The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea, with an amazed kind of sorrow, carry away her sweet presence, and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive, did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart, for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way: “Alas!” would she say, “only Philoclea hast thou not so much feeling of thine own force as to know no new conqueror can prevail against thy conquests? Was ever any dazzled with the moon that used his eyes to the beams of the sun? Is he carried away with a greedy desire of acorns that hath had his senses ravished with a garden of most delightful fruits? O Philoclea, Philoclea, be thou but as merciful a princess to my mind as thou art a true possessor, and I shall have as much cause of gladness, as thou hast no cause of misdoubting? O no, no, when a man’s own heart is the gage of his debt, when a man’s own thoughts are willing witnesses to his promise; lastly, when a man is the jailor over himself; there is little doubt of breaking credit, and less doubt of such an escape.”

In this combat of Zelmane’s doubtful imaginations, in the end reason, well-backed with the vehement desire to bring her matter soon to the desired haven, did over-rule the boiling of her inward kindness, though as I say with such a manifest strife, that both Basilius and Gynecia’s well-waiting eyes, had marked her muses had laboured in deeper subjects than ordinary: which she likewise perceiving they had perceived, awaking herself out of those thoughts, and principally caring how to satisfy Gynecia, whose judgment and passion she stood most in regard of, bowing her head to her attentive ears. “Madam,” said she, “with practice of my thoughts, I have found out a way, by which your contentment shall draw on my happiness.” Gynecia delivering in her face as thankful a joyfulness as her heart could hold, said, “It was then time to retire themselves to their rest, for what with riding abroad the day before, and late sitting up for eclogues, their bodies had dearly purchased that night’s quiet.” So went they home to their lodge, Zelmane framing of both sides bountiful measures of loving countenances to either’s joy, and neither’s jealousy, to the special comfort of Basilius, whose weaker bowels were straight full with the least liquor of hope. So that still holding her by the hand, and sometimes tickling it, he went by her with the most gay conceits that ever had entered his brains, growing now so hearted in his resolution that he little respected Gynecia’s presence. But with a lustier note than wonted, clearing his voice, and cheering his spirits, looking still upon Zelmane, whom now the moon did beautify with her shining almost at the full, as if her eyes had been his song-book, he did the message of his mind in singing these verses.

When two suns do appear,

Some say it doth betoken wonders near,

As prince’s loss or change:

Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,

And seeing feel in me

Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now each where doth range

With ugly cloak the dark envious night:

Who full of guilty spite,

Such living beams should her black seat assail,

Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

“No,” says fair moon, “my light

Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail

Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send

Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend.”

And by that time being come to the lodge, and visited the sweet Philoclea, with much less than natural care of the parents, and much less than wanted kindness of Zelmane, each party full fraught with diversly working fancies, made their pillows weak props of their over-laden heads. Yet of all other were Zelmane’s brain most turmoiled, troubled with love both active and passive; and lastly, and especially with care, how to use her short limited time to the best purpose, by some wise and happy diverting her two lovers’ unwelcome desires. Zelmane having had the night, her only counsellor in the busy enterprise she was to undertake, and having all that time mused, and yet not fully resolved, how she might join prevailing with preventing, was offended with the day’s bold entry into her chamber, as if he had now by custom grown an assured bringer of evil news. Which she taking a cittern to her, did lay to Aurora’s charge, with these well-sung verses:

Aurora now thou showest thy blushing light,

Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,

That trusts in time to find the way aright,

To ease those pains, which on desire do wait.

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light

On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)

Care upon care (instead of doing right)

To over pressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As oh! myself, whose woes are never light

(Tied to the stake of doubt) strange passion’s bait.

While thy known course observing nature’s right,

Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait,

For mischiefs great, day after day doth show,

Make me still fear, thy fair appearing show.

“Alas!” said she, “am I not run into a strange gulf, that am fain for love to hurt her I love? and because I detest the others, to please them I detest? O only Philoclea, whose beauty is matched with nothing but with the unspeakable beauty of thy fairest mind, if thou didst see upon what rack my tormented soul is set, little would you think I had any scope now to leap to any new change.” With that with hasty hands she got herself up, turning her sight to everything, as if change of objects might help her invention. So went she again to the cave, where forthwith it came into her head that should be the fittest place to perform her exploit, of which she had now a kind of confused conceit, although she had not set down in her fancy, the meeting with each particularity that might fall out. But as the painter doth at the first but show a rude proportion of the thing he imitates, which after with more curious hand he draws to the representing each lineament, so had her thoughts, beating about it continually, received into them a ground-plot of her device, although she had not in each part shaped it according to a full determination. But in this sort having early visited the morning’s beauty in those pleasant deserts, she came to the king and queen, and told them that for the performance of certain country devotions, which only were to be exercised in solitariness, she did desire their leave she might for a few days lodge herself in the cave, the fresh sweetness of which did greatly delight her in that hot country; and that for that small space they would not otherwise trouble themselves in visiting her, but at such times as she would come to wait upon them, which should be every day at certain hours; neither should it be long, she would desire this privileged absence of them. They, whose minds had already taken out that lesson, perfectly to yield a willing obedience to all her desires, with consenting countenance made her soon see her pleasure was a law unto them. Both indeed inwardly glad of it, Basilius hoping that her dividing herself from them, might yet give him some fitter occasion of coming in secret to her, whose favourable face had lately strengthened his fainting courage. But Gynecia of all other most joyous, holding herself assured that this was but a prologue to the play she had promised her.

Thus both flattering themselves with diversly grounded hopes, they rang a bell, which served to call certain poor women which ever lay in cabins not far off, to do the household services of both lodges, and never came to either but being called for, and commanded them to carry forthwith Zelmane’s bed and furniture of her chamber into the pleasant cave, and to deck it up as finely as it was possible for them, that their soul’s rest might rest her body to her best pleasing manner: that was with all diligence performed of them, and Zelmane already in possession of her new-chosen lodging; where she like one of Vesta’s nuns, entertained herself for a few days in all show of straightness, yet once a day coming to her duty to the king and queen, in whom the seldomness of the sight increased the more unquiet longing, though somewhat qualified, as her countenance was decked to either of them with more comfort than wonted; especially to Gynecia, who seeing her, wholly neglected her daughter Philoclea, had now promised herself a full possession of Zelmane’s heart, still expecting the fruit of the happy and hoped for invention. But both she and Basilius kept such a continual watch about the precincts of the cave, that either of them was a bar to the other from having any secret communing with Zelmane.

While in the meantime the sweet Philoclea forgotten of her father, despised of her mother, and in appearance left of Zelmane, had yielded up her soul to be a prey to sorrow and unkindness, not with raging conceit of revenge, as had passed through the wise and stout heart of her mother, but with a kindly meekness taking upon her the weight of her own woes, and suffering them to have so full a course, as it did exceedingly weaken the estate of her body; as well for which cause, as for that she could not see Zelmane, without expressing, more than she would, how far now her love was imprisoned in extremity of sorrow, she bound herself first to the limits of her own chamber, and after (grief breeding sickness) of her bed. But Zelmane having now a full liberty to cast about every way how to bring her conceived attempt to a desired success, was oft so perplexed with the manifold difficulty of it, that sometimes she would resolve by force to take her away, though it were with the death of her parents, sometimes to go away with Musidorus, and bring both their forces, so to win her. But lastly, even the same day that Musidorus by feeding the humour of his three loathsome guardians, had stolen away the princess Pamela (whether it were that love meant to match them every way, or that her friend’s example had helped her invention, or that indeed Zelmane forbare to practise her device till she found her friend had passed thro’ his): the same day, I say, she resolved on a way to rid out of the lodge her two cumbersome lovers, and in the night to carry away Philoclea: whereunto she was assured her own love no less than her sister’s, would easily win her consent; hoping that although their abrupt parting had not suffered her to demand of Musidorus which way he meant to direct his journey; yet either they should by some good fortune find him; or if that course failed, yet they might well recover some town of the Helots, near the frontiers of Arcadia, who being newly again up in arms against the nobility, she knew would be as glad of her presence, as she of their protection. Therefore having taken order for all things requisite for their going, and first put on a slight under-suit of man’s apparel, which before for such purposes she had provided, she curiously trimmed herself to the beautifying of her beauties, that being now at her last trial she might come unto it in her bravest armour. And so putting on that kind of mild countenance, which doth encourage the looker on to hope for a gentle answer, according to her received manner, she left the pleasant darkness of her melancholy cave, to go take her dinner of the King and Queen, and give unto them both a pleasant food of seeing the owner of their desires. But even as the Persians were anciently wont to leave no rising-sun unsaluted, but as his fair beams appeared clearer unto them, would they more heartily rejoice, laying upon them a great foretoken of their following fortune: so was there no time that Zelmane encountered their eyes with her beloved presence, but that it bred a kind of burning devotion in them, yet so much the more gladding their greedy souls, as her countenance was cleared with more favour unto them; which now being determinately framed to the greatest descent of kindness, it took such hold of her unfortunate lovers, that like children about a tender father from a long voyage returned, with lovely childishness hang about him, and yet with simple fear measure by his countenance, how far he accepts their boldness, so were these now thrown into so serviceable an affection, that the turning of Zelmane’s eyes was a strong stern enough to all their motions, winding no way but as the enchanting force of it guided them. But having made a light repast of the pleasant fruits of that country, interlarding their food with such manner of general discourses as lovers are wont to cover their passion, when respect of a third person keeps them from plain particulars, at the earnest entreaty of Basilius, Zelmane first saluting the Muses with a base viol hung hard by her, sent this ambassage in versified music to both her ill-requited lovers.

