The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

Then began she to speak, but with so pretty and delightful a majesty, when she set her countenance to tell the matter, that Pyrocles could not choose but rebel so far as to kiss her. She would have pulled her head away, and spoke, but while she spoke, he kissed, and it seemed he fed upon her words; but she got away. “How will you have your discourse,” said she, “without you let my lips alone?” He yielded, and took her hand. “On this,” said he, “will I revenge my wrong;” and so began to make much of that hand, when her tale, and his delight were interrupted by Miso, who taking her time, while Basilius’s back was turned, came unto them, and told Philoclea, she deserved she knew what for leaving her mother, being evil at ease, to keep company with strangers. But Philoclea telling her that she was there by her father’s commandment, she went away muttering that though her back and her shoulders and her neck were broken, yet as long as her tongue would wag, it should do her errand to her mother; and so went up to Gynecia, who was at that time miserably vexed with this manner of dream. It seemed unto her to be in a place full of thorns, which so molested her that she could neither abide standing still, nor tread safely going forward. In this case she thought Zelmane being upon a fair hill, delightful to the eye, and easy in appearance, called her thither, whither with such anguish being come, Zelmane was vanished and she found nothing but a dead body like unto her husband, which seeming at the first with a strange smell to infect her, as she was ready likewise within a while to die; the dead body, she thought, took her in his arms, and said, “Gynecia, leave all, for here is thy only rest.”

With that she awaked, crying very loud, “Zelmane, Zelmane.”

But remembering herself, and seeing Basilius by (her guilty conscience more suspecting than being suspected) she turned her call, and called for Philoclea. Miso forthwith like a valiant shrew, looking at Basilius, as though she would speak though she died for it, told Gynecia that her daughter had been a whole hour together in secret talk with Zelmane. “And,” said she, “for my part I could not be heard, your daughters are brought up in such awe, though I told her of your pleasure sufficiently.” Gynecia as if she had heard her last doom pronounced against her, with a side look and changed countenance, “O my lord,” said she, “what mean you to suffer those young folks together?” Basilius, that aimed nothing at the mark of her suspicion, smiling, took her in his arms: “Sweet wife,” said he, “I thank you for your care of your child; but they must be youths of other metal than Zelmane that can endanger her.” “O but——,” cried Gynecia, and therewith she stayed, for then indeed she did suffer a right conflict betwixt the force of love, and rage of jealousy. Many times was she about to satisfy the spite of her mind, and tell Basilius how she knew Zelmane to be far otherwise than the outward appearance. But those many times were all put back by the manifold objections of her vehement love. Fain she would have barred her daughter’s hap, but loth she was to cut off her own hope. But now, as if her life had been set upon a wager of quick rising, as weak as she was, she got up; though Basilius (with a kindness flowing only from the fountain of unkindness, being indeed desirous to win his daughter as much time as might be) was loth to suffer it, swearing he saw sickness in her face, and therefore was loth she should adventure the air.

But the great and wretched lady Gynecia, possessed with those devils of love and jealousy, did rid herself from her tedious husband: and taking nobody with her, going toward them; “O jealousy,” said she, “the frenzy of wise folks, the well-wishing spite, and unkind carefulness, the self-punishment for other’s faults, and self-misery in other’s happiness, the cousin of envy, daughter of love, and mother of hate, how could’st thou so quietly get thee a seat in the unquiet heart of Gynecia! Gynecia,” said she sighing, “thought wise and once virtuous! alas! it is thy breeder’s power which plants thee there: it is the flaming agony of affection, that works the chilling access of thy fever, in such sort, that nature gives place; the growing of my daughter seems the decay of myself; the blessings of a mother turn to the curses of a competitor; and the fair face of Philoclea appears more horrible in my sight than the image of death.” Then remembered she this song, which she thought took a right measure of her present mind.

With two strange fires of equal heat possessed,

The one of love, the other of jealousy,

Both still do work, in neither I find rest:

For both, alas, their strength together tie:

The one aloft doth hold, the other high.

Love wakes the jealous eye, lest thence it moves:

The jealous eye, the more it looks it loves.

Those fires increase; in those I daily burn,

They feed on me, and with my wings do fly:

My lovely joys to doleful ashes turn:

Their flames mount up, my prayers prostrate lie;

They live in force; I quite consumed die.

One wonder yet far passes my conceit,

The fuel small; how be the fires so great?

But her unleisured thoughts ran not over the ten first words; but going with a pace not so much too fast for her body, as slow for her mind, she found them together, who after Miso’s departure had left their tale, and determined what to say to Basilius. But full abashed was poor Philoclea, whose conscience now began to know cause of blushing, for first salutation, receiving an eye from her mother, full of the same disdainful scorn which Pallas showed to poor Arachne that durst contend with her for the price of well weaving: yet did the force of love so much rule her that, though for Zelmane’s sake she did detest her, yet for Zelmane’s sake she used no harder words to her than to bid her go home, and accompany her solitary father.

Then began she to display to Zelmane the store-house of her deadly desires, when suddenly the confused rumour of a mutinous multitude gave just occasion to Zelmane to break off any such conference, for well she found they were not friendly voices they heard, and to retire with as much diligence as conveniently they could towards the lodge. Yet before they could win the lodge by twenty paces, they were overtaken by an unruly sort of clowns, and other rebels, which like a violent flood, were carried, they themselves knew not whither. But as soon as they came within perfect discerning those ladies, like enraged beasts, without respect of their estates, or pity of their sex, they began to run against them, as right villains thinking ability to do hurt to be a great advancement; yet so many as they were, so many almost were their minds, all knit together only in madness. Some cried, “take;” some, “kill;” some, “save.” But even they that cried “save,” ran for company with them that meant to kill. Everyone commanded, none obeyed, he only seemed chief captain, that was most rageful.

Zelmane, whose virtuous courage was ever awake, drew out her sword, which upon those ill-armed churls giving as many wounds as blows, and as many deaths almost as wounds, lightning courage, and thundering smart upon them, kept them at a bay, while the two ladies got themselves into the lodge, out of the which Basilius, having put on an armour long untried, came to prove his authority among his subjects, or at least, to adventure his life with his dear mistress, to whom he brought a shield, while the ladies trembling attended by the issue of this dangerous adventure. But Zelmane made them perceive the odds between an eagle and a kite, with such nimble steadiness, and assured nimbleness, that while one was running back for fear, his fellow had her sword in his guts.

And by and by was her heart and her help well increased by the coming in of Dorus, who having been making of hurdles for his master’s sheep, heard the horrible cries of this mad multitude, and having straight represented before the eyes of his careful love, the peril wherein the soul of his soul might be, he went to Pamela’s lodge, but found her in a cave hard by, with Mopsa and Dametas, who at that time would not have opened the entry to his father. And therefore leaving them there, as in a place safe, both for being strong and unknown, he ran as the noise guided him. But when he saw his friend in such danger among them, anger and contempt, asking no counsel but of courage, made him run among them, with no other weapon but his sheep-hook, and with that overthrowing one of the villains, took away a two-hand sword from him, and withal helped him from ever being ashamed of losing it. Then lifting up his brave head, and flashing terror into their faces, he made arms and legs go complain to the earth, how evil their masters had kept them. Yet the multitude still growing, and the very killing wearying them, fearing lest in long fight they should be conquered with conquering, they drew back towards the lodge; but drew back in such sort, that still their terror went forward like a valiant mastiff, whom, when his master pulls back by the tail from the bear, with whom he had already interchanged a hateful embracement, though his pace be backward, his gesture is forward, his teeth and his eyes threatening more in the retiring than they did in the advancing: so guided they themselves homeward, never stepping step backward, but that they proved themselves masters of the ground where they stepped.

Yet among the rebels there was a dapper fellow, a tailor by occupation, who fetching his courage only from their going back, began to bow his knees, and very fencer-like to draw near to Zelmane. But as he came within her distance, turning his sword very nicely about his crown, Basilius, with a side blow, struck off his nose, he (being suitor to a seamster’s daughter, and therefore not a little grieved for such a disgrace) stooped down, because he had heard that if it were fresh put to, it would cleave on again. But as his hand was on the ground to bring his nose to his head, Zelmane with a blow sent his head to his nose. That saw a butcher, a butcherly chuff indeed, who that day was sworn brother to him in a cup of wine, and lifted up a great leaver, calling Zelmane all the vile names of a butcherly eloquence. But she letting slip the blow of the leaver, hit him so surely upon the side of the face that she left nothing but the nether jaw, where the tongue still wagged, as willing to say more if his master’s remembrance had served. “O!” said a miller that was half drunk, “see the luck of a good-fellow,” and with that word ran with a pitchfork at Dorus; but the nimbleness of the wine carried his head so fast that it made it over-run his feet, so that he fell withal just between the legs of Dorus, who setting his foot on his neck, though he offered two milch kine and four fat hogs for his life, thrust his sword quite through, from one ear to the other; which took it very unkindly, to feel such news before they heard of them, instead of hearing, to be put to such feeling. But Dorus, leaving the miller to vomit his soul out in wine and blood, with his two-hand sword struck off another quite by the waist, who the night before had dreamed he was grown a couple, and, interpreting it that he should be married, had bragged of his dream that morning among his neighbours. But that blow astonished quite a poor painter, who stood by with a pike in his hands. This painter was to counterfeit the skirmish between the Centaurs and Lapithes, and had been very desirous to see some notable wounds, to be able the more lively to express them; and this morning, being carried by the stream of this company, the foolish fellow was even delighted to see the effect of blows. But this last, happening near him, so amazed him that he stood stock still, while Dorus, with a turn of his sword, struck off both his hands. And so the painter returned, well skilled in wounds, but with never a hand to perform his skill.