The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  ‘So initiation throws no light either on the origins of religion or on the history of the gods or on the meaning of emblems; but the establishment of mysteries has none the less been very useful to mankind. The man who accuses himself of some grave fault or whose hands are sullied by murder goes to see the priests of the mysteries, confesses his sins and then is purified by baptism. Before the era of this salutary institution many men, not being able to approach, the altar, were rejected by society and became brigands.

  ‘In the mysteries of Mithras, the initiate is given bread and wine and this meal is called the eucharist. The sinner, reconciled with God, begins a new, more innocent life than that he had lived up till then.’

  At this point I interrupted the Wandering Jew and remarked to him that I thought the eucharist to belong only to the Christian religion.

  Velásquez then spoke and said, ‘Forgive me, but what he has said in this respect is very consistent with what I read in Justin Martyr, who even adds that he detected in it the evil-doing of demons, in that they imitated in advance what the Christians were to do one day. But please go on, Señor Wandering Jew.’

  The Jew then picked up the thread of his story as follows:

  ‘Mysteries,’ said Chæremon, ‘have another ceremony which is common to all of them. A god dies, he is buried, and mourned for several days. Then the god comes back to life and there is great rejoicing. Some say that this emblem represents the sun, but it is generally thought to refer to seeds in the ground.

  ‘And that, my young Israelite, is more or less all I can tell you about our dogmas and rites,’ said the priest. ‘You see that we are not idolaters, as your prophets have accused us of being from time to time, but I confess to the belief that your religion and mine are beginning no longer to be sufficient for the nations. If we cast our eyes about us, we can see unease and the taste for novelty on every side.

  ‘In Palestine whole crowds are going out into the desert to listen to this new prophet who is baptizing in the Jordan. Here you can see therapeuts, healers and magi who bring together the cult of the Persians with our own. Young Apollonius goes from one town to the next with his fair hair and tries to pass himself off as Pythagoras. Street acrobats are calling themselves priests of Isis, the old cult is abandoned, the temples are deserted and there is no longer any incense burning on the altars.’

  As the Wandering Jew reached this point in his story he noticed that we were nearing our resting-place and went off into a valley in which he was soon lost to sight.

  I took the Duke of Velásquez aside and said to him, ‘Let me ask your opinion on what the Wandering Jew has told us. There are things which it is not proper for us to hear and seem to me contrary to the faith which we profess.’

  ‘Señor Alphonse,’ Velásquez replied, ‘these pious sentiments must do you honour in the eyes of any thinking person. I dare say that my faith is more philosophical than yours but it is no less fervent and pure. And the proof of this is in my system, about which I have spoken to you on several occasions and which is only a series of reflections on providence and its infinite wisdom.

  ‘So I believe, Señor Alphonse, that what I can hear without qualms you can listen to without scruple.’

  Velásquez’s reply set my mind altogether at rest and during the evening the gypsy, having nothing else to do, continued his story as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  When young Soarez had told me the story of his discomfiture in the Buen Retiro gardens he seemed to feel the need for sleep. I let him enjoy the rest which was indispensable to his state of health and when I came next evening to sit with him during the night he continued his story as follows:

  LOPE SOAREZ’S STORY CONTINUED

  My heart was still full of love for Inés and, as you may well imagine, full of wrath towards Busqueros, which didn’t prevent that importunate boor appearing before me next day as the soup was being brought to me. When he had taken the edge off his hunger, he said to me, ‘Señor Don Lope, I imagine that at your age you have no desire to get married. It’s a folly that is always committed when one is young. But to offer to a girl as an excuse the anger of your great-grandfather Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house at Cadiz, that’s really very eccentric. You are lucky that I was able to patch matters up a bit.’

  ‘Señor Don Roque,’ I replied. ‘Please do me another service to add to all those you have already done me, that is, not to go to the Buen Retiro gardens this evening. I think it likely that the fair Inés will not go there and even if she does she won’t speak to me. But I want to go to the same bench where I saw her yesterday, to weep over my misfortunes and to sigh as much as I wish.’

  Don Roque looked very grave and said, ‘Señor Don Lope, the words your lordship has just addressed to me are deeply insulting and might lead one to suppose that my devotion to you does not have the honour of being approved by you. It is true that I could, without impropriety, allow you to lament alone and weep over your misfortunes, but the fair Inés might come, and if I am not there, who will take on the task of making good your imprudence? No, Señor Don Lope, I am too devoted to you to obey you.’

  Don Roque withdrew immediately after the meal. I let the heat of the day go by and then took the road to the Buen Retiro; but I made sure to hide in the usual shop. I soon saw Busqueros go by. He went to the Buen Retiro, but not finding me there retraced his steps and appeared to me to go off in the direction of the Prado. Then I left my vantage-point and went to the very place where I had experienced already so much joy and so much sadness. I sat down on the bench where I had been the day before, and shed many tears.

  Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I thought it was Busqueros and turned round angrily; but whom should I see but Inés, who smiled at me with ineffable grace. She sat down next to me, told her companion to go on a little way and then spoke to me as follows:

  ‘My dear Soarez, I was very angry with you yesterday because I did not understand why you were speaking to me about your grandfather and great-grandfather. But I have informed myself of these things. I learnt that for a century your house has refused to have any dealings with ours, all because of grievances which, it is said, are of very small moment in themselves. But if you have difficulties on your side, I have them also on mine. My father has long since disposed of my hand and is afraid that I might have different ideas about my future than he has. He does not like me to go out often, and does not allow me to go to the Prado or the theatre at all. It is only the absolute need that I have to take the air from time to time which obliges him to let me come here with my duenna. This walk is so little frequented that he believes that I can be seen here without any risk. My future husband is a Neapolitan gentleman called the Duke of Santa Maura. I believe that his only motive for marrying me is to enjoy my fortune and repair his own. My feelings for this party have always been very distant and since I have met you they are even more so. My father has a very decisive nature. But his younger sister, Señora de Avalos, has a great deal of influence over his mind. This dear aunt is very fond of me and she is very much against the Neapolitan duke. I have spoken about you to her, and she would like to meet you. Come with me as far as my carriage. You will find at the gate to the gardens one of Señora de Avalos’s servants, who will take you to her.’

  The words of the adorable Inés filled my heart with joy and I formed many sweet hopes. I followed her to her carriage and then went to her aunt’s house. I had the good fortune to be approved of by Señora de Avalos. On the following days I went back at the same time and each time I encountered her niece there.

  My happiness lasted six days. On the seventh, I was informed of the arrival of the Duke of Santa Maura. Señora de Avalos told me not to lose heart, and a female member of her household secretly gave me the following letter:

  Inés Moro to Lope Soarez.

  The hateful man to whom I am betrothed is in Madrid and his people occupy our whole house. I have obtain
ed permission to withdraw to a part of the building one window of which looks out on to the Calle de los Agustinos. The window is not very high and we will be able to speak to each other for a short time. I have things to say to you which concern our happiness. Come at nightfall.

  It was five o’clock in the evening when I received this note and, as sunset was at nine o’clock, there were four hours which I didn’t know how to occupy. I decided to go to the Buen Retiro. The sight of that place duly filled me with sweet reveries, which allowed me to pass the time without noticing how slowly it was going by. I had already walked round the garden several times when I saw Busqueros arrive. My first impulse was to climb up into a knotty oak tree which I saw close by. But I wasn’t nimble enough to manage this so I climbed back down and went to sit on a bench, where I made my stand against the enemy.

  Don Roque accosted me in his familiar and self-satisfied way and said, ‘Well, Señor Don Lope, I think that the fair Moro girl will end up by softening the heart of your great-grandfather, Iñigo Soarez, who, having sailed the seven seas, established a trading house at Cadiz. What? Not a word from you, Señor Don Lope? Well, since you refuse to speak I will sit down on this bench and tell you my story. You will find quite singular aspects to it which may well be a lesson to you.’

  I had decided to put up with anything until sunset. So I offered no resistance to Busqueros, who began as follows:

  DON ROQUE BUSQUEROS’S STORY

  I am the only son of Don Bias Busqueros, who is the younger son of the younger brother of another Busqueros, who himself was a younger son of the cadet branch.

  My father had the honour of serving the king for thirty years as alfier, that is, ensign, in an infantry regiment but, realizing that his perseverance could not bring him promotion to the rank of sublieutenant, he left the service and set up house in the small village of Allazuelos, where he married a noble lady whose uncle, a canon, had left her a life rent of six hundred piastres. I was the only fruit of this union, which did not last long as my father died when I was only eight years old.

  So I was left in the care of my mother, who, however, did not take much care of me. Doubtless believing that to be active was good for children, she let me run about the streets from morning to night without showing much concern about what I got up to. The other children of my age didn’t have the freedom to go out whenever they wanted to, so I went to see them. Their parents were used to my visits and paid little attention to them. So I found thereby a way of slipping into all the houses of the village at any time of day.

  My naturally observant mind led me to note carefully what happened in the privacy of all these households and I faithfully retailed this to my mother, who enjoyed hearing my stories. I must even admit that it is thanks to her guidance that I owe my happy talent of involving myself in the affairs of others, more for their benefit than for my own.

  For a short time I thought that I would please my mother by telling the whole neighbourhood everything that took place in our own house. Not a visitor was received, not a conversation took place, no matter how personal, which the whole village was not instantly informed of. But this publicity did not enjoy the favour of pleasing her and a somewhat sharp punishment indicated to me that it was necessary to import items of news from outside without exporting those from within.

  After some time I noticed that in all the houses people hid from me. I was stung by this. The obstacles which were erected against my curiosity only excited it further. I discovered countless ways of looking even into the intimacy of bedrooms. The flimsy style of house construction which was common in the village helped me in my ploys. Ceilings consisted only of juxtaposed planks. At night I would slip into the attics, drill a hole through the planks and soon know all the secrets of the marriage. I relayed them to my mother, who passed them on to all the inhabitants of Allazuelos, or rather to each of them in turn.

