By a straight way, between thick trees and shady did the pilgrim go
towards Montserrat, who turning his head at a noise which he heard
behind at his back, he saw two young men with palmer’s staves, whose
fair faces and blond hair showed them to be either Germans or
Flemings. He saluted them, and joyful of so good company, he imposed
silence unto a thousand sad thoughts, which solitariness had brought
into his memory. Travelling together, they began to discourse of
diverse matters, with which they easily and with pleasure passed
away the craggy, and uneven way of the mountain, until they came
unto a fountain, which bubbling into a valley, made a gentle
harmony. So that as it were invited by the sweet noise and the fresh
shade, they sat down upon the rushes which grew by the brook’s side,
and admired the sweet complaints of the nightingale. One of the
Germans, which shewed a good nature embellished with learning, began
to discourse of Filomela’s love, saying that now she would
recompense with her infinite notes, for all the time that she had
been dumb after Terreus had cut out her tongue. The Spaniard replied
that Martial had uttered the same conceit, and the German rejoicing
to find in him more capacity than in common persons (for it is an
insupportable labour to travel with an ignorant man) rose from the
place where he sat, and embracing him with a great deal of
contentment, after many other discourses, Let us go, said he, to
adore the blessed Virgin. In this image so much renowned, through
all the world, we cannot make a more holy voyage, nor I in better
company than thine: let us go said the Spaniard by this path, which
seemeth to me to be much the shorter, although a little steeper, for
the most part of the way.
This being said, they took their way towards the abbey, which they
discovered shortly after, built upon the side of a sharp mountain,
and under a great rock, which did seem to threaten it with ruin.
When they were entered, with devotion and humility, casting their
eyes upon tapestries of France, Germany, and almost all the world:
they were astonished, to see the walls decked with so many excellent
paintings, histories, and accompanied with a thousand several kinds
of offerings, which with an admirable correspondence did stir up and
astonish the senses altogether. There did they pour forth their
prayers and their tears, and after they had seen and been informed
of all that was considerable in the monastery, the day having lost
her beauty by the sun’s absence; they retired altogether until the
morning shining through the eastern gates gave them knowledge of the
new day’s approach. Then they resolved to visit the divers
habitations of the hermits which lived in these mountains, and being
come unto the seventh hermitage, they found a young man of an
agreeable countenance and a goodly presence, whose long and well
combed hair gave a reverent majesty unto his aspect. This man stayed
them dinner, and after their repast, being entreated by the pilgrims
to tell them what devotion had confined him into these solitary
mountains, he related the history of his life, in this manner:
The History of Aurelia
"Amongst all the things which in the course of my life I have seen
and marked, I might peradventure tell you some one, which might
better content you. But thinking that one cannot better persuade
than by the example of himself, I will therefore tell you a story
which is drawn from my youth, and from the twentieth year of my age,
written by my misfortune and imprinted in my memory, seeing that the
renewing can do me no damage, and may bring you profit. This short
tyranny, the bane of youth, the illusion of the sight, the prison of
the soul, and the darkener of the sense, which is called Beauty, and
which heaven seemeth to give women for our mischief: blinded so my
eyes at the first knowledge, which they had in the world, that my
spirit did not live so much in myself, as in her whom I loved, nor
found more rest out of her sight, than things do out of their
centre; because that as the fire always sendeth the flames thereof
to its proper sphere, so my heart addressed its desires to her
beauty.
Now as this love was not platonic, I will not dispute whether it
were honest, profitable, or delightful; let it satisfy that it which
is the cause of so much evil, seemed unto me, the greatest and
sovereignest good in the world. This subject of my misfortunes was
called Aurelia, free in her customs of that kind of life which
Plautus and Terence describe in their fables; and of whom Aulus
saith excellently well; that a courtesan is a vessel full of holes,
which can contain nothing. She was fair in all perfection, of a
quick and hardy spirit and of a reasonable good nature, a woman (to
be short) unto whom experience in the world had brought a great deal
of knowledge. It cost me little to possess her, because that these
kind of women (clean contrary unto other women, who forced by the
love of a man, do honestly yield unto his merits) trusting to their
charms and unto the gentleness of usage, are passionate with men
more when they are enjoyed than when they are pretended. I was not
vexed at the first with the conversation of the young men, who at
any hour howsoever extraordinary were never wanting in her house,
because the favours which she did me, and the little which they cost
me made me live much contented, especially seeing myself preferred
before others of better means and merits then myself; when I went to
see her, they gave me place, and departed courteously, leaving me
alone with her.
These my visitations were not agreeable unto her servants, because
they thought that thereby this rabble of youth was scattered, which
brought them profit. And that if Aurelia should fall in love with
me, my quality being not capable to sustain her expense, she must
spend out of her own means, from whence would inevitably follow a
necessity of living more regularly, which they would by no means
hear of; and of this were they not much deceived, for in a small
time Aurelia, who had ravished so many others, was taken herself in
my love, and made captive to my will, which made true one part of
this fear, by shortening the revenues of her house, to lengthen the
reins of her pleasure. Not that all the charge of the house fell
upon her; for I miserable man, tormenting my parents, and
importuning my friends, did run to the preservation of this love,
which almost always depended on money.
The life which we led (we loving one another tenderly, and having in
our power the liberty of enjoying) may easily be judged by my youth,
and by Aurelia’s, who was then about twenty years old. The house
seemed too strait for our love, and searching solitary fields, we
made the sight of open heaven witness of our follies. Our life was a
blind imitation of the nature of beasts, we communicated our secrets
to trees, which did not see, as if the leaves had not been so many
clear eyes, and a thousand amorous delights to the dumb fountains,
which might well have troubled the purity of their waters, I cannot
think how in so little a way as there was between my house and hers.
It remained 5 years space before I knew that I was arrived there,
being certain, that in 3 years space of that time, the famous
English Drake passed the Strait of Magellan and compassed the world
about. If in all this time, the loyalty which she swore unto me were
broken or no, I am not able to say, nor yet forbear to believe,
because it seems almost a thing impossible for such women from their
custom, to keep themselves to an orderly life.
At the end of these five years, I saw myself at the end of my means,
and although I was more amorous than in the beginning, yet Aurelia
did suffer herself to be vanquished by the obligations of another,
who had more power than my services: I say obligations, because I
cannot believe that only love can bind one unto so strange a change.
