by Jan Potocki
But, righteous heaven, what a festivity! Tlascala was no more. Even those most indifferent to her thought of her and honoured her memory with their regrets. By their affliction you can gauge the extent of my distress. I was absorbed in my sorrow and saw nothing of what was going on around me.
I was drawn out of this state by a new and flattering feeling. A young man with a good nature wants to distinguish himself. At thirty years of age he feels the need for the esteem of others. Later, he wants their respect. I was still at the stage of esteem and I would perhaps not have been given it if it had been known what role love played in all my actions. They were instead attributed to rare virtue sustained by a strong character. To this was added a little of that zealousness of which people are willing to approve in those who have attracted the attention of the public. The Mexican public made known to me the high opinion it had formed of me and its flattering homage drew me out of my deep sorrow. I felt that I had not yet earned this measure of esteem but I hoped to make myself worthy of it. So it is that when we are struck down by suffering and can only see a dark future ahead of us, providence, solicitous of our fate, rekindles an unexpected glow which sets us back on the path of light.
So I decided to earn the esteem of others. I had offices which I exercised with an integrity which was as scrupulous as it was active. But I was born to love. The image of Tlascala still filled my heart, yet left there a great emptiness which I sought opportunities to fill.
When one is past the age of thirty one can still feel deep love and even inspire it, but woe to the man of that age who decides to involve himself in the sport of youthful passion. Gaiety is no longer on his lips, tender joy no longer in his eyes, the folly of love no longer in his speech. He seeks the means to please and no longer has the easy instinct by which they are to be found. The shrewd and the frivolous recognize him for what he is, and flee swiftly to join the company of the young.
In short, to speak prosaically, I had mistresses who returned my love, but their affection was usually motivated by a sense of what was fitting, which did not prevent them from giving me up for younger lovers. I was sometimes annoyed but never upset by this. I exchanged light chains for ones which were no heavier, and these affairs, all in all, gave me more pleasure than sorrow.
My wife reached the age of forty and remained beautiful. She was besieged by homages but they were homages of respect: people were eager to speak to her but they did not speak about her. Polite society had not yet abandoned her but to her eyes it was not as delightful as before.
The viceroy died. The marquesa had formed a regular circle of acquaintances. She liked to see guests in her house. I still enjoyed the company of women. It delighted me to meet the marquesa, even coming down a staircase. She became almost a new acquaintance for me. She looked charming, and I made a point of being so.
My daughter, who is here with me, is the fruit of this reunion. The late confinement of the marquesa had a disastrous effect on her health. Different afflictions followed one upon the other. Eventually she fell into a decline which bore her to the tomb. I wept heartfelt tears for her. She had been my first mistress and my last friend. Blood united us. I owed her my fortune and my rank. How many reasons I had to regret her passing! When I lost Tlascala I was still compassed about by all of life’s illusions. The marquesa left me without consolation, alone, in a state of dejection from which nothing could raise me.
Yet I did emerge from it. I went to my estates and lodged with one of my vassals. His daughter, who was too young to appreciate the difference in our ages, conceived a feeling for me which resembled love a little and which allowed me to gather some roses in the last days of my late autumn.
Age has in the end cooled my senses but my heart still feels affection and I have a fondness for my daughter more intense than were my passions. To see her happy and to die in her arms is my daily wish. I have no reason to complain. My dear child rewards me with her heartfelt love. What lies ahead of her does not cause me anxiety; circumstances are favourable to her. I believe that I have ensured her future in so far as one can ensure anything on this earth. I leave this world in peace but not without regrets – a world in which I, like any man, have known much adversity but also much happiness.
You wanted to know my story: there it is. But I fear that it has bored our friend the geometer. He has just pulled out his tablets and written numbers all over them.
