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

by Lope de Vega

The History of Pamphilus and Celio.

"The city of Toledo, in the heart of Spain; strong by situation, noble by antiquity, famous for the preservation of the Christian faith ever since the time of the Goths, generous both in learning and arms, having a temperate heaven and a fertile Earth. Environed with the famous river Tagus, which is itself also begirt with a high but pleasant hill: it is the place where my now living parents were born, as also myself (although my ancestors in former times came from those parts of the Asturias which are called Santillana, the ancient title of the house of Mendoza) there was I brought up in my more tender years. But when my parents thought I was capable of learning, they sent me to the University of Salamanca, with such company as was fit for a man of my place, to the end that besides the Latin tongue which I knew already, I might study the knowledge of the law. Here I am constrained to make a long digression, because that of the history of another, depends the foundation of mine. My father had other children; Lisard his eldest son, who was in Flanders with the Archduke Albert, where he got no small reputation, principally in the siege of Ostend, and Nisa a daughter, and if I be not partial, one of most excellent beauty, who lived in that honour and good name unto which she was bound by the nobleness of her birth and the care of such parents.

Unto these terms was the young man proceeded in his discourse, whereat Pamphilus exceedingly troubled covered his face with his hands, whereof the other demanding a reason, Pamphilus said to him, that his grief which had brought him unto that estate wherein he found him was returned again, yet he thought it was with less violence than it had formerly done. All this Pamphilus feigned, because the story which the Toledan told him, was his own proper story, and this Nisa whom he called his sister, was the pilgrim whose wits were lost out of the apprehension of Pamphilus' death; so do acts dissembled many times meet, and sometimes do then reappear most when they are most endeavoured to be hidden. I will not proceed in my story, said he if thou find not thyself so well, that thou may hearken unto me; for there is no time worse employed than that which one loseth in speaking to them, which give no ear to the speaker. Thou may proceed, said Pamphilus, (being desirous to understand the estate of his own affairs) for I find my grief begins to leave me, eased by thy presence and thy words. I must tell thee then, said the young man, that there was in Madrid a brave Knight, and a great friend of my father's, with whom he had great inwardness of acquaintance, ever since the wars of Granada, and I think they were together in that famous Battle of Lepanto: from this friendship it followed, that at the end of some years, they treated of the marrying of my sister Nisa, with one of this knight's sons, of whom I now speak, and the young man's name was Pamphilus. But while these things were a-doing, the father of Pamphilus died, and the proposition of marriage ceased. Pamphilus who by the renown that went of my sister, as also by her picture, was taken in her love, and grew wonderful sad and melancholy, and falling from one imagination to another, in the end he resolved upon this which I shall tell thee, that thereby thou may see how innocent those were, who without the light of faith, did anciently believe in fortune and destinies. Which was, that making his mother believe that he would go into Flanders, and journeying some days in the habit and equipage of a man at arms, and after having sent his servants to Alcal�� de Henares, and there disguising himself in other clothes, he went to Toledo: where not being known to any person, he found means to be employed as a servant in my father's house, which was no hard matter to do, because that his excellent feature and countenance accompanied with his intelligence were pledges sufficient of his fidelity, and gave my father not only a desire to be served by him, but also to respect him. My father received him ignorant of his quality and of his intent (a strange imagination of a man, being a knight, and so well known almost of all, in the country wherein he was born; that he could so hide himself, at the door (as it were) of his own house, that nobody could know, either where he was or what he did) yet so it was, that his humility, his diligent service, and other commendable parts which he had, gained such credit with my parents, that I do believe he might as easily have compassed his designs with his feigned poverty, as with his true riches.

