Orsino’s Envoy

Sebastian and Viola were brother and sister, twins, and they resembled each other so closely that it would have been impossible to know them apart if it had not been for the difference in dress.

Travelling by sea on one occasion, they met with a dangerous adventure, for near the coast of Illyria their ship was wrecked, and though both managed to get safely to land, each feared the other had perished. The captain of the ship, who was saved in the same boat with Viola, kindly befriended her. It happened he knew that country well, for he was born and bred there, and had only left it a month before. He told Viola that it was governed by a Duke, noble in nature as in name, and that this Duke was in love with a fair lady called Olivia. The father and brother of the lady, however, had both died within the last year, and the Countess Olivia out of love for them and grief for their loss had shut herself up in seclusion ever since, and refused to see anyone.

Viola, who had been cast quite destitute on shore, would gladly have served this lady for awhile till the opportunity came to show what was her real estate in life; but the captain said that would be difficult to manage, for the Countess would listen to no kind of suit, not even the Duke Orsino’s. Then the idea came to Viola to disguise herself as a page, and to seek service with the Duke, of whom she had heard her own father speak. She could sing and play to him in many sorts of music, which would make her well worth his service, for the Duke was especially fond of music. The captain promised to keep concealed who she really was, aid her in getting a disguise, and present her to the Duke.

All went well. Viola, with her grace, beauty, and noble bearing, made such a gallant young page that she was received into instant favour, and before three days were over, the Duke, won by some irresistible charm, had confided to “Cesario” (as he called her) all the secret of his unhappy love for the lady Olivia. His suit so far had been rejected, even his messengers were denied admittance; but it occurred to Orsino that if he sent this pretty lad to the Countess perhaps he might be more successful in pleading his cause than some older envoy of graver aspect. He bade Cesario insist on admittance, and refuse to be sent away without seeing Olivia. When he gained speech with the Countess, he was to tell her of Orsino’s devotion, and relate his woes.

“Prosper well in this,” he ended, “and you shall live as freely as your lord, and call his fortunes yours.”

Alas, poor Viola! The Duke little thought what a task he was setting his young page. The sweetness and charm of his own nature had already won Viola’s heart, and how gladly she would have accepted the love which Olivia rejected!

But she must be faithful to her trust.

“I’ll do my best to woo your lady,” she said, and so departed on her mission.

While the lady Olivia lived in grief and retirement, there were others of her household very far from sharing in her desire for quiet and gravity. Her steward, Malvolio, was indeed a staid and respectable personage, stiff in bearing, hating all forms of wit and levity, very fault-finding with others, and extremely well satisfied with himself. Olivia had a real esteem for Malvolio, for she knew him to be worthy and conscientious, although, as she told him, he was “sick of self-love.” But there were others who conducted themselves very differently from Malvolio, and between these noisy dependents and the austere steward there was a constant smouldering resentment, always ready to break into open warfare.

The chief source of unruliness was a certain riotous knight, called Sir Toby Belch, an uncle of Olivia’s, who since her brother’s death had taken up his abode in the house. He loved feasting and revelry, and his wild behaviour was likely soon to bring discredit on the household if some check were not put to it. His boon companion was an idle knight, called Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who under a smattering of foreign languages concealed an unlimited fund of native stupidity. Sir Toby was quite aware of Sir Andrew’s silliness, and loved to laugh at him and parade his folly; but none the less he thought this foolish gentleman would do very well as a husband for Olivia, and he encouraged him to come to the house on every occasion. A third member of the band was Feste, the clown, or jester. Feste was a privileged person, and, like all fools or Court jesters in those days, was allowed to speak his mind much more freely than ordinary mortals; even the stately Countess herself did not escape his sharp speeches. In days gone by, Olivia’s father had taken much delight in him, and now Olivia listened indulgently to his chatter, and rebuked Malvolio for the sour ill-temper with which he tried to snub the fool’s sallies. In addition to his fool’s wit, Feste possessed a gift of real power, a wonderfully sweet voice for singing, and wherever he went could be heard snatches of song, gay and jocund, or plaintive and of touching pathos.

Olivia’s waiting-maid, Maria, regarded Malvolio with no more favour than did the rest of this noisy company. She was a quick-witted, lively young person, delighting in fun, and Malvolio’s solemn primness and rigid severity seemed to her nothing but hypocrisy.

