Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript

by Jan Potocki

  “My dear Alphonse, the time has come when I can give you the pleasures I promised you. We arrived at this tavern an hour ago. Your father has gone to sleep at the farm, but since I knew that you were here, I obtained leave to spend the night here with my sister Inesille. She is waiting for you, and preparing herself to refuse you nothing. But I must inform you of the conditions I have laid on your happiness. You love Inesille, and I love you. I am willing to bring you together, but I cannot bring myself to leave you alone with each other. I shall share your bed. Come!”

  My stepmother gave me no time to reply. She took me by the hand and led me along corridor after corridor, until we reached a door where she set about looking through the keyhole.

  When she had looked long enough, she said to me; “Everything is going well, see for yourself.”

  I took her place at the keyhole, and there indeed was the lovely Inesille in her bed, but she was far from showing the modesty I had always seen in her. The expression in her eyes, her agitated breathing, her flushed complexion, her posture – everything about her was clear evidence she was awaiting a lover.

  After letting me have a good look, Camille said to me: “My dear Pacheco, stay at this door. When the time is right, I shall come to let you know.”

  When she had gone in, I put my eye to the keyhole again and saw a thousand things I find hard to describe. First, Camille undressed with some deliberation, then getting into bed with her sister, she said to her:

  “My poor Inesille, is it really true that you want to have a lover? Poor child, you do not know how he will hurt you. First he will flatten you, press himself upon you, and then he will crush you, tear you.”

  When Camille considered her pupil sufficiently indoctrinated, she came and opened the door to me, led me to her sister’s bed, and lay down beside us.

  What shall I say of that fateful night? I exhausted its pleasures and crimes. For a long time I fought against sleep and nature, the more to protract my diabolical gratification. At last I fell asleep, and I awoke the next day beneath the gallows on which Zoto’s brothers were hanged, lying between their vile corpses.

  Here the hermit interrupted the demoniac and said to me: “Well now, my son! What do you think of that? I believe you would have been very frightened to find yourself lying between two hanged men?”

  I replied: “Father, you insult me. A gentleman must never be afraid, and still less when he has the honour of being a captain in the Walloon Guards.”

  “But my son,” said the hermit, “have you ever heard tell of such an adventure befalling anybody?”

  I hesitated for a moment, after which I replied: “Father, if this adventure befell Signor Pacheco, it might have befallen others. I will be better able to judge if you would kindly tell him to continue his story.”

  The hermit turned to the demoniac, and said to him: “Pacheco, Pacheco! In the name of your Redeemer, I order you to continue your story.”

  Pacheco uttered a dreadful howl and continued in these words:

  I was half dead when I left the gibbet. I dragged myself off without knowing where I was going. At last I met some travellers who took pity on me and brought me back to Venta Quemada. There I found the innkeeper and my servants, who were greatly worried about me. I asked them if my father had slept at the farm. They replied that no one had come.

  I could not bear to stay any longer at the Venta, and I set out again on the road to Andujar. I did not arrive there until after sunset. The inn was full, a bed was made up for me in the kitchen, and I lay down in it. But I was unable to sleep, for I could not banish from my mind the horrors of the night before.

  I had left a lighted candle on the kitchen hearth. Suddenly it went out, and at once I felt what seemed a deathly shudder that made my blood run cold.

  Someone pulled off my blanket. Then I heard a little voice saying: “It is Camille, your stepmother, I am cold, dear heart. Make room for me under your blanket.”

  Then another little voice said: “And this is Inesille. Let me get into your bed. I am cold, I am cold.”

  Then I felt an icy hand take hold of my chin. I summoned up all my strength to say out loud: “Avaunt, Satan!”

  Then the little voices said to me: “Why are you chasing us away? Are you not our darling husband? We are cold. We are going to make a little fire.”

  Sure enough, soon after I saw flames in the kitchen hearth. The flames became brighter and I saw not Inesille and Camille but Zoto’s two brothers, hanging in the fireplace.

  This sight scared the life out of me. I leapt out of bed. I jumped through the window and started to run through the countryside. For a moment I was able to cherish the fond belief that I had escaped these horrors; but I turned round and saw that I was being followed by the two hanged men. I started to run again, and I saw that the hanged men were left behind. But my joy was short-lived. These detestable creatures began to cartwheel and in an instant were upon me. I ran on, until finally my strength deserted me.

  Then I felt one of the hanged men seize me by the heel of my left foot. I tried to shake him off, but his brother cut in front of me. He appeared before me, rolling his eyes dreadfully, and sticking out a tongue as red as an iron drawn from the fire. I begged for mercy; in vain. With one hand he grabbed me by the throat, and with the other he tore out the eye I am now missing. In the place where my eye had been, he stuck his burning-hot tongue. With it he licked my brain and made me howl with pain.

  Then the other hanged man, who had seized my left leg, also wanted to leave his mark on me. First he began by tickling the sole of the foot he was holding. Then the monster tore the skin off it, separated all the nerves, bared them, and set to playing on them as though on a musical instrument; but since I did not render a sound that pleased him, he began to twist them, as one tunes a harp. Finally he began to play on my leg, of which he had fashioned a psaltery. I heard his diabolical laughter; while pain wrung dreadful howls out of me, the wailings of hell joined voice. But when it came to my hearing the damned gnashing their teeth, I felt as though they were grinding my every fibre. In the end I lost consciousness.

