The Pilgrim of Castile; or, El Pelegrino in Su Patria

by Lope de Vega

The History of Aurelia

"Amongst all the things which in the course of my life I have seen and marked, I might peradventure tell you some one, which might better content you. But thinking that one cannot better persuade than by the example of himself, I will therefore tell you a story which is drawn from my youth, and from the twentieth year of my age, written by my misfortune and imprinted in my memory, seeing that the renewing can do me no damage, and may bring you profit. This short tyranny, the bane of youth, the illusion of the sight, the prison of the soul, and the darkener of the sense, which is called Beauty, and which heaven seemeth to give women for our mischief: blinded so my eyes at the first knowledge, which they had in the world, that my spirit did not live so much in myself, as in her whom I loved, nor found more rest out of her sight, than things do out of their centre; because that as the fire always sendeth the flames thereof to its proper sphere, so my heart addressed its desires to her beauty.

Now as this love was not platonic, I will not dispute whether it were honest, profitable, or delightful; let it satisfy that it which is the cause of so much evil, seemed unto me, the greatest and sovereignest good in the world. This subject of my misfortunes was called Aurelia, free in her customs of that kind of life which Plautus and Terence describe in their fables; and of whom Aulus saith excellently well; that a courtesan is a vessel full of holes, which can contain nothing. She was fair in all perfection, of a quick and hardy spirit and of a reasonable good nature, a woman (to be short) unto whom experience in the world had brought a great deal of knowledge. It cost me little to possess her, because that these kind of women (clean contrary unto other women, who forced by the love of a man, do honestly yield unto his merits) trusting to their charms and unto the gentleness of usage, are passionate with men more when they are enjoyed than when they are pretended. I was not vexed at the first with the conversation of the young men, who at any hour howsoever extraordinary were never wanting in her house, because the favours which she did me, and the little which they cost me made me live much contented, especially seeing myself preferred before others of better means and merits then myself; when I went to see her, they gave me place, and departed courteously, leaving me alone with her.

These my visitations were not agreeable unto her servants, because they thought that thereby this rabble of youth was scattered, which brought them profit. And that if Aurelia should fall in love with me, my quality being not capable to sustain her expense, she must spend out of her own means, from whence would inevitably follow a necessity of living more regularly, which they would by no means hear of; and of this were they not much deceived, for in a small time Aurelia, who had ravished so many others, was taken herself in my love, and made captive to my will, which made true one part of this fear, by shortening the revenues of her house, to lengthen the reins of her pleasure. Not that all the charge of the house fell upon her; for I miserable man, tormenting my parents, and importuning my friends, did run to the preservation of this love, which almost always depended on money.

The life which we led (we loving one another tenderly, and having in our power the liberty of enjoying) may easily be judged by my youth, and by Aurelia's, who was then about twenty years old. The house seemed too strait for our love, and searching solitary fields, we made the sight of open heaven witness of our follies. Our life was a blind imitation of the nature of beasts, we communicated our secrets to trees, which did not see, as if the leaves had not been so many clear eyes, and a thousand amorous delights to the dumb fountains, which might well have troubled the purity of their waters, I cannot think how in so little a way as there was between my house and hers. It remained 5 years space before I knew that I was arrived there, being certain, that in 3 years space of that time, the famous English Drake passed the Strait of Magellan and compassed the world about. If in all this time, the loyalty which she swore unto me were broken or no, I am not able to say, nor yet forbear to believe, because it seems almost a thing impossible for such women from their custom, to keep themselves to an orderly life.

At the end of these five years, I saw myself at the end of my means, and although I was more amorous than in the beginning, yet Aurelia did suffer herself to be vanquished by the obligations of another, who had more power than my services: I say obligations, because I cannot believe that only love can bind one unto so strange a change. One night Aurelia having seen me retire myself unto my bed, she had received Feliciano into hers (so was the knight called.) I stirred with a profound jealousy, rose up out of my bed, and went to her house, where the door was shut against me: and the servants answered me from above out at a high window, feigning that they were gone to bed, to make me rather to retire unto my own house. But my extreme love which would not at that time, have relied upon my eyes, and feared to be betrayed by my thoughts, made me cry aloud, that somebody should open the door, so that my voice came unto Aurelia’s ears. And Feliciano making show of a valiant-lover, began to clothe himself, promising to chastise my boldness with his sword, and by his only presence to cure my folly; but the cunning Circe, who knew well whatsoever good or bad success came unto me, it would rebound unto her shame, hindered him with her arms and diverted him with her tears, although there was no great need: for the bravest do unwillingly arm themselves when they are once naked; and to come out of a house into the street had been a manifest and mad rashness.

