by Jan Potocki
But is there any obstinacy which a woman cannot overcome? Señora Dalanosa’s pressure on her uncle Gerónimo was so persistent and effective that he decided in the end to take advantage of my father’s next confession to tax his conscience with the heartless indifference he was showing to a child who could not possibly have done him any harm.
Father Gerónimo did as he had promised my aunt to do, but my father was highly alarmed at the idea of receiving me in his own room. Father Gerónimo suggested a meeting in the Jardin del Buen Retiro. But a walk to the garden did not form part of the regular and methodical routine from which my father never departed. Rather than make such a departure, my father consented to meet me in his own house. Father Gerónimo then went to announce the good news to my aunt, who thought she would die of joy.
I must tell you at this point that ten years of hypochondria had left their mark on my father’s home life, which was very eccentric. Among other fads, he had acquired that of making ink. This is how it came about:
One day he was at Moreno’s bookshop in the company of several lawyers and some of the finest minds in Spain when the conversation turned to the difficulty of obtaining good ink. Everyone said that none could be found or that he had tried in vain to make some. Moreno said that he had in his bookshop a collection of recipes from which it would be possible to inform oneself on the subject. He went off to look for the volume, which he did not find straight away, and when he returned, the topic of conversation had changed. There were heated exchanges about the fortunes of a recent play, and no one wanted to talk about ink or listen to someone reading from a book about it. Not so my father. He picked up the book, located at once the recipe for ink and was amazed to discover that he could easily understand something which the greatest minds in Spain considered to be very difficult. Indeed, all that was involved was to mix a tincture of nutgall with a solution of vitriol and then add gum to it. The author pointed out, however, that it was not possible to produce good ink unless a large quantity was made at one time and the mixture was kept hot and stirred frequently, because the gum had no affinity with metallic substances and tended to separate out. Moreover, the gum itself tended to dissolve and putrefy, and the only way to prevent this was to add a small amount of alcohol to it.
My father bought the book and the next day procured the necessary ingredients, scales for weighing out the amounts and the largest flask he could find in Madrid, because the author had recommended the ink should be made in as great a volume as possible at any one time. The process worked perfectly. My father took a bottle of his ink to the great minds who met in Moreno’s bookshop. They all declared it excellent and wanted to have some.
In the course of his quiet, retiring life my father had never had occasion to gratify anyone and even less to receive praise. He found it pleasant to be able to oblige others and pleasanter still to be praised, and so he devoted himself wholeheartedly to making a substance which brought him such gratifying pleasures. Seeing that the great minds of Madrid emptied in a twinkling the largest flasks that he could find in the city, my father sent to Barcelona for a demijohn, one of those in which the Mediterranean sailors store their wine. With this he was able to make twenty bottles of ink, which the great minds of Madrid used up as they had the first batch, heaping praises and thanks on my father all the while.
But the larger the glass bottles the more difficult they were to use. It was not possible to heat the mixture up in them, still more difficult to stir it and it was above all else difficult to decant it. So my father decided to send to Toboso for one of those great earthenware jars which are used in the manufacture of saltpetre. When it arrived, he had it set above a little stove which was kept constantly hot with a few live coals. A tap fitted to the base of the jar was used to draw off the liquid, and by climbing up on the stove it was fairly easy to stir the mixture with a wooden pestle. Jars of this sort are taller than a man, so you can easily imagine how much ink my father made at any one time, and he was careful to top the jar up with as much as he drew off.
It gave him real pleasure to witness the arrival of a maidservant or valet of some famous man of letters coming to ask for ink. And whenever the famous man published a literary work that was talked about in Moreno’s bookshop, my father smiled with pride and pleasure as though he had contributed something to it. Indeed, to complete this account, I should tell you that my father came to be known throughout the city as Don Felipe del Tintero Largo or Don Felipe of the Large Inkpot, and his surname Avadoro was known only to a few.
I knew all of this. I had heard about the eccentricity of my father, the tidiness of his room and his great jar of ink, and I was very eager to see it all for myself. My aunt, for her part, believed firmly that as soon as my father had the pleasure of meeting me he would give up all his fads and devote himself solely to admiring me from morning till night. At last a day was set for the introduction. My father confessed to Father Gerónimo on the last Sunday of every month. The priest was going to strengthen him in his resolve to meet me, tell him that I was waiting for him at his house and accompany my father there. In telling us about these arrangements Father Gerónimo strongly recommended that I should not touch anything in his room. I promised to do as I was told and my aunt promised to keep an eye on me.
At last the much-awaited Sunday came. My aunt dressed me in a pink majo3 suit with silver trimming and buttons of Brazilian topaz. She assured me that I looked like Cupid himself and that my father could not fail to go wild with joy at the sight of me. Full of hopes and flattering expectations, we merrily made our way across the Calle de las Ursulinas and reached the Prado, where several women stopped to caress me. At last we reached the calle de Toledo and the house of my father. We were shown into his room and my aunt, who was nervous about my excitable state, sat me down on a chair, seated herself opposite me and seized hold of the fringes of my scarf to stop me getting up and touching anything.
