by Jan Potocki
When I awoke it was broad daylight. I found myself lying by a black marble urn. On it I read in gold letters the name ‘Leonor Avadoro’. In a word, I was lying beside my wife’s tomb. I then recalled the events of the night and was troubled by their memory. For a long time I had not approached the tribunal of penitence. I went to the Theatine house and asked for my great-uncle, Father Gerónimo. He was ill. Another confessor appeared. I asked him whether it was possible for demons to assume human form.
‘Without doubt,’ he replied. ‘Succubi are mentioned by name in St Thomas’s Summa. It’s a special case. When a man has not partaken of the sacraments for a long time demons gain a certain control over him. They appear in the shape of women and lead him into temptation. My son, if you think you have met succubi, go and see the grand penitentiary. Go at once. Waste no time.’
I replied that a strange adventure had befallen me in which I had been misled by visions. I asked for permission to break off my confession.
I went to Toledo’s house. He told me that he would take me to dine with the Duchess of Avila and that the Duchess of Sidonia would be there too. He found me preoccupied and asked me the reason. I was indeed abstracted and could not marshal my ideas in any reasonable order. I was melancholy at dinner with the duchesses. But they were so lively and gay and Toledo responded so well to their mood that I ended up by sharing it myself.
During dinner I noticed conspiratorial signs and some laughter which seemed to have something to do with me. We left the table and instead of going to the salon the four of us went to the inner apartments. When we reached them Toledo locked the door and said:
‘Illustrious Knight of Calatrava. Kneel down before the duchess. She has been your wife for more than a year! Don’t say that you suspected it. The people to whom you will tell your story will guess perhaps, but the great art is to prevent suspicions from forming and that is what we have done. Actually the secretiveness of the ambitious Duke of Avila has helped us. He really did have a son, whom he hoped to have recognized. This son died and so he ordered his daughter not to marry in order that his estates would revert to the Sorriente, who are a branch of the Avila family. The haughty character of our duchess made her not want to have a master but since our return from Malta this same pride didn’t quite know what was happening to it and ran the risk of suffering a notable shipwreck. Happily for the Duchess of Avila, she has a friend who is also yours, my dear Avadoro. She took her into her complete confidence and we have worked together in the interests of those who are so close to our hearts.
‘We then invented a Leonor, daughter of the duke and the infanta, who was none other than the duchess herself, dressed in a blonde wig and lightly made-up; but you never thought of recognizing your haughty mistress in the naïve girl who had been brought up in the Carmelites’ house. I was present sometimes when this role was being rehearsed and I assure you that I would have been just as deceived as you were.
‘Seeing that you had refused the most brilliant matches simply to remain attached to her, the duchess decided to marry you. You are married before God and his Church, but you are not married before men, or at least you would search in vain for proof of your marriage. In this way the duchess has not broken any engagement she has made.
‘So you were married and the duchess had to spend some months in her country estate to avoid the eyes of the curious. Busqueros had just reached Madrid. I put him on your trail and, on the pretext of throwing that ferret off the scent, we had Leonor leave for the country. Then it suited us to have you leave for Naples, for we didn’t know any more what to tell you about Leonor, and the duchess was unwilling to make herself known to you until a living proof of your love had added to your rights.
‘At this point, my dear Avadoro, I must implore your forgiveness. I plunged a dagger into your breast by announcing to you the death of a person who never existed. But you did not lose by reacting with such feeling. The duchess is touched that you have loved her so perfectly under two so different guises. For a week she has been eager to declare herself, and here I am again the guilty party. I was determined to call Leonor back from the other world. The duchess agreed to act the woman in white, but it wasn’t she who ran so lightly along the ridge of the neighbouring house. That Leonor was just a little chimney sweep.
‘The same lad came back the next night dressed as the limping devil.1 He sat on the window and slipped down a rope which had been already tied in place. I don’t know what happened in the patio of the former Carmelite convent but I had you followed this morning and knew that you had made a lengthy confession. I don’t like to have dealings with the Church and I feared the consequences of a joke which might be taken too far. So I didn’t oppose the duchess’s wish and we decided that her declaration should be made today.’
That was what my friend Toledo said. But I hardly listened to him. I was at Manuela’s feet. A delightful shy blush coloured her face, in which I saw the clear expression of her complete submission. My victory had then and was only ever to have two witnesses, but it was no less dear to me for that.
I was thus fulfilled in love, in friendship and even in self-esteem. What a moment for a young man!
When the gypsy reached this point in his story, he was told that the affairs of his band required his presence and he had to leave us. I turned to Rebecca and said to her that we had heard an account of extraordinary adventures which none the less had all been explained by natural means.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps yours will be explained in the same way.’
The Fifty-seventh Day
We were expecting important events. The gypsy had sent messengers out in different directions and was impatiently awaiting their return. When he was asked when we would strike camp, he shook his head and replied that he was not yet able to give a precise time. Our stay in the mountains was beginning to bore me. I would have been happy to join my regiment as quickly as possible, but I had to stay on for some time in spite of this wish. The days were quite monotonous, but the evenings on the contrary were very pleasant, thanks to the company of the gypsy chief, in whom I was discovering new qualities. I was quite curious to know what his next adventures were and on this occasion asked him myself to satisfy my curiosity, which he did as follows:
THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED
You will recall my dinner with the Duchess of Avila, the Duchess of Sidonia and my friend, Toledo. I told you that it was only then that I learned the proud Manuela was my wife. The horses were harnessed to the carriages and we went to the castle of Sorriente. A new surprise awaited me there. The same duenna who had lived with the supposed Leonor in the Calle Retrada presented my little Manolita to me. The duenna was called Doña Rosalba and passed for the mother of the child.
Sorriente is on the banks of the Tagus in one of the most enchanting regions of the world. But the charms of nature only impressed me for a short time. Paternal feelings, love, friendship, tender trust and a deep courteousness shown by all made every day a new delight. What we in this brief life call happiness filled every moment. As far as I can remember, this state lasted six weeks; then we had to go back to Madrid. It was already late in the evening when we reached the capital. I accompanied the duchess to the steps of her palace. She was very emotional.
‘Don Juan,’ she said, ‘in Sorriente you were Manuela’s husband; here you are Leonor’s widower.’
No sooner had she uttered these words than I saw a shadow cross the rail of the staircase. I grabbed the man by the collar and brought him into the light. I saw it was Busqueros. I was on the point of giving him the reward due for his spying when a single glance from the duchess stopped me. This look had not escaped Busqueros’s notice. He adopted his usual impertinent manner and said:
‘Señora, I could not resist the temptation of admiring the charm of your person for a moment, and perhaps nobody would have discovered me in my hiding-place if the light of your beauty had not illuminated the staircase like the sun.’
Having produced this well-turned compliment, Busqueros bowed low and left.
‘I fear that my words may have reached the ears of that wretched man,’ said the duchess. ‘Go after him and try to banish from his mind any unwelcome suppositions.’
The incident seemed deeply to have upset the duchess. I left her and rejoined Busqueros in the street.
‘Dear stepson,’ he said, ‘just now you nearly struck me with your stick, which would certainly have done you no good at all. First, you’d have failed to show the respect you owe to me as the husband of your former stepmother; secondly, you will discover that I am not the idler that you once knew. I have been promoted, and both in the ministry and at court my talents have been recognized. The Duke of Arcos has returned from his post as ambassador and enjoys the favour of the court. Señora Uscariz, his former mistress, has become a widow and shares a close friendship with my wife. We carry our heads high and fear no one.
‘But tell me, dear stepson, what the duchess was confiding in you. You were terribly afraid that I would hear. I warn you that we don’t like either the Avilas or the Sidonias or your friend, that spoilt child Toledo, very much. Señora Uscariz can’t forgive him for having left her. I don’t understand why you all went to Sorriente. People have been much concerned about you in your absence without your knowing about it. You are as innocent as new-born children. The Marqués de Medina, who is a descendant of the Sidonia family, is soliciting the title of duke and the hand of the young Duchess of Sidonia, for his son. It’s true that the young duchess is scarcely eleven years old but that doesn’t matter. The marqués has long been a friend of the Duke of Arcos and enjoys the favour of Cardinal Portocarrero.1 As he is omnipotent at court the affair will go ahead. You can tell the duchess. Wait, dear stepson. Don’t think that I haven’t recognized you as the little beggar beneath the portal of St Roch. You then had problems with the holy Inquisition, but I am not keen to come up against that tribunal. Look after yourself! Farewell!’
Busqueros went off, and I realized that he was still the same inquisitive meddler that he had always been, except that he exercised his talents in higher spheres.
Next day I dined with the Duchess of Avila, the Duchess of Sidonia and Toledo. I reported to them my conversation with Busqueros. This made more of an impression than I would have expected. Toledo, who was now less handsome and did not pay court to the ladies with the same assiduity as of old, would willingly have solicited an honorific post, but unfortunately Count Oropesa2, the minister on whom he was counting, had left government service. That is why he was hesitating between different options. The Duke of Arcos’s return, and the favour he enjoyed with the cardinal, were not events calculated to please him.
The Duchess of Sidonia seemed to fear the moment that she would have only a life rent to live on. On the other hand, every time the subject of the court and court favours came up, the Duchess of Avila took on an even more haughty air than usual. I was amazed to realize that differences of rank remained a sensitive matter, even among close friends.
A few days later, as we were dining with the Duchess of Sidonia, a gentleman of the Duke of Velásquez’s retinue announced a visit of his master. Velásquez was then in the full vigour of manhood. He was a handsome man, who always dressed in the French manner, which he refused to abandon for the Spanish style because it stood out well from the crowd. His eloquence also set him apart from Spaniards, who say little and clearly for that reason take refuge in cigars and guitars. Unlike them Velásquez passed easily from one subject to another and always found an opportunity to address a compliment to the ladies.
Toledo was certainly more intelligent, but intelligence only shows itself intermittently, whereas eloquence is inexhaustible. Velásquez’s chatter gave pleasure. He saw himself that he charmed his listeners. He turned to the Duchess of Sidonia, burst out laughing, and said:
‘Really, I must confess to you that nothing more curious and more ravishing could be thought of.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked the duchess.
‘It’s true, Señora, that you share your beauty and youth with many women,’ replied Velásquez, ‘but you will certainly be the youngest and most beautiful of mothers-in-law!’
The duchess hadn’t thought about this. She was twenty-eight years old. To pass for being very young, one had to be younger in years, but there existed artifices by which to become younger.
‘Believe me, Señora,’ added Velásquez, ‘I am speaking nothing but the truth. The king has instructed me to ask you for the hand of your daughter for the Marqués de Medina. His Majesty is very keen that your famous name should not die out. All the grandees share his concern. As for you, Señora, what could be more charming than to see you lead your daughter to the altar? The general admiration will have to be shared between your two persons. If I were you, I would present myself in a dress similar in all respects to that of your daughter – in white satin embroidered with silver. If I may allow myself to give you a piece of advice, I would have cloth brought from Paris. I’ll recommend the best houses to you. I have already promised to dress the young groom in the French way with a white wig. Farewell, Mesdames! Portocarrero wants to appoint me ambassador. May my embassies always be as agreeable!’
With these words, Velásquez threw a glance at the two ladies, which led each one to believe that she had made a greater impression on him. He bowed a few times, did a pirouette and left. That was what was then called savoir vivre in France.
When the Duke of Velásquez had gone, a long silence ensued. The ladies dreamed of robes embroidered with silver, whereas Toledo thought about the present state of the country and exclaimed, ‘Is it really possible? Does the king want to rely only on the services of men like Arcos and Velásquez, the most vapid beings in all Spain? If that’s how the French party see things we shall have to turn to Austria.’
And in fact Toledo went straight away to Graf Harrach,3 who was then the emperor’s ambassador in Madrid. The ladies went to the Prado and I followed them on horseback.
We soon encountered a magnificent coach in which Señora Uscariz and Señora Busqueros were preening themselves. The Duke of Arcos was prancing beside it. Busqueros, who was following the duke in a servile way, had that very day received the Cross of Calatrava and wore it on his chest. This sight dumbfounded me. I possessed the same decoration. I thought that I had received it as a reward for my merit and especially for my integrity, which had won me noble and powerful friends. I confess to you that I was crestfallen to see that cross on the chest of a man whom I despised above all others. I remained rooted to the spot where I had encountered Señora Uscariz’s carriage.
After Busqueros had taken one turn round the Prado and saw me still in the same place he came up to me in a familiar way and said, ‘You see, my friend, that different paths lead to the same goal. Like you, I am a Knight of the order of Calatrava.’
I was utterly outraged. ‘So I see,’ I replied. ‘But knight or no, my dear Busqueros, I warn you if I find you nosing about in one of the houses I frequent I’ll treat you like a common criminal!’
Busqueros put on his sweetest air and said, ‘My dear stepson, your words call for an explanation between gentlemen. But with the best will in the world I can’t be angry with you. I am, and will remain, your friend. To prove it to you I’d like to talk to you about certain matters which concern you all, particularly you and the Duchess of Avila. If you would like to know more, put your horses in the hands of the groom and accompany me to the nearest confectioner’s.’
As I was curious, and feared for the peace of mind of the person who was most dear to me, I allowed myself to be persuaded. Busqueros ordered some refreshment and began to speak about things which were completely unrelated one to another. We were alone, but soon some officers from the Walloon Guards came into the shop, sat down and had chocolate brought to them.
Busqueros leaned towards me and said in a low voice, ‘Dear friend, you were a little annoyed because you thought that I had wormed
my way into the house of the Duchess of Avila. Now I heard there some words which I can’t get out of my head.’
At this Busqueros burst out laughing and looked at the Walloon officers. Then he carried on: ‘Dear stepson, the duchess said to you, “There the husband of Manuela, here the widower of Leonor.”’ With these words Busqueros burst out laughing again while looking at the Walloon officers. This trick was repeated several times. Suddenly Busqueros jumped up and left without saying a word. The Walloons came over to my table and one of them said to me very politely, ‘My comrades and I would be happy to know what your neighbour found so funny about us.’
‘Señor caballero,’ I replied, ‘your question is quite justified. My companion did indeed almost explode with laughter but I cannot guess the reason. I can, however, assure you that our conversation had absolutely nothing to do with you, but concerned family matters about which it would be impossible to find anything the slightest bit funny.’
‘Señor caballero,’ replied the Walloon officer, ‘I confess that your reply does not wholly satisfy me although it indubitably does me honour. I shall transmit it to my comrades.’
The Walloons seemed to disagree amongst themselves and not to share the opinion of the officer who had spoken.
After a moment he came back to me and said, ‘Señor caballero, my comrades and myself have not been able to reach agreement about the conclusions which it is appropriate to draw from the explanation which you were kind enough to give us. My comrades are of the opinion that we should be satisfied with it. Unfortunately, I am of the opposite opinion. This upsets me to the point that in order to avoid a quarrel I have offered satisfaction to each of them separately. As for you, Señor caballero, I admit that I should really lay the blame on Señor Busqueros. But I must say that his reputation scarcely allows me to take glory from a duel with him. On the other hand, Señor, you were with Don Busqueros and you even glanced fleetingly at us when he laughed. That is why I think that it would be right, without giving too much importance to this affair, to end this explanation with our swords.’
