The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  Finally, it only remains for me to tell you about my devout and quite exemplary neighbour, in whom my husband had so much confidence. Alas, this neighbour was the duke himself, and here he is with us in women’s clothing, which really suits him very well. I am still a faithful wife but I cannot bring myself to send away my dear Arcos, for I am not sure that I may not one day abandon my virtue, and if I decided to take a step down that road, I would like to have Arcos by me.

  Here Frasqueta ended her story, and the duke spoke up and said, ‘Señor Busqueros, it is not by chance that you have been taken into our confidence. It is important to hasten Cornádez’s journey. We even want him not to stick to a simple pilgrimage but to decide to do penance in some pious retreat. For this I shall need you and the four students at your disposal. I’ll explain my plan to you.’

  As Busqueros reached this point in his story, I noticed that the sun was on the point of setting, and the thought crossed my horrified mind that I might miss the rendezvous that charming Inés had given me. So I interrupted the storyteller and begged him to postpone to the next day the account of the Duke of Arcos’s intentions. Busqueros replied with his customary insolence, but I was beside myself with anger and said to him, ‘Busqueros, you loathsome man, prepare to rob me of the days, days which you fill with bitterness, or prepare to defend your own.’ At the same time I drew my sword and made him draw his.

  As my father had never let me handle a foil I didn’t know what to do with my sword. So I twirled it round and round in the air, which seemed to amaze my adversary. But then he feinted somehow and ran through my arm, and his point even wounded me in the shoulder.

  My sword fell from my hands and I was instantly bathed in my own blood. But the most distressing thing was that I was failing to keep my rendezvous and would not be able to discover the things that dear Inés wanted to tell me.

  As the gypsy reached this point in his story someone came to call him away. After he had gone, Velásquez said, ‘I was right to foresee that the stories of the gypsy would get entangled one with another. Frasqueta Salero has just told her story to Busqueros, who told it to Lope Soarez, who told it to the gypsy. I hope that the gypsy will tell us what became of fair Inés. But if he interpolates yet another story, I’ll fall out with him just as Soarez fell out with Busqueros. Meanwhile I don’t believe that our storyteller will be coming back this evening.’

  And indeed the gypsy did not reappear, and we all went to bed.

  The Thirty-sixth Day

  We set off again. The Wandering Jew soon joined us and continued his story as follows:

  THE WANDERING JEW’S STORY CONTINUED

  The lessons of wise Chæremon had much greater scope than the sort of résumé I have given of them. Their gist was that a prophet called Bytis had demonstrated in his works that God and angels exist, and that another prophet, called Thoth, had enveloped his ideas in very obscure and at the same time even more sublime-sounding metaphysics.

  In this theology God, who is called the father, was only praised in silence. However, when one wished to express to what degree He was self-sufficient one said, ‘He is his own father, He is his own son.’ He was also thought of in terms of son, and then He was called ‘Reason of God’ or Thoth, which in Egyptian means persuasion.

  Finally, as nature was thought to consist of spirit and matter, the spirit was looked upon as an emanation of God and He was represented as floating on mud, as I have told you elsewhere. The inventor of this metaphysics was called Thrice Great. Plato, who spent eighteen years in Egypt, took the doctrine of the Word back to the Greeks, which won him from them the epithet ‘divine’.

  Chæremon claimed that all this wasn’t entirely in the spirit of the ancient Egyptian religion, that it had changed and that all religions were bound to change. This opinion of his was shortly confirmed by what happened in the synagogue of Alexandria.

  I had not been the only Jew to study Egyptian theology. Others had developed a taste for it. They had been particularly attracted to the enigmatic spirit which pervaded all Egyptian literature and which probably had its origin in hieroglyphic writing and in the Egyptian precept never to dwell on the emblem but on the hidden sense it contained.

