by Jan Potocki
This reply at first took the duke aback, then it made him laugh. He assured van Berg of his complete esteem and promised to use his influence at court to procure for him a handsome reward. But van Berg wanted recompense in the form of money. The duke left for Madrid and obtained for our rescuer the barony of Deulen in the proximity of Malines. Van Berg sold it that very day to Walter van Dyck, a citizen of Amsterdam and a victualler of the army.
So it was that everyone prepared to spend the winter in Coimbra, one of the most important cities of Portugal. Señora de Val Florida came and joined me there. She enjoyed polite society and I willingly opened my house to the highest ranking officers of the army, but the duke and I took little part in the tumultuous social life. All our moments were filled with serious pursuits. Virtue was the idol of the young Duke of Sidonia. The public good was his dream. We made a special study of Spain’s constitution, forming many plans for her future prosperity. To make her people good, we first decided to make them love virtue and then abandon their self-interest, which seemed to us a very easy task. We also wanted to revive the old chivalric spirit. A Spaniard, we thought, must be as faithful to his wife as to his king, and everyone must have a brother-in-arms. We were not far from thinking that one day the world would talk about our friendship, and that through our example men of honour forming similar unions would in future find the paths of virtue less arduous and more secure.
My dear Leonor, I would feel ashamed to tell you about such absurdities but it has long been observed that young gentlemen who have strayed into excessive zeal may in the fullness of time become great and valuable persons. On the other hand, youthful Catos, once age has cooled their ardour, can never rise above the strict calculations of self-interest. Their minds are circumscribed by their souls, which makes them wholly incapable of those thoughts which constitute the statesman or the man who serves his fellow-men. This rule admits few exceptions.
Thus, by giving our imagination free rein to pursue its virtuous objects, the duke and I hoped to bring about in Spain the reign of Saturn and Rhea. Meanwhile, however, van Berg was actually bringing back the age of gold. He had sold his barony of Deulen and had received eight hundred thousand livres in ready money for it. Then he had declared and sworn on his word of honour not only to spend all his money during the two months of our winter quarters but also to run up debts of a hundred thousand francs. Our prodigal Fleming then found that to keep his word he had to spend about one thousand four hundred pistoles a day, which wasn’t all that easy in a city like Coimbra. He was afraid that he had given his word incautiously. It was suggested to him that he could use part of his money to help the poor and bring people happiness, but van Berg rejected this idea, saying that he had sworn to spend the money, not give it away. It was a point of honour with him not to use it on benefactions. Gambling didn’t even count because he had the chance of winning, and losing money was not the same as spending it.
This cruel dilemma seemed to upset van Berg. For several days he seemed preoccupied. Finally he discovered a way which, so it seemed to him, did not compromise his honour. He brought together all the available cooks, musicians, actors and others who made their living from pleasurable pursuits. He gave feasts in the morning and put on plays in the evening. Fairs were held in front of his house, and if in spite of all his efforts, the one thousand four hundred pistoles had not been spent, he threw the rest out of the window, declaring that such an act was not against the laws of prodigality.
As soon as van Berg had managed in this way to appease his conscience, he recovered all his cheerfulness. He had a fund of native wit and used any amount of it to defend his bizarre behaviour, which was attacked from all quarters. This defence, which he often repeated, lent his conversation an air of brilliance which distinguished it from that of us Spaniards, who were all very reserved and grave.
Van Berg often visited me together with all the other high-ranking officers. He also came at times when I was not there. I knew this and did not take offence at it. I thought that his excessive self-confidence led him to believe that he was welcome everywhere at any time of day. The general public were more clear-sighted than I, and it was not long before rumours began to circulate which were injurious to my honour. I did not know of them but the duke had been told. He knew how much I was attached to my wife, and his friendship for me made him suffer vicariously in my place.
One morning the duke went to see Señora de Val Florida, threw himself at her knees and begged her to remember her duty and to refuse to receive van Berg at moments when she was alone. I don’t know exactly what reply he received but van Berg dropped by that morning and no doubt was told of the exhortations to virtue which Señora de Val Florida had been given. The duke went to see van Berg, intending to speak to him in the same way and to bring him back to a more virtuous frame of mind. He found that he was out and came back after dinner. Van Berg’s rooms were filled with visitors but van Berg himself was alone, sitting at a gaming-table, shaking dice in a cup. I was there too, talking to young Fonseca, the duke’s brother-in-law and the much-adored husband of a sister of whom the duke was very fond.
Sidonia accosted van Berg in a friendly way and asked him with a laugh how his spending was going.
Van Berg gave him a look of anger and said, ‘I spend my money to receive friends, not dishonourable people who interfere in affairs which do not concern them.’
Some of those present heard this exchange.
‘Is it I,’ said the duke, ‘who is being called dishonourable? Van Berg, take back what you have said.’
‘I don’t take anything back,’ said van Berg.
The duke knelt and said, ‘Van Berg, you did me a very great service. Why do you want now to deprive me of my honour? I beg you, recognize me as a man of honour.’
Van Berg uttered the word ‘coward’.
