The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (34 page)

‘Who? My brother? Where is he? I want to embrace him.'

‘Sign the letter, Don Enrique,' said the courier who was to take it to the minister. My father, pressed by the courier and full of joy at the arrival of his brother, wrote ‘Don Carlos de Velásquez' instead of ‘Don Enrique de Velásquez', sealed the letter and rushed into the arms of his brother.

The two brothers then embraced. Don Carlos stepped back at once, laughed heartily and said, ‘My dear Enrique, you are the image of Scaramouche in Italian comedy. Your
gonilla
³
cuts across your chin like a shaving-dish. But I like you like that. Let's go in and see the old man.'

They went up to see the old duke, whom Don Carlos nearly hugged to death, as was then fashionable at the court of France. Then he said, ‘Dear uncle, that ambassador chap gave me a letter for you
but I took good care to leave it with my bathing attendant. In any case it doesn't matter. Grammont and Roquelaure and all the other old fellows send you their greetings.'

‘My dear Carlos,' said the duke, ‘I don't know any of these gentlemen.'

‘Too bad,' said Carlos. ‘They are great to know. But where's my future sister-in-law? She must be quite a beauty now.'

Blanca came in at that moment. Don Carlos went up to her in a casual way and said, ‘Ah, divine sister! In Paris it is the custom to kiss the ladies!' So he kissed her, to the astonishment of Enrique, who had never seen Blanca except in the company of her duennas and never even dared kiss her hand.

Don Carlos said many other indecorous things, which deeply upset Enrique and caused the duke to frown. In the end the duke said to him, ‘Go and change the clothes you have been wearing on your journey. There will be a ball this evening, and remember that what is taken to be proper behaviour the other side of the mountains is taken for impudence here.'

Carlos, who was not at all disconcerted, replied, ‘Dear uncle, I'll go and put on the new uniform which Louis XIV has prescribed for his courtiers. You'll see that this prince is great in all he undertakes. I'll mark my beautiful cousin's card for a saraband. It's a Spanish dance but you'll see what the French have done with it.'

With these words, Carlos went out, humming a tune by Lully. His brother, deeply upset by his misbehaviour, tried to apologize for it to the duke and to Blanca. But he was wasting his time. The duke was already too prejudiced against him and Blanca not at all. At last the ball commenced.

Blanca made her appearance dressed not in Spanish but French fashion, which surprised everyone. She said that her dress had been sent to her by her great-uncle the ambassador and that her cousin had brought it with him. This explanation was found inadequate and could not fail to cause surprise.

Don Carlos kept everyone waiting a long time. At last he too appeared, dressed in the manner of Louis XIV's court. He wore a blue jacket embroidered with silver, a white satin scarf and lace, also embroidered with silver, a collar in an Alençon needlepoint and an
extremely voluminous blond wig. This manner of dress, magnificent in itself, appeared all the more so because the last Hapsburg king had introduced a very mean costume into Spain. Even the ruff, which would have brightened it up a bit, had been abandoned in favour of a
gonilla
of the kind that nowadays is worn by
alguaziles
and legal officers, and that indeed resembled Scaramouche's costume, as Don Carlos had aptly observed. My rash relative, already quite distinct from the Spanish gentlemen by his dress, became even more so by the manner in which he made his entry to the ball. Instead of bowing or greeting anyone at all, he shouted out to the musicians for all to hear, ‘Stop playing, you rascals! If you don't at once play a saraband for me I'll wrap your violins round your ears!' Then he handed round the musical scores he had brought with him, went to find Blanca and led her to the middle of the ballroom to dance with her.

My father admits that Carlos danced wonderfully well and that Blanca, who was naturally very graceful, surpassed herself on this occasion. When the saraband was finished, all the ladies at once rose to compliment Blanca on her dancing. But as they were lavishing praise on her, they turned their eyes to Carlos to let him see that
he
was really the object of their admiration. Blanca was not deceived by this and the tacit approval of the ladies raised the young gentleman in her esteem.

For the rest of the evening, Carlos did not leave Blanca's side. When his brother approached her, he said, ‘Enrique, my friend, go away and solve some problems of algebra. You will have all the time in the world to bore Blanca when she's your wife.' Blanca would encourage Carlos in these insulting remarks by laughing at them immoderately and poor Enrique would retire in confusion.

When supper was served, Don Carlos gave Blanca his hand and led her to the top of the table, where he too sat down. The duke frowned but Enrique begged him not to upset his brother.

At supper, Don Carlos told the assembled company of the festivities which Louis XIV put on, and above all of the ballet
L'Olympe Amoureux
, in which the king himself had played the part of the sun. Carlos said he knew this particular dance well and that Blanca would make an excellent Diana. He then allocated the other parts, and before the
company had risen from table Louis XIV's ballet was arranged. Enrique left the ball. Blanca did not notice that he had gone.

Next day, my father went at the appointed time to call upon Blanca and found her practising a dance-step with Carlos. Three weeks went by in this manner. The duke became sombre. Enrique hid his distress. Carlos uttered countless impertinent remarks which were recorded as though they were oracles by the ladies of the town. Blanca's head was filled with Paris and the ballets of Louis XIV. She was wholly unaware of what was going on around her.

