by Jan Potocki
Marañon the cobbler was my maternal grandfather, who had brought me up, and I owed the greatest of obligations to him. But he was a blot on my genealogical tree, or so at least I thought. It seemed to me that I would be much diminished in the esteem of the three ladies if they discovered that I had a cobbler for a grandfather. My gaiety vanished altogether. I shot Don Cristoforo glances which were sometimes angry, sometimes proud and disdainful. I decided to forbid him to set foot in the house.
He left. I followed him, intending to tell him this. I caught up with him at the end of the street and uttered the offensive greeting that I had rehearsed. I thought that he was going to lose his temper, but on the contrary, he assumed a friendly manner, put his hand under my chin as if to caress me but then suddenly jerked me off my feet and kicked me, or rather tripped me, causing me to fall flat on my face in the gutter. I was stunned, and got back to my feet covered with mud. Full of rage, I went back to the house.
The ladies had retired. I went to bed but could not sleep. Two passions, love and hate, kept me awake. The latter was entirely directed at Don Cristoforo, but that was not the case with the love with which my heart was filled. It was not fixed on any one object. Celia, Zorrilla and their mother occupied my thoughts in turn. Their alluring images, which grew confused with each other in my dreams, haunted me for the rest of the night.
I woke late. On opening my eyes, I saw Señora Santarez sitting at the foot of my bed. She seemed to have been weeping.
‘My good young Sir,’ she said, ‘I have come to take refuge in your room. There are people upstairs who are asking me for money and I have none to give them. Alas! I am in debt. But did I not have to feed and dress those poor children? They are deprived of enough as it is.’
At this, Señora Santarez began to sob, and her eyes, full of tears, involuntarily turned to my purse, which was next to me on my bedside table. I understood this mute language. I poured out the gold on to the table, made two piles, which I judged to be equal, and presented one to Señora Santarez. She was not expecting this generous gesture. At first she seemed to be petrified by astonishment, then she took my hands and kissed them effusively and pressed them to her heart; finally she picked up the gold, saying, ‘Oh my children, my dear children.’
The girls came in next and kissed my hands. All these expressions of gratitude succeeded in inflaming my blood, which was already burning from my dreams.
I dressed quickly and decided to take the air on one of the house’s terraces. As I went by the bedroom of the two girls I heard them sobbing and tearfully embracing each other. I listened for a moment and then went in.
Celia said to me, ‘Listen, dear, kind guest. You find us in the greatest distress. Since we were born no cloud has cast its shadow on our feelings for each other. We were united by affection, even more than by blood. But that isn’t any longer the case since you have been here. Jealousy has crept into our souls, and we might have reached the point of hating each other. Zorrilla’s good nature has prevented this terrible calamity. She threw herself into my arms, our tears mingled with each other’s and our hearts have grown closer. And now, dear guest, it is for you to complete our reconciliation. Promise us not to love one more than the other, and if you have caresses to distribute, share them equally between us.’
What reply could I give to this heartfelt and pressing invitation? I held them one after the other in my arms. I wiped away their tears and their sadness gave way to playful affection.
We went out together on to the terrace and Señora Santarez came to join us there. The delight at having settled her debts made her drunk with joy. She asked me to dinner and begged me to give the rest of the day to her. Our meal was eaten in an atmosphere of intimacy and trust. The servants were sent away. The two girls waited at table one after the other. Señora Santarez, drained by the emotion she had suffered, drank two glasses of powerful Rotha wine. Her somewhat unfocused eyes shone the more brightly. She became very animated and her daughters came close to feeling jealous again. However, they respected their mother too much for such an idea to cross their minds. But even though her blood, exhilarated by the wine, betrayed her feelings, she was far from engaging in any immodest behaviour.
