Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript

by Jan Potocki

  On his arrival in Paris, my father’s first concern was to pay his respects to the colonel, whose name was the Marquis d’Urfé. He was one of the courtiers held in the highest esteem. He received my father with the utmost courtesy, and offered to give him an introduction to the minister, as well as to the best circles. My father thanked him and asked only to be presented to the Duc de Tavannes, then the most senior marshal, because he wanted to be informed of everything regarding the Court of Honour, of which he had always entertained the most lofty ideas, often speaking of it in Spain as a very wise institution, one he would have much liked to see introduced in the realm. The marshal received my father with great politeness and commended him to the Chevalier de Bélièvre, first officer of the Lords Marshals, and reporter of their court.

  Since the Chevalier came often to my father’s house, he became aware of his chronicle of duels. This work seemed to him unique of its kind, and he asked permission to show it to the Lords Marshals, whose assessment of it concurred with that of their first officer. They sent a request to my father for the favour of a copy, which would be kept in the record office of their court. No proposition could have been more flattering to my father, and he derived from it an inexpressible joy.

  Similar marks of respect rendered their stay in Paris very agreeable to my father, but my mother took a different view of it. She had made a point not only of not learning French but of not even listening when anyone spoke this language. Her confessor, Inigo Velez, was constantly making bitter jests about the libertinism of the Gallic Church, and Garcias Hierro concluded all conversations with the verdict that the French were miserable worms.

  At last they left Paris. Four days later they arrived in Bouillon. My father made himself known to the magistrate and went to take possession of his fief.

  Bereft of the presence of its masters, the ancestral home had also suffered the loss of some of its rooftiles – so much so that it rained as heavily in the bedrooms as it did in the courtyard, only the paving-stones in the courtyard dried very quickly, whereas the water had formed puddles in the bedrooms that never dried. This domestic flooding did not displease my father because it reminded him of the siege of Lerida, where he had spent three weeks with his legs in water.

  However, his first concern was to put his wife’s bed in a dry place. There was in the reception room a Flemish-style fireplace, around which fifteen people could comfortably warm themselves. The mantel formed a kind of roof over it, supported by two columns on either side. The chimney-flue was blocked off so that my mother’s bed could be placed under the mantel, with her bedside table and a chair; and since the hearth was raised a foot above ground-level, it formed a kind of island that was fairly inaccessible.

  My father installed himself on the other side of the room, on two tables joined together with planks, and from his bed to my mother’s a jetty was erected, fortified in the middle by a kind of bulwark constructed of chests and packing-cases. This work was completed on the day of our arrival at the castle, and I came into the world nine months later to the day.

  While work on the most urgent repairs was carried out with great dispatch, my father received a letter which filled him with joy. It was signed by the Maréchal de Tavannes, and this nobleman sought his opinion on a matter of honour which was then engaging the court’s attention. This genuine mark of consideration seemed to my father of such consequence that he wanted to celebrate it by fêting the whole neighbourhood. But we had no neighbours, so the festivities were confined to a fandango performed by the master-at-arms and Signora Frasca, my mother’s first chambermaid.

  My father, in reply to the marshal’s letter, asked if he would be so kind as to send him in due course a summary of the court’s proceedings. This favour was granted to him, and on the first of every month he would receive a letter that fuelled conversation and small talk for more than four weeks, during winter evenings round the big fireplace, and during the summer on two benches that stood before the castle entrance.

  Throughout my mother’s pregnancy, my father constantly spoke to her of the son she would have, and he thought of giving me a godfather. My mother favoured the Maréchal de Tavannes or the Marquis d’Urfé. My father agreed this would be a great honour for us, but he feared that these two noble lords might think it too great an honour, and with well-judged discretion he decided upon the Chevalier de Bélièvre, who, for his part, respectfully and gratefully consented.

  At last I came into the world. At three years of age I was already holding a foil, and at six I could fire a pistol without blinking… I was about seven when we received a visit from my godfather. This gentleman had married in Tournai, and there he held the office of lieutenant in the King’s Household and reporter in the Court of Honour. These are positions whose origins go back to the time of trial by champions and later they were brought together under the authority of the Court of the Marshals of France.

  Madame de Bélièvre was of very delicate health, and her husband was taking her to the waters at Spa. Both of them became extremely fond of me, and since they had no children of their own they begged my father to entrust them with my education, which, in any case, could not have been properly attended to in a region as remote as that where the Worden castle stood. My father agreed, persuaded above all by the office of reporter of the Court of Honour, which held out the promise that in the Bélièvre household I was sure to be steeped from an early age in all the principles that ought one day to determine my conduct.

  At first there was talk of my being accompanied by Garcias Hierro, because my father believed the noblest style of fighting was with sword in the right hand and dagger in the left, a type of fencing completely unknown in France. But since my father had adopted the habit of fencing on the battlements every morning with Hierro, and this exercise had become essential to his well-being, he did not think he ought to deprive himself of it.

  There was also talk of sending the theologian Inigo Velez with me, but since my mother still spoke only Spanish, it was quite natural that she should not be able to spare a confessor who knew this language. So it was that I did not have at my side the two men who, before my birth, had been destined to educate me. However, I was given a Spanish manservant, with whom I could practise speaking Spanish.

