The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  ‘It had seemed to me that you did suffer occasionally from absent-mindedness,’ said the cabbalist. ‘But since you tell me that you are cured of it, please allow me to congratulate you.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Velásquez, ‘for my system was no sooner finished when an unexpected occurrence produced a change in my fortune that will not only make it difficult for me to build a system, but may also, alas, not allow me to devote ten to twelve hours a day to my calculations. For, Señores, heaven has decreed that I be Duque de Velásquez, grandee of Spain and master of a considerable fortune.’

  ‘What? Señor Duque,’ said Rebecca, ‘you tell us this as though it were an incidental detail in your story? I believe that in your place most people would have begun with it.’

  ‘I admit,’ said Velásquez, ‘that such a coefficient multiplies an individual value, but I did not think I had to state it before its due place in the order of events. This is what it remains for me to tell you:

  About four weeks ago Diego Alvarez, son of the other Alvarez, came to Ceuta to give my father a letter from Duquesa Blanca. These were its contents:

  Señor Don Enrique,

  These lines are to let you know that God will perhaps soon call to himself your brother, the Duque de Velásquez. The conditions of entailment of our succession do not allow you to inherit from a younger brother. The grandeeship must pass to your son. I am glad to be able to end forty years of penance by restoring to him the fortune which my imprudence took away from you. What I cannot give you back is the glory that your talents would have brought you. But we are both at the threshold of eternal glory and the glory of this world can scarcely move us now. For the last time I beg you to forgive guilty Blanca and to send us the son heaven has given you. The duke, whom I have been nursing for the last two months, wishes to meet his heir.

  Blanca de Velásquez.

  I may say that this letter brought joy to all Ceuta, where I had many well-wishers, but I was far from sharing in the public happiness. Ceuta was a whole world for me. I only left it in spirit to lose myself in abstract thoughts, and if I looked over the ramparts at the vast territories inhabited by the Moors, it was as though I was looking at a landscape painting. Being unable to walk about in it, the countryside seemed to me to be there to provide only visual pleasure. What would I do away from Ceuta? In that town there was no wall on which I had not scribbled some equation, and no seat which did not recall to me some meditation which had given me mental satisfaction. It is true that I was occasionally bothered by my aunt Antonia and Marita, her maid, but these were but small interruptions compared to the distractions to which I was now condemned. There would no longer be any long periods of reflection, nor any calculations, nor any happiness for me. That is how I thought, but I had to leave.

  My father came down to the harbour with me. He placed both his hands on my head to bless me and said, ‘My son, you will see Blanca. She is now not the striking beauty who once was destined to be the glory and happiness of your father. You will see her features consumed by age and worn away by penitence. Why did she continue so long to weep for a sin for which her father had forgiven her? As for me, I have never felt anger towards her. If I have not gloriously served my king in high office, I have for forty years at least been of service to a few good people on this rock. Such service is due to Blanca. People here have heard of her virtues and all bless her.’

  My father was unable to say more. He felt sobs choking him. All of Ceuta’s inhabitants were present to see me go. In their eyes could be seen the sorrow of losing me, mingled with the joy of my change in fortune.

  I set sail and reached the port of Algeciras the next day. From there I went first to Córdoba and then to Andújar, where I spent the night. The innkeeper at Andújar told me some story or other about ghosts, of which I didn’t understand a word. I slept at his inn and left early the next morning. I had two servants with me, one who went ahead of me and one who followed. The idea struck me that in Madrid I would not have the time to work so I got out my tablets and did some calculations which were incidental to my system. The mule on which I was riding walked at a regular pace, which favoured this sort of work. I don’t know how long I was thus occupied. But suddenly my mule stopped. I found myself at the base of a gallows on which there were two hanged men whose faces seemed set in grimaces, which caused me to shudder in horror. I looked all around me but did not catch sight of my servants. I shouted for them but they did not come, so I decided to follow the path ahead of me. At nightfall I came to a vast, well-built inn, which was abandoned and empty.

  I put the mule in the stable and went up to a room in which I found the remains of a supper: a partridge pâté, bread and a bottle of Alicante wine. I had not eaten since Andújar and thought that my need for food gave me the right to the pâté, which in any case had no owner. My throat was also very dry so I slaked my thirst, perhaps too fast, for the Alicante wine went to my head, as I discovered only too late.

  There was a reasonably clean bed in the room. I undressed, lay down and fell asleep. Then something woke me with a start. I heard a bell strike midnight. I thought that there must be a monastery nearby and decided to go there the next day.

  Soon after, I heard a noise in the courtyard. I thought that my servants had arrived. But you can imagine my surprise when I saw my aunt Antonia and Marita, her maid, come in. The maid carried a lantern with two candles and my aunt had a notebook in her hand.

  ‘My dear nephew,’ she said, ‘your father has sent us to give you this document, which he says is important.’

  I took the notebook and read on the cover, Proof of how to square the circle. I knew that my father had never bothered himself with this idle problem. Astonished, I opened the notebook, but soon saw with indignation that the so-called solution was no more than the well-known theory of Dinostrates, accompanied by a proof which I recognized to be in my father’s handwriting but not to be the product of his mind. And indeed I demonstrated that the proofs on offer were no more than poor paralogisms.