The chiefest thing whereunto he applied himself as his whole study, was to appear agreeable to Nisa, which was easy to be done, for who can guard himself from a domestic enemy? The simplicity wherewith this knight did begin his treason, and the good words which he used, gained him entrance into those places whereinto hardly and with great difficulty, could the ancient servants come. Behold with how little care, a noble gentleman kept in his house another Greek horse, like unto miserable Troy: for such of necessity must this young man's heart needs be full of thoughts and armed with malice, which (the hour of execution approaching) broke forth into such flames, as have fired our renown. When Pamphilus thought that Nisa was disposed to hearken to his intention, were it that his sickness were true, or feigned; as most likely it was, he made himself sick. My parents, who accounted of this servant as of their governor, and loved him equal with their dearest children, there being no key about the house, no account in all their expense, nor any secret in their affaires, wherein he was not trusted, caused him to be tended with all the care which was possible for love and respect to bring. The physicians said that this infirmity proceeded from a deep melancholy, and the best remedy that was to be given, was to rejoice him, and principally by music; In which they were not deceived, for if love does participate of the evil spirit, and that David drove away the evil spirit from Saul by the sweetness of his harp, by the same means love might be driven away. Thou sayest true, said Pamphilus, (who gave great attention unto the relation of his own story, to see to what end the discourse of this young man would come, who was his mistress' brother) for without doubt it holdeth many conditions of the evil spirit, and leaving apart the principal which is to torment with fire, behold the sympathy which they have one with the other. The devils do delight themselves in things which are naturally melancholy, inhabiting in horrible places, obscure and solitary, and loving darkness and sadness: all which qualities are common with them which love, and cannot attain to that which they pretend, they desire solitary places, and the dens of deserts, there to entertain in silence their sad thoughts, without anything to trouble them, no not the light of heaven. But let me entreat thee to proceed in thy story of this knight, for I desire with passion to know the end.

My sister Nisa, said Celio, then (for so was the young man called) could play admirable well of the lute, and sang so sweetly that in the like danger, the dolphin would more willingly have brought her to the shore, then he did Arion sometimes to Corinth. Wherefore by the consent of my parents, and not against her will, she went into Pamphilus' little chamber, (consider with thyself the happy glory of a man in his case) and sang a poem which he himself had composed, for he had that way a dextrous facility, and very natural; neither did it want the excellence of art. But whilst Nisa sang, Pamphilus wept, and never turned his eyes from hers; so that one resembled the crocodile, and the other a Siren, excepting that one sang to give him health, and the other wept to deceive her of her honour. Nisa seeing his extremity of sadness, said unto him that her intent was not that her music should have the same effect in him as it had in others, which is, to make them sadder, but contrarily her desire was to rejoice him. There is (answered he) no other voice nor other harmony, unless it may be the harmony of heaven, can rejoice me but yours: nevertheless my evil being past hope of cure, bindeth me to bewail myself, and not to think upon anything but upon the beauty which causeth it. What evil is that (said Nisa) past cure, which proceedeth from a cause commended by thee? It is an evil (answered Pamphilus) whereof I do hinder the cure, and whereof the only comfort is to know that I suffer it for the fairest creature in the world. The liberty wherein we live (said Nisa) doth give me leave Pamphilus, to speak unto the here of a suspicious matter: by the tokens which thou hast delivered unto me of thy evil, thou hast given me knowledge of the occasion that makes thee sick, although I am ignorant of the cause, who makes the sick: thou lovest without a doubt, and I take it in good part that thou wouldst confess unto me, that which thou wouldest not speak unto the physicians, assuring thee that thou may better trust my love then their art. But I conjure thee, by that goodwill which thou knowest I have born thee ever since thou hast served my parents that thou wilt tell me whether I know her whom thou lovest, and whether I can be helpful unto thee in thy curing, for thy tears doe make me pity thee. You may well serve to help me pitiful Nisa (said then the cunning lover, who might well have instructed Ovid) seeing I do not hope for it from any other hands than yours, and that you know the cause of my pain, as well as you know yourself."

Here Pamphilus demanded of Celio (wondering that he should tell so particularly that which passed so secretly between him and Nisa) how he knew the same words which they had spoken, he being at that time far off, following his study in Salamanca? To which Celio answered, that the same Pamphilus had left the story in writing with a friend of his, from whom having had the means since that time to get it, he learned all unto the least particular, and then proceeding on his discourse, he continued in this manner:

