Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript

by Jan Potocki

  One particular Sunday, as vespers were about to begin, I returned to the church portal, carrying chestnuts that I had bought for my brothers and myself, and I was sharing them out when I saw a splendid carriage arrive, harnessed with six white horses and preceded by two horses of the same colour that ran free – a form of ostentation I have seen only in Sicily. The carriage opened and I saw emerge, first, a gentleman bracciere who gave his arm to a beautiful lady, then a priest, and finally a little boy of my own age, with a lovely face and magnficently dressed in the Hungarian style, as children were then quite commonly dressed. His little fur-lined winter coat was of blue velvet, embroidered in gold and trimmed with sable; it came half-way down his legs and even covered the top of his boots, which were of yellow morocco-leather. Also sable-trimmed, his bonnet too was of blue velvet and topped with a tassel of pearls that fell down on one shoulder. His belt was made of gold tassels and sashes, and his little sabre was set with precious stones. Finally, he held in his hand a prayerbook bound in gold.

  I was so filled with wonder to see such fine clothes on a boy of my age that, without really knowing what I was doing, I went up to him and offered him two chestnuts that I was holding in my hand; but instead of responding to the small gesture of friendship I was making, the unworthy little wretch bashed me on the nose with his prayerbook, and did so with all the strength he could muster. I was nearly blinded in my left eye, and a lock on the book caught on one my nostrils and tore it, so that I was instantly covered in blood. Then, I think, I also heard the little lordling scream dreadfully, but I had virtually lost consciousness. When I regained it, I found myself by the garden fountain, surrounded by my father and brothers, who were washing my face and trying to stop the bleeding.

  However, I was still covered with blood when we saw the little lordling return, followed by his priest, the gentleman bracciere and two footmen, one of whom was carrying a bundle of birch rods. The gentleman explained briefly that the Princess de Rocca Fiorita insisted I should be thrashed till I bled, as punishment for the fright I had given her Principino, and the footmen at once started to carry out the sentence.

  My father, who was afraid of losing his asylum, at first dared not say anything, but seeing me mercilessly torn to pieces, he could not contain himself, and addressing the gentleman with all the accents of suppressed rage, he said to him: “Put a stop to this, or remember, I have killed men worth ten such as you.”

  Deciding that these words contained a great deal of sense, the gentleman gave the order that my torture should cease. But while I still lay on my stomach, the Principino came up to me and kicked me in the face, saying: “Managia la tua facia de banditu.”

  This final insult made me angrier than ever. I can say that from that moment I ceased to be a child, or at least I never again savoured the sweet joys of childhood. And for a long time afterwards I could not look with composure upon a richly dressed man.

  Vengeance must be our country’s original sin, for although I was only eight years old, my only thought, night and day, was of punishing the Principino. I would start awake, dreaming that I held him by the hair and was thrashing him soundly. And by day, I would think of how to hurt him from a distance, for I was sure I would not be allowed near him. Besides, I wanted to run away once I had achieved my end. Finally I decided to throw a stone in his face, a form of activity at which I was already quite skilled. However, to improve my performance, I chose a target against which I spent nearly all day practising.

  On one occasion my father asked me what I was doing. I told him it was my intention to smash the Principino’s face, and then to run away and become a bandit. My father appeared not to believe what I was saying, but he smiled at me in a way that hardened my resolve to carry out my plan.

  At last came the Sunday that was to be my day of vengeance. The carriage appeared, the passengers climbed out. I was very agitated, but I pulled myself together. My young enemy identified me in the crowd and stuck out his tongue at me. I was holding my stone. I threw it and he fell back. I immediately began to run and did not stop until I reached the other end of town. There I encountered a chimney-boy of my acquaintance, who asked me where I was going. I told him my story and he at once led me to his master. Being short of boys and not knowing where to find any for such arduous work, the man greeted me with pleasure. He told me that no one would recognize me once my face was stained with soot, and that climbing chimneys was a skill that very often proved useful. In this he did not deceive me. I have often owed my life to the skill I acquired then.

