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

by Lope de Vega

Is this O Finia, the confidence which I had of thy virtue so conformable to the nobleness of thy blood? Is it here (after having searched thee almost all France over, having measured step by step all the tedious plains and craggy mountains which did lead unto any place where there was either hope or likelihood to find thee, undergoing many notable dangers) that I should think to find thee in a public prison with a young man? Now are all my suspicions confirmed, and my reasons that I had to kill the Frenchman, for which I have suffered so many travails: Is this the recompense of so many evils, which for thy sake I have endured? Dost thou thus requite thy obligations to me? At the least this comfort I have, I may return into my country with full assurance that I shall not incur any infamy, neither in thy friend's opinion nor in mine own: for having left thee in this danger, and in those which will inevitably follow thee, seeing thou hast found another who accompanies thee, honours thee and defends thee. Think not, O ungrateful person, answered Finia in weeping, that I have ever offended thee, for thou canst not make me suffer so much that I would hazard that which thou hast cost me, for all the treasure of the world: thy jealousy made thee kill a man and leave me alone in such a place; the difficulty of getting away from whence, considering my weakness, may seem a miracle. In my voyage I have met with this man, who no less innocent then chaste Joseph, suffers this unjust imprisonment for having been the most honest helper that I could have desired in thy absence, as thou may plainly see by the modesty of his countenance and his speech, if thou please to speak with him. To excuse thyself, answered Celio, in so notorious a crime, is to move me to greater anger, because thou may have failed as a woman, but to deny it to me and to say that thou hast not done it, is a most evident token that thou wilt deceive me either here or in thy own country (if ever thou return thither) therefore I do forbid thee for ever to dare to name me or to say thou ever knew me. So said Celio, and turning his back to Finia left her in the greatest grief that a woman could suffer; which is in these accidents to lose his presence under whose protection she lives: especially when it seems to her that she cannot hope for any other remedy or succour. Celio hiding the tears which he shed in going away, and consulting with the fury of his jealousy, and his rage for the injury which he did think he had received, concerning the revenge which he should take, waited for Nisa’s enlargement, that he might kill him. The judges although that the prisoner's innocence did sufficiently appear, yet would not give them liberty to return together (for those do seem to permit the evil, which do not forbid the occasion) but retired Finia into a house and commanded Nisa whom they called Felix, that that day he should leave the city of Barcelona. Nisa went then late in the evening out of the town, and far from thinking that her brother waited to kill her, believing her to be the man with whom Finia had so irreconcilably offended him: and the darkness of the evening with the disguise of man's apparel which Nisa wore deprived Celio’s eyes, (already blinded with anger) from discerning her to be his sister Nisa, into whose body he twice thrust his sword, and had absolutely killed her if some passengers upon the way at that time had not, not only hindered him, but also apprehended him and put him in prison.

The miserable Nisa, who then began to have a greater feeling of her suffered miseries, was carried to an honourable citizen's house of great compassion and charity, who having given order for her dressing and found that her wounds were not mortal, pursued Celio so eagerly in justice, informing the judges of the crime which he himself had seen him commit, that the third day after he was condemned to death. Celio alleged in his defence that Finia was his lawful wife, and that having found her imprisoned with this young man for suspicion of incontinency, he did not think that he had done evil if he had killed them both. Whereupon they ordered that Finia should be imprisoned again; but she having some notice thereof, prevented it by flight.

On the other side, Pamphilus coming to Valencia recovered his liberty by Jacinth's means; with an extreme contentment to Tiberia, unto whom Pamphilus giving thanks for the care which she had of him, raised in her a thousand hopes which his absence and misery had killed. He took leave of her with many fair and amorous words, and returning to Barcelona, went to seek for his dear Nisa in the prison wherein he had seen her shut when he went away as a madman. But when he found Celio there in her place, in such extreme danger of his life, from whom (informing him of the cause of his misfortune) he was told all the injury which Finia had done him with a pilgrim, whom he had wounded, whereby he came to know that this man whom Celio out of jealousy would have killed was his own sister Nisa. And with the grief of so unhappy a news, Pamphilus cried out; O cruel Celio, thou hast taken away the life of thy own sister, and my dear wife, whom under this habit accompanied my fortunes: and it may be also my sister Finia, for whose sake thou hast unjustly killed Nisa. I am Pamphilus thy enemy, unto whom (not knowing of me) thou didst recite the story of thy fortunes, who have already pardoned the injury which thou hast done to my honour in ravishing away Finia, having consideration of the injury which I did thee in leading away Nisa.

