Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Read online

  The solemn steward was transfigured with joy. He hopped, he danced, he kissed the letter and pressed it to his breast. His dearest dreams had been fulfilled. He would be his mistress’s master, and lord of the mansion. He kissed the letter again and, black and flapping, capered away!

  “Mark his first approach before my lady,” promised Maria, as the conspirators came out of their hiding-place, weeping with laughter. “He will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests!”

  Viola, on her way to perform her master’s errand, came striding through the garden; but before she could enter the mansion, Olivia herself, in mourning more gorgeous than ever, came out, together with Maria.

  “Most excellent, accomplished lady,” exclaimed Viola, doffing her great plumed hat and bowing low, “the heavens rain odours on you!”

  Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, who were eagerly awaiting the appearance of Malvolio, looked askance at the Duke’s extravagant page.

  “That youth’s a rare courtier,” muttered Sir Andrew, enviously, “ ‘rain odours’—well!” And even when the Countess made it plain that she wished to hear the Duke’s message alone, he lingered, unnecessary as a maypole in June. At length, he was persuaded to follow his companions; and Olivia, sinking down upon a rustic bench, gazed warmly at the page.

  “Give me your hand,” she commanded gently.

  With the utmost reluctance Viola surrendered her hand, and took it back as soon as she could, for Olivia showed every sign of pressing it to her bosom. She tried to plead her master’s cause, and to avert her eyes from Olivia’s ardent eyes and heaving breast. She tried to back away, but Olivia, with a silken rustle that was, in Viola’s ears, more terrible than the pursuing of a tiger, followed after. “Dear lady—” pleaded Viola; but Olivia, overcome with passion, abandoned all restraint, and poured out her love for the Duke’s handsome, retreating page. The more she was refused, the greater grew her desire, for it was like any other hunger that increases with denial.

  “And so adieu, good madam,” cried Viola, when, by a mixture of ingenious avoiding and desperate cunning, she had got herself to the gate.

  “Yet come again,” begged Olivia, as the youth escaped.

  Sir Andrew, whose amorous hopes had been kept alight by Sir Toby, was in despair. “I saw your niece,” he said to his fat comforter, “do more favours to the Count’s serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me.” He was all for giving up his courtship of Olivia, but Sir Toby, anxious not to lose so easy a supply of money, persuaded him otherwise. He put it to Sir Andrew that Olivia, by showing favour to the page, had meant only to stir up Sir Andrew to valour. He advised Sir Andrew to challenge the youth to a duel. Sir Andrew nodded, and, when he had gone to write out the challenge, Sir Toby reflected that no great harm would come out of the encounter; for Sir Andrew and the youth were about as fierce and warlike as each other. Then Maria, shaking with laughter, came to warn him that Malvolio, in yellow stockings and cross-gartered, and full of bedroom smirks and bony smiles, was coming to the Countess.

  Poor Olivia! she was as mistakenly loved as she was mistakenly in love. Unable to bear his absence any longer, she sent a servant after Orsino’s page, to plead with him to return.

  Now as Viola was returning to the palace of the Duke, another Viola was in the town: same height, same face, same hat, same doublet and same boots. Yet not quite the same. It was Sebastian. He had not been drowned. He had been washed ashore, where, mourning his lost sister (who was, to him, as lost as he to her), he had been discovered by a gentleman by the name of Antonio. Antonio had helped him and never left his side; and now they walked together in the town.

  “What’s to do?” asked Sebastian, gazing with interest round the busy streets. “Shall we go see the reliques of this town?”

  But Antonio would not; he had, in the past, fought against the Duke, and was still counted as an enemy. Nonetheless he urged Sebastian to walk about and view the noble buildings of the town. “Here’s my purse,” he said, for he knew Sebastian had no money and might see something he wished to buy. He had grown deeply fond of the youth, and thought nothing of trusting him with all his wealth. Gratefully Sebastian took his friend’s purse, and promised to meet with him at a certain inn, within an hour. They parted, Sebastian one way, and Antonio another; but it was not long before Antonio, finding he needed money for his lodgings, was forced to go in search of Sebastian to ask for the return of his purse.