  I found the dust from the chimneys and the smell of the soot very unpleasant at first, but I got used to them, for I was of an age when one adapts to everything. I had been practising my trade for about six months when the adventure I am about to relate befell me.

  I was on a roof, listening attentively to hear which flue my master’s voice would emerge from. I thought I could hear him shouting up the chimney nearest to me. Down I went, but I found that under the roof the flue divided in two. At that point I should have called out, but I did not, and I foolishly opted for one of the openings. I slid down and found myself in a handsome drawing room, but the first thing I noticed in it was my Principino, wearing nothing but his shirt, playing with a shuttlecock.

  Although the little fool had doubtless seen other chimney-boys, he took it into his head to mistake me for the devil. He fell to his knees and begged me not to carry him off, promising to be good. His pleas might well have moved me, but I was holding in my hand my little chimney-sweep’s broom, and the temptation to make use of it had grown too strong. Besides, I had certainly been avenged for the blow the Principino had given me with his prayerbook, and in part for the beating with birch rods, but the kick in the face he had given me, with the words “Managia la tua facia de banditu”, still rankled. And after all, a Neapolitan likes to take a little more vengeance rather than a little less.

  So I removed a fistful of switches from my broom. Then I tore open the Principino’s shirt and when his back was bared I tore that too, or at least I gave it some rather harsh treatment, but what was most odd was that fear prevented him from crying out.

  When I thought I had done enough, I wiped my face and said to him: “Ciucio maledetto, io no zuno lu diavolu, io zuno lu piciolu banditu delli Augustini.”

  Then the Principino recovered the use of his voice and began to cry for help, but I did not wait until someone came; I climbed back up the way I had come.

  When I was on the roof, I heard my master’s voice again, calling for me, but I did not think it wise to reply. I began to run from roof to roof, until I came to the roof of a stable before which stood a haycart. I threw myself from the roof down on to the haycart, and from the haycart to the ground. Then I raced to the Augustinians’ portal, where I told my father everything that had just happened to me.

  My father listened with great interest, then said to me: “Zoto, Zoto! Già vegio che tu sarai banditu.”

  Then turning to a man beside him, he said: “Padron Lettereo, prendete lo chiutosto vui.”

  Now then, Padron Lettereo was the captain of a vessel equipped supposedly for coral-fishing, but actually used for smuggling and even piracy, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Which did not happen very often, because it carried no cannon and had to take ships by surprise in deserted coves.

  All this was known in Messina, but Lettereo smuggled for the town’s principal merchants. The customs clerks got their share, and besides, the captain was thought to be very free with his knife, which carried some weight with those who might have wished to cause him trouble. Finally, he cut a truly imposing figure. His size and build alone would have sufficed to draw attention, but all the rest of his outward appearance was so much in keeping that people of a fearful disposition did not lay eyes on him without a rush of fear. His face, already a very dark brown, had been made even darker by a blast of gunpowder, which had left a lot of marks on it, and his brownish-grey skin was heavily wrought with various very unusua
l designs. It is the practice amongst almost all sailors in the Mediterranean to get themselves tattooed on the arms and on the chest with monograms, outlines of galleys, crosses and other similar devices. But Lettereo had taken this practice further. He had a crucifix etched on one of his cheeks, and a madonna on the other, although only the top of these images was visible, since the bottom half was concealed in a thick beard, which never came into contact with a razor and which scissors alone kept within certain bounds. Add to this, gold rings in his ears, a red bonnet, a belt of the same colour, a sleeveless jerkin, sailor’s trousers, bare arms and feet, and pockets full of gold: such was the captain.

  It is said that in his youth he had enjoyed amorous adventures with some very high-ranking ladies. Even at that time, he was a favourite with the ladies of his own social status and the terror of their husbands.

  Finally, to complete your introduction to Lettereo, I will tell you that he had been the close friend of a man of real merit, who has since earned himself a reputation under the name of Captain Pepo. They had served together with the Maltese corsairs. Then Pepo had entered the service of his king, while Lettereo, who held honour less dear than money, had decided to enrich himself by all manner of means and at the same time had become the irreconcilable enemy of his former comrade.

  My father, who had nothing to do in his asylum but dress his wound, having given up hope of its ever completely healing, would readily enter into conversation with heroes of his own stamp. This was the foundation of his friendship with Lettereo, and in commending me to the smuggler, he had grounds for hoping I would not be refused. He was not mistaken. Lettereo was even appreciative of this mark of trust. He promised my father that my apprenticeship would be less tough than the cabin-boy’s usual experience and he assured him that, since I had been a chimney-sweep, it would not take me two days to learn to climb the rigging.

  As for me, I was delighted, for my new job seemed to me a nobler one than cleaning chimneys. I embraced my father and my brothers, and cheerily set off with Lettereo to join his ship. When we were aboard, the captain called together his crew, consisting of twenty men, whose faces were pretty much a match for his own.

  He introduced me to these gentlemen and addressed them in these words: “Anime managie, quista criadura e lu filiu de Zotu, se uno de vui a outri li mette la mano sopra io li mangio l’anima.”

  This recommendation had exactly the effect it was supposed to. They even wanted me to eat in the mess, but I saw two cabin-boys of my own age serving the sailors and eating their leftovers, so I did likewise. I was left to it, and even liked for it. But afterwards, when they saw how I climbed the lateen yard, everyone was quick to congratulate me (it being much less dangerous to stand on the yard of sails other than the lateen sail, for they are always in a horizontal position).

  We set sail and on the third day reached the Strait of St Bonifacio, which separates Sardinia from Corsica. We found more than sixty boats there, engaged in coral-fishing. We too started to fish, or rather pretended to. But I personally learned a great deal from it, for within four days I was swimming and diving with the most fearless of my companions.

  After a week our little flotilla was dispersed by a gregale; this is the name given in the Mediterranean to a north-easterly wind. Every vessel made for safety as best it could. As for us, we came to an anchorage known by the name of St Peter’s harbour. This is a deserted beach on the coast of Sardinia. We found there a Venetian polacca, which seemed to have suffered considerable damage from the storm. Our captain immediately formed designs on this vessel, and dropped anchor very close to it. Then he sent some of his crew down into the hold, so as to appear less heavily manned, which was almost an unnecessary precaution since lateen-rigged vessels are always more heavily manned than others.

  Lettero, who kept the Venetian crew under constant observation, saw that it consisted only of the captain, the bosun’s mate, six seamen and a cabin-boy. He observed, moreover, that the topsail was torn and saw it taken down for mending, for merchant vessels do not have a change of sails. On the strength of these observations, he placed eight shotguns and as many sabres in the longboat, covered the lot with a tarpaulin, and resolved to wait for the right moment.

  When the weather turned fine again, sure enough, the sailors climbed the topmast to unfurl the sail, but since they were not doing it right, the bosun’s mate went up too, and was followed by the captain. Then Lettereo had the longboat launched, slipped into it with seven crewmen, and boarded the polacca from the rear. The captain, who was on the yard, shouted down to them: “A larga ladron, a larga.”

  But Lettereo aimed his gun at him and threatened to kill the first person who tried to come down. The captain, who seemed a determined man, threw himself at the stay-ropes of the mainmast in an attempt to come down. Lettereo shot him in midair. He fell into the sea and was not seen again.

  The sailors begged for mercy. Lettereo left four men to keep them at bay, and with the other three he began to search below deck. In the captain’s cabin he found a barrel of the kind used to contain olives, but since it was rather heavy and carefully hooped, he decided there was probably something else inside it. He opened it and was pleasantly surprised to find several bags of gold. This was all he wanted, and he sounded the retreat. The raiding party came back aboard, and we set sail. As we rounded the rear of the Venetian vessel, we again shouted in jest: “Viva San Marco!”

  Five days later we reached Leghorn. The captain straightaway called on the Consul of Naples with two of his men, and there made his declaration, “according to which his crew had fallen into quarrel with that of a Venetian polacca, and the Venetian captain had unfortunately been pushed by a sailor and had fallen into the sea.” Some of the contents of the olive barrel was used to give this story a greater semblance of truth.

  Lettereo, who had a marked taste for piracy, would doubtless have attempted other ventures of this kind; but at Leghorn a new commerce was suggested to him, to which he gave his preference. Having observed that the Pope and the King of Naples made large profits from their copper coinage, a Jew named Nathan Levi also wanted to share in this gain. This is why he had similar coins made, in a town in England called Birmingham. When he had a certain quantity, he placed one of his agents in La Flariola, a fishing village situated on the border between the two states, and Lettereo undertook to transport and unload the merchandise there.

  The profits were considerable, and for more than a year we did nothing but come and go, always laden with our Roman and Neapolitan coins. We might even have been able to continue our voyages for a long time, but Lettereo, who had a genius for speculation, also suggested to the Jew making coins in gold and silver. The Jew followed his advice and set up in Leghorn itself a small factory of sequins and scudi. Our profits excited the jealousy of the authorities. One day when Lettereo was in Leghorn and about to set sail, someone came to tell him that Captain Pepo had orders from the King of Naples to take his ship, but could not put to sea before the end of the month. This false warning was simply a ruse on the part of Pepo, who had already been at sea for four days. Lettero was taken in by it. The wind was favourable, he thought he could make another voyage, and set sail.

  The next day, at dawn, we found ourselves in the midst of Pepo’s flotilla, composed of two galiots and two scampavies. We were surrounded, there was no way of escape. Lettereo was staring death in the face. He spread every sail and set his course on the captain’s vessel. Pepo was on the bridge, issuing orders for boarding.

  Lettero picked up a shotgun, took aim, and hit him in the arm. All this happened in a matter of a few seconds.

  Soon after, the four vessels began to converge upon us, and we heard on all sides: “Mayna ladro, mayna can senza fede.”

  Lettereo close-hauled, so that our side of the ship was skimming the surface of the water. Then addressing the crew, he said to us: “Anime managie, io in galera non ci vado. Pregate per me la santissima Madonna della Lettera.”

  We all went d
own on our knees. Lettereo put some cannonballs in his pocket. We thought that he meant to throw himself into the sea. But the cunning pirate did not go about it in that way. There was a big barrel, full of copper, secured on the windward side. Lettereo armed himself with a hatchet and cut the ropes. The barrel immediately rolled to the opposite side, and as we were already heeling hard over, it made us completely capsize. First, the rest of us who were on our knees all fell on to the sails, and when the ship sank, these, because of their elasticity, fortunately threw us some distance the other way.

  Pepo fished us all out, with the exception of the captain, one sailor and one cabin-boy. As we were pulled out of the water, we were tied up and thrown into the hold. Four days later we put in to Messina. Pepo informed the authorities that he had some fellows deserving of their attention to hand over. Our disembarcation was not lacking in a certain pomp. It was exactly the time of the Corso, when all the nobility stroll along what is called La Marina, or the sea front. We walked along solemnly, with policemen before and behind.

  The Principino was among the spectators. He recognized me as soon as he laid eyes on me, and cried out: “Ecco lu piciolu banditu delli Augustini.”

  At the same time he flew at me, grabbed me by the hair, and scratched my face. Since I had my hands tied behind my back, I had difficulty in defending myself.

  However, recalling something I had seen done to some English sailors in Leghorn, I freed my head and rammed it into the Principino’s stomach. He fell backwards. Then getting to his feet in a fury, he drew a small knife from his pocket and tried to stab me with it. I dodged out of the way and tripped him up, causing him to fall extremely heavily. He even cut himself as he fell, with the knife he was holding. The Princess, who appeared on the scene at this point in the proceedings, again wanted to have me beaten by her servants. But the police would not allow it and took us to prison.