  Meanwhile my aunt pointed out to me that as I had taken possession of the only bed in the inn I was duty bound to give up half of it to her. The idea that my father could have committed such mathematical errors bothered me so much that I scarcely heard what she said. I automatically made room for her, and Marita lay down at my feet and rested her head on my knees.

  I went back to the proof. I don’t know whether the Alicante wine had gone to my head or whether my eyes had been bewitched, but in some way or other I lost sight of the error I thought I had detected at first, and having reread the proof a third time I was convinced that it was right.

  I turned to the third page. I found a highly ingenious set of corollaries which had the effect of squaring and rectifying all curves; in other words, the solution to the problem of isochrones, using elementary rules of geometry. Delighted, amazed and stupefied, I believe, by the effects of Alicante wine, I cried out, ‘Yes, my father has made the greatest of discoveries!’

  ‘Well, then,’ said my aunt, ‘give me a kiss for the trouble I have taken in crossing the sea to bring you this scribbling.’

  I kissed her.

  ‘I crossed the sea, too,’ said Marita.

  So I had to kiss her as well.

  I wanted to return to the problem but my two bedfellows hugged me so tightly in their arms that I could not release myself from them. Indeed, I no longer wanted to. I felt the stirrings of indescribable sensations in my person. Over the whole surface of my body a new feeling was growing, especially where it was in contact with the two women. I was reminded of some of the properties of osculating curves. I wanted to analyse what I was feeling but my brain could no longer follow through any line of reasoning. Eventually my feelings developed into a series ascending to infinity, which was succeeded by sleep and a very unpleasant awakening under the gallows on which I had seen the two hanged men smiling horribly.

  And that is the whole story of my life. All that is missing from it is the theor
y of my system, that is to say, the application of mathematics to the general order of the universe. I hope however one day to be able to acquaint you with it, especially this fair lady who seems to have a taste for the exact sciences rarely to be found in her sex.

  Rebecca thanked him for the compliment, then she asked Velásquez what had become of the papers that his aunt had brought him.

  ‘I don’t know where they have got to,’ said the geometer. ‘I didn’t find them among the papers which the gypsies fetched for me, which I much regret, because in looking again at the so-called proof I am sure that I would have immediately spotted the error. As I told you, my blood was overheated that night. The Alicante wine, the two women, the irresistible sleep — all of this caused me to fail. But what surprises me still is that the handwriting was my father’s. The way of writing symbols was unique to him.’

  I was struck by Velásquez’s words, above all his remark that he was unable to stop himself falling asleep. I guessed that he had been given a similar wine to that which my two cousins had served me at our first meeting in November, or a potion similar to the poison I had been ordered to drink in the underground cave, which was actually only a sleeping draught.

  The company split up. As I was on the point of falling asleep, several thoughts came to me which might, it seemed, have explained my adventures by natural means. In the course of these reflections I fell asleep.

  The Twenty-sixth Day

  The next day we devoted to rest. The life which the gypsies led and the contraband which was their principal means of subsistence required constant and tiring changes of camp. So I was delighted to stay for a whole day in the place where we had spent the night. Everyone smartened themselves up a little. Rebecca put on some jewellery. She might have been said to be trying to attract the attentions of the young duke, for that is what he was called from then on.

  We found ourselves on a fine grass meadow shaded by tall chestnut trees. We partook of a somewhat more varied breakfast than usual, and then Rebecca said to the gypsy chief that as he was less busy than usual she would take the liberty of asking him to tell us more of his adventures. Pandesowna needed no persuasion and began as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  I have told you that I did not go to school until all my stratagems and excuses for putting off the day had run out. At first I was pleased to find myself in the company of so many companions of my age; but I found our continual subjection to our tutors intolerable. I had grown pleasantly accustomed to my aunt’s caresses, her indulgence and her affection. I was also very flattered when she told me, as she did many times each day, that I had a nice nature. A nice nature was of no use at school. One had to pay attention all the time or suffer the rod. I hated both equally, so I ended up by altogether detesting anyone wearing a black cassock, and I showed my detestation by playing every imaginable trick on him.

  There were pupils whose talents for observation were better than their character and who took pleasure in telling tales about their companions’ doings. I founded a league against them and we arranged our tricks in such a way that suspicion always fell on the informers. In the end, all those in black cassocks accused of being informers could bear us no longer.

  I don’t want to bore you with all the details of our childishness. Suffice it to say that during the four years I put my mind to devising them, our pranks took a more and more serious turn. In the end I was so carried away that I committed an act which, though perhaps innocent in itself, was despicable because of the means I employed. I very nearly paid for it by several years of imprisonment or even the permanent loss of my freedom. This is what happened.

  Of the Theatines who treated us most harshly, none had shown us more pitiless severity than Father Sanudo, the teacher of the first class. Such hardness was not part of his nature, however. Quite the opposite. This monk had been born hypersensitive. His secret inclinations had always been contrary to his duties. Sanudo had reached the age of thirty without ceasing to struggle against and suppress his true nature.