"The colour which came into Nisa’s face when she heard Pamphilus' words, cannot be compared, but unto the red rose with milky leaves, although it be a poetical term, and borrowed of the same author, yet feigning not to understand what he said, she answered that if it were any of her friends she would endeavour (at the least) to bring it about that she should know his evil, that thereupon he might lay the foundation of his remedy. I am in that state said Pamphilus that I dare not so much as sigh or breath out her name, yet I can show you her portrait, which is the original cause of my misfortune, and for whose sake I am come from my own country into yours, where I remain an humble servant of your house, and do think myself most happy to be so, although I am a knight, and equal unto her whom you call your friend, and with whom I should have been now married, if my father had lived until this day, for only his death barred me of this happiness. And in saying these words, Pamphilus gave her her picture, which had been drawn by the most excellent painter of our time, called Philip of Lianho; whose pencil oftentimes durst compare with Nature herself, who out of mere envy unto him for that (as it seemed) shortened his days. Yet Nisa (through whose veins ran a cold shivering) affirmed that she did not know the face; I do not wonder said Pamphilus, that the ancient philosopher hath delivered his opinion; that it is a very hard matter to know oneself, putting this sentence: Know Thyself, on the facades of the most famous temples. Yet see another more natural, the knowledge whereof you cannot deny. Saying this, he reached her a very fair looking-glass: Nisa seeing her face within the crystal could no longer suffer his discourse, nor the knight's presence: but rising up in a fury, said unto him in great anger as she went away, thy boldness shall cost thee thy life. Can it be better employed, answered Pamphilus, than for your beauty to be ended?"

She answered well, said the Pilgrim, if she had accomplished what she said. She accomplished it so ill, replied Celio, that within a few days she loved him better than she loved herself, proving the verse of the famous poet Dante to be infallibly true: that love excuseth no one who is beloved from loving. But how came it (said the pilgrim) that a maid should love; who had hearkened with so much disdain in the beginning? Because, answered Celio, that all maids for their first answer consult with shame, and for their second consult with weakness: although for my own part, I think that Pamphilus despairing of his remedy helped himself with charms. I cannot believe so, answered Pamphilus, a man hath liberty to love, and not to love as it seemeth good unto himself, and it seems to be a terrible and cruel thing that a chaste woman should be violently constrained to love, whether she would or no: charms and witchcraft may peradventure move, persuade and tempt without suffering to be in rest, and with these exterior persuasions make one yield unto the prayers and tears of a lover: yet for all this it cannot be said, that she is constrained but that of her goodwill, she giveth consent to her desire, suffering herself rather to be vanquished by her own proper nature, than by the force of any magic art. Wherefore it is an evident folly in those which love, to complain that they are violently constrained will he nil he, to follow their loves, because God never suffereth that the power of free will should be taken from Man; and if anyone say he hath been forced by diabolical persuasions, it may be answered, he was not forced in his reason, but in his concupiscence: neither is it to be believed that a knight, a Christian wise young and brave gentleman, would help himself with such wicked means to attain his ends. It is not likely, answered Celio, and it may be, that he witnessing his fidelity by other services, obliged her to condescend unto his will, for Nisa is not the only woman in this world subject to this weakness.

"Nevertheless, behold the strange accident which happened unto them both, as a beginning of their misfortunes; for it being rumoured at Madrid that Pamphilus was come from Flanders, the news thereof came unto my father's ears, who (desirous to make him his son in law, in favour of the ancient acquaintance and love he had with his father, and because that it had been formerly agreed between them) one day told her, that he was resolved to marry her, not naming unto whom; and thereupon writing to Madrid, to Pamphilus' mother, entreating her to send him to Toledo, congratulating also with her, her son's happy return and the prosperous success of his affairs, and remembered unto her the amity which he had contracted with her husband, his father. The sad Nisa, who already desperately loved Pamphilus, told him that her father would marry her, and the knight who was designed for her husband was shortly to come from Madrid unto their house, but she knew nothing in particular more of him, but that he was a brave soldier who lately came out of Flanders. Pamphilus (ignorant that he was the person who was meant) fell into great extremity at the news, and after many tears and other follies, he said he was resolved to be gone, for his heart would never suffer him to see a new servant unto his mistress in this house. A strange and never heard of story, that a man should be jealous of himself, and fly from his own presence. Nisa who now thought it as impossible for her to be without Pamphilus, as the Earth without water, fire without matter to burn, or as the celestial harmony without their first mover, said unto him in weeping, that she would have him take her away with him, and that she would follow him over the world; yet upon this condition, that he should swear solemnly, never to lose the respect which was due unto her honour: which oath being taken by Pamphilus without any consideration of the danger which might happen: he made choice of a dark night, and by a garden which answered upon the river, took her from the house, and by the same river went from the town, carrying her in his bark, until he came unto those mountains which are called Sisla: this was it which he writ afterwards from Valencia to a friend of his of Saragossa.

