BOOK II.

Being now free and relieved from what they had to do that night with

their flocks, they arranged to retire and withdraw with Teolinda to a

spot where they might, without being hindered by anyone, hear what was

lacking of the issue of her love. And so they betook themselves to a

little garden by Galatea's house; and, the three seating themselves

beneath a stately green vine which entwined itself in an intricate

manner along some wooden network, Teolinda repeated once more some

words of what she had said before and went on, saying:

'After our dance and Artidoro's song were ended, as I have already

told you, fair shepherdesses, it seemed good to all of us to return

to the village to perform in the temple the solemn rites, and because

it likewise seemed to us that the solemnity of the feast in some way

gave us liberty; but not being so punctilious as to seclusion, we

enjoyed ourselves with more freedom. Wherefore we all, shepherds and

shepherdesses, in a confused mass, with gladness and rejoicing returned

to the village, speaking each with the one who pleased him best. Fate,

and my care, and Artidoro's solicitude also ordained that, without any

display of artifice in the matter, we two kept apart from the rest in

such a manner that on the way we might safely have said more than what

we did say, if each of us had not respected what we owed to ourselves

and to each other. At length I said to him, to draw him out, as the

saying goes: "The days you have spent in our village, Artidoro, will

be years to you, since in your own you must have things to occupy you

which must give you greater pleasure." "All that I can hope for in my

life," replied Artidoro, "would I exchange, if only the days I have to

spend here might be, not years, but centuries, since, when they come to

an end, I do not hope to pass others that may give me greater joy." "Is

the joy you feel so great," I replied, "at seeing our festivals?" "It

does not arise from this," he answered, "but from regarding the beauty

of the shepherdesses of your village." "In truth," I retorted, "pretty

girls must be wanting in yours." "The truth is that they are not

wanting there," he replied, "but that here there is a superabundance,

so that one single one I have seen is enough for those of yonder

place to count themselves ugly compared to her." "Your courtesy makes

you say this, oh Artidoro," I replied, "for I know full well that in

this hamlet there is no one who excels so much as you say." "I know

better that what I say is true," he answered, "since I have seen the

one and beheld the others." "Perhaps you beheld her from afar, and

the distance between," said I, "made you see a different thing from

what it really was." "In the same way," he replied, "as I see and am

beholding you now, I beheld and saw her. Happy should I be to have

been mistaken, if her disposition does not agree with her beauty." "It

would not grieve me to be the one you say, for the pleasure she must

feel who sees herself proclaimed and accounted beautiful." "I would

much rather that you were not," replied Artidoro. "Then what would you

lose," I answered, "if instead of not being the one you say, I were?"

"What I have gained, I know full well," he replied, "as to what I

have to lose, I am doubtful and in fear." "You know well how to play

the lover, Artidoro," said I. "You know better how to inspire love,

Teolinda," he replied. Thereon I said to him, "I do not know if I

should tell you, Artidoro, that I wish neither of us to be deceived."

Whereto he replied, "I am quite sure that I am not deceived, and it

is in your hands to seek to undeceive yourself as often as you seek

to make trial of the pure desire I have to serve you." "I will reward

you for that," I answered, "with the same desire; for it seems to me

that it would not be well to remain indebted to anybody where the cost

is so small." At this moment, without his having a chance to reply to

me, the head-shepherd Eleuco came up, saying in a loud voice: "Ho,

gay shepherds and fair shepherdesses, make them hear our approach in

the village, you singing some chant, maidens, so that we can reply to

you, in order that the people of the hamlet may see how much we who

are on our way here, do to make our festival joyous." And because in

nothing that Eleuco commanded did he fail to be obeyed, straightway

the shepherds beckoned to me to begin; and so, availing myself of

the opportunity, and profiting by what had passed with Artidoro, I

commenced this chant:

Whosoever by much striving

Would the perfect lover be

_Honour needs and secrecy_.

Wouldst thou seek with heart elate

Love's sweet joy to reach aright,

Take as key to thy delight

Honour, secrecy as gate.

Who thereby would enter straight,

Wise and witty though he be

_Honour needs and secrecy_.

Whoso loveth human beauty,

With reproach is oft confounded,

If his passion be not bounded

By his honour and his duty:

And such noble love as booty

Winneth every man, if he

_Honour have and secrecy_.

Everyone this truth hath known,

And it cannot be denied,

That speech oft will lose the bride

Whom a silent tongue hath won,

And he will all conflict shun

Who a lover is, if he

_Honour have and secrecy_.

Chattering tongues, audacious eyes,

May have brought a thousand cares,

May have set a thousand snares

For the soul, and so it dies.

Whoso would his miseries

Lessen, and from strife be free,

_Honour needs and secrecy_.

'I know not, fair shepherdesses, if in singing what you have heard I

succeeded; but I know very well that Artidoro knew how to profit by

it, since all the time he was in our village, though he often spoke to

me, it was with so much reserve, secrecy, and modesty that idle eyes

and chattering tongues neither had nor saw aught to say that might be

prejudicial to our honour. But in the fear I had that, when the period

Artidoro had promised to spend in our village was ended, he would have

to go to his own, I sought, though at the cost of my modesty, that my

heart should not remain with the regret of having kept silence on what

it were useless to speak afterwards, when Artidoro had gone. And so,

after my eyes gave leave for his most beauteous eyes to gaze on me

lovingly, our tongues were not still, nor failed to show with words

what up till then the eyes had so clearly declared by sign. Finally,

you must know, friends, that one day when I found myself by chance

alone with Artidoro, he disclosed to me, with tokens of an ardent

love and courtesy, the true and honourable love he felt for me; and

though I would have wished to play the reluctant prude, yet, because

I was afraid, as I have already told you, that he would go, I did not

wish to disdain him nor to dismiss him, and also because it seemed to

me that the lack of sympathy, inspired or felt at the beginning of

a love-affair, is the reason why those who are not very experienced

in their passion, abandon and leave the enterprise they have begun.

Wherefore I gave him answer such as I desired to give him. We agreed

in the resolve that he should repair to his village, and a few days

after should by some honourable mediation send to ask me in marriage

from my parents; whereat he was so happy and content that he did not

cease to call the day fortunate on which his eyes beheld me. As for

me, I can tell you that I would not have changed my happiness for any

other that could be imagined; for I was sure that Artidoro's worth and

good qualities were such that my father would be happy to receive him

as a son-in-law. The happy climax you have heard, shepherdesses, was

the climax of our love, for only two or three days remained before

Artidoro's departure, when fortune, as one who never set bounds to

her designs, ordained that a sister of mine, a little younger than I,

should return to our village from another where she had been for some

days, in the house of an aunt of ours who was ill. And in order that

you may see, ladies, what strange and unthought-of chances happen in

the world, I would have you know a fact which I think will not fail to

cause in you some strange feeling of wonder: it is that this sister of

mine I have told you of, who up till then had been away, resembles me

so much in face, stature, grace, and spirit (if I have any), that not

merely those of our hamlet, but our very parents have often mistaken

us, and spoken to the one for the other, so that, not to fall into

this error, they distinguished us by the differences of our dresses,

which were different. In one thing only, as I believe, did Nature

make us quite different, namely, in disposition, my sister's being

harsher than my happiness required, since, because of her being less

compassionate than sharp-witted, I shall have to weep as long as my

life endures. It happened, then, that as soon as my sister came to the

village desiring to resume the rustic duties that were pleasing to her,

she rose next day earlier than I wished, and went off to the meadow

with the very sheep I used to lead; and though I wished to follow her

by reason of the happiness which followed to me from the sight of

my Artidoro, for some reason or other my mother kept me at home the

whole of that day, which was the last of my joys. For that night my

sister, having brought back her flock, told me as in secret that she

had to tell me something of great importance to me. I, who might have

imagined anything rather than what she said to me, arranged that we

should soon see each other alone, when with face somewhat moved, I

hanging on her words, she began to say to me: "I know not, sister mine,

what to think of your honour, nor yet whether I should be silent on

what I cannot refrain from telling you, in order to see if you give

me any excuse for the fault I imagine you are guilty of: and though,

as a younger sister, I should have addressed you with more respect,

you must forgive me; for in what I have seen to-day you will find the

excuse for what I say to you." When I heard her speaking in this way

I knew not what to answer her except to tell her to go on with her

discourse. "You must know, sister," she proceeded, "that this morning

when I went forth with our sheep to the meadow, and was going alone

with them along the bank of our cool Henares, as I passed through the

glade of counsel there came out towards me a shepherd whom I can truly

swear I have never seen in our district; and with a strange freedom

of manner he began to greet me so lovingly that I stood shamed and

confused, not knowing what to answer him. Failing to take warning from

the anger which I fancy I showed in my face, he came up to me, saying

to me: 'What silence is this, fair Teolinda, last refuge of this soul

that adores you?' And he was on the point of taking my hands to kiss

them, adding to what I have said a whole list of endearments, which it

seemed he brought ready prepared. At once I understood, seeing that he

was falling into the error many others have fallen into, and thinking

he was speaking with you; whence a suspicion arose in me that if you,

sister, had never seen him, nor treated him with familiarity, it would

not be possible for him to have the boldness to speak to you in that

way. Whereat I felt so great a rage that I could scarcely form words

to answer him, but at last I replied to him in the way his boldness

deserved, and as it seemed to me you, sister, would have had to answer

anyone speaking to you so freely; and if it had not been that the

shepherdess Licea came up at that moment, I had added such words that

he would truly have repented addressing his to me. And the best of it

is that I never chose to tell him of the error he was in, but that he

believed I was Teolinda, as if he had been speaking with you yourself.

At last he went off, calling me thankless, ungrateful, one who showed

little return; and from what I can judge from the expression he bore,

I assure you, sister, he will not dare speak to you again though he

should meet you all alone. What I want to know is who is this shepherd,

and what converse has been between you, whence it comes that he dare

speak to you with such freedom?" To your great discretion, discreet

shepherdesses, I leave it to imagine what my soul would feel on hearing

what my sister told me: but at length, dissembling as best I could,

I said to her: "You have done me the greatest favour in the world,

sister Leonarda," (for so was called the disturber of my peace) "in

having by your harsh words rid me of the disgust and turmoil caused me

by the importunities you mention of this shepherd. He is a stranger

who for eight days has been in our village, whose thoughts are full

of arrogance and folly, so great that wherever he sees me he treats

me as you have seen, giving himself up to the belief that he has won

my good-will; and though I have undeceived him, perhaps with harsher

words than you said to him, nevertheless he does not cease to persist

in his vain purpose. I assure you, sister, that I wish the new day

were here that I might go and tell him that if he does not desist

from his vain hope, he may expect the end to it which my words have

always indicated to him." And it was indeed true, sweet friends, that

I would have given all that might have been asked of me, if it had but

been dawn, only that I might go and see my Artidoro, and undeceive

him of the error he had fallen into, fearing lest through the bitter

and petulant reply my sister had given him he should be disdainful

and do something to prejudice our agreement. The long nights of rough

December were not more irksome to the lover hoping some happiness from

the coming day than was that night distasteful to me, though it was one

of the short nights of summer, since I longed for the new light to go

and see the light whereby my eyes saw. And so, before the stars wholly

lost their brightness, being even in doubt whether it were night or

day, constrained by my longing, on the pretext of going to pasture my

sheep, I went forth from the village, and hurrying the flock more than

usual to urge it on, reached the spot where at other times I was wont

to find Artidoro, which I found deserted and without anything to give

me indication of him; whereat my heart throbbed violently within me,

for it almost guessed the evil which was in store for it. How often,

seeing that I did not find him, did I wish to beat the air with my

voice, calling out my Artidoro's beloved name, and to say, "Come, my

joy, I am the true Teolinda, who longs for you and loves you more than

herself!" But fear lest my words might be heard by another than him,

made me keep more silent than I should have wished. And so, after I

had traversed once and yet again all the bank and wood of the gentle

Henares, I sat me down, wearied, at the foot of a green willow, waiting

until the bright sun should with his rays spread over all the face of

the earth, so that in his brightness there might not remain thicket,

cave, copse, cottage, or hut where I might not go seeking my joy. But

scarcely had the new light given opportunity to distinguish colours,

when straightway a rough-barked poplar, which was before me, presented

itself to my eyes: on it and on many others I saw some letters written,

which I at once recognised to be from Artidoro's hand, set there; and

rising in haste to see what they said, I saw, fair shepherdesses, that

it was this:

Shepherdess, alone in thee

Do I find that beauty rare

Which to naught can I compare

Save to thine own cruelty.

