The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  I had grown so used to Hermosito’s submissiveness that I would have been astonished had he shown any resistance to my wishes. But this was hardly to be feared, and I was obliged myself to place limits on my authority or at least use it very carefully. One day I wanted to have a bright shell which I could see lying in deep, clear water. Hermosito jumped in at once and almost drowned. Another time, as he tried to reach a nest that I wanted, a branch broke under him and he hurt himself badly. Thereafter I was very circumspect in expressing my desires, but I found it very agreeable simply to have such great power and not to use it. It was, if my memory serves me aright, the first time I felt pride. I think I have felt it on several occasions since then.

  Our thirteenth year went by in this way. When Hermosito had completed it his mother said to him, ‘My son, today we have celebrated the thirteenth anniversary of your birth. You are no longer a child and cannot live as close to Señora de Val Florida as you have up to now. Tomorrow you will leave and make your way to Navarre to live with your grandfather.’

  La Girona had no sooner finished her sentence than Hermosito manifested the most terrible despair. He wept, fainted and, on coming to his senses, wept again. As for me, I consoled him more than I shared his distress. I looked on him as a being who was wholly dependent on me and who only breathed, as it were, with my permission. I found nothing unusual in his despair but I didn’t feel the slightest obligation to reciprocate it. I was too young and too accustomed to the sight of his remarkable good looks for these to make any impression on me.

  La Girona was not one of those persons who can be moved by the sight of tears. Those which Hermosito shed were to no avail. He had to leave. But two days later his muleteer returned, looking upset, to report that in going through a wood he had left his mules for an instant and had returned to find Hermosito gone. He had called to him, then searched the forest in vain. Apparently he had been eaten by wolves. La Girona seemed more surprised than distressed to hear this.

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said. ‘The wilful little wretch will come back to us.’

  She was not wrong. We soon witnessed the return of the young fugitive. He clasped his mother’s knees and said, ‘I was born to serve Señora de Val Florida and I will die if you try to banish me from this house.’

  A few days later la Girona received a letter from her husband, who had not been heard of for a very long time. He told his wife about the fortune he had made in Vera Cruz and expressed the desire to have his son with him. La Girona, who wanted at all costs to get Hermosito away, readily accepted this offer.

  Since his return Hermosito had not been living in the castle. He had been lodged in a farm, which we owned by the sea. One day his mother went to fetch him and made him embark on the boat of a fisherman who had undertaken to escort him to a ship bound for America. During the night Hermosito threw himself overboard and swam to the shore. La Girona forced him to board ship again. These actions were so many sacrifices she made to her duty. It was easy to see at what cost to her heart they were done.

  The events which I have just related all came one upon another in quick succession. They were followed by very sad occurrences. My grandfather fell ill and my mother, who had long been declining, mingled her last breath with that of the Marqués de Astorgas.

  My father had been expected daily in Asturias but the king could not make up his mind to give him leave, as the state of affairs was not such as to allow him to absent himself. The Marqués de Val Florida wrote to la Girona in the most moving terms and told her to bring me as quickly as possible to Madrid. My father had taken into his service the whole household of the Marqués de Astorgas, of whom I was sole heir. They set off in my company and formed a splendid cortège. The daughter of a secretary of state is in any case pretty sure of being well received from one end of Spain to the other. The honours which I received on that journey contributed, I think, to engendering the ambitious feelings which since then have ruled my destiny. I felt a different sort of pride as I approached Madrid. I had seen that the Marquesa de Val Florida loved and idolized her father, living and breathing only for him, and that she had treated me with a sort of coldness. Now I was to have a father for myself. I promised myself to love him with my whole heart. I wanted to contribute to his happiness. This hope made me proud. I thought of myself as grown up even though I had not yet reached my fourteenth birthday.

  These flattering thoughts still filled my mind when my coach entered the courtyard of our mansion. My father received me at the foot of the steps and embraced me affectionately a thousand times. Soon after, he was summoned to the court by order of the king. I withdrew to my apartment. I was very excited, and spent a sleepless night.

  The next morning I was summoned by my father. He was drinking his chocolate and he had me take breakfast with him. Then he said to me, ‘My dear Leonor, my heart is sad, and my humour has become somewhat melancholy. But since you have been restored to me I hope from now on to see happier days. My study will always be open to you. Bring some needlework with you. I have a more private study for meetings and secret negotiations. I shall try to find time to chat with you in the midst of my work. And I hope that I shall rediscover in such sweet conversation an image of the domestic happiness which I have long since lost.’

  Having uttered these words, the marqués rang. His secretary came in, carrying two bags – one containing the letters which had arrived that day, the other letters whose dispatch had been held back.

  I spent some time in the study and then came back at dinner time. There I found some of my father’s close friends, who, like him, were employed in the most important affairs of state. They spoke about them in my presence without much restraint. I added to their discussions a few naïve remarks which amused them. I saw, or so I believed, that they interested my father. I grew more bold as a result.

