled but he had a sensitive soul. Remorse avenged his victims and he lived a miserable existence, moving from one town to the next. After some years his family settled matters and he came back to Ravenna, but he was not the Trivulzio of old, beaming with happiness and proud of his privileges. He was in fact so changed that not even his nurse recognized him.
On the very first day of his return Trivulzio asked where Nina had been buried. He was told that her tomb and that of her cousin were in the church of S. Pietro, very close to the spot where they had been murdered. Trembling, Trivulzio went there, and on reaching the tomb kissed it and wept copiously.
Whatever the grief which the unhappy murderer suffered at that moment, he felt that the tears had brought him some relief. He therefore gave his purse to the sacristan and obtained leave from him to enter the church whenever he wanted. This resulted in his coming every evening, and the sacristan soon became accustomed to this and paid little attention to him.
One evening Trivulzio, who had not slept the night before, fell asleep at the tomb. When he woke up he found the church locked. He readily decided to spend the night there because he was not averse to indulging his grief and wallowing in his melancholy. He heard the hours strike one after another. At each one he wished that his own last hour had come.
At last midnight tolled. At that moment the door of the sacristy opened and Trivul
zio saw the sacristan enter, carrying his lantern in one hand and a broom in the other. This sacristan, however, was a skeleton. He had a small amount of skin still on his face and he seemed to have deep-sunken eyes. But his surplice, which clung to his bones, showed plainly that there was no flesh on them.
The ghastly sacristan put his lantern down on the high altar and lit the candles as though for vespers. Then he began to sweep the church and dust the pews. He passed close to Trivulzio on several occasions but did not appear to see him.
At last he went to the sacristy door and rang a little bell that is always found there. Thereupon the tombs opened up, the dead rose up still wrapped in their shrouds and began to intone the litany in a doleful way.
After they had chanted in this manner for a certain time one of the dead, wearing a surplice and stole, went up into the pulpit and said, ‘Brethren, I am here to publish the banns of the marriage of Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci. Accursed Trivulzio, do you find cause and impediment to it?’
My father interrupted the theologian at this point and, turning to me, said, ‘Alphonse, my son, if you had been Trivulzio, would you have been afraid?’
I replied, ‘Dear father, I imagine that I would have been terrified.’
At this my father rose up in fury, reached for his sword and tried to run me through with it. Someone came between us and eventually he calmed down a little.
When he had taken his seat again, however, he shot a terrible glance at me and said, ‘Unworthy son of mine, your cowardice is a disgrace to the regiment of Walloon Guards, which I intended you to join.’
These harsh words, at which I nearly died with shame, were succeeded by a long silence, which Garcías eventually broke by addressing my father.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if I may be so bold as to give my opinion on this matter to Your Excellency, I would say that it should be demonstrated to your son that there are not, and cannot be, ghosts or spectres or dead men singing litanies. He then wouldn’t be afraid of them.’
‘Señor Hierro,’ said my father somewhat sharply, ‘you have clearly forgotten that yesterday I had the honour of showing you a story about ghosts written in my great-grandfather’s own hand.’
‘My lord,’ replied Garcías, ‘it is not my place to challenge Your Excellency’s great-grandfather’s word.’
‘What do you mean by “It is not my place to challenge your great-grandfather’s word?”’ replied my father. ‘Do you realize that such an expression presupposes that you could call my great-grandfather’s word into question?’
‘My lord,’ replied Garcías, ‘I am well aware that I am of too little consequence for your noble great-grandfather to wish to demand satisfaction of me.’
Then my father looked even more terrible and said, ‘Hierro, heaven preserve you from excusing yourself, for to excuse yourself is to imply that you have given offence.’
‘It only remains for me then to submit myself to whatever punishment it pleases Your Excellency to inflict upon me in the name of your great-grandfather. But for the honour of my profession I would wish that this penalty might be administered by our chaplain so that it could be seen by me to be religious penance.’
‘That is not a bad idea,’ said my father in calmer tones. ‘I remember having written some time ago a little treatise on acceptable ways of giving satisfaction when a duel is out of the question. I’ll think about it.’
At first my father appeared to be considering the matter, but one thought led to another and he eventually dropped off to sleep in his chair. My mother was already asleep, as was the theologian, and Garcías was not long in following their example. At that point I thought it incumbent on me to retire. And that is how the first day after I returned to my paternal home was spent.
The next day I fenced with Garcías and went hunting. We had supper together, and after we had risen from table my father again asked the theologian to fetch his great book. The reverend gentleman obliged, opened it at random and read aloud the story which I am about to relate:
THE STORY OF LANDULPHO OF FERRARA
There was once a young man whose name was Landulpho, who lived in a town in Italy called Ferrara. He was a free-thinker and a rake and was looked upon with horror by all the good souls in the town. This abominable man was addicted to the company of prostitutes and he had gone the rounds of all those living in Ferrara. The one who pleased him most was Bianca de Rossi because she was the most depraved of all of them.