The duke rose calmly, drew his dagger from his belt, put it on the table and said, ‘This affair cannot be settled by an ordinary duel. One of us must die, the sooner the better. We will each throw the dice in turn. The one who obtains the higher score will take up the dagger and plunge it into the heart of the other.’
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed van Berg. ‘Now that’s what I call a serious gamble; but I swear that if I win I shall not spare Your Excellency.’
Those looking on were transfixed with terror.
Van Berg picked up the cup and threw two twos. ‘The devil!’ he cried. ‘It seems that I am out of luck.’
Then the duke shook the cup and threw a five and a six. He picked up the dagger, plunged it into van Berg’s chest, turned to those who had witnessed the scene and said, ‘Señores, I ask you to pay homage for the last time to this young gentleman, who, for his heroic courage, deserved a better fate. As for me, I shall go at once to the commissioner-general of armies to place myself at the mercy of the king’s justice.’
You can imagine the stir caused by this incident. Not only the Spaniards, but even our enemies the Portuguese, held the duke in high esteem. When the news reached Lisbon the archbishop of that city, who was also patriarch of the Indies, established that the house where the duke was detained belonged to the chapter of the cathedral and had always been held to be a place of inviolable sanctuary, so that the duke could stay there without fearing the force of secular authority. The duke was deeply moved by this act of solicitude, but declared that he did not intend to take advantage of this privilege.
The commissioner-general indicted the duke, but the Council of Castile decided to intervene whatever the outcome. Furthermore, the High Marshal of Aragon, whose army had just been disbanded, claimed that it fell to him alone to judge the duke, since he had been born in his province and belonged to the ancient order of Ricos Hombres. In short, a number of persons fought for the privilege of saving the duke.
In all this turmoil I pondered long and hard what might have given rise to the quarrel between the duke and van Berg, and asked everyone about it. In the end a charitable soul took pity on me and informed
me of what I would have preferred not to have known.
I had been convinced – why, I do not know – that my wife could feel affection only for me. It was some days before I could be persuaded to the contrary. In the end, having been enlightened by other circumstances, I went to see Señora de Val Florida and said to her:
‘Señora, I have been informed by letter that your father is not well. I think it would be fitting for you to be at his side. Your daughter in any case requires your attention and I think that from now on you will have to live in Asturias.’
Señora de Val Florida lowered her eyes and accepted her sentence with resignation. You know how we have since lived. Your mother had many estimable qualities and even virtues, which I have always recognized.
Meanwhile the trial of the duke took a strange turn. Walloon officers turned it into a national issue. They claimed that since Spanish grandees felt at liberty to murder Flemings, they found themselves obliged to leave the service of Spain. The Spaniards replied that it was a matter of a duel, not an assassination. It reached the point where the king appointed a commission of twelve Spaniards and twelve Flemings, not to sit in judgement on the duke but to determine whether van Berg had been killed in a duel or had been murdered.
The Spanish officers voted first, and, as one might suppose, favoured the hypothesis of a duel. Eleven Flemings were of the opposite opinion. They did not justify their view but made a great deal of noise about it.
The twelfth, who, being the youngest, voted last, had already made a name for himself in affairs of honour. He was called Don Juan van Worden.
Here I interrupted the gypsy to say, ‘I have the honour of being van Worden’s son and I hope that there is nothing in your story liable to slight his honour.’
‘I assure you,’ replied the gypsy, ‘that I will faithfully record the words that the Marqués de Val Florida uttered to his daughter.’
When it was the turn of Don Juan van Worden to cast his vote, he spoke and said, ‘Gentlemen, I think there are two aspects of a duel which define its essence. First, the challenge, or in its place, the encounter; second, the equality of arms, or if not that, equal chances of killing the adversary. Thus, for example, a man armed with a musket could be opposed to another who only had a pistol, provided that the first fired from a distance of a hundred paces and the second from four paces, and on the condition that it had been settled in advance who should have the first shot. In the present case the same arm was at the disposal of both. No greater equality of arms could be required. The dice were not loaded so they had an equal chance of killing each other. So there is no objection to be made on that score. Finally, the challenge was clearly made and accepted by both parties.
‘I confess that it is with great regret that I find the duel – that most noble of combats – reduced in this case to chance, to one of those games which gentlemen should only engage in with extreme discretion. But following the principles I have set out it seems to me indisputable that the affair which we must consider is a duel and not a murder.
‘It is my conviction which makes me speak in this way, although I hate having to contradict the opinion of my eleven comrades. Being almost certain of having the misfortune of having lost their affection, and in the hope of forestalling in the least violent manner any manifestation of their displeasure, I ask all eleven of them to do me the honour of duelling with me, six tomorrow morning and five tomorrow afternoon.’
This argument gave rise to a general murmuring but the challenge had, in propriety, to be taken up. Van Worden wounded the first six, who came in the morning. He then began on the last five. The first three were wounded by van Worden, the tenth wounded him in the shoulder and the eleventh ran him through and left him for dead.
A skilful surgeon saved van Worden’s life. After this, there was no more talk of commission or trial and the king pardoned the Duke of Sidonia.
