by Jan Potocki
However, the Abencerrages bought the best land in the kingdom of Granada and the finest houses in town. Their wealth drew public attention; it was assumed that the Sheikh’s cellar contained an immense treasure, but no one could confirm this because the Abencerrages themselves did not know the source of their wealth.
Finally these noble kingdoms, having brought upon themselves the vengeance of heaven, were delivered into the hands of the Infidels. Granada was taken, and eight days later the famous Gonzalo de Cordoba came into the Alpujarras at the head of three thousand men. Hatem Gomelez was then our Sheikh. He went out to meet Gonzalo and offered him the keys to his castle; the Spaniard asked him for the keys to the cellar. The Sheikh gave him these too, without any objection. Gonzalo wanted to go down into the cellar himself: he found there only a tomb and some books. He openly decried all the tales he had been told and lost no time in returning to Valladolid, where love and chivalry called him.
Thereafter, peace reigned on our mountains, until Charles came to the throne. At that time our Sheikh was Sefi Gomelez. This man, for motives that have never been clear, informed the new emperor that he would reveal to him an important secret if he would send to the Alpujarras some lord in whom he trusted. Before the fortnight was out, Don Ruiz of Toledo presented himself to the Gomelez on behalf of His Majesty, but he found that the Sheikh had been murdered the previous day. Don Ruiz persecuted a few individuals, soon tired of the persecutions, and returned to Court.
However, the secret of the Sheikhs rested with Sefi’s assassin. This man, whose name was Billah Gomelez, called together the elders of the tribe and convinced them of the need to take new precautions for the safeguarding of such an important secret. It was decided that several members of the Gomelez family would be told, but that each of them would be initiated to only a part of the mystery, and even so, only after having given dazzling proofs of courage, prudence and loyalty.
At this point Zibedde again interrupted her sister and said to her: “Dear Emina, do you not believe that Alphonse would have withstood all tests? Ah, who can doubt it? Dear Alphonse, if only you were Muslim! Immense treasures would perhaps be yours…”
This again was just like the spirit of darkness, who, having failed to lure me into temptation through sensual pleasure, was seeking to make me succumb through love of gold. But the two beauties drew closer, and it certainly seemed to me that I was touching bodies and not spirits.
After a moment’s silence Emina resumed the thread of her story: “Dear Alphonse,” she said to me, “you know well enough the persecution we suffered under the reign of Philip, son of Charles. Our children were taken away from us and brought up in the Christian religion; these same children were given all that belonged to their parents, who had remained true to their faith. It was then that a certain Gomelez was admitted to the teké of the dervishes of St Dominic and reached the position of Grand Inquisitor…”
At this point we heard the cock crow, and Emina stopped talking… The cock crowed once more… A superstitious man might have expected the two fair ladies to fly up the chimney. They did not, but they seemed dreamy and preoccupied.
Emina was the first to break the silence. “Dear Alphonse,” she said, “the day is about to dawn. The hours that are ours to spend together are too precious to devote to story-telling. We cannot be your wives unless you adopt our holy law. But it is permitted for you to see us in your dreams. Do you agree to this?”
I agreed to everything.
“That is not enough,” said Emina with an air of the utmost dignity, “that is not enough, dear Alphonse. You must also vow on the sacred laws of honour never to betray our names, our existence, and everything you know about us. Dare you make that solemn oath?”
I promised all that was asked of me.
“That will do,” said Emina. “Sister, bring the cup consecrated by Massoud, first head of our family.”
While Zibedde went to fetch the enchanted vessel, Emina prostrated herself and recited prayers in the Arab tongue. Zibedde reappeared, holding a cup that looked as though it was carved out of single emerald. She put her lips to it. Emina did likewise, and ordered me to swallow the rest of the liquor in a single draught.
I obeyed.
Emina thanked me for my compliance and kissed me very tenderly. Then Zibedde pressed her mouth to mine and seemed unable to detach it. Eventually they left me, saying that I would see them again, and they advised me to go to sleep as soon as possible.
