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Chapter 12

An Amazon in Arcadia

Musidorus finds Pyrocles disguised as an Amazon. They argue over the dangers of falling in love and of impersonating a woman. Then Musidorus agrees to do all he can to help his friend win the woman he loves. (1593 ed. 22.45)

So Musidorus directed his course to Laconia, searching among the Helots as well as among the Spartans. There he found Daiphantus’ fame flourishing, his monuments engraved in marble and, yet more durably, in men’s memories; but the universal lamenting for his absented presence assured him of his present absence.

From there he went into the Elean province to see whether at the Olympian games (there celebrated) he might in such concourse bless his eyes with the encounter he desired. But that huge and sportful assembly became a tedious loneliness to him. He esteemed nobody found, since Daiphantus was lost. Afterward he passed through Achaia and Sicyonia to the Corinthians, who are proud of their two seas, to learn whether by the straight of that isthmus it were possible to know of Daiphantus’ passage. But finding every place more mute than the other to his demands, and remembering that it was late-taken love that had wrought Daiphantus’ new course, he returned again (after two months travel in vain) to make a fresh search in Arcadia, the more so because first he remembered the picture of Philoclea, which, resembling her Daiphantus had once loved, might perhaps awaken again his sleeping passion.

And having already passed over the greatest part of Arcadia, one day he came under the side of the pleasant mountain Maenalus, where his horse (nothing guilty of his inquisitiveness) with flat tiring taught him that discreet stays11 make speedy journeys. He therefore lighted down and unbridled his horse and went to repose himself in a little wood he saw nearby. There, lying under the protection of a shady tree, intending to make forgetful sleep comfort a sorrowful memory, he saw a sight that persuaded his eyes to remain open a while. It was the appearing of a lady, who, because she walked with her side toward him, he could not perfectly see her face, but as much as he might see of her was a surety for the rest that all was excellent.

Well might he perceive the hanging of her hair in fairest quantity, in locks, some curled and some as it were forgotten, with such a careless care and an art so hiding art that it seemed she would lay them for a pattern whether nature simply or nature helped by cunning was the more excellent. The rest were drawn into a coronet of gold, richly set with pearl, and so joined all over with gold wires and covered with feathers of diverse colors that it was like a helmet, such a glittering show it bore and so bravely was it held up from the head.

Upon her body she wore a doublet of sky-colored satin covered with plates of gold and, as it were, nailed with precious stones, so that in it she might seem armed. The nether part of her garment was full of stuff and cut after such a fashion that, though the length of it reached to the ankles, yet in her going one might sometimes discern the small of her leg, which with the foot was dressed in a short pair of crimson-velvet buskins, in some places open (as the ancient manner was) to show the fairness of the skin.

Over all this she wore a certain mantle made in such a manner that, coming under her right arm and covering most of that side, it had no fastening on the left side but only upon the top of the shoulder, where the two ends met and were closed together with a very rich jewel. The device whereof, as he saw later, was this: a Hercules made in little form but set with a distaff in his hand (as he once was by Omphale’s command) with a word in Greek, to be interpreted thus: “Never more valiant.” On the same side on her thigh she wore a sword, which, as it showed her to be an Amazon or one following that profession, so it seemed but a needless weapon since her other forces were overwhelming.

This lady walked onward, till Musidorus saw her enter into a fine, close arbor. It was of trees whose branches so lovingly interlaced one to the other that it could resist the strongest violence of eyesight, and she went into it by a door she opened. This moved him as warily as he could to follow her, and by and by he might hear her sing this song,12 with a voice no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of harmony to his eyes:

Transformed in show, but more transformed in mind,

I cease to strive, with double conquest foiled:

for (woe is me) my powers all I find

with outward force, and inward treason, spoiled.

For from without came to my eyes the blow

to which my inward thoughts did faintly yield.

Both these conspired poor reason’s overthrow.

False in myself, thus have I lost the field.

Thus are my eyes still captive to one sight.

Thus all my thoughts are slaves to one thought still.

Thus reason to his servants yields his right.

Thus is my power transformèd to your will.

What marvel, then, I take a woman’s hue,

since what I see, think, know is only you?

The ditty gave him some suspicion, but the voice gave him almost assurance who the singer was. And therefore, boldly thrusting open the door and entering the arbor, he perceived that it was indeed Pyrocles thus disguised. Wherewith, not receiving so much joy to have found him as grief to have found him in that state, he looked with amazement upon him (as Apollo is painted when he saw Daphne suddenly turned into a laurel), unable to bring forth a word.

Pyrocles had as much shame as Musidorus had sorrow, and, turning to him, would have formed a substantial excuse, but (his insinuation being of blushing and his division of sighs)13 his whole oration stood upon a short narration of what caused this metamorphosis. By that time Musidorus had gathered his spirits together, and yet casting a ghastly countenance upon him (as if he would conjure some strange spirits) he thus spoke to him:

“And is it possible that this is Pyrocles, the only young prince in the world formed by nature and framed by education to the true exercise of virtue? Or is it indeed some Amazon that has counterfeited the face of my friend to vex me in this way, for I would surely have thought it more likely that any outward face might have been disguised than that the face of so excellent a mind could have been thus blemished.

“O sweet Pyrocles! Separate yourself a little (if it be possible) from yourself, and let your own mind look upon your own proceedings. So shall my words be needless, and you best instructed. See for yourself how fit it will be for you in this your tender youth—born so great a prince, and so rare not only of expectation but of proof—to divert your thoughts from the way of goodness, to lose, nay to abuse, your time when you are now so near your home and are desired by your old father and wanted by your native country; and, lastly, to overthrow all the excellent things you have done, which have filled the world with your fame. It is as if you should drown your ship in the long desired haven, or like an ill player, mar the last act of a tragedy.

“Remember (for I know you know it) that if we will be men, the reasonable part of our soul is to have absolute commandment. If any sensual weakness arises, we are to commit all our sound forces to the overthrow of so unnatural a rebellion. And how can we lack courage, since we are to deal against an adversary so weak that in itself it is nothing but weakness?

“Nay, we are to resolve that if reason directs it, we must do it, and if we must do it, we will do it: for to say ‘I cannot’ is childish; and ‘I will not,’ womanish. And see how extremely you endanger your mind in every way, for to take this womanish habit is wholly vain, unless you frame your behavior accordingly. Your behavior can never come naturally from you, but as the mind is proportioned unto it. If you will play your part to any purpose, you must resolve to soften your heart to receive whatever peevish imperfections are in that sex—the very first step down to all wickedness. For do not deceive yourself, my dear cousin, there is no man suddenly either excellently good or extremely evil who does not grow so, either as he holds himself up in virtue or lets himself slide to viciousness.

“And, let us see, what power is the author of all these troubles? Forsooth, love! Love—a passion, and the basest and most fruitless of all passions. Fear breeds wit, anger is the cradle of courage, joy opens and enables the heart. Sorrow, as it closes, draws itself inward to look to the correcting of itself. And so all of them generally have power towards some good by the direction of reason. But this bastard love (for indeed the name of love is most unworthily applied to so hateful a humor) is engendered betwixt lust and idleness, and the matter it works upon is nothing but a certain base weakness, which some gentle fools call a gentle heart. And as its adjoined companions are disquiet, longings, fond comforts, faint discomforts, hopes, jealousies, ungrounded rages, and causeless yielding, so the highest end it aspires unto is a little pleasure with much pain before and great repentance after.

“That end—how endlessly it runs to infinite evils—would be fit enough for the matter we speak of, although not for your ears, because you have so much true disposition to virtue. Yet thus much of love’s worthy effects is to be seen in you that, besides your breaking laws of hospitality with Kalander, and of friendship with me, it utterly subverts the course of nature in making reason give place to feeling and man to woman.

“And truly I think hereupon it first got the name of love. For indeed true love has that excellent nature in it, that it transforms the very essence of the lover into the thing loved, uniting and, as it were, incorporating it with a secret and inward working. And in this way certain kinds of love imitate the more excellent kind, for as the love of heaven makes one heavenly, the love of virtue, virtuous; but so does the love of the world make one become worldly, and this effeminate love of a woman so womanize a man that (if he yields to it) it will not only make him an Amazon, but a launderer, a distaff-spinner, or whatsoever other vile occupation their idle heads can imagine and their weak hands perform.

“Therefore (to trouble you no longer with my tedious but loving words) if either you remember what you are, what you have been, or what you must be; if you consider what it is that moved you or by what kind of creature you are moved, you shall find the cause so small, the effect so dangerous, yourself so unworthy to run into the one or to be driven by the other, that I doubt not that I shall quickly have occasion rather to praise you for having conquered it than to give you further counsel on how to do it.”

But in Pyrocles, this speech wrought nothing, except where before he was espied he was afraid and after being perceived he was ashamed, now, being hardly rubbed upon, he left both fear and shame and was moved to anger. But the exceeding good will he bore to Musidorus strove against anger. He thus answered him, partly to satisfy him but principally to loosen the reins of his own emotions:

“Cousin, whatsoever good disposition nature bestowed upon me, or howsoever that disposition has been confirmed by my upbringing, I must confess that I am not yet come to that degree of wisdom to think light of the sex from whom I have my life, since if I am anything (which your friendship rather finds, than I acknowledge), I was, to come of it, born of a woman and nursed by a woman. And certainly (for this point of your speech does nearest touch me) it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind, who, not content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the others’ virtuous patience under them, like childish masters think their masterhood nothing without doing injury to those who (if we will argue by reason) are framed of nature with the same qualities of the mind for the exercise of virtue as we are.

“And for example, even this estate of Amazons (which I now for my greatest honor do seek to counterfeit) well witnesses that if generally the sweetness of their disposition did not make women see the vainness of these things that we account glorious, nonetheless they neither lack valor of mind nor yet does their fairness take away their force. And truly we men, and the praisers of men, should remember that if we have such excellencies, it is reasonable to think them excellent creatures of whom we are born, since a kite never brought forth a good flying hawk. But to tell you true, as I think superfluous to use any words of such a subject that is so praised in itself as it needs no praises, I fear lest my mind (not able to reach unto them) may bring forth words whose unworthiness may be a disgrace to those whom I so inwardly honor.

“Let this suffice, that they are capable of virtue, and virtue is to be loved—as you yourself say, and I too, truly. But this I willingly confess, that I much better like to find virtue in a fair lodging than to seek it in an ill-favored creature, like a pearl in a dunghill.

“As to my fault of being an uncivil guest to Kalander, if you could feel what an inward guest I am host to, you would think it very excusable that I rather perform the duties of a host than the ceremonies of a guest.

“And as for my breaking the laws of friendship with you (which I would rather die than actually do) truly, I could find in my heart to ask you pardon for it, except that your handling of me now gives me reason to confirm my former dealing.”

And here Pyrocles stayed, as to breathe himself, having been transported with a little vehemence, because it seemed to him Musidorus had over-bitterly glanced against the reputation of womankind. But then quieting his countenance as much his unquiet mind would allow, he thus proceeded: “And poor love,” said he, “dear cousin, is little beholden to you: for you are not contented to spoil it of the honor of the highest power of the mind, which notable men have attributed unto it, but you deject it below all other passions—in truth somewhat strangely, since if love receives any disgrace, it is by the company of these passions you prefer before it. For your bitter objections—for example, that lust, idleness, and a weak heart should be the manner and form (as it were) of love—concern me rather than love, dear Musidorus.

“I am a good witness to my own imperfections and therefore will not defend myself. But herein I must say, you deal contrary to yourself, for if I be so weak, then can you not with reason stir me up as you did, by remembrance of my own virtue. Or if, indeed, I am virtuous, then must you confess that love works in a virtuous heart; and so no doubt it does, whatsoever I be. If we love virtue, in whom shall we love it but in a virtuous creature?

“Let us assume that your meaning is not that I should love the word “virtue” when I see it written in a book. Those troublesome effects you say it breeds are not the faults of love, but of him that loves—as a vessel unable to bear such a liquor; like eyes not able to look on the sun; or like a weak brain, soonest overthrown by the best wine. Even that heavenly love you speak of is accompanied in some hearts with hopes, grief, longings, and despairs.

“And in that heavenly love, there are two parts: the one the love itself, the other the excellence of the thing loved. I, not able at the first leap to frame both in me, do now (like a diligent workman) make ready the chief instrument and first part of that great work, which is love itself. When I have practiced in this manner for a while, then you shall see me turn it to greater matters.

“Thus gently you may (if it please you) think of me. Do not suspect that I will be the more womanish because I wear a woman’s apparel, since I assure you that despite all my apparel there is nothing I desire more than fully to prove myself a man in this enterprise. Much might be said in my defense, much more for love, and most of all for that divine creature who has joined me and love together. But these disputations are fitter for quiet schools than my troubled brains, which are bent rather to perform in deeds than to defend in words the noble desire that possesses me.

“Oh, Lord,” said Musidorus, “how sharp-witted you are to hurt yourself.”

“No,” answered he, “but it is the hurt you speak of that makes me so sharp-witted.”

“Even so,” said Musidorus, “as every base occupation makes one sharp in that practice and foolish in all the rest!”

“No, rather,” answered Pyrocles, “as each excellent thing, once well learned, serves for a measure of all other knowledge.”

“And has that become,” said Musidorus, “a measure for other things, which never received measure in itself?”

“It is counted without measure,” answered Pyrocles, “because the workings of it are without measure, but otherwise, in nature it has measure, since it has an end allotted to it.”

“The beginning being so excellent, I would gladly know the end.”

“Enjoying,” answered Pyrocles, with a deep sigh.

“Oh, now you set forth the baseness of it,” said Musidorus, “since if it ends in enjoying, it shows all the rest was nothing.”

“You mistake me,” answered Pyrocles. “I spoke of the end to which it is directed, which end ends only when our lives do.”

“Alas, let your own brain disenchant you,” said Musidorus.

“My heart is too far possessed,” said Pyrocles.

“But the head gives you direction.”

“And the heart gives me life.”

But Musidorus was so grieved to see his well-beloved friend obstinate, as he thought, to his own destruction, that it forced him with more than accustomed vehemence to speak these words: “Well, well,” said he, “you want to abuse yourself. It was a very white and red virtue, which you picked out of the painterly gloss of her visage. Confess the truth, and you shall find the utmost was only beauty. Although you have as much excellence in beauty as anyone, yet I am sure you make no further reckoning of it than of an outward, fading benefit nature bestowed upon you. And yet, such is your lack of a true grounded virtue (which must be like itself in all points) that what you wisely account a trifle in yourself, you fondly become a slave to in another.

“For my part, I now protest I have left nothing unsaid that my wit could make me know or my entire friendship to you requires of me. I now beseech you, even for the love between us (if this other love has left any in you toward me) and for the remembrance of your old careworn father (if you who forget yourself can remember him) and lastly for Pyrocles’ own sake (who is now upon the point of falling or rising) to purge yourself of this vile infection. Otherwise, give me leave to leave off this name of friendship as an idle title of a thing which cannot be, where virtue is abolished.”

The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles (though he were very impatient of long deliberations) as this last farewell of the one whom he loved as his own life wounded his soul. For, thinking himself afflicted, he was more apt to conceive unkindness deeply. So that shaking his head and delivering some show of tears, he thus uttered his griefs:

“Alas, Prince Musidorus, how cruelly you deal with me. If you seek the victory, take it, and, if you want, the triumph. You have all the reason in the world. With me remain all the imperfections, yet such as I can no more lay from me than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to cast off all his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician that, upon seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him (instead of administering help) and bid him be sick no more. Or rather, like a friend who, visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison and laden with grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters or he would leave him. I am sick, and sick to death. I am a prisoner. Neither is there any redress but by her to whom I am a slave. Now if you wish, leave him that loves you in the highest degree, but remember ever to carry this with you—you abandon your friend in his greatest extremity.”

And herewith the deep wound of his love, being rubbed afresh with this new unkindness, began to bleed (as it were) again in such a way that he was unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears and crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the ground. This sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus that, falling down by him and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he besought him not to make account of his speech, which if it had been overly-vehement, yet it was to be borne because it came out of a love much more vehement. He had not thought fancy could have received so deep a wound, but now, finding in him the force of it, he would no further oppose it but employ all his service to medicate it however the nature of it required.

But even this kindness made Pyrocles the more melt in the former unkindness, which his manlike tears well showed with a silent look upon Musidorus, as if to say, “And is it possible that Musidorus should threaten to leave me?” This struck Musidorus’ mind and senses dumb too. Unable to say anything for grief, they rested with their eyes placed one upon the other in such a way as might well paint that the true passion of unkindness is never aright except between those that most dearly love. And thus they remained a time until at length, Musidorus embracing him, said:

“And will you thus shake off your friend?”

“It is you that shakes me off,” said Pyrocles, “because my imperfections are unworthy of your friendship.”

“But this,” said Musidorus, “shows you more imperfect—to be cruel to him that submits himself to you. But since you are imperfect,” said he, smiling, “it is reason that you should be governed by us wise and perfect men. And that authority I will begin to take upon me with three absolute commandments: the first, that you do not increase your evil with further griefs; the second, that you love her with all the powers of your mind; and the last commandment shall be that you command me to do what service I can towards the attaining of your desires.”

Pyrocles’ heart was not so oppressed with the two mighty passions of love and unkindness that he did not yield to some mirth at this commandment of Musidorus that he should love. Something clearing his face from his former shows of grief, he said, “Well, dear cousin, I see by the well choosing of your commandments that you are far fitter to be a prince than a counselor, and therefore I am resolved to employ all my endeavors to obey you with this condition, that the commands that you command me to lay upon you shall only be that you continue to love me and look on my imperfections with more affection than judgment.”

“Love you?” said Musidorus. “Alas, how can my heart be separated from one who would truly embrace it, unless it should burst from being too full? But let us leave off these flowers of new-begun friendship. I pray you again, tell me—but tell it to me fully, omitting no circumstance—the story of your affections, both beginning and proceeding. Assure yourself that there is nothing so great that I will fear to do for you, nor nothing so small that I will disdain to do for you. Let me, therefore, receive a clear understanding, which many times we miss while those things we account small (such as a speech or a look) are omitted, as when a whole sentence may fail to be congruous by the want of one particle. Between friends, all must be laid open, nothing being superfluous or tedious.”

“You shall be obeyed,” said Pyrocles. “And here are we, in as fit a place for it as may be, for into this arbor nobody comes but myself. I use it as my melancholy retiring place, and therefore that respect is borne to it. Yet if by chance anyone should come, say that you are a servant sent from the queen of the Amazons to seek me, and then leave me the rest.”

discreet stays] prudent periods of rest.

A sonnet with a regular rhetorical structure (eyes, thoughts, reason … see, think, know) in which Pyrocles, disguised as the Amazon Zelmane (transformed in show), expresses his love for Philoclea; Sidney was the first to write more than an occasional sonnet in English (Ringler 384).

insinuation … division of sighs] An insinuation is an indirect introduction meant to win favor of a listener, typically by appealing to emotion. The divisions, or arguments, of an oration are here marked by sighs (much like paragraphs).