[In the following essay, Sinden analyzes his performance as Malvolio for Barton's 1969-70 production of Twelfth Night.]

Why is it so difficult to record in words a theatrical performance? Critics such as Hazlitt, Coleridge, Agate and Tynan have given us their own responses to certain performances; and we have some heavily annotated scripts of actors and actresses such as Sarah Siddons and Ellen Terry. But I cannot recall an attempt by an actor to analyse his own performance, to set down what he thought and did, what he tried to achieve, where and how he succeeded, move by move. That is what I am attempting here. Not that I think my interpretation of Malvolio in 1970 was definitive—no Shakespearean performance ever is. I do think it fitted John Barton's conception of Twelfth Night, however, and it was well received by the public.

I first saw Twelfth Night at Stratford-upon-Avon in 1947, and in the following year appeared as Sebastian in the Old Vic production directed by Sir Alec Guinness. I fully appreciated the charm of this delightful play, so much so that when early in 1969 John Barton telephoned to ask me to play Malvolio I unhesitatingly said 'yes'. It was to be the penultimate production of the season, to be followed by Henry VIII in which I was to play the King. Rehearsals were begun two days after I left my current play Not Now Darling. When I reread Twelfth Night, however, I soon realized that this was not the play I thought I knew. Troubled, I telephoned John Barton: 'I am afraid you may have to recast Malvolio—I find him tragic.' 'Thank God for that', he replied, T thought I would have to talk you round to it.' I was committed. Before rehearsals started I read the play some ten times. Slowly, oh so slowly I hammer myself into the character until by the time of the first performance I can step in and out of his shoes. I look for any character-building phrase in the script, and try to analyse his attitudes to circumstances both in the play and out of it. Though I have read most books on the theory of acting, I subscribe to no one method but try to judge performances by a tenet of Ellen Terry's: 'To act you must make the thing written your own; you must steal the words, steal the thoughts, and convey the stolen treasure to others with great art.'

What kind of man is Malvolio? What is his background? I see him as a military man; unpopular at school, he joins the army and, while he displays no quality of leadership, he is so damned efficient that he now finds himself, at forty-five, a Colonel in the Pay Corps, embittered, with no prospect of further promotion. He has bored every woman he has met and he stays unmarried. A certain widowed Count I suppose needed a major-domo to manage his Mediterranean estate, and who better than this totally efficient and honest teetotaller? When Malvolio arrives in Illyria he is shocked by its asolare mood and its spongeing layabouts. There is Sir Toby (perhaps the English brother of the dead Countess), but there is nothing easier to manage than a drunk; then the Fool, whose tasteless jokes fail to amuse Malvolio, who goes Absent Without Leave, and must be disciplined; and Maria (aged fifty in Barton's production and sometime governess to the Count's daughter) could be brought to heel if only she wouldn't consort with people above her station. As for the suitors, Aguecheek, that eccentric fifty-year-old Scot (Barton's version), and the arty Count Orsino—but I am already thinking as Malvolio!

As I rehearse, the muscles of my face and my whole body begin to react to the tensions within Malvolio. The military years have left their mark: an erect stance, nearly always at 'Attention', and when 'At Ease' never fully relaxed. Originally I had wanted to carry a short cane, but being persuaded that it would evoke quite the wrong period I settled for the long staff of office, but always felt that to Malvolio it was an encumbrance. He has a small, tight, mean mouth, the corners of which turn down. The inner ends of his eyebrows are elevated and the outer pulled down in an expression of permanent supercilious scorn for his minions. He is thin—too thin—from his years of austerity. Now, I as an actor am not thin enough! Yet the actor in the comedy must tell the audience as much as he can at his first entrance. What can make-up and costume do for me? I spend a great deal of time observing my fellow creatures, trying to find 'copy' for the character I play, and frequently I find my 'face' in an art gallery. On this occasion I visited the Tate and found my Malvolio in Graham Sutherland's splendid elongated portrait of Somerset Maugham. The eyebrows, the mouth, the wrinkles—every one of them vertical, and that is what I must be: vertical—the knees close together, the hair very thin on top but grown long in an attempt to cover the balding pate, above all the colour—yellow, jaundiced. I take a postcard; I have my make-up.

Now for the costume. The designer has placed the setting for this production at about the year 1603. Late Elizabe-than, early Jacobean. The costume designer and I agree that Malvolio should be dressed in black: high-heeled shoes (adding height), black stockings (shmming), breeches, doublet (very tight), and the black only relieved by very narrow, plain, white collar and cuffs. I choose a period hat like a black flower pot (height again and vertical line), and an overcoat with a large raised collar which in silhouette continues the line from hat-to-shoulders-to-hip. Malvolio must have a chain of office (a thin one with a large circular disc). This could run across the chest, but no—better run it round the neck and down as near vertical as possible. Somerset Maugham's hair would be quite out of period so we make a wig with long straight hair faintly curled at the bottom all round the head, with a few strands to cover the dome, now padded to give an egg-like look. All this was not thought up in advance, of course, but day by day as rehearsals were under way.

In performance the character must move in specific stage conditions, in this instance on a permanent set designed by Christopher Morley. It represented a long room or gallery running away from the audience in deep perspective, with double doors at the far end and entrance Downstage Left and Right. I have always thought that a stage should be mapped out on graph paper so that a prompt-script could denote somewhat more precise positions. As it is we merely write, for example, 'X D R' which assumes the knowledge (previously recorded) that we were formerly 'U C. Quite often one will shift weight from one foot to the other; while this can change emphasis it is very rarely recorded. In the account that follows I have used this simplified convention but have added one of my own. Laughs are not normally recorded, but the comic actor is always striving for them, and I would like to be able to rate their size from 1-9, between the largest that can be expected (9) and the smallest (1) still worth trying for.

'If music be the food of love'—the play has started, and I shall try to give you my thoughts and Malvolio's, objective and subjective, at key points of its performance.

