The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 23 – Sidney · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 23The Second Eclogues (part 7)
18
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 23
The Second Eclogues (part 7)
SidneyEnglish
Then stopping his words with sighs, drowning his sighs in tears, and drying again his tears in rage, he would sit a while in a wandering muse, which represented nothing but vexations unto him; then throwing himself sometimes upon the floor, and sometimes upon the bed: then up again, till walking was wearisome, and rest loathsome: and so neither suffering food, nor sleep to help his afflicted nature, all that day and night he did nothing but weep Philoclea, sigh Philoclea, and cry out Philoclea; till as it happened (at that time upon his bed) toward the dawning of the day he heard one stir in his chamber, by the motion of garments: and with an angry voice asked who was there. “A poor gentlewoman, answered the party, that wishes long life unto you.” “And I soon death to you,” said he, “for the horrible curse you have given me.” “Certainly,” said she, “an unkind answer, and far unworthy the excellency of your mind, but not unsuitable to the rest of your behaviour. For most part of this night I have heard you (being let into your chamber, you never perceiving it, so was your mind estranged from your senses) and have heard nothing of Zelmane, in Zelmane, nothing but weak wailing, fitter for some nurse of a village, than so famous a creature as you are.” “O God,” cried out Pyrocles, “that thou wert a man that usest these words unto me. I tell thee I am sorry, I tell thee I will be sorry, in the despite of thee, and all them that would have me joyful.” “And yet,” replied she, “perchance Philoclea is not dead, whom you so much bemoan.” “I would we were both dead on that condition,” said Pyrocles. “See the folly of your passion,” said she, “as though you should be nearer to her, you being dead, and she alive, than she being dead and you alive? and if she be dead, was she not born to die? what then do you cry out for? not for her, who must have died one time or other; but for some few years: so as it is time and this world, that seem so lovely things, and not Philoclea unto you.” “O noble sisters,” cried Pyrocles, “now you be gone, who were the only exalters of all womankind, what is left in that sex, but babbling and business?” “And truly,” said she, “I will yet a little longer trouble you.” “Nay, I pray you do,” said Pyrocles, “for I wish for nothing in my short life but mischiefs and cumbers: and I am content you shall be one of them.” “In truth,” said she, “you would think yourself a greatly privileged person, if since the strongest building, and lastingest monarchies are subject to end, only your Philoclea, because she is yours, should be exempted. But indeed you bemoan yourself who have lost a friend; you cannot her, who hath in one act both preserved her honour, and left the miseries of this world.” “O woman’s philosophy, childish folly,” said Pyrocles, “as though I do bemoan myself: I have not reason so to do, having lost more than any monarchy, nay then my life can be worth unto me.” “Alas!” said she, “comfort yourself; nature did not forget her skill, when she made them: and you shall find many their superiors, and perchance such, as when your eyes shall look abroad, yourself will like better.”
But that speech put all good manners out of the conceit of Pyrocles, insomuch, that leaping out of his bed, he ran to have stricken her; but coming near her (the morning then winning the field of darkness) he saw, or he thought he saw, indeed the very face of Philoclea; the same sweetness, the same grace, the same beauty: with which carried into a divine astonishment, he fell down at her feet. “Most blessed angel,” said he, “well hast thou done to take that shape, since thou wouldst submit thyself to mortal sense; for a more angelical form could not have been created for thee. Alas, even by that excellent beauty, so beloved of me, let it be lawful, for me to ask of thee, what is the cause that she, that heavenly creature, whose form you have taken, should by the heavens be destined to so unripe an end? why should injustice so prevail? why was she seen to the world so soon to be ravished from us? why was she not suffered to live, to teach the world perfection?” “Do not deceive thyself,” answered she, “I am no angel; I am Philoclea, the same Philoclea, so truly loving you, so truly beloved of you.” “If it be so,” said he, “that you are indeed the soul of Philoclea, you have done well to keep your own figure, for no heaven could have given you a better. Then alas! why have you taken the pains to leave your blissful seat to come to this place most wretched, to me, who am wretchedness itself, and not rather obtain for me, that I might come where you are, there eternally to behold, and eternally to love your beauties? You know, I know, that I desire nothing but death, which I only stay to be justly revenged of your unjust murderers.” “Dear Pyrocles,” said she, “I am thy Philoclea, and as yet living: not murdered as you supposed, and therefore be comforted.” And with that gave him her hand. But the sweet touch of that hand seemed to his estrayed powers so heavenly a thing, that it rather for a while confirmed him in his former belief: till she with vehement protestations (and desire that it might be so, helping to persuade that it was so) brought him to yield; yet doubtfully to yield to this height of all comfort that Philoclea lived: which witnessing with tears of joy; “Alas!” said he, “how shall I believe mine eyes any more? or do you yet but appear thus unto me, to stay me from some desperate end? for alas, I saw the excellent Pamela beheaded, I saw your head, the head indeed, and chief part indeed of all nature’s works, standing in a dish of gold, too mean a shrine, God wot, for such a relic. How can this be, my only dear, and you live? Or if this be not so, how can I believe mine own senses? And if I cannot believe them, why should I believe these blessed tidings they bring me?”
“The truth is,” said she, “my Pyrocles, that neither I, as you find, nor yet my dear sister is dead: although the mischievously subtle Cecropia used slights to make either of us think so of other. For, having in vain attempted the farthest of her wicked eloquence to make either of us yield to her son: and seeing that neither it, accompanied with great flatteries and rich presents, could get any ground of us, nor yet the violent way she fell into, of cruelly tormenting our bodies, could prevail with us, at last she made either of us think the other dead, and so hoped to have wrested our minds to the forgetting of virtue: and first she gave to mine eyes the miserable spectacle of my sister’s, as I thought, death; but indeed it was not my sister, it was only Artesia, she who so cunningly brought us to this misery.