So many bizzare events and marvellous stories and unexpected feelings would surely have been enough to keep me thinking all night, but it has to be admitted, the dreams I had been promised occupied my thoughts more than all the rest. I wasted no time in undressing and in getting into a bed that had been prepared for me. Once I was settled, I noted with pleasure that my bed was very wide and that dreams do not require so much room. But I had hardly enough time to entertain this thought before an irresistible sleep made my eyelids heavy, and all the deceptions of night at once took possession of my senses. I had the feeling of being disorientated by tricks of fancy, but my mind, carried on the wings of desire, set me in the heart of Africa’s seraglios and seized upon the charms contained within those precincts to fashion my chimeric pleasures. I felt I was dreaming, and yet I was conscious of not embracing phantoms. I lost myself in the most wild illusions, but I always found myself again with my beautiful cousins. I fell asleep on their breasts, I awoke in their arms.
I do not know how many times I thought I experienced these sweet alternatives…
THE SECOND DAY
Eventually I really did awaken. The sun was burning my eyelids. I opened them with difficulty. I saw the sky. I saw that I was out in the open. But my eyes were still heavy with sleep. I was no longer sleeping, but I was not yet awake. A succession of images of torture passed through my mind. I was appalled by them. Jerked out of my slumber, I sat up…
How shall I find words to express the horror that seized me? I was lying under the gallows of Los Hermanos. The bodies of Zoto’s two brothers were not strung up, they were lying by my side. I had apparently spend the night with them. I was lying on pieces of rope, bits of wheels, the remains of human carcases and on the dreadful shreds of flesh that had fallen away through decay.
I thought I was still not properly awake and was having a bad dream. I closed my eyes again and searched my memory, trying to recall where I had been the day before… Then I felt claws sinking into my sides. I saw that a vulture had settled on me and was devouring one of my bedmates. The pain of its grip awakened me fully. I saw that my clothes were by me, and I hurriedly put them on. When I was dressed, I tried to leave the gallows enclosure, but found the door nailed shut and made vain attempts to break it open. So I had to climb those grim walls. I succeeded in doing so, and clinging to one of the gallows posts, I began to survey the surrounding countryside. I easily got my bearings. I was actually at the entrance to the Los Hermanos valley, and not far from the banks of the Guadalquivir.
While I continued to look around, I saw two travellers near the river, one of whom was preparing a meal and the other holding the reins of two horses. I was so delighted to see these men that my first reaction was to call out to them, “Agour, agour”, which means “Good-day”, or “Greetings”, in Spanish.
The two travellers, who saw the courtesies being extended to them from the top of the gallows, seemed undecided for a moment; but suddenly they mounted their horses, urged them to the fastest gallop, and took the road to Alcornoques.
I shouted at them to stop, to no avail. The more I shouted, the more they spurred on their mounts. When I lost sight of them, it occurred to me to quit my position. I jumped to the ground, hurting myself a little.
Hunched low and limping, I reached the banks of the Guadalquivir and found there the meal that the two travellers had abandoned. Nothing could have been more welcome, for I felt very exhausted. There was some chocolate that was still cooking, some sponhao steeped in Alicante wine, some bread and e
ggs. I set about restoring my strength, after which I began to reflect on what had happened to me during the night. My memories were very confused, but what I well recalled was having given my word of honour to keep it secret, and I was strongly resolved to abide by my promise. Once having decided on this, it only remained for me to consider what I needed to do for the moment – in other words, which road I should take – and it seemed to me that the laws of honour obliged me more than ever to go via the Sierra Morena.
People will perhaps be surprised to find me so concerned with my reputation, and so little concerned with the events of the previous day, but this way of thinking was again a result of the education I had received; this will be seen from the continuation of my story. For now, I return to the account of my journey.