Before the start of Act 1, Scene 3 the Olivia household is returning from church; entering Left and straight to the centre of the stage, a sharp Right turn, Up and out of the door U C leaving Toby behind with his first line. As I move toward the centre carrying my staff I look to my left—people! What are they doing there? (Laugh 3.) Again leading a procession in Scene 5, but no coat and hat, I enter this time R. I glower at Feste, for I have persuaded Ohvia that he must go and she has promised to dismiss him; I assist Olivia to her chair D R. None of this is exaggerated and only a tiny fraction of the audience notices it. Fabian and another servant are in attendance slightly Up-stage C. Fabian has a drink on a tray which he hands me and which I proffer to Olivia; she doesn't want it so I return it to Fabian, take a book from him and give it to Olivia, glance at its cover and see it is not at all suitable. 'Take the Fool away', says Olivia. If only she wouldn't personally give orders to the servants. She ought to do it through me. But with a quick jerk of my staff to them I think I can make it appear that that was the original intention. But what is the Fool saying? 'Take away the Lady.' Good God, he should be shot. What a bore he is, but she gives in to him and I walk L and turn my back to the populace, who again seem to have gathered. 'What think you of this Fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?' Wham! Right into my court and in front of all these people. What can I say? The most grudging, sour, nasal 'Nyeas' (laugh 4). The actor needs a laugh there, as his next line is vicious, 'and shall do till the pangs of death shake him'. Feste answers with a feeble joke at which Maria dares to laugh—a glower, a rap on the floor and a jerk of my staff and she is sent scurrying. 'How say you to that, Malvolio?' From a great height and with positive delight I can reply 'he is out of his guard already, unless you laugh' (pronounced as one might say 'vomit'). Then, with a look across the theatre circle, 'I take these wise men that crow so … no better than the fool's zanies.' Did I see a smile on Fabian's face? 'I'll have his guts for garters.' I am now one-hundred-percent Malvolio, but in a comedy I, the actor, must remain one-hundred-percent myself, standing out-side my character, my ears out on stalks listening for the very slightest sound from the audience, controlling them, so that I am able to steer a 'cue', 'punch' or 'tag' line clear of any interruption. If on any night Malvolio takes over, the precision, the immaculate timing, the control suffer. If the actor takes over, the performance becomes 'technical' and the audience is always aware of it. (This last is often a fault of mine and my wife lets me know it.)

Malvolio's next entrance shows him at a loss, foot faulted, off-guard, vulnerable, outfaced by a mere chit of a boy. Ostensibly to ask for further instructions I enter from L rapidly, the staff now out of control, and on arriving C my mouth opens—but to say what? My finger tips to my lips (does he bite his nails?) and Olivia is looking at me waiting. I must try to say something, pull myself together: 'Madam' (pronounced Mairdom; laugh 3), producing it from a stutter of B's D's T's and P's to make the word much more incongruous. I finish in desperation, 'What is to be said to him, Lady?—he's fortified against any denial.' She answers, 'Tell him he shall not speak with me.' This solution seems never to have occurred to me. With a civil inclination I start off quickly L but after four steps I am caught in mid-air and turn towards Olivia, for I had quite forgotten. 'H'as been told so' (laugh 3). 'What kind of man is he?' What an extraordinary question! 'Why, of mankind' (laugh 1). 'What manner of man', 'Of very ill manner' (laugh 2). I look off L. Then Olivia, as to a child, 'Of what personage and years is he?' A great light dawns—at last I see what she is getting at. Here I interpose 'Ahhh!' (laugh 2), and speak grudgingly on. But Olivia answers, 'Let him approach.' I must obey; I turn and begin to exit quickly L but I am again caught in mid-air by 'Call in my gentlewoman!' Oh dear! One thing at a time, please. A sharp about turn and my staff is Jove-like banged on the floor and the voice that roars 'Gentlewoman' is of the parade-ground (laugh 4). Maria comes scuttling on from R. 'May Lady calls', I explain, with the implication that the voice that thundered 'Gentlewoman' was Olivia's (laugh 4). With scornful dignity and elegant use of my staff, I exit L. No sooner out of 'the presence' I am faced with that maddening Cesario again. As I return to announce 'him', before I can utter a word, I am shaken to discover that Olivia and Maria have both lowered their veils.

As Cesario is shortly to play upon this point, I must not as an actor forestall it; however, as Malvolio, I cannot allow it to go unnoticed; my reaction is therefore infinitesimal.

While I am still undetermined about whom I should speak to, Cesario enters and says to Olivia: 'The honourable lady of the house, which is she?' Can I believe what I hear? This chit of a boy takes incredible liberties, and suddenly Olivia says: 'Give us the place alone.' Leave a young man and young girl alone! But that is an order, so a rap with my staff and pointing it R, I indicate that Maria must leave—and before me. She does so and I look Cesario over from head to foot and slowly, very slowly; with efficient use of my staff exit R.

