The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  The Knight of Toledo had been living for some time on Malta, so I was forced to be an impotent spectator of the progress of this affair, and had sometimes to hasten its progress when Busqueros entrusted me with letters to his relatives, whom he never visited himself.

  Señora Cimiento neither made nor received visits. For his part, my father went out less frequently. He would not readily have changed the pattern of his days and given up attending the theatre, but the least cold gave him the excuse of staying at home. On those days he would rarely leave the side of his apartment looking out on to the narrow street and he would look at Señorita Cimiento lining up the bottles and even the sticks of sealing-wax. Her beautiful arms, which were continually on view, captivated his imagination. He could think of nothing else.

  A new object appeared to excite his curiosity. It was a jar quite like that in which he put his ink, but it was much smaller and was placed on an iron trivet. Lamps burning underneath kept it at a moderate heat. Soon two other similar jars were set up alongside the first. The next day, when my father appeared on the balcony and said ‘Agour’, he opened his mouth in order to ask what the jars were for. But as he was not in the habit of speaking he said nothing and went back inside.

  Tormented by curiosity, he decided to send Señorita Cimiento another bottle of ink. Three crystal bottles filled with red, green and blue ink were sent back to him.

  The next day my father went to Moreno’s the bookseller’s. A man appeared, a clerk in the ministry of finance, who carried under his arm a statement of balances in tabular form; some columns were in red ink, the headings were in blue ink and the lines in green ink. The clerk of finances said that he alone knew the composition of his inks and he challenged anyone to show him similar ones.

  Someone whom my father did not know turned to him and said, ‘Señor Avadoro, you who can make black ink so well, could you make inks of such colours?’

  My father did not like to be challenged and was easily embarrassed. He opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He preferred to go home to fetch the three bottles. Their contents were much admired and the clerk of finances asked permission to take samples of them. Overwhelmed with praises, my father privately accorded the glory to fair Señorita Cimiento, whose name he did not yet know. Once home, he fetched his recipe book and found three recipes for green ink, seven for red and two for blue. They all became confused in his head, but the beautiful arms of Señorita Cimiento were clearly etched in his imagination. His dormant senses were aroused and made him aware of their power.

  The next day, as he greeted the ladies, my father finally felt a resolute wish to know their names and he opened his mouth to ask them; however, he said nothing and went back inside. Then he went to the balcony overlooking the Calle de Toledo and saw quite a well-dressed man holding a black bottle in his hand. He realized that he had come to ask him for ink and stirred the contents of the jar well to give him some of good quality. The tap on the jar was a third of the way up so that there was no risk of drawing off the lees. The stranger entered and my father filled his bottle, but instead of going away the man put the bottle on a table, sat down and asked for permission to smoke a cigar. My father wanted to reply but said nothing. The stranger took a cigar from his box and lit it from a lamp which was on the table.

  The stranger was none other than the implacable Busqueros. ‘Señor Avadoro,’ he said to my father, ‘you make up a liquid here which has done much evil in the world. So many plots, so much treachery, so much trickery, so many wicked books – all have flowed from ink, not to speak of love-letters and all those little conspiracies against the happiness of husbands and against their honour. What do you say to that, Señor Avadoro? You say nothing, but it’s your habit to say nothing. Never mind, I’ll speak for both of us. That’s my habit more or less. Now, Señor Avadoro, sit down on that chair and let me explain my idea to you. I claim that from this bottle of ink there will come out…’

  As he said this, Busqueros pushed the bottle and ink spilled all over my father’s knees; he went off to dry himself and change his clothes. On returning, he found Busqueros waiting to say goodbye, hat in hand. My father, delighted to see him go, went to open the door for him, and indeed Busqueros went out, but immediately returned.

  ‘Well, Señor Avadoro,’ he said, ‘we are forgetting that my bottle is empty. But don’t put yourself out, I’ll fill it myself.’

  Busqueros took a funnel, put it in the neck of the bottle and opened the tap. When the bottle was full my father went again to open the door, and Busqueros was quick to leave, but suddenly my father noticed that the tap was open and that ink was running into the room. My father rushed to turn off the tap. Then Busqueros came back in and, apparently without noticing the mess he had caused, put the bottle of ink on the table, sat down on the chair where he had sat before, took a cigar from his box and lit it.

  ‘Now, Señor Avadoro,’ he said to my father, ‘I have heard it said that you had a son who drowned in this jar. Bless me, if he had known how to swim he would have survived. But where did you get this jar from? I think it’s from Toboso. There is excellent soil there which is used in the manufacture of saltpetre. It’s as hard as rock. Allow me to put it to the test with this pestle.’

  My father tried to prevent the test but Busqueros hit the jar, which broke. The ink flooded out and covered my father and everything else in the room, Busqueros not excepted, who was bespattered from head to foot.

  My father, who rarely made a sound, on this occasion made a very great sound indeed. His two lady neighbours appeared on their balcony.

  ‘Oh, ladies!’ cried Busqueros. ‘A terrible accident has occurred. The great jar has broken. The room is awash with ink and Señor Tintero is at his wits’ end. It will be an act of Christian charity if you would let us come over to your room.’

  The ladies seemed very willing to consent to this and, in spite of his distress, my father felt some pleasure when he realized that he was going to be united with the pretty lady who from afar seemed to hold her beautiful arms outstretched to him and smile at him so graciously.

  Busqueros threw a cloak over the shoulders of my father and led him across to the house of the Señoras Cimiento. He had hardly got there when he received a very unpleasant message. A cloth merchant whose shop was under his apartment came to tell him that the ink had gone through to his shop and that he had summoned a lawyer to certify the damage. The landlord had him informed at the same time that he would no longer put up with him in his house.

  Banished from his house and bathed in ink, my father looked as woebegone as it is possible to look.

  ‘Don’t be upset, Señor Avadoro,’ said Busqueros. ‘These ladies have a complete apartment facing the courtyard which they do not use. I’ll have your effects brought over. You will be very comfortable here and you’ll find red, green and blue inks which are equal to your black. But I advise you not to go out in the near future, for if you go to Moreno’s bookshop everyone will make you tell the story of the broken jar and you don’t care much for talking. And see there, all the idlers of the district are now in your apartment to see the flood of ink. Tomorrow nothing else will be talked about all over Madrid.’

  My father was dismayed but a gracious glance from Señorita Cimiento gave him new heart, and he went off to take possession of his apartment. He did not stay there long. Señora Cimiento went to see him and say that, having consulted with her niece, she would let him have the apartment that overlooked the street. My father, who took pleasure in counting the tiles on the roof of the palacio de Alba, was happy to agree to this change. He was asked whether he would allow the coloured inks to be left where they were. He expressed his consent by a nod. The jars were in the middle of the room. Señora Cimiento would come and go without making a sound, fetching the colours. The deepest silence would reign in the house. Never had my father been so happy.

  Eight days went by in this way. On the ninth Don Busqueros called on him and said, ‘Señor, I can tell you of
a piece of good fortune which you hoped for without daring to declare yourself. You have touched the heart of Señorita Cimiento. She agrees to give you her hand. I have brought you a document to sign if you want the banns to be published on Sunday.’

  Astonished, my father tried to reply but Busqueros did not leave him time.

  ‘Señor Avadoro,’ he said, ‘your coming marriage is no longer a secret. All Madrid is informed of it, so if you intend to put it off the relatives of Señorita Cimiento will assemble in my house and you will come there and divulge to them the reasons for the delay. That is a courtesy you cannot dispense with.’

  My father was thrown into consternation by the idea of addressing a whole family assembly. He was about to say something but Busqueros forestalled him.

  ‘I know what it is, and I can understand you. You want to learn of your happiness from the very lips of Señorita Cimiento. I can see her coming. I’ll leave you alone together.’

  Señorita Cimiento came in, looking somewhat bashful and not daring to raise her eyes to my father. She took some colours and mixed them in silence. Her timidity gave heart to my father. He stared at her and could not look away. He saw her with different eyes.

  Busqueros had left the document about the publication of banns on the table. Tremblingly, Señorita Cimiento went up to it, picked it up and read it, then she put her hand over her eyes and shed some tears. Since the death of my mother, my father had not wept and still less caused anyone else to weep. The tears which were addressed to him moved him all the more because he only dimly understood their cause.

  Was Señorita Cimiento crying about the document itself or the lack of signature on it? Did she, or did she not, want to marry him? Meanwhile she went on crying. Leaving her to cry was altogether too cruel. Asking her to say what she thought would lead to a conversation. My father picked up a pen and signed the paper. Señorita Cimiento kissed his hand, took the paper and went away.

  She came back to the drawing-room at the usual time, kissed my father’s hand in silence and began to make sealing-wax. My father smoked cigars and counted the tiles on the palacio de Alba. My great-uncle, Fray Gerónimo Sántez, arrived towards midday and brought a marriage contract in which my interests were not neglected. My father signed it, Señorita Cimiento signed it, kissed my father’s hand and went back again to making sealing-wax.

  Since the destruction of his great ink-bottle, my father had not dared to show himself at the theatre, still less to appear at Moreno’s bookshop. This reclusion wearied him. Three days had passed since the signature of the contract. Don Busqueros came to propose to my father a ride in a calèche. My father accepted. They went beyond the Manzanares and when they reached the little church of the Franciscans, Busqueros had my father step down. They went into the church and found Señorita Cimiento there, waiting for them in the porch. My father opened his mouth to say that he thought he was just going for a ride but he said nothing, took Señorita Cimiento’s hand and led her to the altar.

  Having left the church, the newly-married couple stepped into a fine carriage, returned to Madrid and went into a pretty house where a ball was being held. Señora Avadoro opened the ball, partnered by a very handsome young man. They danced a fandango and were much applauded. In vain my father searched in his wife for the sweet and calm person who kissed his hand with such a submissive air. What he saw on the contrary was a lively, noisy, flibbertigibbet. Otherwise he said nothing to anybody and nobody spoke to him. This way of things did not displease him too much.

  Cold meats and refreshments were served: then my father, who was exhausted, asked if it wasn’t time to go home. He was told that he was there already, and that the house he was in belonged to him. My father supposed that the house was part of his wife’s dowry; so he had himself shown to his bedroom and went to bed.

  The next morning Señor and Señora Avadoro were woken by Busqueros.

  ‘Señor, dear cousin,’ he said to my father, ‘I call you this because your good wife is the closest relative I have in the world, her mother being a Busqueros from the León branch of my family. Up to now I have not wanted to talk to you about your affairs but I expect from now on to attend to them more than I attend to my own, which will be all the easier for me since I haven’t actually any particular business of my own. As far as you are concerned, Señor Avadoro, I have taken the trouble of informing myself in detail of your revenues and the use you have made of them over the last sixteen years. Here are all the relevant papers. At the time of your first marriage you had an income of four thousand pistoles and, by the way, you didn’t manage to spend it all. You only kept for yourself six hundred pistoles and two hundred for the education of your son. So you had three thousand, two hundred pistoles over, which you placed in the Gremios bank. You gave the interest to Gerónimo the Theatine to be used for charitable purposes. I don’t blame you on this account, but, bless me! (and I feel for the poor over this), they cannot count on this revenue any longer. First, we will manage to spend your annual income of four thousand pistoles and, as for the fifty-one thousand, two hundred deposited with the Gremios bank, this is how we will dispose of them. Eighteen thousand for this house. It’s a lot, I admit, but the seller is one of my relatives and my relatives are yours, Señor Avadoro. The necklace and the earrings that you see on Señora Avadoro are worth eight thousand pistoles. As we are brothers we will put down ten thousand. I’ll tell you why some day. That leaves us twenty-three thousand, two hundred pistoles. Your devil of a Theatine has reserved fifteen thousand for your urchin of a son, if he’s ever found again. Five thousand to set up your house, for between ourselves your wife’s trousseau consists of six shifts and as many stockings. You’ll tell me you still have five thousand pistoles left, which you don’t know what to do with. Well now, to get you out of your difficulty I’ll agree to borrow them from you at a rate of interest to be agreed between us. And here’s a power of attorney, which you will be so kind as to sign, Señor Avadoro.’

  My father could not get over the surprise that Busqueros’s words caused him. He opened his mouth to reply but, not knowing where to begin, he turned over in bed and pulled his nightcap over his eyes.

  ‘Splendid!’ said Busqueros. ‘You’re not the first person who thought that he could get rid of me by putting on his nightcap and pretending to want to sleep. I’m used to these ways and always keep a nightcap in my pocket. I shall just settle down on that sofa and when we’ve all had a little nap we’ll come back to the power of attorney. Or, if you prefer, we’ll bring together your relatives and mine and we’ll see what there is to be done.’

  With his head buried in his pillow, my father thought seriously about the situation and the policy he should adopt to ensure his tranquillity. He saw that if he left his wife completely free, he might be allowed to live after his own manner: to go to the theatre, then to Moreno’s bookshop and he might even make some ink. Somewhat consoled, he opened his eyes and indicated that he would sign the power of attorney.

  So he actually signed it and made as if to get up.

  ‘Wait a moment, Señor Avadoro,’ said Busqueros. ‘Before you get up, it will be appropriate for me to inform you of the programme of your day. I believe that it won’t displease you, as today, like those which will follow, will be nothing but a series of lively and varied pleasures. First, I have brought you a fine pair of embroidered gaiters and a complete riding outfit. A decent palfrey awaits you at your door. We will go together and parade a bit around the Prado. Señora Avadoro will come in a chaise roulante. You will discover that she has illustrious friends in society who will be yours too, Señor Avadoro. To tell you the truth, they had grown rather cool towards her but seeing her married to a man of your quality they’ll change their mind about their attitude. I’m telling you the highest gentlemen of the court will seek you out, will wait on you and will embrace you. More than that, they’ll throttle you with embraces.’

  At this my father fainted, or at least fell into a state of stupor very similar to a
faint.

  Busqueros did not notice but continued to speak. ‘Some of these gentlemen will do you the honour of inviting themselves to your table to eat your soup. Yes, Señor Avadoro, they will do you this honour and that’s where I’ll expect you to be. You’ll see how well your wife will do the honours of the house. Ah, bless me! You won’t recognize the person who made sealing-wax. You’re not saying a word, Señor Avadoro! You’re right to leave me to speak. Now, for example, you like the Spanish theatre but you’ve never been to the Italian opera, which is all the rage at court. Well, you’ll go this evening and guess in whose box you’ll be? In that of the Duke of Ihar, Master of the Horse, no less. From there we’ll go on to the tertulia1 of His Highness, where you’ll see all the court. Everyone will speak to you. Make sure that you have an answer ready!’

  My father had recovered the use of his senses, but a cold sweat emanated from all his pores. His arms stiffened, the back of his neck grew tense, his head fell back, his eyelids opened abnormally wide, his constricted chest gave out stifled groans and he began to have convulsions. Eventually Busqueros noticed the state he was in and called for help, then rushed off to the Prado, where he was joined by my stepmother.

  My father had fallen into a state of lethargy. When he emerged from it, he recognized no one except for his wife and Busqueros. When he saw them, fury was written all over his features. Otherwise, he was calm, remained silent and refused to leave his bed. When he was absolutely obliged to do so, he seemed pierced through with cold and shivered for half an hour. Soon the symptoms grew more troublesome. The patient could only take food in very small quantities. A convulsive spasm constricted his throat, his tongue was stiff and swollen, his eyes were dull and haggard, his skin was dark yellow, covered with white tubercles.

  I had slipped into the house in the guise of a servant and I sadly charted the course of his illness. My Aunt Dalanosa was in my confidence and spent many nights by his bedside. The patient did not seem to recognize her. As for my stepmother, it was clear that her presence was very bad for the patient. Father Gerónimo encouraged her to leave for the provinces and Busqueros followed her there.