Truly I am sorry for the poor gentlewoman, though justly she be punished for her double falsehood: but Artesia muffled so, that you could not easily discern her, and in my sister’s apparel, which they had taken from her under colour of giving her other, did they execute: and when I, for thy sake especially, dear Pyrocles, could by no force nor fear be one, they assayed the like with my sister, by bringing me down under the scaffold, and making me thrust my head up through a hole they had made therein, they did put about my neck a dish of gold, whereout they had beaten the bottom, so as having set blood in it, you saw how I played the part of death, God knows even willing to have done it in earnest, and so they had set me, that I reached but on tiptoes to the ground, so as I scarcely could breathe, much less speak: and truly if they had kept me there any whit longer, they had strangled me, instead of beheading me: but when they took me away, and seeking to see their issue of this practice, they found my noble sister, for the dear love she vouchsafeth to bear me, so grieved withal, that she willed them to do their uttermost cruelty unto her: for she vowed never to receive sustenance of them that had been the causers of my murder: and finding both of us even given over, not likely to live many hours longer, and my sister Pamela rather worse than myself, the strength of her heart worse bearing those indignities, the good woman Cecropia, with the same pity as folks keep fowls, when they are not fat enough for their eating, made us know her deceit, and let us come one to another; with what joy you can well imagine, who I know feel the like, saving that we only thought ourselves reserved to miseries, and therefore fitter for condoling than congratulating. For my part I am fully persuaded it is but with a little respite, to have a more feeling sense of the torment she prepares for us.
True it is, that one of my guardians would have me to believe that this proceeds from my gentle cousin Amphialus; who having heard some inkling that we were evil intreated, had called his mother to his bedside, from whence he never rose since his last combat, and besought and charged her, upon all the love she bore him, to use us with all kindness: vowing with all the imprecations he could imagine, that if ever he understood, for his sake, that I received further hurt than the want of liberty, he would not live an hour longer. And the good woman swore to me that he would kill his mother, if he knew how I had been dealt with, but that Cecropia keeps him from understanding things how they pass, only having heard a whispering, and myself named, he had (of abundance, forsooth, of honourable love) given this charge for us; whereupon this enlargement of mine was grown: for my part I know too well their cunning, who leave no money unoffered that may buy mine honour, to believe any word they say, but, my dear Pyrocles, even look for the worst, and prepare thyself for the same. Yet I must confess, I was content to rob from death, and borrow of my misery the sweet comfort of seeing my sweet sister, and most sweet comfort of thee my Pyrocles. And so having leave, I came stealing into your chamber: where, O Lord, what a joy it was unto me, to hear you solemnize the funerals of the poor Philoclea. That I myself might live to hear my death bewailed? And by whom? By my dear Pyrocles. That I saw death was not strong enough to divide thy love from me? O my Pyrocles, I am too well paid for my pains. I have suffered; joyful is my woe for so noble a cause; and welcome be all my miseries, since to thee I am so welcome. Alas how I pitied to hear thy pity of me; and yet a great while I could not find in my heart to interrupt thee, but often had even pleasure to weep with thee: and so kindly came forth thy lamentations, that they forced me to lament too, as if indeed I had been a looker-on, to see poor Philoclea die. Till at last I spoke with you, to try whether I could remove thee from sorrow, till I had almost procured myself a beating.”
And with that she prettily smiled; which mingled with her tears; one could not tell whether it was a mourning pleasure, or a delightful sorrow: but like when a few April drops are scattered by a gentle Zephirus among fine coloured flowers. But Pyrocles, who had felt, with so small distance of time, in himself the overthrow both of hope and despair, knew not to what key he should frame his mind, either of joy or sorrow. But finding perfect reason in neither, suffered himself to be carried by the tide of his imagination, and his imaginations to be raised even by the sway which hearing or seeing might give unto them: he saw her alive, he was glad to see her alive; he saw her weep, he was sorry to see her weep; he heard her comfortable speeches, nothing more gladsome; he heard her prognosticating her own destruction, nothing more doleful. But when he had a little taken breath from the panting motion of such contraries in passions, he fell to consider with her of her present estate, but comforting her, that certainly the worst of this storm was past, since already they had done the worst, which man’s wit could imagine; and that if they had determined to have killed her, now they would have done it, and also earnestly counselling her, and enabling his counsels with vehement prayers, that she would so far second the hopes of Amphialus, as that she might but procure him liberty; promising then as much to her, as the liberality of loving courage durst promise to himself.
But who could lively describe the manner of these speeches, should paint out the lightsome colours of affection, shaded with the deepest shadows of sorrow, finding them between hope and fear, a kind of sweetness in tears; till Philoclea content to receive a kiss, and but a kiss of Pyrocles, sealed up his moving lips, and closed them up in comfort: and herself, for the passage was left between them open, went to her sister; with whom she had stayed but a while, fortifying one another while Philoclea tempered Pamela’s just disdain, and Pamela ennobled Philoclea’s sweet humbleness, when Amphialus came unto them: who never since he had heard Philoclea named, could be quiet in himself, although none of them about him (fearing more his mother’s violence than his power) would discover what had passed: and many messengers he sent to know her estate, which brought answer back, according as it pleased Cecropia to indite them, till his heart full of unfortunate affection, more and more misgiving him, having impatiently borne the delay of the night’s unfitness, this morning he got up, and though full of wounds, which not without danger could suffer such exercise, he apparelled himself, and with the countenance that showed strength in nothing but in grief, he came where the sisters were, and weakly kneeling down, he besought them to pardon him: if they had not been used in that castle according to their worthiness, and his duty, beginning to excuse small matters, poor gentleman, not knowing in what sort they had been handled.
But Pamela’s high heart, having conceived mortal hatred for the injury offered to her and her sister, could scarcely abide his sight, much less hear out his excuses, but interrupted him with these words: “Traitor,” said she, “to thine own blood, and false to the profession of so much love as thou hast vowed, do not defile our ears with thy excuses, but pursue on thy cruelty, that thou and thy godly mother have used towards us: for my part, assure thyself, and so do I answer for my sister, whose mind I know, I do not more desire mine own safety than thy destruction.” Amazed with this speech, he turned his eye full of humble sorrowfulness, to Philoclea: “And is this, most excellent lady, your doom of me also.” She, sweet lady, sat weeping; for as her most noble kinsman she had ever favoured him, and loved his love, though she could not be in love with his person; and now partly unkindness of his wrong, partly pity of his case, made her sweet mind yield some tears before she could answer; and her answer was no other, but that she had the same cause as her sister had. He replied no further, but delivering from his heart two or three untaught sighs, rose, and with most low reverence went out of their chamber, and straight, by threatening torture, learned of one of the women in what terrible manner these princesses had been used. But when he heard it, crying out, “O God!” and then not able to say any more, for his speech went back to rebound woe upon his heart, he needed no judge to go upon him; for no man could ever think any other worthy of greater punishment than he thought himself. Full therefore of the horriblest despair, which a most guilty conscience could breed, with wild looks, promising some terrible issue, understanding his mother was upon the top of the leads, he caught one of his servant’s swords from him, and none of them daring to stay him, he went up, carried by fury instead of strength, where she was at that time, musing how to go through with this matter, and resolving to make much of her nieces in show, and secretly to impoison them; thinking since they were not to be won, her son’s love would no otherwise be mitigated.
But when she saw him come in with a sword drawn, and a look more terrible than the sword, she straight was stricken with the guiltiness of her own conscience: yet the well-known humbleness of her son somewhat animated her, till he coming near her, and crying to her, “Thou damnable creature, only fit to bring forth such a monster of unhappiness as I am;” she fearing he would have stricken her, though indeed he meant it not, but only intended to kill himself in her presence, went back so far, till ere she were aware, she overthrew herself from over the leads, to receive her death’s kiss at the ground: and yet was she not so happy as presently to die, but that she had time with hellish agony to see her son’s mischief, whom she loved so well, before her end, when she confessed, with most desperate but not repenting mind, the purpose she had to impoison the princesses, and would then have had them murdered. But everybody seeing, and glad to see her end, had left obedience to her tyranny.
And, if it could be, her ruin increased woe in the noble heart of Amphialus, who when he saw her fall, had his own rage stayed a little with the suddenness of her destruction: “And was I not miserable enough before,” said he, “but that before my end I must be the death of my mother? Who, how wicked soever, yet I would she had received her punishment by some other: O Amphialus, wretched Amphialus, thou hast lived to be the death of thy most dear companion and friend Philoxenus, and of his father, thy most careful foster-father. Thou hast lived to kill a lady with thine own hands, and so excellent and virtuous a lady as the fair Parthenia was; thou hast lived to see thy faithful Ismenus slain in succouring thee, and thou not able to defend him; thou hast lived to show thyself such a coward, as that one unknown knight could overcome thee in thy lady’s presence: thou hast lived to bear arms against thy rightful prince, thine own uncle: thou hast lived to be accounted, and justly accounted a traitor, by the most excellent persons that this world holdeth: thou hast lived to be the death of her that gave thee life. But ah wretched Amphialus, thou hast lived for thy sake, and by thy authority, to have Philoclea tormented. O heavens, in Amphialus’s castle, where Amphialus commanded, tormented, tormented. Torment of my soul, Philoclea tormented, and thou hast had such comfort in thy life, as to live all this while. Perchance this hand, used only to mischievous acts, thinks it were too good a deed to kill me: or else filthy hand, only worthy to kill women, thou art afraid to strike a man. Fear not cowardly hand, for thou shalt kill but a cowardly traitor: and do it gladly, for thou shalt kill him whom Philoclea hateth.” With that furiously he tore open his doublet, and setting the pommel of the sword to the ground, and the point to his breast, he fell upon it. But the sword more merciful than he to himself, with the slipping of the pommel the point swerved, and razed him but upon the side: yet with the fall his other wounds opened so that he bled in such extremity, that Charon’s boat might very well be carried in that flood: which yet he sought so hasten by this means.
As he opened his doublet, and fell, there fell out Philoclea’s knives which Cecropia at the first had taken from her, and delivered to her son; and he had ever worn them next his heart, as the only relic he had of his saint: now seeing them by him, his sword being so, as weakness could not well draw it out from his doublet, he took the knives, and pulling one of them out, and many times kissing it, and then, first with the passions of kindness and unkindness melting in tears. “O dear knives, you are come in good time to revenge the wrong I have done you all this while, in keeping you from her blessed side; and wearing you without your mistress’s leave. Alas! be witness with me, yet before I die, and well you may, for you have lain next my heart, that but my consent, your excellent mistress should have had as much honour as this poor place could have brought forth for so high an excellency; and now I am condemned to die by her mouth. Alas! other, far other hope would my desire often have given me; but other event it hath pleased her to lay upon me. Ah Philoclea,” with that his tears gushed out as though they would strive to overflow his blood, “I would yet thou knowest how I love thee. Unworthy I am, unhappy I am, false I am; but to thee alas! I am not false. But what a traitor am I, any way to excuse him, whom she condemneth? since there is nothing left me wherein I may do her service, but in punishing him who hath so offended her. Dear knife, then do your noble mistress’s commandment.” With that, he stabbed himself into divers places of his breast and throat, until these wounds, with the old, freshly bleeding, brought him to the senseless gate of death. By which time, his servants, having, with fear of his fury, abstained a while from coming unto him, one of them, preferring dutiful affection before fearful duty, came in and there found him swimming in his own blood, giving a pitiful spectacle, where the conquest was the conqueror’s overthrow, and self-ruin the only triumph of a battle, fought between him and himself.
The time full of danger, the person full of worthiness, the manner full of horror, did greatly astonish all the beholders: so as by and by all the town was full of it, and they of all ages came running up to see the beloved body; everybody thinking their safety bled in his wounds, and their honour died in his destruction.
But when it came, and quickly it came to the ears of his proud friend Anaxius, who by that time was grown well of his wound, but never had come abroad, disdaining to abase himself to the company of any other but of Amphialus, he was exceedingly vexed either with kindness or, if a proud heart be not capable thereof, with disdain, that he, who had the honour to be called the friend of Anaxius, should come to such an unexpected ruin. Therefore then coming abroad, with a face red in anger, and engrained in pride, with lids raised, and eyes levelled from top to toe of them that met him, treading as though he thought to make the earth shake under him, with his hand upon his sword; short speeches, and disdainful answers, giving straight order to his two brothers, to go take the oath of obedience, in his name, of all the soldiers and citizens in the town: and withal to swear them to revenge the death of Amphialus upon Basilius; he himself went to see him, calling for all the surgeons and physicians there, spending some time in viewing the body, and threatening them all to be hanged, if they did not heal him. But they, taking view of his wounds, and falling down at Anaxius’s feet, assured him that they were mortal, and no possible means to keep him above two days alive: and he stood partly in doubt, to kill, or save them, between his own fury, and their humbleness. But vowing with his own hands to kill the two sisters, as causers of his friend’s death: when his brothers came to him, and told him they had done his commandment, in having received the oath of allegiance, with no great difficulties, the most part terrified by their valour, and force of their servants; and many that had been forward actors in the rebellion, willing to do anything, rather than come under the subjection of Basilius again; and such few as durst gainsay, being cut off by present slaughter.
But withal, as the chief matter of their coming to him, they told Anaxius, that the fair queen Helen was come, with an honourable retinue, to the town: humbly desiring leave to see Amphialus, whom she had sought in many places of the world; and lastly, being returned into her own country, she heard together of the late siege, and of his combat with the strange knight, who had dangerously hurt him. Whereupon full of loving care (which she was content even to publish to the world, how ungratefully soever he dealt with her) she had gotten leave of Basilius, to come by his frontiers, to carry away Amphialus with her, to the excellentest surgeon then known, whom she had in her country, but so old, as not able to travel: but had given her sovereign anointments, to preserve his body withal, till he might be brought unto him: and that Basilius had granted leave; either natural kindness prevailing over all the offences done, or rather glad to make any passage which might lead him out of his country, and from his daughters. This discourse Lycurgus understanding of Helen, delivered to his brother, with her vehement desire to see the body, and take her last farewell of him. Anaxius, though he were fallen out with all womankind, in respect of the hate he bore the sisters, whom he accounted murderers of Amphialus, yet at his brother’s request, granted her leave. And she, poor lady, with grievous expectation, and languishing desire, carried her faint legs to the place where he lay, either not breathing, or in all appearance breathing nothing but death.
In which piteous plight when she saw him, though sorrow had set before her mind the pitifullest conceit thereof that it could paint, yet the present sight went beyond all the former apprehensions: so that beginning to kneel by the body, her sight ran from her service, rather than abide such a sight; and she fell in a swoon upon him, as if she could not choose but die of his wounds. But when her breath, aweary to be closed up in woe, broke the prison of her fair lips, and brought memory with his servant senses to his natural office, she made yet the breath convey these doleful words with it. “Alas!” said she, “Amphialus, what strange disasters be these, that having sought thee so long, I should be now sorry to find thee? that these eyes should look upon Amphialus, and be grieved withal? that I should have thee in my power without glory, and embrace thee without comfort? how often have I blest the means that might bring me near thee? now woe worth the cause that brings me so near thee. Often, alas! often hast thou disdained my tears: but now, my dear Amphialus, receive them: these eyes can serve for nothing else but to weep for thee: since thou wouldst never vouchsafe them thy comfort, yet disdain not them thy sorrow. I would they had been more dear unto thee; for then hadst thou lived. Woe is me that thy noble heart could love who hated thee, and hate who loved thee. Alas why should not my faith to thee cover my other defects, who only sought to make my crown thy footstool, myself thy servant, that was all my ambition; and alas thou disdainest it, to serve them, by whom thy incomparable self wert disdained. Yet, O Philoclea, wheresoever you are, pardon me if I speak in the bitterness of my soul, excellent may you be in all other things, and excellent sure you are since he loved you, your want of pity, where the fault only was infiniteness of desert, cannot be excused. I would, O God, I would that you had granted his deserved suit of marrying you, and that I had been your serving-maid, to have made my estate the foil of your felicity, so he had lived. How many weary steps have I trodden after thee, while my only complaint was, that thou wert unkind? alas! I would now thou wert to be unkind. Alas, why wouldst thou not command my service, in persuading Philoclea to love thee? who could, or if everyone could, who would have recounted thy perfection so well as I? who with such kindly passions could have stirred pity for thee as I? who should have delivered not only the words, but the tears I had of thee: and so shouldst thou have exercised thy disdain in me, and yet used my service for thee.”
With that the body moving somewhat, and giving a groan, full of death’s music, she fell upon his face, and kissed him, and withal cried out; “O miserable I, that have only favour by misery;” and then would she have returned to a fresh career of complaints, when an aged and wise gentleman came to her, and besought her to remember what was fit for her greatness, wisdom, and honour: and withal, that it was fitter to show her love in carrying the body to her excellent surgeon, first applying such excellent medicines as she had received of him for that purpose, rather than only show herself a woman-lover in fruitless lamentations. She was straight warned with the obedience of an overthrown mind, and therefore leaving some surgeons of her own to dress the body, went herself to Anaxius, and humbling herself to him, as low as his own pride could wish, besought him, that since the surgeons there had utterly given him over, that he would let her carry him away in her litter with her, since the worst he could have should be to die, and to die in her arms that loved him above all things; and where he should have such monuments erected over him, as were fit for her love, and his worthiness: beseeching him withal, since she was in a country of enemies, where she trusted more to Anaxius’s valour, than Basilius’s promise, that he would convey them safely out of these territories. Her reasons something moved him, but nothing thoroughly persuaded him, but the last request of his help; which he straight promised: warranting all security, as long as that sword had his master alive. She as happy therein as unhappiness could be, having received as small comfort of her own surgeons as of the others, caused yet the body to be easily conveyed into the litter: all the people then beginning to roar and cry, as though never till then they had lost their lord. And if the terror of Anaxius had not kept them under, they would have mutinied, rather than suffered his body to be carried away.
But Anaxius himself riding before the litter, with the choice men of that place, they were afraid even to cry, though they were ready to cry for fear; but because that they might do, everybody forced, even with harming themselves, to do honour to him: some throwing themselves upon the ground; some tearing their clothes, and casting dust upon their heads, and some even wounding themselves, and sprinkling their own blood in the air.
The general consort of whose mourning performed so the natural tunes of sorrow, that even to them, if any such were, that felt not the loss, yet others’ grief taught them grief; having before both their compassionate sense so passionate a spectacle of a young man, of great beauty, beautified with great honour, honoured by great valour, made of inestimable value by the noble using of it, to lie there languishing under the arrest of death, and a death where the manner could be no comfort to the discomfortableness of the matter. But when the body was carried through the gate, and the people, saving such as were appointed, not suffered to go further, then was such an universal cry, as if they had all had but one life, and all received but one blow.
Which so moved Anaxius to consider the loss of his friend, that, his mind apter to revenge than tenderness, he presently giving order to his brothers to keep the prisoners safe, and unvisited till his return from conveying Helen, he sent a messenger to the sisters to tell them this courteous message: that at his return, with his own hands, he would cut off their heads, and send them for tokens to their father.
This message was brought unto the sisters, as they sat at that time together with Zelmane, conferring how to carry themselves, having heard of the death of Amphialus. And as no expectation of death is so painful, as where the resolution is hindered by the intermixing of hopes, so did this new alarm, though not remove, yet move somewhat the constancy of their minds, which were so unconstantly dealt with. But within a while, the excellent Pamela had brought her mind again to his old acquaintance: and then as careful for her sister, whom she most dearly loved, “Sister,” said she, “you see how many acts our tragedy hath: fortune is not yet aweary of vexing us: but what? a ship is not counted strong by biding one storm: it is but the same trumpet of death, which now perhaps gives the last sound: and let us make that profit of our former miseries, that in them we learned to die willingly.” “Truly,” said Philoclea, “dear sister, I was so beaten with the evils of life, that though I had not virtue enough to despise the sweetness of it, yet my weakness bred that strength to be weary of the pains of it: only I must confess that little hope, which by these late accidents was awakened in me, was at the first angry withal. But even in the darkness of that horror, I see a light of comfort appear; and how can I tread amiss, that see Pamela’s steps? I would only, O that my wish might take place, that my school-mistress might live, to see me say my lesson truly.” “Were that a life, my Philoclea?” said Pamela. “No, no,” said she, “let it come, and put on his worst face: for at the worst it is but a bugbear. Joy it is to me to see you so well resolved, and since the world will not have us, let it lose us. Only,” with that she stayed a little and sighed, “only my Philoclea,” then she bowed down, and whispered in her ear, “only Musidorus, my shepherd, comes between me and death, and makes me think I should not die, because I know he would not I should die.” With that Philoclea sighed also, saying no more, but looking upon Zelmane, who was walking up and down the chamber, having heard this message from Anaxius, and having in time past heard of his nature, thought him like enough to perform it, which winded her again into the former maze of perplexity. Yet debating with herself of the manner how to prevent it, she continued her musing humour, little saying, or indeed, little finding in her heart to say, in a case of such extremity, where peremptorily death was threatened: and so stayed they; having yet that comfort, that they might tarry together. Pamela nobly, Philoclea sweetly, and Zelmane sadly and desperately; none of them entertaining sleep, which they thought should shortly begin never to awake.
But Anaxius came home, having safely conducted Helen; and safely he might well do it; for though many of Basilius’s knights would have attempted something upon Anaxius, by that means to deliver the ladies, yet Philanax having received his master’s commandment, and knowing his word was given, would not consent unto it. And the black knight, who by then was able to carry abroad his wounds, did not know thereof; but was bringing force, by force to deliver his lady. So as Anaxius, interpreting it rather fear than faith, and making even chance an argument of his virtue, returned: and as soon as he was returned, with a felon heart calling his brothers up with him, he went into the chamber, where they were all three together, with full intention to kill the sisters with his own hands, and send their heads for tokens to their father, though his brothers, who were otherwise inclined, dissuaded him; but his reverence stayed their persuasions. But when he was come into the chamber, with the very words of choleric threatening climbing up his throat, his eyes first lighted upon Pamela; who hearing he was coming, and looking for death, thought she would keep her own majesty in welcoming it; but the beams thereof so struck his eyes, with such a counterbuff upon his pride, that if his anger could not so quickly love, nor his pride so easily honour, yet both were forced to find a worthiness.
Which while it bred a pause in him, Zelmane, who had already in her mind both what and how to say, stepped out unto him, and with a resolute steadiness, void either of anger, kindness, disdain, or humbleness, spoke in this sort. “Anaxius,” said she, “if fame hath not been over-partial to thee, thou art a man of exceeding valour. Therefore I do call thee even before that virtue, and will make it the judge between us. And now I do affirm, that to the eternal blot of all the fair acts that thou hast done, thou dost weakly, in seeking without danger to revenge his death, whose life with danger thou mightest perhaps have preserved: thou dost cowardly in going about by the death of these excellent ladies, to prevent the just punishment that hereafter they by the powers, which they better than their father, or any other could make, might lay upon thee, and dost most basely, in once presenting thyself as an executioner, a vile office upon men, and in a just cause; beyond the degree of any vile word, in so unjust a cause, and upon ladies, and such ladies. And therefore, as a hangman, I say, thou art unworthy to be counted a knight, or to be admitted into the company of knights. Neither for what I say, will I allege other reasons of wisdom, or justice, to prove my speech, because I know thou dost disdain to be tied to their rules, but even in thine own virtue, whereof thou so much gloriest, I will make my trial: and therefore defy thee, by the death of one of us two, to prove or disprove these reproaches. Choose thee what arms thou likest: I only demand that these ladies, whom I defend, may in liberty see the combat.”
When Zelmane began her speech, the excellency of her beauty and grace made him a little content to hear. Besides that, a new lesson he had read in Pamela, had already taught him some regard. But when she entered into a bravery of speech, he thought at first, a mad and railing humour possessed her; till finding the speeches hold well together, and at length come to a flat challenge of combat, he stood leaning back with his body and head, sometimes with bent brows looking upon the one side of her, sometimes of the other, beyond marvel marvelling, that he, who had never heard such speeches from any knight, should be thus rebuffed by a woman, and that marvel made him hear out her speech: which ended, he turned his head to his brother Zoilus, and said nothing, but only lifting up his eyes, smiled. But Zelmane finding his mind, “Anaxius,” said she, “perchance thou disdainest to answer me, because, as a woman, thou thinkest me not fit to be fought withal. But I tell thee that I have been trained up in martial matters, with so good success, that I have many times overcome braver knights than thyself: and am well known to be equal in feats of arms to the famous Pyrocles, who slew thy valiant uncle, the giant Euardes.” The remembrance of his uncle’s death something nettled him, so as he answered thus.
“Indeed,” said he, “any woman may be as valiant as that coward and traitorly boy, who slew my uncle traitorously, and after ran from me in the plain field. Five thousand such could not have overcome Euardes, but by falsehood. But I sought him all over Asia, following him still from one of his coney-holes to another, till coming into this country, I heard of my friend being besieged, and so came to blow away the wretches that troubled him. But wheresoever the miserable boy fly, heaven, nor hell shall keep his heart from being torn by these hands.” “Thou liest in thy throat,” said Zelmane, “that boy, wherever he went, did so noble acts, as thy heart, as proud as it is, dares not think of, much less perform. But to please thee the better with my presence, I tell thee, no creature can be nearer of kin to him than myself: and so well we love, that he would not be sorrier for his own death than for mine: I being begotten by his father, of an Amazon lady. And therefore, thou canst not devise to revenge thyself more upon him, than by killing me: which if thou darest do, manfully do it, otherwise, if thou harm these incomparable ladies, or myself without daring to fight with me, I protest before these knights, and before heaven and earth, that will reveal thy shame, that thou art the beggarliest dastardly villain that dishonoureth the earth with his steps: and if thou lettest me over-live them, so will I blaze thee.” But all this could not move Anaxius, but that he only said, “Evil should it become the terror of the world to fight, much worse to scold with thee.”
“But,” said he, “for the death of these same,” pointing to the princesses, “of my grace I give them life.” And withal going to Pamela, and offering to take her by the chin, “And as for you, minion,” said he, “yield but gently to my will, and you shall not only live, but live so happily:” he would have said further, when Pamela, displeased both with words, matter and manner, putting him away with her fair hand; “proud beast,” said she, “yet thou playest worse thy comedy, than thy tragedy. For my part, assure thyself, since my destiny is such, that each moment my life and death stand in equal balance, I had rather have thee, and think thee far fitter to be my hangman, than my husband.” Pride and anger would fain have cruelly revenged so bitter an answer, but already Cupid had begun to make it his sport to pull his plumes: so that unused to a way of courtesy, and put out of his bias of pride, he hastily went away, grumbling to himself: between threatening and wishing; leaving his brothers with them: the elder of whom Lycurgus, liked Philoclea, and Zoilus would needs love Zelmane, or at least entertain themselves with making them believe so. Lycurgus more bragged, and near his brother’s humour, began, with setting forth their blood, their deeds, how many they had despised of most excellent women; how much they were bound to them, that would seek that of them. In sum, in all his speeches, more like the bestower than the desirer of felicity. Whom it was an excellent pastime, to those that would delight in the play of virtue, to see with what a witty ignorance she would not understand: and how acknowledging his perfections, she would make that one of his perfections, not to be injurious to ladies. But when he knew not how to reply, then would he fall to touching and toying, still viewing his graces in no glass but self-liking. To which Philoclea’s shamefacedness and humbleness were as strong resisters as choler and disdain: for though she yielded not, he thought she was to be overcome: and that thought a while stayed him from further violence. But Zelmane had eye to his behaviour, and set it in her memory upon the score of revenge, while she herself was no less attempted by Zoilus; who less fond of brags was forwardest in offering, indeed, dishonourable violence.
But when after their fruitless labours they had gone away, called by their brother, who began to be perplexed between new conceived desires, and disdain to be disdained, Zelmane, who with most assured quietness of judgment looked into their present estate, earnestly persuaded the two sisters, that to avoid the mischiefs of proud outrage, they would only so far suit their behaviour to their estates, as they might win time, which, as it could not bring them to worse case than they were, so it might bring forth unexpected relief. “And why,” said Pamela, “shall we any longer flatter adversity? why should we delight to make ourselves any longer balls to injurious fortune, since our own parents are content to be tyrants over us, since our own kin are content traitorously to abuse us? certainly in mishap it may be some comfort to us that we are lighted in these fellows’ hands, who yet will keep us from having cause of being miserable by our friend’s means. Nothing grieves me more than that you, noble lady Zelmane, to whom the world might have made us able to do honour, should receive only hurt by the contagion of our misery. As for me and my sister, undoubtedly it becomes our birth to think of dying nobly, while we have done or suffered nothing which might make our soul ashamed at the parture from these bodies. Hope is the fawning traitor of the mind, while under colour of friendship it robs it of his chief force of resolution.” “Virtuous and fair lady,” said Zelmane, “What you say is true, and that truth may well make up a part in the harmony of your noble thoughts. But yet the time, which ought always to be one, is not tuned for it, while that may bring forth any good, do not bar yourself thereof: for then will be the time to die nobly, when you cannot live nobly.” Then so earnestly she persuaded with them both, to refer themselves to their father’s consent, in obtaining whereof they knew some while would be spent, and by that means to temper the minds of their proud wooers; that in the end Pamela yielded to her, because she spoke reason, and Philoclea yielded to her reason, because she spoke it.
And so when they were again solicited in that little pleasing petition, Pamela forced herself to make answer to Anaxius, that if her father gave his consent she would make herself believe, that such was the heavenly determination, since she had no means to avoid it. Anaxius who was the most frank promiser to himself of success, nothing doubted of Basilius’s consent, but rather assured himself, he would be his orator in that matter; and therefore he chose out an officious servant, whom he esteemed very wise, because he never found him but just of his opinion, and willed him to be his ambassador to Basilius, and to make him know, that if he meant to have his daughters both safe and happy, and desired himself to have such a son-in-law, as would not only protect him in his quiet course, but, if he listed to accept it, would give him the monarchy of the world, that then he should receive Anaxius, who never before knew what it was to pray anything. That if he did not, he would make him know that the power of Anaxius was in everything beyond his will, and yet his will not to be resisted by any other power. His servant, with smiling and cast-up look, desired God to make his memory able to contain the treasure of that wise speech: and therefore besought him to repeat it again, that by the oftener hearing it his mind might be the better acquainted with the divineness thereof; and that being graciously granted he then doubted not by carrying with him in his conceit the grace wherewith Anaxius spoke it, to persuade rocky minds to their own harm; so little doubted he to win Basilius to that, which he thought would make him think the heavens opened when he heard but the proffer thereof. Anaxius gravely allowed the probability of his conjecture; and therefore sent him away, promising him he should have the bringing up of his second son by Pamela.
The messenger with speed performed his lord’s commandment to Basilius; who by nature quiet, and by superstition made doubtful, was loth to take any matter of arms in hand, wherein already he had found so slow success; though Philanax vehemently urged him thereunto, making him see that his retiring back did encourage injuries. But Basilius, betwixt the fear of Anaxius’s might, the passion of his love, and jealousy of his estate, was so perplexed, that not able to determine, he took the common course of men, to fly only then to devotion, when they want resolution: therefore detaining the messenger with delays, he deferred the directing of his course to the counsel of Apollo, which because himself at that time could not go well to require, he entrusted the matter to his best trusted Philanax; who, as one in whom obedience was a sufficient reason unto him, went with diligence to Delphos, where being entered into the secret place of the temple, and having performed the sacrifices usual, the spirit that possessed the prophesying woman, with a sacred fury attended not his demand, but as if it would argue him of incredulity, told him, not in dark wonted speeches, but plainly to be understood, what he came for, and that he should return to Basilius, and will him to deny his daughters to Anaxius and his brothers; for that they were reserved for such as were better beloved of the Gods, that he should not doubt, for they should return unto him safely and speedily; and that he should keep on his solitary course till both Philanax and Basilius fully agreed in the understanding of the former prophecy: withal commanding Philanax from thence forward to give tribute, but not oblation to human wisdom.
Philanax then finding that reason cannot show itself more reasonable than to leave reasoning in things above reason, returns to his lord, and like one that preferred truth before the maintaining of an opinion, hid nothing from him, nor from thenceforth durst any more dissuade him from that which he found by the celestial providence directed; but he himself looking to repair the government, as much as in so broken an estate by civil dissention he might, and fortifying with notable art both the lodges, so that they were almost made unapproachable, he left Basilius to bemoan the absence of his daughters, and to bewail the imprisonment of Zelmane: yet wholly given holily to obey the oracle, he gave a resolute negative unto the messenger of Anaxius, who all this while had waited for it; yet in good terms desiring him to show himself in respect of his birth and profession, so princely a knight, as without forcing him to seek the way of force, to deliver in noble sort these ladies unto him, and so should the injury have been by Amphialus, and the benefit in him.
The messenger went back with this answer, yet having ever used to sugar anything which his master was to receive, he told him, that when Basilius first understood his desires, it did over-reach so far all his most hopeful expectations that he thought it were too great a boldness to hearken to such a man, in whom the heavens had such interest, without asking the God’s counsel; and therefore had sent his principal counsellor to Delphos, who although he kept the matter ever so secret, yet his diligence inspired by Anaxius’s privilege over all worldly things, had found out the secret, which was, that he should not presume to marry his daughter to one who already was enrolled among the demi-gods, and yet much less he should dare the attempting to take them out of his hands.
Anaxius, who till then had made fortune his creator, and force his god, now began to find another wisdom to be above, that judged so rightly of him: and where in this time of his servant’s waiting for Basilius’s resolution, he and his brothers had courted their ladies, as whom they vouchsafed to have for their wives; he resolved now to dally no longer in delays, but to make violence his orator, since he had found persuasions had gotten nothing but answers. Which intention he opened to his brothers, who having all this while wanted nothing to take that away but his authority, gave spurs to his runnings; and, worthy men, neither feeling virtue in themselves, nor tendering it in others, they went headlong to make that evil consort of love and force, when Anaxius had word, that from the tower there were descried some companies of armed men, marching towards the town, wherefore he gave present order to his servants and soldiers to go to the gates and walls, leaving none within but himself and his brothers: his thoughts then so full of their intended prey, that Mars his loudest trumpet could scarcely have awaked him.
But while he was directing what he would have done, his youngest brother Zoilus, glad that he had the commission, went in the name of Anaxius to tell the sisters, that since he had answer from their father, that he and his brother Lycurgus should have them in what sort it pleased them, that they would now grant them no longer time, but presently to determine whether they thought it more honourable comfort to be compelled or persuaded. Pamela made him answer, that in a matter whereon the whole state of her life depended, and wherein she had ever answered she would not lead, but follow her parents’ pleasure, she thought it reason she should either by letter, or particular messenger, understand something from themselves, and not have their belief bound to the report of their partial servant: and therefore as to their words, she and her sister had ever a simple and true resolution, so against their unjust force, God, they hoped, would either arm their lives, or take away their lives. “Well, ladies,” said he, “I will leave my brothers, who by and by will come unto you to be their own ambassadors: for my part I must now do myself service.” And with that turning up his mustaches, and marching as if he would begin a paven[b3-07], he went toward Zelmane. But Zelmane having heard all this while of the messenger’s being with Basilius, had much to do to keep these excellent ladies from seeking by the passport of death to escape these base dangers whereunto they found themselves subject, still hoping that Musidorus would find some means to deliver them; and therefore had often, both by her own example and comfortable reasons, persuaded them to overpass many insolent indignities of their proud suitors, who thought it was a sufficient favour not to do the uttermost injury, now come again to the strait she most feared for them, either of death or dishonour, if heroical courage would have let her, she had been beyond herself amazed: but that yet held up her wit, to attend the uttermost occasion, which even then brought his hairy forehead unto her: for Zoilus smacking his lips, as for the prologue of a kiss, and something advancing himself, “Darling,” said he, “let thy heart be full of joy, and let thy fair eyes be of counsel with it, for this day thou shalt have Zoilus, whom many have longed for, but none shall have him but Zelmane. And oh! how much glory I have to think what a race will be between us? The world, by the heavens, the world will be too little for them.” And with that he would have put his arm about her neck; but she withdrawing herself from him, “My lord,” said she, “much good may your thoughts do you: but that I may not dissemble with you, my nativity being cast by one that never failed in any of his prognostications, I have been assured that I should never be apt to bear children; but since you will honour me with so high a favour, I must only desire that I may perform a vow, which I made among my countrywomen, the famous Amazons, that I would marry none, but such one as was able to withstand me in arms: therefore, before I make mine own desire serviceable to yours, you must vouchsafe to lend me armour and weapons, that at least with a blow or two of the sword I may not find myself perjured to myself.” But Zoilus, laughing with a hearty loudness, went by force to embrace her; making no other answer, but since she had a mind to try his knighthood, she should quickly know what a man of arms he was; and so without reverence to the ladies, began to struggle with her.
But in Zelmane then disdain became wisdom, and anger gave occasion. For abiding no longer abode in the matter, she that had not put off, though she had disguised Pyrocles, being far fuller of stronger nimbleness, tripped up his feet so that he fell down at hers. And withal, meaning to pursue what she had begun, pulled out his sword which he wore about him: but before she could strike him withal, he got up, and ran to a fair chamber, where he had left his two brethren, preparing themselves to come down to their mistresses. But she followed at his heels, and even as he came to throw himself into their arms for succour, she hit him with his own sword such a blow upon the waist that she almost cut him asunder: once she sundered his soul from his body, sending it to Proserpina, an angry goddess against ravishers. But Anaxius, seeing before his eyes the miserable end of his brother, fuller of despite than wrath, and yet fuller of wrath than sorrow, looking with a woeful eye upon his brother Lycurgus; “Brother,” said he, “chastise this vile creature, while I go down and take order lest further mischief arise:” and so went down to the ladies, whom he visited, doubting there had been some further practice than yet he conceived. But finding them only strong in patience, he went and locked a great iron gate, by which only anybody might mount to that part of the castle; rather to conceal the shame of his brother, slain by a woman, than for doubt of any other annoyance: and then went up to receive some comfort of the execution, he was sure his brother had done of Zelmane. But Zelmane no sooner saw these brothers, of whom reason assured her she was to expect revenge, but that she leaped to a target, as one that well knew the first mark of valour to be defence. And then accepting the opportunity of Anaxius going away, she waited not the pleasure of Lycurgus, but without any words, which she ever thought vain, when resolution took the place of persuasion, gave her own heart the contentment to be the assailer.