One night Aurelia having seen me retire myself unto my bed, she had
received Feliciano into hers (so was the knight called.) I stirred
with a profound jealousy, rose up out of my bed, and went to her
house, where the door was shut against me: and the servants answered
me from above out at a high window, feigning that they were gone to
bed, to make me rather to retire unto my own house. But my extreme
love which would not at that time, have relied upon my eyes, and
feared to be betrayed by my thoughts, made me cry aloud, that
somebody should open the door, so that my voice came unto Aurelia's
ears. And Feliciano making show of a valiant-lover, began to clothe
himself, promising to chastise my boldness with his sword, and by
his only presence to cure my folly; but the cunning Circe, who knew
well whatsoever good or bad success came unto me, it would rebound
unto her shame, hindered him with her arms and diverted him with her
tears, although there was no great need: for the bravest do
unwillingly arm themselves when they are once naked; and to come out
of a house into the street had been a manifest and mad rashness.
Aurelia so prevailing in that manner, wherein others of her kind are
wont to prevail; and making Feliciano believe that I should be her
husband, and that if I did perceive him she should lose me,
persuaded him half unclothed and in the midst of January, that he
would go onto the highest roof of the house. Onto which he being
gone, I was let into the house, where I found Aurelia in bed making
so many complaints of my liberty, and of the scandal which I gave
the neighbours, that instead of being angry, it behove me to appease
her, where (after some time spent) she in complaining of me, and I
in asking pardon for my jealousy, and for the desire which I had to
surprise her in that infidelity which I did distrust: I possessed
the absent man’s place, which was still warm, serving for a proof of
my ignorance and blockishness. Morning brought again the sun, and
the sun the day, yet neither of them was sufficient to make me see
my folly (so evil doth a lover discern of his own acts) I rose
contented, and although I entered last, yet I went sooner away then
Feliciano.
In the meantime Menander who had for the space of some years been
Feliciano's mistress, grew extremely jealous, and hearing of this
trick which Aurelia had put upon him, could not forbear speaking of
it, mocking him with the cold night which he had endured, and that
he had suffered me, who never had any intent to marry her, to
possess that place by her side which he had lost: Feliciano assured
her that Aurelia (preferring his love, before the obligations,
wherein for so many years she was bound unto me) did rather abuse me
than him; and that whensoever she or any other would afford him the
like courtesy, he would willingly suffer one evil night to have so
many good: and for proof of what he said, he gave her a key, whereof
I was wont to be master, which I was made believe was lost. Menander
dissembled her thoughts, but so soon as she met me again, she told
me all the circumstances, and with all gave me the key; having which
I needed no other witnesses of the truth, nor other instrument to
open the door. I then resolved to revenge myself of Aurelia in
leaving her, and of Feliciano, in serving Menander, from whose love
I presumed he had not freed himself, and if he had been free yet I
knew he must needs be grieved that I should enjoy her whom he loved
in everybody’s opinion. I found Menander willingly disposed, for our
thoughts were alike, and our injury alike, and we might well serve
to revenge one the other. She then feigned to love me, and I paid
her in the like counterfeiting. Aurelia was advertised, and grew
desperate, and Feliciano no less enraged, sought me to kill me.
Behold how jealousies and neglects do reveal the truths which are in
the centre of our hearts.
Aurelia found me sooner than Feliciano did, as she who therein
hazarded least: and staying me began in fury and in threatenings,
yet ended in prayers and in tears. But upon so fresh an injury, I
was rather confirmed in my neglect (seeing her yield unto my love)
than any way moved with her passion. Finally, having changed my
first affection into hatred, (always insupportable to a woman who
hath been well beloved) Aurelia began to pursue me, and although
that the city of my birth and abode doth not yield for greatness to
above two or three in all Spain, yet could not I find any lodging
wherein she did not clamour me, any friend whom she did not revolt
from me, any secret which she did not publish, nor any danger
whereinto she did not endeavour to throw me. So that oppressed with
these pursuits, and seeing myself reduced to the contenting of her,
after a thousand contrary deliberations, I resolved to take upon me
a religious habit, and to prevail by his protection, in whose hands
and feet God hath imprinted the marks of our reparation.
But oh! the supreme force of a despised love, as from the holy choir
of the monastery, from the midst of the altars and images of the
saints, the tears of Aurelia drew me again; and then I followed her,
with more liberty and less shame then before, leaving the habit
whereof I was not worthy, and neglecting the spiritual treasure
which I did then enjoy, to follow the infamous life which I had
formerly led, so much power hath the capital enemy of our souls. Our
love began fresher than ever, with the general scandal of those who
knew us, the hatred of our parents and the detestation of all our
friends, which within a small time brought me to such terms that I
thought sorrow would have killed me. The infamy wherein we lived and
the fear of justice did oblige us to depart the city, and selling
that small remainder of goods which we had left, laden with a number
of evils, we passed into Italy; from whence I went (for some time)
to serve the catholic king in Flanders, and the Duke of Savoy in
Piedmont, returning always to Naples where I had left her. The last
time I put to sea with her in my company (intending after the
Flanders wars to return into Spain) where in a violent tempest
(which heaven for the quiet of our souls) sent us in the gulf of
Narbonne; in the last point of life, and when we were past hope of
escaping, we vowed ourselves to a religious life with such
earnestness of tears, that afterwards the storm ceasing and we
landing, she entered into the Monastery of the Conception; and I
underwent this habit wherein you now see me, where after some years
of probation this cell was given me."
Here Tirsis the Hermit of this happy abode stayed his discourse, and
our pilgrims judging that it was too late to pass further, and it
being necessary to descend into the lodging which within this holy
house is given freely to strangers, they went unto the monastery,
discoursing upon the hermit’s relation, determining the next day to
go to the uttermost hermitage, which under the title of St Jerome,
crowneth the head of the mountain.
But the misfortunes of our pilgrim, which had slept for some time,
began to wake with more violence; for in the house where these
strangers had lodged there were missing some jewels, with a
maidservant of the house, and the Germans amongst others were
pursued by the Justice, although innocent, because it was affirmed
by some that this servant enamoured of their beauties had run away
with them.
