by Jan Potocki
‘My son,’ said the hermit to me, ‘I have found your story absorbing and I am very grateful to you for being so good as to tell it to me. I can now well see that from your upbringing fear is an emotion which must remain completely alien to you. But since you did sleep at the Venta Quemada I am afraid that you were exposed to haunting by the two hanged men and that you have suffered the same fate as the demoniacal Pacheco.’
‘Father,’ I replied to the anchorite, ‘I have thought long and hard about the story of Señor Pacheco. Although he is possessed, he is none the less a gentleman and hence incapable of failing in his duty to tell the truth. But Iñigo Vélez, our castle chaplain, told me that although there were cases of possession in the first centuries of the Christian era there are no more nowadays, and I take his testimony to be all the more worthy of belief as my father commanded me to believe what Iñigo said on all matters concerning religion.’
‘But,’ said the hermit, ‘did not you see for yourself the ghastly face of the possessed man and how demons had blinded him in one eye?’
‘Father,’ I replied, ‘Señor Pacheco could well have lost his eye in another way. Besides, I defer on such matters as these to those who know more about them than I. It is enough for me to show no fear of ghosts or vampires. However, if you would like to give me some holy relic as a protection against their snares I undertake to wear it faithfully and reverently.’
I thought the hermit smiled at my naivety. Then he said to me, ‘I can see, my son, that you still have faith, but I fear that you may lose it. The Gomelez family from which you are descended on your mother’s side are all recent converts. It is even said that some are still Muslims at heart. If they offered you a vast fortune to change religion would you accept it?’
‘Certainly not!’ I replied. ‘It seems to me that to renounce one’s religion is as dishonourable as to desert one’s colours.’
At this the hermit smiled again and said, ‘I am sorry to see that your virtues are based on an exaggerated sense of honour. I warn you that you will not find Madrid as swashbuckling as in your father’s time. Virtues also can have more secure foundations. But I do not want to hold you up any longer for you have a hard day’s travelling ahead before you reach the Venta del Peñon, or the inn of the rock. The innkeeper is still there in spite of robbers because he relies on the protection of a band of gypsies who are encamped close by. The day after tomorrow you will reach the Venta de Cárdenas and you will have passed through the Sierra Morena. I have put some provisions in your saddle-bags.’
After these words the hermit embraced me affectionately. But he did not give me a relic to ward off demons. I did not like to mention it again so I got on my horse.
As I rode along I began to think about the precepts I had just heard, but I could not imagine any sounder basis for virtue than a sense of honour, which seemed to me in itself to contain all the virtues.
I was ruminating on these matters when a horseman suddenly shot out from behind a rock, cut me off and said, ‘Is your name Alphonse van Worden?’
I replied that it was.
‘In that case,’ said the horseman, ‘I arrest you in the name of the king and the Holy Inquisition. Give me your sword.’
I obeyed without a word. Then the horseman whistled and I saw armed men bearing down on me from all sides. They tied my hands behind my back and we set off into the mountains up a side track which led after about an hour to a heavily fortified castle. The drawbridge was lowered and we went in. While we were still under the shadow of the keep, a little side door was opened and I was thrown into a cell, without anyone bothering to untie me.
It was pitch-black in the cell and, not having my hands free to feel my way forward, I would have found it difficult to walk about without banging my nose on the walls. So I sat down where I was and, as one may well imagine, began to wonder what could have caused me to be imprisoned. My first and only thought was that the Inquisition had captured my beautiful cousins and that their black servants had reported everything that had happened at the Venta Quemada. Supposing that I was going to be interrogated about the two African girls, I was faced with the alternative of either betraying them and thus breaking my solemn word of honour, or of denying that I knew them, which would embark me on a series of shameful lies. After some thought as to how I should behave, I decided to maintain absolute silence and I firmly resolved to say nothing in reply to any interrogation.
Once I had settled these doubts in my mind I began to ponder the events of the previous two days. I did not doubt that my cousins were creatures of flesh and blood. I was convinced of this by an intuition stronger than all that I have been told about the powers of demons, and, as for the trick of transporting me to lie under the gallows, I was extremely indignant about it.
Meanwhile the hours passed by. I began to feel hungry, and as I had heard that cells are sometimes supplied with bread and a jug of water I set about looking for something of the sort by feeling about with my legs and feet. And indeed I soon felt an object of some kind, which turned out to be a loaf. My problem was how to raise it to my mouth. I lay down beside the loaf and tried to seize it between my teeth, but it slipped away from me since there was nothing there to push against. I pushed it so far in the end that it came up against the wall. I was then able to eat it as the loaf was cut down the middle. If it had been whole I would not have been able to bite into it. I found the jug of water too but was not able to drink from it. No sooner had I sipped a little than the jug tipped over and the water ran away. I explored further and found some straw in a corner on which I could lie down. My hands were tied together in a very clever way, that is, tightly but not painfully, so that I had no difficulty in falling asleep.