Every night at this point I would wait in the wings for my next entrance—partly because I personally enjoyed listening to the enchanting scene between Cesario and Olivia and partly because I felt that Malvolio would do precisely the same—his ear glued to the keyhole. 'What ho, Malvolio!' His military reflex action is to reply: 'Here, Madam', patently betraying the fact that he is, to say the least, lurking (laugh 2). I came into view from the R entrance and under cover of a laugh from the audience I made my way to C. Malvolio recovers dignity en route—his attention riveted on the 'door' L through which Cesario has just left. He is hardly aware that he then adds: 'At your service.' Olivia begins: 'Run after that same …' This is too much! Never in my life—at least not for many years have I been ordered to do anything so indecorous; shocked, shattered, I echo: 'Run?!' (laugh 8). John Barton always disapproved of this. He did not mind my reaction or that I should mouth 'Run', but I was not to vocalize it. The difference for me was between a titter and a theatre-shaking belly laugh. We finally agreed, 'Matinées only'. Subsequently in Australia Trevor Nunn found himself having to rehearse some replacements to the cast—John Barton being detained in Stratford-upon-Avon. When we came to this scene he asked me why I no longer got a laugh at this point of the play. I explained that John Barton had said that my 'run' was not in the text. 'Ah; but', said Nunn equivocally, 'it is in the subtext.' So back it went for the rest of the tour! Malvolio only half hears the rest of her instructions and is not quite sure when she has finished. She gives him the ring which he has to almost force on to his much larger finger while couching the staff in the crook of his elbow. A pause, then she adds: 'Hie thee, Malvolio.' I am deeply hurt that she should speak thus to me—but what am I to do? Pained and distressed I reply: 'Madam' (I'm sorry you should behave like this) 'I will.' I turn L, the staff is held by its centre, horizontally, in the right hand and I execute what must be the slowest run ever (one critic called it 'a Zulu lope'), as if crossing a series of puddles just wider than an extended pace. I exit L (laugh 8, and round of applause).

John Barton here transposed Act 2, Scenes 1 and 2. The chair and sunshade were replaced by a long bench, the door U C opened and we are in a street. Cesario enters Up-stage having come straight from the house and seats herself, perplexed by her own encounter with Olivia. Immediately Malvolio appears from the same U entrance; still 'running', he is tiring visibly (laugh 2); he 'runs' down to the R corner of the stage and stops; he looks out towards the audience 'Where can be?—not there.' He 'runs' across below Cesario to the L (laugh 2), and is about to exit when he becomes aware that Cesario has risen and is now standing. It looks like him, but is it? I point the top end of my staff: 'Were not you e'en now with the Countess Olivia?' 'On a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.' (Is that a veiled criticism that he walks faster than I run?) However, 'She returns this ring to you, sir.' The staff regains its normal vertical position but upside down—damned thing! Reverse it, embarrassing (laugh 1), and again couched at the left elbow to facilitate the removal of the ring while saying, 'You might have saved me my pains to have taken it away yourself.' But the ring has stuck (laugh 3). A heave. No good. A quick look to Cesario, don't let him think I am embarrassed; 'She adds moreover that you should put your Lord into a desperate' (that word is coloured by his own desperation) 'assurance she will none of him.' Another tug and an attempt to un-screw the ring—but it is still stuck. What a terrible thing to happen! (Laugh 5.) But play for time: 'And one thing more …' The mind has raced: he remembers his mother removing a ring by sucking it and the surrounding finger and so lubricating it; he does so. He succeeds, and by the end of 'unless it be to report your Lord's taking of this' it is off!—'Receive it so.' I hold it out at arm's length with R hand finger tips, but Cesario says, 'She took the ring of me, I'll none of it' and he crosses D R. Out of all patience I shout, 'Come, sir!' He turns back. 'You peevishly threw it to her and her will is it should be so' (i. e. 'peevishly') 'returned' (laugh 4). Affecting a 'peevish' stance, L foot raised and L arm half-raised for a rather feminine throw he inadvertently appears effeminate as he throws the ring at Cesario's feet. Cesario makes no move. 'If it be worth the stooping for, there it lies [lays] in your eye [aye]; if not, be it his' (and I know very well that you will pick it up the moment I am out of sight) 'that "finds" it.' Staff to the horizontal position and I eject myself into the air to continue 'running'—Upstage. It takes three or four steps to realize that I no longer have to run; put on the brakes! A quick look back to glare at Cesario for a moment of embarrassment (laugh 4) which of course I won't admit and with more dignity than at any other time in the play I stride, like a galleon in full sail, straight U and off centre.

Lying in bed that night, having read a few pages of St Thomas Aquinas and wondering what attitude to take to the proposed new Prayer Book, at around midnight I hear sounds coming from the garden; they increase in volume: what is it—a riot? I leap out of bed wearing my new night-gown. It reaches just to my knees. Slippers on, putting my chain of office around my neck, symbol of authority, what would I be without it? my fur-collared coat over the top and my hat on my head—it's a cold night and I am bald—I race off down the stairs and out to the garden. I can now see Sir Toby and Maria dancing and singing while Feste plays his wretched guitar and Sir Andrew his bagpipes!! At my very fastest walk I eject myself from the R (in fact I always stood several paces offstage at the 'start' position in order to achieve maximum propulsion at the moment of entry onstage). Arriving in the centre of the group, Feste on my left, Aguecheek D C, Sir Toby U C and Maria standing on the chair R, the 'music' continues until one by one they become aware of my presence (laugh 8); first Feste, then Maria who signals to Toby who sits C, then Aguecheek who subsides on to the floor. Again, John Barton disapproved of the hat in this scene, but I felt it quite legitimate to wear it. Malvolio would have felt un-dressed without hat and coat. I am furious! Passing my glower from Aguecheek back to Feste I suddenly become aware that my coat has flown open exposing my 'shorty' nightgown and my bare legs beneath it! With a lightning movement I cross the coat over my shame (at the same moment one knee slightly crosses the other resulting in an 'unintentional' attitude of effeminacy (laugh 6)—a middle-aged Susannah surprised at her bath). A snatched look at them all—did they see my nightgown? I cannot openly attack Sir Toby or Sir Andrew, but I can attack Feste and Maria, my minions, and through them the other two, so I address Feste. He has gone too far. Far too far. I walk above him to C and strike an attitude, left hand on the back of the deck-chair and right hand pulls back my coat and rests on my right hip (laugh 6). Quite forgetting that I now expose nightgown and legs and look totally absurd while telling Sir Toby I must be round with him. Sir Toby and Feste are untamed. Right, then—I will break it up by removing their supplies. Andrew has placed his drinking vessel on the floor as he subsided, so on my way to collect it, moving round L and D C, I pass Feste and say, 'Is it even so?' (if it is, that is your lot). I pick it up—Good God! it is one of my Lady's best glass goblets. I say to Sir Andrew, 'This is much credit to you:' I take the glass U and behind the table where I find that they have all been using glass goblets—not only that, but also one of my Lady's best decanters and a silver tray and a silver candelabra on which are burning three candles. They cost a great deal of money and I am responsible for the household accounts! This will never happen again! I pick up the tray and all its contents. Suddenly I hear Sir Toby at my L saying, 'Art any more than a steward?' My lips tighten, my eyes narrow (stop before you go too far). 'Rub your chain with crumbs', he says, and 'A stoop of wine, Maria.' My chance. He cannot, he shall not, involve my servants. My head lashes round to Maria who is about to follow Sir Toby's request. 'Mistress Mary' is spoken quietly but menacingly; there is no doubt about it meaning 'stand still'. 'She shall know of it' (tell-tale) 'by this hand.' A final sneer at them all—particularly Sir Toby, for my last remarks were as much for his benefit as Maria's; my head erect, tray held carefully, sharp R turn I march off R (an imperceptible half step backwards before L, R, L, R) (laugh 5).

