Manuscript found in Zaragoza Jan Potocki

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Title: Manuscript found in Zaragoza

About the book “The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza” by Jan Potocki

“The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza” is the main and final, but never fully completed, novel by the Polish romantic writer. Jan Potocki published it in separate chapters from 1797 to 1815.

The events take place in Zaragoza during its siege by Napoleon's troops. The plot centers on the discovery of an ancient manuscript. The officers who immediately began to read it understood that it was about the War of the Spanish Succession. And the main character of the manuscript is an officer named Alphonse. Already at the very beginning of the story, he encounters quite amazing phenomena when he joins a gypsy camp. Then he and the other characters tell each other many interesting and frightening stories, inside of which, as if in a box, other stories are hidden. Thus, the book “The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza” can easily be called a “novel within a novel.”

Jan Potocki masterfully combined elements of several genres in his book. His novel is also often compared to the stories of Scheherazade.

The famous literary critic Tsvetan Todorov speaks of the book as a possible archetype of everything fantastic in literature, because sometimes it is impossible to separate historical events that actually happened from those that the author invented.

The main character constantly doubts, as does the reader, about the reality of what is happening to him. He cannot distinguish truth from fiction.

The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza is an unusual adventure story that can easily be read in a few days. This book must be read very carefully, otherwise it will not have the desired effect.

The narrative is built around extraordinary events and love affairs. Jan Potocki writes about incredible intertwining destinies and inexplicable mystical phenomena. His novel can be compared to a long walk along a long corridor with many rooms. Behind each door, a separate unforgettable story awaits the reader.

While reading the book “The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza,” you must pay attention to many small episodes and details that contain very important information. The novel also describes historical events in detail, which can make it a little difficult to read. But this will in no way affect the pleasant impression that the novel makes on almost all readers who love non-trivial plots.

Jan Potocki has built an absolutely perfect artistic labyrinth in his novel, in which it is very easy to get lost.

Manuscript found in Zaragoza

Preface

As an officer in the French service, I took part in the siege of Zaragoza. A few days after the capture of the city, wandering into one of the rather remote quarters, I noticed a small but beautiful house; For some reason, I immediately decided that our soldiers had not yet managed to plunder it.

Drawn by curiosity, I went up to the porch and knocked. It turned out that the doors were not locked - I pushed them lightly and went inside. I shouted - no one responded, there was not a soul in the house. It seemed to me that everything in the slightest degree worthwhile had already been taken out; There were little things left on the tables and in the cabinets that had not the slightest value. Only in the corner, on the floor, did several notebooks with writing catch my eye; I looked through them. It was a Spanish manuscript; although I am not strong in this language, I still managed to make out that its contents were extremely interesting: they were stories about Kabbalists, robbers and ghouls. I decided that reading these amazing stories would help me unwind and take my mind off the hardships of the hike. Considering that the manuscript had forever lost its rightful owner, I took it with me without much hesitation.

After some time we had to leave Zaragoza. Unfortunately, I was far from the main body of the army and, together with my detachment, fell into the hands of the enemy. I believed that my last hour had struck. When we reached where we were being led, the Spaniards began indiscriminate plunder. I begged them to allow me to keep with me only one thing, which, however, did not represent the slightest value to them, namely: the manuscript I had found. At first they prevented me from doing this in every possible way, then they decided to ask their captain for permission. He, leafing through the notebooks, thanked me for saving the notes, which were extremely dear to him, for the manuscript contained the story of one of his ancestors. The Spaniard took me to his apartment, where I stayed for quite a long time. He was all politeness, and I, emboldened, begged him to translate the manuscript into French: he translated, and I carefully wrote down his words.

The first day

At a time when Count Olavides had not yet settled colonists in the Sierra Morena mountains, this steep mountain range separating Andalusia from Mancha was inhabited only by smugglers, bandits and a handful of gypsies, who were rumored to devour the bodies of the travelers they killed. This is where the Spanish proverb comes from: Las gitanas de Sierra-Morena quieren carne de hombres. And that is not all. A traveler who decided to enter these wild lands was expected, if rumors were to be believed, of thousands of horrors capable of chilling even the most ardent courage. He heard mournful voices merging with the roar of mountain rivers; amidst the roar of storms, he was led off the road by will-o'-the-wisps, and invisible hands mercilessly pushed him into the abyss.

True, sometimes on this strange road one could find some kind of venta, that is, a lonely tavern; but spirits, much more devilish than the innkeepers themselves, forced these latter to give up their place and retire to the regions where only the voice of conscience disturbed their rest; and the voice of conscience is a ghost with which the innkeepers preferred to deal more than with all others. However, while talking with me, the innkeeper from Andujar himself swore in the name of Saint James of Compostela that there is not a drop of lies in these magical stories. Then he added that the archers of Saint Hermandad avoid making forays into the Sierra Morena mountains, and travelers also prefer to travel along the Jaen or Extremaduran road. I answered him that such a choice could only be to the taste of ordinary and ordinary travelers, but since King Don Philip V awarded me the title of captain of the Walloon Guard, the sacred laws of honor command me to take the shortest route to Madrid, even if it was the most dangerous.

“Young caballero,” replied the innkeeper, “your honor will allow me to observe that if the king honored you with the rank of captain before even the most delicate fluff did not do the same honor to your honor’s chin, you should first give evidence of your prudence and prudence, for if demons and evil spirits will become attached to some place...