All nations have their epithets, which being once received by the
world can never be lost. The Scythians are called cruel, the
Italians religious, the French noble, the Dutch industrious, the
Persians faithless, the Turks lascivious, the Parthians curious, the
Burgundians fierce, the Britains hardy, the Egyptians valiant, the
Lorraines gentle, the Spaniards arrogant and the Germans beautiful.
And this was the cause for which it was thought that the maid being
seduced by them had run away with them.
Now the Germans were easily taken, but the pilgrim desperate through
his late long imprisonment which he had suffered in Barcelona, and
out of the little justice which he as a stranger could expect,
seeing them come unto him, stood upon his defence, and flourishing
his palmer’s staff, (with which he was very skilful) left two of
them lying upon the ground wounded, and virtuously freed himself
from the hands of the others, who remained astonished at his valour.
Between Tortosa and Castellón there stretcheth forth a great hill,
wherewith the sea of that coast is bounded, along the coast of the
vale of Sego and of the Kingdom of Valencia: where the Moors of
Algiers and Salé do land out of their galleys, when they are not
perceived by the watch, and hiding themselves amongst the hollow
places of these hills, do rob not only the fishermen but all such as
pass that way. And sometimes when they are many of them together,
they do rob away whole villages together; in this vale, they being
guided by renegades, and those betrayed again by the Moors: there
one dark night did the pilgrim lie (weary with his journey which he
had taken out of the way) obliged thereunto by the fear which he had
of pursuit. And being asleep after many long and grievous
imaginations of his lost happiness, which he did believe to be still
in the hands of Doricles, the roaring of the sea (the waves whereof
breaking against the rocks make a horrible noise) awaked him. He
heard near unto him the voices of some Moors, who having joyfully
supped upon the land, were talking of their robberies. He who
sleeping upon the ground in the field, at his waking, findeth
himself near unto a venomous snake, doth not so soon lose his
colour, as doth our fearful Pilgrim, hearing the Moors so near him,
whose hands he did think it impossible to escape. Yet relying upon
his judgement in a matter wherein he thought his strength would not
prevail, stole from them by gentle sliding upon the ground, making
his hands perform the office of his feet until he had attained the
top of the hill, where finding that the Moors had heard him, he
began to cry with a loud voice: Here valiant knights here, this is
our day: behold the Moors before you, and as prey in your hands,
whom you have with such pains and diligence endeavoured to overtake.
Hardly had he courageously uttered these words, when as the Moors
(like frogs who at the noise of passengers leap from the bank sides
into the quiet waters of the lake) ran with all the speed they could
to the sea to get aboard their boat, with which they easily got to
their galley.
Full of admiration was the pilgrim, to see how happily his
resolution had succeeded, when from a tree which was near unto him
he heard a voice, which said: Ah knight, help me for the mother of
God’s sake. His valiant courage which was never astonished with any
kind of danger or misfortune, guided by the voice unto the tree,
where he had heard him, saw a man tied thereunto, of whom having
asked his name, he was answered, that he was a Catalonian knight,
whom the Moors (after they had killed two of his servants) had taken
upon the coast road of Valencia. The pilgrim having unbound him, and
both of them departing from the sea, took their way to Almenara, and
through the valley beautified with orange trees, travelled towards
Faura. Already had the morning strewed pearls upon flowers, who
putting their heads forth of the boughs, did seem to salute the day,
when both the discourse, and face of the knight, did show unto the
pilgrim that this was Everard, he who (when he was prisoner at
Barcelona) had obliged the pilgrim for his liberty; both their joys,
their embraces and their tears were as admirable as the success
which you have heard, from whence is recollected, how agreeable unto
heaven is the good which is done unto strangers; signified by the
ancient philosophers in Deucalion and Pyrrha, who for having lodged
Jupiter, were made restorers of the world; and contrarily, Diomedes
devouring his guests with his horses, he was in the end himself
devoured by them.
The pilgrim demanded of Everard how he had gotten his liberty, and
he told him that with the help of some friends he had broken prison,
and escaped away by the post of Barcelona; from whence he might well
have gone for Italy, but being unwilling to be a runaway from his
own country, he was resolved to go to the Court to have his cause
judged, whither he was going with that intention, when he fell into
this ambush of the Moors. He then demanded of him, if he knew
Doricles and being answered that he was his kinsman, the pilgrim
sighed many times, without telling the cause, although he were much
importuned by Everard, unto whom he only said, he had a young
brother in his company who had quitted him to follow Doricles;
Everard who understood something of the secrets (suspecting that
this was some woman, who had been stolen away by the robbers upon
the shore of Barcelona) assured him that he knew all the servants
which Doricles had in his house, and that there was not one
Castellan amongst them.
In such and like words, which drew infinite sighs and tears from the
pilgrim, they arrived at the ancient Sagunto, (where at this day are
remaining, the most famous works of the Roman period of any that are
in Spain) and from thence they went to the city of Valencia,
entering by the royal bridge over the Turia, which river the Moors
call Guadalaviar: and passing by the famous Towers of Serranos, they
lodged at a knight’s house, who was friend unto Everard, and of the
family of the Mercaderos. There they remained this night, finishing
the relation of their fortunes, until the sun rising called them
from their rest, especially Everard, who carried with a strong
desire of finishing his intended journey, departed with grief from
the company of the pilgrim, whom he left no less sorrowful, in this
flourishing city.
There he spent a few days in beholding the proud buildings wherewith
it was embellished: and in the end he visited the hospital where mad
folks are with more care and convenience looked unto and kept, than
in any city in all Spain: there beholding the several humours of
these miserable people, he (I say) who lately was likely to have
lost his own wits, saw amongst those who were least mad, sit down at
the table (at which they did altogether eat) a young fool and very
beautiful, whose flaxen hair was longer than men do ordinarily wear
in Spain. All the blood in this pilgrim’s body came into his face,
and went suddenly back again, out of the remembrance which this mad
creature brought unto him of his mistress, whom he could not well
know, as well because he could not comprehend in his mind by what
means she had been reduced to this distraction; and less, how to
this place, as also through her evil usage in that place, and her
sickness, she did differ from the idea which he had of her
countenance in his mind. Nevertheless, as she beheld him with her
eyes full of admiration, he was confirmed in his first thought, and
letting fall some tears, he said unto her in a low voice (least the
keeper who had brought them to the table should hear them) do ye
know me? To whom this woman (never known to be so in that place) who
had seen him carried unto the oaks of the mountain, where Captain
Doricles had commanded his soldiers to hang him, for whose death she
had shed so many tears, and sighed out so many complaints, that the
violence of her grief had troubled her understanding; and yet also
doubting of his life, though she did see him; tremblingly answered,
that she was wont to know him. Already was this pilgrim, by the
voice, by the fearfulness, and by the tears assured that this mad
body was the master of all her wits; and fearing lest he might make
some demonstration of his inward grief, whereunto by the sight of
this so great misfortune he was obliged; he demanded softly of her,
how and by what means she was come unto this miserable estate? The
grief I took (answered she) thinking upon your death, as soon as the
Captain had commanded that you should be hanged. Not without having
offended me, replied the pilgrim, a thing which I never expected
from your constancy, although far greater occasion had been offered.
The losing of my honour (said she) must be out of these two
respects, either of force or for pleasure: if out of pleasure, I had
now no cause to bewail myself; nor if it were by force means to
bring remedy, and less means had I in losing of my wits. And that it
is true, that the very thought I had of your death was the cause of
my madness, let this satisfy you, to see that I recover them, in
having you alive. Fair Nisa, answered the pilgrim, am not I a
miserable man, in having been the cause of so much evil by my
misfortunes? There is nothing, dear Pamphilus (replied Nisa in
weeping) deserves this name that hath been suffered for your
occasion, and for so cruel a feeling as the report of your death
brought to me. And if I were permitted to embrace you here according
unto my desire, the recompense would be as great as the travels,
which I do bewail only in regard they were no more, since that,
according to their multitude, they would augment the glory of my
suffering. It was not in vain, answered Pamphilus, (for the History
names him from henceforward) that my hope made me desire to live,
only that I might see you, for I was assured that in the glory of
beholding you, all jealousy would be wiped away, that might any way
allay my joy. And if the eyes of those who look upon us, did not
better see, then their understandings do know, you should before
this have found that your desire of embracing was most agreeable to
me. To this said Nisa (whose name hitherto we have hid, as also
Pamphilus’), because that travailing in this habit amongst so many
dangers (I durst not tell their country nor their name) I will make
my passion serve as a remedy. What passion? answered Pamphilus.
Every time, said she when my grief deprives me of my reason, they
tell me that I cry aloud, those words which I will now say to thee,
in embracing thee. And then she said these words: O my spouse, is it
possible that my eyes do behold thee? Is it not thou, who died in
the mountains of Barcelona, by the evil hands of Doricles’ barbarous
soldiers? Blessed be the hour wherein I see the news is false. In
speaking this, Nisa fell about Pamphilus’ neck, amorously embracing
him, whose overwhelming delight was only interrupted by the presence
of the assistants.
When the man (who had the charge of appeasing the mad folks’ fury)
saw this deportment in Nisa, he began to give her rude words and
sharp blows. Let him alone said Pamphilus, for I am his countryman
and his wife’s kinsman, and do not wonder that this sight of me,
doth cause in him this sorrow. Whatsoever you are, answered this
barbarous fellow, it skills not, here are neither complements nor
visitations. And the token of this man’s mad fit in coming upon him,
is to call his husband, with such or the like words. But if I pacify
this, his mad fit said Pamphilus, to what end doth your chastisement
serve? And how will you appease it, said the other, is not this an
evident token of his madness, that he calls you his spouse, and
takes you for a woman? You are ignorant of his humour, and of the
trouble he gives us, although he does not appear to be above
nineteen year of age. I know all this well, answered Pamphilus.
Nevertheless let me speak to him, for I do assure you that myself
alone can appease him; and as it is a good work, from anybody who
hath a sickness to take away the pain, for some time, though it
return again; so in madness, it is a good work to bring to pass,
that he who hath lost his wits should recover them again though it
were but for one hour.
Yet neither this reason, nor many other, served him to any purpose,
for the officers had already put manacles upon Nisa's hands; and the
master did rigorously pull her to the cage, although she had no need
of this remedy, nor any other, but the sight of Pamphilus. But as
those who are accustomed to lie, are seldom believed, although they
say the truth: so in him who is mad, it is accounted a token of
greater madness, to seem wise. Thus Nisa was had away to strait
imprisonment, and Pamphilus standing ashamed, fearing that everyone
knew what was privy only to himself, beheld her with abundance of
tears; a thousand times he was about to let go the reins of his
passion, which his understanding held in, and to be mad in reason,
believing that if he were mad, the chastisement of his madness
should be to remain with Nisa, which was the greatest good he could
hope for. And to begin his design, he offered (against the laws of
this house) to break the gates of the prison, and see her by force:
but hardly had he made any demonstration thereof, when the porters
with the mad servitors, (such as having recovered their wits, do
serve the others) fell upon him, and beating him cruelly, flung him
into the street, where (as the fish whereof Aristotle speaks which
being drawn out of the water, frames a humane voice and dies) he
fetched a great sigh and fell upon the ground exhausted.