‘You must forgive me,’ said the geometer. ‘Your history has deeply interested me. In following you along the path of your life and in seeing the driving force of passion raise you up as you went along, sustain you in the middle of your career and support you in the declining years of your existence, I thought I saw the ordinates of a closed curve progress along the axis of abscissae, grow according to a given law, remain almost stationary towards the middle of the axis, then decline in proportion to its rate of growth.’
‘To tell the truth,’ said the marqués, ‘I had thought that one could draw some moral from the story of my life, but not turn it into an equation.’
‘It’s not a matter here of your life,’ said Velásquez, ‘it’s a matter of human life in general. Physical and mental energy grow with age. Ceasing to grow and then declining is ipso facto identical to other forces and subject to analogous laws; that is to say, to a certain proportion between the number of years and the quantity of energy measured by moral elevation. I shall explain myself more clearly. I have considered the course of your life as the major axis of an ellipse divided into ninety equal parts, and I have taken half the minor axis so that the ordinate of 45 is greater than the ordinate of 40 and that of 50 by only two tenths. These ordinates, which represent degrees of energy, are not values of the same kind as the parts of the major axis, which are years, but are none the less functions of them. So, by the very nature of the ellipse, we shall obtain a curve which will rise rapidly at first, remain then more or less stationary, and will decline as it rose.
‘The moment of your birth is the origin of the coordinates, at which point y and x are still equal to o. You were born, Señor, and after a year the ordinate has a value of 31/10. The following ordinates will not also grow by 31/10 for the gap between o and that being who can barely stammer out a few elementary notions is far greater than any of those which follow. The human being aged 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 years has as ordinates for his energy values of 47/10, 57/10, 65/10, 73/10, 79/10 and 85/10. The differences between these are 16/10, 10/10, 8/10, 8/10, 6/10 and 6/10.
‘The ordinate of the age of 14 years is 115/10 and the sum of the differences between the seventh and the fourteenth years is only 30/10. At fourteen, man begins to be an adolescent, which he still is at twenty-one. But the sum of the differences of these seven years is only 19/10. Between the twenty-eighth and twenty-first years we obtain a difference of 14/10. I am bound to remind you that my curve represents only the life of men of moderate passions, whose energy reaches its highest point when they have passed the age of forty years and are approaching the age of forty-five. Love being your motive, passion, the greatest ordinate must naturally be brought forward by ten years. I calculate your ellipse as having a long axis of 70, and so your greatest ordinate will fall in your thirty-fifth year. That is why the ordinate of age fourteen, which for the moderate man is 115/10, has in your case the value of 127/10. At twenty-one your ordinate measures 144/10 instead of 134/10.2 Whereas for a moderate man energy continues to grow after the forty-second year, in your case, Señor, it is already declining.
‘At fourteen, you love a girl. After the age of twenty, you become the best of husbands. Once past the age of twenty-eight, you are strikingly unfaithful to your wife. But the woman whom you love has a noble soul which exalts yours. And at the age of thirty-five you play a glorious role in society. Soon you fall back into the taste for happiness that you had already at the age of thirty-eight, whose ordinate is equal to that of age forty-two. Then you become a good husband again as you were at the age of twenty-one, whose ordinate corresponds t
o that of age forty-nine. Finally you go to live with one of your vassals and there you love a very young girl just as you loved one at the age of fourteen, whose ordinate corresponds to that of age fifty-six. I hope, Señor Marqués, that the long axis of your existence will not stop at seventy and will go on to a hundred. But in that case the ellipse will gradually change into a different curve which will probably resemble the catenary.’
On uttering these words, Velásquez rose to his feet, waved his arm in the air with a terrible expression on his face and grabbed hold of his sword, with which he began to draw great figures in the sand. He would no doubt have rehearsed the whole theory of catenaries if the marqués, who like the rest of us, as it happens, was little interested in the proofs of our geometer friend, had not asked leave to withdraw to take some rest. Only Rebecca remained with Velásquez. He took not the slightest notice of those who left. The presence of the pretty Jewess was enough for him. So he began to explain his system to her. I listened for a while before, exhausted by the number of scientific expressions and figures which I have never found particularly attractive, I could no longer resist sleep and so took myself off to bed. Velásquez meanwhile was still holding forth.