Now follows the beginning of my peregrination, which (having been too long in this history) I will briefly relate. At the dolorous letter which was written to me of this success (which was discovered as soon as Pamphilus was gone from Toledo) I came from Salamanca to my father's house, which I found all in mourning for the loss of my sister. My father in few words obliged me to revenge it, which I swore that I would, with many words as free as his were grave: and to execute my intent I went to Madrid. I sought Pamphilus in all the houses of his friends, and visited his mother, asking news of him, making show how things had passed. His innocent mother said, it was two years since he went into Flanders, and that from the time of his departure, she never had heard from him, from whence she collected he was dead. I thought that she, knowing what he had done, had disguised the truth: and while I was in this meditation, I casting my eyes upon a young gentlewoman, who sat sewing by this reverend matron. I found her in my mind so fair, that her only look had power to temper my sorrow, and hardly had I fully viewed her perfections, when as I propounded in myself to serve her, and to steal her away, thinking by this means to give satisfaction to our honour, and beginning to my revenge. To recount unto you at this time all the passages and the care which I used to speak with her, and to bring her to my will, would be to trouble you with a long discourse; let it satisfy that I drew her from her house with the same thread wherewith Pamphilus had pulled Nisa from ours, and in a strange and foolish mind led her into France, where her beauty ministered subject unto a knight to serve her and for me to kill him: from whence it followed that for safety of my life I was driven to leave her. Nevertheless, I am resolved whatsoever happen unto me to seek her, because that besides, I do love her more than myself, I owe so much unto her merit and virtue with which she hath faithfully accompanied me, through many and variable successes."

Night had spread his black veil over the face of the Earth, and the houses were as full of candles, as the heaven of stars; men and creatures retired themselves, from their common labour, when as the miserable Pamphilus gave over hearing the tragedy of his love, with the last act of his honour: and to know that he did then but begin to suffer his evils when he thought he was at an end of them. He admired the justice of Heaven, which had suffered that his sister should so lightly have quitted her mother's house to run away with a man; yet finding in himself the example of his own misleading of Nisa, and that the injury which he had done unto Celio was no less than that which he had received, he did not hold it just in himself once to think of revenge, but rather to persuade him that he should not, nor ought to leave her, which he performed with the best words, and the liveliest reasons he could devise. Remonstrating unto him that amongst gentlemen the only condition of nobleness should bind him to seek for her, which Celio allowing for most reasonable, gave him his word to employ his endeavours to that purpose. And being lodged this night together, they supped and slept in one house. The next morning Pamphilus gave him a letter to a French gentleman with whom he had great acquaintance, that he might favour him in finding out Finia, for so was his sister called. But Celio departed not for certain days, during which time there was a perfect friendship knit between those two secret enemies; so that Pamphilus knowing the offence which Celio had done unto him, pardoned him in his heart, and Celio ignorant that this was Pamphilus, was disposed to the pardoning of him. The resolution was with great oaths to enquire out one the other, and to help each other in all accidents as brothers; assigning the rendezvous within six months, in the city of Pamplona.

So went Celio upon his enterprise; and some few days after his departure, Pamphilus' sorrow increasing out of the opinion that it was impossible for him to recover Nisa; it happened that going one night from his lodging in a vain desire he had to see the windows of the prison (where his happiness and joy was enclosed) he heard a knight cry out for help against some who would at advantage have killed him. He suddenly stepped unto him, and drawing out his sword out of his palmer's staff with an incredible dexterity, accompanied with a valiant & brave courage, made them loose him whom they would have killed, and save their own lives by a shameful though a safe flight.

