Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript

by Jan Potocki

  However, the blacker the night became, the more sombre my thoughts. Some of the time I pondered on the disappearance of my two servants, and then on ways of obtaining food for myself. I thought that thieves, suddenly emerging from some bush or underground trap, had attacked Lopez and Mosquito, one after the other, when they were alone, and that I had been spared only because my military attire did not promise such an easy victory. My appetite preoccupied me more than anything else. But I had seen goats on the mountain; they must have been guarded by a goatherd, and this man must doubtless have some small supply of bread to eat with his milk. Moreover, I was relying somewhat on my gun. But to retrace my steps and expose myself to the caustic remarks of the landlord at Andujar – this I was determined not to do. I was on the contrary firmly resolved to continue my journey.

  Having exhausted all such thoughts, I could not help calling to mind the famous story of the counterfeiters, and a few others of the like told to me when I was in the cradle. I also thought of the inscription on the collection-box. I did not believe that the devil had wrung the innkeeper’s neck, but I understood nothing of his tragic end.

  So the hours passed in profound silence, until the unexpected sound of a bell made me start in surprise. It chimed twelve times, and as everyone knows, ghosts have no power but from midnight until the first cock-crow. I say that I was surprised, and I had reason to be, for the bell had not chimed the other hours. Moreover, it seemed to me there was something lugubrious about its ringing.

  A moment later the bedroom door opened and I saw a figure come in that was completely black, but not frightening, for it was a beautiful negress; she was semi-naked and held a torch in each hand.

  The negress came up to me, bowed low and said to me in very good Spanish: “Noble sir, some foreign ladies who are spending the night in this hostel invite you to share their supper. Be good enough to follow me.”

  I followed the negress along corridor after corridor, and finally into a well-lit room in the middle of which stood a table, laden with Japanese porcelain and carafes of rock crystal, and with three places set. At the far end of the room was a magnificent bed. Numerous negresses seemed eager to serve, but they stood by respectfully, and I saw two ladies enter the room, whose lily and rose colouring contrasted perfectly with the ebony complexion of their servants. The two ladies held each other by the hand. They were dressed in a bizarre style, or so at least it seemed to me, but the truth is this style is customary in many a town on the Barbary coast, from what I saw when I travelled there. Here, then, is what this costume comprised: it was really no more than a chemise and a corsage. The chemise was of linen to below the waist, but lower down it was of Meknes gauze, a kind of material that would have been completely transparent if wide silk ribbons, woven into the fabric, had not rendered it more apt to conceal such charms that gain by having to be guessed at. The corsage, richly embroidered with pearls and studded with diamonds, only just covered the bosom. It had no sleeves, whilst those of the chemise, also of gauze, were turned back and tied behind the neck. Their bare arms were adorned with bracelets, as many at the wrist as above the elbow. The feet of these ladies, which, had they been devils, would have been cloven, or equipped with claws, were nothing of the sort; they were bare, in little embroidered mules, and the lower leg adorned with an anklet of large diamonds.

  The two unknown women came towards me with an easy and gracious manner. They were both perfect beauties, one tall, svelte, dazzling, the other affecting and shy. The elder of the two had an admirable figure, and admirable too were her features. The younger one had a rounded figure, with lips a little pouting, eyelids half-closed, and the little of her eyes they revealed concealed by lashes of extraordinary length.

  The eldest addressed me in Castilian, and said: “Noble sir, we thank you for your kindness in accepting this small collation, I believe you must be in need of it.”

  She said these last words with such an air of mischievousness that I almost suspected her of having arranged the abduction of the mule loaded with our provisions, but she was replacing them so well it was impossible to hold it against her.

  We sat down at table, and passing me a porcelain bowl, the same lady said: “Noble sir, you will find here an olla podrida, composed of all kinds of meats, one only excepted, for we count ourselves among the Faithful, by which I mean Muslims.”

