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

by Lope de Vega

The Pilgrim of Castile, or El Pelegrino in Su Patria

by Lope de Vega, translated and abridged by William Dutton

published 1621

The First Book

Upon the shore of Barcelona, between the planks of a ship which had suffered wreck, there appeared as if it had been a parcel of cloth covered with weed: which being perceived by some fishermen, they took it into their bark, and carried it along the shore about the space of two miles, where under the shade of some trees, they cleaned away the weeds and mud, and found that it was a man in a trance, who was almost past sense, and without life. These fishers, moved with compassion, kindled a fire with some branches cut from an old oak, and he who had been so near the losing of his life, now recovering it, let them know what countryman he was, by his complaint: discovered his admiration by his looks; and the feeling he had of the good which they had done him, by the fire with which he had to acknowledge it. Nature, doing the accustomed office of a pitiful mother, sent his blood to restore the more enfeebled parts; and having brought him almost to his former strength, he was about to have revealed himself: but thinking it did not fit in so strange a fortune, he concealed his birth and name, only saying that his ship suffered wreck in the sea, and seizing of these planks which the waves had cast upon the shore, he was two days floating amongst the billows of the sea, who sometimes merciful and then again cruel, did bring him nearer and then farther from the land, until such time that the reflux of the water vanquishing the impetuosity of the tempest, he was cast upon the sands, where the violence of the stroke having as it were ploughed up his tomb, he thought himself buried. His return (he said) was from Italy, and the occasion of his voyage the indulgences of the Jubilee, which was while Clement the Eighth sat as Pope. And sighing much, amongst the broken speeches of his story, he let them understand that he missed a companion of his travels, of whom there was no news to be had, as it seldom happens that those who do free us from bodily misfortunes can also ease those of the mind. So he rested this day within one of their cabins, while the cold night descending, all crowned with stars, did impart unto mortal creatures rest in conformity with the quality of their lives, giving desires unto the poor, cares unto the rich, complaints unto the sad, unto the contented sleep, and jealousy to the amorous. In the midst thereof he heard a lyre played upon, and according with a voice, which in singing complained of a shepherdess’s cruelty. The pilgrim, although weary, loved music more than rest, and went out of his cabin into a meadow, from whence seeing about a dozen houses, and among some osiers the author of those plaints, called him from a distance. The singer replied fearfully, but the pale light of the moon, revealing the secrets of the night, made him see that it was a poor man, and without arms. He then showed him a plank lying amongst reeds over a little brook, giving its murmuring unto the solitariness of the place and silence of the night; which when he had passed, they saluted one the other courteously, especially he which came (for strangers are always courteous out of necessity); and they sat down together upon the grass.

No sooner had the pilgrim informed himself of the name of the village, of the lord thereof, and how far it was distant from Barcelona, when they saw two men approaching, who instead of saluting them presented two arquebuses to their faces, and instilled a thousand fears in their hearts. The stranger told them that they could take nothing from them but his life--which he esteemed little (and six hours ago much less): the other said that he was the son of a seaman--between a fisherman and a pilot--and that all his goods consisted of this his instrument, with which he did charm away his cares. The soldiers did not appear to desire their clothes, because one was of ship’s canvas and the other of coarse cloth; and there is no robber who is not liberal of that which is of no worth. But they entreated them to conduct them to the village, which in regard to the uncertainty of the way they could not find but in a great time. The fisherman told them that in recompense for their courtesy he would advise them not to go, forasmuch as the inhabitants were a warlike people, and did not willingly lodge men of their fashion; and that it would be impossible to escape from their hands if they were discovered, because upon the sounding of the first alarm, all the other villages would answer them, from whom would come a multitude of labourers, who with divers arms would stop the passages, and knew the ways so well that there was neither brook, tree nor rock which they had not at their fingers’ ends. To this counsel the bandoleers replied that they were not alone; but there were above fifty in their troupe, fighting under the colours of a Catalonian knight, who had been injured by another more mighty than he both in means and parentage, although not in strength, reason or courage. Hardly had they ended these words, when by the light of the stars they saw the arms of the squadron and its captain of whom they had spoken, and now being joined all together, they lodged by force in various houses of the village. The pilgrim, curious to learn (as are all those who travel in foreign countries), mingled himself amongst the soldiers, who in no way disliked his company but instead invited him to supper; after which (the floor serving them for beds) they entertained one the other with discourse, until the slow dawn then at the end of February became daybreak. Now that they knew the pilgrim’s history, and he being desirous to learn from them their own turbulent narrative, his features and comprehension being pleasing to them, one among them named Ramond told it in this manner:

