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Beschreibung

This is an extraordinary collection of tales that is sure to appeal to all readers of the weird and supernatural. Written in French by a Polish nobleman and first published, almost secretly, in St. Petersburg in 1804. During the wars in Spain, an officer of the Walloon Guards finds, in a deserted castle in Saragossa, a manuscript of such absorbing interest that he carries it with him on his campaign. Taken prisoner by the Spaniards, he falls into the hands of a Spanish officer who claims that the manuscript belonged to his family. The Spaniard proceeds to dictate to his prisoner, now an honored guest in the officer's house, the remaining stories in this collection.

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Table of Contents
The Saragossa Manuscript
THE STORY OF EMINA AND HER SISTER ZIBEDDE
THE STORY OF THE CASTLE OF CASSAR GOMELEZ
The second day
THE STORY OF PASCHECO, POSSESSED OF THE DEVIL
The third day
THE STORY OF ALFONSO VAN WORDEN
STORY OF TRIVULCE OF RAVENNA
THE STORY OF LANDOLFO OF FERRARA
The fourth day
The fifth day
ZOTO'S STORY
The sixth day
CONTINUATION OF ZOTO'S STORY
The seventh day
SEQUEL TO ZOTO'S STORY
The eighth day
PASCHECO'S STORY
The ninth day
THE CABALIST'S STORY
The tenth day
STORY OF THIBAUD DE LA JACQUIERE
STORY OF THE GENTLE DARIOLETTE OF THE CHATEL DE SOMBRE
END OF THE FIRST DECAMERON
The eleventh day
THE STORY OF MENIPPUS OF LYCIA
THE STORY OF THE PHILOSOPHER ATHENAGORAS
The twelfth day
THE STORY OF PANDESOWNA, CHIEF OF THE GYPSIES
THE STORY OF GIULIO ROMATI AND OF THE PRINCESS OF MONTE-SALERNO
The thirteenth day
SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF PANDESOWNA
SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF GIULIO ROMATI
THE STORY OF THE PRINCESS OF MONTE-SALERNO
THE STORY OF REBECCA
STORY OF THE TERRIBLE PILGRIM HERVAS, AND OF HIS FATHER, THE OMNISCIENT INFIDEL
THE STORY OF COMMANDER DE TORALVA

The Saragossa Manuscript

Jan Potocki

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.

The first day

Count d'Olavidez had not yet established foreign settlements in the Sierra Morena—that lofty chain of mountains that separates Andalusia from La Mancha—which was at that time inhabited solely by smugglers, bandits and a few gypsies who had the reputation of eating the travelers they murdered, whence the source of the Spanish proverb: Las Gitanas de Sierre Morena quieren carne de hombres.

That is not all. It was said that the traveler who ventured into that wild region was assailed by a thousand terrors that would freeze the blood of the boldest man. He heard wailing voices mingled with thundering torrents and howling storms; false lights led him astray, and invisible hands pushed him towards the edge of bottomless precipices.

There were, it is true, a few ventas, or lonely inns, scattered along that disastrous road, but ghosts, more diabolical than the innkeepers themselves, had forced the latter to yield the place to them and retire to regions where their rest was troubled only by twinges of conscience—the sort of phantom that innkeepers know how to deal with. The innkeeper of Anduhhar called on St. James of Compostella to witness the truth of these amazing tales. And he added that since the bowmen of St. Hermandad had refused to lead expeditions over the Sierra Morena, the travelers either took the Jaen road or went by way of Estramadura.

I replied that this choice might be all very well for ordinary mortals, but as the king, Don Philip the Fifth, had graciously honored me with the rank of captain in the Walloon Guards, the sacred laws of honor forbade me to take the shortest route to Madrid without inquiring if it were also the most dangerous.

“My lord,” replied my host, “your grace will allow me to point out to him that if the king has honored him with a company of Guards before age has honored your grace's chin with the slightest sign of down, it would be wise to exercise a little caution. Now, I say that when demons take over a region...”

He would have said much more, but I put spurs to my horse and did not draw rein until I was out of reach of his remonstrances. Then looking back, I saw him still waving wildly and pointing to the road to Estramadura in the distance. My valet, Lopez, and Moschito, my zagal, turned piteous eyes on me, as if to repeat the innkeeper's warning. I pretended not to understand, and plunged into the thickets at the point where the settlement known as La Carlota has since been built.

At the very spot where today there is a relay station, there was in those days a shelter, well known to muleteers, who called it “Los Alcornoques”—or the green oaks—because of two beautiful oak trees that spread their shade over a gushing spring as it flowed into a marble watering-trough. It was the only water and the only shade to be found between Anduhhar and the inn, “Venta Quemada.” Though it was built in the middle of a desert, the inn was large and spacious. It was, in reality, an old Moorish castle which the Marquis de Penna Quemada had had repaired; hence the name Venta Quemada. The Marquis had leased it to a citizen of Murcia, who had turned it into the largest hostelry on that route. Travelers left Anduhhar in the morning, dined at Los Alcornoques on provisions they had brought with them, and then slept at Venta Quemada. Sometimes they even spent all the next day there to rest up for the journey over the mountains and to buy fresh provisions. This is what I had planned to do.

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