“An affected ass,” she described him, with small reverence, “with the best possible opinion of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences that he firmly believes that all who look on him love him.”

And it was from this intense self-conceit of Malvolio’s that this mischievous little band of conspirators—Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Feste the clown, and Maria—found means to revenge themselves by playing a humiliating trick on the pompous steward.

When Viola, in the character of Cesario, reached Olivia’s house, she was at first refused admittance, but as she announced her intention of standing at the door until she had given her message, and absolutely declined to take any denial, Olivia at last consented to see her.

“Give me my veil,” she said to Maria. “Come, throw it over my face. We will once more hear Orsino’s embassy;” and Viola, attended by four or five servants of the Duke, was ushered into her presence.

“The honourable lady of the house, which is she?” she demanded.

“Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?” said Olivia curtly.

“Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,” began Viola, with high-flown gallantry, and enjoying the humour of her own words, for, as Olivia was closely veiled, she could not see whom she was addressing. Not in the least abashed, however, by that lady’s stately dignity, she begged permission to deliver her message, and to speak it to Olivia alone. The quaint impertinence of the pretty lad, his ready wit, and his noble bearing, took Olivia’s fancy, and, instead of dismissing him abruptly, as had been her first intention, she sent away her attendants and bade him speak on.

But when Viola uttered Orsino’s name, Olivia, as usual, drew back. Even from this messenger she had no wish to hear of Orsino’s devotion, and she checked him rather abruptly.

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“Have you no more to say?” she added.

“Good madam, let me see your face,” pleaded Viola, for she longed to behold the lady who could so enchant Duke Orsino.

“Have you any commission from your lord to see my face?” asked Olivia, not ill-pleased. “You are now out of your message; but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I am now. Is it not well done?”

She threw back her veil, and her dazzling beauty shone forth in all its radiance.

Viola gazed at her in admiration.

“Excellently done, if God did all,” she murmured, for she could scarcely believe such loveliness of tint could be natural.

“’Tis in grain, sir; it will endure wind and weather,” replied Olivia.

“It is beauty truly blent, whose red and white were laid on by Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand,” said Viola. “Lady, you are the cruellest person alive if you let these graces go down to the grave and leave the world no copy.”

“Oh, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted,” said Olivia, with gentle sarcasm; “I will give out divers schedules of my beauty; it shall be all entered in an inventory, and duly labelled; as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?”

“I see you what you are—you are too proud,” said Viola. “My lord and master loves you. Oh, such love deserves its recompense, though you were crowned peerless in beauty.”

To this Olivia replied that Orsino knew her mind; she could not love him. She knew him to be noble, of great estate and stainless youth, generous in disposition, learned, valiant, graceful, and handsome in person. Yet she could not love him. He might have taken his answer long ago.

“If I loved you as my master does, with such fire and suffering, I would find no sense in your denial,” said Viola. “I would not understand it.”

“Why, what would you do?”

“Make me a willow cabin at your gate, write loyal songs of love, and sing them loud, even in the dead of night,” cried Viola; “call out your name to the echoing hills, and make the babbling air cry out ‘Olivia!’ Oh, you should have no rest, but you should pity me!”

“You might do much,” said Olivia, with assumed sarcasm, but really touched by the young page’s enthusiasm. “What is your parentage?”

“Above my fortunes, yet my estate is good.”

“Get you to your lord; I cannot love him. Let him send no more—unless, perchance, you come to me again to tell me how he takes it. Fare you well; I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.”

“I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse,” said Viola. “My master, not myself, lacks recompense. When your turn comes to love, may your own lover’s heart be made of flint, and may your affection, like my master’s, be held in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty!”

Viola had done her best for her master, but the only success she had was to win his lady’s heart for herself. The stately lady Olivia, so cold and proud to the noble Duke Orsino, was now forced to own to herself that she found a strange fascination in this young page. He had refused the gift of money which, in accordance with the custom of those times, Olivia had offered, but she could not let him pass out of her sight, perhaps for ever, without a remembrance.

“What ho! Malvolio!” she called.

“Here, madam, at your service.”