War began again in the spring and we waged it honourably, although no longer with the same spirit as before. We had felt the first stirrings of unhappiness. The duke had had a great deal of respect for van Berg’s courage and military talents. He accused himself of having been excessively concerned about my peace of mind, which he had troubled in so cruel a way. He learned that it was not enough to do good, one had to know how to do it. As for me, like many husbands I locked my sufferings inside myself, only to feel them all the more acutely. We made no more plans for Spain’s prosperity.
At last, Don Luis de Haro negotiated the famous Paix des Pyrénées.2 The duke decided to travel. Together we visited Italy, France and England. On our return, my noble friend was admitted to the Council of Castile and I was made recorder to the same council.
Travel and growing age had given maturity to the duke’s mind. Not only had he renounced the ill-judged virtue of his youth but he had acquired a high degree of prudence. The public good was no longer his dream, it was his passion. He knew, however, that one cannot achieve everything at once; that it was necessary to predispose men’s minds to accept things, and to hide carefully one’s means and one’s ends. His caution was such that at the council he seemed never to have an opinion of his own but always to follow that of others. Yet it was he who had inspired those opinions. The care the duke took to hide his talents and to stop others seeing them only served to make them more conspicuous. The Spanish people sensed them and loved him for them. The court became jealous of them. The duke was offered the embassy in Lisbon. He realized that he would not be allowed to refuse the offer so he accepted, on condition that I was made secretary of state.
Since then I have not seen him. But our hearts remain united.
When the gypsy chief reached this point in his story, someone came to tell him that his presence was required for business concerning his band. As soon as he left, Velásquez spoke and said, ‘I have tried in vain to concentrate all my attention on the gypsy chief’s words but I am unable to discover any coherence whatsoever in them. I do not know who is speaking and who is listening. Sometimes the Marqués de Val Florida is telling the story of his life to his daughter, sometimes it is she who is relating it to the gypsy chief, who in turn is repeating it to us. It is a veritable labyrinth. I had always thought that novels and other works of that kind should be written in several columns like chronological tables.’
‘You are right,’ said Rebecca. ‘One would find in one column, for example, the story of the Marquesa de Val Florida being unfaithful to her husband, in the other the effects this event had on him. That would no doubt clarify the story.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ replied Velásquez. ‘Take the example of the Duke of Sidonia, whose character I am about to find out about although I have already seen him laid out dead on his bier. Wouldn’t it be better to start with the war in Portugal? I could then find in the second column Dr Sangre Moreno thinking about the medical arts, and so would not be surprised by his odd behaviour.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ interrupted Rebecca. ‘Continual surprises don’t keep one’s interest in the story alive. One can never foresee what will happen subsequently.’
I then spoke, and said that my father was very young during the war in Portugal and that the intelligence he had shown in the affair of the Duke of Medina Sidonia was to be admired.
‘That is indisputable,’ said Rebecca. ‘If your father hadn’t duelled with eleven officers a quarrel might well have arisen. This he did very well to avoid.’
It seemed to me that Rebecca was making fun of all of us. I detected in her character an element of mockery and scepticism. ‘Who knows,’ I wondered, ‘whether she might not relate to us adventures quite different from the story of the heavenly twins?’ And I decided to ask her to one day. Meanwhile the time had come to disperse, and we all went on our own ways.
The Twenty-ninth Day
We reassembled early and as the gypsy chief was free, he took up once more the story of his adventures:
THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED
After telling me the story of he
r father, the Duchess of Sidonia did not come for several days. It was la Girona who brought me my basket. She also told me that my affair had been settled, thanks to my Theatine great-uncle on my mother’s side, Fray Gerónimo Sántez. The fact that I had got off was generally well received. The decree of the Inquisition spoke only of imprudence and of two years’ penance. I was only referred to by the initial letters of my name. La Girona passed on a message from aunt Dalanosa that I had to remain in hiding for the two years and that she would return to Madrid, where she would set about securing the income from the quinta, that is, the farm which had been assigned to me.
I asked la Girona if she thought I ought to spend the two years in the vault where I presently was. She replied that that would be safest and that in any case precautions had to be taken for her own safety.
The next day it was the duchess who came. I was delighted because I liked her better than her haughty nurse. I also was keen to hear more of her story. I asked her to continue, which she did as follows:
THE DUCHESS OF MEDINA SIDONIA’S STORY CONTINUED
I thanked my father for the trust he had shown me in telling me about the most remarkable happenings of his life, and the following Friday I again handed him the letter of the Duke of Sidonia. He did not read it to me any more than he did those which he subsequently received. But he spoke to me about his friend and I realized that no conversation interested him as much as this.
Some time later I received the visit of a lady who was an officer’s widow. Her father had been born a vassal of the duke, and she was claiming a fief which was in the jurisdiction of the Duchy of Sidonia. Bestowing patronage had never happened to me before. I was flattered by this chance to do so. I wrote a memorandum in which I proved the widow’s rights clearly and precisely. I took it to my father, who was pleased with it and sent it to the duke, as I had foreseen. The duke recognized the widow’s claim and wrote me a letter full of compliments on my precocious intellectual powers.