I was extremely curious to know what the evil spirits had done with my horse, which I had left at Venta Quemada, and since in any case it was on my way, I determined to go by there. I had to walk the whole length of the Los Hermanos valley and that of the Venta, which did not fail to tire me and to make me greatly wish to find my horse. I did indeed find it; it was in the same stable where I had left it and seemed groomed, well cared for, and well fed. I did not know who could have taken this trouble, but I had seen so many extraordinary things that this in addition did not for long detain me. I would have set off straight away, had I not had the curiosity to visit the inside of the tavern once more. I relocated the bedroom where I had slept, but no matter how hard I looked, I could not find the room where I had seen the beautiful African women. I tired then of looking for it any longer. I mounted my horse and continued on my way.
When I woke up under the Los Hermanos gallows, the sun was already half-way through its course. It took me two hours to reach the Venta. So when I had covered another couple of leagues, I had to think of a shelter for the night, but seeing none, I rode on. Eventually I saw in the distance a Gothic chapel, with a hut that appeared to be the home of hermit. All this was off the main road, but since I was beginning to feel hungry, I did not hesitate to make this detour in order to come by some food. When I arrived, I tied my horse to a tree. Then I knocked at the door of the hermitage and saw a monk with the most venerable face emerge from it. He embraced me with fatherly tenderness, then he said to me:
“Come in, my son. Quickly. Do not spend the night outside. Fear the temptor. The Lord had withdrawn his hand from above us.”
I thanked the hermit for his goodness towards me, and I told him that I was in dire need of something to eat.
He replied: “O my son, think of your soul! Go to the chapel. Prostrate yourself before the Cross. I will see to the needs of your body. But you will have a frugal meal, such as one would expect from a hermit.”
I went to the chapel and prayed sincerely, for I was not a freethinker and was even unaware there were any; this again was a result of my education.
The hermit came to fetch me after a quarter of an hour and led me to the hut, where I found a place laid for me (everything was reasonably clean). There were some excellent olives, chards preserved in vinegar, sweet onions in a sauce, and rusks instead of bread. There was also a small bottle of wine. The hermit told me that he never drank any, but that he kept some in the house to celebrate the Mass. So I drank no more wine than the hermit, but the rest of the supper gave me great pleasure. While I was doing justice to it, I saw a figure, more terrifying than anything I had yet seen, come into the hut. It was a man. He looked young, but was hideously thin. His hair stood on end, one of his eyes was gouged out, and there was blood issuing from it. His tongue hung out of his mouth and dripped a frothy spittle. His body was clad in a fairly good black habit, but this was his only garment; he wore neither stockings nor shirt.
This hideous individual said not a word, and went and crouched in a corner, where he remained as still as a statue, his one eye fixed on a crucifix he held in his hand. When I had finished my meal, I asked the hermit who this man was.
The hermit replied: “My son, this man is possessed of the devil, and I am exorcising him. His terrible story is good evidence of the fatal power that the Angel of Darkness is usurping in this unhappy land. His experience might be helpful to your salvation, and I am going to instruct him to give an account of it.”
Then, turning towards the possessed man, he said to him: “Pacheco, Pacheco, in the name of your Redeemer, I command you to tell your story.”
Pacheco gave a horrible cry and began with these words:
The story of the demoniac Pacheco
I was born in Cordoba, where my father lived in more than comfortable circumstances. My mother died three years ago. My father seemed at first to miss her a great deal, but after a few months, having had occasion to make a trip to Seville, he fell in love with a young widow, called Camille de Tormes. This person did not enjoy a very good reputation, and several of my father’s friends tried to stop him from seeing her, but despite the trouble they were prepared to go to, the wedding took place two years after the death of my mother. The ceremony took place in Seville, and a few days later my father returned to Cordoba with Camille, his new wife, and a sister of Camille, whose name was Inesille.
My new stepmother answered perfectly to the poor opinion in which she was held, and started out in my father’s house by trying to win my love. She did not succeed in this. Yet I did fall in love, but with her sister Inesille. Indeed, my passion soon became so great that I went and threw myself at my father’s feet and asked him for the hand of his sister-in-law.
With kindness, my father raised me to my feet, then said to me: “My son, I forbid you to think of this marriage, and I do so for three reasons. First, it would be unseemly for you to become, as it were, your father’s brother-in-law. Secondly, the holy canons of the Church do not approve these kinds of marriages. Thirdly, I do not want you to marry Inesille.”
Having given me his three reasons, my father turned his back on me and left.
I retired to my bedroom, where I gave way to despair. My stepmother, whom my father immediately informed of what had happened, came to find me and told me I was wrong to torture myself; that if I could not become Inesille’s husband, I could be her cortejo, that is to say, her lover, and that she would see to it; but at the same time, she declared her love for me and made much of the sacrifice she was making by yielding me to her sister. I listened only too avidly to these words that flattered my passion, but Inesille was so modest it seemed to me impossible that she could ever be persuaded to respond to my love.
Meanwhile, my father decided to journey to Madrid, with the intention of securing the post of corregidor of Cordoba, and he took with him his wife and sister-in-law. He was to be away for no more than two months, but this time seemed very long to me, because I was separated from Inesille.
When the two months were almost over, I received a letter from my father, in which he instructed me to go to meet him and wait for him at Venta Quemada, where the Sierra Morena began. It would have been no easy decision to travel by way of the Sierra Morena a few weeks earlier, but as it happened, Zoto’s two brothers had just been hanged. His gang was disbanded and the roads were supposed to be fairly safe.
So I set out for Cordoba at about ten o’clock in the morning, and I spent the night at Andujar, where the landlord was one of the most talkative in Andalusia. I ordered a lavish supper at the inn, of which I ate some and kept the rest for my journey.
The next day I dined at Los Alcornoques on what I had saved from the day before, and that same evening I reached Venta Quemada. I did not find my father there, but as he had instructed me in his letter to wait for him, I determined to do so, all the more willingly since I was in a roomy and comfortable hostel. The innkeeper who ran it at that time was a certain Gonzalez of Murcia, quite a decent fellow although a big-talker, who, sure enough, promised me a supper worthy of a Spanish grandee. While he busied himself preparing it, I went for a stroll along the banks of the Guadalquivir, and when I returned to the hostel, there I found a supper that was ind
eed not at all bad.
When I had eaten, I told Gonzalez to make up my bed. Then I saw that he was flustered: he said things that did not make a great deal of sense. Finally he confessed that the inn was haunted by ghosts, that he and his family spent every night at a small farm on the banks of the river, and he added that if I wanted to sleep there too, he would have a bed made up for me next to his own.
This proposal seemed to me quite unwarranted. I told him that he could go to sleep wherever he wanted to, and that he should send my men to me. Gonzalez obeyed, and withdrew, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.
My servants arrived a moment later. They too had heard talk of ghosts and tried to urge me to spend the night at the farm. Responding to their advice rather churlishly, I ordered them to make up my bed in the very room where I had supped. They obeyed me, albeit reluctantly, and when the bed was made, again they beseeched me, with tears in their eyes. Genuinely irritated by their admonitions, I allowed myself a display of emotion that put them to flight, and since it was not my custom to have my servants undress me, I easily managed without them in getting ready for bed. However, they had been more thoughtful than my behaviour towards them merited: by my bed, they had left a lighted candle, an extra candle, two pistols and a few books to read to keep myself awake; but the truth is I was no longer sleepy.
I spent a couple hours alternately reading and tossing in my bed. Eventually I heard the sound of a bell or a clock striking midnight. I was surprised, because I had not heard the other hours strike. Soon the door opened, and I saw my stepmother enter. She was in her nightgown and held a candlestick in her hand. She tiptoed over to me with her finger on her lips, as though to impose silence upon me. Then she rested her candlestick on my bedside table, sat down on my bed, took one of my hands and spoke to me in these words:
