The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  O my God, father of all, you show yourself to your own

  You are the holy one who has made everything by your word

  You are the holy one of whom nature is the image

  You are the holy one whom nature has not created

  You are the holy one more powerful than any power

  You are the holy one higher than any height

  You are the holy one better than any praise

  Receive the sacrifice of thanks of my heart and my tongue

  You are ineffable and in silence do you speak to us

  You have abolished the errors which are contrary to true knowledge

  Commend me, strengthen me and extend your grace to those who are in ignorance as well as to those who know you and are thereby my brothers and your children.

  I believe in you and openly acknowledge my belief

  I rise to life and light

  I desire to share in your holiness; and it is you who inspires this desire in me.

  When Chæremon had finished his prayer he turned to me and said, ‘My child, you see that we acknowledge as you do a God who created the world by his word. The prayer you have just heard is taken from the Pimander, a book we attribute to the thrice-great Thoth, whose works are carried in procession at all our feasts.2 We possess twenty-six thousand codices which are taken as having been written by this philosopher, who lived two thousand years ago, but since only our priests are allowed to make copies of them it is possible that they have added much. Besides, the writings of Thoth are full of obscure and subtle metaphysics which has given rise to very divergent interpretations. I shall therefore limit myself to instructing you in the most generally accepted dogmas, which are more or less consistent with those of the Chaldeans. Like everything in this world, religions are subject to a slow, continuous force which tends continually to change their form and nature, with the result that after some centuries a religion that is still thought of as the same ends up by offering different things for men to put their faith in: allegories whose meaning has been lost, dogmas which no longer are fully believed.

  ‘I cannot therefore assure you that I will teach you the old religion whose ceremonies you can still see depicted on the bas-relief of Ozymandias3 at Thebes. But I will transmit to you the lessons of those who taught me in the way I give them to my pupils.

  ‘The first thing I will recommend to you is not to become attached to any image or emblem, but to strive to grasp the spirit of all such things. Thus, earth represents all that is material, and a god sitting on a lotus leaf floating on mud represents thought, which rests on matter without touching it. This is the emblem your lawgiver used when he said that the spirit of God was borne on the waters. It is claimed that Moses was brought up by priests in the town of On or Heliopolis; and your rites are in fact very similar to ours. Like you, we have priestly families and prophets, circumcision is practised, pork is not eaten and there are many other similarities.’

  When Chæremon had reached this point in his lesson, an acolyte of the cult of Isis struck the hour which marked the middle of the night. Our master told us that religious duties called him to the temple and that we could come back at nightfall the next day.

  ‘And you will soon reach your resting-place,’ said the Wandering Jew. ‘Allow me therefore to put off the next part of my story until tomorrow.’

  After the wanderer had gone away, I reflected on what he had said to us, and I thought I detected in it the more or less blatant desire to weaken our religious principles and thereby to abet the plans of those who wanted me to change mine. But I knew very well what course honour prescribed for me in this respect and that however one went about it, it would be impossible to succeed.

  Meanwhile, we reached the resting-place. The meal took place in the usual way and then the gypsy chief, having nothing else to do, took up again the thread of his story:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  When young Soarez had finished the story of his house he seemed to want to rest, and as I knew sleep was very necessary for his recovery I asked him put off to the next night the sequel to his story. He did, in fact, sleep well, and the following night he seemed to me to be better. But seeing that he could not sleep, I asked him to continue his story, which he did as follows:

  LOPE SOAREZ’S STORY CONTINUED

  I have told you that my father had forbidden me to take the title of don, to draw my sword or to frequent the nobility, but above all else I had to have no contact with the house of Moro. I have also told you of the exclusive taste I had for reading novels. I took care to engrave in my memory the precepts of my father and then I went to all the booksellers in Cadiz to supply myself with works of this kind, promising myself great pleasure from them during my journey.

  At last I embarked on a pink, and it was with no little satisfaction that I left our little, arid, dusty, scorched island. On the other hand, I was entranced by the flowery banks of the river Andalusia. I sailed into the Guadalquivir and landed at Seville. I only stayed in that city as long as it was necessary to find muleteers. One presented himself with a reasonably comfortable coach instead of the usual chaise. I chose him and, having filled my carriage with the novels I had bought in Cadiz, I left for Madrid.

  The pretty countryside through which one passes as far as Córdoba, the picturesque sights of the Sierra Morena, the pastoral ways of the inhabitants of La Mancha, all that met my eyes added to the effect of my favourite reading. My soul became more sensitive and I nourished it with exalted and elegant sentiments. In short, I can tell you that as I arrived in Madrid I was already madly in love without having a particular object yet to be in love with. On reaching the capital I stayed at the Cross of Malta. It was midday and the table was soon laid for me. Then I put away my belongings as is usual for travellers to do when they take possession of a room at an inn. I heard and saw the handle of my door move. I went across and opened the door suddenly. I felt some resistance, which led me to believe that I had hit someone. And indeed I saw a quite well-dressed man behind my door, rubbing his nose, which had been grazed.

  ‘Señor Don Lope,’ the stranger said to me, ‘I heard in the inn that the honoured son of the famous Gaspar Soarez had arrived and I came to pay you my respects.’

  ‘Señor,’ I said, ‘if you had simply intended to come in, I would have given you a bump on the forehead with the door. But as you have got a grazed nose I think that you perhaps had your eye to the keyhole.’

  ‘Bravo!’ said the stranger. ‘Your intelligence is remarkably sharp. It is true that, wishing to make your acquaintance, I wanted in advance to get some idea of the sort of person you were. And I have been charmed by your noble way of walking round your room and putting away your belongings.’

  Having said this, the stranger entered my room without being invited and, continuing his discourse, said to me, ‘Señor Don Lope. You see in me the famous scion of the family of Busqueros of Old Castile, not to be confused with the other Busqueros who come from León. As for me, I am known by the name of Don Roque Busqueros. But from now on I want only to be known for the devotion with which I shall serve your lordship.’

  I then recalled the order of my father and said to him, ‘Señor Don Roque, I must tell you that when I took leave of Gaspar Soarez, whose son I am, he forbade me ever to allow myself to be given the title of “don”. He added to this prohibition that of never frequenting the nobility, by which your lordship will understand that it will no longer be possible for me to benefit from his obliging disposition.’

  At this, Busqueros looked very grave and said, ‘Señor Don Lope, your lordship has deeply embarrassed me by what he has said, for my own father on his deathbed commanded me always to call famous merchants by the title of “don” and to seek their company. Your lordship can thus see that he cannot obey his father without my having to contravene the last wishes of my own, and that however much you try to avoid my company I must try to my utmost to seek yours.’

  Busqueros’s arguments c
onfounded me. Besides, he looked very grave and, as my father had forbidden me to draw my sword, I had to do all I could to avoid quarrels.

  Meanwhile Don Roque had found some pieces of eight on my table which were worth eight Dutch ducats. ‘Señor Don Lope,’ he said. ‘I collect these pieces of eight and it so happens that I am missing those struck in the years I see you have here. You know what the craze for collecting is and I’m sure I shall delight you by offering you the opportunity of obliging me; or rather it is chance which offers you this opportunity, for I have all these pieces since the year 1707, when they were first struck, and it so happens that only these two are missing.’

  I made Don Roque a present of the two pieces of eight with an eagerness made greater by the thought that he would then go away; but that was not his intention.

  Busqueros looked grave and said to me, ‘Señor Don Lope, I think it would not be fitting for us to eat out of the same plate or be reduced to passing the spoon or fork one to the other. I shall therefore have a second place-setting brought.’

  Busqueros gave the necessary orders. Then we were served, and I had to admit that the conversation of my importunate guest was quite amusing, and that, but for the distress of having disobeyed my father I would have taken pleasure in having him at my table.

  Busqueros went away immediately he had finished his meal. I let the heat of the day go by and then had myself taken to the Prado. I marvelled at the beauty of the place but was impatient to see the Buen Retiro. This lonely walk is well known in our novels and some premonition told me that I too would find there the opportunity of forming a tender relationship.

  The sight of that beautiful garden delighted me more than I can say and I would have been for a long time lost in admiration of it if I had not been roused from my ecstasy by the sight of something which flashed in the grass a few yards from where I stood. I picked it up and saw it to be a portrait attached to a gold chain. The portrait was of a very handsome man and on the back of the medallion was a lock of hair held in a gold band on which these words had been engraved: ‘I am altogether yours, dear Inés.’ I put the piece of jewellery in my pocket and continued on my walk.

  Having returned to the same spot, I came across two women, of whom one – a very young and beautiful person – was searching the ground with the distressed look which one has when one has lost something. I had little difficulty guessing that she was looking for the portrait. I went up to her respectfully and said to her, ‘Señora, I think I may have found the object which you are looking for but prudence makes me hold on to it until you have been so kind as to give me some sort of description of it which will prove your ownership of it.’

  ‘Señor,’ said the pretty stranger, ‘I am looking for a portrait attached to a gold chain of which this is the remaining piece.’

  ‘But was there not some inscription with the portrait?’ I asked her.

  ‘There is one,’ said the stranger, blushing somewhat. ‘It would have told you that my name is Inés and that the subject of the portrait is altogether mine. Well, what is stopping you giving it back to me?’

  Señora,’ I said, ‘you have not told me in what way that happy mortal belongs to you.’

  ‘Señor,’ said the stranger, ‘I thought it was necessary to answer your scruples but not to satisfy your curiosity. And I don’t know what right you have to ask me such questions.’

  ‘My curiosity,’ I replied, ‘would more accurately have been called interest. As for my right to ask you such questions, I must point out to you that those who give back something which was lost usually receive an honourable reward. The reward I ask of you is to tell me what will perhaps make me the unhappiest of men.’

  The pretty stranger looked somewhat grave and said to me, ‘You are very bold for someone at their first meeting. It is not always the surest way to have a second. But I am willing to satisfy you on this point. The subject of the portrait is…’

  At that moment Busqueros emerged unexpectedly from a neighbouring walk and accosted us in a gallant way. ‘I compliment you, Señora,’ he said, ‘on getting to know the famous son of the richest merchant of Cadiz.’

  The girl’s features expressed very great indignation. ‘I did not think that I was the kind of person to be addressed without it being known who I am.’ Then, turning to me, she said, ‘Señor, please hand me back the portrait you found.’

  At that, she climbed into her coach and passed from our sight.

  Someone came to find the gypsy and he asked our permission to postpone telling us more of his story until the next day. When he had left us, the fair Jewess, now only called Laura, turned to Velásquez and said to him, ‘What is your opinion, Señor duque, about the exalted sentiments of young Soarez? Have you ever bothered to turn your mind to what is commonly called love?’

  ‘Señora,’ Velásquez replied, ‘my system embraces all of nature and therefore it must include all the feelings which she has put into the human heart. I have had to study and define all of them. I have been especially successful with love, for I have found it possible to express it in algebraic terms and, as you know, questions that can be approached through algebra yield solutions which are completely satisfactory.

  ‘Now let us suppose love to have a positive value marked by a plus sign; hate, which is the opposite of love, will have a minus sign; and indifference, which is no feeling at all, will be equal to zero.

  ‘If I multiply love by itself, whether I love love, or love to love love, I still have positive values, for a plus multiplied by a plus always makes a plus.

  ‘But if I hate hate, I come back to feelings of love or positive quantities, for a minus multiplied by a minus makes a plus. But if on the contrary I hate the hate of hate, I come back to feelings which are the opposite of love, that is to say, negative values, just as the cube of a minus is a minus.

  ‘As for the product of love and hate, or hate and love, they are always negative, just as are the products of a plus and a minus or a minus and a plus. So whether I hate love or love hate my feelings are always opposed to love. Can you think of any argument against my reasoning, fair Laura?’

  ‘None at all,’ said the Jewess, ‘and I am convinced that there is not a woman who would not yield when faced by such arguments.’

  ‘That wouldn’t suit me,’ continued Velásquez, ‘for in yielding so quickly she would lose track of the corollaries or consequences which can be drawn from my principles. So I’ll take my reasoning further. Since love and hate behave exactly like positive and negative values, it follows that I can write in the place of hate minus-love, which must not be confused with indifference, whose property is equal to zero.

  ‘Now let us examine the behaviour of lovers. They love each other, then they hate each other, then they hate the hate they felt; they love each other more than before, then the negative factor changes all these feelings to hate. Now it is impossible to fail to identify here the alternative powers of plus and minus. Finally, you hear that the lover has stabbed his mistress. You are in a quandary as to whether it is a product of love or hate. Well, just as in algebra, you will reach a plus or minus root x when the exponents are odd.

  ‘The truth of this is such that you will often see love beginning by a sort of aversion, a small negative value, that we can represent by a –b. This aversion will lead to a tiff, which we will represent by a –c. And the product of these two values will give +bc, that is to say, a positive value, a feeling of love.’

  At this, the person known as Laura de Uzeda interrupted Velásquez and said to him, ‘Señor duque, if I have understood you aright, love cannot be better represented than by the development of the powers of x – a, the latter being much less than x.’

  ‘Dear Laura,’ said Velásquez, ‘you have read my thoughts. Yes, entrancing creature, the formula of the binomial invented by the noble Don Newton must be our guide in our investigation of the human heart as in all other calculations.’

  We then dispersed. From then on it was easy to s
ee the fair Israelite had made a deep impression on the mind and heart of Velásquez. As he was a descendant of the Gomelez, just as I was, I did not doubt that the power that the charming creature had over him would be used to try to convert him to Islam. What happened subsequently will show that I was not wrong in my conjectures.

  The Thirty-fourth Day

  We were already in the saddle early in the morning. The Wandering Jew, who did not think that we would be able to leave so early, had taken himself far off. We waited for him a long time. At last he reappeared, took his place beside me and began as follows:

  THE WANDERING JEW’S STORY CONTINUED

  ‘Emblems have never prevented us from believing that there is a God above all others,’ Chæremon told us the next night. ‘Thoth’s text is clear on this point. This is what he says:

  This God is immobile and alone in his unity. He cannot be joined in thought nor can anything unite itself with Him. He is His own father and He is His own son and only father of God. He is the good; He is the source of all ideas and all elemental beings. This one God explains Himself by Himself because He is self-sufficient. He is the beginning, the God of Gods, the monad of unity and the origin of essence. And because He existed before thought He is called Noetarch.1

  So you see, my friends,’ continued Chæremon, ‘that it is impossible to have more lofty notions of the divinity than ours. But we have believed it possible to deify part of the attributes of God and a part of His dealings with us to make of them, as it were, so many divinities, or rather divine virtues.

  ‘So we call divine thought Emeph, and when it manifests itself in speech we call it Thoth (persuasion) or Ormeth (interpretation).

  The Thirty-fourth Day

  ‘When divine thought, the guardian of truth, descends to earth and unleashes its creative power, it is called Amun. When divine thought brings to this the aid of art, it is called Ptah or Vulcan.