“Run after that same peevish messenger, the Duke Orsino’s man,” she said. “He left this ring behind him. Tell him I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter his lord, nor feed him up with hope. I will never marry him. If the youth will come this way to-morrow, I will give him reasons for it. Hasten, Malvolio.”

“Madam, I will,” said the steward; and he stiffly departed, and ungraciously fulfilled his errand.

Viola had given no ring to Olivia, and she could not fail to see that the Countess intended this gift as a mark of favour, and had taken a great liking for herself. This was anything but pleasing to her, for she knew it could lead to nothing but fresh trouble.

“Poor lady! she had better love a dream,” she thought. “How will matters turn out? My master loves her dearly; I, poor fool! am just as fond of him; and she, mistaken, seems to doat on me! What will become of this? O time, you must untangle it, not I! It is too hard a knot for me to unravel.”

A Dream of Greatness

The disagreement always existing between the steward Malvolio and the riotous members of Olivia’s household broke at last into warfare. On the night of the day when Duke Orsino’s messenger came to Olivia, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew chose to sit up late, drinking and singing. Feste, the clown, joined them, and after one song, sung sweetly enough by himself, the whole trio united in yelling out a noisy catch. The din they made roused the household, and Maria came hurrying in to beg them to be quiet.

“Why, what a caterwauling you keep here!” she cried. “If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bade him turn you out of doors, never trust me.”

But all her attempts to silence them were useless. They laughed, shouted, called for more wine, and went on singing at the pitch of their voices. In vain she begged for peace; they were quite beyond control. When Malvolio himself appeared, they paid no more heed to him than they had done to Maria, and only answered his rebuking words by each singing at him in turn snatches of different songs.

“My masters, are you mad, or what are you?” he cried, with just indignation. “Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do you make an alehouse of my lady’s house that you squeak out your vulgar catches at the top of your voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?”

“We did keep time, sir, in our catches,” said Sir Toby. “Shut up!”

“Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she is not allied to your bad behaviour. If you can separate yourself from your misdoings, you are welcome to the house; if not, if it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone!” trolled out Sir Toby, in mock melancholy, and not in the least impressed by Malvolio’s stern rebuke.

“Nay, good Sir Toby,” pleaded Maria.

“‘His eyes do show his days are almost done,’” chimed in the clown, carrying on the song.

All Malvolio’s angry speeches were met with the same musical mockery, and nothing would make the culprits stop. Almost speechless with fury, Malvolio left the revellers, declaring that his lady should know of their goings-on.

“Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night,” urged Maria. “Since the youth of Duke Orsino’s was to-day with my lady, she is much disquieted. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a by-word and make him a general laughing-stock, never trust my wit. I know I can do it.”

“Good, good! Tell us something about him,” said Sir Toby.

“Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan,” said Maria.

“Oh, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog!” cried the silly Sir Andrew.

“What, for being a puritan?” asked Sir Toby, who was always ready to ridicule Sir Andrew’s brainless remarks, though he made such a companion of him. “Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?”

“I have no exquisite reason for it, but I have reason good enough,” said the foolish young man sulkily.

Maria then went on to say that Malvolio’s self-conceit as to his own merits was so great that he imagined everyone who looked at him loved him, and this would give them an opening for their revenge. She would drop in his way some vaguely expressed letters of love, in which he should find his different peculiarities so well described that there could be no doubt as to whom was meant. She could write very like the lady Olivia; in fact, they sometimes could not tell their own handwritings apart. Malvolio would think the letters he found came from Olivia, and that she was in love with him.

Maria’s trick was not a very praiseworthy one, but her hearers were not troubled with scruples. They only thought how delightfully comic it would be to see the stiff and starched steward priding himself on the conquest he had made, and what deep humiliation would fall on him when his mistake was discovered.

---

Maria was not long in carrying out her scheme, and Malvolio was immediately caught with the bait. Having once got into his mind the absurd idea that the Countess Olivia was in love with him, he began weaving plans of what he should do when he was advanced to the high position of her husband. His ambitious meditations were overheard by the conspirators, for Maria had run into the garden to warn them of his approach.

“Get all three into the box-tree,” she cried; “Malvolio is coming down this walk. He has been yonder in the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half-hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery, for I know this letter will make an idiot of him. Hide, in the name of jesting!... Lie thou there,” she added, throwing down a letter, “for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.”