  “Beautiful stranger,” I replied, “your choice of words seems apt. Doubtless you are faithful, such is the religion of love. But deign to satisfy my curiosity before my appetite: tell me who you are.”

  “There is no need to delay eating, noble sir,” said the beautiful Moor, “we shall not conceal our identity from you of all people. My name is Emina, and my sister is called Zibedde. We live in Tunisia, but our family comes from Granada, and some of our relatives are still in Spain, where they secretly profess the faith of their fathers. Eight days ago, we left Tunisia. We put in to shore near Malaga, on a deserted beach. Then we travelled through the mountains between Loja and Antequera, then came to this lonely place to change our dress and to make all the arrangements necessary for our safety. So you see, noble sir, our journey is a great secret that we have entrusted to your good faith.”

  I assured the beauties they needed to fear no indiscretion on my part, and then I started to eat, rather greedily to tell the truth, but yet with certain constrained graces, such as a young man gladly adopts when he finds himself alone of his sex in the company of women.

  When my initial hunger was seen to have been appeased, and I was turning my attention to what are called in Spain los dulces, the lovely Emina commanded the negresses to show me how people danced in their country. It seemed that no command could be more agreeable to them. They obeyed with a liveliness that bordered on licence. I even believe that it would have been difficult to put a stop to their dancing, but I asked their beautiful mistresses whether they sometimes danced. By way of reply they simply rose and asked for castanets. The steps they danced resembled the bolero of Murcia and the fofa danced in the Algarve. Those who have been to these provinces will be able to form some idea of those steps, yet they will never understand all the charm brought to them by the natural gracefulness of the two African women, a charm heightened by the diaphanous robes in which they were clad.

  I watched them for some time with a kind of sangfroid. Eventually, their movements quickened by a more lively cadence, the dizzying sound of the Moorish music, my spirits raised by the unexpected food – within me and without, all conspired to confuse my senses. I no longer knew whether I was with women or with insidious incubuses. I dared not see, I would not look. I placed my hand over my eyes, feeling faint.

  The two sisters came up to me, each of them took me by the hand. Emina asked if I was unwell. I reassured her. Zibedde asked me what was the medallion she could see on my breast and whether it was the portrait of a mistress.

  “It is”, I told her, “a locket my mother gave me, and which I promised to wear always. It contains a fragment of the True Cross…”

  At these words I saw Zibedde draw back and pale.

  “You are troubled,” I said to her, “yet the Cross can frighten none but the spirit of darkness.”

  Emina replied for her sister. “Noble sir,” she said, “you know that we are Muslim and you ought not to be surprised at the distress my sister has revealed to you. I share it: we are very upset to see that you, our closest relative, are a Christian. These words amaze you, but was not your mother a Gomelez? We are of the same family, which is simply another branch of the Abencerrages family. But let us sit down on this sofa and I will tell you more.”

  The negresses withdrew. Emina placed me in the corner of the sofa and sat next to me, her legs crossed beneath her. Zibedde sat on the other side, resting on my cushion, and we were so close to each other that their breath mingled with mine.

  Emina appeared to daydream for a moment, then looking at me with what seemed the keenest interest, she took my hand and said to me: “Dear Alphonse, t
here is no point in hiding it from you: it is not chance that has brought us here. We were waiting for you. If fear had made you take another road, you would have lost our respect for ever.”

  “You flatter me, Emina,” I replied, “and I do not see what interest you can take in my worth.”

  “We take great interest in you,” said the beautiful Moor, “but perhaps you will be less flattered by this when you know that you are the first man we have ever seen. What I say amazes you, and you seem to doubt it. I had promised you the story of our ancestors, but perhaps it would be better if I began with our own story.”

  The story of Emina and her sister Zibedde

  We are daughters of Gasir Gomelez, maternal uncle of the now-reigning Dey of Tunis. We have never had a brother, nor have we ever seen our father, which means that, enclosed within the walls of the harem, we had no idea at all of your sex. However, since we were both born with an extreme propensity for affection, we loved each other with great passion. This attachment began in our earliest childhood. We would cry as soon as anyone tried to separate us, even momentarily. If one of us was scolded, the other would burst into tears. We would spend our days playing at the same table, and we would sleep in the same bed.

