The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
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 {398} 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 {399} 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 {400} 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? {401} 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