One day when all were at table, the duke received a dispatch from the court. It was the following letter from the minister:

My father begged the duke patiently to listen to him, then he said, ‘Señor, I don't know how Carlos's name comes to be in place of mine but I am sure that it isn't my brother's fault, or rather it's nobody's fault. That this name should be changed was decreed by providence. And indeed you must have noticed that Señora Blanca is not at all fond of me but is on the other hand very fond of Carlos. So her hand, her person and her titles belong to him. I no longer have any right to them.'

The duke turned to his daughter and said, ‘Blanca, Blanca, is it true that your heart is inconstant and wanton?'

Blanca fainted, wept and in the end admitted that she loved Carlos.

The duke said to my father in desperation, ‘Dear Enrique, if he has taken away your beloved he can't take away the office of colonel-general of artillery. You deserve it and I will associate part of my fortune with it.'

‘Señor,' replied Enrique, ‘all your fortune belongs to your daughter, and as for the office of colonel-general, the king has given it to my brother and indeed has done well to do so. For the state my heart is in
does not permit me to serve in this or any other rank. Let me retire. I shall seek some holy asylum in which to cast my sorrows before the altar and offer them as a sacrifice to Him who suffered for us.'

My father left the duke's house and entered a Camaldolese monastery, taking the habit of novice. Don Carlos married Blanca. The wedding was a quiet affair. The duke dispensed himself from attending. Blanca, having caused her father to despair, was saddened by the ills she had caused, and Carlos for all his impertinence was somewhat put out himself by the general mood of gloom.

Soon after, the duke suffered an acute attack of gout and sensed that he did not have long to live. He sent word to the Camaldolese monastery to ask leave to see Brother Enrique once more. Alvarez, the duke's major-domo, went to the convent and delivered the message. The Camaldolese monks did not reply because their rule imposes silence on them, but they took him to Enrique's cell. Alvarez found him lying on straw, dressed in rags and chained round the middle of his body.

My father recognized Alvarez and said, ‘Friend Alvar, how did you find the saraband I danced yesterday? Louis XIV was delighted with it. But those rascals of musicians didn't play it at all well. And what does Blanca have to say about it? Blanca, Blanca, answer me, you rogue!' Then my father shook his chains, bit himself in the arm and flew into a terrifying rage. Alvarez burst into tears, withdrew and went to tell the duke the sad news.

The next day the duke's gout spread to his stomach and all hope was given up of his life. Close to death, he turned to his daughter and said, ‘Blanca, Blanca, Enrique will soon follow me. We both forgive you.' Those were the duke's last words. They insinuated themselves into Blanca's soul and carried there the poison of remorse. She fell into terrible melancholy.

The new duke did what he could to divert his young wife but he was unsuccessful. So he left her to her sadness and summoned a famous courtesan from Paris, called La Jardin. Blanca retreated to a convent. The office of colonel-general of artillery did not suit the duke though he tried for a while to fill it; not being able to do so with honour, however, he resigned his commission and asked the
king for an office at court. The king made him chief gentleman of the bedchamber and he set up house in Madrid with La Jardin.

My father spent three years with the Camaldolese monks. The good fathers managed by means of assiduous care and angelic patience to restore to him the use of his reason. He then went to Madrid and called on the minister. This gentleman called him into his office and said, ‘Señor Don Enrique, your affair has come to the ears of the king, who has blamed this mistake on me and on my office. But I showed him your letter signed Don Carlos and here it is. Please tell me why you didn't put your own name on it.'

My father took the letter, recognized his handwriting and said to the minister, ‘Alas, Your Excellency, I now remember that at the moment of signing the letter my brother's arrival was announced. The joy of hearing his name must have made me put it in the place of mine. But it isn't this mistake which caused my misfortunes. Even if the commission of colonel-general had been sent in my name, I would not have been able to exercise the office. Today my sanity has been restored and I now feel able to carry out the plan which the king then had.'

‘My dear Enrique,' said the minister, ‘all the proposals for fortification have been abandoned and at court it is not the custom to mention again things which have been forgotten about. All I can offer you is the office of commandant of Ceuta. That is the only vacancy I have. And you will have to leave for Ceuta without seeing the king. I admit that this office is beneath your talents and it is moreover unkind at your age to be confined to a rock in Africa.'

‘That is precisely what attracts me to the post,' replied my father. ‘It seems to me that I shall escape my cruel fate by leaving Europe; by going to another part of the world, I shall become as it were another man, and shall at last find peace and happiness there under the influence of more favourable stars.'

My father quickly collected his orders as commandant, went to Algeciras, from where he set sail, and arrived without mishap in Ceuta. As he disembarked there, he experienced a delicious feeling. It seemed to him that he had reached port after many long days of stormy weather.

The first task of the new commandant was to get to know his
duties, not only in order to fulfil them but to exceed them. Much as he liked fortifications, he did not concern himself much about them where he was because, although the place was surrounded by barbaric enemies, it was already disposed well enough to resist them. Instead he devoted all the resources of his genius to improving the lot of the garrison and population and to procuring for them all such pleasures as their situation allowed, while, to achieve this end, he gave up all the privileges and benefits which the commandants had hitherto enjoyed. This course of action made him the idol of the little colony. My father also took infinite pains with the political prisoners who were in his care and sometimes he bent the strict rules in his instructions in their favour, either letting them communicate with their families or procuring for them other little benefits.

When everything had been improved as much as it could be at Ceuta, my father began again to devote himself to the study of the exact sciences. At that time the world of science was ringing with the debate between the Bernouilli brothers.
⁴
My father jokingly called them Eteocles and Polynices, but he also took a serious interest in them and often joined in the debate with anonymous treatises which lent unexpected support to one or the other party. When the great problem of isoperimeters was submitted to the arbitration of the four greatest geometers of Europe, my father communicated to them methods of analysis which can be considered as masterpieces of mathematical inventiveness. But no one thought that their author would actually decide to withhold his name and so in every case they were attributed to one or the other of the brothers. Everyone was wrong. My father loved science, not the reputation which science brings. His misfortunes had made him shy and timid.

Jacques Bernouilli died at the moment of winning an absolute victory and his brother remained master of the field of battle. My father clearly saw that he was wrong to consider only two elements of the curve but he did not want to prolong a war which had so upset the scientific community. Meanwhile Jean Bernouilli could not endure
living in peace. He declared war first on the Marquis de l'Hospital,
⁵
whose discoveries he claimed as his own, and later attacked Newton himself. The subject of these new battles was infinitesimal calculus, which Leibniz had discovered at the same time as Newton and which all England had made into a national issue.

In this way my father spent the best years of his life watching from afar the great battles fought by the greatest minds of the world, with the sharpest weapons the spirit of mankind has ever forged.

The love which my father had for the exact sciences did not however make him neglect the others. The rocks of Ceuta harbour many marine creatures which have much in common with the nature of plants and which form a sort of bridge between these two great realms. My father always kept some of these creatures confined in specimen jars and took delight in observing the marvels of their organisms. He also had with him a library of Latin books, or books translated into Latin, which he considered as historical sources. He had made this collection with the intention of supporting with empirical evidence the principles of probability developed by Bernouilli in his book entitled
Ars Conjectandi
.

So my father, living the life of the mind, passed in turn from observation to meditation, nearly always confined to his residence. The continual efforts to which he subjected his intellect made him often forget that cruel period of his life when his reason had given way under the weight of his misfortunes. But often, too, the past would claim its due. This would occur mostly in the evenings, after the labours of the day had exhausted his mind. Then, since he was not used to seeking distractions outside his own company, he would climb up to the terrace and look across the sea to the horizon, edged in the distance by the coasts of Spain. This view reminded him of those glorious and happy days when he was cherished by his family, loved by his mistress, admired by men of worth, and his soul, burning with the fire of youth and lit by the wisdom of a mature intellect, opened itself to all those feelings that are the delight of human life and all those thoughts that dignify the human spirit.

Then he remembered his brother robbing him of his mistress, his fortune and his rank and himself lying on the straw, deprived of his reason. Sometimes he took up his violin and played the fatal saraband which decided Blanca in favour of Carlos. This music provoked him to tears. When he had cried he felt relief. Fifteen years went by in this manner.

One evening the Lieutenant-Governor of Ceuta, having some business to transact with my father, visited him quite late and found him in one of his melancholy moods. Having thought for a moment, he said, ‘My dear commandant, I beg you to pay attention to me. You are unhappy and you are sorrowful. That is no secret. We know it and so does my daughter. She was five when you came to Ceuta and since then not a day has passed without her hearing you spoken of with adoration, for you are the tutelary deity of our little colony. Often she has said to me, “Our dear commandant only feels his sorrows so deeply because he has no one to share them with.” Come and see us, Don Enrique. It will do you more good than counting the waves of the sea.'

So my father let himself be taken to Inés de Cadanza. He married her six months later, and I was born ten months after their marriage.

When the weak child that I was first saw the light of day, my father took me in his arms, raised his eyes to heaven and said, ‘Oh almighty power, whose exponent is immensity, oh last term of all ascending series, oh my God, behold another sensible being projected into space. If he is destined to be as unhappy as his father may you in your mercy mark him with the sign of subtraction.'

Having thus prayed, my father kissed me passionately and said, ‘No, my poor child, you will not be as unhappy as I have been. I swear by the holy name of God that I will never teach you mathematics but you will know the saraband, the ballets of Louis XIV and every other form of impertinence which comes to my attention.' Then my father bathed me in his tears and gave me back to the midwife.

Now I beg you to note the strangeness of my fate. My father swears never to teach me mathematics and swears to teach me to dance. Well, the reverse happened. It has turned out that I know a great deal about the exact sciences and I am incapable of learning, I
won't say the saraband because that's no longer in fashion, but any other dance. In fact, I cannot conceive how one can remember the steps of the quadrille. There are indeed no dance steps which are produced by a point of origin whose sequence is governed by a consistent rule. They cannot be represented by formulas and it seems inconceivable to me that there are people who can retain them in their memory.