  Our rabbis in Alexandria also wanted enigmas to interpret. They took pleasure in supposing that although they told the story of facts and real events, the works of Moses were none the less written with such sublime skill that besides their historical sense they concealed another hidden and allegorical one. Some of our scholars worked out this hidden sense with a subtlety which brought them much honour at the time. But of all the rabbis none was better at this than Philo.1 Long study of Plato had trained him in spreading false ideas, using the obscurity of metaphysics. So for this reason he was called ‘the Plato of the synagogue’. The first work of Philo dealt with the creation of the world and especially with the properties of the number seven. In this work God is called Father, which is very much in the spirit of Egyptian theology but not at all in the style of the Bible. It also says that the serpent is an allegory of sensual pleasure and that the story of the woman created from the rib of man is also allegorical.

  The same Philo wrote a work on dreams, in which he says that God has two temples; one of these temples is the world and the high priest of that temple is the word of God. The other temple is the rational soul whose high priest is man. In his work on Abraham, Philo expresses himself in a style even more Egyptian, for he declares, ‘He whom our sacred writings call a being, or He who is, is He who is the father of all. On each side He is flanked by the oldest and most intrinsic powers of the Great Being: the Creator Power and the Guardian Power. One is called God and the other Lord. So that the Great Being who is always accompanied by these two powers is present sometimes as a simple form, sometimes as a triple form: the former when the completely purified soul rises above all numbers and even the binary, which is so close to the one, and reaches at last the sublime and simple abstract image; the latter, which is triple, presents itself to the soul which is not entirely initiated into the great mysteries.’

  This Philo, who could platonize as far as the eye and mind could see, is the same Philo who was subsequently a delegate sent to the Emperor Claudius. He was held in high esteem in Alexandria and the beauty of his style and the love of novelty which is found in all men helped to win nearly all hellenizing Jews over to his opinion. Soon they were Jews in name only, as it were. For them the books of Moses were no more than a sort of canvas on which they sketched their allegories and mysteries at will, especially that of the triple form.

  At this time the Essenes had already formed their bizarre fellowship. They did not take wives and all their goods were held in common. In short, new religions were emerging on all sides, mixtures of Judaism, magism, sabeism2 and Platonism, and everywhere a great deal of astrology. The old religions were collapsing on every side.

  As the Wandering Jew reached this point in his story we came close to our resting-place; the sad wanderer left us and was soon lost to sight in the mountains. Towards evening the gypsy, having nothing else to do, took up the thread of his story again:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  Young Soarez, having told me the story of his duel with Busqueros, seemed to want to rest. I let him surrender his senses to sleep, and when I asked him the next day to continue his story he went on as follows:

  LOPE SOAREZ’S STORY CONTINUED

  Having run through my arm, Busqueros declared that he was delighted to have a new opportunity of proving his devotion to me. He tore a strip off my shirt, bound my arm, wrapped me up in a cloak and took me to a surgeon, who gave first aid to my wounds; and then I summoned a carriage and went back to my room. Busqueros had a bed brought up to my antechamber. The failure of my attempt to get rid of him had so depressed me that I did not put up any resistance. The next day I ran a fever, as often happens with those who are wounded, and Busqueros was unfailingly dutiful. He did not leave my side either on that day or on those which f
ollowed. On the fourth day I was able to go out with my arm in a sling. On the fifth a man appeared after dinner, who came from the house of Señora de Avalos and brought me a letter, which Busqueros immediately snatched. This is what he read:

  Inés Moro to Lope Soarez.

  My dear Soarez, I have learnt that you have fought a duel and have been wounded in the arm. You can imagine what agonies my heart has gone through. However, now is the time for a last endeavour. I want my father to find you in my room. This is a risky undertaking but my aunt de Avalos is protecting us and is telling me what to do. Trust the man who brings you this letter. Tomorrow will be too late.

