by Jan Potocki
Hervas knew that in high latitudes near the pole, blood, lacking sufficient heat, was exposed to alcalaemia, which could only be halted by the internal use of acids. He concluded that heat, being able in some cases to be replaced by an acid, must also be a sort of acid, or at least one of the elements of the universal acid.
Hervas knew that thunder had been seen to cause wine to ferment and turn to vinegar. He had read in Sanchoniathon that when the world began, those things destined to be living beings had been, so to speak, brought to life by violent thunder-claps, and our hapless scientist had ventured to rely on the authority of this pagan cosmogony in order to declare that the matter of lightning had had the capacity to activate the generative acid which was infinitely varied but which consistently reproduced the same forms.
In his attempt to understand the mysteries of creation, Hervas was duty-bound to attribute it in all its glory to the Creator. Would to Heaven that he had done so! But his good angel had left him, and his mind, led astray by the presumption of knowledge, delivered him up defenceless into the hands of the spirit of pride, whose fall led to that of the whole world.
Alas! As Hervas’s guilty speculations were rising above the sphere of human intelligence, his mortal coil was threatened by imminent dissolution. He was struck down by a number of acute diseases, which added themselves to his chronic afflictions. His sciatica became severe and deprived him of the use of his right leg. His kidney stones became larger and tore at his bladder. Arthritis deformed the fingers of his left hand and threatened the joints of his right. Finally the darkest of hypochondrias destroyed his mental powers at the same time as those of his body. He hated the idea of witnesses to his lamentable state and ended up by rejecting my ministrations and refusing to see me. His household consisted only of an infirm old man who devoted all his remaining energy to serving him but he too fell ill and my father was then forced to put up with having me with him.
Marañon, my grandfather, was struck down soon after by a high fever. His illness lasted only five days. Sensing his end to be near, he summoned me and said:
‘Blas, my dear Blas, receive my last blessing. You were born the son of a learned father: would that he were less so! Fortunately for you, your grandfather is a simple man, simple in his faith and works, and he has brought you up in that same simplicity. Do not let yourself be led astray by your father. For some years he has fulfilled few of his religious duties and his opinions are such that heretics would be ashamed of them. Blas, beware of human wisdom. In a few instants I shall know more than all the philosophers. Blas, Blas, bless you, I am passing away.’
And die he did. I paid my last respects to him as was due and returned to my father’s house, from which I had been absent for four days. In that time the infirm old servant had also died and a charitable fraternity had undertaken to bury him. I knew that my father was alone and intended to devote myself to serving him. But on going into his room an extraordinary spectacle met my eyes and I remained in the antechamber, transfixed with horror.
My father had taken off his clothes and had dressed himself up in a bed-sheet as if it were a shroud. He was seated watching the setting sun. Having looked at it for some time, he raised his voice and said, ‘Oh star whose dying beams have met my eyes for the last time, why did you shine upon me on the day of my birth? Did I ask to be born? Why was I born? Men told me that I had a soul and I have nurtured it even at the expense of my body. I have cultivated my mind but rats have devoured it and booksellers have disdained it. Nothing of me will remain. All of me will die, in as great obscurity as if I had never been born. So, nothingness, receive your prey.’
Hervas remained for a few moments plunged in sombre thoughts. Then he took a goblet that looked to me to be filled with old wine, lifted his eyes to heaven and said, ‘Oh God, if there is one, have pity on my soul, if I have one.’
After that he drained the goblet, put it on the table and placed his hand to his heart as though he felt some anguish there. Hervas had prepared another table, on which he had placed cushions. He lay down on it, crossed his hands on his breast and did not utter another word.
You will be surprised that, seeing all these preparations for suicide, I did not fling myself at the goblet or call for help. I am surprised myself, or rather I am sure that a supernatural power held me rooted to the spot where I was standing, leaving me no freedom of movement. The hairs of my head stood on end.
The charitable fraternity who had buried our old servant found me in this position. They saw my father stretched out on the table, covered with a shroud, and asked me whether he was dead. I replied that I did not know. They asked me who had put the shroud on him; I replied that he had dressed himself in it. They examined the body and found it lifeless. They saw the goblet with the dregs of a liquid in it, and took it away to examine it. After that they went away, making their displeasure clear to me, and left me in a state of utter dejection. Then people from the parish came, asked me the same questions and went away saying, ‘He died as he lived. It is not for us to bury him.’
I remained alone with the body, and my depression reached the point where I had lost all power to act or to think. I slumped into the chair in which I had seen my father sitting and relapsed into the same immobility in which the people from the parish had found me.
Night came. Clouds covered the heavens. A sudden gust of wind blew open my window, a bluish light seemed to flash across the room, leaving it darker than it was before. In the midst of all this darkness I thought I saw some fantastic shapes. Then I thought I heard my father’s body utter a long groan, which echoed and was repeated across night and space. I tried to get up, but was transfixed where I was, unable to make the slightest movement. An icy chill pierced my limbs. I shivered as if in a high fever. My visions became dreams and sleep conquered my senses.
I awoke with a start and saw six tall, yellow candles lit around the body of my father and a man sitting in front of me who seemed to be watching for the moment of my awakening. His face was majestic and imposing. He was tall; black, somewhat wavy hair fell across his forehead. His look was keen and penetrating, yet also soft and seductive. For the rest he was dressed in a ruff and a grey cloak, much as gentlemen dress in the country.
When the stranger saw that I was awake he smiled at me affably and said, ‘My son – I call you this because I look on you as though you were already mine – you have been forsaken by God and man and the earth has closed itself to the remains of this scholar who gave you life. But we will not forsake you.’
‘Señor,’ I replied, ‘you said, I believe, that I was forsaken by God and man. This is true of man but I do not believe God can ever forsake one of his creatures.’
‘Your remark is correct in some respects,’ said the stranger. ‘I will explain this to you another time. Meanwhile, to convince you of our concern for you, I am giving you this purse. You will find a thousand pistoles in it. A young man must have desires and the means of satisfying them. Spend this gold freely, and count on us always.’
Then the stranger clapped his hands. Six masked men appeared and took away Hervas’s body. The candles went out and deep darkness fell. I did not stay long where I was. I felt my way to the door, reached the street and, on seeing the starry sky, imagined that my breathing became easier. The thousand pistoles that I could feel in my pocket also contributed to raising my spirits. I crossed Madrid and reached the far end of the Prado at the spot on which a statue of Cybele has since been placed. There I lay down on a seat and soon fell asleep.
When the gypsy had reached this point in his story, he asked for leave to stop and continue it on the morrow. We did not see him again that day.
The Fifty-first Day
We assembled at the usual time. Rebecca addressed the old chief and said to him that the story of Diego Hervas, although already known to her in part, had made a deep impression on her.
‘But it seems to me,’ she added, ‘that too much trouble was taken to fool the poor husband. One could hav
e misled him more easily. Doubtless the story of die atheist was told to that timid soul, Cornádez, to frighten him even further.’
‘Allow me to draw attention to the fact that your judgement on the adventure which I have had the honour to relate to you is too hasty. The Duke of Arcos was a member of the high nobility, and one might have thought of, or even acted out, certain roles to do him a service, but there is nothing to suggest that the story itself of Hervas’s son, which you haven’t yet heard, was told to Cornádez for that reason.’
Rebecca assured the gypsy chief that that story itself also interested her deeply. The old man then continued his story as follows:
THE STORY OF BLAS HERVAS,
THE REPROBATE PILGRIM
I was telling you that I lay down on a bench at the end of the main avenue of the Prado and fell asleep. The sun was already quite high in the sky when I awoke. What roused me was, I think, a light flick of a handkerchief which I received in my face for, on waking up, I saw a young girl who was using her handkerchief as a fly-whisk and was brushing away those flies which might have disturbed my slumbers. But the most peculiar thing of all was that my head was resting very gently on the knees of another girl, whose sweet breath I could feel caressing my hair. In waking up, I had scarcely moved at all, and was at liberty to prolong this situation by pretending still to be asleep. So I closed my eyes again and soon after heard a slightly disapproving, but not sharp, voice address those who were cradling me, and say:
‘Celia, Zorrilla, what are you doing here? I thought you were in church, and here I find you engaged in a fine form of piety!’
‘But Mama,’ said the young girl who was acting as my pillow, ‘didn’t you say that good works were meritorious as well as prayer? And isn’t it a charitable act to prolong the rest of this poor young man, who must have spent a very unpleasant night?’
‘Certainly,’ said a voice which laughed more than it scolded. ‘Certainly, that is very meritorious, and that’s a thought which proves your innocence, if it doesn’t prove your piety. But now, my charitable Zorrilla, put the young man’s head down very gently on the seat and follow me home.’
‘Oh dear Mama!’ the young girl replied, ‘look how softly he is sleeping! Rather than wake him up you should help me, Mama, to undo the ruff which is choking him.’
‘Should I indeed?’ said their mother. ‘That’s a fine task you have given me! But, on closer inspection, doesn’t he look very sweet?’ At the same time, the mother’s hand slipped softly under my chin and undid my ruff.
‘He is even better now,’ said Celia, who up till then hadn’t spoken, ‘and he is breathing more easily. I can see that there’s a sweetness in doing good works.’
‘That remark shows much discernment,’ said their mother, ‘but charity must not be taken too far. Come, Zorrilla, put the young man’s head back on the seat and let us go.’
Zorrilla slipped her two hands gently under my head and removed her knees. I then thought that there was no longer any point in feigning sleep. I sat up and opened my eyes. The mother let out a cry and the girls wanted to run away. I stopped them.
‘Celia, Zorrilla,’ I said. ‘You are as pretty as you are innocent. And as for you, who only look like their mother because your charms have blossomed further, please spare me a few moments before you leave me to enjoy the admiration which all three of you inspire in me.’
What I said to them was true. Celia and Zorrilla would have been perfect beauties if it had not been for their extreme youth and their mother, who was not yet thirty years old, looked as though she had not yet reached her twenty-fifth year.
‘Señor caballero,’ said the mother, ‘if you have only been pretending to sleep, you must have been persuaded of the innocence of my daughters and must have formed a good opinion of their mother. I therefore am not afraid of losing reputation in your eyes in asking you to accompany me home. An acquaintance which begins in such a singular fashion seems destined to become closer.’
I followed them. We reached their house, which looked out on to the Prado. The girls went away to preside over the preparation of the chocolate. The mother sat me down beside her and said, ‘You see here a house somewhat better appointed than is appropriate to our present situation. I took it in happier times. Now I would like to sublet the first floor but dare not do so, for circumstances in which I find myself require me to live in strict seclusion.’
‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘I also have reason to live a very retired life. And if it suited you, I would willingly come to an agreement about the cuarto principal, or best rooms.’
As I spoke, I drew out my purse, and the sight of the gold dispelled any objections the lady might have put to me. I paid three months’ rent and board in advance. It was agreed that my dinner would be brought up to my room and that I would be served by a trusty manservant, who would also run errands for me. Zorrilla and Celia were told of the conditions of the agreement when they reappeared with the chocolate, and their eyes seemed to take possession of my person. But those of their mother appeared to lay a rival claim to it. This little battle of coquetry did not escape my notice, but I left the outcome to fate and thought only about settling into my new lodgings.
It was not long before it was furnished with all that could contribute to making it pleasant and convenient for me. At one moment it was Zorrilla bringing me a writing desk; at another Celia came to furnish my table with a lamp or some books. Nothing was forgotten. The two pretty girls came separately, but when they met in my room, endless giggling ensued. The mother also took her turn. She attended to my bed, supplying it with sheets of Dutch linen, a fine silk coverlet and a pile of cushions. These arrangements took up my morning. Noon came; a place was laid for me in my room. I was delighted. It charmed me to see three enchanting persons trying to please me and vying for a share of my goodwill. But there is a time for everything and I was glad to satisfy my appetite without distraction or disturbance.
So it was that I dined. Then I took my cloak and sword and went out for a walk in town. I had never felt so much pleasure. I was independent, my pockets were full of gold, I was in good health and full of energy and, thanks to the attentions of the three ladies, full also of a high opinion of myself. For it is normal for young men to rate themselves at the value the fair sex sets on them.
I went into a jeweller’s shop and bought several jewels. Then I went to the theatre and eventually back to my lodgings. I found the three ladies sitting by the door of their house. Zorrilla was singing and accompanying herself on the guitar. The two others were making redicilla, or lace.
‘Señor caballero,’ the mother said to me, ‘you have taken lodgings with us and have shown great confidence in us without knowing who we are. But it would be only fitting to tell you. You should know, Señor caballero, that I am called Inés Santarez, widow of Don Juan Santarez, the corregidor of Havana. He took me penniless and has left me penniless with two daughters, as you see. I was in great difficulty because of my poverty and widowhood when I unexpectedly received a letter from my father. You will permit me not to name him. Alas! He also had struggled against misfortune all his life, but at last, as his letter informed me, he had found a splendid post as army paymaster. His letter included a remittance of two thousand pistoles and a summons to come to Madrid. So here I came, only to discover that my father had been accused of misappropriation, even high treason, and was being held prisoner in the castle of Segovia. But in the meanwhile this house had been rented for our use. So here I live in strict seclusion, receiving nobody except a young man employed in the war office. He comes to tell me what he is able to find out about my father’s trial. Apart from him, no one knows we are related to the hapless prisoner.’
As she uttered these last words, Señora Santarez shed a few tears.
‘Don’t cry, Mama,’ said Celia, ‘there is an end to everything, and surely there must be an end to our suffering. Already here’s a young gentleman with very auspicious looks. Meeting him seems to me to be a f
avourable omen.’
‘In truth,’ said Zorrilla, ‘since he has been here our solitude seems no longer to be joyless.’
Señora Santarez gave me a look in which I detected sadness and affection. The girls looked at me too, lowered their eyes, blushed and became embarrassed and dreamy. So I was loved by three charming persons. This state of affairs seemed delightful to me.
As this was going on, a tall, well-built young man came up to us, took Señora Santarez by the hand, led her a few steps away from us and had a long conversation with her. She then brought him to me and said to me:
‘Señor caballero, this is Don Cristoforo Sparadoz, about whom I have spoken to you, and who is the only man we see in Madrid. I would like to procure for him the benefit of your acquaintance but although we live in the same house I don’t know to whom I have the honour of speaking.’
‘Señora,’ I said, ‘I am an Asturian of noble birth. My name is Leganez.’ I thought that I ought not to mention the name of Hervas, which might be known.
Young Sparadoz looked me up and down arrogantly, and seemed not even to want to acknowledge my presence. We entered the house and Señora Santarez had a collation of fruits and light pastries served. I was still the main centre of attention of the three ladies but I noted that much simpering and many glances were directed at the new arrival. I was hurt by this, and in an attempt to draw all the attention to myself, I was as charming and witty as I was able to be.
At the height of my triumph Don Cristoforo placed his right foot on his left knee and, looking at the sole of his boot, said, ‘In all truth, since the death of Marañon the cobbler, it isn’t possible to find a well-made boot in Madrid.’ He then looked at me with a sneering and disdainful expression.