  The next day I went back to his study as soon as I knew him to be there. He was drinking his chocolate and he said with a satisfied expression, ‘It is Friday today. We will receive letters from Lisbon.’ Then he rang. His secretary brought the two bags. My father hurriedly rummaged through one; he drew out a letter comprising two sheets, one in code, which he gave to his secretary, the other in writing, which he began to read himself with an expression of pleasure, affection and benevolence.

  While he was busy reading, I picked up the envelope and looked at the seal. It was decorated with a fleece over which there was a ducal crown. Alas, those grandiose arms would one day be mine! The next day the French mail arrived, after which came mail from other quarters, but none interested my father as much as the mail from Portugal.

  After a whole week had passed, I said to my father as he was drinking his chocolate, ‘Today is Friday. The mail from Lisbon will come.’

  The secretary came in, and I hurried to rummage in the bag. I drew out my father’s favourite letter and ran to give it to him. He rewarded me with a tender kiss.

  I repeated the same routine several Fridays in succession. Then, one day, I was brave enough to ask my father what the letter was that he treated differently from all the others.

  ‘This letter,’ he replied, ‘is from our ambassador in Lisbon, the Duque de Medina Sidonia, my friend, benefactor, and even more than that, for I sincerely believe that my life depends on his.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘the charming duke has claims on my attention. I must try and make his acquaintance. I will not ask you what he writes to you in code, but I beg you to read to me the letter written in plain handwriting.’

  This suggestion seemed to whip my father into a real fury. He called me a spoiled, wilful, whimsical child. He said other hurtful things. Then he calmed down, and not only read me the Duke of Sidonia’s letter but told me to keep it. I have it upstairs. I shall bring it to you the next time I come to see you.

  When the gypsy had reached this point in his story, someone came to tell him that the affairs of his band required his presence, so he left and we did not see him again that day.

&nb
sp; The Twenty-eighth Day

  We all met for breakfast very early. Seeing the gypsy chief to be at leisure, Rebecca asked him to continue his story, which he did as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  The duchess did indeed bring me the letter of which she had spoken the day before.

  THE DUCHESS OF MEDINA SIDONIA’S STORY

  CONTINUED

  The letter read as follows:

  The Duque de Medina Sidonia to the Marqués de Val Florida.

  You will find, dear friend, in the coded dispatch an account of how our negotiations have progressed. In this letter I’d like to tell you about the devout and flirtatious court at which I am condemned to live. One of my people will take this letter to the frontier, which means that I shall be able to elaborate on the subject with greater confidence.

  The king, Don Pedro de Braganza,1 continues to make convents the scenes of his amorous intrigues. He has left the abbess of the Ursulines for the prioress of the Visitandines. His Majesty desires that I accompany him on his amorous pilgrimages, and for the good of our affairs I have to submit to his wishes. The king stands in the presence of the prioress, separated from her by a menacing grille, which it is said can be lowered by a secret mechanism in the control of the omnipotent monarch.

  The rest of us are distributed among other parlours, in which the young nuns receive us. The Portuguese take great pleasure in the conversation of nuns, which is scarcely more sensible than the warbling of cage-birds, whom they resemble, insofar as they live similarly enclosed lives. But the touching pallor of these holy virgins, their devout sighs, the amorous turn they give to the language of piety, their half-naïve remarks and their vague yearnings, these, I think, are what charm Portuguese gentlemen and what they would not find in the ladies of Lisbon.

  Everything in these houses of retreat tends to intoxicate the heart and the senses. The very air which one breathes is balmy. There are rows upon rows of flowers in front of the images of saints. A glimpse beyond the parlour reveals solitary dormitories, decorated and perfumed in the same way. The sound of the profane guitar mingling with the chords of the sacred organ, drowns the sweet whisperings of young lovers glued to each side of the grille. Such is the way of life in Portuguese convents.

  As for me, I can be induced to partake of such tender folly for a short time but then these seductive discussions of passion and love recall swiftly to mind thoughts of crime and murder. Yet I have only committed one. I killed a friend who saved your life and mine. The elegant ways of polite society led to those disastrous events which have caused my life to wither. I was then at that burgeoning age when the heart is open to happiness as well as to virtue. Mine would no doubt have been open to love, but such an emotion could not arise amid such cruel memories. I could not hear love spoken of without seeing my hands stained with blood.

  Yet I felt the need to love. The feelings in my heart which would have become love turned into a sort of general benevolence which extended to all around me. I loved my country; I loved above all else the good Spanish people who were so loyal to their religion, their kings, their word. The Spanish people returned my affection, and the court then found that I was too well loved.

  Since then I have been able to serve my country in honourable exile. I have also, although from afar, been able to do some good for my vassals. The love of my country and my fellow-man has filled my life with sweet emotions.

  As for that other love which might have adorned the springtime of my life, what can I expect from it now? I have made my decision. I will be the last Duke of Sidonia.

  I know that grandees’ daughters aspire to marry me but they do not realize that the gift of my hand is a dangerous present. My humour cannot adapt itself to the ways of today. Our fathers considered their wives to be the depositories of their happiness and honour. Poison and the dagger, those were in old Castile the punishment for infidelity. I am far from blaming our ancestors but I would not wish to find myself in the position of imitating them. So, as I have said, it is better that I should be the last of my house.