Thou wert fickle, loyal I,

Thus thou sowedst with open hand

Promises upon the sand;

Down the wind my hope did fly.

Never had I thought to know

That thy sweet and joyous "yes"

Would be followed--I confess--

By a sad and bitter "no."

Yet I had not been undone,

Had the eyes that gazed on thee

Kept in sight prosperity,

Not thy loveliness alone.

But the more thy mystic grace

Speaks of promise and of gladness,

All the more I sink in sadness,

All my wits are in a maze.

Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue,

Though compassionate in seeming.

Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming,

How they sinned that gaze on you.

Is there man, cruel shepherdess,

But thou couldst beguile his fancies

By thy staid and modest glances,

By thy voice's sweet caress?

This indeed have I believed,

That thou couldst have, days ago,

Held me, hadst thou wished it so,

Captive, vanquished, and deceived.

Lo, the letters I shall write

On the rough bark of this tree--

Firmer than did faith with thee,

Will they grow in time's despite.

On thy lips thy faith was set,

On thy promises so vain;

Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed main

Is the rock the gale hath met.

Fearsome art thou, full of bane

As the viper which we press

Under foot--ah, shepherdess,

False as fair, my charm and pain!

Whatsoe'er thy cruelty

Biddeth, I without delay

Will perform; to disobey

Thy command was ne'er in me.

I shall far in exile die

That contented thou mayst live,

But beware lest Love perceive

How thou scorn'st my misery.

In Love's dance, though Love may place

Loyal heart in bondage strait,

Yet it may not change its state,

But must stay, to shun disgrace.

Thou in beauty dost excel

Every maiden on this earth,

And I thought that from thy worth

Thou wert firm in love as well.

Now my love the truth doth know

'Twas that Nature wished to limn

In thy face an angel, Time

In thy mood that changes so.

Wouldst thou know where I have gone,

Where my woeful life shall end,

Mark my blood, thy footsteps bend

By the path my blood hath shown.

And though naught with thee doth well

Of our love and harmony

Do not to the corse deny

E'en the sad and last farewell.

Thou wilt be without remorse,

Harder than the diamond stone,

If thou makest not thy moan,

When thou dost behold my corse.

If in life thou hatedst me,

Then amidst my hapless plight

I shall count my death delight

To be dead and wept by thee.

'What words will suffice, shepherdesses, to make you understand the

extremity of grief that seized upon my heart, when I clearly understood

that the verses I had read were my beloved Artidoro's? But there is no

reason why I should make too much of it to you, since it did not go as

far as was needed to end my life, which thenceforward I have held in

such loathing, that I would not feel, nor could there come to me, a

greater pleasure than to lose it. So great and of such a kind were the

sighs I then gave forth, the tears I shed, the piteous cries I uttered,

that none who had heard me but would have taken me for mad. In short, I

remained in such a state, that, without considering what I owed to my

honour, I determined to forsake my dear native land, beloved parents

and cherished brothers, and to leave my simple flock to take care

of itself; and, without heeding aught else save what I deemed to be

necessary for my satisfaction, that very morning, embracing a thousand

times the bark where my Artidoro's hand had been, I departed from that

place with the intent to come to these banks where I know Artidoro has

and makes his abode, to see if he has been so inconsiderate and cruel

to himself, as to put into practice what he left written in his last

verses: for if it were so, henceforward I promise you, my friends, that

the desire and haste with which I shall follow him in death, shall be

no less than the willingness with which I have loved him in life. But,

woe is me! I verily believe there is no foreboding which may be to my

hurt but will turn out true, for it is now nine days since I came to

these cool banks, and all this while I have learnt no tidings of what I

desire; and may it please God that when I learn them, it may not be the

worst I forebode. Here you see, discreet maidens, the mournful issue of

my life of love. I have now told you who I am and what I seek; if you

have any tidings of my happiness, may fortune grant you the greatest

you desire, so that you do not withhold it from me.'

With such tears did the loving shepherdess accompany the words she

uttered, that he would have had a heart of steel who had not grieved at

them. Galatea and Florisa, who were naturally of a pitying disposition,

could not hold theirs back, nor yet did they fail to comfort her with

the most soothing and helpful words in their power, counselling her to

remain some days in their company; that perhaps her fortune would in

the meantime cause her to learn some tidings of Artidoro, since Heaven

would not allow a shepherd so discreet as she depicted him by reason of

so strange an error to end the course of his youthful years; that it

might be that Artidoro, his thought having in course of time returned

to better course and purpose, might return to see the native land he

longed for and his sweet friends; and that she might, therefore, hope

to find him there better than elsewhere. The shepherdess, somewhat

consoled by these and other reasonings, was pleased to remain with

them, thanking them for the favour they did her, and for the desire

they showed to secure her happiness. At this moment the serene night,

urging on her starry car through the sky, gave token that the new day

was approaching; and the shepherdesses, in desire and need of rest,

arose and repaired from the cool garden to their dwellings. But scarce

had the bright sun with his warm rays scattered and consumed the

dense mist, which on cool mornings is wont to spread through the air,

when the three shepherdesses, leaving their lazy couches, returned to

the wonted pursuit of grazing their flock, Galatea and Florisa with

thoughts far different from that cherished by the fair Teolinda, who

went her way so sad and thoughtful that it was a marvel. And for this

reason, Galatea, to see if she might in some way distract her, begged

her to lay aside her melancholy for a while, and be so good as to sing

some verses to the sound of Florisa's pipe. To this Teolinda replied:

'If I thought that the great cause I have for weeping, despite the

slight cause I have for singing, would be diminished in any way, you

might well forgive me, fair Galatea, for not doing what you bid me; but

as I already know by experience that what my tongue utters in song, my

heart confirms with weeping, I will do what you wish, since thereby I

shall satisfy your desire without going contrary to mine.'

And straightway the shepherdess Florisa played her pipe, to the sound

of which Teolinda sang this sonnet:

TEOLINDA.

Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go,

This have I learned from my grievous state,

And how Love with my hurt doth meditate

The life that fear denies me, to bestow.

To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease,

Following his soul that by some mystic fate

In pain hath placed it, and in woe so great

That happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace.

If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live,

Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount,

Clinging unto the strength my love doth give.

Ah firm beginning, transformation frail,

Bitterest total of a sweet account!

Amidst your persecutions life must fail.

Teolinda had scarcely ceased singing the sonnet you have heard,

when, on their right hand, on the slope of the cool vale, the three

shepherdesses became aware of the sound of a pipe, whose sweetness

was such that all halted and stood still, to enjoy the sweet harmony

with more attention. And anon they heard the sound of a small rebeck,

attuning itself to that of the pipe with grace and skill so great that

the two shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa stood rapt, wondering what

shepherds they might be who played with such harmony; for they clearly

saw that none of those they knew was so skilled in music, unless it

were Elicio.

'At this moment,' said Teolinda, 'if my ears deceive me not, fair

shepherdesses, I think you now have on your banks the two renowned and

famous shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, natives of my country--at least

Thyrsis is, who was born in famous Compluto, a town founded on our

Henares' banks; and Damon, his intimate and perfect friend, if I am

not ill informed, draws his origin from the mountains of León, and was

nurtured in Mantua Carpentanea, the renowned. Both are so excellent in

every manner of discretion, learning and praiseworthy pursuits, that

not only are they known within the boundaries of our district, but

they are known and esteemed throughout all the boundaries of the land;

and think not, shepherdesses, that the genius of these two shepherds

extends merely to knowing what befits the shepherd's lot, for it

passes so far beyond that they teach and dispute of the hidden things

of Heaven and the unknown things of earth, in terms and modes agreed

upon. And I am perplexed to think what cause will have moved them to

leave, Thyrsis his sweet and beloved Phyllis, Damon his fair and modest

Amaryllis; Phyllis by Thyrsis, Amaryllis by Damon so beloved, that

there is in our village or its environs no person, nor in the district

a wood, meadow, spring or stream, that does not know full well their

warm and modest love.'

'Cease at present, Teolinda,' said Florisa, 'to praise these shepherds

to us, for it profits us more to hear what they sing as they come,

since it seems to me that they have no less charm in their voices than

in the music of their instruments.'

'What will you say,' Teolinda then replied, 'when you see all this

surpassed by the excellence of their poetry, which is of such a kind

that for the one it has already gained the epithet of divine, and for

the other that of superhuman?'

The shepherdesses, whilst engaged in this discourse, saw, on the slope

of the vale along which they themselves were going, two shepherds

appear, of gallant bearing and abounding spirit, one a little older

than the other; so well dressed, though in shepherd's garb, that in

their carriage and appearance they seemed more like brave courtiers

than mountain herdsmen. Each wore a well-cut garment of finest

white wool, trimmed with tawny red and grey, colours which their

shepherdesses fancied most. Each had hanging from his shoulder a wallet

no less handsome and adorned than the garments. They came crowned with

green laurel and cool ivy, with their twisted crooks placed under their

arms. They brought no companion, and came so rapt in their music that

they were for a long while without seeing the fixed shepherdesses, who

were wending their way along the same slope, wondering not a little at

the gentle grace and charm of the shepherds, who, with voices attuned

to the same chant, one beginning and the other replying, sang this

which follows:

DAMON. THYRSIS.

DAMON.

Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness depart

With steps emboldened, though against thy will,

From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart,

Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill?

So great indeed thy cause is to complain

Of the fierce troubler of thy life so still.

THYRSIS.

Damon, once let the life be rent in twain,

If the grief-stricken body go away,

And yet the higher half behind remain,

What virtue or what being will essay

My tongue to move, already counted dead?

For where my soul was, there my life doth stay.

I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed,

And yet I am a phantom formed by love,

My only stay is hope that hath not fled.

DAMON.

Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth move

My soul to envy! rightly, for I know

That it doth rise all lovers' lots above.

Absence alone displeaseth thee, and so

Firm and secure thou hast in Love a stay

Wherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.

Alas! where'er I go I fall a prey

Beneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,

Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!

Count life as death; although it doth appear

Living to thee, 'tis like a lamp that dies

And as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.

My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,

Nor in the means that absence offers, find

Its consolation 'midst its miseries.

THYRSIS.

Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declined

Through bitter absence; rather memory

Fosters its growth by faith within the mind.

The perfect lover sees no remedy

Relief unto the loving load to give,

However short or long the absence be.

For memory, which only doth perceive

What Love hath set within the soul, doth show

The lovèd image to the mind alive.

And then in soothing silence makes him know

His fortune, good or ill, as from her eye

A loving or a loveless glance doth go.

And if thou markest that I do not sigh,

'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide,

Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.

DAMON.

If in her lovely face thou hadst espied

Signs of displeasure when thou didst depart

Far from the joy that thee hath satisfied,

Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heart

Would be as full as mine of bitter woe--

Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart--

THYRSIS.