The History of Doricles

"In this famous city, which with a wonderful greatness opposeth Italy, and astonisheth Africa, there was born a lady of noble parentage, who having been a firebrand unto her country, had no small conformity with Greek Helen. Her name was Florinda, her beauty heavenly and her spirit divine, and she having attained unto years fit for marriage, two knights equal in youth, greatness of means and nobleness of blood did seek her love, with like hope but unlike favour. Love, natural inclination, a sympathy of manners or an influence of the stars did constrain Florinda to love Doricles and hate Filander, who to shorten his way between hope and possession, and to prevent his rival, demanded her in marriage of her parents, who would willingly have given the respect which they might unto the intercessor and his merits, had they not found that Florinda felt differently on gaining knowledge of the husband which they propounded to her. They loved her tenderly and would not constrain her with rigour, but speaking frankly to Filander, told him that she would not agree to it, although they had persuaded her as masters, and commanded as parents. Filander augmenting his love by her dislike, found out that the love which Florinda bore for Doricles was the cause of the disdain she bore him. The idea of revenge came to him, and he formed a resolution to remove from the world the obstacle of his design, notwithstanding the scandals and evils that so brutal an enterprise might bring. He armed himself with such company as he thought good (as he was not unprovided with friends nor wanted servants) at such times as he thought he might find Doricles at his mistress’s door, or in the street by her house. But his rival, dubious of his plans, always went well accompanied and better armed, as one who did not think that he could have a better friend than his sword. Having caused a ladder to be brought upon the eve of a feast unto her garden wall, by that means to speak with her, it happened that Filander coming into that street, and performing his usual office of spy, heard Florinda speak to Doricles, and saw her give him a nosegay of jasmine which she had in her hand, with embracings more insupportable to him than favourable to Doricles. He charged those which kept the gate, and began with them a cruel combat: Doricles comes down, and searching Philander in the midst of his enemies, wounds him and puts him to flight: for a favoured lover is as a gambler who wins, and in all hazards is always master of the fortunes of his adversary. Doricles goes away victorious out of the street, while Filander’s love (which had turned to disdain) became by this encounter a mortal hatred. Then either side increased their bands; the fire of their anger kindled all their parents; and although they every day spoke together as if they had no quarrel, they failed not to fight every night when they met. In this scandal Doricles lost the enjoying of his mistress, Filander her favour, she her renown and their parents their honour. Time increased the love of the one, while the other’s hatred increased his desire of revenge, and of the small pleasure which the two lovers had, Filander had the least, it seeming better to him in this business to rely upon his industry for the effecting of that which his strength would be wanting. Having then learned that Florinda was to take her pleasure at sea in a bark, he hid two or three days before a brigantine in a creek not far from the shore, in which he appareled himself like a Turk, with some other of his friends (for accomplices in amorous enterprises are seldom wanting) and with necessary rowers attended his mistress: the Meuxin, which is the tower where the watch of Barcelona is kept, having discovered that no enemies sailed in all the sea. In the meantime the contented Florinda with her companions was not gone from the shore a league when the counterfeit frigate hoisted sail, and beating the water with her oars, overtook her bark, the mariners whereof looking for nothing less than such a surprise, could not resolve either to fly or to defend themselves; but contrariwise (as the fearful bird seeing the proud merlin come fiercely stooping upon her, is accustomed to attend her with couched wings) acknowledging by the Turkish sails, the power of their enemies which were upon them, and quitted their oars; and fear (which with a cold shivering ran through all their veins) gave them no time to discern their deceit. Finally they boarded them, and two or three of the disguised Turks leaping into the bark ravished away the new Helen, who was carried into the brigantine and found herself in the arms of Filander. The counterfeit words of these pirates, who called him Murat Rais, made those who remained free in the bark believe that he was the author of this robbery, and seeing that they took nothing but Florinda, they returned again to Barcelona, recounting the disgrace in every street and place where they came, with more cries and tears than words, which coming to the ears of her parents, caused more grief in them then can be told, principally in her sorrowful mother, who bewailed her loss with a passion more befitting her sex than a generous courage. Mounted scouts in vain spurred up and down the coast, but Filander (who had brought Florinda into a private garden house, having taken away his turban and his Turkish disguise) declared unto her, that the incomparable force of his love had constrained him to have recourse to this deviousness, and did enjoy her beauty with assurance, although she took heaven, the trees and the fountains to witness the violence which was used on her.