“It is but fortune—all is fortune,” murmured Malvolio, as he paced along with solemn stride. “Maria once told me that she liked me, and I have heard herself go so far as to say that if ever she fancied anyone, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she treats me with more exalted respect than any one else of her followers. What should I think of it?”

Malvolio’s imagination now soared beyond all bounds, and he marched up and down, pluming himself like a turkey-cock.

“To be Count Malvolio!” he exclaimed in ecstasy, and forthwith began to consider how he should comport himself in that exalted sphere.

“Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,” he mused, gesticulating to himself as if all he described were really taking place, “calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown, and telling them I knew my place, as I wished they should know theirs, I would ask for my kinsman Toby. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make for him; I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my—some rich jewel. Toby approaches, bows humbly to me——”

“Shall this fellow live?” cried the exasperated real Sir Toby in the box-tree.

“I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control——”

“And does not Toby give you a blow on the lips then?” fumed the hearer.

“Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this privilege of speech. You must amend your drinking habits. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight——’”

“That’s me, I warrant you,” put in Sir Andrew.

“One Sir Andrew——”

“I knew it was I, for many call me fool,” said Sir Andrew, quite pleased at his own penetration.

But Malvolio’s imaginary rebuke to Sir Toby came abruptly to an end, for he now caught sight of the letter which Maria had thrown on the ground.

“What have we here? By my life, this is my lady’s hand; these are her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; and thus she makes her great P’s. Beyond all question it is her hand.” Then Malvolio read aloud the inscription: “‘To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes.’ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! And the impression her own seal! It is my lady. To whom should this be?”

The letter was written in the most nonsensical terms, but Malvolio at once began to puzzle a meaning into it.

“‘No man must know,’” he echoed. “If this should be thee, Malvolio!”

Malvolio pondered deeply over these mystic lines. “I may command where I adore” was, of course, quite simple. Olivia might command him, for he was her servant. But what about the letters M, O, A, I?

“M—Malvolio; M—why, that begins my name!” came the sudden flash of discovery.

The succeeding letters were not so easy to explain, for they did not follow in their proper order. But Malvolio was not discouraged; he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that every one of these letters was in his name.

“Soft! There follows prose,” he continued.

“If this fall into thy hands, reflect,” ran the absurd epistle. “In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness; some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands, and to accustom thyself to what thou art likely to be, throw off thy humble shell, and appear afresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of State; put thyself into the trick of singularity; she thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered—I say, remember! Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee,

“The Fortunate-Unhappy.”

There was also a postscript, which said:

“Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling. Thy smiles become thee well, therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.”

This ridiculous letter quite turned poor Malvolio’s head. He never doubted but that Olivia had really written it; he resolved in rapture to do everything he was bidden, and hurried away to put on as quickly as possible the yellow stockings and cross-garters.

Maria was delighted with the success of her trick, for all the things she had commended to Malvolio were what Olivia especially disliked.

“He will come to my lady in yellow stockings, and it is a colour she abhors,” she cried gleefully; “and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests. And he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into great contempt.”

And away went Maria and the others to see the first approach of the deluded Malvolio in his extraordinary new guise before his lady.

The Challenge

When Viola, saved from the wreck, was grieving over the supposed loss of her brother, she was comforted by the sea-captain, who told her that he had seen Sebastian bind himself to a strong mast, which floated on the sea, and that probably he too had been saved. This turned out to be really the case. Sebastian was picked up by another ship, the captain of which, Antonio by name, most kindly befriended the destitute young stranger. For three months he kept Sebastian with him, and he loved the boy so dearly that, when Sebastian left him to go to the Court of Orsino, Antonio followed him to Illyria, fearing lest some harm should come to him.

Antonio dared not show himself openly in Illyria, for several years before he had fought valiantly on the side of the enemies of Orsino, and done much damage to the Duke’s fleet. When on their arrival, therefore, Sebastian proposed to take a walk to see anything of note in the city, Antonio replied that it would be better for himself to go and secure a lodging, and order food to be prepared; he knew of a place that would suit very well, the Elephant Inn, in the south suburbs of the city. Sebastian in the meanwhile could go for a walk, and join him in about an hour’s time.