  People guessed to whom my mother owed this information and I was daily more detested. All the houses were closed to me but the roof-lights were not. And as I crouched in the attics I was in the midst of my compatriots without their knowing it. They gave me shelter without wanting to, and I inhabited their houses in spite of them, more or less as rats do. Like those animals too, I would slip into larders when I could and nibble at the provisions kept there.

  When I reached the age of eighteen my mother told me that it was time for me to choose a career, but my choice had long been made. I wanted to be a lawyer and have thereby countless opportunities of knowing the secrets of families and involving myself in their affairs. So it was decided that I would study law and I left for Salamanca.

  What a difference there was between the city and the village where I was born! What vast scope for my curiosity! But also what new obstacles! The houses were several storeys high. They were scrupulously locked at night and, as if to annoy me further, those living on the second and third floors left their windows open at night to be able to breathe more freely. I saw straight away that I could not do anything by myself and that I needed to ally myself with friends who were worthy of abetting me in my enterprises. So I began to follow the law course and at the same time studied the characters of my comrades, to know where to place my trust. At last I found four who seemed to have the necessary qualities, and I began to roam around at night with them, just engaging in a little rowdiness in the streets.

  At last when I thought that they were more or less ready, I said to them, ‘Dear friends, aren’t you amazed at the audacity with which the inhabitants of this city leave their windows open all night? What? Because they are twenty feet above our heads do they think they have the right to cock a snook at us students? Their sleep is an insult to us; their rest makes me restless. So I have decided first to find out what goes on up there and then to show them just what we are capable of.’

  These words were well received but no one realized what I was getting at. Then I explained myself more clearly. ‘My dear friends,’ I said. ‘First we must have a ladder just fifteen feet long. Three of you wrapped up in your cloaks will easily carry it, looking like people walking in single file, especially if you walk on the darker side of the street and carry the ladder next to the wall. When we decide to use it, we will lean it against the window, and while one of us climbs to the apartment we want to look into, the others will stand a little way off to keep watch and ensure our common safety. When we find out what is happening above the ground floor we will see what is to be done about it.’

  This plan was approved and I ordered a light but strong ladder. As soon as it was ready we started using it. I chose a decent-looking house with a not-too-high window. I put my ladder up against it, and climbed up so that only my head could be seen from inside the bedroom.

  There was a full moon. None the less for a moment I couldn’t see anything. Then I saw a man in his bed, staring at me with a haggard expression. Fear seemed to have deprived him of the power of speech. When he recovered it he said to me, ‘Ghastly and bloody head! Stop persecuting me and reproaching me for an involuntary crime!’

  *

  As Don Roque reached this point in his story, it seemed to me that the sun was going down quickly. Not having brought a watch with me, I asked him what the time was.

  This quite simple question seemed to offend him deeply. ‘Señor Don Lope Soarez,’ he said somewhat angrily. ‘It seems to me that when a member of polite society has the honour of telling you a story, to interrupt him at the most interesting point in order to ask him the time, is almost to lead him to understand that he is what we Spaniards call pesado, that is, boring. I do not believe that I can be accused of that. So in that conviction I shall continue my story.’

  Seeing that I had been taken for a ghastly and bloody head, I put on the most terrifying expression I could manage. The man could not bear it. He leapt out of his bed and rushed out of the bedroom. He wasn’t alone in bed: a young woman woke up and stretched out two very plump arms from under the covers. Catching sight of me, she got up and bolte
d the door by which her husband had gone out, and then indicated that I should climb in. My ladder was a little short, so I had recourse to some architectural carving, on which I placed a foot and jumped into the apartment. On looking at me more closely, the lady seemed to notice that she had made a mistake, and I realized too, that I was not the man she was expecting. But she asked me to sit down and slipped on a skirt.

  Then she came back to where I was, sat down on a chair a few paces from me and said, ‘Señor, I was expecting a relation who was to speak to me about some family affairs, and you can well imagine that if he came through the window he had good reasons for doing so. As for you, Señor, I do not have the honour of knowing you and do not know why you have presented yourself in my house at this time, which is not the time for visiting people.’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘my intention was not to enter your house but only to raise my head to the level of your bedroom to see what was going on there.’ I then took the opportunity of telling the young lady about my tastes, my childhood pastimes and the association I had formed with four young men whose role it was to help me in my enterprises.

  The lady seemed to pay close attention to what I said. Then she said, ‘Señor, what you have just told me restores you completely to my esteem. You are quite right; there is nothing nicer in the world than to know what others get up to, and I have always shared your view of this. I cannot keep you here any longer, but we will meet again.’

  ‘Señora,’ I said, ‘before you woke up, your husband did me the honour of taking my face for a ghastly head that had come to reproach him for an involuntary crime. Please do me the honour of informing me of the circumstances of all this.’