The Fourth Day
When I was woken up it seemed to me that I had slept for several hours. I saw a Dominican monk enter my cell, followed by several men of evil countenance. Some carried torches, others objects which I had never seen before but which I imagined were instruments of torture. I reminded myself of my resolutions and bound myself again to keep them. I thought of my father. He had never suffered torture, but had he not suffered many painful operations at the hands of surgeons? I knew that he had borne them without a single cry of pain. I decided to follow his example and neither to utter a single word nor to let out a single groan.
The inquisitor had a chair brought for him, sat down beside me and in a gentle and wheedling tone spoke to me in more or less these words:
‘My dear child, my sweet child, thank heaven for having brought you to this dungeon. But tell me, why are you here? What sins have you committed? Confess. Pour out your tears on my breast. What? No reply? Alas, my child, you are wrong. We do not practise interrogation, that is not our method. We allow the guilty party to accuse himself. Such a confession, if somewhat forced, is not without value, especially if the guilty party denounces his accomplices. What? No reply? So much the worse for you! We will have to set you on the right path. Do you know two princesses from Tunis or rather two infamous witches, two execrable vampires, two demons incarnate? You still remain silent. Have the two infantas of Lucifer’s court brought in.’
At this point my two cousins were led in. They, like me, had their hands tied behind their backs.
Then the inquisitor continued as follows: ‘Do you recognize them, my son? Still no reply! My dear child, do not be alarmed by what I am going to tell you. We are going to hurt you a little. You see these two boards. Your legs will be placed between them and they will be tied tightly with ropes. Then we will drive these wedges, which you see here, between your legs and they will be hammered into place. At first your feet will swell up, then blood will spurt from your toes and all your toe-nails will drop off. Then the soles of your feet will split open and from them will issue thick gouts of fat and mangled flesh. That will hurt you a great deal. Still you say nothing. But I am only talking of the standard torture so far. All this will make you faint. Here we have bottles filled with various spirits to bring you roun
d again. When you have regained your senses the wedges will be taken away and these bigger ones will be put in their place. At the first hammer blow your knees and calves will break. At the second your legs will split open all the way up and a mixture of marrow and blood will flow out on to the straw. You will not speak? Well then, apply the thumbscrews.’
The torturers grabbed hold of my legs and fastened them between the boards.
‘Still no reply? Drive in the wedge! Still no reply? Hammers at the ready!’
At that very moment a gunshot was heard and Emina cried, ‘Oh Muhammad, we are saved! Zoto has come to rescue us!’
And Zoto and his band did indeed burst in, chased off the torturers and chained the inquisitor up to a ring on one of the walls of the dungeon. The Moorish princesses and I were then untied. The first use they made of their arms when they were freed was to throw themselves into mine. We were prised apart. Zoto told me to mount and ride ahead of the rest and reassured me that he would follow shortly with the two ladies.
The advance party with which I left consisted of four horsemen. At daybreak we arrived in a very deserted spot, where we found fresh horses. Then we rode up into the high mountains along snow-covered ridges.
Towards four o’clock in the afternoon we reached some hollows in the rock where we were to pass the night. I was very glad to have got there before nightfall because the view was truly remarkable, especially to someone like myself who had only ever seen the Ardennes and Zeeland. At my feet stretched out the beautiful plain of Granada, which its inhabitants ironically call ‘la nuestra vegilla’.1 I saw all of it, with its six towns, its forty villages, the tortuous course of the river Genil, its torrents which tumbled down from the Alpujarras mountains, its groves and shady thickets, its buildings, its gardens and its many quintas, or farms. I gave myself up to rapt contemplation of so many fine objects which my eyes could embrace all at once, and felt myself falling in love with nature itself. I forgot about my cousins, but they soon arrived on litters borne by horses.
They sat down on the flagstones in the cave, and when they had rested a little I said to them, ‘Ladies, I have no complaint about the night I spent at the Venta Quemada but I must tell you that it ended in a way which I found most displeasing.’
Emina replied, ‘Dear Alphonse, blame us only for the nice part of your dreams. In any case, why complain? Did you not have an opportunity to show superhuman courage?’
‘What?’ I replied. ‘Is there someone who doubts my courage? If I knew where to find him I would fight him: on a cloak or with a handkerchief stuffed in my mouth if he wanted.’
Emina replied, ‘I have no idea what you mean with your cloak and your handkerchief. There are things I am not able to tell you and others which I do not know myself. I act only on the orders of the head of my family, the successor of Sheikh Massoud, who knows all the secrets of Cassar Gomelez. All I can tell you is that you are our very close relative. The oidor of Granada, your mother’s father, had a son who was found worthy of being initiated. He embraced the Muslim faith and married the four daughters of the reigning Dey of Tunis. Only the youngest had any children. She is our mother. Soon after the birth of Zubeida, our father and his three other wives died of the plague which at that time was ravaging the whole Barbary coast. But let us no longer speak of such things, things you will perhaps yourself know one day. Let us speak of you, of our gratitude to you or rather our admiration for your courage. How steadfastly you gazed upon the instruments of torture! How faithfully you kept your word! Dear Alphonse, you are greater than all the heroes of our race and we now belong to you.’
