The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  ‘My dear disciples, you have witnessed the attempts I made to persuade the Marquesa de Valornez to let me do no more than to pierce the artery of the trachea of the famous marqués with the point of my scalpel. Misled by my enemies, the marquesa refused to let me do this, but now I am at last able to offer proof that I am right. Ah – if only it were possible for the famous marqués to be present himself at the dissection of his own body! It would have been such pleasure to show him the hydatic and polypous matter, with its roots in the bronchi and its branches extending as far as the larynx!

  ‘But what can I say? That miserly Castilian, wholly indifferent to scientific progress, denies us things of which he himself has no further use. If the marqués had had the slightest taste for medicine he would have left us his lungs, liver and viscera, which aren’t of any benefit to him. But, oh no! We must come here at the risk of our lives to violate the resting-place of the dead and disturb the peace of these tombs!

  ‘Never mind, my dear disciples! The more obstacles we encounter, the greater will be our glory in overcoming them! Take courage! Let’s bring this great undertaking to an end! When you whistle three times, your comrades on the other side will pass the ladders over the wall and we will abduct our famous marqués. Dying of so rare an illness was already a cause for self-congratulation; but falling into the hands of capable men who can recognize the illness and give it its proper name was even greater cause.

  ‘The day after next we will be in a position to fetch from here a famous person who died from the effect of… shhh! There are things we mustn’t say.’

  As the doctor finished his speech one of his disciples whistled three times, and I saw ladders passed over the wall. Then the marqués’s body was bound with ropes and passed across. The ghosts followed it and the ladders then disappeared.

  When no one was left in sight I laughed heartily at the fright I had had.

  Before going on, I must tell you about the manner of burial which is peculiar to some Spanish and Sicilian monasteries. Small, dark vaults are built, in which, however, the flow of air is very strong through the skilful creation of draughts. Bodies which are intended to be preserved are placed there. The darkness protects them from insects, and the air desiccates them. After six months the vault is opened. If all has worked well, the monks go in procession to the family to congratulate them on the outcome. Then they dress the body in a Capuchin habit and place it in a vault reserved for the bodies of saints, or at the very least for those who have reached a certain degree of beatitude. In the monasteries, the funeral procession accompanies the body to the cemetery, where lay brothers take charge of it and bury it according to the orders of their superiors. Normally, bodies are fetched in the evening. Superiors then deliberate about them and at night they are carried to their final resting-place. Many bodies are not suitable for preservation.

  The Capuchins wished to desiccate the Marqués de Valornez’s body and were on the point of setting about this process when the ghosts put the grave-diggers to flight. These tiptoed back at daybreak, huddling close together. They were extremely alarmed to discover that the marqués’s body had disappeared, and decided that the devil had carried it off. Soon afterwards all the monks appeared, armed with aspergillae, and set about sprinkling holy water, exorcizing and braying at the tops of their voices. As for me, I was exhausted so I threw myself down on the straw and fell asleep at once.

  The first thing I thought about the next day was the punishment with which I was threatened; the second was the way I could escape it. Veyras and I had so often stolen food from the pantry that we were very used to climbing up buildings. We also knew how to remove bars from a window and put them back without being noticed. I used the penknife I had in my pocket to take out a nail from the wooden part of my window. With the nail I worked away at the place where the bar had been set into the wall. I continued without a break until midday.

  Then the peep-hole in the door opened and I caught sight of the face of the lay brother who served our dormitory. He passed me through some bread and a jug of water and asked me if he could do anything for me. I asked him to see Father Sanudo on my behalf and to ask him to give me sheets and a blanket since, although it was fair that I should be punished, I did not think it fair that I should not be clean. This point was well taken, and I was sent what I asked for, together with some meat to sustain me. I asked discreetly what Veyras was up to, and learnt that he had not been troubled. So it was that I found out that the guilty were not being sought. I asked when my punishment would begin. The lay brother answered that he did not know, but usually three days of meditation were left to go by. I did not need more than this, and was quite calm.

  I used the water I had been given to wet the setting in the wall, which I wanted to loosen. The work went ahead at a good rate, and the bar was completely free on the morning of the second day. Then I cut up my sheets and blankets and made a cable which was quite like a rope-ladder. I waited for nightfall before making good my escape. It was not a moment too early, for the lay brother on duty at the door told me that I was to be sentenced the next day by a tribunal consisting of Theatine monks presided over by a member of the Inquisition.

  Towards evening a body, covered by a black shroud decorated with a rich silver fringe, was brought in. I guessed that this was the great nobleman of whom Sangre Moreno had spoken.

  When it had become quite dark and there was no noise to be heard I took out the bar, secured the end of the ladder and was on the point of climbing down when the ghosts appeared again on the wall. As you will have guessed, they were the doctor’s pupils. They went straight to the dead nobleman and removed his body without disturbing the black, silver-fringed shroud.

  When they had gone I opened my window and climbed down with ease. Then I decided to put one of the biers up against the wall to act as a ladder.