He would have babbled for three more days, but I spurred my horse and stopped, only gaining confidence that his warnings would no longer reach my ears. Then I turned around and saw him waving his arms, trying to get me to take the road to Extremadura. My servant Lopez and my muleteer Mosquito looked at me pitifully; their gazes seemed to confirm the innkeeper’s words. But I pretended not to understand anything, and set off at a trot through the thickets, where in later years a settlement called La Carlota was founded.

On the site where the post office now stands, there was then an inn, well known to drovers. They called it Los Alcornoques, or the Cork Oaks, for these two beautiful trees shaded there a bountiful spring lined with white marble. All the way from Andujar to the inn called Venta Quemada, there was neither water nor shade anywhere. This inn, standing alone in the desert, was large and spacious. In fact, it was an ancient Moorish castle that the Marquis of Peña Quemada ordered to be rebuilt, hence the name “Venta Quemada”. The Marquis then leased it to a certain townsman from Murcia, who built the best tavern on this entire road in the ancient castle. The travelers left Andujar in the morning, then in Los Alcornoques they ate the supplies they had brought with them and went to spend the night in Venta Quemada. They usually spent the next day there to gain strength before moving through the mountains and stock up on fresh provisions.

This was the plan for my trip.

But as we were approaching the Cork Oaks and I reminded Lopez of the need to reinforce his forces, I noticed that the driver Mosquito had disappeared along with the mule loaded with all our provisions. Lopez told me that the fellow remained a few hundred paces behind us to adjust his packs. We waited for him, drove a little further forward, then stopped again, called for him, then returned along the same road to find him; but it's all in vain.

The mosquito disappeared, disappeared without a trace and took with it our most precious hopes that our lunch was still safe and sound. True, I was the only one who was hungry, because the thrifty Lopez was constantly chewing the Toboso cheese that he had taken with him on the road, but despite this circumstance, he was no more cheerful than me and grumbled through his teeth that, they say, the Andujar innkeeper was right and that Of course, the devils kidnapped the unfortunate Mosquito.

When we arrived at Los Alcornoques, I saw next to a spring a basket covered with grape leaves; it must have contained fruits forgotten by some absent-minded traveler. Curious, I plunged my hand into the basket and, not without pleasure, found four magnificent figs and one orange. I offered two figs to Lopez, but he thanked me, saying that he could wait until evening, so I ate everything myself and then wished to quench my thirst with water from a nearby spring. Lopez kept me from doing this, assuring me that water after fruit could only do harm, and gave me some of the Alicante he still had left. I accepted the treat, but as soon as the wine was in my stomach, my heart suddenly sank, heaven and earth began to spin before my eyes, and I, of course, would have fainted if Lopez had not rushed to my aid. He brought me to my senses, saying that I should not be surprised at my condition, for it was caused by hunger and fatigue. Soon my strength not only returned, but I even felt in a particularly unusual and elated state. It seemed to me that the whole area was shimmering with a thousand colors, objects sparkled in my eyes like stars on a summer night, and the blood began to pound strongly in my veins, especially in my temples and neck.

Lopez, seeing that I quickly came to my senses, began to reproach me again:

“Alas,” he said, “why did I not consult with the holy brother Jeronimo of Trinidad, monk, preacher, confessor and oracle of our family! It is not for nothing that he, being the son-in-law of the stepson of my stepmother’s stepfather’s mother-in-law, and therefore our closest relative, does not allow anything to happen in our house without his knowledge and advice. I didn't want to listen to him - and I was rightly punished for it. For he often used to tell me that the officers of the Walloon Guard were a heretical people and that this was easily recognized by their fair hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks, while all true ancient Christians had a complexion similar to that of the Madonna of Atocha, recreated by St. Luke.

I stopped this stream of insolence by ordering Lopez to give me my double-barreled shotgun and remain with the horses, while I myself intended to climb one of the surrounding rocks in the hope that I would find the lost Mosquito, or at least his traces. But, having listened to this proposal of mine, Lopez burst into tears and, throwing himself at my feet, conjured me in the name of all saints not to leave him alone in such a dangerous place. I wanted to guard the horses myself and send him in search of Mosquito, but this intention frightened Lopez even more. However, in the end, I gave him such a great many reasonable arguments that he still allowed me to leave. Then he took a rosary from his pocket and began to pray fervently.

14
Jan
2011

Manuscript found in Zaragoza (Jan Potocki)

Year of manufacture: 2009
Jan Potocki
Format: mp3, 128 kbps
Genre: Romance
Publisher: Can't buy it anywhere
Performer: Koziy Nikolay
Duration: 28:44:50
Description:

The fate of this book is no less mysterious than its contents. Jan Potocki wrote it
in French, but the original novel disappeared without a trace. The book survived only in
numerous translations. Many authors - both famous and not so famous - borrowed
stories from it, and some were not shy about outright plagiarism. Into the fabric of the novel skillfully
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himself, will perceive in his own way. This is one of those rare books from which it is impossible to
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the amazing magical world that this book presented.

According to its structure, the “Manuscript Found in Zaragoza” by the remarkable Polish writer
Jan Potocki (1761-1815) is reminiscent of the Arabian tales "A Thousand and One Nights".

The book began to be published in St. Petersburg in French in 1797. Then the novel gradually
continued to be written by Potocki until his suicide in 1815. The original manuscript in French was lost, all further editions were made from the Polish translation (Rekopis znaleziony w Saragossie).

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Manuscript found in Zaragoza (Jan Potocki)

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