  I set off for Spa with my godfather. We spent two months there. We made a trip to Holland and arrived in Tournai towards the end of autumn. The Chevalier de Bélièvre proved wholly equal to the trust my father had placed in him and for six years he neglected nothing that could contribute to make of me one day an excellent officer. At the end of that time, it happened that Madame Bélièvre died, her husband left Flanders to settle in Paris, and I was summoned back to the paternal home.

  After a journey that the lateness of the season made rather difficult, I arrived at the castle some two hours after sunset, and found the inhabitants gathered around the big fireplace. My father, although pleased to see me, did not give way to any demonstration of feeling that might have compromised what you Spaniards call gravedad. My mother bathed me with tears. The theologian Inigo Velez gave me his blessing, and the swordsman Hierro presented me with a foil. We fought a bout in which I defended myself in a manner in advance of my years. My father was too expert not to notice, and his seriousness gave way to the most lively affection. Supper was served and everyone was very jolly.

  After supper we all resumed our seats round the hearth, and my father said to the theologian: “Reverend Don Inigo, would you be good enough to fetch that big book of yours in which there are so many marvellous stories, and read us one.”

  The theologian went up to his room and came back with a folio bound in white parchment yellowed by time. He opened it at random and read out from it what follows:

  The story of Trivulce of Ravenna

  Once upon a time, in a town in Italy called Ravenna, there was a young man called Trivulce. He was handsome, rich and had a very high opinion of himself. The young girls of Ravenna would come to their windows to see him pa
ss by, but none was to his liking. Or if he sometimes took a slight fancy to one or other of them, he did not show her any favour, for fear of doing her too much honour. In the end, all this pride could not withstand the charms of the young and beautiful Nina dei Gieraci. Trivulce deigned to declare his love to her. Nina replied that Lord Trivulce did her great honour, but that since childhood she had loved her cousin Tebaldo dei Gieraci, and that she would surely never love any other but him.

  At this unexpected reply Trivulce departed, showing signs of the utmost rage.

  A week later, which was a Sunday, as all the citizens of Ravenna were making their way to St Peter’s Cathedral, Trivulce spotted Tebaldo in the crowd, giving his arm to his cousin. He covered his face with his cloak and followed them. Once inside the church, where it is not permitted to hide one’s face in one’s cloak, the two lovers could easily have seen that Trivulce was following them, but they were solely engrossed in their love, to which they gave more thought than to the Mass.

  Meanwhile, Trivulce had seated himself on a pew behind them. He heard everything they said, fuelling his rage with their words. Then a priest climbed into the pulpit and said: “My brothers, I am here to publish the banns for Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci; does anyone oppose their marriage?”

  “I oppose it!” cried Trivulce, and at the same time he stabbed the two lovers twenty times. People tried to stop him, but he delivered more stab-wounds, left the church, then the town, and made his way to the State of Venice.

  Trivulce was arrogant, spoiled by wealth, but he had a sensitive soul. Remorse avenged his victims, and he dragged out a lamentable existence from town to town. After a few years his parents settled matters for him, and he returned to Ravenna; but he was no longer the same Trivulce, beaming with happiness and proud of his advantages. He was so changed, not even his nurse recognized him.

  On the first day of his return Trivulce asked where Nina’s tomb was. He was told she was buried with her cousin in the church of St Peter, close to where they had been murdered. Trembling as he went, Trivulce came to the tomb, whereupon he kissed it and shed many tears.

  Whatever grief the unhappy murderer suffered at that moment, he felt his tears had brought him relief. This is why he gave his purse to the sacristan and obtained leave to enter the church whenever he wanted. So it was that he decided to come there every evening, and the sacristan, having grown accustomed to this, paid little attention to him.

  One evening Trivulce, who had not slept the night before, fell asleep at the tomb, and when he awoke he found that the church was locked. He readily resolved to spend the night there, because he liked to foster his sadness and nurture his melancholy. Hour after hour, he heard the clock strike, and he wished he had come to the hour of his death.

  Eventually midnight struck. Then the door to sacristy opened and Trivulce saw the sacristan enter, carrying his lantern in one hand and a broom in the other. But this sacristan was but a skeleton. He had a little skin on his face and what looked like deeply sunken eyes; but the surplice that clung to his bones revealed clearly enough that he had no flesh at all.

  The ghastly sacristan placed his lantern on the high altar and lit the candles as though for vespers. Then he began to sweep the church and to dust the pews. Several times he even passed close to Trivulce, but seemed not to see him.

  Finally he went to the door of the sacristy and rang the little bell that always hangs there. Then the tombs opened, the dead appeared wrapped in their shrouds and started singing litanies in very melancholy tones.

  After they had chanted in this manner for some time, one of the dead, dressed in a surplice and stole, climbed into the pulpit and said: “My brothers, I am here to publish the banns of Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci. Damned Trivulce, do you oppose them?”

  My father interrupted the theologian at this point, and turning to me, he said: “My son Alphonse, in Trivulce’s position, would you have been afraid?”

  I replied: “My dear father, I think I would have been terrified.”