Knowing that Sebastian had no money, or very little, Antonio further insisted on giving him his purse, in case he should see any trifle he wished to purchase. Everything being thus arranged, they parted, Antonio to go to the Elephant Inn, and Sebastian to take a walk through the town.

---

In the palace of the Duke there was still sadness, for the young page Cesario, in spite of his kind reception by the Countess Olivia, had brought back no more cheering answer than former envoys. Weary at heart, Orsino longed to hear some soothing music, and he called for a touching little song which he had heard sung the night before—a plaintive, old-world ditty, whose quaint sadness and simplicity had more power to relieve his sorrow than the more light and cheerful strains of modern music.

His servants told him that the person who had sung the song was Feste the jester, who had been in the service of the Countess Olivia’s father, and, as he was still about the house, Orsino ordered him to be fetched. So Feste came, and this was the song he sang:

This sad little song just suited the melancholy mood of the Duke, and when Feste had sung it, and gone away, Orsino went on talking to Viola—or his young page Cesario, as he thought her—about his unhappy love for Olivia. He bade her go once more to the cruel lady, and insist on her listening to him.

“But if she cannot love you, sir?” said Viola.

“I cannot be answered so,” said Orsino.

“Sooth, but you must,” replied Viola. “Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, has as great a love for you as you have for Olivia; you cannot love her; you tell her so; must she not then be answered?”

Orsino replied that no woman could ever love any man as he loved Olivia; that women’s hearts were much more shallow than men’s, etc. Viola, knowing her own deep and hidden affection for the Duke himself, protested that she knew too well how much women could love, and in veiled language she went on to describe the case of “a daughter of her father,” whom Orsino naturally took to mean a sister, but who was in reality herself. However, the end of it was that Viola again went to Olivia.

She was received just as kindly as before, but Olivia said plainly that it was quite useless for her to plead on behalf of Orsino, although if Cesario would undertake another suit she would listen to it more gladly than to the music of the spheres. Viola could only reply to this as she had done before, that she had one heart, and that no woman except herself should ever be mistress of it. So she took her leave.

---

The interview between the Countess and the young page had been jealously watched; the spectator was the foolish knight, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. It had occurred to Sir Toby that it would be a very good plan to wed his niece Olivia to this silly gentleman, and he kept urging Sir Andrew to pay his court to her. Sir Andrew spent money lavishly in riotous living with Sir Toby, hoping to repay himself when he married Olivia. He was therefore very indignant when he saw her bestow more favours on Orsino’s messenger than she had ever done on him, and he angrily told Sir Toby that he intended to leave at once.

Sir Toby tried to soothe him, and he and another gentleman of Olivia’s household who happened to be present persuaded him that Olivia knew all the time that he was looking on, and only showed favour to the youth to exasperate Sir Andrew and to awaken his dormouse valour. They said he ought immediately to have fired up, and frightened the boy into dumbness, and that he had damaged his own cause by not doing so. The only thing now to do was to redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

“If it is to be anyway, it must be with valour, for policy I hate,” said Sir Andrew.

“Why, then, build your fortunes on the basis of valour,” said Sir Toby in his loud, jovial voice. “Challenge the youth to fight; hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it; and be assured, nothing prevails more to win a man favour with women than a report of valour.”

“There is no way but this, Sir Andrew,” added Fabian.

“Will either of you bear a challenge to him from me?” asked Sir Andrew.

“Go, write it in a martial hand,” said Sir Toby. “Be sharp and brief. Make it as rude and insolent as you possibly can.”

Sir Andrew retired to write his challenge, leaving the other two men to laugh heartily over the prospect of a good joke.

“We shall have a rare letter from him,” said Fabian, “but you will not deliver it?”

“Faith, and I will!” exclaimed Sir Toby, “and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and cart-ropes will not drag them together.”

For he knew Sir Andrew had not a grain of courage in his whole body; and as for Orsino’s page, he looked far too soft and gentle to be in the least brave or daring.

Sir Andrew wrote his challenge, but when finished it was such an extraordinary production that Sir Toby decided not to deliver it.

“The behaviour of the young gentleman,” he said, “shows him to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will not terrify him in the least; he will know it comes from a clodpole. I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, give a notable report of Aguecheek’s valour, and drive the gentleman, who is so young I know he will readily believe it, into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so frighten them both that they will kill each other by the look, like cockatrices.”

What Sir Toby had planned came to pass, and he and Fabian were soon hugely enjoying the success of their joke. They first found Viola, and delivered Sir Andrew’s challenge, assuring her that he was terribly incensed, and was a most dangerous adversary.

“If you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard,” counselled Sir Toby, “for your opponent has everything that youth, strength, skill, and wrath can furnish a man with.”

Poor Viola was in the greatest alarm on hearing of the encounter that awaited her; she would gladly have wriggled out of it if she could, but Sir Toby would listen to no excuses.

“I will return again to the house, and desire some escort of the lady,” said Viola. “I am no fighter.”

But Sir Toby insisted that she positively must fight with Sir Andrew, that he had real ground of injury, and that if she declined to fight with him she would have to fight with himself, which would be just as dangerous.

“This is as uncivil as strange,” said poor Viola, inwardly quaking with terror. “I beseech you, do me the courtesy to find out from the knight what my offence is; it must be some oversight on my part—certainly I have done nothing on purpose.”

“I will do so,” said Sir Toby. “Signor Fabian, stay with this gentleman till my return.”

Sir Toby went off in search of Sir Andrew, to whom he proceeded to give the most glowing account of the young page’s furious disposition, and his marvellous skill in fencing. Sir Andrew was in a perfect agony of fear.

“If I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I would have seen him hanged before I would have challenged him!” he cried miserably. “Let him let the matter slip, and will give him my horse, Gray Capilet.”

“I will suggest it to him,” said Sir Toby. “Stand here, make a good show of it; this shall end without loss of life.” Then, with a chuckle to himself: “Marry, I’ll ride your horse, as well as I ride you!... I have his horse to take up the quarrel,” he added in a low voice to Fabian. “I have persuaded him the youth is a fury.”

“He thinks just as horribly of Sir Andrew,” laughed back Fabian, “and pants and looks pale as if a bear were at his heels.”

“There is no remedy, sir; he will fight with you, because of his oath,” announced Sir Toby to Viola. “He has thought better of his quarrel, and finds now that is scarcely worth talking of; therefore draw, for the sake of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.”

“Pray heaven defend me,” murmured Viola aside. “A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.”

“Give ground, if you see him furious,” advised Fabian apart to Viola.

“Come, Sir Andrew, there is no remedy,” said Sir Toby aside to the other trembling combatant. “The gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one bout with you; he cannot, by the laws of duelling, avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; begin!”

“Pray heaven he keep his oath!” murmured Sir Andrew.

“I do assure you it is against my will,” said Viola piteously.

The two unhappy champions then reluctantly allowed themselves to be almost dragged into position by their determined seconds, who had much ado to prevent them both ignominiously taking to their heels. It would be difficult to say which was in the most abject state of fear. Sir Andrew was quaking in every limb, and Viola turned quite pale at the sight of her own sword. But before their shaking weapons managed to meet there came an interruption. Antonio, the sea-captain, passed that way, and seeing Viola, he thought it was Sebastian, for in her page’s dress Viola had copied her brother in every particular.

Ever careful for Sebastian’s safety, Antonio at once interfered.

“Put up your sword,” he said to Sir Andrew. “If this young gentleman has offended you in any way, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I will fight you for him.”

“You, sir! Why, what are you?” demanded Sir Toby, not at all pleased to have his joke spoilt in this fashion.

“One, sir, who for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will,” said Antonio proudly.

“Nay, if you are a boaster, I am for you,” said Sir Toby, who, with all his faults, was no coward.

The swords clashed in good earnest this time, but again there came an interruption. Some officers arrived, who proceeded to arrest Antonio at the suit of Duke Orsino; he had been seen and recognised as an ancient enemy; there was no escape.

“This comes with seeking you,” said Antonio to Viola, whom he took for Sebastian; “but there is no remedy, I shall answer it. What will you do now that my necessity makes me ask you for my purse? I am much more grieved for what I am prevented doing for you than for anything that befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be comforted.”

“Come, sir, away,” said one of the officers, as Viola stood staring in astonishment at Antonio. Of course she did not know in the least what he meant, for she had never seen him before in her life.

“I must entreat of you some of that money,” pleaded Antonio.

“What money, sir?” asked Viola. “Because of the kindness you have shown me here, and partly prompted by your present trouble, I will lend you something out of my own very small means; I have not much. I will divide with you what I have. Hold! there is half my purse.”

Antonio was deeply wounded by such apparent ingratitude from one for whom he had done so much. He was reluctant to proclaim his own good deeds, but when Viola persisted in declaring that she did not know him, he could not help relating how he had saved the youth from shipwreck, and what devotion he had lavished on him afterwards. In telling this, he called him by his name, as he thought—“Sebastian”—but he was hurried away by the officers before Viola had time to answer.

This name “Sebastian” filled her with sudden hope; she knew how closely she resembled her brother, and she had imitated the same fashion, colour, and ornament which he was accustomed to wear. Perhaps, then, the tempests had been kind and Sebastian was really saved.

“A very dishonest, paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare,” was Sir Toby’s disgusted comment, as Viola walked off. “His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardice, ask Fabian.”

“A coward—a most devout coward,” agreed Fabian.

“Ha, I’ll after him again, and beat him,” said the valiant Sir Andrew.

“Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw your sword,” said Sir Toby.

“If I do not——” bragged Sir Andrew, swaggering away.

“Come, let us see what happens,” said Fabian.

“I dare lay any money, it will be nothing, after all,” said Sir Toby shrewdly.

Yellow Stockings

Olivia was very sad when Viola, or the young page Cesario, as she thought her, went away saying that no woman should ever win his heart; and feeling that Malvolio’s grave dignity just suited her present mood, she asked for her steward.

“He is coming, madam, but in very strange manner,” said the naughty Maria. “He is surely possessed, madam.”

“Why, what is the matter? Doth he rave?”

“No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come; for, sure, the man has something wrong with his wits.”

“Go, call him hither,” said Olivia.

When Maria returned with Malvolio, Olivia was amazed to see the extraordinary change that had come over her usually sober and sedate steward. Malvolio advanced with mincing step and many fantastic gestures, which he intended to represent gracious affability; his lantern jaws and severe features were twisted into strange grimaces, which he imagined to be fascinating smiles; his lanky legs were encased in brilliant yellow stockings, and were further adorned with cross-gartering from the ankle upwards. Olivia thought he must certainly be bereft of his wits, especially when, in answer to all her questions, he poured forth a series of incomprehensible remarks. They were really quotations from the letter he had picked up, but Olivia, of course, did not know this, and to her they sounded like senseless jargon. Malvolio kept on bowing and smirking, and kissing his hand to Olivia, while he waved Maria aside with intense scorn. Olivia was really distressed to think of the sudden calamity that had befallen the poor man’s wits, for she valued his honesty and faithful service. She gave directions that her people should take especial care of him, and sent Maria to find Sir Toby to look after him.

Malvolio was quite pleased to find himself of such importance, and continued his self-complacent reflections on the greatness which he thought he had achieved. He was firmly convinced that Olivia really liked him, and that she had only sent for Sir Toby on purpose that he might be severe with him, as the letter advised. When Maria reappeared with Sir Toby and Fabian, he treated them all with the most lofty disdain. They were greatly delighted with the success of their trick, and determined to carry on the joke still further. Pretending to think that Malvolio had really lost his wits, they had him bound and carried to a dark room. Then Feste, the clown, disguised his voice, and spoke to him as if he were a curate, come to visit him in his misfortune. He had an argument with Malvolio, in which the poor man made it quite apparent that he was still in possession of his proper reason. But Feste, or Sir Topas, as he called himself for this occasion, would not hold out any hope of release, and, as far as Malvolio could tell in his dark prison, presently departed, without bringing him any comfort.

Sir Toby now began to think the joke had gone far enough, and that it was time to release Malvolio as soon as it could conveniently be done. He knew that Olivia would be seriously displeased if she came to learn what had happened, and he was already so deep in disgrace with his niece that he could not with safety pursue the sport any further. He therefore told the clown to speak to Malvolio in his own voice. Feste began singing one of his songs, as if he had just come near, and Malvolio, recognising it, called piteously to him for help.

“Good fool, as ever you will deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to you for it!”