Bianca was not only debauched, grasping and depraved, but she also required that her lovers should commit dishonourable acts to please her. And in Landulpho’s case she demanded that he take her home with him every evening to eat supper with his mother and sister. Landulpho at once went to his mother and told her what was proposed as though it was the most respectable thing in the world. This good soul burst into tears and implored her son to think of the effect of this on his sister’s reputation. Landulpho was deaf to her entreaties and only undertook to keep the affair as secret as possible. Then he went to fetch Bianca and brought her home with him.
His mother and sister received the prostitute much better than she deserved. Seeing their kindness, she became all the more insolent. During supper she made outrageously suggestive remarks and offered advice to her lover’s sister which she could have well done without. Eventually she made it clear to both daughter and mother that they would do well to withdraw because she wanted to be alone with her lover.
Next day the prostitute Bianca spread her story all over town and for a few days people spoke of nothing else. In the end Odoardo Zampi, the brother of Landulpho’s mother, came to hear these public rumours. Odoardo was a man who would not permit any insult to go unpunished. He considered himself insulted in the person of his sister and he had the infamous Bianca murdered that very day. When Landulpho went to call on his mistress he found her stabbed to death and lying in a pool of her own blood. He soon learned that this was the work of his uncle. He rushed to his house to punish him for it. He found it surrounded by the stalwarts of the town, who jeered at his rage.
Not knowing on whom to vent his wrath Landulpho rushed to his mother’s house, intending to heap insults on her. The poor woman was with her daughter and was just about to sit down to table when she saw her son come in. She asked him whether Bianca was coming to eat with them.
‘May she come and drag you off to hell,’ said Landulpho. ‘You, your brother and all the Zampi family.’
His poor mother fell to her knees and said, ‘Dear God, forgive him his blasphemy.’
At that moment the door crashed open and a pallid spectre entered, covered with stab wounds yet still bearing a ghastly likeness to Bianca.
Mother and daughter began at once to pray and God gave them the strength to endure such an apparition without dying of fright.
The phantom walked slowly forwards and sat down at table as though to dine. With a courage that could only have been inspired by the devil, Landulpho boldly took up a dish and presented it to her. The phantom opened her mouth so wide that her head seemed to split in two. A reddish flame issued forth from it. Then, with a hand that had been most horribly burnt, she took a morsel of food and swallowed it. It was heard to fall under the table. In this way she devoured the whole dish and all the morsels fell to the floor. When the dish was empty the phantom stared at Landulpho with terrible eyes and said to him, ‘Landulpho, whenever I dine here I sleep here also. Come to bed.’
At this point my father interrupted the chaplain and, turning to me, said, ‘Alphonse, my son, would you have been afraid if you had been Landulpho?’
I replied, ‘Dear father, I assure you that I would not have felt even the slightest twinge of fear.’
This reply seemed to satisfy my father and he was very jolly for the rest of the evening.
So we spent our days with nothing to change their pattern except that in summer we sat down not around the fireplace but on the seats in front of the castle door. Six years passed in such sweet tranquillity.
They seem to me now like so many weeks.
When I had completed my seventeenth year my father decided to enter me in the Walloon Guards and wrote on this matter to his trustworthy old comrades. Those worthy and respectable officers together exerted on my behalf all the influence they possessed and managed to obtain for me a captain’s commission. When my father learned of this, he suffered a seizure so severe that his life was thought to be in danger. But he soon recovered and turned his mind to preparing for my departure. He wanted me to go by sea so that I might enter Spain by way of Cadiz and present myself to Don Enrique de Sa, the commandant of the Walloons, who was the person who had contributed most to my preferment.
Even as the post-chaise was waiting drawn up and ready to leave in the courtyard of the castle, my father led me away to his bedroom and having closed the door behind us said, ‘My dear Alphonse, I am going to confide in you a secret which came down to me from my father and which you must pass on to your son, but only if he shows himself worthy of it.’
As I was sure it was about some hidden treasure I replied that I had never looked on gold except as a means of helping the poor and needy.
But my father said, ‘No, dear Alphonse, it is not about gold or silver. I want to teach you a secret pass in which by counter-parrying and following with a flaconade you are sure to disarm your adversary.’
He then took up two foils, showed me the pass, gave me his blessing and led me to my waiting carriage. I kissed my mother’s hand again and departed.
I travelled by post-chaise to Flushing, where I found a vessel to take me to Cadiz. Don Enrique de Sa received me as though I were his own son. He set me up with a horse and recommended two men to serve me, one called Lopez and the other Mosquito. From Cadiz I went to Seville, from Seville to Córdoba and then I went on to Andújar, where I took the road to the Sierra Morena. I suffered the misfortune of being separated from my servants near the drinking trough at Los Alcornoques. Yet I went on to the Venta Quemada the same day and yesterday evening reached your hermitage.
