by Jan Potocki
We followed Ricardi’s advice. I spent my mornings visiting Roman antiquities, and in the evenings I went to see the auditor in a villa which he had, close to the villa Barberini. The Marchesa Paduli presided over the house. She was a widow and lived with Ricardi because she had no closer relative. At least, that is what was said, because no one really quite knew. Ricardi was from Genoa and the person called the Marchese Paduli had died on service abroad.
The young widow possessed all the qualities to make the house pleasant: a great deal of amiability and a general air of politeness mixed with modesty and dignity. None the less I thought I saw in her a preference or even a fondness for me, which betrayed itself constantly, though only by signs invisible to the rest of the assembled company. I recognized in those signs the secret sympathies of which novels are formed and I felt sorry for La Paduli for directing such a feeling to a person who could not reciprocate it.
Meanwhile, I sought the conversation of the marchesa and was happy to set her on to my favourite subjects, that is, love, the different ways of loving and the differences between affection and passion, and between fidelity and constancy. But as I spoke of these grave matters to the pretty Italian the idea did not cross my mind that I could ever be unfaithful to Elvira and the letters which went off to Burgos were as ardent as before.
One day I was at the villa without my mentor. Ricardi was not at home. I walked in the gardens and entered a grotto in which I found La Paduli, plunged in deep reverie, from which she was roused by some sound I made as I came in. Her great surprise in seeing me appear might have almost made me suspect that I had been the subject of her dreams. She even had the frightened look of a person who wants to escape from some peril.
She composed herself, however, made me sit down and addressed to me the courteous inquiry customary in Italy: ‘Lei a girato questa mattina?’1
I replied that I had been to the Corso, where I had seen many women, the most beautiful of whom was the Marchesa Lepri.
‘Don’t you know a more beautiful woman?’ said La Paduli.
‘Forgive me,’ I replied. ‘In Spain I know a young lady who is much more beautiful.’ This reply seemed to upset Signora Paduli. She relapsed into her reverie, lowered her beautiful eyes and stared down at the ground with an expression of sadness.
To distract her I began another conversation, on the subject of affection.
At that she raised her languid eyes, looked at me and said, ‘Have you ever experienced these feelings you are so adept at describing?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ I replied. ‘And feelings a thousand times more intense and a thousand times more tender for the same young lady whose beauty is so superior.’ I had scarcely said these words when a deathly pallor covered La Paduli’s face. She fell flat on the ground just as if she were dead. I had never seen a woman in such a state and had absolutely no idea what to do with this one. Fortunately, I caught sight of two of her servants walking in the garden. I ran to them and told them to come to their mistress’s aid.
Then I left the garden, reflecting on what had just happened, marvelling at the power of love and how a spark that it lets fall in a heart produces such ravages. I felt sorry for La Paduli. I blamed myself for being the cause of her unhappiness but I could not think of being unfaithful to Elvira for La Paduli or any other woman in the world.
The next day I went to the villa Ricardi, but guests were not received as Signora Paduli was ill. The day after, all that was talked about in Rome was her indisposition, which was by all accounts grave. For this I felt the same remorse as for an ill of which I was the cause.
On the fifth day of her illness I saw a young woman appear where I was staying, with a veil covering her face. She said to me, ‘Signor forestiere,2 a dying woman begs to see you. Follow me.’
I suspected that it was Signora Paduli but did not believe that I could refuse the wishes of a person on the verge of death. A carriage awaited me at the end of the street. I climbed in with the veiled girl. We reached the villa by the back of the garden. We went down a dark walk, then a corridor, then through some dark bedrooms, which led to that of Signora Paduli. She was in her bed and held out her hand to me. It was burning, which I took to be an effect of her fever. I lifted my eyes to the patient and saw that she was half-naked. Until then I had only seen women’s faces and hands. My sight grew clouded and my knees buckled under me. I was unfaithful to Elvira without knowing how this had happened to me.
