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Chapter 2

War-torn Laconia

The shepherds comfort Musidorus and also describe the civil war that has devastated Laconia, where the peasants have revolted. Musidorus, who now calls himself Palladius, is sick and weak, but eager for news of his friend Pyrocles, who uses the name Daiphantus. Seeing that Palladius (Musidorus) is a man of better rank than his appearance indicates, Kalander adjusts his hospitality to suit his guest’s social standing. (1593 ed. 3.28)

“Now sir,” said they, “this is how it is with us. We are in profession but shepherds and in this country of Laconia little better than strangers, and therefore neither with skill, ability, nor power greatly able to help you. But what we can present to you is this: Arcadia, where we are from, is but a little way from here, and even upon the next confines there dwells a gentleman, by name Kalander, who regards us with favor. A hospitable man, Kalander is so much visited that no news stirs that does not come to his ears. He is so beloved of his neighbors for his upright dealing that many are always ready to serve him to the uttermost. And having the great good will of our prince, Kalander can quickly obtain the use of his name and credit, which has a principal sway not only in his own Arcadia, but in all the countries of Peloponnesus. And this above all, all these things give him less the power to benefit others than his nature gives him the will to do so. No music is so sweet to his ear as deserved thanks.

“We will bring you to him, and there you may recover your health without which you cannot make any diligent search for your friend, and therefore you must labor for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of courtesy and the ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting.” Musidorus, unacquainted with the country, his wits astonished with sorrow, gave easy consent to that from which he saw no reason to disagree.

After defraying the mariners by bestowing a ring upon them, Musidorus and the two shepherds set out together through Laconia. Claius and Strephon took turns carrying his chest, while Musidorus only carried in his countenance the evident marks of a sorrowful mind supported by a weak body—which they, perceiving, and knowing that the violence of sorrow cannot at first be striven against (like a mighty beast, it is sooner tamed with following than overthrown by withstanding), gave way for that day and the next, never troubling him either with asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy, but rather fitting to his dolor dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortunes.

Although their speeches had no lively entrance to his senses shut up in sorrow, yet like one half-asleep he took in much that was said to him, and so, as a man might say, ere sorrow was aware, his thoughts turned to something beside his own sorrow until at length he grew content to mark their speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, then to like their company, and lastly to vouchsafe conference.

Three days later, the morning strew roses and violets upon the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, and the nightingales (striving one with the other which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their sleep. Rising from under a tree (which that night had been their pavilion), they continued their journey, which now welcomed Musidorus’ eyes, wearied by the wasted soil of Laconia, with delightful prospects. Here hills garnished their proud heights with stately trees; the base estate of humble valleys seemed comforted by refreshing, silver rivers; meadows were enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets lined with most pleasant shade were witnessed so too by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds. In each pasture sheep fed in sober security, while pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved their dam’s comfort. Here a shepherd’s boy piped as though he should never grow old; there a young shepherdess sang and knit, and her voice seemed to comfort her hands, which in their work kept time to her voice’s music.

As for the houses of the country (for many houses came under their eye), they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off as to bar mutual succor—a show, as it were, of a companionable solitude and of a civil wildness.

“I pray you,” said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long-silent lips, “what countries be these we pass through, which are so diverse in show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store but of want?”

“The country where you were cast ashore and now have passed through,” said Claius, “is Laconia. It is not the barren soil (though in itself not very fertile) that makes it poor but rather a civil war between the gentlemen and the peasants (called Helots) that has raged these two years within the bowels of the state and disfigured the face of nature, as it were, making the country inhospitable as now you have it. The towns on either side do not willingly open their gates to strangers, nor are strangers willing to enter, for fear of being mistaken.

“But this country where you now set foot is Arcadia, and nearby is the house of Kalander, where we are leading you. This country being thus decked with peace (and the child of peace, good husbandry), these scattered houses belong to men like us who live upon the commodity of their sheep, and therefore in the ranks of the Arcadian estate are called shepherds, a happy people, lacking little because we do not desire much.”

“What then,” said Musidorus, “made you venture to leave this sweet life and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous realm?”

“Guarded by poverty,” answered Strephon, “and guided by love.”

“But now,” said Claius, “since it has pleased you to ask anything of us—so base that knowing us is only darkness—give us leave to know something of you and of the young man you so much lament, so that we may know what to inform Kalander, and he to know how to proportion his entertainment.”

Musidorus had arranged with Pyrocles to alter both of their names, so he answered that he was called Palladius and his friend Daiphantus. “But till I have him again,” he said, “I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is nothing. However good a man he is, Kalander’s entertainment cannot be so low as I account my estate. And in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may be to help me by some means to seek my friend.”

They perceived he was not willing to open himself further and therefore without further questioning brought him to the house, which was well situated for the air, the prospect, and the nature of the ground, with such necessary additions as showed that Kalander knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality, and thrift the jewel of magnificence.

The house itself was built of fair and strong stone, affecting not so much an extraordinary fineness as an honorable representation of firm stateliness. The lights, doors, and stairs were directed for the use of the guest rather than the eye of the artificer, and yet, though the use was chiefly heeded, the eye was not neglected, each place handsome without curiosity and homely without loathsomeness, not too dainty as not to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up by good fellowship. All was more lasting than beautiful, except that the consideration of exceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceedingly beautiful.

The servants were not so many in number as clean in apparel and serviceable in behavior, testifying even in their countenances that their master took the same care to be served as of them that did serve. Forthwith, one of them welcomed the shepherds (though they were poor) as men their master greatly favored. From them the servant learned that the young man with them was to be much accounted of, for they had seen tokens of more than common greatness howsoever eclipsed by fortune. He therefore ran to his master, who presently came forth and welcomed the shepherds. Kalander was especially concerned with their noble companion. Privately Strephon told all that he knew of him, particularly that he found the stranger loath to be known.

“No,” said Kalander, speaking aloud. “I am no herald to enquire of men’s pedigrees. It suffices me to know their virtues, which—if this young man’s face be not a false witness—better apparel his mind than you have his body.”

While he was thus speaking, there came a boy (in show like a merchant’s apprentice) who, taking Strephon by the sleeve, gave him a letter written jointly to him and Claius. It was from Urania. They no sooner had read it but, taking leave of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter), they started off, hastily recommending the young man to him.

Musidorus was loath to part with them both for their good conversation and his obligation to them. He therefore opened the chest which they had been carrying for him, and would have presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, telling him that they were more than enough rewarded by knowing him. And without waiting for a reply, like men whose hearts disdained all desires but one, they sped away as if the letter had brought wings to make them fly.

Kalander judged his guest to be of no mean calling, and therefore the more respectfully entertained him. But Musidorus’ sickness (which the fight, the sea, and recent travel had laid upon him) had grown greatly. Fearing some sudden accident, he delivered Kalander the chest, full of precious stones gorgeously and cunningly set in diverse manners. He asked him to guard those trifles and, if he died, to use as much as was needful to locate and redeem a young man named Daiphantus who was in the hands of Laconian pirates.

He became more and more faint, and Kalander, with careful speed, conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his home, where he was possessed by an extreme burning fever and continued some while with no great hope of life. But youth at length got the victory of sickness, and in six weeks the excellence of his returned beauty was a credible ambassador of his health, to the great joy of Kalander, who meanwhile had sent forth a ship and a galley to seek and succor Daiphantus, employing certain friends of his that dwelt near the sea in Messina. At home he omitted nothing which might either profit or gratify his guest, whom he knew by the name Palladius. By daily discourse with him, Kalander found in him a mind of most excellent composition—besides his bodily gifts beyond the degree of admiration. He had a piercing wit, quite void of ostentation; high-erected thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy; an eloquence as sweet in the uttering as slow to come to the uttering; and a behavior so noble as gave majesty to adversity. Finding all these in a person whose age could not be above twenty-one years, the good old man was enamored with a fatherly love. Or rather, he became his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him, once he had acknowledged himself so to be by the badge of diligent attendance.