Arcadia. Sir Philip Sidney
both waited for the one that would first strike upon the shield.
Basilius, the judge, appointed sticklers22 and trumpets to determine who would respond. But none that day appeared nor the next, until already it had consumed half its allowance of light. But then there came in a knight, declaring himself as contrary to Phalantus in mind as he was in apparel, for Phalantus was all in white, having a waving water embroidered in his bases and caparison,23 at each side of which he had nettings cast over, in which were various fish made so naturally and so prettily that when his horse stirred, the fishes seemed to strive and leap in the net.
The other knight—by name Nestor and by birth an Arcadian and vowed in affection to the fair shepherdess—was all in black, with fire burning both upon his armor and horse. The impresa on his shield was a fire made of juniper with this word, “More easy, and more sweet.” But this hot knight was cooled by a fall which at the third course he received from Phalantus, leaving his picture to keep company with the others of the same stamp. He went away without remedy, chafing at his rebuke.
The next was Polycetes, greatly esteemed in Arcadia for deeds he had done in arms. He was much spoken of for the honorable love he had long borne to Gynecia, which Basilius himself was content not only to allow, but to delight in because carried in so honorable and open plainness, and he set no other mark to his love than to do her faithful service. But neither her fair picture nor his fair running could warrant him from overthrow. Gynecia became the last of Artesia’s victories, a thing her virtues would little have cared about at another time, nor then, if Zelmane had not seen it. Her champion then went away as much discomforted as discomfited.24
Then Telamon for Polexena, and Euryleon for Elpine, and Leon for Zoana—all brave knights, all fair ladies—by their going down, lifted up the balance of his praise for activity, hers for fairness.
As the beholders were discussing those losses, there came a shepherd stripling into the place where they ran. His height made him more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man. He was brown of complexion (whether by nature or by the sun’s familiarity) but very lovely withal, and for the rest, so perfectly proportioned that nature showed she does not behave like men who slubber up matters of mean account.25 And well might his proportion be judged, for he had nothing upon him but a pair of slops, and upon his body a goat skin, which he cast over his shoulder, doing all things with so pretty a grace that it seemed ignorance could not make him do amiss, because he had a heart to do well. He held in his right hand a long staff and so came with a look full of amiable fierceness, as one in whom choler26 could not take away sweetness.
He came towards the king, and making a reverence, which in him was comely because it was kindly, “My liege lord,” said he, “I pray you hear a few words, for my heart will break if I do not say my mind to you. I see here the picture of Urania, which (I cannot tell how nor why) these men, when they fall down, say is not so fair as yonder brightly dressed woman. But pray God I may never see my old mother alive, if I think she be any more a match to Urania than a goat is to a fine lamb, or than a dog that keeps our flock at home is like your white greyhound that pulled down the stag yesterday.
“And therefore I pray you let me be dressed as they are, and my heart tells me I shall tumble him on the earth. For indeed he might as well say that a cowslip is as white as a lily, or else I care not. Let him come with his great staff, and I with this in my hand, and you shall see what I can do to him.”
Basilius saw it was the fine shepherd Lalus, whom once before he had seen in pastoral sports. He had greatly delighted in his wit, full of pretty simplicity. Laughing at his earnestness, Basilius bade Lalus be content since he saw the pictures of great queens who were apt to follow their companions’ fortune. But Lalus (even weeping-ripe) went among the rest, longing to find somebody that would revenge Urania’s wrong. He prayed heartily for everybody that ran against Phalantus, then beginning to feel poverty because he could not set himself to that trial.
But by and by, even when the sun (like a noble heart) began to show his greatest countenance in his lowest estate, there came in a knight called Phebilus, a gentleman of that country, for whom hateful fortune had borrowed the dart of love to make him miserable by the sight of Philoclea. For he had loved her even from her infancy and was stricken by her before she was able to know what quiver of arrows her eyes carried. He loved and despaired, and the more he despaired, the more he loved. He saw his own unworthiness, and thereby made her excellence have a more terrifying aspect upon him. He was so secret in this, not daring to be open, that he never spoke of it to any creature, but his heart made such silent complaints within itself that, while all his senses were so attentive thereto, cunning judges might perceive his mind. So he was known to love, though he denied it, or rather was the better known because he denied it.
His armor and his attire were of a sea color. His device, the fish called sepia, which in the net casts a black ink about itself so that it may escape in the darkness. His motto was “Not so!” Philoclea’s picture was borne in by him with almost an idolatrous magnificence.
But jealousy was a harbinger for disdain in Zelmane’s heart when she saw that anyone but herself should be avowed a champion for Philoclea, and she wished his shame, until she saw him shamed. For at the second course he was quite stricken from out of the saddle—so full of grief and rage that he would happily have revenged himself with his sword. But Basilius would not suffer that, being contrary to the order set down. Therefore he went his way, wishing himself in the bottom of the earth and leaving Zelmane no less angry at his loss than she would have been with his victory. For if she thought before a rival’s praise would have angered her, her lady’s disgrace made her much more forget what she then thought, and her passion reigned so much the more when she saw a pretty blush in Philoclea’s cheeks betray a modest discontent.
But the night commanded truce for those sports, and Phalantus, though entreated, would not leave Artesia—who in no case would come into the house, having (as it were) inhaled from Cecropia’s breath a mortal mislike of Basilius. The night, measured by the short ell of sleep, was soon passed over, and the next morning had given the watchful stars leave to take their rest, when a trumpet summoned Basilius to play the judge’s part, which he did, taking his wife and daughters with him.
Zelmane had locked her door so as they would not trouble her for that time, for already there was a knight in the field ready to prove Helen of Corinth had received great injury, both by the erring judgment of the challenger and the unlucky weakness of her former defender.
The new knight was quickly known to be Clitophon—the son of Kalander and Basilius’ sister—by his armor, which was all gilded and so well-handled that it glowed like glittering sand and gravel interlaced with silver rivers. He had his device (the ermine, with a speech that signified “Rather dead than spotted”) put into the picture of Helen that he defended. He had worn that armor since he parted from Helen, who would no longer accept his company because she found him too affectionate. He had performed such honorable actions (still seeking after his two friends by the names of Palladius and Daiphantus) that though his face was covered, his identity was discovered; yet Basilius, who had brought him up in his court, would not say so.
Glad to see the trial of one of whom he had heard good reports, Basilius commanded the trumpets to sound, which the brave two knights obeyed. They performed their courses, breaking their six staves with such good skill in the hitting and grace in the manner that it caused some difficulty in the judgment. In the end Basilius gave his sentence against Clitophon because Phalantus had broken more staves on his head and because on one occasion Clitophon had received such a blow that he lost the reins with his head well-nigh touching the crupper of the horse.
Clitophon was so angry with the judgment, wherein he thought he had received wrong, that he omitted his duty to his prince and uncle and suddenly went his way, still in the quest of those whom he had been seeking previously, and so he yielded the field to the next challenger, who, coming in about two hours later, was no less marked than all the rest before because he had nothing worth marking. For he had neither picture nor device, and his armor was so old-fashioned—besides its rusty poorness—that it might seem a monument of his grandfather’s courage.
About his middle he had, instead of skirted armor, a long cloak of silk,