I like to think that the letter scene (2.5) was originally played with Toby, Andrew and Fabian (where does he spring from?) hidden in the upper balcony over an inner stage. Maria could then get a laugh with, 'Get you all three into the box—tree.' The box tree has been treated in different ways; sometimes three individual trees can be carried round the stage, and sometimes there is a series of trees with the three moving from one to another. In this production Maria placed the letter on a deck-chair and the spectators hid behind a hedge (breaking the convention which normally does not allow soliloquy to be overheard by other characters). Barton thought of it as Malvolio's scene and left him the rest of the stage unencumbered. When we began work on the scene we found we had to give some thought to the letter. What type of letter? A scroll? A single sheet? Folded?—once, twice? All we know is that it is 'sealed'—or has upon it a seal.…

Malvolio has been strolling in the garden and even loosened the neck of his tunic! ('Practising behaviour to his own shadow' I took to mean 'As his only audience' rather than 'Making shadow-shapes'.) His arms behind his back at waist level he appears U C but looking off L as Maria says 'for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling', before leaving. He walks very slowly straight D C imperiously surveying his domain. Half-way down he involuntarily breaks into a little dance step (feet only) (laugh 3). I had in fact learnt the step for Henry VIII from which it had eventually been cut and I thought it a pity to waste it! Suddenly the thought that he may be seen stops him and almost in panic looks, quickly, first L, and then R, into the exits. No, all is well; so proceed D C. Arriving below the hedge his attention is caught by something L; it is 'my Lady' in imagination. He effects a most elaborate bow and extends his L hand on which to place 'hers', gives 'her' a sickly, ingratiating smile and 'they' turn to move R but—who is that skulking in the shadows D R? (One of the common people.) He glowers, his R hand shoots out and an imperious finger beckons the varlet—'he' approaches—the finger gestures 'him' to kneel—'he' doesn't—the glower deepens—again 'Down' says the finger. 'He' kneels. Malvolio draws an imaginary sword and violently decapitates him, replaces sword and smiles benignly on his 'consort' (laugh 3). Such is power! This has evoked a laugh and to his great consternation he is aware that he is overlooked by the theatre audience. Horror; his left arm is still holding 'my Lady's' imaginary hand! Consternation: this requires an explanation. "Tis but fortune—all is fortune.' (The following part of the Une I found terribly ambiguous; 'Maria once told me she did affect me and I have heard herself' etc. sounds as if'she' and 'herself' applied to Maria rather than to Olivia. John Barton suggested I should say, 'Maria once told me my Lady did affect me', which certainly clarifies it though the purists will object.) 'It should be one of my complexion' (of which he is very proud!), and on that happy note he can amble R above the chair on which he places his L hand. 'What should I think on't?' causes him to move slightly D R. A smile breaks; his eyes narrow and glisten, 'To be Count Malvolio'. The audience have laughed at Andrew and Toby's following lines as he is about to sit on the chair on which the letter has been placed. Malvolio thinks the audience must be laughing at him; he is arrested in a halfsit—'There is example for't. The Lady of the Strachy married the Yeoman of the Wardrobe'—so there. He completes the action of sitting and becomes involved in his reverie—'Having been three months married to her, sitting', as thus, 'in my state'—while Toby speaks, Malvolio notices his 'officers' off R and gestures them forward, 'calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown', described with a gesture 'having come from a day bed where I have left Olivia', and such is my prowess—he looks at a knowing colleague in the circle—'sleeping', his eyebrows flicker to underline his point (laugh 4). 'And then' with Olivia safely tucked up, 'to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard', he looks along the circle from L to R and selects one person to whom to address with an accusatory finger, 'telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman' (as he is now!) 'Toby' (that pig). A slight pause and he rolls the letter into a 'tube'; 'I frown the while and perchance … wind up my watch … or play with my …' The letter is now held upright on his lap somewhat suggestively; the audience is about to giggle (laugh 3)—(filthy minds these people have)—an explanation is necessary, 'some rich jewel' (laugh 2). 'Toby approaches' from L, 'curtsies there to me…I extend my hand to him thus', an imperious L hand is extended palm down and as an afterthought he adds, 'quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control' (laugh 2) (why should they think that funny?). 'You MUST amend your drunkenness', the head relaxes slightly R but cracks back with, 'Besides; you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight … one Sir Andrew' (a second-class Christian name). The daydream is over; his attention wanders; what is this in his hand? A piece of paper; put it where? Down beside the chair—someone else will clear it up. But—it has writing upon it—'What employment have we here?' The writing is upside down, he turns it round.

'BY MY LIFE': he leaps from the chair and speaks directly to the audience 'this is may Lady's hand!' He studies the writing and finds confirmation. He shows the writing to the audience and illustrates with his L hand 'These be her very c's, her u's 'n her t's' (Naughtily I abbreviated the original text of 'and her t's'), 'and thus makes she her great P's' (laugh 3). I must forestall the audience's reaction. Malvolio doesn't intend the bawdry, but Shakespeare does (there is no 'c' or 'P' in the superscription). He throws the letter aside and starts to move U. His eyes roam the audience (I would not dream of reading someone else's letter). His fingers run along the back of the chair R to L. As it reaches the end … did his foot slip? or how is it that he has now lost 18 inches in height and has the back of the chair under his R armpit? (laugh 4). He can now read the superscription, 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes'. As he picks it up and moves D C he tells the onlookers, 'Her very phrases … By your leave'. (Excuse me for a moment while I open this.) But there is a great seal. Foiled! Showing it to the audience who will now understand the reason for this stoppage he says, 'Wax' (laugh 2) and illustrates with a finger. 'Soft' (therefore only recently sealed!), 'and the impressure her Lucrece.' As he squeezes the sides of the letter so that it resembles a tele-scope, he says, 'With which she uses to seal.' Tis may Lady.' After asking, 'To whom should this be?' with one eye closed he peers through it as if it were the most natural way of reading a letter (laugh 1); again he fails to discover the contents. The letter is now flat again. He tries to raise one corner of the flap, now the other corner, and the wax gives way! He emits a high-pitched, almost effeminate 'Oh' (laugh 4) (or what is shorter than 'Oh'? 'O'?). As he looks at the audience (what an awful thing to happen) the look develops into a 'You will probably think that I did that on purpose.' A third of the letter is snatched open …

The postscript is upside down so is impossible to read. What meets his eye is 'Jove knows I love, but who? Lips, do not move. No man must knoo' (laugh 2). Incredulous he repeats, 'No man must knoo?'; to the audience (silly me)'No man must know!' Ah. 'If this should be thee … Malvolio'. You will notice that I cut 'What follows? The numbers altered.' Arrogantly I thought this gives away the MOAI point too soon, and I inserted 'What follows?' before reciting in a tee-tum, tee-tum fashion:

I may command where I adore
But silence like a Lucrece knife
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore
Moai doth sway my life.
                     [II.v. 107-07]

And puzzled, I ask if the audience know the word—'MO AH-EE?' (laugh 2). While Fabian and Sir Toby speak I try to work it out; "'MO-AH-EE doth sway my life." Nay, but first let me see, let me see'; the next two lines being cut he continues, ' "I may command where I adore." Why, she may command me', he tells the audience, 'I serve her; she is may Lady. Why this is evident to any formal capacity, there is no obstruction in this'—spoken so quickly it elicits a laugh. 'What should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me… "M" comma "o" comma "A" comma', and he shows the commas to the audience the while; what a fool he has been not to notice before! So what does it all mean? 'M', he queries. A great light dawns. The eyes pop. The 'M' dissolves into 'M' m MALVOLIO', he ventures in a whisper. Don't they understand?' ' "M" … why, that begins MY NAME!' SO that is clear for the 'M', 'but then there is no consonancy' (no consonants) 'in the sequel. That suffers under probation … "A" should follow but "o" does! The "I" comes behind.' More thought: ' "M.O.A.I."' etc.

After picking out the word 'crush', the other third of the letter falls open. 'Soft!' A silencing finger is raised while his R hand holds the letter, 'here follows prose'. (Thank God, after all that poesy.) 'If this fall into thy hand, revolve'; a look at the audience, 'it can't mean that! If it does, I won't. 'But as he continues he involuntarily walks in a tight circle, making sure that the resulting laugh (3) does not obscure the lines. 'In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness; some are born great' (not me) 'some achieve greatness' (not me) 'and some' (wait for it) 'have greatness thrust upon 'em. 'He flashes a plea to the audience. Do they understand the importance of that? His speech now becomes faster and faster, growing in excitement as the truths reveal themselves. 'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings' (yellow stockings, to the audience) 'and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered' (cross-gartered?). 'I say remember. Go to, thou art made if thou desir'st to be so. If not, let me see thee a…' (does it? Yes it does! Joy can know no bounds!)—to the gallery, 'STEWARD still.' They obviously don't believe him, so he shows them the very word and mouths it a second time (laugh 3). Fools! He is patently wasting his time on them—they only laugh. The fellow of servants and not worthy to touch fortune's finger farewell she that would alter services with thee the fortunate unhappy.' He is breathless (so am I), but up, up, exultant, 'Daylight and champagne discover not more. This is open. 'He strikes the letter on 'this' and on 'open'. Right, then! 'I will be proud. I will read politic authors. I will baffle Sir Toby. I will wash off gross acquaintance. I will be point devise the very man!' The voice drops in pitch and intensity and slowly begins to rise again, 'I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this… that may Lady, loves, ME!' The voice drops again, only to rise again, 'I thank my stars' (and there they are somewhere above the gallery); 'I … am … Happy' (laugh 3) and never has a face looked more gloomy although ecstatic. So, resolved and fast, 'I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings and cross-gartered' (if that is the way She wants it) 'even with the swiftness of putting on.' He turns to run upstage but before taking a step he turns back and down on one knee, 'Jove and my stars be praised', he crosses himself (laugh 2). Oh! A quick look at the populace, 'don't think that I just crossed myself ', and he is off upstage looking down at the letter. A scream! 'Ahhhhhhh', he turns and beckons to the audience: 'Here', and by way of explanation he races back to a 'friend' who happens to be sitting in the front row of the stalls and shows him, 'is yet a postscript!' (laugh 2). (All right. I'll read it to you.) 'Thou can'st not choose but know who I am! If thou entertainst my love, let it appear in thy smiling …' a squeal of brakes—poleaxed! (laugh 2). Look for a friend—None? (Gloomily.) 'Thy smiles become thee well, therefore in my presence still smile.' The word becomes 'manure', the mouth a gash; 'dear, O my sweet, I prithee'. Total dejection!—but mounting larks should sing. There is iron resolution in this man, so in the voice of Job he calls upon his God, 'Jove! I thank thee! I will "smile" '(and what is more I'll try it now)—the corners of the mouth extend some two inches towards his ears, but that is all (laugh 3). He can do it. Given time. 'I will do everything that Thou'—and his extended arm nearly touches Jove himself—'wilt have me!' Malvolio floats swiftly upstage and off (laugh 9 and round of applause).