At first I made up for this restraint by looking all around the room, whose tidiness and cleanliness I much admired. The corner used for making ink was as clean and tidy as the rest. The great Toboso jar looked almost ornamental, and next to it stood a tall, glass-fronted cupboard in which all the necessary ingredients and instruments were kept.
The sight of this tall, narrow cupboard next to the stove and jar gave me a sudden irresistible desire to climb up on it. I thought that nothing would be more amusing than to watch my father looking for me vainly everywhere in the room before catching sight of me in my hiding-place above his head. Quick as a flash, I slipped off the scarf by which my aunt was holding on to me, jumped on to the stove and from there climbed on to the cupboard. At first my aunt could not stop herself applauding my skill, then she pleaded with me to come down.
At that moment we were told that my father was coming up the stairs. My aunt fell to her knees and begged me to come down from my vantage-point. I was unable to resist her gentle entreaties, but in trying to climb down on the stove I felt my foot touch the rim of the jar; I tried to hold on to where I was but sensed that I would bring down the cupboard with me, so I let go with my hands and fell into the jar of ink. I would have drowned in it had not my aunt grabbed the pestle which was used to stir the ink and hit the jar very hard with it. It broke into a thousand pieces.
At that moment my father came in. He saw a river of ink flooding his room and a black figure filling it with appalling shrieks. He rushed down the staircase, twisted his foot and fell down in a faint.
As for me, I did not shriek for long. The ink I had swallowed made me very ill. I passed out, and only fully recovered consciousness after a long illness that was followed by a long convalescence. What contributed most to my recovery was my aunt’s announcement that we were to leave Madrid and set up house in Burgos. I was so excited by the idea of a journey that it was feared I would lose my reason, but my intense pleasure was spoilt when my aunt asked me whether I preferred to travel in her chaise or in a litter.
‘Neither one nor the other,’
I replied in a violent rage. ‘I am not a woman. I want to travel on horseback, or at least on a mule, with a fine Segovia rifle attached to my saddle, two pistols in my belt and a long sword. I refuse to go unless you give me all of this. Anyway, it is in your interest to give it to me as it is my duty to protect you.’
I uttered many similar silly remarks which seemed wholly reasonable to me but which were, of course, highly amusing coming from the mouth of an eleven-year-old.
The preparations for the journey gave me cause to engage in frenzied activity. I came and went, carrying things upstairs and downstairs, and gave orders. I was the proverbial busy bee. And there was indeed much for me to do, for my aunt was taking all of her furniture with her to set up house in Burgos. At last the happy day arrived on which we were to leave. We sent the heavy baggage by way of Parenda and ourselves took the road to Valladolid.
At first my aunt had wanted to travel in a chaise but, seeing that I was determined to ride a mule, she did the same. In the place of a saddle a comfortable little seat was made for her which was attached to a pack saddle and shaded by a parasol. A zagal walked ahead of her so as to ward off the least semblance of danger. The rest of our train, which consisted of twelve mules, looked very smart. And I, who considered myself the leader of this elegant caravan, sometimes rode at the front, sometimes brought up the rear. I always had one of my weapons in my hand, especially at bends in the road and other suspicious places.
As you may well imagine, no opportunity arose for me to show my mettle and we reached Alabajos without incident. There we met up with two caravans as large as ours. The beasts were at the rack in the stables and the travellers were at the other end in the kitchen, separated from the stable by two stone steps. At that time, this was the normal arrangement in nearly all Spanish inns. The whole building was but one long room of which the greater part was occupied by the mules and the lesser by the humans. But it was all the merrier for that. As the zagal saw to the pack animals, he kept up a steady stream of repartee with the innkeeper’s wife, who replied with all the liveliness of her sex and station until the more serious-minded innkeeper came between them and interrupted the exchanges. They soon started up again, however. The inn rang to the sound of the castanets played by the maids, who danced to the raucous singing of a goatherd. Travellers made each other’s acquaintance and invited each other to supper. Everyone gathered round the stove, said who they were, where they were going and sometimes told stories. Those were the good old days; now our inns are more comfortable, but the boisterous social life which the travellers of those days led had a charm I cannot describe to you. All I can tell you is that on that very day I was so captivated by it that I took it into my little head to travel all my life, which is what I have done.
But one particular incident confirmed me in this decision. After supper, when all the travellers grouped round the stove had given some account of the country through which they had passed, one of them, who had so far remained silent, said:
‘Everything that has happened to you on your journeys has been of interest to listen to and to think about. For my part, I would wish nothing worse to have befallen me, but travelling through Calabria I had such an extraordinary, odd and terrifying adventure that I cannot get it out of my mind. It pursues me, haunts me, poisons all the pleasures I might have, and it still fills me with such melancholy that it has almost robbed me of my sanity.’
This prelude greatly roused the curiosity of those present, who urged the traveller to unburden himself by telling them what extraordinary things had happened to him. It took a lot to persuade him, but at last he began his story as follows:
THE STORY OF GIULIO ROMATI AND
THE PRINCIPESSA DI MONTE SALERNO
My name is Giulio Romati. My father, Pietro Romati, is the most famous lawyer in Palermo and indeed in all Sicily. As you might imagine, he is very attached to a profession which provides him with a respectable living, but he is even more attached to philosophy, to which he devotes all the time he can steal from his legal affairs.
I can say without undue boasting that I have followed in his footsteps in both his careers, for I was a doctor of law at the age of twenty-two and, having since applied myself to mathematics and astronomy, I have advanced so far as to be able to write commentaries on Copernicus and Galileo. I am not telling you this to vaunt myself, but because I am about to relate to you a most amazing adventure and do not want to be taken for a gullible or superstitious person. Indeed, I am so far from superstition and credulity that theology is perhaps the only branch of knowledge that I have consistently neglected. As for the rest, I devoted myself to them with untiring enthusiasm, since the only recreation I found congenial was in turning from one branch of knowledge to another. So much study affected my health and my father, who could not think of any distraction which would suit me, suggested that I should make a tour of Europe and only return to Sicily after four years’ absence.
At first it was very hard for me to leave my books, my study and my observatory. But my father insisted and I had to obey him. I had no sooner begun my journey than I took a turn for the better. I recovered my appetite, my energies – in a word, my health. At first I had travelled in a litter but from the third day I rode a mule and was none the worse for it.
Many people know the whole world except for their own country. I had decided that my own country would not be able to reproach me with similar failings, so I began my journey by visiting the marvels which nature had so lavishly bestowed on our island. Instead of following the coast of Palermo to Messina, I went by Castro Novo, Caltanisetta and reached the foot of Etna at a village whose name I have forgotten. There I made preparations for the trip up the mountain, to which I intended to devote a month. And indeed that is how long I spent, principally attempting to confirm the number of experiments which had recently been done on barometers. At night I observed the heavens and had the great pleasure of sighting two stars which were not visible from the observatory in Palermo because they were below the horizon.
It was with genuine regret that I left that place in which I almost felt as though I could share the ethereal light and sublime harmony of the heavenly bodies whose laws I had studied so deeply. Besides, it is a fact that the rarefied air of high mountains acts on our bodies in a very special way, quickening our pulses and our breathing. Eventually I left the mountain and I came down it on the side of Catania.
Catania is inhabited by gentry as famous as that of Palermo but more enlightened. Not that the mathematical sciences have more adherents in Catania than elsewhere on our island, but a great deal of attention was paid to the arts, to antiquities, to ancient and modern history and to the history of all the peoples who have inhabited Sicily. The excavations and the artefacts found in them were a universal subject of conversation.
At that time, as it happens, a very beautiful marble tablet, covered with strange writing, had just been recovered from deep under the earth. Having looked at it closely, I realized that the inscription was in Carthaginian and, knowing Hebrew quite well, I was able to decipher it to the satisfaction of all concerned. This success won me a flattering welcome. The most distinguished persons in town tried to keep me there with attractive financial offers, but I had left my family with other purposes in mind so I refused them and took the road to Messina. I stayed in this city, which is famous for its commercial activity, for one whole week, after which I crossed the straits and landed at Reggio.
Up to then the journey had been no more than a pleasant trip, but at Reggio the undertaking became more difficult. A bandit called Zoto was at that time laying waste to Calabria and the sea was infested by Tripolitan pirates. I had absolutely no idea how to get to Naples and I would have returned to Palermo, if a sense of shame had not prevented me from doing so.
I had already spent a week in Reggio, full of uncertainty as to what to do, when one day, having walked up and down the port for some time, I sat down on some rocks on the least frequented part of the beach.
/> There I was accosted by a handsome-looking man wearing a red cloak. He sat down by me without greeting me and then spoke to me as follows: ‘Is Signor Romati busy with some algebraic problem or some question of astronomy?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘All that Signor Romati would like to do is to travel from Reggio to Naples, and the problem that is bothering him at the moment is how to escape the clutches of Signor Zoto’s band.’
Then the stranger looked very solemn and said, ‘Signor Romati, your talents already do honour to your country, and you will bring it yet more honour after the journeys that you are undertaking have extended the range of your knowledge. Zoto is too much of a gentleman to wish to hinder you in so noble a venture. Take these red feathers and put one in your hat, give the others to your servants and then boldly set out, for I am that Zoto whom you so much fear, and so that you can have no doubt on this score I am going to show you the instruments of my profession.’
At this, he opened his cloak and showed me a belt bristling with pistols and daggers. Then he shook my hand and vanished.
At this point I interrupted the gypsy chief and told him that I had heard of Zoto and had made the acquaintance of his two brothers.
‘I know them too,’ said Pandesowna. ‘Like me, they are in the service of the Great Sheikh of the Gomelez.’
‘What? You too are in his service?’ I cried in great astonishment.
At that moment a gypsy came up and whispered in the chief’s ear. He at once rose and left me to reflect on what I had just learned.