  The next day shepherds found me in the countryside and brought me to this hermitage, where I have confessed all my sins and here at the foot of the Cross I have found some relief from my ills.

  At this point the demoniac uttered a dreadful howl and fell silent.

  Then the hermit spoke and said to me: “Young man, you see the power of Satan, pray and weep. But it is late. We must part company. I do not propose that you sleep in my cell, for Pacheco’s screams during the night might disturb you. Go and sleep in the chapel. There you will be under the protection of the Cross, which triumphs over evil spirits.

  I told the hermit I would sleep wherever he wanted me to. We carried a little trestle bed to the chapel. I lay down on it and the hermit wished me good-night.

  When I was alone, Pacheco’s story came back to me. I found in it a great deal of similarity with my own adventures, and I was still reflecting on it when I heard the chimes of midnight. I did not know whether it was the hermit ringing the bell, or whether I was again dealing with ghosts. Then I heard a scratching at my door. I went to the door and asked: “Who goes there?”

  A little voice answered: “We are cold, open up and let us in, it is your darling wives here.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, you damnable gallows’ fodder,” I replied, “return to your gibbet and let me sleep.”

  Then the little voice said: “You jeer at us because you are inside a chapel, but come outside a while.”

  “I am just coming,” I instantly replied.

  I went to fetch my sword and tried to get out, but found the door locked. I told the ghosts, who made no response. I went to bed and slept until it was light.

  THE THIRD DAY

  I was awakened by the hermit, who seemed very pleased to find me safe and sound. He embraced me, bathed my cheeks with his tears, and said:

  “My son, strange things happened last night. Te
ll me the truth: did you spend the night at Venta Quemada? Did the demons take possession of you? There is still a remedy. Come to the foot of the altar. Confess your sins. Do penance.”

  The hermit was full of suchlike exhortations. Then he fell silent, awaiting my reply.

  So I said to him: “Father, I made my confession before leaving Cadiz. Since then, I do not believe I have committed any mortal sin, except perhaps in thought. It is true that I spent the night at Venta Quemada. But if I saw anything there, I have good reason not to speak of it.”

  This reply seemed to surprise the hermit. He accused me of being possessed of the devil of pride and tried to persuade me that I needed to make a full confession. But seeing that my obstinacy was unassailable, he somewhat dropped his priestly tone and adopting a more natural manner said to me:

  “My child, your courage astonishes me. Tell me who you are. What education you have received. And whether you believe in ghosts, or not. Do not refuse to satisfy my curiosity.”

  I replied: “Father, the desire you show to become acquainted with me can only do me honour, and I am duly obliged to you. Allow me to get up. I will come and find you at the hermitage, where I tell you everything you want to know about me.”

  The hermit embraced me again, and withdrew.

  When I was dressed, I went to find him. He was heating some goat’s milk, which he gave me with some sugar and some bread. He himself ate a few roots boiled in water.

  When we had finished our meal, the hermit turned to the demoniac and said to him:

  “Pacheco! Pacheco! In the name of your Redeemer, I order you to go and take my goats on to the mountain.”

  Pacheco uttered a dreadful howl and left us.

  Then I began my story, which I told him in these words:

  The story of Alphonse van Worden

  I was born of a very old family, albeit one that has enjoyed but little distinction and yet scantier wealth. Our whole patrimony has only ever consisted of a noble fief, called Worden, this land being part of the Burgundy estates and situated in the middle of the Ardennes.

  Having an older brother, my father had to content himself with a very meagre inheritance, which nevertheless sufficed to support him honourably in the army. He fought the entire War of Succession, and when peace came, King Philip V conferred on him the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the Walloon Guards.

  There prevailed in the Spanish army, at that time, a certain code of honour, carried to the most excessive degree of refinement, and my father excelled even in this excess. And truly one cannot blame him, since honour is properly the life and soul of a soldier. Not a duel took place in Madrid upon whose niceties my father did not rule; and as soon as he said that reparations were adequate, everyone considered himself satisfied. If by chance anyone did not appear happy with the ruling, he straightaway had my father to contend with, who would not fail to uphold at sword-point the merit of each of his decisions. Furthermore, my father had a white book, in which he wrote down an account of each duel and all the circumstances, which really stood him in good stead, enabling him to pronounce with justice on all ticklish cases.

  Almost solely occupied by his court of retribution, my father had shown himself little sensitive to the charms of love, but eventually his heart was smitten by the attractions of an unmarried lady, who was still quite young, called Urraque de Gomelez, daughter of the oidor of Granada, of the same lineage as the former kings of the country. Mutual friends soon brought together the interested parties, and the marriage was concluded.