The Forty-sixth Day
The Mexicans, who had stayed longer with us than planned, decided to leave. The marqués tried to persuade the gypsy chief to go to Madrid with him and lead a life compatible with his birth. But the gypsy would have none of it. He even asked that his name should not be mentioned anywhere and that the secret with which he surrounded his life should be kept. The travellers expressed their profound respects to the future Duke of Velásquez and did me the honour of offering me their friendship.
We accompanied them to the end of the valley and watched them for a long time as they rode off. On the way back it struck me that someone was missing from the caravan. I then remembered the girl who had been found at the foot of the accursed gallows of Los Hermanos. I asked the chief what had become of her and if it wasn’t a matter of another extraordinary adventure, or perhaps a trick of damned spirits from hell who had so often made a sport of us.
The gypsy smiled mockingly and said, ‘This time you are mistaken, Señor Alphonse, but it is part of human nature to relate even the most ordinary events of life to the supernatural once one has had a taste of it.’
Velásquez broke in and said, ‘You are right. One can apply to these notions the theory of geometric progression, the first term being represented by a believer in some dark superstition, the last by the alchemist or astrologer. Between the two there is room for a mass of prejudices which oppress humanity.’
‘I can’t contradict this argument,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t tell me who the girl was.’
‘I sent one of my men to find out about the young girl,’ replied the gypsy. ‘He reported to me that she happened to be a poor orphan who had lost her reason after the death of her lover, and, not having anywhere to go, lives on the charity of travellers and the sympathy of shepherds. She is always by herself, wanders in the mountains and sleeps wherever night overtakes her. The day before yesterday she certainly was under the gallows of Los Hermanos and, not noticing how horrible the place was, must have peacefully fallen asleep. The marqués, overcome by pity, had her looked after but, as the demented girl had recovered her strength, she fled and disappeared in the mountains. I’m surprised that you haven’t yet met her. The poor girl will end up by falling from some cliff and dying a pitiable death. But I must confess that I would think it mad to shed tears for so miserable a life. At night when the shepherds light their fires they sometimes see her approaching. Then Dolorita – that’s the name of the unfortunate girl – calmly sits down, stares at one of them with a piercing gaze, throws her arms round his neck and calls him by the name of her dead lover. At first they fled from her but then the shepherds got used to her, and now they let her wander about wherever she wants to and even give her food.’
As soon as the gypsy had finished, Velásquez began to elaborate a theory of opposing forces which consume each other: passion, which after a long struggle with reason ends up by overcoming it, snatching the sceptre and reigning tyrannically over the brain. As for me, I was amazed as I listened to the gypsy’s words, for I had thought that he would seize the opportunity of telling us yet another long story. Perhaps he had only abridged the adventures of Dolorita because the Wandering Jew was in sight. He was striding down the mountainside, and the cabbalist began to murmur terrible imprecations but in vain – for the Wandering Jew took no notice of them. At last he came close as if out of simple courtesy towards our company and nothing more. He said to Uzeda, ‘Your reign is over. You have lost the power which you have shown yourself unworthy to possess. A terrifying future awaits you.’
The cabbalist roared with laughter. But his laugh did not seem to come from his heart, for he spoke to the Jew in an unknown language, entreating him, almost begging him.
‘Very well,’ replied Ahasuerus, ‘today as well but for the last time. You will not see me again.’
‘Well,’ said Uzeda, ‘we will see what will happen, but today take advantage of our journey, you old wretch, and continue your story. We will see whether the Sheikh of Taroudant possesses more power than I do. Besides, I know very well why you are avoiding us and you may be sure that I will reveal your reason to everyone.’