With words like these I pass the time, and so,

Damon, I temper absence's extreme,

And gladly do remain, or come, or go.

For she who was from birth a living theme,

Type of the deathless beauty in the skies,

Worthy of marble, temple, diadem,

Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes,

With her rare virtue and her modest zeal,

So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize.

The strait subjection that my soul doth feel

Before hers, and the purpose raised on high,

That in her worship doth its goal reveal,

And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that I

Love her, and doth return my love--all these

Banish my grief and bring felicity.

DAMON.

Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness!

Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to come

Thy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace.

But I, whom brief and unrelenting doom

To such a doubtful pass as this hath led,

In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.

'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,

Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fear

Nor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.

Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,

Yet harder far than adamant to me,

Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,

What wind from south or north or east on thee

Harshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,

That from thy presence I should ever flee?

I, shepherdess, in lands across the main

Far off shall die--thy will thou hast avowed--

Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.

THYRSIS.

Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowed

Thee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend,

With intellect so sprightly and so proud,

Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend,

Remember that the sun's all-scorching ray

And ice's chill at last shall have an end.

Destiny does not always choose one way

Whereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bring

Happiness to us--mark the words I say--

For sometimes by unthought-of suffering,

In seeming far from pleasure and from joy,

It leads us to the blisses poets sing.

But come, good friend, thy memory employ

Upon the modest joys that Love once gave,

Pledges of victory without alloy.

And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to save

Thy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scorn

Goes by, and we attain the boon we crave.

Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,

Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,

What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?

Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth he

Who, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seek

To cut according to his fantasy;

He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.

Here ceased the exquisite song of the graceful shepherds, but not as

regards the pleasure the shepherdesses had felt at listening to it;

rather they would have wished it not to end so soon, for it was one of

those lays that are but rarely heard. At this moment the two gallant

shepherds bent their steps in the direction where the shepherdesses

were, whereat Teolinda was grieved, for she feared to be recognised by

them; and for this reason she asked Galatea that they might go away

from that place. She did it, and the shepherds passed by, and as they

passed Galatea heard Thyrsis saying to Damon:

'These banks, friend Damon, are those on which the fair Galatea grazes

her flocks, and to which the loving Elicio brings his, your intimate

and special friend, to whom may fortune give such issue in his love as

his honourable and good desires deserve. For many days I have not known

to what straits his lot has brought him; but from what I have heard

tell of the coy disposition of discreet Galatea, for whom he is dying,

I fear he must be full of woe long before he is content.'

'I would not be astonished at this,' replied Damon, 'for with all the

graces and special gifts wherewith Heaven has enriched Galatea, it has

after all made her a woman, in which frail object is not always the

gratitude that is due, and which he needs whose smallest risk for them

is life. What I have heard tell of Elicio's love is that he adores

Galatea without passing beyond the bounds that are due to her modesty,

and that Galatea's discretion is so great that she does not give proofs

of loving or of loathing Elicio; and so the hapless swain must go on

subject to a thousand contrary chances, waiting on time and fortune

(means hopeless enough) to shorten or lengthen his life, but which are

more likely to shorten it than to sustain it.'

So far Galatea could hear what the shepherds, as they went along, said

of her and of Elicio, whereat she felt no small pleasure, understanding

that what report published of her affairs was what was due to her

pure intent; and from that moment she determined not to do for Elicio

anything that might give report a chance of speaking false in what it

published of her thoughts. At this moment the two brave shepherds were

gradually wending their way with loitering steps towards the village,

desiring to be present at the nuptials of the happy shepherd Daranio,

who was marrying Silveria of the green eyes, and this was one of the

reasons why they had left their flocks, and were coming to Galatea's

hamlet. But, when but little of the way remained to be covered,

they heard on its right side the sound of a rebeck which sounded

harmoniously and sweetly; and Damon stopping caught Thyrsis by the arm,

and said to him:

'Stay, listen a while, Thyrsis, for if my ears do not deceive me, the

sound that reaches them is that from the rebeck of my good friend

Elicio, on whom Nature bestowed so much charm in many different arts,

as you will hear if you listen to him, and learn if you speak with him.'

'Think not, Damon,' replied Thyrsis, 'that I have yet to learn Elicio's

good qualities, for days ago fame clearly revealed them to me. But be

silent now, and let us listen to see if he sings aught that may give us

some sure token of his present fortune.'

'You say well,' answered Damon, 'but it will be necessary, the better

to hear him, for us to go in among these branches so that we may listen

to him more closely without being seen by him.'

They did so, and placed themselves in so good a position that no word

that Elicio said or sang, failed to be heard by them and even noted.

Elicio was in the company of his friend Erastro, from whom he was

rarely separated by reason of the pleasure and enjoyment he received

from his excellent converse, and all or most of the day was spent by

them in singing and playing their instruments, and at this moment,

Elicio playing his rebeck and Erastro his pipe, the former began these

verses:

ELICIO.

I yield unto the thought within my breast

And in my grief find rest;

Glory no more in view,

I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,

For her I ever in my fancy see,

From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.

Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the grace

To see the peaceful face

Of her who is my foe,

Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;

When I behold her with my body's eye,

The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.

Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!

Oh, mighty beyond measure,

Love's hand! that thus couldst steal

The bliss which thou didst promise to reveal

Unto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,

I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.

What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,

Thou tyrant, didst thou show!

How wearied wert thou grown,

When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!

And even thou hadst fallen in the fray

Were Galatea not alive to-day.

She, she alone, on earth alone was found

To deal the cruel wound

Within the heart of me.

And make a vassal of the fancy free,

That would as steel or marble be displayed,

Did it not yield itself to love the maid.

What charter can protect, what monarch's grace

Against the cruel face,

More beauteous than the sun,

Of her who hath my happiness undone?

Ah face, that dost reveal

On earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!

How comes it then that nature could unite

Such rigour and despite

With so much loveliness,

Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?

Such opposites to join

My happiness consents--the hurt is mine.

Easy it is that my brief lot should see

Sweet life in unity

With bitter death, and find

Its evil nestling where its good reclined.

Amidst these different ways

I see that hope, but not desire decays.

The loving shepherd sang no more, nor did Thyrsis and Damon wish to

stay longer, but showing themselves unexpectedly and with spirit, came

to where Elicio was. When he saw them he recognised his friend Damon,

and going forward with incredible joy to welcome him, said to him:

'What fortune, discreet Damon, has ordained that by your presence you

should bestow so fair a fortune on these banks which have long wished

for you?'

'It cannot be but fair,' answered Damon, 'since it has brought me to

see you, oh Elicio, a thing on which I set a value as great as is the

desire I had for it, and as long absence and the friendship I cherish

for you forced me to do. But if you can for any reason say what you

have said, it is because you have before you the famous Thyrsis, glory

and honour of the Castilian soil.'

When Elicio heard him say that this was Thyrsis, to him only known by

fame, he welcomed him with great courtesy, and said to him:

'Your pleasing countenance, renowned Thyrsis, agrees well with what

loud fame in lands near and far proclaims of your worth and discretion:

and so, seeing that your writings have filled me with wonder and led

me to desire to know you and serve you, you can henceforward count and

treat me as a true friend.'

'What I gain thereby,' replied Thyrsis, 'is so well known that in vain

would fame proclaim what the affection you bear me makes you say that

it proclaims of me, if I did not recognise the favour you do me in

seeking to place me in the number of your friends; and since between

those who are friends words of compliment must be superfluous, let ours

cease at this point, and let deeds give witness of our good-will.'

'Mine will ever be to serve you,' replied Elicio, 'as you will see, oh

Thyrsis, if time or fortune place me in a position in any way suitable

for it; for that I now occupy, though I would not change it for another

offering greater advantages, is such that it scarcely leaves me free to

proffer what I desire.'

'Since you set your desire on so lofty a goal as you do,' said Damon,

'I would hold it madness to endeavour to lower it to an object that

might be less; and so, friend Elicio, do not speak ill of the condition

in which you find yourself, for I assure you that if it were compared

with mine, I would find occasion to feel towards you more envy than

pity.'

'It is quite clear, Damon,' said Elicio, 'that you have been away from

these banks for many a day, since you do not know what love makes me

feel here, and if it is not so, you cannot know or have experience of

Galatea's disposition, for if you had noted it, you would change into

pity the envy you might feel for me.'

'What new thing can he expect from Galatea's disposition,' replied

Damon, 'who has experienced that of Amaryllis?'

'If your stay on these banks,' answered Elicio, 'be as long as I wish,

you, Damon, will learn and see on them, and on others will hear, how

her cruelty and gentleness go in equal balance, extremes which end the

life of him whose misfortune has brought him to the pass of adoring

her.'

'On our Henares's banks,' said Thyrsis at this point, 'Galatea had more

fame for beauty than for cruelty; but above all, it is said that she is

discreet; and if this be true, as it ought to be, from her discretion

springs self-knowledge, and from self-knowledge self-esteem, and from

self-esteem desire not to stray, and from desire not to stray comes

desire not to gratify herself. And you, Elicio, seeing how ill she

responds to your wishes, give the name of cruelty to that which you

should have called honourable reticence; and I do not wonder, for it

is, after all, the condition proper to lovers who find small favour.'

'You would be right in what you have said, oh Thyrsis,' replied Elicio,

'if my desires were to wander from the path befitting her honour and

modesty; but if they are so measured, as is due to her worth and

reputation, what avails such disdain, such bitter and peevish replies,

such open withdrawal of the face from him who has set all his glory on

merely seeing it? Ah, Thyrsis, Thyrsis, how love must have placed you

on the summit of its joys, since with so calm a spirit you speak of its

effects! I do not know that what you say now goes well with what you

once said when you sang:

"Alas, from what a wealth of hope I come

Unto a poor and faltering desire"--

with the rest you added to it.'

Up to this point Erastro had been silent, watching what was passing

between the shepherds, wondering to see their gentle grace and bearing,

with the proofs each one gave of the great discretion he had. But

seeing that from step to step they had been brought to reasoning on

affairs of love, as one who was so experienced in them, he broke

silence, and said:

'I quite believe, discreet shepherds, that long experience will have

shown you that one cannot reduce to a fixed term the disposition of

loving hearts, which, being governed by another's will, are exposed to

a thousand contrary accidents. And so, renowned Thyrsis, you have no

reason to wonder at what Elicio has said, and he as little to wonder at

what you say, or take for an example what he says you sang, still less

what I know you sang when you said:

"The pallor and the weakness I display,"

wherein you clearly showed the woeful plight in which you then were;

for a little later there came to our huts the news of your bliss

celebrated in those verses of yours, which are so famous. They began,

if I remember rightly:

"The dawn comes up, and from her fertile hand."

Whence we clearly see the difference there is between one moment and

another, and how love like them is wont to change condition, making

him laugh to-day who wept yesterday, and him weep to-morrow who laughs

to-day. And since I have known her disposition so well, Galatea's

harshness and haughty disdain cannot succeed in destroying my hopes,

though I hope from her nothing save that she should be content that I

should love her.'

'He who should not hope a fair issue to so loving and measured a desire

as you have shown, oh shepherd,' replied Damon, 'deserved renown

beyond that of a despairing lover; truly it is a great thing you seek

of Galatea! But tell me, shepherd--so may she grant it you--can it be

that you have your desire so well in bounds that it does not advance in

desire beyond what you have said.'

'You may well believe him, friend Damon,' said Elicio, 'since Galatea's

worth gives no opportunity for aught else to be desired or hoped of

her, and even this is so difficult to obtain that at times in Erastro

hope is chilled, and in me grows cold, so that he counts as certain,

and I as sure, that sooner must death come than hope's fulfilment. But

as it is not right to welcome such honoured guests with the bitter

tales of our miseries, let them now cease, and let us betake ourselves

to the village, where you may rest from the heavy toil of the road, and

may with greater ease, if so you wish, learn our uneasiness.'

