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

by Lope de Vega

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.