  ‘Señor Don Lope,’ said the detestable Busqueros, ‘you can see that you cannot now dispense with my services, and you will at least concede that as this is a matter involving initiative it falls within my competence. I have always thought of you as lucky to have me as a friend, but it is on occasions like this that you must really be congratulated. Ah by St Roch, my patron saint! If you had let me finish my story you would have seen what I did for the Duke of Arcos, but you rudely interrupted me. None the less, I shall not complain because the blow with the sword which I gave you, procured for me new opportunities of proving my devotion to you and now, Señor Don Lope, I only ask you one favour, which is not to get involved in anything until the moment comes to put the plan into action: not a single question, not a word. Just leave it to me, Señor Don Lope, leave it to me.’

  Having said these words, Busqueros went next door with the trusted servant of Señora Moro. They conferred for a long time, after which Busqueros came back by himself, carrying a sort of map of the Calle de los Agustinos in his hand.

  ‘Here’s the end of the street which leads towards the Dominicans’ house,’ he said. ‘There you will find the man you have already seen, with two others he will answer for. As for me, I shall be at the opposite end with the pick of my friends, who are also yours, Don Lope. No, no, I am wrong. There will be a couple there, and the pick of them will be by this back door to keep the Duke of Santa Maura’s people at bay.’

  I thought that all these explanations gave me the right to say a few words and to ask what I would be doing while all this was going on. But Busqueros interrupted me imperiously and said, ‘Not one question, Señor Don Lope, not one word! That was the condition and if you have forgotten already, I haven’t.’

  For the rest of the day Busqueros did nothing but come and go. It was the same in the evening. Sometimes the house next door was too well lit; at others there were suspicious characters in the street; or again the agreed signals had not been seen. Sometimes Busqueros came himself; sometimes he sent reports by one of his henchmen. Eventually he came to get me, and I dutifully followed him. My heart was thumping, as you may well imagine. The thought that I was disobeying my father added to my worries; but love conquered all other feelings.

  On entering the Calle de los Agustinos, Busqueros showed me where his trusted friends were posted and gave them the password. If someone came by, he told me, my friends would seem to pick a quarrel with him and the passer-by would quickly take another route. ‘Now we’re here,’ he continued, ‘here’s the ladder you must climb up. As you can see, it is securely propped up against a pile of building-stones. I will look out for the signal and when I clap, you must climb up.’

  Who would believe that after all these plans and arrangements Busqueros picked the wrong window? But that’s what he did. And you will see what became of it.

  I had my right arm in a sling but when he gave me the signal I climbed up nimbly with the help of only one arm. When I reached the top of the ladder I could not find the half-open shutter I had been promised. I risked knocking with my remaining arm, supporting myself only on my legs. At that moment a man opened the shutter violently, pushing it against me. I lost my balance and fell from the top of the ladder on to the building-stone below. I broke my already injured arm in two places. A leg which was trapped in the rungs was also broken and the other one dislocated; and I was lacerated from my neck to my hips. The man who had opened the shutter, and who apparently wanted me to die, shouted to me, ‘Are you dead?’

  Fearing that he would come to finish me off, I replied that I was dead.

  Then the same man shouted, ‘Is there a purgatory?’

  As I was suffering appalling pain I replied that there was certainly a purgatory and that I was there already. Then I think I fainted.

  At this point I interrupted Soarez and asked him whether there had been a storm that evening.

  ‘There had certainly been thunder and lightning,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it was that which made Busqueros mistake the house.’

  ‘Ah,’ I cried, ‘there can’t be any doubt. You are a soul from purgatory. You are poor Aguilar.’

  I immediately ran out into the street and as dawn was just breaking I hired mules and went quickly to the Camaldolese monastery. There I found the Knight of Toledo prostrated in front of an image. I prostrated myself beside the knight and, as one is not allowed to speak aloud in the Camaldolese monastery, I put my lips to his ear and told him Soarez’s story. At first this had no effect on him but then Toledo turned to me and mouthed in my ear, ‘My dear Avarito, do you think that the wife of the oidor Uscariz still loves me and has remained faithful to me?’

