The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
that, excellent creature, she was newly again tormented by these
hellish monsters: Cecropia using no other words, but that she was a
proud and ungrateful wench, and that she would teach her to know her
own good, since of herself she would not conceive it. So that with
silence and patience (like a fair gorgeous armour, hammered upon by an
ill-favoured smith) she abode her pitiless dealing with her; till
rather reserving her for more, than meaning to end, they left her to
an uncomfortable leisure, to consider with herself her fortune; both
helpless, herself being a prisoner; and hopeless, since Zelmane was a
prisoner; who therein only was short of the bottom of misery, that she
knew not how unworthily her angel, by these devils, were abused: but
wanted, God wot, no stings of grief when those words did but strike
upon her heart, that Philoclea was a captive, and she not able to
succour her. For well she knew the confidence Philoclea had in her,
and well she knew Philoclea had cause to have confidence, and all
trodden under foot by the wheel of senseless fortune. Yet if there be
that imperious power in the soul, that {394} it can deliver knowledge
to another without bodily organs; so vehement were the working of
their spirits, that one met with the other, though themselves
perceived it not, but only thought it to be the doubling of their own
loving fancies. And that was the only worldly thing whereon Philoclea
rested her mind, that she knew she should die beloved of Zelmane, and
would die rather than to be false to Zelmane. And so this most dainty
nymph, easing the pain of her mind with thinking of another’s pain;
and almost forgetting the pain of her body, through the pain of her
mind, she wasted even longing for the conclusion of her tedious
tragedy.
But for a while she was unvisited, Cecropia employing her time in
using the like cruelty upon Pamela, her heart growing not only to
desire the fruit of punishing them, but even to delight in the
punishing them. But if ever the beams of perfection shined through the
clouds of affliction, if ever virtue took a body to show his
(else-unconceivable) beauty, it was in Pamela. For when reason taught
her there was no resistance, for to just resistance first her heart
was inclined, then with so heavenly a quietness, and so graceful a
calmness, did she suffer the divers kinds of torments she used to her,
that while they vexed her fair body, it seemed that she rather
directed than obeyed the vexation. And when Cecropia ended, and asked
whether her heart would yield, she a little smiled, but such a smiling
as showed no love, and yet could not but be lovely. “And then, beastly
woman,” said she, “follow on, do what thou wilt and canst upon me: for
I know thy power is not unlimited. Thou mayest well wreck this silly
body, but thou canst never overthrow. For my part I will not do thee
the pleasure to desire death of thee: but assure thyself, both my life
and death shall triumph with honour, laying shame upon thy detestable
tyranny.”
And so, in effect, conquering their doing with her suffering, while
Cecropia tried as many sorts of pains, that might rather vex them than
spoil them (for that she would not do while she was in any hope to win
either of them for her son) Pamela remained almost as much content
with trial in herself, what virtue could do, as grieved with the
misery wherein she found herself plunged; only sometimes her thoughts
softened in her, when with open wings they flew to Musidorus. For then
she would think with herself, how grievously Musidorus would take this
her misery; and she that wept not for herself, wept yet Musidorus’s
tears which he would weep for her. For gentle love did easier yield to
lamentation, than the constancy of virtue would else admit. Then would
she remember the case wherein she had left her poor shepherd, and she
that wished death for herself, feared death for him; and she that
condemned in herself the feebleness of sorrow, {395} yet thought it
great reason to be sorry for his sorrow: and she that long had prayed
for the virtuous joining themselves together, now thinking to die
herself, heartily prayed that long time their fortunes might be
separated. “Live long, my Musidorus,” would she say, “and let my name
live in thy mouth, in thy heart my memory. Live long, that thou mayest
love long the chaste love of thy dead Pamela.” Then she would wish to
herself that no other woman might ever possess his heart: and yet
scarcely the wish was made a wish, when herself would find fault with
it, as being too unjust that so excellent a man should be banished
from the comfort of life. Then would she fortify her resolution, with
bethinking the worst, taking the counsel of virtue, and comfort of
love.
So these diamonds of the world, whom nature had made to be preciously
set in the eyes of men, to be the chief works of her workmanship, the
chief ornaments of the world, and princesses of felicity, by
rebellious injury were brought to the uttermost distress that an
enemy’s heart could wish, or a woman’s spite invent: Cecropia daily in
one or other sort punishing them, still with her evil torments giving
them fear of worse, making the fear itself the sorest torment of all,
that in the end, weary of their bodies, they should be content to
bestow them at her appointment.
But, as in labour, the more one doth exercise it, the more by the
doing one is enabled to do, strength growing upon the work; so that
what at first would have seemed impossible, after grows easy; so these
princesses, second to none, and far from any second, only to be
matched by themselves, with the use of suffering, their minds got the
habit of suffering so that all fears and terrors were to them but
summons to a battle, whereof they knew beforehand they should be
victorious, and which in the suffering was painful, being suffered was
a trophy to itself; whereby Cecropia found herself still further off:
for whereat first she might perchance have persuaded them to have
visited her son, and have given him some comfort in his sickness,
drawing near to the confines of death’s kingdom, now they protested
that they would never otherwise speak to him than as to the enemy of
most unjust cruelty towards them, that any time or place could ever
make them know.
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
{396} 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 {397}
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