The clown still went on teasing Malvolio a little before he would grant his request, but finally said he would get what he wanted, and went off to fetch a light and writing materials. Malvolio wrote his letter, which the clown duly delivered, and which clearly proved that the poor man was quite sane, though justly indignant at the way in which he had been treated. Olivia ordered his immediate release, and when Malvolio came and bitterly reproached her for the letter she had written, and the way in which he had been befooled, she assured him that the fault was none of hers, and that the handwriting was Maria’s.

Fabian then stepped forward and took the whole blame on himself and Sir Toby. He said they had played this trick on Malvolio because of his ill-nature towards themselves. Maria had only written the letter under great persuasion from Sir Toby, who now, out of recompense, had married her. Fabian added that he thought the playful malice with which the joke was carried out deserved laughter rather than revenge, if the injuries on both sides were justly weighed.

“Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!” said Olivia.

“I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you,” cried Malvolio, taking himself off in a terrible fury.

And the laughter of the others was checked by the stern rebuke of Olivia:

“He has been treated most shamefully.”

Sebastian and Viola

Olivia, wishing to speak once more with the young page Cesario, sent the clown in search of him, but Feste, by chance, happened to meet Sebastian instead, and thinking he was the person he was in search of, he delivered his lady’s message to him.

Sebastian could not understand in the least what he meant, but he was still further surprised when a very foolish-looking gentleman ran up to him, and struck him a blow, saying:

“Now, sir, have I met you again? There’s for you!”

“Why, there’s for you, and there, and there!” retorted Sebastian, repaying his blows with interest. “Are all the people mad?”

Sir Andrew was surprised and very much disgusted to find that the young man whom they had taken for a coward could strike so vigorously with his fists. Sir Toby interfered on behalf of his timorous friend, and he and Sebastian had drawn their swords to fight in earnest, when Olivia, warned by Feste, came hurrying up. She sternly commanded Sir Toby to stay his hand, and implored Sebastian, whom she took for Cesario, to pardon the rudeness of her kinsman, and to go with her into the house.

“Either I am mad or else this is a dream,” thought the bewildered Sebastian, when he heard this beautiful lady speaking to him as if he were already a dear friend. But, dream or not, it was extremely pleasant, and he was quite willing that the illusion should continue. “If it be thus to dream, let me sleep still,” he said to himself.

This handsome young gallant was by no means so indifferent to the Countess Olivia as Cesario had been, and when she proposed that they should be married at once, he was quite willing to consent. He would gladly have consulted his kind friend Antonio, the sea-captain, but this was not possible, for on going to the Elephant Inn, which was the place of meeting arranged, Antonio had never appeared to keep his appointment. The reason we know already, although Sebastian did not—Antonio had been arrested by Duke Orsino’s officers.

The marriage had only taken place two hours, when Orsino, accompanied by Viola, came to Olivia’s house, and almost immediately afterwards Antonio was led in by the officers. Now came fresh confusion; Antonio again thought Viola was Sebastian, and taxed him bitterly with his ingratitude. Viola stoutly denied ever having seen Antonio before, except on the one occasion when he had saved him from the valiant Sir Andrew. Antonio declared that for the last three months they had never parted company, day or night, whereupon the Duke declared his words must be madness, because for the last three months the youth had been his own attendant.

Then came Olivia, who thought that Viola was the man to whom she had been married, and amazed her by calling her “husband.” The priest who had actually married them was called as witness, and declared this was true. It was now the Duke’s turn to be indignant with Viola for her supposed deceit and treachery, for he thought that when he had sent Cesario to woo Olivia on his behalf, the young page had taken the opportunity to secure the lady for himself.

Matters were in this tangled state of confusion, when all was happily put right by the arrival of Sebastian. When the twins stood together everyone was amazed at the resemblance. The brother and sister were delighted to meet once more. Antonio found that his friend was not the monster of ingratitude he had taken him for; and Olivia was restored to a handsome and devoted husband, who had no intention of denying his own wife.

Orsino might perhaps have been sad at discovering that the Countess Olivia was now lost to him for ever, but while a charming young bride stood ready at his hand, he was not unwilling to be consoled. Viola’s faithful service met its reward.

“Since you have called me ‘master’ for so long,” said the Duke, “here is my hand; you shall from this time be your master’s mistress.”

Olivia said that Viola and the Duke must now look on her as a sister, and that the wedding should take place from her house.

So they all trooped merrily away, and Feste, the clown, was left singing to himself: