by Jan Potocki
He lowered his guard, leant against the wall and said in a dying voice, ‘I forgive you. May heaven forgive you! Take my sword to Tête-Foulque and have a hundred masses said for me in the castle chapel.’
He died. I did not at that moment pay great attention to his last words. If I have retained them it was because I have since heard them repeated. I made my declaration in the usual form. I am able to say that in the eyes of men the duel did me no harm. Foulequère was detested and was thought to have deserved his fate, but it seemed to me that in the eyes of God my action was very reprehensible because the sacraments had not been taken. My conscience reproached me cruelly. This lasted a week.
In the night between Friday and Saturday I was woken with a start and, looking round me, seemed no longer to be in my room, but lying on the stones in the middle of the via stretta. I was still feeling surprised at finding myself there when I distinctly saw the commander leaning against the wall. The spectre seemed to make an effort to speak. He said to me, ‘Take my sword to Tête-Foulque and have a hundred masses said for me in the castle chapel.’
No sooner had I heard these words than I fell into a lethargic sleep. Next day I awoke in my own room and bed but I had a perfect recollection of my vision.
The next night I had a valet sleep with me in my room and I saw nothing, either then or the following nights. But on the night between Friday and Saturday I had the same vision again, the only difference being that I saw my valet lying on the stones a few yards from me. The spectre of the commander appeared to me and said the same things. The same vision repeated itself every Friday. On such occasions my valet dreamed that he was lying in the via stretta but, that apart, he neither saw nor heard the commander.
At first I did not know what this Tête-Foulque was to which the commander wanted me to take his sword. Some knights from Poitou told me that it was a castle three leagues from Poitiers in the middle of a forest; many extraordinary things were told about it in that part of the country; it contained many curious objects such as the armour of Foulque-Taillefer and the arms of the knights he had killed; and it was a custom of the house of Foulequère to deposit there the arms they had used either in war or in single combat. I found all this interesting but I had to look to my conscience.
I went to Rome and confessed to the grand penitentiary. I revealed to him my vision, which still haunted me. He did not refuse me absolution but he made it conditional on the performance of my penance. The hundred masses in the castle of Tête-Foulque formed part of it, but heaven accepted this offering and from the moment of my confession I stopped being haunted by the spectre of the commander. I had brought his sword from Malta with me and as soon as I could I set out for France.
When I reached Poitiers I discovered that the commander’s death was already known and that his passing was no more regretted there than in Malta. I left my coach and horses in the town, dressed as a pilgrim and took a guide. It was appropriate to go to Tête-Foulque on foot and in any case the road was not practicable for carriages.
We found the door of the keep locked. For a long time we rang at the belfry. Eventually the castellan appeared. He was the only inhabitant of Tête-Foulque other than a hermit who ministered in the chapel, whom we found at prayer. When he had finished I told him that I had come to ask him to say a hundred masses. At the same time I put my offering on the altar and wanted also to leave the commander’s sword there, but the castellan told me that it had to be put in the armoury with all the other swords, both of members of the Foulequère family killed in duels and of those killed by them. That was the sacred custom.
I followed the castellan into the armoury and indeed found there swords of every shape and size, together with family portraits beginning with the portrait of Foulque-Taillefer, Count of Angoulême, who built Tête-Foulque for a manzier of his, that is to say, a bastard, and who became Seneschal of Poitou and progenitor of the Foulequère de Tête-Foulque.
The portraits of the seneschal and his wife were on either side of a great fireplace in the corner of the armoury. They were very lifelike. The other portraits were equally well painted, although in the style of their age. But none was as striking as that of Foulque-Taillefer. He was dressed in a buff coat with his sword in his hand, grasping his rondache, which a squire was presenting to him. Most of the swords were attached to the bottom of this portrait, where they formed a sort of bundle.
I asked the castellan to light a fire in the room and to bring me my supper there.
‘As for supper,’ he replied, ‘I am quite happy to do that, but, dear pilgrim, I entreat you to sleep in my room.’
I asked him the reason for this precaution.
‘I know what I am doing,’ said the castellan. ‘I shall in any case make up a bed for you next to mine.’
I was all the more pleased to accept his proposal as it was Friday and I feared a recurrence of my vision.
The castellan went away to attend to my supper and I started to look at the arms and the portraits. These were, as I have said, very lifelike. As the daylight faded, the dark hangings became indistinguishable in the shadows from the dark background of the pictures, and the firelight picked out only the faces, which was somewhat frightening; or perhaps it seemed frightening to me because my conscience left me in a perpetual state of fear.
The castellan brought me my supper, which consisted of a dish of trout which had been caught in a nearby stream. I had a very reasonable bottle of wine as well. I asked the hermit to join me at table but he lived solely off boiled herbs.
I have always read my breviary punctiliously, which is obligatory for professed knights, at least in Spain, so I took it out of my pocket together with my rosary and said to the castellan that, as I did not feel drowsy, I would stay where I was to pray until later in the night. All he need do was to show me my bedroom.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The hermit will come to pray in the adjoining chapel at midnight. Then you will go down the small staircase and you cannot miss my bedroom; I shall leave the door open. Do not stay here after midnight.’
The castellan went away. I started praying and from time to time put a log on the fire, though I did not dare to look too closely around the room because the portraits seemed to me to be coming to life. If I stared at them for a few seconds they looked as though they blinked and twisted their mouths, especially the seneschal and his wife, who were on either side of the fireplace. I fancied that they were casting angry glances at me and then looking at each other. A sudden gust of wind added to my terror. Not only did it rattle the windows, it also shook the bundle of swords, whose clinking made me tremble. Meanwhile I was praying fervently.
At last I heard the hermit intoning a psalm. When he had finished I went down the stairs towards the castellan’s bedroom. I had the stub of a candle in my hand. The wind blew it out, and I went upstairs to light it again. You can imagine my astonishment on seeing that the seneschal and his wife had come down from their picture frames and were sitting by the fire. They were talking in familiar tones to each other, and one could hear what they were saying.
‘My Lady,’ the seneschal said, ‘what think you of the Castilian who hath slain the commander but granted him not leave to seek shrift?’
‘Methinks,’ said the female ghost, ‘methinks, my love, that he hath thereby committed felony and wickedness. Thus think I that Messire Taillefer will not let the Castilian hie away from the castle but that he throw down the gauntlet.’
I was terrified and rushed headlong down the stairs. I searched for the castellan’s door but could not find it by feeling my way to it. In my hand I still held the candle which had gone out. I thought of lighting it again and took heart somewhat. I tried to convince myself that the two figures I had seen by the fire had only existed in my imagination. I went back up the stairs and, pausing outside the door of the armoury, saw that the two figures were indeed not by the fireside where I had imagined seeing them. So I boldly went in, but had not taken more than a few paces when I saw
before me in the middle of the room Messire Taillefer, who had taken guard and was presenting the point of his sword to me.
I wanted to retreat to the staircase but the door was blocked by a squire, who threw down a gauntlet. Not knowing what to do next, I seized a sword from the bundle of arms and fell upon my fantastical enemy. I thought I had split him in two, but at once I was pierced by a blow below the heart which burned me like a red-hot iron. My blood spilled all over the room and I fainted.
I woke up in the morning in the castellan’s bedroom. Seeing that I had not come down, he had armed himself with holy water and gone to fetch me. He found me lying on the floor, unconscious but without any wound. The wound I thought I had suffered was only sorcery. The castellan asked me no questions but merely advised me to leave the castle.
I left and set off for Spain. It took me a week to get to Bayonne, which I reached on a Friday. I lodged in an inn. In the middle of the night I awoke with a start and saw Messire Taillefer at the bottom of my bed, threatening me with his sword. I made the sign of the cross and the spectre seemed to dissolve into smoke. But I felt a blow the same as the one I imagined having received in the castle of Tête-Foulque. I seemed to be bathed in my own blood. I tried to cry out and leave my bed, but I could do neither. This indescribable anguish lasted until cockcrow, when I fell asleep again. But the next day I was ill and in a pitiable state. I have had the same vision every Friday since. No acts of devotion have been able to rid me of them. Melancholy will drive me to my grave, and I will be laid there before I am able to free myself from Satan’s power. A vestige of hope in divine mercy still sustains me and helps me endure my ills.
That is how the Commander of Toralva’s story finished, or rather, how the reprobate pilgrim’s account of it to Cornádez ended. Then he once more took up the thread of his own story:
The Commander of Toralva was a devout man. Although he had offended against his religion by fighting a duel without letting his adversary put his conscience in order, I had no trouble in making him see that if he wanted to free himself from diabolical hauntings it was necessary to visit the holy places that sinners never visit without finding the consolation of grace. Toralva was easily persuaded of this. We visited together the holy places of Spain. Then we went to Italy and saw Loreto and Rome. The grand penitentiary gave him not just conditional but general absolution, together with a papal indulgence. Toralva, now completely freed of his hallucinations, went to Malta, and I have come to Salamanca.
From the first time I set eyes on you, I saw on your forehead the mark of reprobation and your whole story has been disclosed to me. The Conde de Peña Flor had indeed had the intention of seducing and possessing all women but he had neither seduced nor possessed any of them, so having committed only sins of intention his soul was not in danger. But for two years he had neglected his religious duties and was on the way to fulfil them when you had him murdered, or at least were an accessory to his murder. This is the reason for the haunting which torments you. There is only one way to be rid of it, which is to follow the commander’s example. I will serve as your guide. As you know, my own salvation depends on it.
Cornádez was convinced. He visited the shrines of Spain, then those of Italy. He spent two years in pilgrimage. Señora Cornádez spent this time in Madrid, where her mother and sister had settled.
Cornádez came back to Salamanca. He found his house in excellent order and his wife agreeable, sweet-natured and yet more beautiful. Two months later she went again to Madrid to see her mother and sister, and then came back to Salamanca, where she ended by staying permanently when the Duke of Arcos was appointed to the embassy in London.
At this point the Knight of Toledo spoke up and said, ‘My dear Busqueros, I don’t think you have fully acquitted yourself yet. I want to hear the end of this story and know what has become of Señora Cornádez.’
‘She became a widow,’ said Busqueros. ‘Then she remarried, and her conduct is exemplary. But look, here she comes. I think she is on her way to your house.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Toledo. ‘The person you are pointing out is Señora Uscariz. What a woman! She had convinced me that I was her first love. She’ll pay for that!’ The knight, wishing to be alone with his mistress, hurriedly dismissed us.
‘And I am forced to leave you to look to the affairs of my little people,’ added the gypsy.
The Fifty-fourth Day
The next day we reassembled at the usual hour and asked the gypsy to take up the thread of his story again, which he did as follows:
THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED
Toledo, knowing now the true story of Señora Uscariz, indulged for some time in the mischievous pleasure of speaking to her of Frasqueta Cornádez as a charming woman whose acquaintance he would love to make, the only woman who could make him happy and secure his affections for good. But in the end he lost interest in all love affairs including that with Señora Uscariz.
As his family enjoyed the favour of the court, the office of Prior of Castile was destined for Toledo. It became vacant, so the knight hurried off to Malta. For a time I lost a protector who could oppose Busqueros’s plans for my father’s great inkpot. I was a spectator of the whole intrigue without being able to put obstacles in its way. This is how it came about.
At the beginning of my story I told you that every morning my father would go out on to a balcony overlooking the Calle de Toledo to take the air. He then would go to another balcony which looked out over a narrow street, and when he saw his neighbours opposite he would greet them by saying ‘Agour’. He did not like to go back into his house without having given this greeting. His neighbours would hurry out to receive his compliment in order not to hold him up too long. Otherwise he had no contact with them.
These good neighbours moved away and were replaced by the Señoras Cimiento, who were distant relatives of Don Roque Busqueros. The aunt, Señora Cimiento, was a person of forty years of age with a fresh complexion and a calm, gentle manner. Her niece, Señorita Cimiento, was tall and well-built, with quite nice eyes and very beautiful arms.
The two ladies took possession of their apartment as soon as it was empty and, when the next day my father came to the balcony overlooking the narrow street, he was charmed to see them on the balcony opposite. They received his greeting and returned it most graciously. This surprise was a pleasant one for him. None the less, he withdrew again into his apartment and the ladies withdrew on their side.
This polite exchange remained on the same footing for a week. At the end of this period my father caught sight of an object in Señorita Cimiento’s room which excited his curiosity. It was a small, glazed cupboard containing jars and crystal bottles. Some looked as though they were filled with the brightest colours for use in dyeing, others with gold dust, silver dust or powdered lapis lazuli, others with a golden varnish. The cupboard was placed near the window. Señorita Cimiento, dressed in a plain bodice, would come to fetch first one bottle then another. But what did she do with them? My father was unable to guess, and he wasn’t in the habit of seeking information. He preferred not to know about things.
One day Señorita Cimiento was writing near the window. Her ink was thick; she poured water into it and made it so thin that it was impossible to use. Moved by feelings of courtesy, my father filled a bottle with ink and sent it to her. His maid came back with thanks and a cardboard box containing twelve sticks of sealing-wax, all of different colours. On them had been impressed ornaments and devices in a most accomplished way. So my father found out how Señorita Cimiento spent her time; and her work, analogous to his, was, as it were, its complement. The quality of the manufacture of the waxes was even higher than that of his ink. Full of approbation, he folded down an envelope, wrote an address on it with his fine ink and sealed it with his new wax, which took the impression perfectly. He put the envelope on the table and did not tire of contemplating it.
That evening he went to Moreno’s shop. A man he did not know brought a box similar
to his, with the same number of sticks. They were tried out and aroused universal admiration. My father thought about them the whole evening and that night he dreamed about sealing-wax.
The next morning he uttered his customary greeting. He even opened his mouth to say more, but in the end he said nothing and went back into his apartment, where he took up a position from which he could observe what was going on in that of Señorita Cimiento. The young lady was examining with a magnifying glass all the furniture being cleaned by the servant and whenever she discovered a speck of dust she made her begin again. The cleanliness of his room mattered a great deal to my father. The trouble he saw his nice neighbour taking gave him a great deal of respect for her.
I have said that my father’s main pastime was to smoke cigars and to count either the passers-by or the tiles on the palacio de Alba. But already, instead of spending hours doing this, he spent hardly a few minutes. A powerful force of attraction constantly drew him to the balcony overlooking the narrow street.
Busqueros was the first to notice this change and in my presence said confidently several times that Don Felipe Avadoro would soon recover his real name and lose the nickname del Tintero Largo. Although little versed in legal matters, I supposed that a second marriage by my father would scarcely be to my advantage, so I rushed to see Aunt Dalanosa and begged her to do something to avert this calamity. Genuinely saddened by the news I brought her, my aunt went back to see Uncle Sántez. The Theatine replied, however, that marriage was a divine sacrament with which he could not interfere, although he promised to see that my interests would not be harmed by it.
