We have already said something of Shakespeare's songs. One of the
most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his
own to it.
Who after this will say that Shakespeare's genius was only fitted
for comedy? Yet after reading other parts of this play, and
particularly the garden-scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if
we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius
for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such
matters is more saturnine than mercurial.
Enter Maria
Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain:--How now, my
Nettle of India?
Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' 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 a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name
of jesting! Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that
must be caught with tickling.
[They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and exit.]
Enter Malvolio
Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told
me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus
near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion.
Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect
than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue!
Fabian. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-
cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!
Sir Andrew. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--
Sir Toby. Peace, I say.
Malvolio. To be Count Malvolio;--
Sir Toby. Ah, rogue!
Sir Andrew. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir Toby. Peace, peace!
Malvolio. There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy
married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Sir Andrew. Fire on him, Jezebel!
Fabian. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look, how
imagination blows him.
Malvolio. Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my chair of state,--
Sir Toby. O for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!
Malvolio. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd
velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have
left Olivia sleeping.
Sir Toby. Fire and brimstone!
Fabian. O peace, peace!
Malvolio. And then to have the humour of state: and
after a demure travel of regard,--telling them, I know my
place, as I would they should do theirs,--to ask for my
kinsman Toby.--
Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles!
Fabian. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start,
make out for him; I frown the while; and, perchance, wind
up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches;
curtsies there to me.
Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?
Fabian. Though our silence be drawn from us with
cares, yet peace.
Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my
familiar smile with an austere regard to control.
Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips
then?
Malvolio. Saying--Cousin Toby, my fortunes having
cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech;--
Sir Toby. What, what?
Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our
plot.
Malvolio. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time
with a foolish knight--
Sir Andrew. That's me, I warrant you.
Malvolio. One Sir Andrew--
Sir Andrew. I knew,'twas I; for many do call me fool.
Malvolio. What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.]
The letter and his comments on it are equally good. If poor
Malvolio's treatment afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice
is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her
mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the violence
of the Duke's passion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola's
concealed love of him.