  Olivia, gazing out of her window for the hoped-for return of Orsino’s page, was sadder than her black; for the scorn of one loved was more painful by far than a brother’s decease. “Where’s Malvolio?” she asked. “He is sad and civil, and suits well for a servant with my fortunes.”

  “He is coming, madam,” said Maria, “but in very strange manner.”

  The solemn steward had obeyed the letter to the very letter: his cross-gartered legs were as yellow as primroses, and he smiled.

  “How now, Malvolio?” exclaimed Olivia, not a little surprised.

  “Sweet Lady, ho, ho!” ventured Malvolio, persevering with his smile, even though his legs were painful as his garters were too tight. He winked at the Countess, kissed his fingers at her, and smirked with all his teeth.

  Maria turned away; her shoulders were shaking with inward laughter.

  “Why, how dost thou, man?” demanded Olivia, angrily. “What is the matter with thee?”

  Malvolio, with a saucy twinkle of his feet (which gave him some discomfort and caused him to rub his constricted legs), made answer with an obscure reference to the letter he had received. The Countess, not understanding, became worried about him. “Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?” she suggested kindly.

  “To bed?” cried Malvolio, ambition leaping within him. “Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee!”

  He held out his arms, but, for one reason or another, the Countess did not fly into his embrace. He pursued the matter, with further references to the letter, but before he could get his mistress to confess her love, they were interrupted with the news that the Duke’s messenger had returned and was awaiting the Countess’s pleasure.

  “I’ll come to him,” said Olivia quickly; and bade Maria to fetch Sir Toby to look after her poor steward, who, she felt, had lost his wits.

  Malvolio, alone, was not displeased with the way things had gone. Everything the Countess had said, fitted, or could be made to fit, with his high expectations. The very fact that she had asked for her kinsman, Sir Toby, to attend him, proved that she held him in the highest regard.

  Sir Toby came, and Malvolio was condescending with him. After all, he would soon be master of the house. Then, Sir Toby and his drunken companions would be put in their proper place. “Go hang yourselves all,” he said contemptuously, to his mistress’s uncle, her maid, and a servant by the name of Fabian, for whom he had a particular dislike. “You are idle, shallow things; I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter.”

  “Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound,” said Sir Toby when the steward had limped and stalked away. Now that the Countess thought that Malvolio was mad, he should be treated as such. He had aspired to love, and was not love madness?

  Viola’s audience with Olivia had been brief. Again the Countess had begged for love; and again it had been refused. “Well, come again tomorrow,” had pleaded the distracted lady. Viola sighed, and left, only to be accosted at the mansion’s gate by the lady’s portly uncle and a servant whose looks were grave.

  “Gentleman, God save thee,” said Sir Toby, with much solemnity. Sir Andrew’s challenge to the page had been written so foolishly that it would have provoked more laughter than fear, so Sir Toby had decided to deliver the challenge by word of mouth. Quietly he advised the page to look to his defence, for he had offended a very dangerous person.

  “You mistake, sir,” stammered Viola, growing pale. “I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me.”

  “You’ll find it otherwi
se, I assure you,” said Sir Toby grimly; and went on to present so fearsome a picture of the person who desired satisfaction, that Viola shook with terror.

  “I will return again into the house,” cried Viola, preferring by far to face a love-sick woman than an angry man, “and desire some conduct of the lady.” But it was not to be; and Sir Toby, leaving the trembling Viola in the charge of Fabian, went to fetch her deadly adversary, Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

  “Why, man, he is a very devil,” confided Sir Toby to Sir Andrew, when he had found him.

  “Pox on’t,” cried Sir Andrew, turning paler than his linen. “I’ll not meddle with him.”

  “Ay,” agreed Sir Toby, “but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.”

  This was very true, as Fabian was having the utmost difficulty in keeping Viola from bolting for her life.