All were pleased to fall in with Elicio's wish, and he and Erastro,

collecting their flocks once more, though it was some hours before the

wonted time, in company with the two shepherds, speaking on different

matters, though all concerned with love, journeyed towards the village.

But, as all Erastro's pastime was in playing and singing, so for

this reason, as also from the desire he had to learn if the two new

shepherds were as skilful as was said of them, in order to induce them

and invite them to do the same, he asked Elicio to play his rebeck, to

the sound of which he began to sing as follows:

ERASTRO.

Before the light of yonder peaceful eyes,

Whereby the sun is lit the earth to light,

My soul is so inflamed, that, in despite,

I fear that death will soon secure the prize.

Yon clustered rays descending from the skies,

Sent by the Lord of Delos, are thus bright:

Such are the tresses of my heart's delight,

Whom, kneeling, I adore with litanies.

Oh radiant light, ray of the radiant sun,

Nay sun in very truth, to thee I pray,

That thou wouldst let me love,--this boon alone.

If jealous Heaven this boon to me deny,

Let me not die of grief though grief doth slay,

But grant, oh rays, that of a ray I die.

The shepherds did not think ill of the sonnet, nor were they displeased

with Erastro's voice, which, though not one of the most exquisite, was

yet a tuneful one; and straightway Elicio, moved by Erastro's example,

bade him play his pipe, to the sound of which he repeated this sonnet:

ELICIO.

Alas! that to the lofty purpose, born

Within the fastness of my loving mind,

All are opposed, to wit, Heaven, fire and wind,

Water and earth, and she that doth me scorn!

They are my foes; 'twere better I should mourn

My rashness, and the enterprise begun

Abandon. But the impulse who can shun

Of ruthless fate, by Love's persistence torn?

Though Heaven on high, though Love, though wind and fire,

Water and earth, and even my fair foe,

Each one, with might, and with my fate allied,

Should stay my bliss and scatter my desire,

My hope undoing,--yet, though hope should go,

I cannot cease to do what I have tried.

As Elicio finished, straightway Damon, to the sound of the same pipe of

Erastro, began to sing in this wise:

DAMON.

Softer than wax was I, when on my breast

I did imprint the image of the face

Of Amaryllis, cruel 'midst her grace,

Like to hard marble, or to savage beast.

'Twas then Love set me in the loftiest

Sphere of his bliss, and bade sweet fortune come;

But now I fear that in the silent tomb

Alone shall my presumption find its rest.

Of hope did Love, as vine of elm, take hold

Securely, and was climbing up with speed,

When moisture failed, and its ascent was stayed.

'Twas not the moisture of mine eyes: of old

Their tribute ever--Fortune this doth heed--

Unto face, breast and earth, mine eyes have paid.

Damon ceased, and Thyrsis, to the sound of the instruments of the three

shepherds, began to sing this sonnet:

THYRSIS.

My faith broke through the net that death had spread;

To this pass have I come that I no more

Envy the highest and the richest store

Of happiness that man hath merited.

I saw thee, and this bliss was straightway born,

Fair Phyllis, unto whom fate gave for dower

To turn to good that which was bad before,

And win to laughter him who once did mourn.

E'en as the felon, when he doth espy

The royal face, the rigour of the law

Escapes--this ordinance is true indeed--

E'en so doth death before thy presence fly,

Oh fairest of the fair, harm doth withdraw,

And leaveth life and fortune in its stead.

As Thyrsis finished, all the instruments of the shepherds made such

pleasing music that it gave great joy to any who heard it, being

further aided from among the dense branches by a thousand kinds of

painted birds, which seemed as in chorus to give them back reply with

divine harmony. In this way they had gone on a stretch, when they came

to an ancient hermitage standing on the slope of a hillock, not so far

from the road but that they could hear the sound of a harp which some

one, it seemed, was playing within. Erastro, hearing this, said:

'Stop, shepherds, for, as I think, we shall hear to-day what I have

wished to hear for days, namely, the voice of a graceful youth, who,

some twelve or fourteen days ago, came to spend within yon hermitage

a life harder than it seems to me his few years can bear. Sometimes

when I have passed this way, I have heard a harp being played and a

voice sounding, so sweet that it has filled me with the keenest desire

to listen to it; but I have always come at the moment he stayed his

song; and though by speaking to him I have managed to become his

friend, offering to his service all within my means and power, I have

never been able to prevail with him to disclose to me who he is, and

the causes which have moved him to come so young and settle in such

solitude and retirement.'

What Erastro said about the young hermit, newly come there, filled

the shepherds with the same desire of knowing him as he had; and so

they agreed to approach the hermitage in such a way that without being

perceived they might be able to hear what he sang, before they came

to speak to him, and on doing this, they succeeded so well that they

placed themselves in a spot where, without being seen or perceived,

they heard him who was within uttering to the sound of his harp, verses

such as these:

If Heaven, Love and Fortune have been pleased--

The fault was not mine own--

To set me thus in such a parlous state,

Vainly unto the air I make my moan,

Vainly on high was raised

Unto the moon the thought that seemed so great.

Oh cruel, cruel, fate!

By what mysterious and unwonted ways

Have my sweet joyous days

Been checked at such a pass in their career

That I am dying and e'en life do fear!

Enraged against myself I burn and glow

To see that I can bear

Such pains, and yet my heart breaks not; the wind

Receiveth not my soul, though vital air

Amidst my bitter woe

At last withdraws, and leaveth naught behind.

And there anew I find

That hope doth lend its aid to give me strength,

And, though but feigned, doth strengthen life at length,

'Tis not Heaven's pity, for it doth ordain

That to long life be given longer pain.

The hapless bosom of a lovèd friend

In turn made tender mine,

At once I undertook the dread emprize.

Oh sweet and bitter plight none can divine!

Oh deed that ne'er shall end!

Oh strategy that madness did devise!

To win for him the prize

How bounteous and how kind Love did appear,

To me how full of fear

And loyalty, and yet how covetous!

To more than this a friend constraineth us.

An unjust guerdon for a wish as just

At every step we see

By a distrustful fortune's hand bestowed,

And, traitorous Love, by thine; we know of thee

That 'tis thy joy and trust

That lovers e'en in life should bear death's load.

The living flame that glowed--

Oh may it kindle in thy pinions light

And may, in thy despite,

To ashes sink each good and evil dart,

Or turn, when thou dost loose it, 'gainst thine heart.

How comes it then, by what deceit or wile,

By what strange wanderings,

Didst thou possession take of me by storm?

How 'midst my longings after higher things

Within the heart, from guile

Yet free, didst thou my healthy will transform,

False traitor to my harm?

Who is so wise as patiently to see

How that I entered, free

And safe, to sing thy glories and thy pains,

And now upon my neck do feel thy chains?

'Twere right that I should of myself complain,

Nor to thee give the blame,

That 'gainst thy fire I did not strive to fight.

I yielded, and the wind, amidst my shame,

That slept, I roused amain

Even the wind of chance with furious might.

A just decree and right

Hath Heaven pronounced against me that I die;

This only fear have I,

Amidst my luckless fate and hapless doom,

Misfortune will not end e'en in the tomb.

Thou, sweetest friend, and thou, my sweetest foe,

Timbrio, Nisida fair,

Happy and hapless both? What unjust power

Of ruthless fate, what unrelenting star,

Enemy of my woe,

Hard and unkind, hath in this evil hour

Parted us evermore?

Oh wretched and unstable lot of man!

How soon to sudden pain

Is changed our joy, that swiftly flies away,

And cloudy night doth follow cloudless day!

What man will put his trust with might and main

In the instability

And in the change, pervading human things?

On hasty pinions time away doth flee

And draweth in its train

The hope of him who weeps, and him who sings.

Whenever Heaven brings

Its favour, 'tis to him, in holy love

Raising to Heaven above

The soul dissolved in heavenly passion's fire,

To him that doth nor loss nor gain desire.

Here, gracious Lord, with all my power I raise

To holy Heaven on high

My hands, my eyes, my thoughts, in prayer always;

My soul doth hope thereby

To see its ceaseless mourning turned to praise.

With a deep sigh, the secluded youth, who was within the hermitage,

ended his mournful song, and the shepherds, perceiving that he was not

going on, without more delay, went in all together, and saw there,

at one end, sitting on a hard stone, a comely and graceful youth,

apparently two and twenty years of age, clad in a rough kersey, his

feet unshod and his body girt with a coarse rope, which served him as

belt. His head was drooping on one side, one hand clutched the portion

of the tunic over his heart, the other arm fell limply on the other

side. As they saw him in this plight, and as he had made no movement

on the entry of the shepherds, they clearly recognised that he had

fainted, as was the truth, for his deep brooding over his sorrows often

brought him to such a pass. Erastro went up to him, and seizing him

roughly by the arm, made him come to himself, though so dazed that he

seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; which tokens of grief caused no

small grief in those who witnessed it, and straightway Erastro said to

him:

'What is it, sir, that your troubled breast feels? Do not fail to tell

it, for you have before you those who will not refuse any trouble to

give relief to yours.'

'These are not the first offers you have made me,' replied the young

man with voice somewhat faint, 'nor yet would they be the last I would

try to make use of, if I could; but fortune has brought me to such a

pass, that neither can they avail me, nor can I do justice to them more

than in will. This you can take in return for the good you offer me;

and if you wish to learn aught else concerning me, time, which conceals

nothing, will tell you more than I could wish.'

'If you leave it to time to satisfy me in what you tell me,' replied

Erastro, 'to such payment small gratitude is due, since time, in our

despite, brings into the market-place the deepest secret of our hearts.'

Thereupon the rest of the shepherds all asked him to tell them the

cause of his sorrow, especially Thyrsis, who, with powerful arguments,

persuaded him and gave him to understand, that there is no evil in

this life but brings with it its cure, unless death, that interrupts

man's course, opposes it. Thereto he added other words, which moved the

obstinate boy with his to satisfy them all on what they wished to learn

from him: and so he said to them:

'Though for me it were better, my pleasant friends, to live the

little that remains to me of life without friendship, and to retire

to a greater solitude than that in which I am, yet, not to show

myself irresponsive to the good-will you have shown me, I decide to

tell you all that I think will be sufficient, and the passes through

which fickle fortune has brought me to the strait in which I am.

But as it seems to me that it is now somewhat late, and that, as my

misfortunes are many, it might be possible for night to come on before

I have told you them, it will be well for us all to go to the village

together, since it causes me no further inconvenience to make the

journey to-night I had determined on to-morrow, which is compulsory

for me, since from your village I am provided with what I need for my

sustenance; and on the way, as best we can, I will inform you of my

adversities.'

All approved of what the young hermit said, and setting him in their

midst, they turned with loitering steps to follow the road to the

village; and straightway the sorrowing hermit, with tokens of great

grief, began in this wise the tale of his woes:

'In the ancient and famous city of Xeres, whose inhabitants are

favoured of Minerva and Mars, was born Timbrio, a valiant knight,

and if I had to relate his virtues and nobility of soul, I would set

myself a difficult task. It is enough to know that, whether by his

great goodness, or by the power of the stars which drew me to it, I

sought in every possible way to be his particular friend; and in this

Heaven was so kind to me, that those who knew us, almost forgetting the

name of Timbrio and that of Silerio (which is mine) merely called us

the two friends, and we, by our constant converse and friendly deeds

caused this to be no idle opinion. In this wise we two passed our

youthful years in incredible joy and happiness, engaging ourselves

now in the field in the pastime of the chase, now in the city in that

of honourable Mars, until, one day (of the many unlucky days that

hostile time has made me see in the course of my life), there happened

to my friend Timbrio a weighty quarrel with a powerful knight, an

inhabitant of the same city. The dispute came to such a pass that

the knight remained wounded in his honour and Timbrio was obliged

to absent himself, to give an opportunity for the furious discord

to cease, which was beginning to kindle between the two families.