The sun was declined low toward the west, colouring with gold and
purple that part of the horizon, when Pamphilus returning out of his
misery found himself in the arms of a young man, who having
compassion of his grief, encouraged him to recover life. Pamphilus
looking steadfastly upon him, with heavy sadness, demanded where he
was? The young man told him, that he was at the door of the
hospital, where the mad folks were kept. And how is it, replied
Pamphilus, that I am not within? Because (said the other) thou
appearest to be more diseased in body then in the passions of thy
mind. Thou judgest by the countenance (said Pamphilus) but if thou
hadst seen my heart, thou wouldst rather judge that my evil
proceeded from my spirit: true it is, that the body feeleth also the
pains of the mind. What kind of evil is thine, answered the young
man, being so near the place, where evils of wounded minds are
cured? For if thou art not within the Hospital, thou desirest (as it
seemeth) to be in, seeing thou dost not deny thy evil; and thou
confessest, that it proceedeth from thy mind, the passions whereof
are not far from falling into that infirmity which is cured in this
place. The evil which I have (said Pamphilus) hath a remedy in this
house, and my misfortune is such, that despairing to cure me, they
have flung me out. Thou canst have no such evil, answered the young
man, but there is an antidote to be found for it. Incurable love
(said Pamphilus groaning out a sigh) unto which all the medicines
and herbs of physic are improfitable. What is not love but to be
cured, answered the other? And are Avicenna’s seven remedies of no
force, and not true? Of those said Pamphilus, and at the tales which
Pliny writeth, my passion worketh; I only allow of his counsel, who
adviseth chiefly to marry; but the disposition of my fortune, and
the rigorous influence of my stars, not only do not suffer me, but
make it to me almost impossible. And although hope sometime
promiseth it to me, yet I find that it is truly as Plato calleth it:
the waking man’s dream. Love, then (said the young man) is the cause
of this habit which thou wearest, and of thy pilgrimage. It is so
(said Pamphilus) and by that thou may know the quality of my evil,
and the difficulty of my cure. Oh, said the young man pitifully
sighing, what a grievous story, dost thou renew in me. A history
like unto mine? said Pamphilus. If not, said the other, yet at the
least of love. By thy faith (then said Pamphilus) dost thou love? I
not only love, said the other, but am also more unhappy than thou
thinkest, for a stranger and a pilgrim, and no less outraged by
fortune. Tell me then, said Pamphilus, (in looking earnestly upon
him) thy name and of what country thou art; for in all the years of
my banishment, I could never find any man so miserably persecuted as
myself: and in this, I have more occasion than all men to bewail my
destinies. A Christian, said the stranger, ought never to bewail the
destinies, nor think that good or evil fortune depend on them:
although many ancient philosophers have believed that there is a
kind of devil, and certain imaginary women which they call Parquae,
which give the spirit into the creature at the birth, an opinion
worthy rather of laughter, than belief; It being most certain, that
this name Destiny, is only to be attributed to the decree of God,
who truly seeth and knoweth all things before they be, and the
ordering of them cannot depend on anything but of him. I know well,
said Pamphilus, that the Poets have called these Parquae Destiny,
and the Philosophers, especially the Stoics, have believed that it
is an order or disposition of second causes, as from the planets
under the influence of which we are born, which rule and determine
all the inferior good and evil effects which do happen to man: so
said Ptolemy, Democritus, Chrysippus and Epicurus, who also ascribe
to Destiny, all the inclinations, the vices and the virtues, the
desires and passions even unto the actions and thoughts, which some
have endeavoured to prove by the authority of Boetius, who says that
the order of destiny moves the heavens, and the stars temper the
elements, and tie human actions to their causes by a most
indissoluble knot.
But leaving apart a matter of so long a discourse, from whence is
sprung the error of the Priscillianists, who believe that the soul
and the body are necessarily subject to the stars, and many other
errors which succeed this first; I desire thou shouldst know, that I
speak according to custom, which willeth that this name Destiny, and
other Christian idioms, be taken for misfortune, believing that
nevertheless, God in his divine providence speaks by Destiny as men
express the conceptions of their minds by words. Thy face (said the
young man) promiseth no less, than what I have heard come from thy
mouth; for thy presence and aspect is an index of thy nobleness, as
thy tongue is of knowledge: which worketh in me a great pleasure,
and desire to tell thee my name, my country, quality and my
misfortunes, which if thou please to hearken unto with patience, I
will as briefly as I can relate:
The History of Pamphilus and Celio.
"The city of Toledo, in the heart of Spain; strong by situation,
noble by antiquity, famous for the preservation of the Christian
faith ever since the time of the Goths, generous both in learning
and arms, having a temperate heaven and a fertile Earth. Environed
with the famous river Tagus, which is itself also begirt with a high
but pleasant hill: it is the place where my now living parents were
born, as also myself (although my ancestors in former times came
from those parts of the Asturias which are called Santillana, the
ancient title of the house of Mendoza) there was I brought up in my
more tender years. But when my parents thought I was capable of
learning, they sent me to the University of Salamanca, with such
company as was fit for a man of my place, to the end that besides
the Latin tongue which I knew already, I might study the knowledge
of the law. Here I am constrained to make a long digression, because
that of the history of another, depends the foundation of mine. My
father had other children; Lisard his eldest son, who was in
Flanders with the Archduke Albert, where he got no small reputation,
principally in the siege of Ostend, and Nisa a daughter, and if I be
not partial, one of most excellent beauty, who lived in that honour
and good name unto which she was bound by the nobleness of her birth
and the care of such parents.
Unto these terms was the young man proceeded in his discourse,
whereat Pamphilus exceedingly troubled covered his face with his
hands, whereof the other demanding a reason, Pamphilus said to him,
that his grief which had brought him unto that estate wherein he
found him was returned again, yet he thought it was with less
violence than it had formerly done. All this Pamphilus feigned,
because the story which the Toledan told him, was his own proper
story, and this Nisa whom he called his sister, was the pilgrim
whose wits were lost out of the apprehension of Pamphilus’ death; so
do acts dissembled many times meet, and sometimes do then reappear
most when they are most endeavoured to be hidden. I will not proceed
in my story, said he if thou find not thyself so well, that thou may
hearken unto me; for there is no time worse employed than that which
one loseth in speaking to them, which give no ear to the speaker.
Thou may proceed, said Pamphilus, (being desirous to understand the
estate of his own affairs) for I find my grief begins to leave me,
eased by thy presence and thy words. I must tell thee then, said the
young man, that there was in Madrid a brave Knight, and a great
friend of my father’s, with whom he had great inwardness of
acquaintance, ever since the wars of Granada, and I think they were
together in that famous Battle of Lepanto: from this friendship it
followed, that at the end of some years, they treated of the
marrying of my sister Nisa, with one of this knight’s sons, of whom
I now speak, and the young man’s name was Pamphilus. But while these
things were a-doing, the father of Pamphilus died, and the
proposition of marriage ceased. Pamphilus who by the renown that
went of my sister, as also by her picture, was taken in her love,
and grew wonderful sad and melancholy, and falling from one
imagination to another, in the end he resolved upon this which I
shall tell thee, that thereby thou may see how innocent those were,
who without the light of faith, did anciently believe in fortune and
destinies. Which was, that making his mother believe that he would
go into Flanders, and journeying some days in the habit and equipage
of a man at arms, and after having sent his servants to Alcalá de
Henares, and there disguising himself in other clothes, he went to
Toledo: where not being known to any person, he found means to be
employed as a servant in my father’s house, which was no hard matter
to do, because that his excellent feature and countenance
accompanied with his intelligence were pledges sufficient of his
fidelity, and gave my father not only a desire to be served by him,
but also to respect him. My father received him ignorant of his
quality and of his intent (a strange imagination of a man, being a
knight, and so well known almost of all, in the country wherein he
was born; that he could so hide himself, at the door (as it were) of
his own house, that nobody could know, either where he was or what
he did) yet so it was, that his humility, his diligent service, and
other commendable parts which he had, gained such credit with my
parents, that I do believe he might as easily have compassed his
designs with his feigned poverty, as with his true riches.
The chiefest thing whereunto he applied himself as his whole study,
was to appear agreeable to Nisa, which was easy to be done, for who
can guard himself from a domestic enemy? The simplicity wherewith
this knight did begin his treason, and the good words which he used,
gained him entrance into those places whereinto hardly and with
great difficulty, could the ancient servants come. Behold with how
little care, a noble gentleman kept in his house another Greek
horse, like unto miserable Troy: for such of necessity must this
young man’s heart needs be full of thoughts and armed with malice,
which (the hour of execution approaching) broke forth into such
flames, as have fired our renown. When Pamphilus thought that Nisa
was disposed to hearken to his intention, were it that his sickness
were true, or feigned; as most likely it was, he made himself sick.
My parents, who accounted of this servant as of their governor, and
loved him equal with their dearest children, there being no key
about the house, no account in all their expense, nor any secret in
their affaires, wherein he was not trusted, caused him to be tended
with all the care which was possible for love and respect to bring.
The physicians said that this infirmity proceeded from a deep
melancholy, and the best remedy that was to be given, was to rejoice
him, and principally by music; In which they were not deceived, for
if love does participate of the evil spirit, and that David drove
away the evil spirit from Saul by the sweetness of his harp, by the
same means love might be driven away. Thou sayest true, said
Pamphilus, (who gave great attention unto the relation of his own
story, to see to what end the discourse of this young man would
come, who was his mistress’ brother) for without doubt it holdeth
many conditions of the evil spirit, and leaving apart the principal
which is to torment with fire, behold the sympathy which they have
one with the other. The devils do delight themselves in things which
are naturally melancholy, inhabiting in horrible places, obscure and
solitary, and loving darkness and sadness: all which qualities are
common with them which love, and cannot attain to that which they
pretend, they desire solitary places, and the dens of deserts, there
to entertain in silence their sad thoughts, without anything to
trouble them, no not the light of heaven. But let me entreat thee to
proceed in thy story of this knight, for I desire with passion to
know the end.
My sister Nisa, said Celio, then (for so was the young man called)
could play admirable well of the lute, and sang so sweetly that in
the like danger, the dolphin would more willingly have brought her
to the shore, then he did Arion sometimes to Corinth. Wherefore by
the consent of my parents, and not against her will, she went into
Pamphilus’ little chamber, (consider with thyself the happy glory of
a man in his case) and sang a poem which he himself had composed,
for he had that way a dextrous facility, and very natural; neither
did it want the excellence of art. But whilst Nisa sang, Pamphilus
wept, and never turned his eyes from hers; so that one resembled the
crocodile, and the other a Siren, excepting that one sang to give
him health, and the other wept to deceive her of her honour. Nisa
seeing his extremity of sadness, said unto him that her intent was
not that her music should have the same effect in him as it had in
others, which is, to make them sadder, but contrarily her desire was
to rejoice him. There is (answered he) no other voice nor other
harmony, unless it may be the harmony of heaven, can rejoice me but
yours: nevertheless my evil being past hope of cure, bindeth me to
bewail myself, and not to think upon anything but upon the beauty
which causeth it. What evil is that (said Nisa) past cure, which
proceedeth from a cause commended by thee? It is an evil (answered
Pamphilus) whereof I do hinder the cure, and whereof the only
comfort is to know that I suffer it for the fairest creature in the
world. The liberty wherein we live (said Nisa) doth give me leave
Pamphilus, to speak unto the here of a suspicious matter: by the
tokens which thou hast delivered unto me of thy evil, thou hast
given me knowledge of the occasion that makes thee sick, although I
am ignorant of the cause, who makes the sick: thou lovest without a
doubt, and I take it in good part that thou wouldst confess unto me,
that which thou wouldest not speak unto the physicians, assuring
thee that thou may better trust my love then their art. But I
conjure thee, by that goodwill which thou knowest I have born thee
ever since thou hast served my parents that thou wilt tell me
whether I know her whom thou lovest, and whether I can be helpful
unto thee in thy curing, for thy tears doe make me pity thee. You
may well serve to help me pitiful Nisa (said then the cunning lover,
who might well have instructed Ovid) seeing I do not hope for it
from any other hands than yours, and that you know the cause of my
pain, as well as you know yourself."
Here Pamphilus demanded of Celio (wondering that he should tell so
particularly that which passed so secretly between him and Nisa) how
he knew the same words which they had spoken, he being at that time
far off, following his study in Salamanca? To which Celio answered,
that the same Pamphilus had left the story in writing with a friend
of his, from whom having had the means since that time to get it, he
learned all unto the least particular, and then proceeding on his
discourse, he continued in this manner:
"The colour which came into Nisa's face when she heard Pamphilus’
words, cannot be compared, but unto the red rose with milky leaves,
although it be a poetical term, and borrowed of the same author, yet
feigning not to understand what he said, she answered that if it
were any of her friends she would endeavour (at the least) to bring
it about that she should know his evil, that thereupon he might lay
the foundation of his remedy. I am in that state said Pamphilus that
I dare not so much as sigh or breath out her name, yet I can show
you her portrait, which is the original cause of my misfortune, and
for whose sake I am come from my own country into yours, where I
remain an humble servant of your house, and do think myself most
happy to be so, although I am a knight, and equal unto her whom you
call your friend, and with whom I should have been now married, if
my father had lived until this day, for only his death barred me of
this happiness. And in saying these words, Pamphilus gave her her
picture, which had been drawn by the most excellent painter of our
time, called Philip of Lianho; whose pencil oftentimes durst compare
with Nature herself, who out of mere envy unto him for that (as it
seemed) shortened his days. Yet Nisa (through whose veins ran a cold
shivering) affirmed that she did not know the face; I do not wonder
said Pamphilus, that the ancient philosopher hath delivered his
opinion; that it is a very hard matter to know oneself, putting this
sentence: Know Thyself, on the facades of the most famous temples.
Yet see another more natural, the knowledge whereof you cannot deny.
Saying this, he reached her a very fair looking-glass: Nisa seeing
her face within the crystal could no longer suffer his discourse,
nor the knight’s presence: but rising up in a fury, said unto him in
great anger as she went away, thy boldness shall cost thee thy life.
Can it be better employed, answered Pamphilus, than for your beauty
to be ended?"
She answered well, said the Pilgrim, if she had accomplished what
she said. She accomplished it so ill, replied Celio, that within a
few days she loved him better than she loved herself, proving the
verse of the famous poet Dante to be infallibly true: that love
excuseth no one who is beloved from loving. But how came it (said
the pilgrim) that a maid should love; who had hearkened with so much
disdain in the beginning? Because, answered Celio, that all maids
for their first answer consult with shame, and for their second
consult with weakness: although for my own part, I think that
Pamphilus despairing of his remedy helped himself with charms. I
cannot believe so, answered Pamphilus, a man hath liberty to love,
and not to love as it seemeth good unto himself, and it seems to be
a terrible and cruel thing that a chaste woman should be violently
constrained to love, whether she would or no: charms and witchcraft
may peradventure move, persuade and tempt without suffering to be in
rest, and with these exterior persuasions make one yield unto the
prayers and tears of a lover: yet for all this it cannot be said,
that she is constrained but that of her goodwill, she giveth consent
to her desire, suffering herself rather to be vanquished by her own
proper nature, than by the force of any magic art. Wherefore it is
an evident folly in those which love, to complain that they are
violently constrained will he nil he, to follow their loves, because
God never suffereth that the power of free will should be taken from
Man; and if anyone say he hath been forced by diabolical
persuasions, it may be answered, he was not forced in his reason,
but in his concupiscence: neither is it to be believed that a
knight, a Christian wise young and brave gentleman, would help
himself with such wicked means to attain his ends. It is not likely,
answered Celio, and it may be, that he witnessing his fidelity by
other services, obliged her to condescend unto his will, for Nisa is
not the only woman in this world subject to this weakness.
"Nevertheless, behold the strange accident which happened unto them
both, as a beginning of their misfortunes; for it being rumoured at
Madrid that Pamphilus was come from Flanders, the news thereof came
unto my father’s ears, who (desirous to make him his son in law, in
favour of the ancient acquaintance and love he had with his father,
and because that it had been formerly agreed between them) one day
told her, that he was resolved to marry her, not naming unto whom;
and thereupon writing to Madrid, to Pamphilus’ mother, entreating
her to send him to Toledo, congratulating also with her, her son’s
happy return and the prosperous success of his affairs, and
remembered unto her the amity which he had contracted with her
husband, his father. The sad Nisa, who already desperately loved
Pamphilus, told him that her father would marry her, and the knight
who was designed for her husband was shortly to come from Madrid
unto their house, but she knew nothing in particular more of him,
but that he was a brave soldier who lately came out of Flanders.
Pamphilus (ignorant that he was the person who was meant) fell into
great extremity at the news, and after many tears and other follies,
he said he was resolved to be gone, for his heart would never suffer
him to see a new servant unto his mistress in this house. A strange
and never heard of story, that a man should be jealous of himself,
and fly from his own presence. Nisa who now thought it as impossible
for her to be without Pamphilus, as the Earth without water, fire
without matter to burn, or as the celestial harmony without their
first mover, said unto him in weeping, that she would have him take
her away with him, and that she would follow him over the world; yet
upon this condition, that he should swear solemnly, never to lose
the respect which was due unto her honour: which oath being taken by
Pamphilus without any consideration of the danger which might
happen: he made choice of a dark night, and by a garden which
answered upon the river, took her from the house, and by the same
river went from the town, carrying her in his bark, until he came
unto those mountains which are called Sisla: this was it which he
writ afterwards from Valencia to a friend of his of Saragossa.
Now follows the beginning of my peregrination, which (having been
too long in this history) I will briefly relate. At the dolorous
letter which was written to me of this success (which was discovered
as soon as Pamphilus was gone from Toledo) I came from Salamanca to
my father’s house, which I found all in mourning for the loss of my
sister. My father in few words obliged me to revenge it, which I
swore that I would, with many words as free as his were grave: and
to execute my intent I went to Madrid. I sought Pamphilus in all the
houses of his friends, and visited his mother, asking news of him,
making show how things had passed. His innocent mother said, it was
two years since he went into Flanders, and that from the time of his
departure, she never had heard from him, from whence she collected
he was dead. I thought that she, knowing what he had done, had
disguised the truth: and while I was in this meditation, I casting
my eyes upon a young gentlewoman, who sat sewing by this reverend
matron. I found her in my mind so fair, that her only look had power
to temper my sorrow, and hardly had I fully viewed her perfections,
when as I propounded in myself to serve her, and to steal her away,
thinking by this means to give satisfaction to our honour, and
beginning to my revenge. To recount unto you at this time all the
passages and the care which I used to speak with her, and to bring
her to my will, would be to trouble you with a long discourse; let
it satisfy that I drew her from her house with the same thread
wherewith Pamphilus had pulled Nisa from ours, and in a strange and
foolish mind led her into France, where her beauty ministered
subject unto a knight to serve her and for me to kill him: from
whence it followed that for safety of my life I was driven to leave
her. Nevertheless, I am resolved whatsoever happen unto me to seek
her, because that besides, I do love her more than myself, I owe so
much unto her merit and virtue with which she hath faithfully
accompanied me, through many and variable successes."
