The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
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 {407} 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 {408} 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 {409} 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.
{410}
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