The unhappy wanderer shot a murderous glance at the cabbalist but, seeing that he could not refuse, he positioned himself as usual between Velásquez and myself, remained silent for a moment and then continued his story as follows:
THE WANDERING JEW’S STORY CONTINUED
I have told you how the moment I thought I would reach my most ardently desired goal, a commotion occurred in the temple. A Pharisee came up to me and accused me of deception. I replied, as was normally done in such cases, that he was a slanderer and that if he didn’t immediately go away I would have him thrown out by my servants.
‘Enough,’ cried the Pharisee, and, turning to the crowd, he shouted, ‘Enough. This unworthy Sadducee is deceiving you. He has spread a false rumour to make himself rich at your expense. He is taking advantage of your credulity. It’s high time to tear his mask from his face. To prove to you the truth of what I say, I will offer twice as much gold for your silver as he does.’
In this way the Pharisee was still profiting by twenty-five per cent but the people, drunk with cupidity, pressed round him in a crowd, called him the benefactor of the city and insulted me in the most hateful way. Gradually tempers became heated, actions succeeded words and suddenly there was such an uproar in the temple that one could no longer hear oneself speak. Seeing that something awful was about to happen, I had all the gold and silver that I could muster transported to our house, but before the servants had taken all of it away, the people, now out of control, threw themselves on the tables and began to carry off the money. I defended it as best I could but my efforts were in vain; my adversaries were stronger. In an instant the temple was transformed into a battlefield. I have no idea what the outcome would have been. I might not have come away alive from it because my head was already bloody, but at that moment the prophet from Nazareth came into the temple with his disciples.
I shall never forget that severe, solemn voice, which stilled the noise in a moment. We waited to find out whose side he would take. The Pharisee was sure of having won his case, but the prophet turned in indignation against both sides and reproached us for polluting the temple, for dishonouring the house of God and spurning the creator for the goods of the devil. His words had a profound effect on the assembled crowd. The temple gradually filled up with the common people, among whom were many disciples of the new sect. Both sides realized that the prophet’s intervention would have disastrous consequences for them and we were not wrong, for soon the cry rang out as from one breast, ‘Out of the temple.’
This time the mass of the people did not think about their own advantage, but in the grip of a fanatical passion began to throw out the tables and dr
ive us out too. Once we were in the street the crowd became denser but the mass paid more attention to the prophet than to us, and so I was thus able in the general confusion to return home by slipping along little alley-ways. At our door I noticed our servants fleeing with the money which had been saved.
A glance at the money-bags allowed me to see that my hopes of profit had not been realized but that we hadn’t made any losses either. I breathed a sigh of relief at this thought. Sedekias had already been told about everything. Sara had uneasily awaited my return. When she saw me covered with blood, she threw herself in my arms. The old man stared at me for a long time in silence and eventually said:
‘I promised to give you Sara if you doubled the sum which was entrusted to you. What have you done with it?’
‘It isn’t my fault,’ I replied, ‘if an unforeseen event destroyed my plans. I have defended your money at the risk of my life. You can count your money. You have lost nothing, quite the contrary. But what there is in comparison with what we were hoping for isn’t worth speaking about.’
Then suddenly I had a happy inspiration. I decided to throw everything into fortune’s scales, and said, ‘If, however, you want me to stay to bring you profit I can compensate for your loss in another manner.’
‘How?’ cried Sedekias. ‘I think I see. It must be another plan which will be as successful as this one.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, ‘you will be convinced yourself that what I am giving you has a very real value.’
Having said this, I quickly went out, and soon came back with my bronze casket under my arm. Sedekias observed me, and a smile of hope came about Sara’s lips. I opened the casket, brought out the document which was inside, tore it in half and handed it to the old man. Then Sedekias recognized what it was, convulsively screwed up the document and a terrible rage contorted his features. He half-rose, and tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat. My destiny was about to be decided. I fell at the old man’s feet and bathed them with my tears.