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;

Sight doth bewitch the fancy evil awaked,

Fancy we feel includes all passion’s might,

Passion rebell’d oft reason’s strength hath shaked.

No wonder then, though sight my sight did taint,

And though thereby my fancy was infected,

Though, yoked so, my mind with sickness faint,

Had reason’s weight for passion’s ease rejected.

But now the fit is past; and time hath giv’n

Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.

All thoughts so sprung, are from their dwelling driv’n,

And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth;

Crying in me: “Eye-hopes deceitful prove;

Things rightly priz’d: love is the band of love.”

And after her song with an affected modesty she threw down her eye, as if the conscience of a secret grant her inward mind made, and suddenly cast a bashful veil over her. Which Basilius finding, and thinking now was the time to urge his painful petition, beseeching his wife with more careful eye to accompany his sickly daughter Philoclea, being rid for that time of her; who was content to grant him any scope, that she might after have the like freedom; with a gesture governed by the force of his passions, making his knees best supporters, he thus said unto her: “If either,” said he, “O lady of my life, my deadly pangs could bear delay, or that this were the first time the same were manifested unto you, I would now but maintain still the remembrance of my misfortune, without urging any further reward, than time and pity might procure for me. But, alas! since my martyrdom is no less painful than manifest, and that I no more feel the miserable danger, than you know the assured truth thereof, why should my tongue deny his service to my heart? Why should I fear the breath of my words, who daily feel the flame of your works? Embrace in your sweet consideration, I beseech you, the misery of my case, acknowledge yourself to be the cause, and think it is reason for you to redress the effects. Alas! let no certain imaginative rules whose truth stands but upon opinion, keep so wise a mind from gratefulness and mercy, whose never failing laws nature hath planted in us. I plainly lay my death unto you, the death of him that loves you, the death of him whose life you may save; say your absolute determination, for hope itself is a pain, while it is over-mastered with fear; and if you do resolve to be cruel, yet is the speediest condemnation, as in evils, most welcome.” Zelmane, who had fully set to herself the train she should keep, yet knowing that who soonest means to yield, doth well to make the bravest parley, keeping countenance aloft; “Noble prince,” said she, “your words are too well couched to come out of a restless mind, and thanked be the Gods, your face threatens no danger of death. These are but those swelling speeches which give the uttermost name to every trifle, which all were worth nothing, if they were not enamelled with the goodly outside of love. Truly love were very unlovely if it were half so deadly, as you lovers, still living, term it. I think well it may have a certain childish vehemency, which for the time to one desire will engage all the soul, so long as it lasteth. But with what impatience you yourself show, who confess the hope of it a pain, and think your own desire so unworthy that you would fain be rid of it; and so with over-much love sue hard for a hasty refusal.” “A refusal!” cried out Basilius, amazed with all, but pierced with the last, “Now assure yourself whensoever you use that word definitively it will be the undoubted doom of my approaching death. And then shall your own experience know in me, how soon the spirits dried up with anguish leave the performance of their ministry, whereupon our life dependeth. But alas! what a cruelty is this, not only to torment but to think the torment slight? The terriblest tyrants would say by no man they killed, he died not; nor by no man they punished, that he escaped free: for of all other, there is least hope of mercy where there is no acknowledging of the pain; and with like cruelty are my words breathed out from a flamy heart, accounted as messengers of a quiet mind. If I speak nothing I choke myself, and am in no way of relief; if simply, neglected: if confusedly, not understood: if by the bending together all my inward powers, they bring forth any lively expressing of that they truly feel, that is a token, forsooth, the thoughts are at too much leisure. Thus is silence desperate, folly punished, and wit suspected: but indeed it is vain to try any more, for words can bind no belief. Lady, I say, determine of me, I must confess I cannot bear this battle in my mind, and therefore let me soon know what I may account of myself; for it is a hell of dolours when the mind still in doubt for want of resolution, can make no resistance.”