The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
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 {402}
fall at the feet of Cecropia, and crave stay of their sentence till
the uttermost was seen what her persuasions might be.
Cecropia seemed much to be moved by her importunity, so as divers days
were won of painful life to the excellent Philoclea; while Zelmane
suffered some hope to cherish her mind, especially trusting upon the
help of Musidorus, who, she knew, would not be idle in this matter;
till one morning a noise awaked Zelmane, from whose over-watchful mind
the tired body had stolen a little sleep: and straight with the first
opening of her eyes, care taking his wonted place, she ran to the
window which looked into the hall (for that way the noise guided her)
and there might she see (the curtain being left open ever since the
last execution) seven or eight persons in a cluster upon the scaffold:
who by and by retiring themselves, nothing was to be seen thereupon,
but a basin of gold pitifully enamelled with blood, and in the midst
of it, the head of the most beautiful Philoclea. The horribleness of
the mischief was such, that Pyrocles could not at first believe his
own senses, but bent his woeful eyes to discern it better; where too
well he might see it was Philoclea’s self, having no veil, but beauty
over her face, which still appeared to be alive, so did these eyes
shine, even as they were wont, and they were wont more than any other:
and sometimes as they moved, it might well make the beholder think,
that death therein had borrowed her beauty, and not they any way
disgraced by death, so sweet and piercing a grace they carried with
them.
It was not a pity, it was not an amazement, it was not a sorrow which
then laid hold on Pyrocles, but a wild fury of desperate agony: so
that he cried out, “O tyrant heaven, traitor earth, blind providence,
no justice, how is this done? how is this suffered? hath this world a
government? if it have, let it pour out all his mischiefs upon me, and
see whether it have power to make me more wretched than I am. Did she
excel for this? have I prayed for this? abominable hand that did it;
detestable devil that commanded it; cursed light that beheld it; and
if the light be cursed, what are then mine eyes that have seen it? and
have I seen Philoclea dead, and do I live? and do I live not to help
her, but to talk of her? and stand I still talking?” and with that,
carried by the madness of anguish, not having a readier way to kill
himself, he ran as hard as ever he could with his head against the
wall, with intention to brain himself; but the haste to do it made the
doing the slower. For as he came to give the blow, his foot tripped,
so that it came not with the full force: yet forcible enough to strike
him down, and withal to deprive him of his senses, so that he lay a
while comforted by the hurt, in that he felt not his discomfort.
{403}
And when he came again to himself, he heard, or he thought he heard a
voice, which cried, “Revenge, Revenge,” unto him: whether indeed it
were his good angel which used that voice to stay him from unnatural
murdering of himself, or that his wandering spirits lighted upon that
conceit, and by their weakness, subject to apprehensions, supposed
they heard it. But that indeed helped with virtue and her valiant
servant anger, stopped him from present destroying of himself;
yielding in reason and manhood, first to destroy man, woman, and
child, that were any way of kin to them that were accessory to this
cruelty; then to raze the castle, and to build a sumptuous monument
for her sister, and a most sumptuous one for herself, and then himself
to die upon her tomb. This determining in himself to do, and to seek
all means how, for that purpose, to get out of prison, he was content
a while to bear the thirst of death: and yet went he again to the
window, to kiss the beloved head with his eyes; but there saw he
nothing but the scaffold, all covered over with scarlet, and nothing
but solitary silence to mourn this mischief. But then, sorrow having
dispersed itself from his heart into his noble parts, it proclaimed
his authority in cries and tears, nor with a more gentle dolefulness
could pour out his inward evil.
“Alas!” said he, “is that head taken away too, so soon from my eyes?
What, mine eyes, perhaps they envy the excellency of your sorrow?
indeed, there is nothing now left to become the eyes of all mankind,
but tears; and woe be to me, if any exceed me in woefulness. I do
conjure you all my senses, to accept no object but of sorrow, be
ashamed, nay abhor to think of comfort. Unhappy eyes, you have seen
too much, that ever the light should be welcome to you: unhappy ears,
you shall never hear the music of music in her voice: unhappy heart
that hast lived to feel these pangs. Thou hast done thy worst, world,
and cursed be thou, and cursed art thou, since to thine ownself thou
hast done the worst thou couldst do. Exiled beauty, let only now thy
beauty be blubbered faces. Widowed music, let now thy tunes be
roarings and lamentations. Orphan virtue, get thee wings, and fly
after her into heaven: here is no dwelling-place for thee. Why lived
I, alas! alas, why loved I? to die wretched, and to be the example of
heaven’s hate? and hate and spare not, for your worst blow is
stricken. Sweet Philoclea, thou art gone, and hast carried with thee
my love; and hast left thy love in me, and I wretched man do live; I
live, to die continually, till thy revenge do give me leave to die,
and then die I will, my Philoclea, my heart willingly makes this
promise to itself. Surely he did not look on thee when he gave the
cruel blow, for no eye could have abidden to see such beauty
overthrown by such mischief. Alas! {404} why should they divide such a
head from such a body? no other body is worthy of that head; no other
head is worthy of that body: O yet if I had taken my last leave, if I
might have taken a holy kiss from that dying mouth! where art thou
hope, which promisest never to leave a man while he liveth? tell me,
what canst thou hope for? nay tell me, what is there that I would
willingly hope after? wishing power which is accounted infinite, what
now is left to wish for; she is gone, and gone with her all my hope,
all my wishing. Love be ashamed to be called love. Cruel hate,
unspeakable hate is victorious over thee. Who is there now left that
can justify thy tyranny, and give reason to thy passion? O cruel
divorce of the sweetest marriage that ever was in nature: Philoclea is
dead, and dead with her is all goodness, all sweetness, all
excellency. Philoclea is dead, and yet life is not ashamed to continue
upon the earth. Philoclea is dead: O deadly word, which containeth in
itself the uttermost of all misfortunes. But happy word when thou
shalt be said of me, and long it shall not be, before it be said.”
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, {405} 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 {406} rather