  ‘Bravo!’ I replied. ‘Shhh! Let’s not shock these good hermits. Say your prayers as usual, and I’ll let it be known that we have completed our period of retreat.’

  When the superior learned that it was our intention to return to the world he was no less fulsome for all that about the knight’s piety.

  As soon as we had left the monastery the knight recovered all his jollity. I told him about Busqueros. He told me that he knew him, that he was a gentleman in the household of the Duke of Arcos and that he was looked on as unbearable throughout Madrid.

  As the gypsy reached this point in his story, someone called him away and he did not reappear that evening.

  The Thirty-seventh Day

  The next day was given over to rest. Breakfast was more copious and better prepared. No one was absent. The fair Jewess had taken some care with her appearance, but this effort was pointless if her intention was to please the duke. It wasn’t her face that entranced him. He saw in her a woman different from others of her sex in her greater powers of thought and her mind, whose education had culminated in the exact sciences.

  Rebecca had long wanted to know what the duke thought about religion, for she had a decided aversion for Christianity and she was involved in the plot to encourage us to embrace the Muslim faith. So she addressed the duke in a tone half-way between the serious and the playful and asked him if there were no awkward equations in his religion.

  Velásquez had become very solemn once religion had been mentioned. But when he realized that the question was a sort of joke he looked angry. He thought for a few moments and then replied as follows:

  VELÁSQUEZ’S IDEAS ON RELIGION

  I can see what you are driving at. You are challenging my geometry. So I shall reply to you in geometry. When I want to indicate the infinitely great, I write a sideways ‘8’ over ‘1’. When I want to indicate the infinitely small, I write a ‘1’ which I divide by the symbol for infinity. These symbols which I use give me no idea at all of what I am expressing. The infinitely great is the number of fixed stars multiplied ad infinitum; the infinitely small an infinite subdivision of the smallest of atoms.

  I can therefore indicate the infinite, but I cannot comprehend it. Now, if it is the case that I cannot comprehend, cannot express but can only indicate the infinitely great and the infinitely small, how can I express what is simultaneously infinitely great, infinitely intelligent, infinitely good and the creator of all infinities? Here the Church comes to the aid of my geometry. She gives me the expression of three contained in one without breaking it down. What can I object to that, which is beyond my powers of conception? All I can do is offer my submission.

  It is not science which leads
to unbelief but rather ignorance. The ignorant man thinks he understands something provided that he sees it every day. The natural philosopher walks amid enigmas, always striving to understand and always half-understanding. He learns to believe what he does not understand, and that is a step on the road to faith. Don Newton and Don Leibniz were true Christians, and even theologians, and both acknowledged the mystery of numbers which they could not comprehend.

  If they had been born into our Church they would also have confessed another no less inconceivable mystery, which consists in the possibility of an intimate union between man and his creator. In problem form this possibility does not afford any direct data because it gives us only unknowns. But it affords us some grasp of it in that it indicates to us that man is completely separated from other material intelligences. For if man really is alone in his species in this world, if we are firmly convinced of his isolation in the whole animal kingdom, then we can accept with less difficulty that he can achieve union with his God. After these preliminaries, let us now turn for a moment to the intelligence of animals.

  An animal wills, remembers, combines, weighs up alternatives and decides. It thinks but it doesn’t think about its thinking, which is the force of the intellect raised to the power of two. An animal does not say, ‘I am a thinking being.’ This abstraction is so far from its nature that one never sees an animal endowed with the idea of number, although this is the simplest of abstractions.

  The magpie does not leave its nest as long as it suspects a man to be hiding nearby. It was decided to test the extent of its intelligence. Five hunters went into a hide and the magpie only left its nest after seeing the fifth emerge from it. When six or seven hunters came, the magpie lost count, so that it always left the nest after the fifth. Some have deduced from this that the magpie can count up to five. They are wrong. The magpie had retained the image of all five men but it had not counted them. To count is to abstract the number from the material circumstance.