I don't mind admitting that I used to collapse sweating in my dressing-room. The necessary ebullience was the most ecstatic I have yet been able to produce as an actor. In my Malvolio wardrobe I find a pair of black and yellow slashed breeches; they are Elizabethan rather than Jacobean, however. And here is a large yellow ruff, and a hat—very similar to my other but with a wide brim. With today's top-lighting in the theatre this would shadow the face, so the designer agreed that the front of the brim should be flattened and attached to the crown. This is topped by a large yellow feather. Our designer pointed out that cross-gartering merely implied that the normal garter, from below the knee, was crossed at the back of the leg and continued up and round again above the knee before being tied in a bow. Never having attempted this before, Malvolio has tied them far too tight and they are serving as a tourniquet, a fact that is to colour the whole scene. He has spent some hours creeping around the house and garden in an endeavour to find Olivia. Is she evading him? And he must try not to be seen by the servants. The gaiety with which he donned the garments is now wearing rather thin—was it, will it be, worth this masquerade? Where can she be? My legs are killing me. Legs which were so straight, almost knock-kneed, are now bowed with the agony. I have literally to hold on to the gatepost U C as I am about to come down into the garden (laugh 6).

Shakespeare very cleverly allowed his Malvolio to be totally outrageous in this scene, excusing all by making Fabian say 'If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it for an improbable fiction.'

My face is grimacing with the pain. I hobble forward and half-way down (laugh 4) and there she is!—standing D R with her back to me. Pull myself together, the pain has gone! or has it? Twinges every now and again, I make my way to the L of the sundial—I can lean on it if necessary. I 'prepare' myself for the total effect. I have her letter in my L hand—both arms are lifted effectively above my head; I succeed in looking rather like the famous Faun of Pompeii and filled with the same euphoria. But she doesn't turn! (Maria is there L but I don't see her.) A discreet cough. She turns! 'How now, Malvolio?'; not quite the reaction I expected; but of course! I have forgotten the smile! Here goes (laugh 4). Very musically, almost sung, 'Sweet Lady', and then—as written—flatly, with no humour at all, 'Ho. Ho' (laugh 4). The parallel fingers of my R hand punctuate both 'Ho's' like castanets; Burbage never produced such an effect! 'I sent for thee upon a sad occasion', she will have her little jokes; 'Sad, Lady? I could be sad … This', I lift my L leg and point to it, 'does make some obstruction in the blood' (the increased pressure on the R leg causes me to clutch, and lean on the sundial) (laugh 5), 'but what of that?—If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is, "Please one and please all'." (John Barton discovered that this was a lyric of a popular song of the time so I attempted to sing it, un-musically, while illustrating that 'one' applied to Olivia and 'all' to the audience.) 'Not black in my mind though yellow in my legs' (laugh 2); my best joke for years! I fail to notice that no one laughs at it. I hold the letter aloft; 'It did come to his hands and commands shall be executed! I think we do know the sweet Roman hand'; and I speak as one who can recognize a Gill Sans Serif at ten paces as I face away to peruse the contents of the letter. (In reality, to allow myself the required reaction on the next line.) WHAT has she said?! My reaction is shock. Horror. Panic (laugh 7). The audience see him in full face. 'To bed?' Good God! So soon? But what must be must be: 'AY!' (laugh 4) is a battle cry: the challenge is accepted, 'Sweet heart and I'll come to thee.' Valentino was never in better form: endless kisses are exploded and my finger tips flick them in her direction. Suddenly from my left, the voice of Maria. How dare she! I am committed. I must play this through. 'Be surly with servants'—'At your request?! Yessss', what do I mean by that?—I don't know, but it gives me time to think my next quip: 'Nightingales answer daws', and a glance at Olivia for approbation. But Maria goes on. She must be quelled. I will quote to her a line which should be to her totally incomprehensible while at the same time impressing 'may Lady', so, in portentous tones (Abandon Hope All Ye, etc.), 'Be not afraid of greatness', and a quick aside to Olivia, "twas well writ' (laugh 1). Oh goody. Olivia is joining in the game, pretending she doesn't understand, so with rising tones 'some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them' (laugh 2). I don't hear her intervening lines; I now take her by the arm and cross L. I will show her that I have memorized every word of her letter and at the same time sweep her off her feet to a climactic 'If not, let me see thee a servant still!' (laugh 3). Unbeknown, a servant has entered behind me L and as I open my mouth to say—perhaps—'Madam this is it', he says 'Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is returned.' I register him but I am now sitting on a cloud—nothing can deflate me. They all exit.

'Oh ho' is triumphant and straight at the audience, 'do you come near me now!' 'Cast thy humble slough' is from memory, but while I speak I open the letter and read—for proof positive—the rest of the quotation. I cut the next twenty-eight words because in the letter as we have it 'sad face', 'slow tongue', 'reverend carriage' are not mentioned at all. Also, theatrically I was able to leapfrog to 'I have limed her! but' (of course I must not forget) 'it is Jove's doing and, Jove!' (a call to attract His attention just above the back row of the gallery) 'make me thankful.' I address the audience again—orchestra stalls now, 'and when she went away now, "Let thisfellow be looked to" '(you realize the importance of that?). I look around—surely someone out there does! Idiots! '"Fellow" '(laugh 2); they still don't get it, 'not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but FELLOW' (laugh 3).

I am saddened to record that it took me nearly a hundred performances to evolve the next piece of 'business'. The turning-point was a matinée in Adelaide while we were on a tour of Australia. The local company, whose performance of The Seagull we had seen the week before, came to the Twelfth Night matinée. I tried to think of something that, while not in any way disturbing the rest of the audience, might please a very charming group of fellow Thespians. I was quite unprepared for the result—one of the best laughs in the play. As I have stated, bang in the centre of the stage was a designer's gimmick: a sundial—all very charming but of no use at all; all movements were restricted to circling round it. I had already discovered some use for it in the succeeding part of the scene, of which more anon, but I now thought that if the disc at the end of my chain were a watch and if at this moment I were to look at the time indicated on the sundial and if on checking my watch against it I should find a variance, Malvolio's meticulous mind would automatically assume that his watch would be correct and that it was the sundial that showed the incorrect time. It should be therefore put to rights. The sundial, being made of stone, would be heavy but under pressure could be twisted (I tried it on a real one and unless cemented to the ground it can be done). So, I assume the sun to be shining from the R corner at the back of the gallery. 'Why everything adheres together' (glance at sundial) 'that no dram of a scruple' (look at watch) 'no scruple of a scruple' (back to sundial) 'no obstacle' (look at watch). Check 'sunbeam' to sundial and adjust it until correct time is shown during—'no incredulous or unsafe circumstance' (laugh 9).

But who comes here? Toby. Begin as I mean to go on: complete hauteur. I hear him but am heedless of his words. As Toby says 'How is't with you?' he attempts to lay a soothing hand on my right forearm—how dare he! I knock it away as one would a mosquito one hears approaching the face and bring my hand sharply back to nearly where it was, but impale it upon the finger of the sundial!—'Ah!' (laugh 5). It is pure trickery: the flat of the hand merely strikes the angle of the 'finger'. In considerable pain Malvolio shakes his hand, looks at the wound and determines to brave it out, but Sir Toby, startled, produces a crude crucifix and advises Malvolio to 'defy the devil'. In his confused, euphoric state Malvolio believes this drunkard to be embarking on a theological dissertation—'Do you know what you say?' is a rhetorical reprimand. It is all too much: the euphoria, the agony of the cross-gartering, the pain of the impaled hand, the insults; one must make a good exit, hence 'Geow. Hang yourselves all! You are idle shellow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter' is split between my adversaries (laugh 3). Malvolio turns, but the tourniquet has done its work, his R leg has quite gone to sleep, he nearly falls, staggers and hobbles in great pain U C and off.

I will admit to a dissatisfaction on this exit—I never really succeeded in bringing it off theatrically, even if I did truthfully.

Apart from the almost incidental 'We'll have him in a dark room and bound' Shakespeare in no way prepares his audience for the shock of Malvolio's next appearance. The play was written when bull- and bear-baiting were common sports, the pillory entertained jeering crowds, idiots were part of 'the public stock of harmless pleasure' and the populace thronged to public executions. In John Barton's production, the so-called prison scene took place some-where at the end of the garden where there could have been some type of primitive septic tank covered firstly by an iron grille and over that a trap door to keep out some of the disgusting smell. In this Malvolio has been placed. We are to imagine that the floor of this sewer is some eight feet below ground level, so only by gripping the bars and pulling himself up will Malvolio be able to just get his head through the bars. His hands and head will be the only parts visible.

Feste stamps on the trap. Who, what is it? 'Oh!' Feste opens the trap as he says "What ho I say, peace in this prison.' Are 'they' about to taunt him again? Defensively, 'Who calls there?' It is practically dark outside but the faintest glimmer of moonlight attracts Malvolio as he grips the bar and pulls his head through (laugh 4); his eyes are starting from his head, he is hysterical. 'Good Sir Topas. Do not think I am mad' (but I think I am)—'they have laid me here in hideous darkness', and Malvolio is weeping. 'Say'st thou that house is dark?' 'As Hell, Sir Topas.' Hell to Malvolio is a very real place, but Sir Topas then tells Malvolio that the clerestories are 'lustrous as ebony'. Malvolio looks from R slowly to L, trying to fathom what to a sane man is nonsense but to him is surely proof of his own madness. Like King Lear's 'Let me not be mad!' Malvolio then slowly and tearfully tells himself, 'I … am … not … mad … Sir … Topas', and clinging to reason, 'I say to you this house is dark!' In reply to Sir Topas, Malvolio then explodes, 'I say this house is as dark as ignorance though ignorance were as dark as hell and I say there was never man thus abused.' That spurt has exhausted Malvolio who realizes that he is merely antagonizing Sir Topas; the tears are held back, 'I am no more mad than you are—make the trial of it in any constant question.' (I am not mad. I am not mad. I am not mad.) 'What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl?' Ah, I know, I know the answer! 'That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.' 'What thinkest thou of his opinion?' As a true Catholic, 'I think nobly of the soul and no way approve his opinion.' During his next line Feste makes to lower the trap door; Malvolio is aware of this manoeuvre; he is to be left to the rats and spiders. Sheer panic sets in. His last chance is going. While crying 'No. No. No', Malvolio tries to ward off the closing trap. 'Sir Topas, Sir Topas', are hardly 'words', but pleas running into sobs.

For what must seem hours Malvolio is left until a voice is heard—is that Feste? 'Fool?' It is! 'Fool!' He hasn't heard me! 'Fool!! I say!!' Feste lifts the trap and at the same instant Malvolio hauls himself up like a drowning man clutching the bars, causing Feste to back hastily R and fall to his knees; 'Who calls, ha?' As if there had never been any misunderstanding between them, Malvolio continues, 'Good Fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle!' Malvolio's voice breaks—this is the nearest he comes to admitting his terror of the dark, 'and pen, ink and paper'; no answer. 'As I am a gentleman' (and as soon as I get out of here) 'I will live to be thankful to thee for't.' Feste advances on his knees cautiously. 'Master Malvolio?' I can quite understand that he would never recognize me in this condition, but, believe it or not, it is me: 'Aye, good Fool.' Thank God, he seems to understand. 'Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused'; and as one sane man to another, 'I am as well in my wits, Fool, as thou art.' I am unable to take in his reply. My predicament dominates all. 'They have here propertied me. Keep me in darkness.' (Each time on that word the voice breaks and the body shudders.) 'Send ministers to me!' 'Asses!' is screamed off to the L. The exertion is again too much. 'And do all they can to face me out of my wits', is deflated.

Feste has apparently seen someone and with 'Advise you what you say' he seems to indicate that I should hide. I drop to the bottom of the pit out of sight. It sounds like the priest! 'Sir Topas'—my words are cautious yet accusatory; apparent silence; the priest has gone, I can now come up; but has Feste gone? Please God no. 'Fool! … Fool!!… Fool, I say!!!', panic again. But he is still there. 'Good fool; help me to some light!'; Malvolio is weak and near to collapse, 'and some paper.' 'I tell thee' (and myself) 'I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria', but he doesn't believe me. As a lion's paw that would drag a victim through the bars of its cage a hand whips out and grabs Feste, all of whose strength is needed to prevent his being pulled through the grille. 'By this hand I am!' Where did that vicious strength come from? Feste whimpers. But again the exertion is too much and the relapse greater. Now I have alienated him, too—he never liked me in the first place—he is sure to take revenge. 'Good Fool' is now a begging for forgiveness, 'some ink, paper and' (please) 'light; and convey what I will set down to may Lady.' I don't think I have succeeded in winning him over—perhaps bribery? 'It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.' He is abject. Feste agrees but asks two questions which are answered consecutively, 'Believe me', with the voice breaking, it is almost the prayer of a sinner, 'I am not'; their heads move from side to side to underline the statement. 'I tell thee true', my grip is relaxed; Feste makes one more taunt but extricates himself at the same time and eludes the claws which futilely try to catch him again. How I dislike that man. Hypocritically I call after him 'Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree.' A nod of dismissal—for God's sake, go!—but I mustn't upset him - 'I prithee, be gone.' Feste picks up his guitar and begins inexplicably to sing! What is he saying? He has tricked me! As the song gets faster and faster he begins to run round and round the trap, back and forth, across the grille, over my head; I try to follow the direction of his antics; the world swims; I am mad; faster and faster; round and round; a mumbled series of cries which could be defined as 'No. No. . No …No …No …No …'; I am still holding myself up by the bars; Feste stamps on my hands; I hold on; he slams the trap closed while my head is apparently still in view above the grille; with a scream I fall to the bottom of the pit. Silence; daylight comes; Sebastian enters, 'Yet 'tis not madness.' A very weak cry of 'Help' comes from below ground, unheard by Sebastian, 'That this may be some error but no madness'. An almost incoherent sentence containing the word 'help' is heard. Sebastian talks on, 'To any other trust but that I am mad'. A faint sound of nonsensical gibberish can be heard trailing off into sobs.

I will admit that I would not have liked this interpolation had I been playing Sebastian, but John Barton allowed me to produce this most terrifying effect.

In the next scene Malvolio speaks verse, and continues to do so through the rest of the play. Why? Is it that in this most poetic of plays he is a very prosaic character? Certainly the use of verse in this last scene is extremely valuable to the actor because it is easier to 'take off'.

Malvolio is as mad as it is possible for a sane man to be. Hours later Fabian and another have been sent to release Malvolio and escort him to the presence of Olivia. They try to control him—how dare they touch me! With a bellow like a wounded bull Malvolio erupts through the centre entrance (laugh 5). A large number of people are gathered. Oblivious, Malvolio has eyes only to seek out Olivia. There she is D R. He staggers forward and there is no one else present for him, as he explodes (from C) 'Madam, you have done me wrong,/'Notorious wrong!' She contradicts: I have now nothing to lose, so can answer back 'Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter'; she takes it, 'You must not now deny it is your hand' (look at it!), 'Or say 'tis not your seal' (look at it!), 'not your invention./You can say none of this. Well' (have the grace to) 'grant it then,/And tell me—in the modesty of honour,/Why you have given me such clear lights of favour…'But soon he falters and begins to break down, 'Why have you suffered me to be imprisoned, /Kept in a dark house'—this line he tells to the others who are standing L (she did that to me); 'visited by the priest', a maniacal look around—(where is he!), 'And made the most notorious geck and gull/ That e'er invention played on.' He can hardly get the words out through the sobs—'Tell me—why?'

'This is not my writing', she says. Malvolio snatches the letter and looks at it—of course it's her writing; 'But out of question 'tis Maria's hand.' Malvolio's jaw drops, the eyes start; an 'Ugh!' (meaning What!) and he checks every word of the letter. Can this be so? It is so—Fabian confirms it is. As he unravels the story Malvolio sinks to his knees and sobs. As Fabian finishes, an attempt at a plea of justification breaks out as, 'I—I—I', which Olivia assuages with, 'Alas, poor fool'. And now Feste rams the knife home, he kneels R beside the kneeling Malvolio and sadistically twists the knife. He was in the plot. He was Sir Topas. My own words are thrown in my face, but there is no fight left in Malvolio, he can only await the coup de grâce: 'And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.' Malvolio staggers to his feet and the wounded bull looks about him. They are smiling at him, a kindly smile. But the degradation is too great; so, pathetically like a small boy who knows he has lost but cannot leave without an exit line, says to them all 'I'll be revenged', he pauses and pouts, 'on the whole pack of you.' It is a totally empty threat. The House, Illyria, the World, will shortly be laughing at his predicament. I believe there is but one thing for Malvolio—suicide.