Zubeida, who was willing to let her sister speak when the subject of conversation was serious, reclaimed her rights when it took a sentimental turn. In short, I was flattered, caressed and pleased with myself and others. The negresses appeared, and supper was served by Zoto himself, who showed us every mark of respect. Then the negresses made a tolerable bed for my cousins in a sort of grotto. I went to sleep in another grotto and we all enjoyed the rest we needed.
The Fifth Day
The next day the caravan made an early start. We came down from the mountains and wound our way into deep, narrow valleys or rather ravines, which seemed to go down to the very bowels of the earth. They cut across the mountain range in so many different ways that it was impossible not to lose one’s sense of direction. One did not know which way one was heading at any one time.
We proceeded in this way for six hours till we reached the ruins of a desolate and abandoned town. There Zoto had us dismount. He led me up to a well and said:
‘Señor Alphonse, look down into this well and tell me what you think of it.’
I replied that I could see water in it and judged it to be a well.
‘Well,’ said Zoto, ‘you are wrong, for it is the entrance to my palace.’
Having said this, he thrust his head down the well and shouted in a certain way. First I saw planks come out from one side of the well, a few feet above the water-line. Then an armed man emerged from the opening, followed by another. They climbed out of the well. When they got to the top Zoto said to me:
‘Señor Alphonse, I have the honour of presenting to you my two brothers, Cicio and Momo. You may have seen their bodies hanging from a certain gallows, but they are in good health for all that and will always loyally serve you since they, like me, are in the service and in the pay of the Great Sheikh of the Gomelez.’
I replied that I was delighted to meet the brothers of a man who appeared to have done me such great service.
We, all had to steel ourselves to climb down into the well. A ropeladder was brought, and the two sisters used it with greater agility than I expected. I went down after them. When we reached the planks we found a little door on one side through which we could only proceed by bending low. Thereafter we found ourselves at the head of a very grand staircase, cut into the rock, which was lit by lamps. We went down more than two hundred steps and came at last to an underground residence made up of many rooms and chambers. The walls of the living-rooms were all covered with cork to protect them from the damp. I have since visited the monastery at Cintra, near Lisbon, which has similar wall coverings.1 It is known for this reason as the cork monastery.
In addition, strategically placed and well-stoked fires made the temperature of Zoto’s underground dwelling very pleasant. The horses which he used for his men were dispersed here and there in the surrounding countryside. But even these could if necessary be brought down into the underground chambers through an opening which came out in a neighbouring valley. There was equipment for hoisting them up but it was very rarely used.
‘All these marvels are the work of the Gomelez,’ Emina told me. ‘They excavated the rock when they were the masters of this region, or rather they finished off the excavation, much of which had been undertaken by the heathens who were living in the Alpujarras when the Gomelez invaded. Learned historians claim that this is the site of the mines of virgin gold of classical Baetica, and ancient prophecies predict that the whole region will one day return to the control of the Gomelez. What do you say to that, Alphonse? What a fine inheritance that would be!’
Emina’s words seemed to me in very poor taste, and I let her know as much. Changing the subject, I asked what her future plans might be.
Emina replied that after what had happened she and her sister could not remain in Spain, but they had resolved to have a little rest until arrangements could be made for their sailing.
We were given a lavish dinner with a great deal of venison and preserves. The three brothers served us most attentively. I commented to my cousins that it would be impossible to find more obliging hanged men anywhere. Emina agreed and, turning to Zoto, said to him, ‘You and your brothers must have had some very strange adventures. We should be delighted to hear about them.’
After some coaxing, Zoto sat down beside us and began as follows:
ZOTO’S STORY
I was born in the city of Benevento, the
capital of the duchy of that name. My father, who was also called Zoto, was a skilled armourer. But as there were two other even more renowned armourers in the city, his trade barely provided an adequate living for himself, his wife and his three children, that is, my two brothers and myself.
Three years after my father’s wedding a younger sister of my mother married an oil merchant called Lunardo, who gave her as a wedding present gold earrings and a gold chain to wear round her neck. On her return from the wedding, my mother seemed sunk in deep gloom. Her husband tried to find out why but she refused for a long time to tell him. Eventually she admitted that she was dying of envy, wishing to possess earrings and a necklace like her sister’s. My father said nothing, but he had a finely chased hunting-piece with two pistols, and a hunting-knife of similar workmanship. The gun could be fired four times without reloading. It had taken my father four years to make it. He valued it at three hundred ounces of Naples gold. He went to see a collector, to whom he sold the whole set for eighty ounces. Then he bought the jewels that my mother coveted and took them to her. That very day my mother went to show them off to the wife of Lunardo. Her earrings were considered to be a little more valuable than those of her sister, which gave her great pleasure.
But a week later Lunardo’s wife paid a visit to my mother. She had had her hair braided and coiled, and it was held in place by a golden pin, the head of which was a filigree rose with a little ruby inset. This golden rose drove a cruel thorn in my mother’s heart. She relapsed into melancholy until my father promised her a pin like that of her sister. However, as my father had no money and no means of procuring any, and as such a pin cost forty-five gold ounces, he became as gloomy as my mother had been a few days before.