Aurelia so prevailing in that manner, wherein others of her kind are wont to prevail; and making Feliciano believe that I should be her husband, and that if I did perceive him she should lose me, persuaded him half unclothed and in the midst of January, that he would go onto the highest roof of the house. Onto which he being gone, I was let into the house, where I found Aurelia in bed making so many complaints of my liberty, and of the scandal which I gave the neighbours, that instead of being angry, it behove me to appease her, where (after some time spent) she in complaining of me, and I in asking pardon for my jealousy, and for the desire which I had to surprise her in that infidelity which I did distrust: I possessed the absent man's place, which was still warm, serving for a proof of my ignorance and blockishness. Morning brought again the sun, and the sun the day, yet neither of them was sufficient to make me see my folly (so evil doth a lover discern of his own acts) I rose contented, and although I entered last, yet I went sooner away then Feliciano.

In the meantime Menander who had for the space of some years been Feliciano’s mistress, grew extremely jealous, and hearing of this trick which Aurelia had put upon him, could not forbear speaking of it, mocking him with the cold night which he had endured, and that he had suffered me, who never had any intent to marry her, to possess that place by her side which he had lost: Feliciano assured her that Aurelia (preferring his love, before the obligations, wherein for so many years she was bound unto me) did rather abuse me than him; and that whensoever she or any other would afford him the like courtesy, he would willingly suffer one evil night to have so many good: and for proof of what he said, he gave her a key, whereof I was wont to be master, which I was made believe was lost. Menander dissembled her thoughts, but so soon as she met me again, she told me all the circumstances, and with all gave me the key; having which I needed no other witnesses of the truth, nor other instrument to open the door. I then resolved to revenge myself of Aurelia in leaving her, and of Feliciano, in serving Menander, from whose love I presumed he had not freed himself, and if he had been free yet I knew he must needs be grieved that I should enjoy her whom he loved in everybody's opinion. I found Menander willingly disposed, for our thoughts were alike, and our injury alike, and we might well serve to revenge one the other. She then feigned to love me, and I paid her in the like counterfeiting. Aurelia was advertised, and grew desperate, and Feliciano no less enraged, sought me to kill me. Behold how jealousies and neglects do reveal the truths which are in the centre of our hearts.

Aurelia found me sooner than Feliciano did, as she who therein hazarded least: and staying me began in fury and in threatenings, yet ended in prayers and in tears. But upon so fresh an injury, I was rather confirmed in my neglect (seeing her yield unto my love) than any way moved with her passion. Finally, having changed my first affection into hatred, (always insupportable to a woman who hath been well beloved) Aurelia began to pursue me, and although that the city of my birth and abode doth not yield for greatness to above two or three in all Spain, yet could not I find any lodging wherein she did not clamour me, any friend whom she did not revolt from me, any secret which she did not publish, nor any danger whereinto she did not endeavour to throw me. So that oppressed with these pursuits, and seeing myself reduced to the contenting of her, after a thousand contrary deliberations, I resolved to take upon me a religious habit, and to prevail by his protection, in whose hands and feet God hath imprinted the marks of our reparation.

