by Jan Potocki
‘When this thought appears most eminently benevolent it is called Osiris.
‘We look upon God as one, but the huge number of beneficial dealings that God deigns to have with us leads us to think that we can without impiety look upon Him as many, for He is indeed multiple as well as immensely diverse in the qualities which we can perceive.
‘As for demons, we believe that each of us has two: a good one and a bad one. The souls of heroes are of a similar nature to demons, especially those who are foremost in the spiritual order.
‘The nature of gods can be compared to ether, the nature of heroes and demons to air, and simple souls seem to us to have something material about them. Divine providence is compared by us to light, which fills all the space of the universe.
‘Ancient traditions speak of angelic powers, or powers of annunciation, whose task it is to transmit the orders of God and of other higher powers, which hellenizing Jews call archontoi, or archangels.
‘Those among us who have been ordained priests believe that they have the power to summon up the real presence of gods, demons, angels, heroes and spirits. But such theurgy cannot be brought about without the order of the universe being disturbed in some way. When gods descend to earth the sun or moon hides for a short time from the sight of mortals.
‘Archangels are surrounded by a more dazzling light than that of angels. The spirits of heroes have less brilliance than that of angels but more than that of simple mortals, which are dimmed by the effects of shadow. The princes of the Zodiac appear in very majestic shapes. There is also an infinite number of special circumstances which accompany the apparition of these different beings and are a means of distinguishing one from another. Evil demons, for example, can be recognized by the malign influence which never leaves them.
‘As for idols, we believe that if they are made under certain celestial conjunctions and accompanied by certain theurgic ceremonies, some part of the divine essence can be brought down into them. But this art is so delusory and so unworthy of true knowledge of God that we leave it to a much lower order of priests than that to which I have the honour of belonging.
‘When one of our priests invokes the gods he somehow makes himself part of their essence. For all that, he does not cease being human; but the divine nature dwells in him to a certain degree. He is united in some way with his God. When he is in this state, he finds it easy to hold sway over animal or terrestrial demons and to cause them to leave the bodies they have entered.
‘By mixing together stones, herbs and animal matter, our priests sometimes create a compound worthy of receiving the divinity, but prayer is the true bond which unites the priest with his God.
‘All these rites and dogmas which I have explained to you are not attributed by us to Thoth, or the Third Mercury, who lived in the reign of Ozymandias. Their real author, according to us, is Bytis the prophet, who lived some two thousand years earlier and who explained the opinions of the First Mercury. But as I have already told you, time has changed and added to them, and I do not believe that this ancient religion has come down to us unadulterated.
‘Finally, to hide nothing from you, our priests sometimes dare to utter threats to the gods. On these occasions during the sacrifice they say:
‘“If you do not give me what I ask of you, I will reveal what Isis most jealously hides. I will disclose the secrets of the abyss. I will break open the casket of Osiris and scatter his members.”
‘I will confess to you that I do not approve of these formulae and Chaldeans abstain from them completely.’
As Chæremon reached this point in his lesson the acolyte struck midnight; and as you are now close to your resting-place please allow me to stop now and continue my story tomorrow.
The Wandering Jew went off, and Velásquez declared to us that he had learnt nothing new, and that all that we had heard was in the work of Jamblichus. ‘It’s a book I have read very carefully,’ he said, ‘and I have never understood why the critics who have taken Porphyry’s letter to the Egyptian Anebon to be genuine consider the reply made by the Egyptian Abammon to have been made up by Porphyry. On the contrary, it seems to me that Porphyry had done nothing other than incorporate Abammon’s reply into his work, adding a few observations on Greek philosophers and on Chaldeans.’2
‘Be that as it may as far as Anebon and Abammon are concerned,’ said Uzeda, ‘I assure you that the Jew has only told you the pure truth.’
We reached the resting-place. We made a light meal and the gypsy, having nothing else to do, began his story again:
THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED
When young Soarez had told me about the way the conversation in the garden ended, he seemed to be in need of sleep. Rest was necessary for the recovery of his health so I left him free to enjoy it. But the following night he began his story again:
LOPE SOAREZ’S STORY CONTINUED
I left the Buen Retiro, my heart full of love for the beautiful stranger and full of indignation towards Busqueros. As the next day was Sunday, I thought that by going to all the churches in turn I might meet the lady of my thoughts. I visited three in vain but I found her in the fourth. When Mass was over, she left the church and, deliberately passing close to me, said to me, ‘The portrait was of my brother.’
She had already gone by but I was still transfixed to the spot, entranced by those few words I had heard. Indeed the care she had taken to set my mind at rest could only arise from a burgeoning interest in me.
Back in my inn I ordered dinner to be brought and hoped that Busqueros would not appear. But he came in with the soup and said, ‘Señor Don Lope, I have turned down twenty invitations, but as I have told you I am utterly devoted to serving your lordship.’
I was very tempted to say something disagreeable to Señor Don Roque, but I remembered my father’s order that I should not draw my sword and thought that I must avoid a quarrel for that reason.
Busqueros had a place laid for himself, sat down and then said to me in a highly self-satisfied and smug way, ‘You must agree, Señor Don Lope, that I did you a great service yesterday. Without apparently intending to, I let the lady know that you were the son of a rich merchant. She pretended to feel great anger but it was to convince you that her heart was unmoved by the lure of wealth. Don’t believe it, Señor Don Lope. You are young and have some wit and a handsome face. But when you are loved by another, money will play its part in it. But in my case, as it happens, that is not to be feared. When people like me, they like me for what I am, and I have never inspired passions in which self-interest played a part.’
Busqueros went on and on in the same vein, and when he had finished his meal he left. That evening I went to the Buen Retiro with a secret premonition that I would not see the pretty stranger there. And indeed she did not come but Busqueros did, and stayed with me the whole evening.
The next day he came to dine and, as he departed, he told me that he would join me at the Buen Retiro. I told him I would not be going there and, when evening came, as I was quite convinced he would not believe what I said, I hid in a shop on the way to the Buen Retiro. I had not been there long when I saw Busqueros go by. He went to the Buen Retiro, did not find me there and I saw him come away again. Then I went there myself. I took several turns around the garden and at last the pretty stranger appeared. I greeted her in a respectful way, which did not seem to displease her. I did not know whether I should thank her for what she had said to me in church.
She decided herself to save me from my predicament. Smilingly, she said, ‘You claim that one has the right to a reward when one has found an object which has been lost. And for having found this portrait you wanted to know what my connection was with its subject. Now you know it, so don’t ask me more unless you find some other piece of property which belongs to me. For in that case you would have a right perhaps to further rewards. It is not, however, proper that we should often be seen to walk together. Farewell. I do not forbid you to accost me when you have something to sa
y to me.’
The girl then bade me farewell graciously, to which I replied with a deep bow. After that, I directed my steps to a nearby path parallel with the walk I had just left, towards which I allowed my eyes to stray. The stranger herself took a few more turns before leaving the garden, and in stepping into her carriage, she threw me a last glance in which I thought I could detect some benevolence.
The next morning I was still imbued by the same feeling, and was thinking all the while about how it might develop. It seemed that the moment might not be far off when the beautiful Inés would accord me the right to write to her. As I had never written any love-letters I thought it appropriate to practise so as to catch the style. So I put my hand to my pen and wrote the following letter:
Lope Soarez to Inés.
My trembling hand, in concert with the timidity of my feelings, is not able to form the letters of these words. And indeed what can they express? What mortal can write to love’s dictation? No pen can follow it.
I would like to convey my thoughts on this paper but they flee and wander off into the groves of the Buen Retire. They linger on the sand bearing the imprint of your foot and cannot tear themselves away.
Is this garden of our kings really as beautiful as it seems to me? No – its charm is surely in my eyes and it is you who have put it there. And would this place ever be deserted if others saw the beauties that I have found there?
In this garden the grass is more fresh, the jasmine strains to breathe out its perfume, and the grove where you have passed, jealous of its amorous shade, resists with ever greater vigour the burning rays of the noonday. And all you did was to pass. What will you do in this heart of mine in which you dwell?
Having finished this epistle, I read it back and found it to be full of extravagance. I didn’t therefore want either to present it or to send it, but so as to indulge an agreeable day-dream I sealed it and wrote on it, ‘To fair Inés…’ Then I threw the letter in a drawer.
That evening I felt like going out. I wandered the streets of Madrid and, passing by the Inn of the White Lion, thought that it would be pleasant to dine there and thus avoid the accursed Busqueros. So I took my meal there and returned afterwards to my inn. I opened the drawer where I had put my amorous epistle. I could not find it. I asked my servants about it: they said that no one other than Busqueros had come. I was sure that he had taken it and I was very worried about what he would do with it. That evening I did not go directly to the Buen Retire but lay in waiting in the same shop in which I had been before. Soon the carriage of the fair Inés appeared, with Busqueros running after it, waving a letter he had in his hand. He made so much fuss with his gestures and cries that the carriage was stopped, and he took advantage of this to place the letter into the very hands of the addressee. Then the carriage went on its way towards the Buen Retiro and Busqueros went on his.
I did not know how this scene would end and walked on slowly towards the garden. There I found fair Inés sitting with her companion on a bench set in front of a bower.
She indicated that I should approach her and invited me to sit down. Then she said, ‘Señor, it is necessary that I speak frankly to you. First, I beg you to tell me why you have written to me such absurdities. Then, why did you give them to that man whose brazenness greatly displeased me, as you were able to witness?’
‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘it is indeed true that I wrote that letter to you but I did not intend you to be given it. I wrote it for the pleasure of writing it and then I placed it in a drawer, whence it was taken by the detestable Busqueros, who has been the bane of my life since my arrival in Madrid.’
Inés started to laugh and read my letter with an indulgent air. Then she said to me, ‘Your name is Don Lope Soarez? Are you related to the great and rich merchant of Cadiz?’
I replied that I was his very son.
Inés then spoke of unimportant matters and went back to her carriage. Before stepping in, she said to me, ‘It is not proper that I should keep such absurdities so I shall give them back to you. But do not lose them, for I may ask you for them back one day.’ And in giving me back my letter Inés squeezed my hand.
Until then no woman had squeezed my hand. I knew of examples of this in novels, but I had not been able accurately to assess what pleasure it produced simply by reading about it. I found this way of expressing one’s feelings quite charming and returned to my inn the happiest of men.
The next day Busqueros again did me the honour of dining with me. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the letter reached its destination. I can see from the way you look that it made a good impression.’
I was forced to agree that I had some obligation towards him.
Towards evening I went to the Buen Retiro and on going in saw Inés, who was about fifty paces ahead of me. She was without her companion and was followed a long way behind by a lackey. She turned, then continued to walk on, then let her fan fall to the ground. I took it back to her and she accepted it graciously and said, ‘I promised you an honourable reward whenever you bring back to me some lost possession. Let us sit on that bench and settle this great affair.’
She led me to the same bench which we had sat on the evening before and said to me, ‘Well, when you brought back this portrait you learnt that it was that of my brother. What do you wish to know now?’
‘Oh Señora,’ I replied, ‘I want to know who you are, what you are called and to whom you are related.’
‘Listen,’ said Inés to me, ‘you might be led to believe that your riches are such as to dazzle me, but you will banish this thought when you discover that I am the daughter of a man as rich as your father, Moro the banker.’
‘Heavens above!’ I cried. ‘Have I heard correctly? Oh Señora, I am the unhappiest of men. I may not think of you without incurring my father’s curse and that of my grandfather and my great-grandfather, Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house in Cadiz. All that remains for me is to die.’
At that moment Busqueros stuck his head out of the bower against which our bench was set and, placing it between Inés and myself, he said to her, ‘Don’t believe a word of it, Señora. He always uses this trick when he wants to get rid of someone. As he wasn’t keen on making my acquaintance, he alleged that his father had forbidden him to frequent the nobility. Now he’s afraid of upsetting his great-grandfather, Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house in Cadiz. Don’t be put off, Señora, little Croesuses like him always find it difficult to take the bait, but they have to in the end.’
Inés stood up with a look of extreme indignation and made her way to her carriage.
As the gypsy reached this point in his story, someone came and interrupted him and we did not see him again that evening.
The Thirty-fifth Day
We mounted our horses again and set off into the mountains. After about an hour’s ride the Wandering Jew appeared. He took his usual place between Velásquez and me and continued his story as follows:
THE WANDERING JEW’S STORY CONTINUED
The following night the venerable Chæremon received us with his usual kindness and spoke to us as follows:
‘The many matters which I dealt with yesterday did not allow me to tell you about a dogma which is universally received among us and which enjoys even greater fame among the Greeks, thanks to the vogue given to it by Plato. I am referring to the belief in the logos or divine wisdom which we sometimes call Mander, sometimes Meth and sometimes Thoth, or persuasion.
‘There is another dogma which I want to mention to you. It was established by one of the three Thoths, called Trismegistus, or Thrice Great, because he had thought of the divinity as being divided between three great powers: God Himself, to whom he gave the name of father, the word and the spirit.
‘Such are our dogmas. As for our precepts, they are just as pure, especially for us priests. The exercise of virtue, fasting and prayer is what goes to make up our lives.
‘Th
e vegetarian diet to which we restrict ourselves, makes the blood which flows in our veins less easily inflamed and we have less difficulty in controlling our passions. The priests of Apis abstain altogether from intercourse with women.
‘Such today is our religion. It differs from the ancient religions in several important ways, including metempsychosis, which has few adherents today although it had many followers seven hundred years ago, when Pythagoras visited our country. Our ancient mythology also makes much of the gods of the planets, known as guardians. But today this doctrine has been left to those who cast horoscopes. As I told you, religions change like everything else in this world.
‘It only remains for me to speak to you about our holy mysteries. I will tell you all that you need to know about them. First, you can be sure that if you were initiated you would not know more about the origins of our mythology. Open the histories of Herodotus: he was initiated and boasts about it on every page; yet he investigated the origins of the gods of Greece as someone who knew no more than the common people.
‘What he calls sacred discourse has nothing to do with history. It is what the” Romans call “turpiloquens”, or speaking indecently. To every initiate a story is told which is shocking to ordinary ideas of decency. At Eleusis it is about Baubo, who received Ceres in her house. In Phrygia it is about Bacchus’s loves.
‘In Egypt we believe this turpitude to be an emblem which indicates to what extent the essence of matter is vile in itself, and we learn no more than this from it. A famous consul called Cicero has just written a book on the nature of the gods.1 He admits that he does not know where Italy got its religious cult from. And yet he was an augur and hence initiated into all the mysteries of the Etruscan religion. The ignorance which is apparent in all works of initiates shows you that initiation does not lead us to know more about the origins of our religion. All that is indeed very ancient. On the bas-relief of Ozymandias you can see a procession of Osiris. The cult of Apis and Mnevis2 was introduced into Egypt by Bacchus more than three thousand years ago.