  “There’s no remedy, sir,” called out Sir Toby, coming out of the mansion and dragging Sir Andrew after him. “He will fight with you for’s oath’s sake!”

  “Pray God defend me!” wailed Viola, struggling in the grip of Fabian, even as Sir Andrew tugged at Sir Toby’s. “A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.”

  But the seconds were restless, and the two shaking heroes were propelled towards one another on feet that scarcely touched the ground.

  “I do assure you, ’tis against my will!” sobbed Viola, as if Sir Andrew might have supposed it to be otherwise; and drew her sword.

  Sir Andrew, with no more enthusiasm, drew his; and there they stood, propped up by their seconds, with their blades waving, like grass in the wind.

  “Put up your sword! If this young gentleman have done offence, I take the fault on me!”

  A gentleman, passing by the mansion’s gate, had seen the imminent battle and had drawn his own sword to halt it. It was Antonio. He had been searching for Sebastian and now believed that he had found him, and in danger of his life. But before more could be done, a party of the Duke’s officers came by. At once, Antonio was recognized and arrested as the Duke’s enemy.

  “This comes with seeking you,” said Antonio, somewhat bitterly to Viola, and asked for the return of his purse. “I must entreat of you some of that money,” repeated Antonio, as Viola showed no sign of understanding him.

  “What money, sir?” wondered Viola.

  “Will you deny me now?” demanded Antonio, amazed that the youth he had befriended should prove to be so shameless a villain. He reminded the youth of the kindnesses he had done him.

  “I know of none,” protested Viola, her confusion increasing.

  “O Heavens themselves!” cried out Antonio, more distressed by the youth’s ingratitude than by the officers who held him by the arms.

  “Come sir, I pray you go,” commanded one of his captors; but before they dragged him away, Antonio declared to all how much he had done for the youth, and how little he was getting in recompense. He told of how he had saved him from death, how he had comforted him and supported him, and of how he had come to love him.

  “What’s that to us?” grunted an officer. “The time goes by. Away!”

  “O how vile an idol proves this god!” shouted Antonio, pointing at Viola as he was borne away. “Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame!”

  Then he was gone, leaving behind him Sir Toby and Sir Andrew with a very poor opinion of Viola, who they supposed to be, not only a cowardly, but a monstrously ungrateful youth; and Viola with a tempest of feelings in her breast.

  “He named Sebastian!” she breathed. Antonio had taken her for her brother; therefore Sebastian was alive! She fled back to the Duke.

  If the mistake of one face for another had caused a man to despair, it soon brought a woman to rejoice. Sebastian, wandering past the Countess’s mansion, was instantly accosted by Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

  “Now, sir, have I met you again?” cried Sir Andrew, made bold by all he had seen of the youth’s courage. “There’s for you!” And he struck him in the face.

  “Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there!” cried Sebastian, angrily returning Sir Andrew’s blow, and with such interest as sent the knight reeling to the ground. Sir Toby drew his sword; Sebastian drew his, and blood would surely have been shed, had not the Countess herself come out to discover the cause of the commotion at her gate. Angrily she dismissed Sir Toby, and begged the young man’s pardon for the antics of her drunken uncle, who aggravated her beyond measure. Then with such speaking looks and deep-felt sighs, that made her meaning as plain as she herself was lovely, begged the young man come within. Sebastian blinked. “If it be thus to dream,” he marvelled, “still let me sleep!” And, unwilling to let slip what Providence had provided, followed Olivia into her house.

  Sebastian, finding himself to be beloved for no reason he could think of, walked in brightness; but Malvolio, who believed himself to be loved for reasons of his own worth, was plunged into gloom. He had paid the penalty for greatness; he had risen high, and had fallen low.

  Sir Toby and his companions had got their revenge. They had declared Malvolio to be mad; for what could be madder than for a steward to suppose his noble mistress was in love with him? They had locked him away in a dark chamber from which he cried out piteously to be released.

  “Sir Topas,” he wailed, to Feste, Olivia’s jester, who had dressed himself as a curate to torment the steward to the very limits of endurance, “never was man thus wronged! Do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness—”

  But his captors were unrelenting. It had not been enough for Malvolio to be ridiculous in the world’s eyes, he had to be humbled in his own. For as long as he thought himself to be great, the world’s opinion counted for little. But at length Sir Toby yielded, not to the promptings of pity, for he had none, but because he feared that his niece would lose all patience with him if he continued to abuse her solemn steward. The wretched man was allowed to write a letter to his mistress, pleading to be released.

  Even as a false priest had conducted Malvolio to hell, so a true one brought Olivia to heaven. Before the young man, whom she still took to be Cesario, the Duke’s page, could change his mind and run away, she took him firmly to a chapel in the town where a holy father married them without delay. Sebastian submitted gladly for, although he guessed that he was loved by mistake, he felt it would be folly to set the lady right. He loved her. Then, the wedding done, he left his bride of minutes to find Antonio and give him back his purse.

  It was late afternoon. The sun had painted certain windows red and gold, and laid dark carpets along the streets. The Duke and his lords, and Viola, came strolling through the town, where they met Olivia’s jester. At once the Duke paid Feste well to go and fetch his mistress for, in spite of all Olivia’s refusals, Orsino had not given up hope of winning her.

  Feste departed and then came calamities, so swiftly one upon another that there was scarcely reeling time between them! First Antonio, in the grip of officers and on his way to gaol, came marching by.

  “Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me,” said Viola, recognizing her saviour from the duel. The Duke also recognized him, not as a saviour but as a very warlike enemy. He accused him; Viola defended him. Antonio turned upon Viola and accused her yet again of base ingratitude; and again Viola denied it.

  “Here comes the Countess,” cried the Duke, forgetting enemies and friends alike, as the object of his heart approached. “Gracious Olivia—”

  But she would have none of him and had eyes only for his page. “Where goes Cesario?” she cried, when, as Orsino turned to leave, Viola prepared to follow.

  “After him I love . . .” returned Viola; and Olivia’s worst fears were realised. The young man had changed his mind.

  “Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?” she demanded. “Call forth the holy father!” And then, when her pleas had no effect, she begged: “Cesario, husband, stay!”

  “Husband?” exclaimed the Duke, amazed.

&nbs
p; “Ay, husband.”

  “Her husband, sirrah?”

  “No, my lord, not I!” swore Viola, as the Duke turned upon her in a rage.

  But proof was at hand. The holy father came in answer to Olivia’s summons, and confirmed that he had only just married the lady and the youth.

  “O thou dissembling cub!” cried out the Duke, in anguish that his page, whom he had loved and trusted, should have so betrayed him.

  “My lord, I do protest—” pleaded Viola; but before matters could be explained, yet another blow fell and added to the dreadful confusion. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, bleeding from his least useful part, which was his head, came staggering down the street, calling for a surgeon.

  “Who has done this, Sir Andrew?” asked the Countess.

  “The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario,” groaned Sir Andrew, clutching his wound. “We took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate.” Then he saw Viola and shrank back in terror. Next came Sir Toby, leaning on the jester’s arm. He too was bleeding from a wound that was the very twin of Sir Andrew’s, and which had been given him by the same fierce Cesario.

  “Get him to bed,” commanded the Countess, concerned for her uncle, “and let his hurt be looked to.”

  With moans and groans and angry belches, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew were helped away, leaving pale Viola condemned by all for an almanack of crimes: by the Duke for treachery, by Antonio for ingratitude, by Olivia for faithlessness, and by Sir Toby and Sir Andrew for assault. She trembled; she turned from one accuser to another. What could she say? To deny treachery made her seem more treacherous; to deny ingratitude made her seem the more ungrateful; to deny faithlessness made her seem stony-hearted; and to deny assault made her a bare-faced liar when the wounds had been seen by all. Nothing less than a miracle could have absolved her, at a single stroke, from so many crimes.