Of no less consideration was Doricles’ pain, who full of mortal sorrow, was a thousand times by the sea’s side ready to imitate the despair of those nymphs which saw Europa ravished; nevertheless, and as well to oblige unto him his mistress’s parents, and to satisfy himself, he bought a ship of an Aragonese, which had brought in wheat, and loading it with silks, velvets and other merchandise gave his sails to the wind, turning his prow toward Argiere, Sali, Morat, Fuchel, Mami, Xafer, and other pirate haunts; Doricles enquired amongst them of his mistress, and of as many others as he knew did rob upon the coast of Spain. But when he met with none who could tell him news of her, whom his rival enjoyed with such pleasure, he went to Constantinople, and from thence unto Cairo, and having run along the coast of the kingdoms of Fez, Morocco, Tarndan, and Tafilet, despairing of ever finding her, whom he had so long time, and so vainly sought, changed his merchandise into Christian slaves and returning into Spain, disembarked at Ceuta. While the deceived Doricles did thus run along the coast of Africa, a servant of Filander, were it either out of some displeasure which he had taken, or out of envy of his happiness, revealed all the proceeding unto the Justice of Barcelona, who in the night following besieged the garden house, with main force, and took Filander then when he least expected it. The news and admiration, which his subtility and surprise caused in the city, moved the citizens confusedly to see him pass through the streets; through the midst of whom he was borne to prison, and the sorrowful maid (already made a woman against her will) was rendered unto her parents; the sentence was mortal, the opinion common, the approbation general, and the process short. The scaffold was ready, Filander disposed himself to die, and made it appear that he had the courage of a knight, and the soul of a Christian; nevertheless the Viceroy and the Bishop, interposing their authority, assembled the parents, and having mollified the nearest, dissuaded Filander’s death, in respect of the honour which they might gain by his life. So of two evils choosing the least, they had more care to the reparation of their honour, than to the contentment of revenge; thus they changed the mourning which was already provided for Filander into nuptial habits, and the scaffold into a bed, where Florinda was given him in lawful marriage: but the same day that they joined hands with the contentment and rejoicing of all the world, Doricles entered into the city, and unlooked for appeared at the head of two hundred men, whom he had drawn out of captivity, upon whose casques did shine in silver broidery the arms of Barcelona and their restorer; his word was I love the King. The sight and entry of this heroic citizen was exceedingly agreeable and dear unto the Barcelonians; but the insupportable news of his rival’s marriage with his mistress was no sooner come unto Doricles’ ears, but all the city in arms were divided into factions, and contrary parties. This suspended the marriage for some days, during which time it was remonstrated unto Doricles, that he could not marry Florinda without infamy. He answered that what he could not have, ought not to be given to Filander, it being in no way reasonable that this deceiver should gain by fraud what he had lost by so much travail; and there was no other means to accord him, but that Florinda should retire into a monastery. This distressed her parents who were already contented with the satisfaction of their honour, and the alliance of their son in law, whose parents offered unto Doricles a beautiful sister of Filander in marriage; but he unwilling thereunto, demanded justice against Filander for his crime, offering that after he should be beheaded he would marry Florinda as widow unto a knight. This last offer was in principle agreed unto by Filander’s and Florinda’s parents, but when Doricles thought that Filander had been led to prison, and from thence to death, he was given to understand how he was pardoned, and the marriage consummated. If his sorrow were great it may be known by the effects, seeing it is now twenty years since, from these Pyrennean mountains which divide France from Spain, he hath lived as an outlaw, robbed, pillaged and ruined all that he finds, neither kingdoms being able to take any revenge. He was one and twenty years old when he came from Africa: he is now forty one: a strong man, vigorous of his person, which is much fortified by his austere and wild life. And that may be believed of him, which was said of Hercules, that without doubt he had three lives, for if he had had but one, it had been a miracle that he had not lost it by so many wounds.

This day about sunrise he came down to see what noise this was, which the night before had sounded from the sea unto the woods, and he with about ten of us which followed him having found some boards which the sea had cast up, upon one of which was seated a young man in habit of a pilgrim like thyself, pale, in a trance, all drenched in water, his hair full of dirt and sand, and to conclude, evil accommodated with this tempest. He commanded us to carry him to that place where the rest of his men were, and as well to dry him as to get him breath, which he had almost lost, we endeavoured to unclothe him, but he refusing to be seen or to be touched by us, it made our captain suspect that he was not a man, for although he enforced himself to appear so, yet his actions showed the clean contrary; when as preventing the desire which the captain had to be cleared of his sex, this pilgrim of whom I tell thee (taking him aside) confessed that she was a woman, who came in this habit from Italy, with her husband; in which voyage, they had suffered shipwreck upon this shore: and in saying this, shame and desire to defend herself brought colour into her face, and valour into her heart; with one, she appeared perfectly fair, and with the other extremely hardy: Nevertheless her beauty being more powerful to hurt others, than her strength to defend herself, hath vanquished Doricles’ mind, who with sweet and courteous words persuaded her to rest this day in his company, during which time her face hath never been without tears. In the meantime he commanded, after sunset, that his supper and his bed should be provided in one of those villages, but we instantly heard that some charge of money which was to be carried to Genoa, should come this way, and having waited for them until midnight, we were without both supper and lodging: for this cause we sent two of our companions before, who are they which found you together with him who conducted us hither; Doricles is now with this pilgrim; I cannot tell thee whether he hath gained her or no, nor whether the bed had made a peace between two minds so absolutely differing: but certain it is that they are now lodged together."