Book Two

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.