The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

by Jan Potocki

  The comrades of the captain tried again to convince him that he had no reason to fight either them or me. But knowing with whom they were dealing, they abandoned their efforts and one of them offered to be my second.

  We went to the place of the duel. I inflicted a light wound on the captain but received simultaneously a blow to my right lung which felt like a pinprick. A moment later I was convulsed by a mortal shudder and fell to the ground unconscious.

  When the gypsy reached this point in his story, he was interrupted and had to leave to see to the affairs of his band.

  The cabbalist turned to me and said, ‘If I am not mistaken, the officer who wounded Avadoro was your father.’

  ‘You are not mistaken,’ I replied. ‘The chronicle of my father’s duels mentions it, and my father notes that, fearing a futile quarrel with the officers who did not share his point of view, he fought three of them that very evening and wounded them.’

  ‘Señor capitano,’ said Rebecca, ‘your father thereby proves his remarkable foresight. The fear of a pointless quarrel incited him to fight four duels in one day!’

  Rebecca’s jest at the expense of my father displeased me greatly, and I was preparing to reply to her when at that very moment the company dispersed and did not reassemble until the next day.

  The Fifty-eighth Day

  That evening the gypsy took up the thread of his story as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  When I recovered consciousness I noticed that I was being bled in both arms. As if through a mist I could see the Duchess of Avila, the Duchess of Sidonia and Toledo. All three were in tears. I fainted again. For six weeks I remained in a state similar to an uninterrupted sleep or even death. As my sight was feared for, the shutters were kept closed the whole time, and when my wound was treated a blindfold was placed over my eyes. Eventually I was able to see and speak. My doctor brought me two letters: one from Toledo, who told me that he had just gone to Vienna, on what mission I could not guess; the other was from the Duchess of Avila, but not in her handwriting. She informed me that I was being spied on in the Calle Retrada and people had even started searching my house. She had lost patience and withdrawn to her estates, or as they say in Spain, a sus tierras.

  After I had read the two letters the doctor ordered me to close the shutters again and left me to my thoughts. This time I really started to think seriously. Till then life had seemed to me like a path strewn with roses. Only then did I begin to know its thorns.

  After two more weeks I was allowed to go to the Prado in a carriage. I decided to get down and walk, but weakness overcame me and I had to sit down on a seat.

  A little later, the Walloon officer who had been my second came up to me. He told me that during the whole time I had been in danger, my adversary had been terribly upset, and that he begged permission to embrace me. I granted it. He threw himself at my feet, then hugged me and said in a voice choked with tears, ‘Señor Avadoro, give me the opportunity, to fight a duel for you. It will be the happiest day of my life.’

  Shortly afterwards I saw Busqueros, who came up to me with his usual insolence.

  ‘My dear stepson,’ he said, ‘the lesson you received has been a little too severe. Doubtless I ought to have administered it myself to you but I wouldn’t have succeeded so well.’

  ‘Dear stepfather,’ I replied, ‘I have no complaints about the wound that the brave officer gave me. I carry a sword for I know such an adventure may befall me. But as for the role you played in this affair, it is my opinion that it merits a good beating.’

  ‘That’s enough, dear stepson,’ said Busqueros. ‘Don’t speak of beatings. In the present circumstances they will be altogether out of place. Since I last left your company I have become an influential person: a sort of deputy minister of the second rank, and I must tell you in some detail how this came about.

  ‘His Eminence the Cardinal Portocarrero noticed me on a few occasions in the suite of the Duke of Arcos and deigned to address me a particularly benevolent smile. Seeing myself encouraged, I paid court to him on his days of giving audience.

  ‘One day His Eminence came up to me and said in a low voice, “I know, dear Busqueros, that no one is better informed than you about what goes on in this town.”

  ‘I replied, with a surprising presence of mind, “Your Eminence, the Venetians, who are said to be masters in state administration, number this art among the indispensable qualities of any man who wishes to engage in affairs of state.”

  ‘“And they are right!” added the cardinal, upon which he spoke to some other persons and then left. A quarter of an hour later the palace marshal came up to me and said:

  ‘“Señor Busqueros, His Eminence has instructed me to invite you to dinner and it seems that he even intends to speak to you after the meal. As you will know, you should not prolong this conversation too much, as His Eminence eats a great deal and cannot stop himself from drowsing afterwards.”

  ‘I thanked the palace marshal for his friendly advice and remained behind to dine with more than ten other people. The cardinal ate nearly a whole pike.

  ‘After dinner he invited me into his study. “Well, Señor Busqueros! Haven’t you done something interesting these last few days?”

  ‘The cardinal’s question threw me into the deepest embarrassment, for in fact I hadn’t learnt anything interesting either that day or the preceding ones. I thought for a moment and then replied, “Your Eminence, these last few days I learnt of the existence of a child of Austrian blood.”

  ‘The cardinal was extremely surprised.

  ‘“Yes,” I added. “Your Eminence will no doubt remember that the Duke of Avila was secretly united in marriage with the Infanta Beatriz. After his death a daughter called Leonor was born of this union. She married later and had a child. Leonor died and was buried in the Carmelite convent. I saw her tomb, which has since, however, disappeared without trace.”

  ‘“This could do the Avilas and the Sorrientes a great deal of harm,” the cardinal said.

  ‘His Eminence would perhaps have said more if the pike had not brought on his slumbers. I decided that it would be best to withdraw. All this happened three weeks ago and indeed, dear stepson, the tomb had disappeared from where I had seen it, and yet I perfectly recall the inscription “Leonor Avadoro”. I abstained from uttering your name before His Eminence, not to protect your secret but to save up this news for later.’

  The doctor, who was accompanying me on my outing, had withdrawn a few paces. He saw me suddenly blench and nearly faint. He told Busqueros that it was his duty to interrupt the conversation and take me home again. So I went home. The doctor gave me cool drinks and closed the shutters. Then I succumbed to my thoughts. certain of Busqueros’s remarks had humiliated me to the utmost.

  ‘That’s what it is really like,’ I said to myself, ‘when you spend time with those set above you. The duchess has entered into a marriage with me that isn’t really one. Because of an imaginary Leonor I have aroused the suspicions of the authorities and on top of that have to listen to the gossip of a man I despise. But I cannot justify myself without betraying the duchess and she is far too proud even to admit to her liaison with me.’

  Then I thought of little Manolita, then two years old, whom I had pressed to my heart at Sorriente but dared not call my daughter. ‘My dear child!’ I exclaimed. ‘What does the future hold in store for you? The convent, perhaps? But no, I’m your father and if it’s a matter of your future I am prepared to fly in the face of prudence. I shall be your protector even at the expense of my life.’

  Thinking about my child had upset me. I was bathed in my tears and soon also in my blood, for my wounds had opened up again. I called for the surgeon and he dressed me again. Then I wrote to the duchess and had the letter taken to her by one of the servants she had left behind with me.

  Two days later I went back to the Prado and noticed everywhere great excitement. I was told that the king was dying. I concluded
that my affair would be forgotten, in which I was not mistaken. The king died the following morning. I immediately sent a second letter to inform the duchess of this.

  The king’s will was read two days later, and it was learnt that Philippe d’Anjou had been called to the throne. The secret of this had been closely guarded, and when the news spread it gave rise to great astonishment. I sent a third message to the duchess. She replied to my three letters, and asked me to join her at Sorriente. As soon as I was strong enough I hurried there. The duchess arrived two days later.

  ‘I was lucky to get away,’ she said. ‘That worm Busqueros was already on the right path and would certainly have ended up finding out about our marriage. I would have died of chagrin. I truly feel that this is not fair, and I know that in scorning marriage I am placing myself above my sex and even yours. A disastrous pride has taken hold of my soul. But even if I were to employ all my strength to overcome it, I swear to you that it would not be possible.’

  ‘But what about our daughter?’ I asked. ‘What will be her fate? Must I never see her again?’

  ‘You will see her,’ said the duchess. ‘But don’t speak about it now. Believe me, it hurts me more than you can imagine to have to hide her from the eyes of the world.’

  The duchess was indeed suffering, but to my sufferings she had added humiliation. My love for the duchess was also bound up with my pride. I then received due punishment for this.

  The Austrian party had designated Sorriente as the place for a general assembly. I saw a procession of famous names: Count Oropesa, Prince Infantado, Count Melzar and many others, not to speak of less noble figures, some of whom looked suspicious to me. Among these I noticed a certain Uzeda, who passed himself off as an astrologer and who assiduously sought my friendship.

  Eventually an Austrian called Berlepsch arrived. He was the widowed queen’s1 favourite and the representative at the embassy since Graf Harrach’s departure.

  Several days were spent in discussions, which culminated in a solemn session around a great table draped in green cloth. The duchess had access to the deliberations, and I became convinced that pride, or rather a desire to involve herself in the affairs of state, had taken complete control of her mind.

  Count Oropesa addressed Berlepsch and said, ‘Señor, you see assembled here all the people with whom the last Austrian ambassador discussed Spanish affairs. We are neither French nor Austrians, but Spaniards. If the King of France recognizes the will, his grandson will no doubt become our king. It is true that we cannot always foresee future events but I can assure you that none of us here will begin a civil war.’

  Berlepsch declared that the whole of Europe would take up arms and would not allow the Bourbons to take control of such vast territories. He then asked that the nobles who formed the Austrian party should send their representative to Vienna.

  Count Oropesa’s eyes rested on me and I thought he was going to propose me, but he became thoughtful and said that the moment for so decisive a step had not yet come.

  Berlepsch declared that he would leave a confidential agent in the country. In any case he could easily see that the nobles taking part in that session were only waiting for the favourable moment to protest in public.

  After the session I went into the garden to join the duchess and tell her that Count Oropesa had looked in my direction when the question of sending a representative to Austria had arisen.

  ‘Don Juan,’ she said, ‘I must admit that we have already spoken of you in this respect and it was I who proposed you. You seem disposed to upbraid me for what I have done. I am doubtless guilty but at least I want to explain my situation to you before you pass judgement on me. I was not meant for love, but yours succeeded in moving my heart. I wanted to know the joys of love before renouncing them for ever. What do you imagine? I learnt to know you and you haven’t changed my opinion. However, the rights I have accorded you to my heart and my person, however slight they may be, can no longer continue. I have wiped out every trace of them. It is my intention to spend some years in the great world and if possible to influence Spain’s destiny. Then I will found an order for noble ladies whose first mother superior I shall become.

  ‘As for you, Don Juan, you ought to rejoin Prior Toledo, who has left Vienna and gone to Malta. But as the party to which you belong at present may expose you to danger, I shall purchase all that you own and will transfer its value to my Portuguese possessions in the Kingdom of the Algarve. That isn’t the only precaution you should take, Don Juan. There are unknown places in Spain where one can spend one’s whole life in safety. I shall recommend you to someone who will show you them. What I am saying seems to surprise you, Don Juan. I once showed you more affection. But Busqueros’s spying has alarmed me and my decision is irrevocable.’

  With these words the duchess left me to my own thoughts, which were not very charitable towards the high-born of this world.

  ‘Let them be swallowed up in hell!’ I exclaimed. ‘These demi-gods for whom other mortals do not count! I’ve been the plaything of a woman who wanted to use me as an experiment to see whether her heart was meant for love, who now is sending me to exile, and who furthermore thinks that I shall be overjoyed at this opportunity of sacrificing myself for her cause and that of her friends. But that won’t happen. Thanks to my little importance I shall no doubt be able to live in peace.’

  I had said all this out loud and suddenly a voice replied: ‘No, Señor Avadoro, you will not be able to live in peace!’

  I turned round and saw under the trees Uzeda, the same astrologer of whom I have already spoken.

  ‘Don Juan,’ he said, ‘I have heard part of your monologue and I can assure you that no one in these troubled times can find peace. You find yourself under powerful protection and you should not reject it. Go to Madrid. Arrange the sale which the duchess has suggested to you and then come to my castle.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me about the duchess,’ I cried indignantly.

  ‘Well then,’ said the astrologer, ‘let’s speak about your daughter, who is at present in my castle.’

  The desire to hold my child in my arms dispelled my anger. Besides, it wasn’t proper to break with my protector. I went to Madrid and pretended that I was leaving for America. I put my house and all my possessions into the hands of the duchess’s lawyer, and set out with a servant whom Uzeda had found for me. By a very circuitous route we reached Uzeda’s castle, which you have seen, where he still lives with his son, the honourable cabbalist who is one of our present company.

  The astrologer greeted me at his gate and said, ‘Señor Don Juan, in this place I am not Uzeda, but Mamoun ben Gerson, a Jew by religion and race.’

  Then he took me to see his observatory, his workshop and all the hidden quarters of his mysterious residence.

  ‘Please tell me,’ I asked him, ‘whether your art has a basis in reality, for you have been said to be an astrologer and even a magician.’

  ‘Would you like to put it to the test?’ said Mamoun. ‘Look in this Venetian mirror. Meanwhile I shall close the shutters.’

  At first I saw nothing, but after a moment the surface of the mirror slowly cleared and I saw the Duchess Manuela with our child in her arms.

  After the gypsy had said these words and we were all listening intently, curious to know what was going to happen, a man from his band came to discuss the day’s business with him. The gypsy chief left us and we didn’t see him again that evening.

  The Fifty-ninth Day

  We impatiently awaited the evening. When the gypsy appeared, we had long been assembled. Pleased with the interest we were showing in him, he needed little persuasion to continue his story as follows:

  THE GYPSY CHIEF’S STORY CONTINUED

  I was telling you that I was staring into the Venetian mirror in which I could see the duchess with the child in her arms. An instant later the vision disappeared. Mamoun opened the shutters and I said to him, ‘Señor magician, I don’t think that you have any need of d
emons to deceive my eyes with spells. I know the duchess. She has already played one trick on me of an even more surprising kind. In a word, having seen her image in the mirror I don’t doubt that she is herself present in the castle.’

  ‘You are not mistaken,’ said Mamoun. ‘We’ll go directly to dine with her.’

  He opened a little secret door and I fell at the feet of my wife, who could not hide her own feelings.

  She regained control of herself and said, ‘Don Juan, what I said to you at Sorriente had to be said once and for all because it is the truth, and my plans are irrevocable. But after you went away I reproached myself for my lack of tenderness. The inner instinct of my sex is repelled by behaviour which arises from heartlessness. Guided by this instinct, I decided to await you here and say goodbye to you one last time.’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied to the duchess, ‘you have been, and still are, the only dream of my life and you will always take precedence over reality for me. Pursue your destiny by all means, and forget Don Juan for ever. But remember that I leave a child with you.’

  ‘You will soon see her,’ said the duchess, ‘and together we will entrust her to those who will attend to her education.’

  What more can I tell you? It then seemed to me and even now still seems to me that the duchess was right. Would I have been able to live with her, I who was her husband yet without being so? Even if our liaison had escaped the prying eyes of the public, it could not have remained hidden from the eyes of our household, and the secret could not have been kept for long. Perhaps the duchess’s fate would have been entirely different. That is why it seemed to me that she was acting within her rights and so I gave in. I was to see my little Ondina,1 who was so called because she had only been baptized in a water and not anointed.