Night had spread his black veil over the face of the Earth, and the
houses were as full of candles, as the heaven of stars; men and
creatures retired themselves, from their common labour, when as the
miserable Pamphilus gave over hearing the tragedy of his love, with
the last act of his honour: and to know that he did then but begin
to suffer his evils when he thought he was at an end of them. He
admired the justice of Heaven, which had suffered that his sister
should so lightly have quitted her mother’s house to run away with a
man; yet finding in himself the example of his own misleading of
Nisa, and that the injury which he had done unto Celio was no less
than that which he had received, he did not hold it just in himself
once to think of revenge, but rather to persuade him that he should
not, nor ought to leave her, which he performed with the best words,
and the liveliest reasons he could devise. Remonstrating unto him
that amongst gentlemen the only condition of nobleness should bind
him to seek for her, which Celio allowing for most reasonable, gave
him his word to employ his endeavours to that purpose. And being
lodged this night together, they supped and slept in one house. The
next morning Pamphilus gave him a letter to a French gentleman with
whom he had great acquaintance, that he might favour him in finding
out Finia, for so was his sister called. But Celio departed not for
certain days, during which time there was a perfect friendship knit
between those two secret enemies; so that Pamphilus knowing the
offence which Celio had done unto him, pardoned him in his heart,
and Celio ignorant that this was Pamphilus, was disposed to the
pardoning of him. The resolution was with great oaths to enquire out
one the other, and to help each other in all accidents as brothers;
assigning the rendezvous within six months, in the city of Pamplona.
So went Celio upon his enterprise; and some few days after his
departure, Pamphilus’ sorrow increasing out of the opinion that it
was impossible for him to recover Nisa; it happened that going one
night from his lodging in a vain desire he had to see the windows of
the prison (where his happiness and joy was enclosed) he heard a
knight cry out for help against some who would at advantage have
killed him. He suddenly stepped unto him, and drawing out his sword
out of his palmer’s staff with an incredible dexterity, accompanied
with a valiant & brave courage, made them loose him whom they would
have killed, and save their own lives by a shameful though a safe
flight.
The knight would needs know who he was, who had delivered him from
so great danger: and although Pamphilus excused himself from telling
his name, yet the knight’s desire and courtesy prevailed more than
the humbleness wherewith the pilgrim did endeavour to persuade him
that he had done him no service: to conclude, he led him to his
house, where his good and gentle behaviour being observed, the
knight and his parents bore such affection unto him that they did
oblige him to become their guest.
There remained Pamphilus some days, at the end of which Jacinth (so
was this knight called) told him the history of his love unto fair
Lucinda, and the occasion for which these assassinators wold have
murdered him, who for this only cause, were come from Seville unto
Valencia where the subject of the passion and the sorrow wherein he
lived did remain. I do believe that lovers have some sympathy one
with another, and that they join and communicate in such manner as
you have seen in this discourse, seeing that our pilgrim never came
into any house where there was not someone or other tainted with
this evil, even though it were in craggy mountains.
By this overture of Jacinth’s secret, Pamphilus was bound to reveal
his: and after he had made him swear that he would grant him his
request, he said that in recompense of his life which he had saved,
as he himself confessed, he conjured him to help him to a place, in
that prison where the mad folks were shut up. Jacinth, astonished at
so strange a request, would needs know the cause. But Pamphilus
promising to tell him as soon as he had done him that favour, and
casting himself at his feet with most earnest and unheard of words,
affirming the good he should doe him to put him in this place, made
Jacinth suspect that some secret danger did enforce him into that
place. And willing very generously to satisfy the obligation wherein
he was tied, after some inconveniences and reasons urged to divert
him, having agreed with him of the means which he should use. That
very night Jacinth took five or six men of the hospital who entering
suddenly into Pamphilus’ chamber, put him in a chair, and carried
him away in their arms. Miserable condition of this man, who after
so many strange successes, being wise (if those who love can be so)
to make himself to be taken and shut up willingly, as a madman,
where all the mad folks would willingly be accounted wise.
All Jacinth’s house admired at this novelty, and all his family
complained that this stranger, unto whom Jacinth owed his life, was
so unworthily requited by Jacinth himself: but she who most
complained of his cruelty and had the truest feeling of it was
Tiberia his sister, who was both fair and discreet above all the
ladies in Valencia, who affecting the gentleness and fair spirit of
our unfortunate pilgrim, did not see but by his eyes, and did not
breathe but from him. Jacinth told them that Pamphilus was mad, and
that it was necessary he should be cured before the disease
increased too far. The father of this knight, who was very learned,
blamed exceedingly this precipitate course, saying that in all
infirmities there was nothing more dangerous than physic out of
season, and swore that he should be had out of the hospital to be
cured in his house. Tiberia confirmed this piety, saying that reward
due unto him, they being not so poor, but that they had means
sufficient to have him cured in their house, with greater care of
his health, and less scandal to his honour Jacinth replied that he
was a stranger, and that nobody knew him. But all the household were
so much against him, blaming him for ingratitude, especially his
father and his sister, that he was constrained to tell them what he
knew. Whereat in imagining the cause, all of them were astonished,
and wondered. They thought that Pamphilus was a spy, who went
disguised under the habit of a pilgrim, and that fearing to be known
by someone, he used this subtility to save his life: for although he
spoke Spanish, nevertheless, by his fair face and exceeding beauty,
he seemed a stranger, and by his actions a gentleman. With this
confession, Jacinth remained in their good opinion, though the house
was much troubled, and Tiberia was full of pitiful grief and care
for Pamphilus’ life: who being in prison among the mad folks (in the
judgement of many, the very centre of greatest misery) imagined
himself to be in most glorious happiness.
To this new madman the more ancient gave place, and Pamphilus, with
divers feignings and counterfeitings of his face, endeavoured to
express his madness; which fashion of his, seeming them as tokens of
rashness, they put him into the prison with irons on his hands,
where to confirm them the more in their opinion of his madness, he
said so many words so far from the matter, that his affliction was
believed. There he stayed some few days before he could see his
beloved Nisa, suffering most insupportable discommodities, difficult
to be spoken of, and almost impossible to be believed; in the
meantime Celio went by Saragossa into France, to find his beautiful
and beloved Finia whom he had lost, where being come, he heard the
news of the peace which was proclaimed between the two nations,
which made him rest that night (with more contentment out of the
facility which it brought to his design) staying for the light of
the morning to clear his passage over the mountains into France.
The End of the Second Book.