With less grief would Celio have heard the sentence of his death, than the relation which Pamphilus made; for he remained so astonished and silent as if he had been taken out of prison to go to execution. He would have justified his innocence, but being not able to utter one word, he remained dumb, and his hands and his feet without any motion made him appear as one insensible. Pamphilus as almost mad, left him in the prison, and going up and down to enquire for Nisa, he was accounted for a madman by all those who saw him, for they did remember that for a madman he was saved, being condemned to die. Pamphilus having been three or four times at Jacinth's house; love, to work the greater confusion, had augmented his sister Tiberia’s desires; who (as you have heard) cast her eyes upon Pamphilus' beauty: he overcome with the good turns, and pitiful care which she had of his misfortunes, had not rigorously entreated her thoughts: she, when this last time she saw him return to Barcelona, and that neither her prayers nor entreaties could stay him; wrote to her brother (who did accompany him in his journey) how that Pamphilus, out of the lustful courage of an ungrateful guest, had so far forgotten himself as to make love to her, and that she, yielding to his persuasions had embarked herself with more sure gauges, than, without the bonds of marriage, did fit either with her honour or the reputation of either of them.

Jacinth, angry at this evil correspondence and ungrateful acknowledgement of his friendship, good turns and hospitality, sought Pamphilus as earnestly as he sought Nisa, and having found him, led him out of the town upon the shore side, where he showed him his sister's letter: afterwards (setting his hand on his sword) he said he would wish him to draw his sword: now to offend him, that sword which formerly he had at Valencia, drawn in his defence, although a treacherous fellow as he was did not deserve to have his sword measured with his. The innocent pilgrim excused himself, entreating him to let him search out Nisa, whom (he said) he had heard was sore wounded, and that he would not upon the lies and indiscretion of a despised woman hinder him in this business which did so nearly concern him as did the search for his dear wife, who was in danger of losing her life; and that he himself was the most assured witness to how much pain, labour and danger Nisa had cost him; and only thoughts of whom had kept him from taking pleasure in any other thing. These excuses did not satisfy Jacinth, because the opinion which he had concealed of his sister Tiberia’s virtues did darken in his understanding the light of all Pamphilus' reason: who out of the many obligations against his honour and condition, suffered Jacinth's injurious words. But in the end, seeing him threaten him with his sword in his hand, calling him base coward, runagate, and many other insupportable insolences, he drew his sword to slay his enemies and with a point nimbly running upon him, overthrew him to the ground, if not dead, yet at least so near dead that he seemed so. Pamphilus most grievously detesting his most outrageous fortune, took him in his arms and carried him into the town, the one shedding his blood and the other his tears; and finding strong life in him, he persuaded him of the truth of his innocence, leaving him at a church door (whither the people flocked apace to see him, knowing that he was wounded). And without inquiring any further of Nisa, he went once again out of Barcelona, although much more sad; for he left his best friend whom he had sorely wounded with his own hand, and his dearest friend near the hands of death.

Iber so called of Iberia, an ancient river of that kingdom (sometimes very rich) not far from that place where Scipio vanquished the Carthaginians, and as Titus Livius affirms, joined Spain to the Roman Empire, running from two fountains, bathes the fields of the Cantabrians and the Celtiberians, taking its name from the Celts which came out of France, and from the province of Iberia, no less rich and fruitful than those which of the same name are called Iberian, near the mountain Caucasas, having abundance of gold within their veins. This famous flood, according to Pliny, rises near to the ancient Iuliobriga, and after many windings and turnings comes to wash the walls of Sallibinum, which Caesar called Caesar Augustus, and the injury of times Saragossa.