As for me, conscious thoughts of seduction did not even cross my mind. We were seduced by our age and our difference of sex. The sweet impulses of nature infused our intercourse with an indescribable charm. We found it difficult to take leave of each other. The setting sun would finally have separated us if I had not ordered refreshments from a neighbouring lemonade-seller. We were pleased when they came because they afforded us an excuse to remain in each other’s company. All was going well. We had just sat down to table when Cristoforo Sparadoz appeared. The entry of a French gentleman in the harem of a sultan would not have produced a more disagreeable sensation than that which I experienced on the arrival of Don Cristoforo. Señora Santarez and her daughters were not really my wives, and did not constitute my harem, but my heart had taken possession of these ladies in a certain way and seeing my rights compromised caused me real distress.
Don Cristoforo took no notice either of this or of my person. He greeted the ladies, led Señora Santarez to the end of the terrace and had a long conversation with her, then sat down at table without being invited to do so. He ate, drank and said not a word. But when the conversation turned to bullfighting he pushed away his plate, thumped the table with his fist and said:
‘Oh, by St Christopher, my patron! Why am I only a simple clerk in the minister’s office? I would prefer to be the humblest torero in Madrid than president of all the cortes of Castile.’
As he said this, he extended his arm as if to transfix a bull and made us admire the size of his muscles. Then, to show how strong he was, he had the three ladies sit in an armchair, put his hand underneath it and carried it all round the room. Don Cristoforo found these games so amusing that he carried them on for as long as he could. Then he gathered up his cloak and sword to go. Up till then he had paid no attention to me, but then he turned to me and said, ‘My noble friend. Since Marañon the cobbler has died, who makes the best boots?’
These words seemed to the ladies to be no more than a silly joke of the same kind as those often uttered by Don Cristoforo. But I was enraged by them. I went to fetch my sword and ran after him.
I caught up with him in a side-street and placed myself in front of him. I drew my sword and said to him, ‘You insolent wretch! You will now pay me back for so many cowardly insults!’
Don Cristoforo put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Then, noticing a stick on the ground, he picked it up and, striking my sword with it, knocked it out of my hand. Then he came close to me, grabbed hold of me by the hair, carried me to the gutter and threw me into it as he had done the day before, only this time so violently that I was stunned for longer.
Someone helped me up. I recognized the gentleman who had had my father’s body taken away and had given me a thousand pistoles. I threw myself at his feet. He raised me up in a kindly manner and told me to follow him. We walked in silence and arrived at the Manzanares bridge, where we found two black horses, on which we galloped for half an hour along the bank. We reached a lonely house, whose doors opened by themselves. The room we entered was hung with brown serge wall-hangings, and decorated with silver torches and a brazier of the same metal. We sat down next to this in two armchairs and the stranger said to me:
‘Señor Hervas, that is the way of the world, whose much admired order does not excel in distributive justice. Some have received from nature the strength to lift eight hundred pounds, others only sixty. It is true that treachery has been invented, which restores the balance somewhat.’
As he spoke, the stranger opened a drawer, drew out a dagger and said, ‘Look at this instrument. The end, shaped like a button, finishes in a point thinner than a hair. Put it in your belt. Farewell, caballero, and never forget your good friend Don Belial de Gehenna. Whenever you need me, come after midnight to the Manzanares bridge,
clap your hands three times and you will see the black horses appear. By the way, I have forgotten the most important thing. Here is a second purse. Don’t deny yourself anything.’
I thanked generous Don Belial and remounted my black horse. A negro mounted the other. Together we reached the bridge, where I had to dismount. I then went back to my lodgings.
Once there, I went to bed and fell asleep, but my dreams were troubled. I had put the dagger under my pillow; it seemed to me that it came out from under it and pierced me in the heart. I also dreamed that Don Cristoforo took the three ladies away from me and from the house.
The next morning I was in a sombre mood. The presence of the girls did not set my mind at rest. The efforts they made to cheer me up produced a different effect. My caresses grew less innocent. When I was alone again, I held my dagger in my hand and went through the motions of threatening Don Cristoforo, whom I imagined I could see before me.
That formidable character reappeared that evening and did not pay the slightest attention to my person. But he pressed his attentions on the ladies. He teased them one after the other, made them angry, then made them laugh. In the end his clumsy antics were more pleasing to them than my kindness.