‘God of love!’ cried the pretty Italian. ‘Another of your miracles! The one I love has restored me to life!’
From a state of complete innocence I suddenly passed to the most pleasurable sensual pursuits. Four hours went by in this way. At last the maidservant came to warn us that it was time to part, and I went back to the carriage with some difficulty, forced to accept the support of the arm of the young girl, who was quietly laughing. As she was on the point of leaving me, she clasped me in her arms and said, ‘I’ll have my turn!’
No sooner was I in the carriage than the idea of pleasure gave way to the most harrowing remorse. ‘Elvira!’ I cried. ‘Elvira, I have betrayed you! Elvira, I am no longer worthy of you! Elvira, Elvira, Elvira…’ In short, I said everything that one says on such occasions and retired to bed determined not to return to the marchesa’s house.
As the Marqués de Torres Rovellas reached this point in his story, some gypsies arrived in search of their chief. As he was very interested in the story of his old friend, he asked him to stop and continue it the next day.
The Forty-second Day
We assembled in a grotto no less resplendent than the one of the day before, and the Marqués de Torres Rovellas, seeing that we were waiting with impatience to hear him continue to relate to us his adventures, took up the thread of his story as follows:
THE MARQUÉS DE TORRES ROVELLAS’S STORY
CONTINUED
I have told you how remorseful I was about the infidelity of which I had been guilty. I did not doubt that Signora Paduli’s maidservant would come the next day to lead me to her mistress’s bed, and I promised myself that I would not receive her well. But Sylvia did not come the next day, nor the days after that, which surprised me a little.
Sylvia came a week later. She was dressed with a care which her person could well have done without, for in herself she was prettier than her mistress.
‘Sylvia!’ I said to her. ‘Sylvia, go away. You have made me unfaithful to the most adorable of women. You have deceived me. I thought I was going to see a dying woman and you led me to a woman who emanated sensuality. My heart is not guilty but I am not innocent.’
‘You are innocent, and more than just a little innocent,’ replied Sylvia. ‘Set your mind at rest on that point. But I have not come to take you to the marchesa, who at this moment is in Ricardi’s arms.’
‘Her uncle!’
‘No, Ricardi is not her uncle. Come with me and I will explain everything.’
I followed Sylvia out of pure curiosity. We climbed into the carriage, arrived at the villa and went in through the gardens. Then the pretty messenger took me up to her room, a real grisette’s den bedecked with pots of pomade, combs and items of toiletry. There was a little snow-white bed there too, under which there was a remarkably fine pair of slippers. Sylvia took off her gloves, her veil and then the kerchief she wore on her breast.
‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘Go no further. That’s the way your mistress made me unfaithful.’
‘My mistress,’ replied Sylvia, ‘has recourse to crude means which up to now I have been able to forgo.’
As she said this, she opened a cupboard and took out some fruit, some biscuits and a bottle of wine. She put them on a table, which she drew over to the bed, and then said, ‘My charming Spaniard, maidservants are badly off for furniture. There used to be a chair in this room, but it was taken away this morning. Sit down here on the bed next to me and don’t spurn this little collation, which I am happy to give you.’
Such gracious offers had t
o be accepted. I sat down next to Sylvia, ate the fruit, drank her wine and asked her to tell me the story of her mistress, which she did as follows:
THE STORY OF MONSIGNOR RICARDI
AND LAURA CERELLA,
KNOWN AS LA MARCHESA PADULI
Ricardi, the younger son of a famous Genoese family, had entered orders early and soon after became a priest. A handsome face and violet stockings were taken at that time in Rome to be strong recommendations by the fair sex. Ricardi used these advantages and even abused them, as did all his young prelate colleagues. When he reached the age of thirty he became bored with pleasures and wanted to play a role in politics.