  Then my father rose in a fury, seized his sword and would have run me through with it had someone not intervened. Eventually he was calmed down a little.

  However, when he had resumed his seat, he shot a terrible glance at me and said: “Unworthy son of mine, your cowardice in somewise dishonours the Walloon Guards regiment I had intended you to join.”

  After these harsh reproaches, which almost caused me to die of shame, a great silence fell. Garcias was the first to break it, and addressing my father, he said:

  “My lord, if I were to make so bold as to offer Your Excellency my advice, it would be to prove to your dear son that there are no ghosts, or spectres, or dead men that sing litanies, and that there cannot be any. In this way, he would surely not be afraid of them.”

  “Signor Hierro,” replied my father a little sharply, “you forget that yesterday I had the honour of showing you a story about ghosts written in my great-grandfather’s very own hand.”

  “My lord,” said Garcias, “I do not give the lie to Your Excellency’s great-grandfather.”

  “What do you mean by ‘I do not give the lie’?” said my father. “Are you aware that this expression presupposes the possibility of your contradicting my great-grandfather?”

  “My lord,” said Garcias, “I am well aware that I am of too little account that his lordship your grandfather should want to demand any satisfaction of me.”

  Then adopting an even more fearsome look, my father said: “Hierro, may heaven keep you from presenting apologies, for they would presuppose some offence.”

  “Well,” said Garcias, “it only remains for me to submit myself to the punishment it pleases Your Excellency to inflict upon me in the name of your great-grandfather, but for the honour of my profession, I should like this penalty to be administered to me by our chaplain, so that I may consider it an ecclesiastical penance.”

  “That is not a bad idea,” my father said then, in a calmer tone of voice. “I recall having once written a small treatise on the forms of satisfaction acceptable in cases where the duel could not take place. Let me think about it.”

  My father seemed at first to be applying his mind to the subject, but as one thought led to another, he eventually fell asleep in his armchair. My mother was already asleep, so too was the theologian, and Garcias was not long in following their example. I thought then I ought to leave them, and so passed the first day of my return to the paternal home.

  The next day I fenced with Garcias. I went hunting. We ate supper, and when we rose from the table, my father again asked the theologian to fetch his big book. The priest obeyed, opened it at random, and read what I am about to tell you:

  The story of Landulphe of Ferrara

  In a town in Italy called Ferrara, there was a young man called Landulphe. He was a faithless libertine and detested by all good souls from thereabouts. This wicked fellow was passionately fond of frequenting whores, and he had gone the rounds of all those in town, but none pleased him as much as Bianca de Rossi, because she surpassed all the others in immorality.

  Bianca was not only licentious, self-seeking, depraved, but she also wanted her lovers to perform for her deeds that brought them dishonour, and she demanded of Landulphe that he should take her home with him every evening to dine with his mother and sister. Landulphe immediately went to his mother and put this proposal to her, as though it were the most respectable thing in the world. His good mother burst into tears and beseeched her son to consider his sister’s reputation. Landulphe was deaf to her pleas and promised only to keep the matter as secret as he could. Then he went to fetch Bianca and brought her to the house.

  Landulphe’s mother and sister made the prostitute more welcome than she deserved. But seeing their goodness, Bianca became twice as brazen. She made some very suggestive remarks at supper, and gave her lover’s sister lessons she would gladly have done without. Finally Bianca made it clear to the sister, and to her mother, that they would do well to leave the room, b
ecause she wanted to be alone with Landulphe.

  The next day the prostitute told this story all over town, and for several days the talk was of nothing else. So much so that the much-bruited gossip soon came to the ears of Odoardo Zampi, brother of Landulphe’s mother. Odoardo was a man no one insulted with impunity. Considering himself to have been insulted in his sister’s person, he had the infamous Bianca killed that very day. Landulphe, who had gone to see his mistress, found her stabbed and swimming in her own blood. He soon learned it was his uncle who was responsible. He ran to his uncle’s house to punish him, but found the place surrounded by the boldest fellows in town, who jeered at his resentment.

  Not knowing on whom to vent his fury, Landulphe ran to his mother’s house with the intention of heaping insults upon her. The poor woman was with her daughter and about to sit down to eat. When she saw her son enter the house, she asked him if Bianca would be coming to supper.

  “Would that she came,” said Landulphe, “and took you to hell, together with your brother and the whole Zampi family of yours.”

  His poor mother fell down on her knees and said: “O my God! Forgive him his blasphemy.”

  At that moment the door crashed open, and they saw a gaunt spectre come in, slashed with stab-wounds and yet retaining a dreadful resemblance to Bianca.

  Landulphe’s mother and sister began to pray, and by God’s grace they were able to endure this spectacle without dying of fright.

  The apparition slowly advanced and sat down at table as though to have supper. With a courage the devil alone could have inspired, Landulphe dared to pick up a platter and offer it to the ghost, which opened a mouth so large that its head seemed to split in two, and a reddish flame came out. Then the ghost stretched out a hand that was all burned, took a morsel and swallowed it; the food could be heard falling under the table. When the platter was empty, the ghost fixed Landulphe with its terrible eyes and said: