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.
[Illustration: Look you, sir. Is it not well done?]
“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.”