He did not wish altogether to give up women. He would have liked to form a liaison in which he would find nothing but enjoyment, but he did not know how to go about it. He had been the cavaliere servente of the most beautiful princesses in Rome but these princesses were beginning to favour younger prelates. Besides, he was tired of those assiduous courtships which require an intolerable degree of continual discomfort. Kept women also have their drawbacks. They don’t know what is happening in polite society and one doesn’t know what to talk to them about.
Amid all this uncertainty, Ricardi conceived of a plan which many people before and after hit upon – that of educating a young girl, altogether to his taste, who thereby would be able to make him perfectly happy. And indeed, what pleasure there is in seeing in someone already endowed with all the graces, the charms of the mind blossom with those of the face; what pleasure there is in showing this person society and the world, in enjoying her surprise, in witnessing the first stirrings of passion, in endowing her with all her ideas and in making of her a being entirely suited to oneself. But what shall one then do with such charming creatures? Many marry them in order to avoid the problem. Ricardi could not. While pursuing his libertine plans our prelate had not stopped working for his advancement. He had an uncle, an auditor at the Rota Romana1, who had been promised a cardinal’s hat and who had been assured by his cardinal that he could pass on his position as auditor to his nephew. But all that was not to take place for four or five years. Ricardi reckoned that in the meanwhile he could return to his homeland or even travel.
One day, as Ricardi was walking in the streets of Genoa, he was accosted by a girl of thirteen carrying a basket of oranges, who offered him one in a charming and graceful way. Ricardi’s libertine hand parted the unkempt locks which fell across the face of the girl and revealed features which promised to become perfectly beautiful. He asked the orange-seller who her parents were. She replied that only her mother was left, a poor widow called Bastiana Cerella. Ricardi had her take him to her mother and began by saying who he was. Then he said to Bastiana that he had a female relative, a very charitable lady, who took it upon herself to educate poor young girls and then give them a dowry, and that he would undertake to place little Laura with her.
Her mother smiled and said, ‘I don’t know your relative, who certainly must be a respectable lady. But your charity towards young girls is widely known and you may take this one into your charge. I don’t know whether you bring them up virtuously, but you will certainly save her from poverty, which is worse than any vice.’
Ricardi offered to make some arrangement in favour of the mother. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I won’t sell my daughter. But I’ll accept any gifts you may send me. Staying alive is the first law of all and often hunger prevents me from working.’
On that very day little Laura was given lodgings by one of Ricardi’s clients. Her hands were covered with almond paste, her hair with curl-papers, her neck with pearls, her bosom with lace. The girl looked at herself in all the mirrors and could not recognize herself but from the beginning she understood what she was destined for and adopted the appropriate attitude of her estate.
However, the girl had had childhood companions who did not know what had become of her and were very worried. The one who was most concerned to find her again was Ceco Boscone, a boy fourteen years of age, the son of a porter, already well built and already in love with the little orange-seller, whom he often met in the street or in our house, because he was related to us distantly. If I say ‘our house’ it’s because I am also called Cerella, and have the honour of being my mistress’s first cousin.
We were all the more worried about our cousin because not only did no one talk to us about her, but we were even forbidden to speak of her or to mention her name. My usual occupation was with household laundry and my cousin ran errands in the port until he was ready to carry bales. When I had finished my work for the day I went to join him in the porch of a church and we wept many tears over our cousin’s fate.
One evening Ceco said to me, ‘I’ve had an idea. These last few days it has been pouring and Signora Cerella has not been able to go out. But on the first fine day she won’t be able to restrain herself and if her daughter is in Genoa she will go to see her. All we have then to do is to follow her and we will find out where Laura is hidden.’
I gave this idea my approval. The next day it was fine. I went to Signora Cerella, saw that she was extracting from an old wardrobe an even older veil, said a few words to her and then ran to warn Ceco. We lay in wait and soon saw Signora Cerella leave the house. We followed her to a distant part of the town and when she went into a house we hid again. She came out and went away. We went into the house, climbed the stairs, or rather ran up them, and opened the door to a fine apartment. I recognized Laura and threw my arms round her neck. Ceco pulled me away, took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. But then another door opened. Ricardi appeared, slapped me twenty times and gave Ceco as many kicks. His servants appeared and in the twinkling of an eye we found ourselves in the road, slapped, beaten and very clear in our minds that we were not to make any further investigation into what was happening to our cousin.
Ceco went off to become a ship’s boy on a Maltese privateer. I haven’t heard any more of him since.
As for me, the desire to see my cousin again never left me, but you might say the desire grew as I did. I was in service in several houses and eventually in that of the Marchese Ricardi, the elder brother of our prelate. Signora Paduli was often mentioned there and no one had any notion where the prelate had found this relative. For the time being she escaped investigation by the family but nothing escapes the curiosity of valets. We made our own inquiries and soon learnt that the so-called marchesa was none other than Laura Cerella. The marchese advised us to be discreet, and sent me to his brother to warn him to be twice as careful if he did not want to do himself considerable harm.
But it’s not my story I am telling and I have strayed from the Marchesa Paduli, having left the little Laura in the house of one of the prelate’s clients. She did not stay there long. She was moved to a little town on the Genoan coast. Monsignor went to see her there from time to time and always returned yet more satisfied with the work of his hands.
Two years later Ricardi went to London. He travelled under an alias and passed himself off as an Italian merchant. Laura went with him and was thought to be his wife. He took her to Paris and other cities, where it was easier to preserve one’s incognito. She became daily more agreeable, adored her benefactor and made him the happiest of men. Three years passed like a flash. Then the uncle of Ricardi was about to obtain the cardinal’s hat and urged him to come back to Rome.
Ricardi took his mistress to an estate he possessed near Gorizia. The day after their arrival he said to her, ‘Signora, I have news to give you which will please you. You are the widow of the Marchese Paduli, who has just died in the service of the emperor. Here are the papers which prove it. Paduli was a relative of ours. You will not, I hope, refuse to join me in Rome and do the honours in my house.’
Ricardi left a few days later.
Left to her own thoughts, the new marchesa reflected deeply about Ricardi’s character, her relations with him and what she could get out of them. When three months had gone by, she was summoned to join her so-called unc
le and found him in all the splendour attached to the offices he now filled. Part of this glory reflected on to her and homage was addressed to her from many quarters. Ricardi announced to his family that he had taken into his house the widow of Paduli, who was a cousin of the Ricardi on their mother’s side. The Marchese Ricardi, who had never heard of Paduli’s marriage, made the inquiries I have already mentioned and sent me to the new marchesa to advise her to be extremely circumspect.
I travelled by sea, disembarked at Civitavecchia and made my way to Rome. I presented myself to the marchesa. She asked her servants to withdraw and threw herself into my arms. We spoke of our childhood, of my mother, of hers, of the chestnuts we ate together. Little Ceco was not forgotten. I told her that he had embarked on a privateer and had not been heard of since. Laura, who was already in an emotional state, burst into tears and had great difficulty in composing herself. She asked me not to make myself known to the prelate but to pass myself off as her maidservant. She added that my Genoese accent might betray me and that I was to say I was born in the state of Genoa and not in the capital.
Laura had her plan. She remained equitable and cheerful for a fortnight, but then she took on a serious, reflective, capricious, world-weary look. Ricardi tried hard to please her, but in vain. He couldn’t restore her mood to what it was before.
‘My dear Laura,’ he said to her one day, ‘what are you lacking? Compare your present state to the one from which I saved you.’
‘And why did you save me from it?’ replied Laura with great vehemence. ‘It’s my poverty that I am missing. What am I doing among all these princesses? Their insinuations, though they are couched in polite language, are just so many bitter insults. Oh, how I miss you, my rags, my black bread, my chestnuts! I can’t think of you without my heart breaking. And you, my dear Ceco, who was to have married me when you were strong enough to be a porter! With you I would have known poverty but not the vapours, and princesses would have envied me my fate.’