The knight would needs know who he was, who had delivered him from so great danger: and although Pamphilus excused himself from telling his name, yet the knight's desire and courtesy prevailed more than the humbleness wherewith the pilgrim did endeavour to persuade him that he had done him no service: to conclude, he led him to his house, where his good and gentle behaviour being observed, the knight and his parents bore such affection unto him that they did oblige him to become their guest.

There remained Pamphilus some days, at the end of which Jacinth (so was this knight called) told him the history of his love unto fair Lucinda, and the occasion for which these assassinators wold have murdered him, who for this only cause, were come from Seville unto Valencia where the subject of the passion and the sorrow wherein he lived did remain. I do believe that lovers have some sympathy one with another, and that they join and communicate in such manner as you have seen in this discourse, seeing that our pilgrim never came into any house where there was not someone or other tainted with this evil, even though it were in craggy mountains.

By this overture of Jacinth's secret, Pamphilus was bound to reveal his: and after he had made him swear that he would grant him his request, he said that in recompense of his life which he had saved, as he himself confessed, he conjured him to help him to a place, in that prison where the mad folks were shut up. Jacinth, astonished at so strange a request, would needs know the cause. But Pamphilus promising to tell him as soon as he had done him that favour, and casting himself at his feet with most earnest and unheard of words, affirming the good he should doe him to put him in this place, made Jacinth suspect that some secret danger did enforce him into that place. And willing very generously to satisfy the obligation wherein he was tied, after some inconveniences and reasons urged to divert him, having agreed with him of the means which he should use. That very night Jacinth took five or six men of the hospital who entering suddenly into Pamphilus' chamber, put him in a chair, and carried him away in their arms. Miserable condition of this man, who after so many strange successes, being wise (if those who love can be so) to make himself to be taken and shut up willingly, as a madman, where all the mad folks would willingly be accounted wise.

All Jacinth's house admired at this novelty, and all his family complained that this stranger, unto whom Jacinth owed his life, was so unworthily requited by Jacinth himself: but she who most complained of his cruelty and had the truest feeling of it was Tiberia his sister, who was both fair and discreet above all the ladies in Valencia, who affecting the gentleness and fair spirit of our unfortunate pilgrim, did not see but by his eyes, and did not breathe but from him. Jacinth told them that Pamphilus was mad, and that it was necessary he should be cured before the disease increased too far. The father of this knight, who was very learned, blamed exceedingly this precipitate course, saying that in all infirmities there was nothing more dangerous than physic out of season, and swore that he should be had out of the hospital to be cured in his house. Tiberia confirmed this piety, saying that reward due unto him, they being not so poor, but that they had means sufficient to have him cured in their house, with greater care of his health, and less scandal to his honour Jacinth replied that he was a stranger, and that nobody knew him. But all the household were so much against him, blaming him for ingratitude, especially his father and his sister, that he was constrained to tell them what he knew. Whereat in imagining the cause, all of them were astonished, and wondered. They thought that Pamphilus was a spy, who went disguised under the habit of a pilgrim, and that fearing to be known by someone, he used this subtility to save his life: for although he spoke Spanish, nevertheless, by his fair face and exceeding beauty, he seemed a stranger, and by his actions a gentleman. With this confession, Jacinth remained in their good opinion, though the house was much troubled, and Tiberia was full of pitiful grief and care for Pamphilus' life: who being in prison among the mad folks (in the judgement of many, the very centre of greatest misery) imagined himself to be in most glorious happiness.

To this new madman the more ancient gave place, and Pamphilus, with divers feignings and counterfeitings of his face, endeavoured to express his madness; which fashion of his, seeming them as tokens of rashness, they put him into the prison with irons on his hands, where to confirm them the more in their opinion of his madness, he said so many words so far from the matter, that his affliction was believed. There he stayed some few days before he could see his beloved Nisa, suffering most insupportable discommodities, difficult to be spoken of, and almost impossible to be believed; in the meantime Celio went by Saragossa into France, to find his beautiful and beloved Finia whom he had lost, where being come, he heard the news of the peace which was proclaimed between the two nations, which made him rest that night (with more contentment out of the facility which it brought to his design) staying for the light of the morning to clear his passage over the mountains into France.

The End of the Second Book.