But oh! the supreme force of a despised love, as from the holy choir of the monastery, from the midst of the altars and images of the saints, the tears of Aurelia drew me again; and then I followed her, with more liberty and less shame then before, leaving the habit whereof I was not worthy, and neglecting the spiritual treasure which I did then enjoy, to follow the infamous life which I had formerly led, so much power hath the capital enemy of our souls. Our love began fresher than ever, with the general scandal of those who knew us, the hatred of our parents and the detestation of all our friends, which within a small time brought me to such terms that I thought sorrow would have killed me. The infamy wherein we lived and the fear of justice did oblige us to depart the city, and selling that small remainder of goods which we had left, laden with a number of evils, we passed into Italy; from whence I went (for some time) to serve the catholic king in Flanders, and the Duke of Savoy in Piedmont, returning always to Naples where I had left her. The last time I put to sea with her in my company (intending after the Flanders wars to return into Spain) where in a violent tempest (which heaven for the quiet of our souls) sent us in the gulf of Narbonne; in the last point of life, and when we were past hope of escaping, we vowed ourselves to a religious life with such earnestness of tears, that afterwards the storm ceasing and we landing, she entered into the Monastery of the Conception; and I underwent this habit wherein you now see me, where after some years of probation this cell was given me."

Here Tirsis the Hermit of this happy abode stayed his discourse, and our pilgrims judging that it was too late to pass further, and it being necessary to descend into the lodging which within this holy house is given freely to strangers, they went unto the monastery, discoursing upon the hermit's relation, determining the next day to go to the uttermost hermitage, which under the title of St Jerome, crowneth the head of the mountain.

But the misfortunes of our pilgrim, which had slept for some time, began to wake with more violence; for in the house where these strangers had lodged there were missing some jewels, with a maidservant of the house, and the Germans amongst others were pursued by the Justice, although innocent, because it was affirmed by some that this servant enamoured of their beauties had run away with them.

All nations have their epithets, which being once received by the world can never be lost. The Scythians are called cruel, the Italians religious, the French noble, the Dutch industrious, the Persians faithless, the Turks lascivious, the Parthians curious, the Burgundians fierce, the Britains hardy, the Egyptians valiant, the Lorraines gentle, the Spaniards arrogant and the Germans beautiful. And this was the cause for which it was thought that the maid being seduced by them had run away with them.

Now the Germans were easily taken, but the pilgrim desperate through his late long imprisonment which he had suffered in Barcelona, and out of the little justice which he as a stranger could expect, seeing them come unto him, stood upon his defence, and flourishing his palmer's staff, (with which he was very skilful) left two of them lying upon the ground wounded, and virtuously freed himself from the hands of the others, who remained astonished at his valour. Between Tortosa and Castell��n there stretcheth forth a great hill, wherewith the sea of that coast is bounded, along the coast of the vale of Sego and of the Kingdom of Valencia: where the Moors of Algiers and Sal�� do land out of their galleys, when they are not perceived by the watch, and hiding themselves amongst the hollow places of these hills, do rob not only the fishermen but all such as pass that way. And sometimes when they are many of them together, they do rob away whole villages together; in this vale, they being guided by renegades, and those betrayed again by the Moors: there one dark night did the pilgrim lie (weary with his journey which he had taken out of the way) obliged thereunto by the fear which he had of pursuit. And being asleep after many long and grievous imaginations of his lost happiness, which he did believe to be still in the hands of Doricles, the roaring of the sea (the waves whereof breaking against the rocks make a horrible noise) awaked him. He heard near unto him the voices of some Moors, who having joyfully supped upon the land, were talking of their robberies. He who sleeping upon the ground in the field, at his waking, findeth himself near unto a venomous snake, doth not so soon lose his colour, as doth our fearful Pilgrim, hearing the Moors so near him, whose hands he did think it impossible to escape. Yet relying upon his judgement in a matter wherein he thought his strength would not prevail, stole from them by gentle sliding upon the ground, making his hands perform the office of his feet until he had attained the top of the hill, where finding that the Moors had heard him, he began to cry with a loud voice: Here valiant knights here, this is our day: behold the Moors before you, and as prey in your hands, whom you have with such pains and diligence endeavoured to overtake. Hardly had he courageously uttered these words, when as the Moors (like frogs who at the noise of passengers leap from the bank sides into the quiet waters of the lake) ran with all the speed they could to the sea to get aboard their boat, with which they easily got to their galley.