  He was without pity for himself and had become implacable towards others. The continual sacrifice which he made through his manner of behaving was all the more meritorious in that no one had ever seen a more striking case of natural instincts being opposed to the dictates of religion; for he was as handsome a man as you can imagine and few women were able to cross his path without giving him signs of their admiration for him. But Sanudo would lower his eyes, frown and pass by without seeming to notice. Such was, or rather such had long been, Father Sanudo. But so many victorious battles had exhausted his soul, which had lost some of its vigour. By being obliged to be wary of women he ended up by thinking about them all the time. The enemy he had fought against for so long never left his mind. In the end a grave illness followed by a difficult convalescence left behind a hypersensitivity which manifested itself as a perpetual state of impatience. Our smallest errors angered him. Our excuses could cause him to weep. He had become absent-minded, and in moments of distraction his eyes would stare at some object with a look of affection, and if someone interrupted him in one of these ecstasies his expression was one of pain rather than severity. We were too used to observing our mentor closely for such a change to escape our notice. But we did not fathom what caused it until we had occasion to notice something that put us on the scent. However, to make myself understood I shall have to start from a point further back in the story.

  The two most famous families of Burgos were those of the Counts of Lirias and the Marquesses of Fuen Castilla. The former even belonged to that class in Spain called agraviados, to express the wrong done to them by their not being called grandees. So the other grandees would address them in the familiar form of address which they used in addressing each other, which was a way of assimilating them to their number.

  The head of the house of Lirias was a seventy-year-old gentleman with the noblest and most gracious of characters. He had had two sons, both of whom had died, and his fortune fell to the young Condesa de Lirias, the only daughter of his elder son. The old count, having no heirs of his own name, had betrothed his granddaughter to the heir of the family of Fuen Castilla, who on marrying was to take the title Fuen de Lirias y Castilla. This union, though well matched in other respects, was also well matched as far as the age, looks and character of the engaged couple went. They loved each other passionately, and the elderly Conde de Lirias delighted in the sight of their innocent love, which brought back memories of the happier times of his own life.

  The future Condesa de Fuen de Lirias resided in the convent of the Annunciads, but every day she went to dine at her grandfather’s house, where she stayed in the company of her future husband until the evening. On these occasions she was accompanied by a duenna mayor called Doña Clara Mendoza, a woman of about thirty years of age who was very respectable but not at all morose. But the old count did not like people of that disposition.

  Every day the young Condesa de Lirias and her duenna passed by our college because it was on the way to the old count’s house. As they did so during our recreation time we were often at the windows, or we ran there when we heard the sound of the carriage.

  The first to reach the windows had often heard Doña Mendoza say to her young pupil, ‘There’s the handsome Theatine.’

  That’s the name ladies gave Father Sanudo, and indeed the duenna had eyes only for him. As for her young charge, she looked at all of us, perhaps because our age recalled to her that of her lover, or because she was trying to recognize two of her cousins.

  Sanudo, for his part, ran like the others to the window, but as soon as the women took notice of him he would look sombre and retreat disdainfully. We were struck by this contradiction.

  If he really has a horror of women, we said to ourselves, why does he come to the window? And if he is curious to see them, he is wrong to turn his eyes away.

  A young pupil called Veyras told me in this connection, that Sanudo was not the misogynist he had been
in the past and that he would try to find a way of proving it. Veyras was the best friend I had in the college, that is to say, he aided and abetted me in all my tricks, of which he was in many cases the author.

  At that time, a new novel, entitled Leonce in Love, appeared. The author’s graphic description of love made the novel dangerous reading. Our teachers had strictly forbidden it. Veyras found a way of procuring a copy of Leonce, and put it in his pocket so as to let part of it be seen. Sanudo noticed it and confiscated it. He threatened Veyras with the most severe punishment if he ever were to commit the same fault again, and then disappeared on the pretext of some illness or other and did not appear again for evening lessons. We for our part pretended to be very concerned about the health of our teacher. We went into his room unannounced and found him there, in the middle of reading the dangerous novel with his eyes wet with tears, which proved how much the book had captivated him. Sanudo looked embarrassed; we pretended not to notice. Soon we had another indication of the great change that had taken place in the heart of the hapless monk.

  In Spain, women are often very assiduous in fulfilling their religious duties, and ask for the same confessor on each occasion. The expression for this is ‘buscar a su padre’.1 This provides an opportunity for shameless cynics who exploit the ambiguity of the phrase to ask, when they see a child in church, whether he has come to ‘buscar a su padre’.

  The ladies of Burgos would have very much liked to confess to Father Sanudo, but the touchy cleric had said that he would not undertake to direct the consciences of persons of the fair sex. Yet on the day after the fateful reading of Leonce, when one of the prettiest women of the town asked for Father Sanudo, he went straight away to his confessional. Several suggestive compliments were paid to him as a result. In reply to them he gravely stated that he had nothing more to fear from an enemy against whom he had fought so valiantly. The other fathers may have believed him, but we schoolboys knew exactly what to make of this.