CHAPTER 39

But Zelmane, whom I left in the cave hardly bestead^* (having both great wits and stirring passions to deal with) makes me lend her my pen awhile to see with what dexterity she could put by her dangers. For having in one instant both to resist rage and go beyond wisdom (being to deal with a lady that had her wits awake in everything but in helping her own hurt) she saw now no other remedy in her case but to qualify her rage with hope, and to satisfy her wit with plainness. Yet lest too abrupt falling into it should yield too great advantage unto her, she thought good to come to it by degrees with this kind of insinuation:

‘Your wise but very dark speeches, most excellent lady, are woven up in so intricate a manner as I know not how to proportion mine answer unto them, so are your prayers mixed with threats, and so is the show of your love hidden with the name of revenge, the natural effect of mortal hatred. You seem displeased with the opinion you have of my disguising, and yet if I be not disguised, you must needs be much more displeased. Hope then (the only succour of perplexed minds) being quite cut off, you desire my affection, and yet you yourself think my affection already bestowed. You pretend^* cruelty before you have the subjection, and are jealous of keeping that which as yet you have not gotten. And that which is strangest in your jealousy is both the injustice of it (in being loth that should come to your daughter which you deem good) and the vainness, since you two are in so diverse respects that there is no necessity one of you should fall to be a bar to the other. For neither (if I be such as you fancy) can I marry you, which must needs be the only end I can aspire to in her: neither need the marrying of her keep me from a grateful consideration how much you honour me in the love you vouchsafe to bear me.’

Gynecia, to whom the fearful agonies she still lived in made any small reprieval sweet, did quickly find her words falling to a better way of comfort; and therefore with a mind ready to show nothing could make it rebellious against Zelmane but too extreme tyranny, she thus said:

‘Alas, too much beloved Zelmane, the thoughts are but outflowings of the mind, and the tongue is but a servant of the thoughts. Therefore marvel not that my words suffer contrarieties, since my mind doth hourly suffer in itself whole armies of mortal adversaries. But, alas, if I had the use of mine own reason, then should I not need, for want of it, to find myself in this desperate mischief: but because my reason is vanished, so have I likewise no power to correct my unreasonableness. Do you therefore accept the protection of my mind which hath no other resting place, and drive it not, by being unregarded, to put itself into unknown extremities. I desire but to have my affection answered, and to have a right reflection of my love in you. That granted, assure yourself mine own love will easily teach me to seek your contentment, and make me think my daughter a very mean price to keep still in mine eyes the food of my spirits. But take heed that contempt drive me not into despair, the most violent cause of that miserable effect.’

Zelmane (that already saw some fruit of her last determined fancy, so far as came to a mollifying of Gynecia’s rage) seeing no other way to satisfy suspicion (which was held open with the continual pricks of love) resolved now with plainness to win trust, which trust she might after deceive with a greater subtilty. Therefore looking upon her with a more relenting grace than ever she had done before, pretending a great bashfulness before she could come to confess such a fault, she thus said unto her:

‘Most worthy lady, I did never think till now that pity of another could make me betray myself, nor that the sound of words could overthrow any wise body’s determination. But your words, I think, have charmed me, and your grace bewitched me. Your compassion makes me open my heart to you and leave unharboured mine own thoughts. For proof of it, I will disclose my greatest secret, which well you might suspect but never know, and so have your wandering hope in a more painful wilderness, being neither way able to be lodged in a perfect resolution. I will, I say, unwrap my hidden estate, and after make you judge of it, perchance director. The truth is, I am a man: nay, I will say further to you, I am born a prince. And to make up your mind in a thorough understanding of me, since I came to this place, I may not deny I have had some sprinkling of I know not what good liking to my lady Philoclea. For how could I ever imagine the heavens would have rained down so much of your favour upon me, and of that side there was a show of possible hope, the most comfortable counsellor of love? The cause of this my changed attire was a journey two years ago I made among the Amazons, where, having sought to try my unfortunate valour, I met not one in all the country but was too hard for me, till in the end, in the presence of their queen Marpesia, I (hoping to prevail against her) challenged an old woman of fourscore years to fight on horseback to the uttermost with me: who, having overthrown me, for the saving of my life made me swear I should go like an unarmed Amazon till the coming of my beard did, with the discharge of my oath, deliver me of that bondage.’

Here Zelmane ended, not coming to a full conclusion because she would see what it wrought in Gynecia’s mind, having in her speech sought to win a belief of her and (if it might be) by disgrace of herself to diminish Gynecia’s affection. For the first it had much prevailed: but Gynecia, whose end of loving her was not her fighting, neither could her love (too deeply grounded) receive diminishment; and besides, she had seen herself sufficient proofs of Zelmane’s admirable prowess. Therefore sleightly^* passing over that point of her feigned dishonour, but taking good hold of the confessing her manly sex, with the shamefast look of that suitor who, having already obtained much, is yet forced by want to demand more, put forth her sorrowful suit in these words:

‘The gods,’ said she, ‘reward thee for thy virtuous pity of my overladen soul, who yet hath received some breath of comfort, by finding thy confession to maintain some possibility of my languishing hope. But alas, as they who seek to enrich themselves by mineral industry, the first labour is to find the mine, which to their cheerful comfort being found, if after any unlooked for stop or casual impediment keep them from getting the desired ore, they are so much the more grieved as the late conceived hope adds torment to their former want: so falls it out with me (happy or hapless woman, as it pleaseth you to ordain) who am now either to receive some guerdon of my most woeful labours or to return into a more wretched darkness, having had some glimmering of my blissful sun. O Zelmane, tread not upon a soul that lies under your foot. Let not the abasing of myself make me more base in your eyes, but judge of me according to that I am and have been, and let my errors be made excusable by the immortal name of love.’

With that, under a feigned rage tearing her clothes, she discovered some parts of her fair body, which if Zelmane’s heart had not been so fully possessed as there was no place left for any new guest, no doubt it would have yielded to that gallant assault. But Zelmane, so much the more arming her determination as she saw such force threatened, yet still remembering she must wade betwixt constancy and courtesy, embracing Gynecia and once or twice kissing her:

‘Dear lady,’ said she, ‘he were a great enemy to himself that would refuse such an offer in the purchase of which a man’s life was blessedly bestowed. Nay, how can I ever yield due recompense for so excessive a favour? But having nothing to give you but myself, take that – I must confess, a small but a very free gift. What other affection soever I have had shall give place to as great perfection, working besides upon the bond of gratefulness. The gods forbid I should be so foolish as not to see, or so wicked as not to remember, how much my small deserts are over-balanced by your unspeakable goodness. Nay, happy may I well account my mishap among the Amazons, since that dishonour hath been so true a path to my greatest honour, and the changing of my outward raiment hath clothed my mind in such inward contentation.^* Take therefore, noble lady, as much comfort to your heart as the full commandment of me can yield you. Wipe your fair eyes and keep them for nobler services. And now I will presume thus much to say unto you, that you make of yourself for my sake that my joys of my new obtained riches may be accomplished in you. But let us leave this place lest you be too long missed, and henceforward quiet your mind from any further care, for I will now, (to my too much joy), take the charge upon me within few days to work your satisfaction and my felicity.’

Thus much she said, and withal led Gynecia out of the cave, for well she saw the boiling mind of Gynecia did easily apprehend the fitness of that lonely place. But indeed this direct promise of a short space, joined with the cumbersome familiar^* of womankind (I mean modesty) stayed so Gynecia’s mind that she took thus much at that present for good payment, remaining with a painful joy and a wearisome kind of comfort; not unlike to the condemned prisoner, whose mind still running upon the violent arrival of his cruel death, hears that his pardon is promised but not yet signed. In this sort they both issued out of that obscure mansion, Gynecia already half persuaded in herself (O weakness of human conceit) that Zelmane’s affection was turned towards her. For such, alas, we are all: in such a mould are we cast, that with the too much love we bear ourselves being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with other’s flattery, we are easily persuaded of other’s love.

But Zelmane, who had now to play her prize, seeing no way things could long remain in that state and now finding her promise had tied her trial to a small compass of time, began to throw her thoughts into each corner of her invention how she might achieve her life’s enterprise. For well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires it was no small skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea upon the fair though natural bed of green grass, seeing the sun what speed he made to leave our west to do his office in the other hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music sing this Madrigal:

Why dost thou haste away

O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

Is it to carry news

To western wights, what stars in east appear?

Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse

What be her gifts that make her equal thee;

Bend all thy light to see

In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark.

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.

No, no, thy motions be

Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,

Because that thou, the author of our sight,

Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with other’s light.

And having ended, ‘Dear Philoclea,’ said he, ‘sing something that may divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour.’^* She, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words:

O stealing time, the subject of delay,

(Delay, the rack of unrefrain’d desire)

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,

My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey

My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:

Thy title great I justly challenge may,

Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joys:

As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,

Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear.

Join with thy son to ease my long annoys;

In speedy help thank-worthy friends appear.

Philoclea brake off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight of that person whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers of her dearest garland – nay, rather, all these troubles made the love increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town so fortify itself as ever after it remains stronger, so that a man may say enemies were no small cause to the town’s strength; so to a mind once fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to overthrow it doth but teach it to knit together all his best grounds, and so perchance of a changeable purpose make an unchangeable resolution.

But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of Zelmane’s affection towards her. She thought she saw another light in her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, (which was wont to be dazzled with her beauty) and the framing of her courtesies rather ceremonious^* than affectionate: and that which worst liked her was that it proceeded with such quiet settledness as it rather threatened a full purpose^* than any sudden passion. She found her behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew her affection. These, joining their diverse working powers together in her mind (but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions) brought Philoclea into a new traverse^* of her thoughts, and made her keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour: who indeed (though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple) yet strengthening herself in it (being the surest way to make Gynecia bite of her other baits) did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to Philoclea and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did work in both a full and lively persuasion. To Gynecia, such excessive comfort as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling desire. But to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt that, fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself to the lodge and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into abundance of tears. At length closing her eyes, as if each thing she saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side which, with vehement panting, did summon her to consider her fortune, she thus bemoaned herself:

‘Alas, Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? Is this the reward of thy given-away liberty? Hath too much yielding bred cruelty, or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? Hath the choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire cause the desire to be neglected? Alas, despised Philoclea, why didst thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed thee? Ah, silly^* fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his own mouth confessed his falsehood, for plain proceeding in him that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth be contained? But, O, wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most excellent work! O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas, why could I not see I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly a heart, I was not fit to limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies? Was it ever like,^* that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah, silly soul, that couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! An universal happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope I might be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did thee no wrong. It was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun should give light to no eyes but thine!

‘And yet, O Prince Pyrocles, for whom I may well begin to hate myself but can never leave to love thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? Could thy force find out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said the mirror of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgement of thine own virtue. Let me be accepted for a plaintiff in a cause which concerns my life. What need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of thy painted passions? What need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies with so exquisite a cunning in making our own arts betray us? What needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness as to take on the habit of weak womankind? Was all this to win the undefended castle of a friend which, being won, thou wouldst after raze? Could so small a cause allure thee, or did not so unjust a cause stop thee? O me, what sayI more? This is my case; my love hates me, virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong whose doings I can never account a wrong.’

With that, the sweet lady turning herself upon her weary bed, she haply^* saw a lute, upon the belly of which Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under which veil she (contented to cover her never ceasing anguish) had made the lute a monument of her mind; which Philoclea had never much marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her than before the care of a mother.

The verses were these:

My lute, within thyself thy tunes enclose;

Thy mistress’ song is now a sorrow’s cry,

Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,

Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.

Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes;

Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,

And though my moans be not in music bound,

Of written griefs yet be the silent ground.¹

The world doth yield such ill-consorted^* shows,

With circled course, which no wise stay can try,

That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,

(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.

Thus noble gold down to the bottom goes,

When worthless cork aloft doth floating lie.

Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,

And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, ‘Is this the legacy you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?’ said she. ‘Did you bestow the light upon me for this? Or did you bear me to be the author of my burial! A trim purchase you have made of your own shame: robbed your daughter to ruin yourself! The birds unreasonable yet use so much reason as to make nests for their tender young ones. My cruel mother turns me out of mine own harbour. Alas, plaint boots not,^* for my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? Shall I fly to my parents? They are my murderers. Shall I go to him who, already being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? Alas, I can bring no new intercessions: he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away myself.’

With that the poor soul beat her breast as if that had been guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge nor studying for remedy, but, sweeet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain. 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.