  This intense love seemed to increase as we grew older, and it was further strengthened by an incident I am going to relate to you. I was then aged sixteen, and my sister fourteen. For a long time we had noticed books that my mother carefully hid from us. At first we paid little attention, being already extremely bored by the books from which we were taught to read. But with age came curiosity. We seized the moment when the forbidden cupboard was open and hastily removed a small volume, which turned out to be The Love of Majnun and Leila, translated from the Persian by Ben Omri. This divine work, which depicts in images of fire all the delights of love, set our young minds aflame. We could not understand it very well, because we had not seen any human beings of your sex, but we would repeat its expressions. We would speak the language of the lovers. Eventually we wanted to love each other as they did. I took the part of Majnun, my sister that of Leila. At first I declared my passion for her through the arrangement of flowers, a kind of secret code in very common usage throughout Asia. Then I made my eyes speak, I prostrated myself before her, I kissed the path that she had trodden, I conjured the west winds to carry my loving suits to her, and I believed that with the fire of my sighs I stoked their breath.

  Zibedde, true to the lessons of her author, granted me a meeting. I threw myself at her knees, I kissed her hands, I bathed her feet with my tears. My mistress first offered gentle resistance, then allowed me to steal a few favours from her, and at last she surrendered herself to my impatient ardour. In truth, our souls seemed to become one, and even now I know of nothing that could make us happier than we were then.

  I do not know for how long we entertained ourselves with these impassioned scenes, but finally they gave way to more tranquil sentiments. We acquired a taste for the study of some sciences, especially for the knowledge of plants, which we studied in the writings of the celebrated Averroes.

  My mother, who believed it impossible to arm oneself too much against the boredom of the harem, saw with pleasure that we liked to keep ourselves occupied. She summoned from Mecca a holy person called Hazereta, or the saint par excellence. Hazereta taught us the law of the Prophet. Her lessons were couched in that language of such purity and harmony which is spoken by the Koraish tribe. We could not tire of listening to her, and we knew by heart almost the whole of the Koran. Then my mother instructed us herself in the history of our family, and placed in our hands a great number of memoirs, some in Arabic, others in Spanish. Ah! my dear Alphonse, how odious your faith seemed to us from these books. How we hated your persecutory priests. But how great on the contrary was the interest we took in so many ill-fated illustrious men whose blood ran in our veins.

  We would become enamoured now of Said Gomelez, who suffered martyrdom in the prisons of the Inquisition, now of his nephew Leiss, who for a long time led a primitive existence in the mountains, his life little different from that of wild animals. Such characters made us love men. We would have liked to see some, and often we would climb on to our terrace to discern in the distance the people embarking on the lake of La Goulette, or those going to the Hammam Nef baths. Whilst we had not completely forgotten the lessons of the amorous Majnun, at least we did not rehearse them together any more. I even thought that my love for my sister was no longer in the nature of a passion, but a fresh incident proved the contrary.

  One day my mother brought to visit us a princess of Tafilelt, a middle-aged woman. We did our best to make her welcome. After she had left, my mother told me that she had asked for me in marriage on behalf of her son, and that my sister was to marry a Gomelez. This news came to us like a bolt from the blue. At first we were so taken aback by it, we lost the power of speech. Then the misery of living without each other impressed itself so forcefully upon us that we surrendered to the direst despair. We tore out our hair, we filled the harem with our cries. In short, the demonstrations of our grief exceeded all reason. My mother was terrified and promised not to force a husband on either of us. She assured us that we would be allowed to remain maidens, or to marry the same man. These assurances calmed us a little.

  Some time afterwards my mother came to tell us that she had spoken to the head of our family, and that he had given leave for us to have the same husband, on condition he was a man of Gomelez blood.