  As I was on the point of doing this I heard the cemetery gate open. I ran and hid in the portico. I stretched myself out on the bier and covered myself with the silver-fringed sheet whose corner I folded over so I could see who was coming in.

  First came an equerry dressed in black, holding a torch in one hand and his sword in the other, then valets wearing mourning; finally a remarkably beautiful woman dressed in black crêpe from head to toe.

  The grieving beauty came up to my bier, fell to her knees and uttered the following pitiable words: ‘Oh dear mortal remains of the dearest of husbands! If only, like Artemisia, I could mix your ashes with my libation they would circulate in my bloodstream and would revive a heart which beat only for you! But although my religion will not allow me to be your living sepulchre I want at least to remove you from this place of dusty death. I want daily to bathe with my tears the flowers which will grow on your grave, in which I shall soon join you when I breathe my last.’

  Having uttered these words, the lady turned to her equerry and said, ‘Don Diego, remove the body of your master. We will then bury it in the garden chapel.’

  Four strong valets took hold of the bier. They thought they were carrying a corpse and were not far wrong, for I was half-dead with terror.

  When the gypsy reached this point in his story he was told that the business of his band required his presence. He took his leave of us and that day we did not see him again.

  The Twenty-seventh Day

  The next day we stayed in the same place. As the gypsy chief had nothing to do, Rebecca seized the opportunity of asking him to continue the story of his adventures. He needed no persuasion and began as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  While I was being carried on the bier I had managed to undo a seam of the black shroud with which I was covered. I could see that the lady was riding in a black-draped litter, but her equerry was on horseback, and those who were carrying me were taking turns to do so in order to go faster. We had left Burgos by one of the gates and proceeded for about an hour. Then we stopped in front of a garden. We went in and I was finally put down in the summer-house,
in the middle of a room draped in black and dimly lit by the light of several lamps.

  ‘You may go now, Don Diego,’ said the lady to her equerry. ‘I want to be left to weep over these beloved remains with which my grief will soon reunite me.’

  As soon as the lady was alone she sat down beside me and said, ‘You monster! Look where your implacable rage has got you! You condemned us without even listening to us. How will you be able to answer this before the awful tribunal of heaven?’

  At that moment another woman appeared, looking like a fury and carrying a dagger in her hand. ‘Where are the vile remains of that monster with a human face?’ she said. ‘I want to know whether he has bowels. I want to rip them out. I want to tear his pitiless heart asunder. I want to crush it in my hands. I want to satisfy my rage.’

  It seemed to me at that point that it was time to make myself known. I threw off my black sheet, clasped the knees of the woman with the dagger and said, ‘Señora, take pity on a poor schoolboy who hid under this shroud to escape being beaten.’

  ‘You little wretch,’ she screamed. ‘Where is the body of the Duke of Sidonia?’

  ‘It’s in the hands of Dr Sangre Moreno,’ I replied. ‘His pupils snatched it tonight.’

  ‘Merciful heavens!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘He alone realized that the duke had been poisoned to death. I am lost!’

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ I said. ‘The doctor will never dare admit to having snatched bodies from the Capuchin cemetery. And the Capuchins, who believe that the devil carried off the bodies which have disappeared, will not admit that Satan has acquired so much power within the walls of their monastery.’

  Then the woman with the knife looked at me severely and said, ‘And you, you little wretch, who is there to answer for your discretion?’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘today I am to be sentenced by a tribunal of Theatines presided over by a member of the Inquisition. They will probably sentence me to a thousand strokes of the whip. I beg you to ensure my discretion by keeping me out of everyone’s sight.’

  Instead of replying, the lady opened a trap-door which had been fitted in the corner of the room, and indicated that I should go down through it. I obeyed, and the trap-door was shut above my head.

  I went down stairs plunged in darkness which led me to an equally dark underground vault. I bumped into a post. My hands encountered chains. Then my foot struck the stone of a sepulchre on which stood a metal cross. These gloomy objects do not inspire slumber. But I was at that happy age when one sleeps in spite of everything. I lay down on the marble tomb and fell quickly into a deep sleep.

  The next day I saw that my prison was lit by a lamp situated in another vault separated from mine by iron bars. Soon the lady with the knife appeared at the bars and put down a basket covered by a cloth. She wanted to speak but her weeping prevented her. She led me to understand by making signs that the place brought terrible memories back to her. I discovered an abundance of food and some books in the basket. I was safe from being beaten and safely out of the sight of any Theatine. These thoughts made my day pass by quite agreeably.

  The following day it was the young widow who brought me food. She too tried to speak to me but didn’t have the strength to do so. She went away unable to utter a single word.

  The day after, she came back with her basket under her arm, which she passed through the iron bars. In the vault where she stood there was a large crucifix. She cast herself down on her knees before this image of our Saviour and prayed as follows: ‘Oh God, underneath this marble slab lie the mutilated remains of a sweet, loving creature. He has no doubt already taken his place among the angels of whom he was the very image on earth. Doubtless he is begging you to spare not only his barbaric murderer but also the person who avenged his death and her unwitting accomplice, that unhappy victim of so many horrors.’

  The lady then continued praying in a low, but very fervent voice. Eventually she rose, came up to the bars and said to me in a calmer tone, ‘Tell me if you are lacking anything, or if there is anything we can do for you.’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘I have an aunt called Dalanosa. She lives in the same street as the Theatine monastery. I would like her to know that I am alive and safe.’

  ‘Such a mission could compromise us,’ said the lady. ‘None the less, I promise to try to find a way to reassure your aunt.’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘you are goodness itself. The husband who caused you such unhappiness must indeed have been a monster.’

  ‘Alas,’ she said. ‘You could not be more wrong. He was the best and the most affectionate of men.’

  The next day the woman with the knife brought me food. She seemed less upset or at least more in control of herself.

  ‘My child,’ she said. ‘I myself went to see your aunt. She seems to love you like a mother. No doubt you have lost your parents.’

  I replied that I had indeed lost my mother, and that as I had had the misfortune to fall into my father’s inkpot he had banished me for ever from his presence.

  The lady asked me to explain what I had just said to her. So I told her my story, which appeared to draw a smile from her. She then said:

  ‘My child, I think I laughed. I haven’t done that for a very long time. I had a son. He is lying beneath the marble slab on which you are sitting. I would like to discover him again in you. I was the wet-nurse of the Duchess of Sidonia. I am only a woman of the common people but I have a heart which knows how to love and knows how to hate. People with such a character are never to be despised.’

  I thanked the woman and assured her that my feelings towards her would always be those of a son.

  Several weeks went by more or less in this way. The two ladies grew more and more used to me as the days passed. The nurse treated me as her son and the duchess showed me great kindness. She would often spend several hours in the vault.

  One day, when she seemed a little less sad than usual, I ventured to ask her to tell the story of her misfortunes. She demurred for a long time but in the end she decided to give in to my entreaties. She spoke as follows:

  THE DUCHESS OF MEDINA SIDONIA’S STORY

  I am the only daughter of Don Emanuel de Val Florida, first secretary of state, who died a short time ago, a man honoured by the sadness of his master at his passing and regretted, moreover, in those European courts that are allied to our all-powerful monarch. I did not get to know this worthy man until the last years of his life.

  My youth was spent in Asturias, in the company of my mother, who had separated from her husband early in their marriage and who lived with her father, the Marqués de Astorgas, of whom she was the sole heir.

  I do not know to what extent my mother deserved to lose the affections of her husband, but I do know that the long sufferings of her life would have been sufficient to expiate the gravest of sins. She seemed steeped in melancholy. Her eyes were full of tears, her smile full of sorrow. Even her slumbers were not free from sadness: their peace was disturbed by sighs and sobs.

  Not that the separation was total. My mother received letters regularly from her husband and replied to them. She had been twice to Madrid to see him but his heart was shut to her for ever. The marquesa had a loving and tender soul. All her affections, which she carried to the point of exaltation, she directed towards her father, and they brought some balm to the bitterness of her enduring sorrows.

  As for me, I would find it difficult to define the feelings of my mother towards me. She certainly loved me, but she seemed to be frightened to involve herself in my destiny. Far from preaching at me, she scarcely dared to give me advice at all. In short, if you must know, she did not feel able to teach her daughter virtuous ways, having strayed from them herself. So my childhood was marked by a sort of neglect which would have deprived me of the advantages of a good education if I had not had la Girona, who was first my nurse and then my governess, at my side. You have made her acquaintance, and you know that she has a strong spirit and a cultivated
mind. She has done all she could to make me the happiest of women, but inexorable fate defeated all her efforts. Pedro Girón, her husband, was known for his enterprising if dubious character. Having been forced to leave Spain, he had embarked for America and nothing more had been heard of him. La Girona had had only one son by him, with whom I had been suckled. He was a remarkably good-looking child, which caused him to be nicknamed ‘Hermosito’,1 a nickname that he kept throughout his short life. We were nourished by the same milk, and we often slept in the same cradle. Up to the age of seven we grew closer and closer together. Then la Girona thought that it was time to tell her son about our difference of rank and the great distance which fate had set between himself and his young girlfriend.

  One day, after we had had some childish squabble, la Girona called her son over to her and said with great gravity, ‘Never forget that Señora de Val Florida is your mistress and mine and that we are no more than the first servants of her household.’

  Hermosito did not question this. He made all my desires his own. He would make it his business to guess and anticipate them. His complete devotion seemed to have ineffable charm for him, and I took great pleasure in seeing him obey me in everything.

  La Girona soon saw the dangers of the new relationship which had developed between us and decided to separate us once we reached the age of thirteen. Then she forgot all about it and turned her attention to other matters.

  La Girona, as I have said, had a cultivated mind. When we were still very young she put the works of good Spanish authors into our hands and gave us a general notion of history. She also wanted to train our judgement, so she made us think about our reading and showed us how to use it as a basis for moral reflection. It is quite usual for children when they first begin to study history to enthuse over historical figures whose role in history is very brilliant. In such cases my hero became that of my young friend too, and if I changed my mind he too would at once adopt the object of my new enthusiasm.