I had had a supper delivered which was more elegant than it was copious. Don Cristoforo ate nearly all of it himself. Then he gathered up his cloak as he prepared to go. Before leaving he suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Noble sir, is that a dagger I can see in your belt? You’d do better to put a cobbler’s awl there.’
Thereupon he went out and left us, roaring with laughter. I followed him and caught up with him at the end of a street. I went to his left side and struck him with the dagger with the full force of my arm, but I felt it repelled with as much force as I had used to strike him, and Don Cristoforo, turning round with great sangfroid, said to me, ‘You wretch. Don’t you realize that I am wearing a breastplate?’
Then he grabbed me by the hair and threw me into the gutter. But for once I was pleased to be there and to have been saved from committing a murder. I got up with a sort of pleasure. This feeling stayed with me until I went to bed and my night was calmer than the preceding one.
In the morning, the ladies found me less agitated than I had been the day before and complimented me on this, but I didn’t dare to spend the evening with them. I feared the man whom I had wanted to murder and I thought that I would not dare to look him in the face. I passed the evening walking round the streets, feeling enraged whenever I thought of the wolf that had found his way into my fold.
At midnight I went to the bridge, I clapped my hands and the black horses appeared. I mounted the one intended for me and followed my guide to Don Belial’s house. The doors opened by themselves, my protector came to meet me and led me to the brazier where we had been the previous day.
‘Well,’ he said in somewhat mocking tones, ‘well, caballero, the murder didn’t come off! But that doesn’t matter; you will be credited with the intention. Moreover, we have taken care to rid you of such a tiresome rival. The indiscretions of which he was guilty have been denounced, and he is now in the same prison as the father of Señora Santarez. So it is up to you to profit from your good fortune somewhat more successfully than you have done up to now. Accept this sweet-box as a gift. It contains pastilles made to an excellent recipe. Offer them to your ladies and eat some yourself.’
I took the sweet-box, which gave off a pleasant scent, and then said to Don Belial, ‘I am not sure what you mean by “profit from my good fortune”. I would be a monster if I could bring myself to abuse the trust of a mother and the innocence of her daughters. I am not as perverse as you seem to suppose.’
‘I don’t suppose you to be more or less wicked than any of the sons of Adam,’ said Don Belial. ‘They feel scruples before they commit crimes and suffer remorse afterwards. Thereby they flatter themselves into thinking that they still cling to virtue to some degree; but they would be able to spare themselves these tiresome feelings if they chose to examine what virtue is, that abstract quality whose existence they accept without question. That alone should put it in the category of prejudices, which are opinions accepted without a prior act of judgement.’
‘Señor Don Belial,’ I replied to my protector, ‘my father placed in my hands his sixty-seventh volume, which dealt with ethics. According to him, a prejudice is not an opinion accepted without a prior act of judgement but an opinion already considered before we came into the world and transmitted as if by inheritance. These childhood habits sow the first seeds of virtue into our souls. Example develops it; the knowledge of the law fortifies it. By conforming to it we are honourable men. In doing more than the law requires we are virtuous men.’
‘That is not a bad definition, and does your father honour. He wrote well and thought even better,’ said Don Belial. ‘Perhaps you will do as he did. But to come back to your definition, I agree with you that prejudices are opinions which have already been considered. But that isn’t a reason for not considering them again once one’s judgement has developed. A mind curious to understand things deeply will question prejudices, and question whether laws are equally binding on everyone. Indeed you will note that the rule of law seems to have been thought up for the sole benefit of those cold, indolent characters who expect to obtain their pleasures from marriage and their well-being from frugality and hard work. But what does the social order do for the brilliant geniuses and passionate characters, burning for gold and for pleasure, who want eagerly to devour their allotted span? They will spend their lives in prisons and end them in a torture chamber. Fortunately, human institutions are not really what they seem to be. Laws are barriers; they are sufficient to turn aside passers-by but those who want to cross them get over them or under them. This subject would lead me too far. It is getting late. Farewell, caballero. Use my sweet-box and count always on my protection.’
I took my leave of Señor Don Belial and returned home. The door was opened to me; I went to bed and tried to go to sleep. The sweet-box was on a bedside table. It gave off a delicious scent. I could not resist the temptation; I ate two pastilles, fell asleep and had a very disturbed night.
My young friends appeared at the usual time. They found something very odd about the way I looked at them and indeed I saw them with different eyes. All their movements seemed to me to be deliberately provocative and intended to give me pleasure. I attributed the same meaning to their most casual remarks. Everything about them attracted my attention and made me think of things which I had previously never thought about.
Zorrilla found the sweet-box. She ate two pastilles and offered some to her sister. Soon what I had imagined became reality. The two sisters were overcome by an inner sensation and, without being aware of it, succumbed to it. They became alarmed and left me with vestiges of a timidity which had something wild about it.
Their mother came in. Since I had saved her from her creditors she had adopted an affectionate manner towards me. Her caresses calmed me down for a short time, but soon I saw her with the same eyes that I had seen her daughters. She noticed what was happening to me and felt embarrassed. Her eyes, avoiding mine, fell on the fatal sweet-box. She took some pastilles from it and went away. Soon she came back, caressed me again, called me her son and clasped me in her arms. After struggling with herself she dragged herself away. The turmoil of my senses reached the point of frenzy. I could feel fire circulating in my veins. I could scarcely focus on objects about me. A mist covered my eyes.
I went out towards the terrace. The young girls’ door was ajar; I could not stop myself going in. Their senses were in even greater turmoil than mine: they alarmed me. I wanted to tear myself free from their arms but did not have the strength to do so. Their mother came in. Reproaches were on her lips, but she soon lost the right to address any to us.
‘Forgive me, Señor Cornádez,’ added the pilgrim. ‘Forgive me if I say things which even to speak of is a mortal sin. But this story was necessary for your salvation. I have undertaken t
o save you from perdition and have to succeed. Be here tomorrow at the same time without fail.’
Cornádez went home and was disturbed again that night by the ghost of Peña Flor.
When the gypsy had reached this point in his story he had to leave us and postpone its sequel to the next day.
The Fifty-second Day
We reassembled at the usual hour. The old gypsy gave in to the impatience of his listeners and continued his story, or rather Busqueros’s, in the terms in which the latter had told it to the Knight of Toledo.
THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED
The next day, after Cornádez had gone to the place appointed by the pilgrim, Hervas continued his story as follows:
THE REPROBATE PILGRIM’S STORY CONTINUED
My sweet-box was empty and I had no pastilles left, but our glances and sighs seemed to express our desire to see our quenched fires revive. Our thoughts were fuelled by guilty memories and our languor had its guilty pleasures.
Crime has the property of stifling the sentiments of nature. Having given herself up to unbridled desire, Señora Santarez forgot that her father was languishing in a dungeon, perhaps under sentence of death; and if she thought little about him, I thought even less.
But one evening a man, carefully wrapped up in his cloak, appeared in my rooms, causing me some alarm, and I was hardly reassured when I noticed that he had put on a mask the better to hide his identity. The mysterious person indicated that I should sit down, sat down himself and said to me:
‘Señor Hervas, you seem to me to be attached to Señora Santarez. I want to speak frankly to you about something that concerns her. Since the matter is a serious one, it would be painful for me to discuss it with a woman. Señora Santarez once put her trust in a rash fellow called Cristoforo Sparadoz. Today he is in the same prison as Señor Goranez, the father of the said lady. This mad fool, Sparadoz, believed that he was in the confidence of certain powerful men, but I am the person who has their confidence. This, briefly, is what I know. In a week from now, half an hour after sunset, I shall go by this door and say the name of the prisoner three times: Goranez, Goranez, Goranez. The third time, you will give me a bag containing three thousand pistoles. Señor Goranez is no longer in Segovia but in prison in Madrid. His fate will be decided before the middle of that same night. That is what I have to say. My mission is accomplished.’ As he said this, the masked man rose and left.