  We made no response at first, but this idea of sharing a husband appealed to us more every day. We had never seen a man, either young or old, except from a great distance, but since young women seemed to us more agreeable than old women, we wanted our husband to be young. We hoped too that he would explain to us some of the passages from Ben Omri’s book whose meaning we had not entirely grasped…

  Here Zibedde interrupted her sister, and clasping me in her arms, she said: “My dear Alphonse, would that you were a Muslim! How happy I should be to see you in the arms of Emina, to add to your pleasures, to join your embraces. For after all, my dear Alphonse, in our house, as in the Prophet’s, the sons of a daughter have the same rights as the male line. It may depend entirely on you to become the head of our family, which is about to die out. You have only only to open your eyes to the holy truths of our faith.”

  This seemed to me so strongly to resemble an insinuation of Satan that I believed I could already see horns on Zibedde’s pretty forehead. I stammered out a few words of religion. The two sisters drew back a little.

  Emina assumed a more serious expression and continued in these terms: “Signor Alphonse, I have spoken too much about my sister and myself. This was not my intention. I only sat down here to tell you the story of the Gomelez, of whom you are a descendant through the female line. Here then is what I have to say to you.”

  The story of the castle Cassar Gomelez

  The original founder of our family was Massoud Ben Taher, brother of Youssouf Ben Taher, who led the Arabs into Spain and gave his name to the mountain of Gebal-Taher, which you pronounce Gibraltar. Massoud, who had greatly contributed to their success in arms, obtained from the Caliph of Bagdad the governorship of Granada, where he remained until the death of his brother. He would have remained there longer, for he was cherished by the Muslims as well as the Mozarabs, that is to say, the Christians who had stayed under Arab rule; but Massoud had enemies in Bagdad, who denigrated him in the Caliph’s mind. He knew that his downfall was inevitable, and took the decision to flee. So Massoud assembled his family and took refuge in the Alpujarras, which are, as you know, a continuation of the mountains of the Sierra Morena, and this chain separates the realm of Granada from that of Valencia.

  The Visigoths, from whom we conquered Spain, had not penetrated the Alpujarras. Most of the valleys were desolate. Only three were inhabited, by descendants of an ancient people of Spain. They were called Turdules. They recognized neither Muhammad nor your Nazarene prophet. Their religious bel
iefs and their laws were contained in songs that fathers taught their children. They had books, which were lost.

  Massoud subjugated the Turdules more by persuasion than by force. He learned their language and taught them the Muslim law. The two peoples were united through marriage; it is to this miscegenation and to the mountain air that we owe this high colouring, which you see in my sister and myself, and which distinguishes the daughters of the Gomelez. One sees among the Moors a great many very light-skinned women, but they are always pale in complexion.

  Massoud took the title of Sheikh, and built a heavily fortified castle, which he called Cassar Gomelez. Judge rather than sovereign of his tribe, Massoud was at all times accessible, and made it his duty to be so, but on the last Friday of every month, he would take leave of his family, shut himself away in a cellar of the castle and remain there until the following Friday. These disappearances gave rise to different conjectures: some said that our Sheikh had meetings with the twelfth imam, who is to appear on earth when the centuries come to an end. Others believed that the Antichrist was chained up in our cellar. Others thought that the Seven Sleepers lay there with their dog Caleb. Massoud took no notice of these rumours; he continued to govern his small people for as long as his strength allowed him. Eventually he chose the wisest man of the tribe, named him his successor, handed him the key to the cellar, and retired to a monastery, where he lived for many more years.

  The new Sheikh governed as his predecessor had done, and made the same disappearances on the last Friday of every month. Everything continued as before, until Cordoba had its own caliphs, independent of those of Bagdad. Then the mountain-people of the Alpujarras, who had taken part in this revolution, began to settle on the plains, where they were known by the name of Abencerrages, whilst the name of Gomelez was kept by those who remained subjects of the Sheikh of Cassar Gomelez.