Full of admiration was the pilgrim, to see how happily his resolution had succeeded, when from a tree which was near unto him he heard a voice, which said: Ah knight, help me for the mother of God's sake. His valiant courage which was never astonished with any kind of danger or misfortune, guided by the voice unto the tree, where he had heard him, saw a man tied thereunto, of whom having asked his name, he was answered, that he was a Catalonian knight, whom the Moors (after they had killed two of his servants) had taken upon the coast road of Valencia. The pilgrim having unbound him, and both of them departing from the sea, took their way to Almenara, and through the valley beautified with orange trees, travelled towards Faura. Already had the morning strewed pearls upon flowers, who putting their heads forth of the boughs, did seem to salute the day, when both the discourse, and face of the knight, did show unto the pilgrim that this was Everard, he who (when he was prisoner at Barcelona) had obliged the pilgrim for his liberty; both their joys, their embraces and their tears were as admirable as the success which you have heard, from whence is recollected, how agreeable unto heaven is the good which is done unto strangers; signified by the ancient philosophers in Deucalion and Pyrrha, who for having lodged Jupiter, were made restorers of the world; and contrarily, Diomedes devouring his guests with his horses, he was in the end himself devoured by them.

The pilgrim demanded of Everard how he had gotten his liberty, and he told him that with the help of some friends he had broken prison, and escaped away by the post of Barcelona; from whence he might well have gone for Italy, but being unwilling to be a runaway from his own country, he was resolved to go to the Court to have his cause judged, whither he was going with that intention, when he fell into this ambush of the Moors. He then demanded of him, if he knew Doricles and being answered that he was his kinsman, the pilgrim sighed many times, without telling the cause, although he were much importuned by Everard, unto whom he only said, he had a young brother in his company who had quitted him to follow Doricles; Everard who understood something of the secrets (suspecting that this was some woman, who had been stolen away by the robbers upon the shore of Barcelona) assured him that he knew all the servants which Doricles had in his house, and that there was not one Castellan amongst them.

In such and like words, which drew infinite sighs and tears from the pilgrim, they arrived at the ancient Sagunto, (where at this day are remaining, the most famous works of the Roman period of any that are in Spain) and from thence they went to the city of Valencia, entering by the royal bridge over the Turia, which river the Moors call Guadalaviar: and passing by the famous Towers of Serranos, they lodged at a knight's house, who was friend unto Everard, and of the family of the Mercaderos. There they remained this night, finishing the relation of their fortunes, until the sun rising called them from their rest, especially Everard, who carried with a strong desire of finishing his intended journey, departed with grief from the company of the pilgrim, whom he left no less sorrowful, in this flourishing city.