  My father deemed it fitting to invite to his wedding all the people with whom he had fought – that is, those he had not killed. They were 122 at table, with thirteen from Madrid who did not come, and thirty-three with whom he had fought in the army, of whom he had no news. My mother often told me that this feast was extraordinarily jolly, and that the greatest cordiality had reigned over it, which I had no difficulty in believing, for my father was, at bottom, exceptionally good-hearted and greatly loved by everyone.

  For his own part, my father was very attached to Spain, and he would never have left it, but two months after his marriage, he received a letter signed by the magistrate of the town of Bouillon. The letter informed him that his brother had died childless, and that the fief had fallen to him. This news threw my father into the greatest confusion, and my mother told me that he was then so preoccupied that not a word could be drawn from him. Finally he opened his chronicle of duels, chose the twelve men of Madrid who had fought the greatest number, invited them to come to his house, and addressed them in these words:

  “My dear brothers-in-arms, you know well enough how many times I have set your consciences at rest in cases where honour seemed compromised. Today I find myself obliged to rely on your wisdom, because I fear my own judgement fails me; or rather, I fear it is clouded by some sense of partiality. Here is the letter written to me by the magistrates of Bouillon, whose testimony is worthy of respect, though they are not gentlemen. Tell me if honour obliges me to dwell in my fathers’ castle, or if I ought to continue to serve King Don Philip, who has showered me with favours, and has recently raised me to the rank of brigadier-general. I am leaving the letter on the table and going away. I shall return in half and hour to learn what you have decided.”

  Having said this, my father duly left the room. He came back after half an hour and took the vote. There proved to be five in favour of his remaining a serving officer, and seven in favour of his going to live in the Ardennes. My father without demur accepted the advice of the majority.

  My mother would very much have liked to stay in Spain, but she was so devoted to her husband that he had not the slightest inkling of her reluctance to leave her country. Eventually there was no thought but for preparations for the journey, and for those few individuals who were to make it, as representatives of Spain in the middle of the Ardennes. Although I was not yet born into this world, my father, who did not doubt my coming, thought it time to provide me with a master-at-arms. His choice fell on Garcias Hierro, the best assistant fencing master in Madrid. Tired of parrying thrusts every day at Place de la Cebada, this young man readily made up his mind to come. My mother, for her part, not wanting to leave without a chaplain, chose the theologian Inigo Velez, a graduate of Cuenca. He was also to instruct me in the Catholic religion and the Castilian language. All these arrangements for my education were made a year and a half before my birth.

  When my father was ready to depart, he went to take his leave of the King and, in accordance with the custom at the Court of Spain, he went down on one knee to kiss his sovereign’s hand. But as he did so, his heart was so constricted with emotion that he fainted and had to be carried home. The next day he went to take leave of Don Fernand de Lara, who was then Prime Minister. This nobleman received him with extraordinary distinction and informed him that the King had granted him a pension of twelve thousand reales, with the rank of sargente general, which is equivalent to that of brigadier. My father would have given some measure of his own blood for the satisfaction of throwing himself yet once more at his master’s feet, but since he had already taken his leave, he contented himself with expressing in a letter some of the feelings with which his heart was filled. At last he left Madrid, shedding many a tear.

  My father chose the road through Catalonia so as to set eyes once more on the places where he had served in war and to take leave of several of his former comrades who had commands on this frontier. Then he entered France via Perpignan.

  His journey as far as Lyons was clouded by no untoward event; but as he left this town with post horses, he was overtaken by a chaise which, being lighter, reached the post house first. My father, who arrived a moment later, saw that horses were already being harnessed to the chaise. He at once took up his sword, and approaching the traveller, asked if he might speak to him for a moment in private. Seeing that my father wore the uniform of a general officer, the traveller, who was a French colonel, also took up his sword to do him honour. They went int
o an inn that stood opposite the post house and asked for a room.

  When they were alone, my father said to the other traveller: “Good sir, your chaise overtook my coach so as to reach the post house before me. This in itself is no insult, nevertheless there is something disobliging about it, for which I believe I must demand satisfaction of you.”

  Very surprised, the colonel laid all blame on the postilions, and assured my father there was no offence on his part.

  “Good sir,” said my father, “neither do I wish to make a serious issue of this, and I shall settle for duelling until blood is drawn.” As he spoke, he drew his sword.

  “Just a moment,” said the Frenchman. “As I see it, it was not that my postilions overtook yours, but that yours, by going more slowly, lagged behind.”

  My father gave this some thought, then said to the colonel: “Good sir, I believe you are right, and had you pointed this out to me sooner, before I had drawn my sword, I think we would not have duelled. But surely you see that as matters stand we must have a little blood.”

  The colonel, who doubtless found this last reason good enough, took his guard. It was not a lengthy duel. Aware that he had been injured, my father immediately lowered the point of his sword and offered fulsome apologies to the colonel for the trouble he had caused him. The latter responded by offering his services, gave the address where he could be found in Paris, climbed back into his chaise and departed.

  My father at first thought his injury to be very slight, but he was so covered with previous injuries that a new cut could scarce but fall on an old scar. The colonel’s sword-thrust had indeed reopened an old musket-wound, in which the bullet had remained lodged. The leadshot made new efforts to come to the surface, finally emerged after two months’ dressing of the wound, and the journey was resumed.