He left a letter written to his enemy, informing him that he would

find him in Italy, in the city of Milan or in Naples, whenever, as a

knight, he should wish to have satisfaction for the insult done him.

With this the factions between the kinsmen of both ceased: and it was

ordained that the offended knight, who was called Pransiles, should

challenge Timbrio to equal and mortal combat, and that, on finding a

safe field for the combat, he should inform Timbrio. My luckless fate

further ordained that, at the time this happened, I should find myself

so failing in health, that I scarce could rise from my bed. And from

this chance, I lost that of following my friend wherever he might be

going, who, on parting, took his leave of me with no small discontent,

charging me, on recovering strength, to seek him, for that I would

find him in the city of Naples; and he left me with greater pain than

I can now express to you. But at the end of a few days (the desire I

had to see him prevailing on me more than the weakness that wearied

me), I set myself straightway on the journey; and, in order that I

might accomplish it with more speed and safety, fortune offered me the

convenience of four galleys, which were lying ready equipped off the

famous isle of Cádiz for departure to Italy. I embarked on one of them,

and with a prosperous wind we soon discovered the Catalán shores; and

when we had cast anchor in a harbour there, I, being somewhat weary of

the sea, first making sure that the galleys were not leaving there that

night, disembarked with only a friend and a servant of mine. I do not

think it could have been midnight, when the sailors and those that had

the galleys in charge, seeing that the serenity of the sky betokened

a calm, or a prosperous wind, so as not to lose the good opportunity

offered to them, at the second watch made the signal for departure;

and weighing anchor, with much speed they set their oars to the smooth

sea, and their sails to the gentle wind, and it was done as I say with

such haste, that for all the haste I made to return to embark, I was

not in time. And so I had to remain on the shore with the annoyance

he can imagine, who has passed through ordinary occurrences of the

kind, for I was badly supplied with everything that was necessary to

continue my journey by land. But, reflecting that little remedy was

to be hoped from remaining there, I determined to return to Barcelona,

where, as being a larger city, it might be possible to find someone to

supply me with what I needed, writing to Xeres or Seville as regards

the payment. The morning broke on me, whilst engaged in these thoughts,

and, determined to put them into practice, I waited till the day should

be more advanced; and when on the point of departing, I perceived a

great sound on land, and all the people running to the principal street

of the place. And when I asked some one what it was, he replied to

me: "Go, sir, to that corner, where you will learn what you want from

the voice of the crier." I did so, and the first object on which I

set eyes was a lofty crucifix, and a great mob of people, signs that

some one condemned to death was coming among them; and all this was

proved to me by the voice of the crier, declaring that justice ordered

a man to be hanged for having been a robber and a highwayman. When the

man came to me, I straightway recognised that he was my good friend

Timbrio, coming on foot with fetters on his hands, and a rope round

his throat, his eyes riveted on the crucifix he carried before him. He

was speaking and protesting to the priests who were going with him,

that, by the account he thought, within a few short hours, to render

to the true God, whose image he had before his eyes, he had never, in

all the course of his life, committed aught for which he deserved to

suffer publicly so shameful a death; and he asked all to ask the judges

to give him some term, to prove how innocent he was of that which they

accused him of. Let it here be imagined, if imagination could raise

itself so high, how I would remain at the terrible sight offered to my

eyes. I know not what to say to you, gentlemen, save that I remained so

amazed and beside myself, and so bereft of all my senses, that I must

have seemed a marble statue to anyone who saw me at that moment. But

now that the confused murmur of the people, the raised voices of the

criers, the piteous words of Timbrio, and the consolatory words of the

priests, and the undoubted recognition of my good friend, had brought

me from my first amazement, and the seething blood came to give aid

to my fainting heart, awakening in it the wrath befitting the crying

vengeance for Timbrio's wrong, without regarding the danger I incurred,

but only that of Timbrio, to see if I could set him free or follow him

to the life beyond, fearing but little to lose mine, I laid hand on my

sword; and, with more than ordinary fury, forced my way through the

confused crowd, till I came to where Timbrio was. He, not knowing if

so many swords had been unsheathed on his behalf, was watching what

was going on with perplexed and anguished mind, until I said to him:

"Where, Timbrio, is the strength of your valorous breast? What do you

hope, or what do you wait for? Why not avail yourself of the present

opportunity? seek, true friend, to save your life whilst mine forms a

shield against the injustice, which I think is being done you here."

These words of mine and Timbrio's recognition of me caused him to

forget all fear and to break the bonds or fetters from his hands; but

all his ardour would have availed little, had not the priests, moved

with compassion, aided his wish. These seized him bodily, and despite

those who sought to hinder it, entered with him into a church hard by,

leaving me in the midst of all the officers of justice, who with great

persistence endeavoured to seize me, as at last they did, since my

strength alone was not capable of resisting so many strengths combined;

and with more violence than in my opinion my offence deserved, they

took me to the public gaol, wounded with two wounds. My boldness and

the fact that Timbrio had escaped increased my fault, and the judges'

anger; they, weighing carefully the crime committed by me, deeming it

just that I should die, straightway pronounced the cruel sentence and

awaited another day to execute it. This sad news came to Timbrio there

in the church where he was, and as I afterwards learned, my sentence

caused him more emotion than his own death-sentence had done; and to

free me from it, he again offered to surrender himself once more to

the power of the law; but the priests advised him that that was of

little avail, nay rather, was adding evil to evil and misfortune to

misfortune, since his surrender would not bring about my release, for

that it could not take place without my being punished for the fault

committed. Not a few arguments were needed to persuade Timbrio not to

give himself up to justice; but he calmed himself by deciding in his

mind to do for me next day what I had done for him, in order to pay

me in the same coin or die in the attempt. I was informed of all his

intentions by a priest who came to confess me, through whom I sent him

word that the best remedy my calamity could have was that he should

escape and seek with all speed to inform the viceroy of Barcelona of

all that had happened, before the judges of that place should execute

judgment on him. I also learned the reason why my friend Timbrio was

consigned to bitter punishment, as the same priest I have mentioned

to you told me; it was that, as Timbrio came journeying through the

kingdom of Catalonia, on leaving Perpignan, he fell in with a number of

brigands, who had as lord and chief a valiant Catalán gentleman, who by

reason of certain enmities was in the band--as it is the time-honoured

custom of that kingdom for those who have suffered from an enemy,

whenever they are persons of mark, to join one, and to inflict all the

evil they can, not only on lives, but on property, a practice opposed

to all Christianity, and worthy of all commiseration. It happened

then that while the brigands were busied in robbing Timbrio of what

he had with him, that moment their lord and captain came up, and as

after all he was a gentleman, he did not wish that any wrong should

be done to Timbrio before his eyes; but rather, deeming him a man of

worth and talents, he made him a thousand courteous offers, asking

him to remain with him that night in a place near by, for that on the

morrow he would give him a safe-conduct so that without any fear he

might pursue his journey until he left that province. Timbrio could

not but do what the courteous gentleman asked of him, constrained by

the good offices received from him; they went off together and came

to a little spot where they were joyously received by the people of

the place. But fortune, which up till then had jested with Timbrio,

ordained that that same night a company of soldiers, gathered together

for this very purpose, should fall in with the brigands: and having

surprised them, they easily routed them. And though they could not

seize the captain, they seized and killed many others, and one of the

prisoners was Timbrio, whom they took for a notorious robber in that

band, and as you may imagine, he must undoubtedly have much resembled

him, since, though the other prisoners testified that he was not the

man they thought, telling the truth about all that had happened, yet

malice had such power in the breasts of the judges that without further

inquiry they sentenced him to death. And this would have been carried

out, had not Heaven, that favours just purposes, ordained that the

galleys should depart, and I remain on land to do what I have so far

been telling you I did. Timbrio was in the church, and I in gaol,

arranging that he should set out that night for Barcelona, and while

I was waiting to see where the rage of the offended judges would end,

Timbrio and I were freed from our misfortune amidst another yet greater

that befell them. But would that Heaven had been kind and wreaked on

me alone the fury of its wrath, if but it had been averted from that

poor unfortunate people who placed their wretched necks beneath the

edges of a thousand barbarous swords. It would be a little more than

midnight, an hour suited for wicked onslaughts, at which the wearied

world is wont to yield its wearied limbs to the arms of sweet sleep,

when suddenly there arose among all the people a confused hubbub of

voices crying: "To arms, to arms, the Turks are in the land." The

echoes of these sad cries--who doubts but that they caused terror

in the breasts of the women and even set consternation in the brave

hearts of the men? I know not what to say to you, sirs, save that in

an instant the wretched land began to burn so greedily that the very

stones with which the houses were built seemed but to offer fitting

fuel to the kindled fire that was consuming all. By the light of the

raging flames the barbarous scimetars were seen flashing and the white

turbans appearing of the Turks, who, all aflame, were breaking down the

doors of the houses with axes or hatchets of hard steel, and entering

therein, were coming out laden with Christian spoils. One carried the

wearied mother, another the tender little son, who with faint and weak

groans pleaded, the mother for her son, and the son for his mother; and

one I know there was who with profane hand stayed the fulfilment of

the rightful desire of the chaste maiden newly-wed and of the hapless

husband, before whose weeping eyes mayhap he saw culled the fruit the

ill-starred one was thinking in a short time to enjoy. So great was the

confusion, so many the cries and minglings of these different voices

that they caused much terror. The savage and devilish rabble, seeing

what little resistance was made them, dared to enter the hallowed

temples, and lay infidel hands on the holy relics, placing in their

bosoms the gold with which they were adorned, and dashing them to the

ground with loathsome contempt. Little availed the priest his holiness,

the friar his refuge, the old man his snowy hair, the boy his gallant

youth, or the little child his simple innocence, for from all those

unbelieving dogs carried off booty. They, after burning the houses,

robbing the temple, deflowering the maidens, and slaying the defenders,

at the time the dawn was coming, more wearied than sated with what

they had done, returned without any hindrance to their vessels, having

already loaded them with all the best the village contained, leaving it

desolate and without inhabitant, for they were taking with them nearly

all the people and the rest had taken refuge in the mountain. Who at so

sad a sight could have kept his hands still and his eyes dry? But, ah!

our life is so full of woes that, for all the mournful disaster I have

related to you, there were Christian hearts that rejoiced, even those

of the men in the gaol who, amidst the general unhappiness, recovered

their own happiness, for, pretending to go and defend the village,

they broke the gates of the prison, and set themselves free, each one

seeking not to attack the enemy, but to save himself, and amongst them

I enjoyed the freedom so dearly gained. And seeing there was no one

to face the enemy, through fear of falling into their clutches, or

returning to the clutches of the prison, forsaking the wasted village,

with no small pain at what I had seen, and with that caused by my

wounds, I followed a man who told me he would bring me safely to a

monastery which was in those mountains, where I would be cured of my

hurts and even defended, if they sought to seize me again. In a word

I followed him, as I have told you, in the desire to learn what my

friend Timbrio's fortune had wrought; he, as I afterwards learned, had

escaped with some wounds, and followed over the mountain another road

different from that I took; he stopped at the port of Rosas, where he

remained some days, seeking to learn what fate had been mine, and at

last, not learning any news, he went away in a ship and came with a

favouring wind to the great city of Naples. I returned to Barcelona,

and there furnished myself with what I needed; and then, being healed

of my wounds, I resumed my journey, and, no misadventure happening to

me, came to Naples, where I found Timbrio ill; and such was the joy we

both felt at seeing each other, that I have not the power to describe

it properly to you now. There we told each other of our lives, and of

all that had happened to us up to that moment; but this my pleasure was

all watered by seeing Timbrio not so well as I could wish, nay rather

so ill, and with so strange a disease, that if I had not come at that

moment, I might have come in time to perform the rites of his death,

and not to celebrate the joys of seeing him. After he had learnt from

me all he wanted, with tears in his eyes he said to me: "Ah, friend

Silerio! I truly think that Heaven seeks to add to the load of my

misfortunes, so that, by giving me health through your safety, I may

remain every day under greater obligation to serve you." These words

of Timbrio's moved me; but, as they seemed to me courtesies so little

used between us, they filled me with wonder. And not to weary you in

telling you word for word what I replied to him, and what he answered

further, I shall only tell you that Timbrio, unhappy man, was in love

with a notable lady of that city, whose parents were Spaniards, though

she had been born in Naples. Her name was Nisida, and her beauty so

great, that I make bold to say that nature summed up in her its highest

perfections; and in her modesty and beauty were so united, that what

the one enflamed the other chilled, and the desires her grace raised to

the loftiest heaven, her modest propriety brought down to the lowest

depths of earth. From this cause Timbrio was as poor in hope as rich

in thoughts; and above all failing in health, and in the plight of

ending his days without disclosing his state--such was the fear and

reverence he had conceived for the fair Nisida. But after I had fully

learnt his disease, and had seen Nisida, and considered the quality

and nobility of her parents, I determined to waive for him property,

life and honour, and more, if more I had in my power to bestow. And so

I employed an artifice, the strangest heard or read of up till now;

which was, that I decided to dress up as a buffoon, and with a guitar

to enter Nisida's house, which, as her parents were, as I have said,

among the principal people of the city, was frequented by many other

buffoons. This decision seemed good to Timbrio, and straightway he left

to the hands of my skill all his happiness. Forthwith I had several

elegant costumes made, of various kinds, and, putting them on, I began

to rehearse my new character before Timbrio, who laughed not a little

at seeing me thus clothed in buffoon's garb; and to see if my skill

equalled the dress, he told me to say something to him, pretending

that he was a great prince, and I newly come to visit him. And if

memory does not fail me, and you, sirs, are not tired of listening to

me, I will tell you what I sang to him then, as it was the first time.'

All said that nothing would give them greater pleasure, than to learn

in detail all the issue of his affair, and so they bade him not to fail

to tell them anything, however trivial it might be.

'Since you give me this permission,' said the hermit, 'I have no desire

to fail to tell you how I began to give examples of my foolery, for it

was with these verses that I sang to Timbrio, imagining him to be a

great lord to whom I was saying them:

SILERIO.

From a prince whose path is true,

Levelled by a rule so right,

_What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?_

Neither in this present age,

Nor in times of long ago,

Hath a State been ruled, I know,

By a prince who is so sage,

One whose zeal is measured true

By the Christian rule of right:--

_What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?_

For another's good he toils,

Mercy ever in his eye,

In his bosom equity,

Seeking ne'er another's spoils:

Unto him the most, 'tis true,

In the world the least is, quite:--

_What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?_

And thy name for kindly Love,

Which doth raise itself to Heaven,

That a holy soul hath given

Unto thee, doth clearly prove

That thy course thou keepest true,

And art loyal to Heaven's right:--

_What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?_

When a prince's Christian breast

Shrinketh aye from cruelty,

Righteousness and clemency

Are his guardians trustiest:

When a prince, where none pursue,

Towards the sky, doth raise his flight:--

_What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?_

'These and other things of more jest and laughter I then sang to

Timbrio, seeking to adapt the spirit and bearing of my body, so that

I might in every way show myself a practised buffoon: and so well

did I get on in the part, that in a few days I was known by all the

chief people in the city, and the fame of the Spanish buffoon flew

through it all, until at last they desired to see me in the house of

Nisida's father, which desire I would have fulfilled for them with

much readiness, if I had not purposely waited to be asked. But at

length I could not excuse myself from going there one day when they

had a banquet, where I saw more closely the just cause Timbrio had for

suffering, and that which Heaven gave me to rob me of happiness all

the days I shall remain in this life. I saw Nisida, Nisida I saw, that

I might see no more, nor is there more to see after having seen her.

Oh mighty power of love, against which our mighty powers avail but

little! can it be that in an instant, in a moment, thou shouldst bring

the props and armaments of my loyalty to such a pass, as to level them

all with the ground! Ah, if only the thought of who I was had stayed

with me a little for aid, the friendship I owed to Timbrio, Nisida's

great worth, and the ignominious costume in which I found myself, which

all hindered the hope of winning her (the staff wherewith love, in the

beginnings of love, advances or retires) from springing up together

with the new and loving desire that had sprung up in me. In a word I

saw the beauty I have told you, and since to see her was of such moment

to me, I sought ever to win the friendship of her parents, and of all

her household; and this by playing the wit and the man of breeding,

playing my part with the greatest discretion and grace in my power. And

when a gentleman who was at table that day asked me to sing something

in praise of Nisida's beauty, fortune willed that I should call to mind

some verses, which I had made, many days before, for another all but

similar occasion; and adopting them for the present one, I repeated

them to this effect:

SILERIO.

'Tis from thine own self we see,

Lady fair, how kind is Heaven,

For it hath, in giving thee,

Unto earth an image given,

Of its veiled radiancy.

Easily we come to know,

If it could not more bestow

And thou couldst no more desire,

That he highly must aspire,

Who aspires your praise to show.

All the sovereign, matchless grace

Of that beauty from afar,

Which to Heaven doth us raise,

Tongue of man could not but mar,--

Let the tongue of Heaven praise,

Saying,--and 'tis not in vain--

That the soul which doth contain

Such a being for its pride,

More than aught on earth beside

Should the lovely veil attain.

From the sun she took her hair,

From the peaceful Heaven her brow,

Of her eyes the light so fair

From a radiant star which now

Shineth not when they are there;

From the cochineal and the snow,

Boldly and with might, I trow,

Did she steal their lovely hue,

For to thy fair cheek is due

The perfections that they show.

Teeth and lips of ivory

And of coral, whence a spring

Issues, rich in fantasy,

Full of wisest reasoning,

And celestial harmony;

But of marble stubbornest

She hath made her lovely breast,

Yet in truth we see that earth

Is made better by her worth,

E'en as Heaven itself is blest.

'With these and other things that I then sang, all were so charmed with

me, and especially Nisida's parents, that they offered me all I might

need, and asked me to let no day go by without visiting them; and so,

without my purpose being discovered or imagined, I came to achieve

my first design, which was to expedite my entrance into the house of

Nisida, who enjoyed extremely my bright ways. But now that the lapse

of many days, and my frequent converse and the great friendship all

that household showed me, had removed some shadows from the excessive

fear I felt at disclosing my intent to Nisida, I determined to see

how far went the fortune of Timbrio, whose only hope for it lay in

my solicitude. But woe is me! I was then more ready to ask a salve

for my wound than health for another's; for Nisida's grace, beauty,

discretion, and modesty had so wrought in my soul that it was placed

in no less an extreme of grief and love than that of hapless Timbrio.

To your discreet imagination I leave it to picture what a heart could

feel in which there fought, on the one hand, the laws of friendship,

and, on the other, the inviolable laws of Cupid; for, if those obliged

it not to go beyond what they and reason asked of it, these constrained

it to set store by what was due to its happiness. These attacks and

struggles afflicted me in such wise that, without procuring another's

health I began to have fears for my own, and to grow so weak and pale

that I caused general compassion in all that saw me, and those who

showed it most were Nisida's parents; and even she herself, with pure

and Christian sympathy, often asked me to tell her the cause of my

disease, offering me all that was necessary for its cure. "Ah!" would

I say to myself whenever Nisida made me such offers, "with what ease,

fair Nisida, could your hand cure the evil your beauty has wrought!

but I boast myself so good a friend that, though I counted my cure as

certain as I count it impossible and uncertain, it would be impossible

for me to accept it." And since these thoughts at such moments

disturbed my fancy, I did not succeed in making any reply to Nisida;

whereat she and a sister of hers, who was called Blanca (less in years,

though not less in discretion and beauty than Nisida), were amazed,

and with increasing desire to know the origin of my sadness, with many

importunities asked me to conceal from them nought of my grief. Seeing,

then, that fortune offered me the opportunity of putting into practice

what my cunning had brought so far, once, when by chance the fair

Nisida and her sister found themselves alone, and returned anew to ask

what they had asked so often, I said to them: "Think not, ladies, that

the silence I have up till now kept in not telling you the cause of the

pain you imagine I feel has been caused by my small desire to obey you,

since it is very clear that if my lowly state has any happiness in this

life, it is to have thereby succeeded in coming to know you, and to

serve you as retainer. The only cause has been the thought that, though

I reveal it, it will not serve for more than to give you grief, seeing

how far away is its cure. But now that it is forced upon me to satisfy

you in this, you must know, ladies, that in this city is a gentleman,

a native of my own country, whom I hold as master, refuge, and friend,

the most generous, discreet, and courtly man that may be found far and

wide. He is here, away from his dear native land, by reason of certain

quarrels which befell him there and forced him to come to this city,

believing that, if there in his own land he left enemies, here in a

foreign land friends would not fail him. But his belief has turned out

so mistaken that one enemy alone, whom, without knowing how, he has

made here for himself, has placed him in such a pass that if Heaven do

not help him he will end his friendships and enmities by ending his

life. And as I know the worth of Timbrio (for this is the name of the

gentleman whose misfortune I am relating to you), and know what the

world will lose in losing him and what I shall lose if I lose him,

I give the tokens of feeling you have seen, and even they are small

compared to what the danger in which Timbrio is placed ought to move me

to. I know well that you will desire to know, ladies, who is the enemy

who has placed so valorous a gentleman as he whom I have depicted to

you in such a pass; but I also know that, in naming him to you, you

will not wonder save that he has not yet destroyed him and slain him.

His enemy is love, the universal destroyer of our peace and prosperity;

this fierce enemy took possession of his heart. On entering this city

Timbrio beheld a fair lady of singular worth and beauty, but so high

placed and so modest that the hapless one has never dared to reveal

to her his thought." To this point had I come when Nisida said to me:

"Truly, Astor," for this was my name for the nonce, "I know not if I

can believe that that gentleman is as valorous and discreet as you

say, since he has allowed himself so easily to surrender to an evil

desire so newly born, yielding himself so needlessly to the arms of

despair; and though I understand but little these effects of love, yet

it seems to me that it is folly and weakness for him who is cast down

by them to fail to reveal his thoughts to her who inspires it in him,

though she be of all the worth conceivable. For what shame can result

to her from knowing that she is well loved, or to him what greater

evil from her harsh and petulant reply than the death he himself

brings on himself by being silent? It would not be right that because

a judge has a reputation for sternness, anyone should fail to allege

proof of his claim. But let us suppose that the death take place of a

lover as silent and timid as that friend of yours; tell me, would you

call the lady with whom he was in love cruel? No indeed, for one can

scarcely relieve the need which does not come to one's knowledge, nor

does it fall within one's duty to seek to learn it so as to relieve

it. So, forgive me, Astor, but the deeds of that friend of yours do

not make very true the praises you give him." When I heard such words

from Nisida, straightway I could have wished by mine to reveal to

her all the secret of my breast, but, as I understood the goodness

and simplicity with which she expressed them, I had to check myself,

waiting for a better and more private opportunity, and thus I replied

to her: "When the affairs of love, fair Nisida, are regarded with free

eyes, follies so great are seen in them that they are no less worthy of

laughter than of pity: but if the soul finds itself entangled in love's

subtle net, then the feelings are so fettered and so beside their

wonted selves, that memory merely serves as treasurer and guardian of

the object the eyes have regarded, the understanding is of use only in

searching into and learning the worth of her whom it loves well, and

the will in consenting that the memory and understanding should not

busy themselves with aught else: and so the eyes see like a silvered

mirror, for they make everything larger. Now hope increases when

they are favoured, now fear when they are cast down; and thus what

has happened to Timbrio, happens to many, that deeming at first very

high the object to which their eyes were raised, they lose the hope

of attaining it, but not in such wise that love does not say to them

there within the soul: Who knows? it might be; and thereat hope goes,

as the saying is, between two waters, while if it should forsake them

altogether, love would flee with it. And hence it arises that the heart

of the afflicted lover walks between fearing and daring, and without

venturing to tell it, he braces himself up, and presses together his

wound, hoping, though he knows not from whom, for the remedy from which

he sees himself so far away. In this very plight I have found Timbrio,

though, in spite of all, he has, at my persuasion, written to the lady

for whom he is dying, a letter which he gave to me that I might give it

to her and see if there appeared in it anything in any way unseemly,

so that I might correct it. He charged me also to seek the means of

placing it in his lady's hands, which, I think, will be impossible,

not because I will not hazard it, since the least I will hazard to

serve him will be life, but because it seems to me that I shall not

find an opportunity to give it." "Let us see it," said Nisida, "for

I wish to see how discreet lovers write." Straightway I drew from my

bosom a letter which had been written some days before, in the hope of

an opportunity for Nisida to see it, and fortune offering to me this

one, I showed it to her. As I had read it many times, it remained in my

memory, and its words were these:

TIMBRIO TO NISIDA.

"I had determined, fair lady, that my ill-starred end might declare

to you who I was, since it seemed to me better that you should praise

my silence in death than blame my boldness in life; but as I think it

befits my soul to leave this world in favour with you, so that in the

next love may not deny it the reward for what it has suffered, I make

you cognisant of the state in which your rare beauty has placed me. It

is such that, though I could indicate it, I would not obtain its cure,

since for small things no one should make bold to offend your exalted

worth, whereby, and by your honourable generosity I hope to renew life

to serve you, or to win death to offend you never more."

'Nisida was listening with much attention to this letter, and, when

she had heard it all, said: "The lady to whom this letter is sent has

naught to complain of, unless, from pure pride, she has become prudish,

a failing from which the greater part of the ladies in this city are

not free. But nevertheless, Astor, do not fail to give it to her,

since, as I have already told you, more evil cannot be expected from

her reply, than that the evil you say your friend suffers now should

become worse. And to encourage you the more, I wish to assure you that

there is no woman so coy and so on the alert to watch over her honour

that it grieves her much to see and learn that she is loved, for then

she knows that the opinion she holds of herself is not vain, while it

would be the contrary if she saw she was wooed by none." "I know well,

lady, that what you say is true," I replied, "but I am afraid that,

if I make bold to give it, it must at least cost me the refusal of

admittance henceforward into that house, whereat there would come to

me no less hurt than to Timbrio." "Seek not, Astor," replied Nisida,

"to confirm the sentence which the judge has not yet given. Be of good

courage, for this on which you venture is no fierce conflict." "Would

to Heaven, fair Nisida," I answered, "that I saw myself in that pass,

for more readily would I offer my breast to the danger and fierceness

of a thousand opposing arms than my hand to give this loving letter to

her who, I fear, being offended by it, must hurl upon my shoulders the

punishment another's fault deserves. But, in spite of these objections,

I intend to follow, lady, the counsel you have given me, though I

shall wait for a time when fear shall not occupy my feelings as much

as now. Meanwhile I entreat you to pretend that you are the one to

whom this letter is sent, and give me some reply to take to Timbrio,

in order that by this deceit he may be comforted a little, and time

and opportunities may reveal to me what I am to do." "A poor artifice

you would employ," answered Nisida, "for, granted that I were now to

give, in another's name, some soft or disdainful reply, do you not

see that time, that discloses our ends, will clear up the deceit, and

Timbrio will be more angry with you than satisfied? Especially as since

I have not hitherto replied to such letters, I would not wish to begin

by giving replies in a feigned and lying manner; but, though I know I

am going contrary to what I owe to myself, if you promise to tell me

who the lady is, I will tell you what to say to your friend, and such

words that he will be pleased for the nonce, and even though afterwards

things turn out contrary to what he thinks, the lie will not be found

out thereby." "Do not ask this of me, Nisida," I answered, "for to tell

you her name places me in confusion as great as I would be placed in if

I gave her the letter. Suffice it to know that she is of high degree,

and that, without doing you any detriment, she is not inferior to you

in beauty, and saying this, it seems to me, I praise her more than all

women born." "I am not surprised that you say this of me," said Nisida,

"since, with men of your condition and calling, to flatter is their

business; but, leaving all this on one side, as I do not wish you to

lose the comfort of so good a friend, I advise you to tell him that you

went to give the letter to his lady, and that you have held with her

all the discourses you have held with me, without omitting anything,

and how she read your letter, and the encouragement she gave you to

take it to his lady, thinking she was not the one to whom it came, and

that, though you did not make bold to declare everything, you have come

to this conclusion from her words that, when she learns she is the

one for whom the letter came, the deceit and the undeceiving will not

cause her much pain. In this way he will receive some solace in his

trouble, and afterwards, on revealing your intention to his lady, you

can reply to Timbrio what she replies to you, since, up to the moment

she knows it, this lie remains in force, and the truth of what may

follow, without to-day's deceit interfering." I was left marvelling

at Nisida's discreet project, and indeed not without mistrust of the

honesty of my own artifice; and so, kissing her hands for the good

counsel, and agreeing with her that I was to give her a particular

account of whatever happened in this affair, I went and told Timbrio

all that had happened to me with Nisida. Thence came it that hope came

into his soul and turned anew to sustain him, banishing from his heart

the clouds of chilly fear that up till then had kept him in gloom; and

all this pleasure was increased by my promising him at every step that

my steps should only be devoted to his service, and that when next I

found myself with Nisida, he should win the game of skill with as fair

a success as his thoughts deserved. One thing I have forgotten to tell

you, that all the time I was talking with Nisida and her sister, the

younger sister never spoke a word, but with a strange silence ever

hung on mine; and I can tell you, sirs, that, if she was silent, it

was not because she could not speak with all discretion and grace, for

in these two sisters nature showed all she has in her power to bestow.

Nevertheless, I know not if I should tell you that I would that Heaven

had denied me the happiness of having known them, especially Nisida,

the beginning and end of all my misfortune; but what can I do, if that

which the fates have ordained cannot be stayed by human means? I loved,

love, and shall love Nisida well, yet without hurt to Timbrio, as my

wearied tongue has well shown, for I never spoke to her, but it was on

Timbrio's behalf, ever concealing, with more than ordinary discretion,

my own pain, so as to cure another's. It happened then, that as

Nisida's beauty was so engraven on my soul from the first moment my

eyes beheld her, being unable to keep so rich a treasure concealed in

my breast, whenever I found myself at times alone or apart, I used to

reveal it in some loving and mournful songs under the veil of a feigned

name. And so one night, thinking that neither Timbrio nor anyone else

was listening to me, to comfort somewhat my wearied spirit, in a

retired apartment, to the accompaniment only of a lute, I sang some

verses, which, as they placed me in the direst turmoil, I shall have to

repeat to you. They were as follows:

SILERIO.

What labyrinth is this that doth contain

My foolish and exalted fantasy?

Who hath my peace transformed to war and pain,

And to such sadness all my jollity?

Unto this land, where I can hope to gain

A tomb alone, what fate hath guided me?

Who, who, once more will guide my wandering thought

Unto the bounds a healthy mind hath sought?

Could I but cleave this breast of mine in twain,

Could I but rob myself of dearest life,

That earth and Heaven, at last content, might deign

To leave me loyal 'midst my passion's strife,

Without my faltering when I feel the pain,

With mine own hand would I direct the knife

Against my breast, but if I die, there dies

His hope of love; the fire doth higher rise.

Let the blind god his golden arrows shower

In torrents, straight against my mournful heart

Aiming in maddened frenzy, let the power

Of fiercest rage direct the cruel dart;

For, lo, of happiness a plenteous store

I gain, when I conceal the grievous smart;

Ashes and dust though stricken breast become,

Rich is the guerdon of my noble doom.

Eternal silence on my wearied tongue

The law of loyal friendship will impose,

By whose unequalled virtue grows less strong

The pain that never hopes to find repose;

But, though it never cease, and seek to wrong

My health and honour, yet, amidst my woes,

My faith, as ever, shall more steadfast be

Than firmest rock amidst the angry sea.

The moisture that my weeping eyes distil,

The duteous service that my tongue can do,

The sacrifice I offer of my will,

The happiness that to my toil is due,

These gain sweet spoil and recompense; but still,

'Tis he must take them, he my friend so true;

May Heaven be gracious to my fond design

Which seeks another's good and loses mine.

Help me, oh gentle Love, uplift and guide

My feeble spirit in the doubtful hour,

To soul and faltering tongue, whate'er betide,

Send in the long-expected moment power,

That shall be strong, with boldness at its side,

To make that easy which was hard before,

And bravely dash upon fate and misfortune,

Until it shall attain to greatest fortune.

'It resulted from my being so transported in my endless imaginings that

I did not take heed to sing these verses I have repeated, in a voice as

low as I ought, nor was the place where I was so secret as to prevent

their being listened to by Timbrio; and when he heard them, it came

into his mind that mine was not free from love, and that if I felt any,

it was for Nisida, as could be gathered from my song; and though he

discovered the true state of my thoughts, he did not discover that of

my wishes, but rather understanding them to be contrary to what I did

think, he decided to depart that very night and go to where he might

be found by nobody, only to leave me the opportunity of alone serving

Nisida. All this I learnt from a page of his, who was acquainted with

all his secrets, who came to me in great distress and said to me:

"Help, Señor Silerio, for Timbrio, my master and your friend, wishes

to leave us and go away this night. He has not told me where, but only

that I should get for him I do not know how much money, and that I

should tell no one he is going, especially telling me not to tell you:

and this thought came to him after he had been listening to some verse

or other you were singing just now. To judge from the excessive grief

I have seen him display, I think he is on the verge of despair; and as

it seems to me that I ought rather to assist in his cure than to obey

his command, I come to tell it to you, as to one who can intervene to

prevent him putting into practice so fatal a purpose." With strange

dread I listened to what the page told me, and went straightway to see

Timbrio in his apartment, and, before I went in, I stopped to see what

he was doing. He was stretched on his bed, face downwards, shedding

countless tears accompanied by deep sighs, and with a low voice and

broken words, it seemed to me that he was saying this: "Seek, my true

friend Silerio, to win the fruit your solicitude and toil has well

deserved, and do not seek, by what you think you owe to friendship

for me, to fail to gratify your desire, for I will restrain mine,

though it be with the extreme means of death; for, since you freed me

from it, when with such love and fortitude you offered yourself to

the fierceness of a thousand swords, it is not much that I should now

repay you in part for so good a deed by giving you the opportunity to

enjoy her in whom Heaven summed up all its beauty, and love set all my

happiness, without the hindrance my presence can cause you. One thing

only grieves me, sweet friend, and it is that I cannot bid you farewell

at this bitter parting, but accept for excuse that you are the cause

of it. Oh, Nisida, Nisida! how true is it of your beauty, that he who

dares to look upon it must needs atone for his fault by the penalty of

dying for it! Silerio saw it, and if he had not been so struck with

it as I believe he has been, he would have lost with me much of the

reputation he had for discretion. But since my fortune has so willed

it, let Heaven know that I am no less Silerio's friend than he is mine;

and, as tokens of this truth, let Timbrio part himself from his glory,

exile himself from his bliss, and go wandering from land to land, away

from Silerio and Nisida, the two true and better halves of his soul."

And straightway, with much passion, he rose from the bed, opened the

door, and finding me there said to me: "What do you want, friend, at

such an hour? Is there perchance any news?" "Such news there is," I

answered him, "that I had not been sorry though it were less." In a

word, not to weary you, I got so far with him, that I persuaded him and

gave him to understand that his fancy was false, not as to the fact of

my being in love, but as to the person with whom, for it was not with

Nisida, but with her sister Blanca; and I knew how to tell him this

in such a way that he counted it true. And that he might credit it

the more, memory offered me some stanzas which I myself had made many

days before, to another lady of the same name, which I told him I had

composed for Nisida's sister. And they were so much to the purpose,

that though it be outside the purpose to repeat them now, I cannot pass

them by in silence. They were these:

SILERIO.

Oh Blanca, whiter than the snow so white,

Whose heart is harder yet than frozen snow,

My sorrow deem thou not to be so light

That thou to heal it mayst neglect. For, lo,

If thy soul is not softened by this plight--

That soul that doth conspire to bring me woe--

As black will turn my fortune to my shame

As white thou art in beauty and in name.

Oh gentle Blanca, in whose snowy breast

Nestleth the bliss of love for which I yearn,

Before my breast, with woeful tears oppressed,

Doth unto dust and wretched earth return,

Show that thine own is in some way distressed

With all the grief and pain wherein I burn,

A guerdon this will be, so rich and sure

As to repay the evil I endure.

Thou'rt white as silver; for thy loveliness

I would exchange gold of the finest grain,

I'd count it wealth, if thee I might possess,

To lose the loftiest station I might gain:

Since, Blanca, thou dost know what I confess,

I pray thee, cease thy lover to disdain,

And grant it may be Blanca I must thank

That in love's lottery I draw no blank.

Though I were sunk in blankest poverty

And but a farthing had to call my own,

If that fair thing were thou, I would not be

Changed for the richest man the world hath known.

This would I count my chief felicity,

Were Juan de Espera en Dios[115] and I but one,

If, at the time the _Blancas_ three I sought,

Thou, Blanca, in the midst of them were caught.

Silerio would have gone further with his story, had he not been stopped

by the sound of many pipes and attuned flageolets, which was heard at

their backs; and, turning their heads, they saw coming towards them

about a dozen gay shepherds, set in two lines, and in the midst came

a comely herdsman, crowned with a garland of honeysuckle and other

different flowers. He carried a staff in one hand; and with staid step

advanced little by little, and the other shepherds, with the same

success, all playing their instruments, gave pleasing and rare token

of themselves. As soon as Elicio saw them, he recognised that Daranio

was the shepherd they brought in the midst, and that the others were

all neighbours, who wished to be present at his wedding, to which also

Thyrsis and Damon had come; and to gladden the betrothal feast, and to

honour the bridegroom, they were proceeding in that manner towards the

village. But Thyrsis, seeing that their coming had imposed silence upon

Silerio's story, asked him to spend that night together with them all

in the village, where he would be waited upon with all the good-will

possible, and might satisfy their wishes by finishing the incident he

had begun. Silerio promised this, and at the same moment came up the

band of joyous shepherds, who, recognising Elicio, and Daranio Thyrsis

and Damon, his friends, welcomed one another with tokens of great joy;

and renewing the music, and renewing their happiness, they turned to

pursue the road they had begun. Now that they were coming nigh to the

village, there came to their ears the sound of the pipe of the unloving

Lenio, whereat they all received no little pleasure, for they already

knew his extreme disposition, and so, when Lenio saw and knew them,

without interrupting his sweet song, he came towards them singing as

follows:

LENIO.

Ah happy, happy all

Brimful of gladness and of jollity,

Fortunate will I call

So fair a company,

If it yield not unto Love's tyranny!

Whoso his breast declined

To yield unto this cruel maddening wound,

Within whose healthy mind

Traitor Love is not found,

Lo I will kiss beneath his feet the ground!

And happy everywhere

The prudent herdsman will I call, the swain

Who lives and sets his care

On his poor flock, and fain

Would turn to Love a face of cold disdain.

Ere the ripe season come,

Such a one's ewe-lambs will be fit to bear,

Bringing their lambkins home,

And when the day is drear

Pasturage will they find and waters clear.

If Love should for his sake

Be angry and should turn his mind astray,

Lo, his flock will I take

With mine and lead the way

To the clear stream, and to the meadow gay.

What time the sacred steam

Of incense shall go flying to the sky,

This is the prayer I deem

To offer up on high,

Kneeling on earth in zealous piety.

"Oh holy Heaven and just,

Since thou protector art of those who seek

To do thy will, whose trust

Is in thee, help the weak,

On whom for thy sake Love doth vengeance wreak.

"Let not this tyrant bear

The spoils away that were thine own before,

But with thy bounteous care

And choice rewards once more

Unto their senses do thou strength restore."

As Lenio ceased singing, he was courteously received by all the

shepherds, and when he heard them name Damon and Thyrsis, whom he only

knew by repute, he was astonished at seeing their admirable bearing,

and so he said to them:

'What encomiums would suffice, though they were the best that could be

found in eloquence, to have the power of exalting and applauding your

worth, famous shepherds, if perchance love's follies were not mingled

with the truths of your renowned writings? But since you are in love's

decline, a disease to all appearance incurable, though my rude talents

may pay you your due in valuing and praising your rare discretion, it

will be impossible for me to avoid blaming your thoughts.'

'If you had yours, discreet Lenio,' replied Thyrsis, 'without the

shadows of the idle opinion which fills them, you would straightway see

the brightness of ours, and that they deserve more glory and praise for

being loving, than for any subtlety or discretion they might contain.'

'No more, Thyrsis, no more,' replied Lenio, 'for I know well that with

such great and such obstinate foes my reasonings will have little

force.'

'If they had force,' answered Elicio, 'those who are here are such

friends of truth, that not even in jest would they contradict it, and

herein you can see, Lenio, how far you go from it, since there is no

one to approve your words, or even to hold your intentions good.'

'Then in faith,' said Lenio, 'may your intentions not save you, oh

Elicio, but let the air tell it, which you ever increase with sighs,

and the grass of these meadows which grows with your tears, and the

verses you sang the other day and wrote on the beeches of this wood,

for in them will be seen what it is you praise in yourself and blame in

me.'

Lenio would not have remained without a reply, had they not seen coming

to where they were the fair Galatea, with the discreet shepherdesses

Florisa and Teolinda, who, not to be recognised by Damon and Thyrsis,

had placed a white veil before her fair face. They came and were

received by the shepherds with joyous welcome, especially by the lovers

Elicio and Erastro, who felt such strange content at the sight of

Galatea, that Erastro, being unable to conceal it, in token thereof,

without any one asking it of him, beckoned to Elicio to play his pipe,

to the sound of which, with joyous and sweet accents, he sang the

following verses:

ERASTRO.

Let me but the fair eyes see

Of the sun I am beholding;

If they go, their light withholding,

Soul, pursue them speedily.

For without them naught is bright,

Vainly may the soul aspire,

Which without them doth desire

Neither freedom, health nor light.

Whoso can may see these eyes

Yet he cannot fitly praise;

But if he would on them gaze

He must yield his life as prize.

Them I see and saw before,

And each time that I behold,

To the soul I gave of old

New desires I give once more.

Nothing more can I bestow,

Nor can fancy tell me more,

If I may not her adore

For the faith in her I show.

Certain is my punishment

If these eyes, so rich in bliss,

Viewed but what I did amiss,

Nor regarded my intent.

So much happiness I see

That this day, though it endure

For a thousand years and more,

But a moment were to me.

Time, that flies so swiftly by,

Doth the flight of years withhold,

Whilst the beauty I behold

Of the life for which I die.

Peace and shelter in this sight

Doth my loving soul acclaim,

Living in the living flame

Of its pure and lovely light,

Wherewith Love doth prove its truth:

In this flame it bids it win

Sweetest life, and doth therein,

Phœnix-like, renew its youth.

I go forth in eager quest

Of sweet glory with my mind,

In my memory I find

That my happiness doth rest.

There it lies, there it doth hide,

Not in pomp, nor lofty birth,

Not in riches of the earth,

Nor in sovereignty nor pride.

Here Erastro ended his song, and the way was ended of going to the

village, where Thyrsis, Damon and Silerio repaired to Elicio's house,

so that the opportunity might not be lost of learning the end of the

story of Silerio, which he had begun. The fair shepherdesses, Galatea

and Florisa, offering to be present on the coming day at Daranio's

wedding, left the shepherds, and all or most remained with the

bridegroom, whilst the girls went to their houses. And that same night,

Silerio, being urged by his friend Erastro, and by the desire which

wearied him to return to his hermitage, ended the sequel of his story,

as will be seen in the following book.

FOOTNOTES:

[115] Juan de Espera en Dios is supposed originally to have been a

popular name for St. John the Baptist (_que esperaba al Mesías_).

However this may be, the phrase is now applied to idlers, who, like

Juan de las Zancas largas (the Castilian Mr. Micawber), fold their

hands and expect something to turn up providentially. The expression

recurs in _Algunas poesías inéditas de Luis Vélez de Guevara_ (see

p. 11 of the _tirage à part_ of Sr. D. Adolfo Bonilla y San Martín's

edition, reprinted from the _Revista de Aragón_, Madrid, 1902):--

Mas luego, en mi fe constante,

Soy Luys de Espera-en-Infante,

Como Juan de Espera-en-Dios.

An exceedingly doleful jest (in four volumes) was published at the end

of the eighteenth century under the title of _Zumbas con que el famoso

Juan de Espera en Dios, hijo de Millan, y sobrino de Juan de Buen Alma,

acude á dar vayas, bregas y chascas con los alegres gracejos y salados

períodos de la divertida série de su graciosa vida á la melancolía

y sus macilentos contertulios en los desvanes de los desagrados

aprehensivos donde intentan anidarse; las que traducidas del Español

al Castellano irá dando á luz el Jueves de cada semana Don Joseph de

Santos Capuano, según se las deparó la feliz casualidad á su hermano

Don Santiago, y este se las raya remitiendo á Madrid, en gracia,

obsequio, y para honesto recreo de los sencillos y claros labradores, y

de los muy honrados y prudentes comerciantes, fabricantes, artesanos,

menestrales, etc., aplicados y leales vasallos de S.M. á quienes se

las dedica_ (Madrid, 1799). The prolix humorist who wrote this work

declares (vol. i., p. 26) that the name was first applied to a certain

Andrés Quixano Cerro--of Tirteafuera, no mean city, and one familiar to

readers of _Don Quixote_, if not to geographers. This worthy is alleged

to have supported the Moorish forays with pious fortitude, and to have

remarked: "Obremos en nuestra defensa lo que dicte la razón en esta

necesidad sin temer, y _esperemos en Dios_." His holy calm so edified

his neighbours that they ceased using the name of Quixano Cerro and

substituted Andrés de Espera en Dios in its stead. All of which may be

believed or not, as the reader chooses.--J. F.-K.