  As my father reached this point in the letter he seemed to hesitate and not to want to continue to read it out. But I persuaded him to pick it up again, and to read out the following:

  I rejoice with you in the happiness you find in the company of dear Leonor. At her age reason must take on highly seductive forms. What you tell me proves to me that you are happy, and that makes me happy myself.

  I could not listen to any more. I fell to my father’s knees and embraced them. I made his happiness, I was assured of doing so and I was carried away with pleasure.

  After these first moments of joy had passed, I asked what the age of the Duke of Sidonia was.

  ‘He is five years younger than me, that is to say thirty-five,’ said my father. ‘But,’ he added, ‘his is one of those faces that look young until well on in years.’

  I was of an age at which young girls have not yet thought about men’s ages. A boy who, like me, was only fourteen years old would have seemed a mere child unworthy of my attention. My father did not seem old to me, and the duke, being younger than my father, seemed to me necessarily to be a young man. That was the idea I then formed and it helped subsequently to decide my fate.

  Then I asked what the murders were of which the duke had spoken.

  At this my father grew very grave, thought for a short while, and then said:

  ‘My dear Leonor, those events are closely related to the separation which you witnessed between your mother and me. I should perhaps not tell you about it, but sooner or later your curiosity might lead you to speculate. Rather than let your thoughts brood on a matter which is as delicate as it is distressing, I prefer to tell you about it myself.’

  After this preamble my father told me the story of his life, beginning as follows:

  THE MARQUÉS DE VAL FLORIDA’S STORY

  You know that your mother was the last member of the house of Astorgas. That house and the house of Val Florida are the most ancient houses in Asturias. It was by the general wish of the province that I was betrothed to Señora de Astorgas. We had accustomed ourselves early to the idea and the feelings we had formed for one another were such as to ensure a happy marriage. Circumstances delayed our union, however, and I only married when I reached the age of twenty-five.

  Six weeks after our wedding I told my wife that as all my ancestors had embraced the profession of arms I believed myself obliged by honour to follow their example, and, besides, there were many garrisons in Spain where we could pass the time more agreeably than in Asturias. Señora de Val Florida replied that she would always be at one with me in matters in which I might think my honour to be involved. So it was decided that I should serve. I wrote to the court and obtained a company of horse in the regiment of Medina Sidonia; it was garrisoned at Barcelona, where you were born.

  War broke out. We were sent to Portugal where we were to join up with the army of Don Sancho de Saavedra. This general opened hostilities at the famous skirmish of Vila Marga. Our regiment, at that time the strongest in the army, was ordered to wipe out the English troops who formed the enemy’s left wing. Twice we threw ourselves at them without success, and were preparing to attack for a third time when an unknown officer appeared before us. He was in the first flush of youth and dressed in shining armour. ‘Follow me!’ he said. ‘I am your colonel, the Duke of Sidonia.’

  Indeed, he did well to identify himself because otherwise we might have taken him for the angel of battles or some other prince of the celestial host. His appearance really did have something divine about it.

  This time the English troops were routed and the triumph of the day belonged to our regiment. I had reason to believe that next to the duke it was I who distinguished himself most by his actions. At least I had a flattering indication that this was so, in that my illustrious colonel did me the honour of asking me to be his friend.

  It was no vain compliment on his part. We became real friends, wi
thout this friendship in the duke’s case taking on any sign of patronage or in mine any hint of inferiority. Spaniards are criticized for a sort of gravity that they bring to their manner of behaviour, but it is by avoiding familiarity that we are able to be proud without arrogance, and combine deference with nobility.

  After the victory of Vila Marga there were several promotions. The duke was made a general; I was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel and to be first adjutant to the general. We were given the dangerous mission of stopping the enemy crossing the Douro river. The duke took up a position which gave him a fair advantage and held it for a long time. Eventually the whole English army advanced towards us. But even this overwhelming superiority did not cause us to retreat. There was a terrible carnage which would have ended with our being wiped out if a certain van Berg, the commander of the Walloon companies, had not unexpectedly come to our aid with three thousand men. He performed remarkable feats of bravery and not only averted the danger but left us masters of the field. In spite of that, we soon fell back to join the main body of the army.

  When we, together with the Walloons, struck camp, the duke approached me and said, ‘My dear Val Florida, the most appropriate number for a friendship is, I know, the number two. It cannot be exceeded without breaking its sacred laws, yet I think that the outstanding service which van Berg has done us justifies an exception being made. We owe him, I think, the offer of both our friendships, which would make him a third in the bond that unites us.’

  I agreed with the duke, who then went to see van Berg and offered him friendship with a gravity which reflected the importance he attached to the title of friend. Van Berg seemed taken aback by this.

  ‘Señor duque,’ he said, ‘Your Excellency does me great honour, but I am in the habit of getting drunk most days. Whenever by chance I am not drunk, I gamble as heavily as I can. If Your Excellency hasn’t the same habits I don’t believe that our bond of friendship would last very long.’