At the course of these crystalline waters Pamphilus stayed his flight, sitting down upon the bank of the river, which began to swell with his tears, so pitiful to behold, that the very winds did seem to condole with him in his complaints by their doleful noise, amongst the leaves of the trees, and the birds warbling out their woes. There was not anything of life which had not some show of sorrow with him, unless it were the fishes, which being dumb did not put forth their heads out of their clear waters at the importunity of other voices, yet their silence did seem to join with him in sorrow. Is it possible said he, that the fear of losing this unprofitable life should have more power over me than the duties which I owe to my birth and to my mistress? How comes it to pass that not to lose a thing, so vile in my eyes, so heavy to my soul and so grievous to my suffering, I have lost the most esteemed of my understanding, the most honoured of my memory and the most adored of my will? It is thou fair Nisa, who over the sharp mountains of Toledo didst courageously follow my steps, from their highest tops even to the sands of the Spanish Sea: thou art she, who in the battle of Ceuta didst bitterly bewail my captivity: art not thou o my dear Nisa she who under the habit of a Moor and under the name of Hassan Rubin, drew me from the Kingdom of Fez, and from the captivity of Sali Morata? Wert not thou cast away with me at sea, in our return from Italy within the view of Barcelona's walls, and whom the sea cast up on the shore, as unworthy to possess so rich a pearl? Didst not thou live afterwards a long time amongst the madmen as deprived of thy reason, with the very grief of my Death? Didst not thou suffer new shipwreck at Marseille? And finally wounded by thy jealous brother lie now in a strange country, either sick or dead? Seeing all this is so, how can I apprehend the least notion of leaving thee? Where is my courage, or am I not Pamphilus of Luxan? Is this the virtuous blood of those valiant governors, who so nobly defended the walls of Madrid from the Moors of Toledo? It is not possible! I am not myself, my misfortunes have changed me into something else. To be in love and to be a coward is a manifest contrariety: yet to deny that I love is to say the sun is darkness and the night light, especially since I cannot say but that I have seen Nisa. But seeing I do confess that I have seen her, how can I say but that I love her? And if I love her, how can I leave her? And if I have left her, wherefore do I live?

So did Pamphilus accuse himself for having left Nisa for any danger; no more nor no less than as one who travailing upon the way remembers something of importance which he had forgotten at home, breaking off from his discourse and from his company, turns back again to his lodging where he thinks he shall never come time enough; with the same haste Pamphilus makes his way back again to Barcelona, from which both in haste and fear he had departed. A strong chain of lovers, which tied to their desired beauty, shortens itself by the force which lengthens it, until it returns to its centre. Beauty without doubt, which lifting up the vapours of the lovers' eyes, seems to draw unto itself the very weighty and earthy part, despite all resistance made by the natural weight, and as the sun oftentimes converts into burning beams the humour which is concealed in the clouds, so beauty converts into fire all the tears and sadness of lovers.

Few leagues had Pamphilus journeyed from the famous colony of the Romans when as going down a hill, it being so late that the sun had left no light in the west, but as it were a golden girdle; which environing the horizon did seem as a crown unto the neighbouring night: he heard a voice grievously complaining in a meadow, which shadowed with high rocks, was very dark.

The courageous pilgrim went into it, and saw a man lying upon the grass amongst the trees which were watered with a fresh brook, of whom demanding the cause of his complaint, he entreated him to come to him, if he desired to know, before he yielded up his soul, caused by three mortal wounds which were made in his body. Pamphilus approached him although with some distrust, and lifting him up leaned his head against a tree. I am a knight, said the wounded man; treacherously murdered by his hands who hath received most good turns from me; there is a monastery in these fields which is not far from hence, if thou canst carry me on thy shoulders thither, thou shalt bee the Aeneas of my soul, and I the Anchises, saved peradventure from the eternal fire which I have merited. Pamphilus laid down his palmer's staff (oh how hurtful it is to leave one's weapons upon any occasion whatsoever) taking him in his arms; and remembering that he had so carried Jacinth, he thought to himself, that seeing he was come to carry others to the grave, he was not far from thence himself: and comforted himself with this, that if he were not Death himself, he was yet his bier. So journeying towards the monastery with the wounded man, who with broken speeches interrupted by his approaching death, recited the cause thereof. The pilgrim being come to the gate, and seeing by the clear light of the moon, in the front thereof, the image of our Blessed Lady the Virgin, said to the wounded man that he should recommend his soul whilst he knocked at the gate. At whose knocking the porter being come, and informed by the pilgrim of the accident, answered that with like dissimulation, certain bandoleers of Jara had one night robbed the monastery, and for that cause he could not open the gate without the superior's license. Pamphilus entreated him to dispatch: but there being a long garden between the monastery and cell, before he could return the knight died in his arms.