There he spent a few days in beholding the proud buildings wherewith it was embellished: and in the end he visited the hospital where mad folks are with more care and convenience looked unto and kept, than in any city in all Spain: there beholding the several humours of these miserable people, he (I say) who lately was likely to have lost his own wits, saw amongst those who were least mad, sit down at the table (at which they did altogether eat) a young fool and very beautiful, whose flaxen hair was longer than men do ordinarily wear in Spain. All the blood in this pilgrim's body came into his face, and went suddenly back again, out of the remembrance which this mad creature brought unto him of his mistress, whom he could not well know, as well because he could not comprehend in his mind by what means she had been reduced to this distraction; and less, how to this place, as also through her evil usage in that place, and her sickness, she did differ from the idea which he had of her countenance in his mind. Nevertheless, as she beheld him with her eyes full of admiration, he was confirmed in his first thought, and letting fall some tears, he said unto her in a low voice (least the keeper who had brought them to the table should hear them) do ye know me? To whom this woman (never known to be so in that place) who had seen him carried unto the oaks of the mountain, where Captain Doricles had commanded his soldiers to hang him, for whose death she had shed so many tears, and sighed out so many complaints, that the violence of her grief had troubled her understanding; and yet also doubting of his life, though she did see him; tremblingly answered, that she was wont to know him. Already was this pilgrim, by the voice, by the fearfulness, and by the tears assured that this mad body was the master of all her wits; and fearing lest he might make some demonstration of his inward grief, whereunto by the sight of this so great misfortune he was obliged; he demanded softly of her, how and by what means she was come unto this miserable estate? The grief I took (answered she) thinking upon your death, as soon as the Captain had commanded that you should be hanged. Not without having offended me, replied the pilgrim, a thing which I never expected from your constancy, although far greater occasion had been offered. The losing of my honour (said she) must be out of these two respects, either of force or for pleasure: if out of pleasure, I had now no cause to bewail myself; nor if it were by force means to bring remedy, and less means had I in losing of my wits. And that it is true, that the very thought I had of your death was the cause of my madness, let this satisfy you, to see that I recover them, in having you alive. Fair Nisa, answered the pilgrim, am not I a miserable man, in having been the cause of so much evil by my misfortunes? There is nothing, dear Pamphilus (replied Nisa in weeping) deserves this name that hath been suffered for your occasion, and for so cruel a feeling as the report of your death brought to me. And if I were permitted to embrace you here according unto my desire, the recompense would be as great as the travels, which I do bewail only in regard they were no more, since that, according to their multitude, they would augment the glory of my suffering. It was not in vain, answered Pamphilus, (for the History names him from henceforward) that my hope made me desire to live, only that I might see you, for I was assured that in the glory of beholding you, all jealousy would be wiped away, that might any way allay my joy. And if the eyes of those who look upon us, did not better see, then their understandings do know, you should before this have found that your desire of embracing was most agreeable to me. To this said Nisa (whose name hitherto we have hid, as also Pamphilus'), because that travailing in this habit amongst so many dangers (I durst not tell their country nor their name) I will make my passion serve as a remedy. What passion? answered Pamphilus. Every time, said she when my grief deprives me of my reason, they tell me that I cry aloud, those words which I will now say to thee, in embracing thee. And then she said these words: O my spouse, is it possible that my eyes do behold thee? Is it not thou, who died in the mountains of Barcelona, by the evil hands of Doricles' barbarous soldiers? Blessed be the hour wherein I see the news is false. In speaking this, Nisa fell about Pamphilus' neck, amorously embracing him, whose overwhelming delight was only interrupted by the presence of the assistants.

When the man (who had the charge of appeasing the mad folks' fury) saw this deportment in Nisa, he began to give her rude words and sharp blows. Let him alone said Pamphilus, for I am his countryman and his wife's kinsman, and do not wonder that this sight of me, doth cause in him this sorrow. Whatsoever you are, answered this barbarous fellow, it skills not, here are neither complements nor visitations. And the token of this man's mad fit in coming upon him, is to call his husband, with such or the like words. But if I pacify this, his mad fit said Pamphilus, to what end doth your chastisement serve? And how will you appease it, said the other, is not this an evident token of his madness, that he calls you his spouse, and takes you for a woman? You are ignorant of his humour, and of the trouble he gives us, although he does not appear to be above nineteen year of age. I know all this well, answered Pamphilus. Nevertheless let me speak to him, for I do assure you that myself alone can appease him; and as it is a good work, from anybody who hath a sickness to take away the pain, for some time, though it return again; so in madness, it is a good work to bring to pass, that he who hath lost his wits should recover them again though it were but for one hour.

Yet neither this reason, nor many other, served him to any purpose, for the officers had already put manacles upon Nisa’s hands; and the master did rigorously pull her to the cage, although she had no need of this remedy, nor any other, but the sight of Pamphilus. But as those who are accustomed to lie, are seldom believed, although they say the truth: so in him who is mad, it is accounted a token of greater madness, to seem wise. Thus Nisa was had away to strait imprisonment, and Pamphilus standing ashamed, fearing that everyone knew what was privy only to himself, beheld her with abundance of tears; a thousand times he was about to let go the reins of his passion, which his understanding held in, and to be mad in reason, believing that if he were mad, the chastisement of his madness should be to remain with Nisa, which was the greatest good he could hope for. And to begin his design, he offered (against the laws of this house) to break the gates of the prison, and see her by force: but hardly had he made any demonstration thereof, when the porters with the mad servitors, (such as having recovered their wits, do serve the others) fell upon him, and beating him cruelly, flung him into the street, where (as the fish whereof Aristotle speaks which being drawn out of the water, frames a humane voice and dies) he fetched a great sigh and fell upon the ground exhausted.

The sun was declined low toward the west, colouring with gold and purple that part of the horizon, when Pamphilus returning out of his misery found himself in the arms of a young man, who having compassion of his grief, encouraged him to recover life. Pamphilus looking steadfastly upon him, with heavy sadness, demanded where he was? The young man told him, that he was at the door of the hospital, where the mad folks were kept. And how is it, replied Pamphilus, that I am not within? Because (said the other) thou appearest to be more diseased in body then in the passions of thy mind. Thou judgest by the countenance (said Pamphilus) but if thou hadst seen my heart, thou wouldst rather judge that my evil proceeded from my spirit: true it is, that the body feeleth also the pains of the mind. What kind of evil is thine, answered the young man, being so near the place, where evils of wounded minds are cured? For if thou art not within the Hospital, thou desirest (as it seemeth) to be in, seeing thou dost not deny thy evil; and thou confessest, that it proceedeth from thy mind, the passions whereof are not far from falling into that infirmity which is cured in this place. The evil which I have (said Pamphilus) hath a remedy in this house, and my misfortune is such, that despairing to cure me, they have flung me out. Thou canst have no such evil, answered the young man, but there is an antidote to be found for it. Incurable love (said Pamphilus groaning out a sigh) unto which all the medicines and herbs of physic are improfitable. What is not love but to be cured, answered the other? And are Avicenna's seven remedies of no force, and not true? Of those said Pamphilus, and at the tales which Pliny writeth, my passion worketh; I only allow of his counsel, who adviseth chiefly to marry; but the disposition of my fortune, and the rigorous influence of my stars, not only do not suffer me, but make it to me almost impossible. And although hope sometime promiseth it to me, yet I find that it is truly as Plato calleth it: the waking man's dream. Love, then (said the young man) is the cause of this habit which thou wearest, and of thy pilgrimage. It is so (said Pamphilus) and by that thou may know the quality of my evil, and the difficulty of my cure. Oh, said the young man pitifully sighing, what a grievous story, dost thou renew in me. A history like unto mine? said Pamphilus. If not, said the other, yet at the least of love. By thy faith (then said Pamphilus) dost thou love? I not only love, said the other, but am also more unhappy than thou thinkest, for a stranger and a pilgrim, and no less outraged by fortune. Tell me then, said Pamphilus, (in looking earnestly upon him) thy name and of what country thou art; for in all the years of my banishment, I could never find any man so miserably persecuted as myself: and in this, I have more occasion than all men to bewail my destinies. A Christian, said the stranger, ought never to bewail the destinies, nor think that good or evil fortune depend on them: although many ancient philosophers have believed that there is a kind of devil, and certain imaginary women which they call Parquae, which give the spirit into the creature at the birth, an opinion worthy rather of laughter, than belief; It being most certain, that this name Destiny, is only to be attributed to the decree of God, who truly seeth and knoweth all things before they be, and the ordering of them cannot depend on anything but of him. I know well, said Pamphilus, that the Poets have called these Parquae Destiny, and the Philosophers, especially the Stoics, have believed that it is an order or disposition of second causes, as from the planets under the influence of which we are born, which rule and determine all the inferior good and evil effects which do happen to man: so said Ptolemy, Democritus, Chrysippus and Epicurus, who also ascribe to Destiny, all the inclinations, the vices and the virtues, the desires and passions even unto the actions and thoughts, which some have endeavoured to prove by the authority of Boetius, who says that the order of destiny moves the heavens, and the stars temper the elements, and tie human actions to their causes by a most indissoluble knot.

But leaving apart a matter of so long a discourse, from whence is sprung the error of the Priscillianists, who believe that the soul and the body are necessarily subject to the stars, and many other errors which succeed this first; I desire thou shouldst know, that I speak according to custom, which willeth that this name Destiny, and other Christian idioms, be taken for misfortune, believing that nevertheless, God in his divine providence speaks by Destiny as men express the conceptions of their minds by words. Thy face (said the young man) promiseth no less, than what I have heard come from thy mouth; for thy presence and aspect is an index of thy nobleness, as thy tongue is of knowledge: which worketh in me a great pleasure, and desire to tell thee my name, my country, quality and my misfortunes, which if thou please to hearken unto with patience, I will as briefly as I can relate: