The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

This made the poison swell in her cankered breast, perceiving that, as in water, the more she grasped the less she held; but yet now having run so long the way of rigour, it was too late in reason, and too contrary to her passion to return to a course of meekness. And therefore, taking counsel of one of her old associates (who so far excelled in wickedness, as that she had not only lost all feeling of conscience, but had gotten a very glory in evil) in the end they determined, that beating, and other such sharp dealing, did not so much pull down a woman’s heart as it bred anger, and that nothing was more enemy to yielding than anger; making their tender hearts take on the armour of obstinacy: for thus did their wicked minds, blind to the light of virtue, and owly-eyed in the night of wickedness, interpret it; and that therefore was no more to be tried. And for fear of death (which no question would do most with them) they had been so often threatened, as they began to be familiarly acquainted with it, and learned to esteem threatening words to be but words. Therefore the last, but the best way now was, that the one seeing indeed the other’s death, should perceive there was no dallying meant: and then there was no doubt, that a woman’s soul would do so much, rather than leave so beautiful a body.

This being concluded, Cecropia went to Philoclea and told her that now she was to come to the last part of the play, for her part though she found her hard-hearted obstinacy such that neither the sweetness of loving means, nor the force of hard means could prevail with her, yet before she would pass to a further degree of extremity, she had sought to win her sister; in hopes that her son might be in time satisfied with the love of so fair a lady; but finding her also rather more than less wilful, she was now minded that one of their deaths should serve for an example to the other, that despising worthy folks, was more hurtful to the despiser than the despised: that yet because her son especially affected her, and that in her own self she was more inclinable to pity her than she had deserved, she would begin with her sister, who that afternoon should have her head cut off before her face; if in the meantime one of them did not pull out their ill-wrought stitches of unkindness, she bade her look for no other, nor longer time than she told her. There was no assault given to the sweet Philoclea’s mind, that entered so far, as this: for where to all pains and dangers of herself, foresight, with his lieutenant resolution, had made ready defence, now with the love she bare her sister, she was driven to a stay, before she determined: but long she stayed not, before this reason did shine unto her, that since in herself she preferred death before such a base servitude, love did teach her to wish the same to her sister. Therefore crossing her arms, and looking sideward upon the ground, “Do what you will,” said she, “with us: for my part heaven shall melt before I be removed. But if you will follow my counsel, for your own sake (for as for prayers for my sake I have felt how little they prevail) let my death first serve for example to win her, who perchance is not so resolved against Amphialus, and so shall you not only justly punish me, who indeed do hate both you and your son, but, if that may move you, you shall do more virtuously in preserving one most worthy of life, and killing another most desirous of death: lastly, in winning her, instead of peevish unhappy creature that I am, you shall bless your son with the most excellent woman in all praiseworthy things, that the world holdeth.” But Cecropia, who had already set down to herself what she would do, both with bitter terms and countenance, told her, that she should not need to woo death over-eagerly: for if her sister going before her did not teach her wit, herself should quickly follow.

For since they were not to be gotten, there was no way for her son’s quiet, but to know that they were past getting. And so since no entreating, nor threatening might prevail, she bade her prepare her eyes for a new play, which she should see within a few hours in the hall of that castle.

A place indeed over-fit for so unfit a matter: for being so stately made, that the bottom of it being even with the ground, the roof reached as high as any part of the castle, at either end it had convenient lodgings. In the one end was, one storey from the ground, Philoclea’s abode; in the other of even height, Pamela’s, and Zelmane’s in a chamber above her; but also vaulted of strong and thick built stone, as one could no way hear the other, each of these chambers had a little window to look into the hall, but because the sisters should not have so much comfort, as to look one to the other, there was, of the outsides, curtains drawn, which they could not reach with their hands, so barring the reach of their sight. But when the hour came that the tragedy should begin, and the curtains were withdrawn from before the windows of Zelmane and Philoclea: a sufficient challenge to call their eyes to defend themselves in such an encounter. And by and by came in at one end of the hall, with about a dozen armed soldiers, a lady, led by a couple, with her hands bound before her: from above her eyes to her lips muffled with a fair handkerchief, but from her mouth to her shoulders all bare: and so was led on to a scaffold raised a good deal from the floor, and all covered with crimson velvet. But neither Zelmane, nor Philoclea needed to be told who she was: for the apparel she wore, made them too well assured that it was the admirable Pamela. Whereunto the rare whiteness of her naked neck gave sufficient testimony to their astonished senses. But the fair lady being come to the scaffold, and then made to kneel down, and so left by her unkind supporters, as it seemed that she was about to speak somewhat (whereunto Philoclea, poor soul, earnestly listened, according to her speech, even minding to frame her mind, her heart never till then almost wavering to save her sister’s life) before the unfortunate lady could pronounce three words, the executioner cut off the one’s speech, and the other’s attention, with making his sword do his cruel office upon that beautiful neck. Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object, that at first it did but hit flat-long. But that little availed, since the lady falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword with another blow, to divorce the fair marriage of the head and body.

And this was done so in an instant, that the very act did over-run Philoclea’s sorrow (sorrow not being able so quickly to thunderbolt her heart through her senses, but first only oppressed her with a storm of amazement) but when her eyes saw that they did see, as condemning themselves to have seen it, they became weary of their own power of seeing, and her soul then drinking up woe with great draughts, she fell down to deadly trances: but her waiting jailors with cruel pity brought loathed life unto her; which yet many times took his leave, as though he would indeed depart: but when he was stayed by force, he kept with him deadly sorrow, which thus exercised her mourning speech: “Pamela, my sister, my sister, Pamela, woe is me for thee, I would I had died for thee. Pamela never more shall I see thee; never more shall I enjoy thy sweet company, and wise counsel. Alas! thou art gone to a beautiful heaven, and hast left me here, who have nothing good in me, but that I did ever love thee, and ever will lament thee. Let this day be noted of all virtuous folks for most unfortunate: let it never be mentioned but among curses, and cursed be they that did this mischief, and most cursed be mine eyes that beheld it. Sweet Pamela, that head is stricken off, where only wisdom might be spoken withal; that body is destroyed, which was the living book of virtue. Dear Pamela, how hast thou left me to all wretchedness and misery? yet while thou livedst, in thee I breathed, of thee I hoped. O Pamela, how much did I for thy excellency honour thee more than my mother, and love thee more than myself! never more shall I lie with thee; never more shall we bathe in the pleasant river together; never more shall I see thee in thy shepherds’ apparel. But thou art gone, and where am I? Pamela is dead, and live I? O my God!” And with that she fell again in a swoon, so that it was a great while before they could bring her to herself again; but being come to herself. “Alas!” said she, “unkind woman, since you have given me so many deaths, torment me not now with life: for God’s sake let me go, and excuse your hands of more blood. Let me follow my Pamela, whom ever I sought to follow. Alas! Pamela, they will not let me come to thee. But if they keep promise I shall tread thine own steps after thee. For to what am I born, miserable soul! but to be most unhappy in myself, and yet more unhappy in others? But O that a thousand more miseries had chanced unto me, so thou hadst not died: Pamela, my sister Pamela.” And so like a lamentable Philomela, complained she the horrible wrong done to her sister, which if it stirred not in the wickedly closed minds of her tormentors, a pity of her sorrow, yet bred it a weariness of her sorrow: so that only leaving one to prevent any harm she should do herself, the rest went away, consulting again with Cecropia, how to make profit of this their late bloody act.

In the end, that woman that used most to keep company with Zelmane, told Cecropia that she found by many more sensible proofs in Zelmane, that there was never woman so loved another, as she loved Philoclea: which was the cause that she, further than the commandment of Cecropia, had caused Zelmane’s curtains to be also drawn: because having the same spectacle that Philoclea had, she might stand in the greater fear for her, whom she loved so well: and that indeed she had hit the needle in that device: for never saw she creature so astonished as Zelmane, exceeding sorrow for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that exceedingness in fear for Philoclea. Therefore her advice was, she should cause Zelmane to come and speak with Philoclea. For there being such vehemency of friendship between them, it was most likely both to move Zelmane to persuade, and Philoclea to be persuaded. Cecropia liked well of the counsel, and gave order to the same woman to go deal therein with Zelmane, and to assure her with oath, that Cecropia was determined Philoclea should pass the same way that Pamela had done, without she did yield to satisfy the extremity of her son’s affection: which the woman did, adding thereunto many, as she thought, good reasons to make Zelmane think Amphialus a fit match for Philoclea.

But Zelmane (who had from time to time understood the cruel dealing they had used to the sisters, and now had her own eyes wounded with the sight of one’s death) was so confused withal (her courage still rebelling against her wit, desiring still with force to do impossible matters) that as her desire was stopped with power, so her conceit was darkened with a mist of desire. For blind love, and invincible valour still would cry out, that it could not be, Philoclea should be in so miserable estate, and she not relieve her: and so while she hailed her wit to her courage, she drew it from his own limits. But now Philoclea’s death, a word able to marshal all his thoughts in order, being come to so short a point, either with small delay to be suffered, or by the giving herself to another to be prevented, she was driven to think and to desire some leisure of thinking, which the woman granted for that night unto her. A night that was not half so black, as her mind; nor half so silent, as was fit for her musing thoughts. At last he that would fain have desperately lost a thousand lives for her sake, could not find in his heart, that she should lose any life for her own sake; and he that despised his own death in respect of honour, yet could well nigh dispense with honour itself in respect of Philoclea’s death; for once the thought could not enter into his heart, nor the breath issue out of his mouth, which could consent to Philoclea’s death for any bargain. Then how to prevent the next degree to death, which was her being possessed by another, was the point of his mind’s labour: and in that he found no other way but that Philoclea should pretend a yielding unto Cecropia’s request; and so by speaking with Amphialus, and making fair, but delaying, promises, procure liberty for Zelmane; who only wished but to come by a sword, not doubting then to destroy them all, and deliver Philoclea: so little did both the men, and their forces seem in her eyes, looking down upon them from the high top of affection’s tower.

With that mind therefore, but first well bound, she was brought to Philoclea, having already plotted out in her conceit how she should deal with her: and so came she with heart and eyes, which did each sacrifice other to love upon the altar of sorrow: and there had she the pleasing displeasing sight of Philoclea: Philoclea, whom already the extreme sense of sorrow had brought to a dullness therein, her face not without tokens that beauty had been by many miseries cruelly battered, and yet showed it most the perfection of that beauty, which could remain unoverthrown by such enemies. But when Zelmane was set down by her, and the woman gone away (because she might be the better persuaded when nobody was by, that had heard her say she would not be persuaded) then began first the eyes to speak, and the hearts to cry out: sorrow a while would needs speak his own language, without using their tongues to be his interpreters. At last Zelmane broke silence, but spoke with the only eloquence of amazement: for all her long methodised oration was inherited only by such kind of speeches. “Dear lady, in extreme necessities we must not. But alas! unfortunate wretch that I am that I live to see this day. And I take heaven and earth to witness, that nothing,” and with that her breast swelled so with spite and grief, that her breath had not leisure to turn itself into words. But the sweet Philoclea that had already died in Pamela, and of the other side had the heaviness of her heart something quickened in the most beloved sight of Zelmane, guessed somewhat at Zelmane’s mind, and therefore spoke unto her in this sort: “My Pyrocles,” said she, “I know this exceeding comfort of your presence, is not brought unto me for any goodwill that is owed unto me: but, as I suppose, to make you persuade me to save my life with the ransom of mine honour: although nobody should be so unfit a pleader in that cause as yourself, yet perchance you would have me live.” “Your honour? God forbid,” said Zelmane, “that ever, for any cause, I should yield to any touch of it. But a while to pretend some affection, till time, or my liberty might work something for your service, this if my astonished senses would give me leave, I would fain have persuaded you.”

“To what purpose, my Pyrocles?” said Philoclea, “of a miserable time what gain is there? hath Pamela’s example wrought no more in me? is a captive life so much worth? can it ever go out of these lips, that I love any other but Pyrocles? shall my tongue be so false a traitor to my heart, as to say I love any other but Pyrocles? and why should I do all this to live? O Pamela, sister Pamela, why should I live? only for thy sake, Pyrocles, I would live: but to thee I know too well I shall not live; and if not to thee hath thy love so base allay, my Pyrocles, as to wish me to live? for dissimulation, my Pyrocles, my simplicity is such, that I have hardly been able to keep a straight way, what shall I do in a crooked? But in this case there is no mean of dissimulation, not for the cunningest: present answer is required, and present performance upon the answer. Art thou so terrible, O death? no, my Pyrocles; and for that I do thank thee, and in my soul thank thee: for I confess the love of thee is herein my chiefest virtue. Trouble me not therefore, dear Pyrocles, nor double not my death by tormenting my resolution: since I cannot live with thee, I will die for thee. Only remember me, dear Pyrocles, and love the remembrance of me: and if I may crave so much of thee, let me be thy last love; for though I be not worthy of thee, who indeed art the worthiest creature living, yet remember that my love was a worthy love.”

But Pyrocles was so overcome with sorrow (which wisdom and virtue made just in so excellent a lady’s case, full of so excellent kindness) that words were ashamed to come forth, knowing how weak they were to express his mind, and her merit: and therefore so stayed in a deadly silence, forsaken of hope, and forsaking comfort; till the appointed guardians came in, to see the fruits of Zelmane’s labour: and then Zelmane warned by their presence, fell again to persuade, though scarcely herself could tell what; but in sum, desirous of delays. But Philoclea, sweetly continuing constant, and in the end, punishing her importunity with silence, Zelmane was fain to end. Yet craving another time’s conference, she obtained it, and divers others; till at the last Cecropia found it to no purpose, and therefore determined to follow her own way. Zelmane yet still desirous to win, by any means, respite, even wasted with sorrow and uncertain, whether in worse case in her presence, or absence, being able to do nothing for Philoclea’s succour, but by submitting the greatest courage of the earth to fall at the feet of Cecropia, and crave stay of their sentence till the uttermost was seen what her persuasions might be.