SOURCE: “The Dramaturgy of the Ending of Twelfth Night,” in Twelfth Night: Critical Essays, edited by Stanley Wells, Garland Publishing, Inc., 1986, pp. 279-302.

[In the essay below, originally published in 1974, Hasler analyzes the influence of Shakespeare's earlier comedies on the last scene of Twelfth Night.]

The final resolution of Twelfth Night evolves from a process which engages the whole of the play's last scene. Furthermore, there is no lack of consistent theatrical notation in this scene. Employed with remarkable singleness of purpose, it is instrumental in shaping the build-up towards the strong impact of Viola's revelation. Apart from the unusually extensive control of the action, a study of this ending also invites us to glance back at some features of earlier comedies. The view of Twelfth Night as the consummation of Shakespearian comedy is widely accepted.¹ At the same time, few commentators neglect to mention the extent to which Shakespeare here draws on his preceding experiments. Barrett Wendell even went so far as to “recognize the Twelfth Night—with all its perennial delights—a masterpiece not of invention, but of recapitulation.”² This remark has been much quoted, though it perhaps unduly neglects the transmutations that go with Shakespeare's self-borrowings. Harold Jenkins sums up this particular aspect of Twelfth Night when he suggests that

… in however short a time Shakespeare ultimately wrote this play, he had in a sense been composing it during the previous decade.³

The final scene begins very quickly. Orsino has decided to go and see Olivia himself. At her house he meets Feste who, irked a little by Orsino's condescension,⁴ does a stint of his most artful begging. The mood is relaxed, as so often in Illyria; we get an impression of unlimited leisure and time to jest away. Having exhausted Orsino's bounty, Feste leaves to inform Olivia of her visitor, when suddenly the scene darkens and Viola's trials begin. Antonio is brought in by officers. Viola is first to notice them:

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me

V.1.44

she says to Orsino. This is more than the usual formula for putting the spotlight on an actor making his entry. We infer that Viola has obviously told Orsino about the duel Toby inflicted on her. Her reference to that adventure, however, is vague enough to be misunderstood: she thinks of the duel and how this strange seaman got her out of it, but Antonio most likely relates her words to the shipwreck where he rescued Sebastian. To him, her remark sounds like an acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and this can only deepen his grief at her renewed denials later on. As he explains to Orsino why, in spite of the grave risk involved, he exposed himself to “the danger of its adverse town,” he points an accusing finger at Viola:

… A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there by your side(5)
From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; …

70

Antonio very forcefully directs the focus of attention on the young “culprit.” What is more, he “places” Viola at Orsino's side, stressing that at this juncture she is very much the Duke's loyal servant. She is where she most desires to be. This is important in view of the imminent, explosive encounter with Olivia.

Viola's predicament, with Olivia doting on her while she secretly pines for Orsino, is quite enough to have to bear without the puzzling complaints of Antonio. The heavy deictic emphasis is kept up throughout his indictment of the “youth,” and must contribute not a little to Viola's embarrassment.

                                                            … for his sake,
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town; …

76

There is no time to investigate the matter further, however. Orsino forgets the moving accents of the seemingly betrayed man when Olivia approaches:

Here comes the Countess; now heaven walks on earth

91

he fatuously exclaims. His hyperbole is too blatantly out of tune with reality: it soon becomes ridiculous in the light of the reception he gets from the Countess, and the childish wrath with which he tries to force her affections. Dismissing Antonio for the time being, he stuns him with his assertion that

Three months this youth hath tended upon me.

93

Olivia and her attendants are not allowed to obliterate the person around whom everything turns in this scene. Almost immediately “this youth” is back in focus, in preparation for what follows, viz. Olivia's most astonishing breach of etiquette inspired by her love for Cesario.

Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
Vio. Madam?
Duke. Gracious Olivia—
Oli. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord—(6)

95

Olivia sees her “husband” at Orsino's side, still posing, she thinks, as a servant. This sight is enough to make her forget her manners. She begins by addressing Orsino—then she interrupts herself to speak to the page at his side. The baffled Orsino tries to regain her attention, but she is only interested in Cesario. The tension now mounts rapidly, to Viola's embarrassment. She steadfastly sticks to her rôle as Orsino's man:

My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

101

This—almost a rebuke—is all that Olivia gets out of her, and it does not improve the Countess' temper at all. She adopts a quite unprecedented tone to rid herself of Orsino:

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.

102

Rejected more bluntly than ever, Orsino indulges in positively childish tantrums which, even at this later hour, make one wonder whether he will ever grow up. He elects to try his hand at a new posture, that of “a savage jealousy That sometime savours nobly.” Since Olivia reserves her love for Cesario, he will do away with Cesario:

But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite.
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love
To spite a raven's heart within a dove.

119

Viola, still by his side, is ready—“most jocund, apt, and willingly,”—to be sacrificed like a lamb. Olivia now tastes the same bitter cup as Antonio. “Where goes Cesario?” she asks as Viola obediently follows Orsino. Viola's answer is a passionate declaration of love for the irate Duke, curious enough on the lips of a “youth.” The Countess is brought so low by this that she begins to sound like the adolescent lovers of A Midsummer Night's Dream in their most plaintive despair:

Ay me, detested! How am I beguil'd!

113

In her ignorance of Sebastian's existence, let alone of what has occurred between him and Olivia, Viola is bound to appear shamefully, heartlessly, false:

Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?

134

Orsino and “Cesario” have almost disappeared when Olivia finally says the electrifying word that stops them in their tracks:

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

137

There now develops a tug-of-war between the outraged Duke of Illyria and the injured, deeply disappointed Olivia. They both turn on Viola, Orsino with the vehemence of a nobleman betrayed by his servant (“Her husband, sirrah?”), Olivia lamenting the “baseness” of Cesario's “fear.” This naturally brings about a visible shift: Viola is no longer at the side of her amazed, incredulous master, but rather half-way between him and Olivia. Duke and Countess both stare at her in disbelief. All eyes, in fact, are on her, the mortified, confused bone of contention. Bernard Beckerman has observed that in the last scene of Twelfth Night

Orsino and Olivia … jointly direct the uncovering of the mystery by calling upon others to act rather than by acting themselves. The focus thus lies between them.⁷

Between them, until Sebastian appears, stands Viola. Caught in the middle as she is, her situation steadily worsens. In her love of Cesario, Olivia appeals to him to show some manly courage. Ironically, she now actually echoes Maria's letter to Malvolio urging the steward not to be afraid of greatness:

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;

142

Viola may well begin to doubt her own sanity when the Priest enters. He comes at Olivia's request to unfold in her words

                                                  …—what thou dost know
Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me.

148

After a glance at “this youth” the Priest promptly asserts that “A contract of eternal bond of love” has indeed been confirmed, attested, strengthened and sealed only two hours ago. The grave Priest's report, essentially not a narrative but a listing of the symbolic gestures of the formal betrothal, is curiously abstract, drained of all life and devoid of any individualizing details:

A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strength'ned by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony;
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,
I have travell'd but two hours.

150

The whole emphasis is on the awesome solemnity and binding power of the ceremony he performed. Against such testimony Viola is helpless. Meanwhile Orsino has recovered the power of speech, and she has to listen to his wild abuse of her:

O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be,
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?

158

What is worse, he is now quite prepared to give up Cesario, as well as to renounce Olivia:

Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

162

The finality of the closing couplet strongly suggests that Orsino is again on the point of leaving. Viola can only protest, knowing that it is of no avail against the word of the Priest. She follows Orsino in despair:

Vio. My lord, I do protest—
Oli.                                                  O, do not swear!
Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.

164

As “Cesario” walks away from her once again, even the doting Olivia loses patience with him: she interrupts him immediately. The incident causes the three figures to be spaced out more widely across the stage. In view of the sequel it is essential that Viola, in pursuit of Orsino, should move away from Olivia. For one thing, Sir Andrew does not see “Cesario” until he is pointed out to him. What is more, Sebastian does not notice his sister for quite some time. This can only be managed without awkwardness if Viola stands at a sufficient distance from Olivia, quite apart from the symmetrical arrangement of the twins, which also requires some space between them.

This time Orsino is prevented from actually leaving by the comic-pathetic appearance of Sir Andrew with his head “broken,” clamouring for a surgeon. Like all the preceding arrivals, he has a grievance against Cesario. His case, though, is an amusing variation on this recurrent motif. He is not aware of Cesario's presence—probably he enters with his mauled head bent down. He also assumes that everyone knows whom he is talking about:

Oli. What's the matter?
Sir And. Has broke my head across, and has given
Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too.

168

Olivia therefore has to ask “Who has done this, Sir Andrew?” and on hearing that it was “The Count's gentleman, one Cesario,” it is Orsino's turn to be amazed. After all, he has long ago declared that “Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious” than that of his lovely page, whose whole person “is semblative a woman's part.” It is therefore with understandable scepticism that he makes sure:

My gentleman, Cesario?

175

Sir Andrew's reaction indicates that Orsino incredulously points to “Cesario” as he asks the question. The effect on Aguecheek is quite spectacular:

Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; …

176

The foolish knight recoils from the mere sight of Viola—what could be more incriminating? But there is more to come. The pace accelerates as new accusers turn up at ever shorter intervals. Aguecheek is followed by Sir Toby. In contrast to Sir Andrew, he is above—or past—complaining. In answer to Orsino's questions, he will only say:

That's all one; has hurt me and there's th' end on't …

188

He can walk only slowly, with difficulty. He has overheard Sir Andrew berating Cesario:

If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me

182

before he is near enough to be noticed by his friend: “Here comes Sir Toby halting …” For once there is no accusing finger for Viola. Toby seems too overwhelmed with the fact that the stripling was equal to hurting him—there is certainly no more than a tired nod in the direction of Viola.

This is the last we see of these knights, for Olivia promptly sends them off to bed. The striving for symmetry begins to make itself felt. The two votaries of cakes and ale have played their part; there is no room for them in the final tableau.⁸ Moreover, at this stage any confrontation between Toby (or Maria) and Malvolio must be avoided.

While the audience is aware that Sebastian is somewhere about Olivia's house, and bound to turn up sooner or later, Viola has gone from bad to worse. She is caught in a maze from which it must seem to her impossible to extricate herself. On an increasingly crowded stage she finds herself surrounded by accusers. Surveying the portion of the scene we have so far discussed, we see that it definitely belongs to Viola. Until Sebastian's entrance baffles all, Shakespeare consistently keeps the focus of attention on her, in spite of the fact that she has little to say. The situation and the technique employed are reminiscent of Hero's arraignment in church. As in the case of Hero, of course, everybody talks about Viola. She is the target of a general wrath. We have seen how at every stage, the gestic impulses of passionate address, and especially the gestic force of that basic tool, the demonstrative, help to keep Viola at the calm centre of the tornado. The others make all the noise, but while they come, have their say, and then make room for the next plaintiff, Viola remains, always involved, always concerned.

A comedy, in the words of Harold Jenkins, “is a play in which the situation holds some threat of disaster but issues in the achievement of happiness.”⁹ This may remind us more immediately of the merchant Antonio or of Aegeon. In Twelfth Night the concrete threats against Viola do not materialize before the finale. Viola's experience here is not unlike that of Isabella. In Measure for Measure it is the accuser who goes through an ordeal until at last she is taken seriously, listened to, and then vindicated by Mariana's and ultimately the Duke's own testimony.

It is instructive to examine the way in which Viola's ordeal is given its dramatic form. We have observed how every new arrival brings his own, incomprehensible accusations. J. L. Styan has briefly surveyed this technique of “successive entrances” from Henry VI to King Lear.¹⁰ The ending of Twelfth Night he views primarily in terms of control. At the end of As You Like It and Twelfth Night, he says, Shakespeare orders

a crowded stage for a scene of artificial symmetry, the visual pattern acquiring some of the qualities of tableaux. Yet Shakespeare had also to overcome the disadvantage of the confusing impact of a full stage …

One method of controlling the action was to fill the stage by a mechanical procession of entrances. The spectator's attention is taken by each new figure and each new voice.¹¹

The final scene of Twelfth Night blends this technical advantage of successive entrances with the purpose the device serves in the histories and tragedies, when a series of messengers with progressively worsening news creates a feeling of calamity and imminent doom, or tests the endurance of the hero.¹² We can now see that the passage under review represents an elaborate adaptation of that pattern to the needs of comedy. The mere messengers have been replaced by important figures with whom we are well acquainted, and who all confront the treacherous youth of their imagination in their own characteristic way: the honest, devoted “pirate” Antonio meets Cesario with forthright indignation at his ingratitude; the noble, enamoured Olivia with more restrained, yet deep disappointment; Aguecheek with undisguised terror, Toby still bemused with the shock of being beaten by the young stripling of a gentleman. Furthermore, there is of course a final entrance, Sebastian's, which sets things right again.

An incidental, comic adaptation of the same pattern in its basic form occurs in The Merry Wives of Windsor. Dr. Caius and Evans revenge themselves on the Host of the Garter: one after the other, in a sequence blatantly pre-arranged, Bardolph, Evans and Caius appear like messengers at the door, just long enough to shout their increasingly alarming news about the “Germans” who have stolen the Host's horses.¹³ There is another succession of entrances, again comically calamitous, at the end of the play. Here, Page and his wife are both thwarted by a counter-plot of their daughter Anne. Slender, Master Page's favourite choice for Anne, first returns with a tale of woe: his white fairy turned out to be “a great lubberly boy.” No sooner has Mistress Page explained the misfortune by revealing her own stratagem in favour of Caius, than the doctor bursts on the scene in one of his rages: the fairy in green was a boy too. Now the successful Fenton brings in his Anne to ask pardon of his good father and mother. To our delight, the parental plotters are outplotted, but we are also pleased to see that resentment is remarkably short-lived.

Earlier, in the finale of The Taming of the Shrew, Shakespeare had used a witty inversion of the successive entrances pattern. There the wager between the three husbands causes them, one by one, to send for their wives. Now it is precisely the non-appearance of the first two wives that spells disaster. Lucentio “bids” his mistress to come to him, but Biondello returns alone. Hortensio, though he cautiously “entreats” the widow to come, fares no better: Biondello has only a defiant message for him. Thus the effect is all the more breathtaking when Kate, “commanded” to come, appears in the doorway:

Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina!

TS V.ii.99

In these cases, as in Twelfth Night, the series of entrances strikes us as a formal pattern of more or less transparent artificiality. The sequence works towards a final, important effect. This is not the same as, for instance, the entirely “natural” yet carefully spaced-out returns of Portia and Bassanio, each preceded by a harbinger, from Venice to Belmont.

As Toby and Aguecheek limp away, attended by Feste and Fabian, Sebastian hurries in. There is no time for anyone to mirror his approach, as had been done in the case of Antonio, Olivia and Toby. Yet his is surely the most effective entrance of them all. Eager to justify himself to Olivia, he makes straight for her, ignoring everyone else. This partly explains why he does not notice Viola at first. His entrance, of course, is the one that will undo all the confusion caused by the preceding ones. It sheds light on everything at a stroke. Nevertheless, before meeting his sister, he is made to settle very quickly the various questions, one by one. Almost every line he speaks solves a problem. As the audience knows everything already, no time is wasted in dwelling on this, and Sebastian cannot ignore Viola too long without artificiality.

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman.

V.i.201

His apology solves the mystery of Toby's “hurt.” The contrite offender mirrors Olivia's consternation at the sight of this second Cesario:

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you.

204

His next words confirm the Priest's account of a secret betrothal:

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.

206

Olivia must begin to grasp that this is her husband. Next, he recognizes a familiar face, and his most affectionate greeting disposes of the riddle which has so oppressed Antonio:

Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me
Since I have lost thee!

210

Full of joyful emotion himself, Sebastian still spreads nothing but amazement around him. As with Olivia, Sebastian notices the extreme astonishment of Antonio, and again he misunderstands it:

Ant. Sebastian are you?
Seb. Fear'st thou that, Antonio?

213

For Olivia, Orsino, Antonio and Viola everything falls into place in the whirlwind of Sebastian's entrance. His preoccupation with Olivia and then with Antonio must be quite intense and passionate to keep him from noticing Viola. At the same time it is quite likely that the spectators—who do not need to be enlightened—will not give Sebastian's words their full attention. They are inevitably absorbed by the visual impact of the twins, simultaneously present for the first time. Orsino and Antonio draw our attention to this very emphatically:

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!
A natural perspective, that is and is not.
How have you made division of yourself?
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

214

Both stress the stage-picture created by the resemblance of brother and disguised sister, Sebastian very animated, Viola transfixed. These baffled reactions are not meant as “asides.” At the very moment when Orsino speaks, Sebastian discovers his friend Antonio; it looks as if he is too rapt to heed the strange talk about a “natural perspective.” In contrast to this he does listen to Antonio's stunned comment, and prompted by the deictic “these two creatures” he finally becomes aware of Viola.

When their eyes meet at last, the result is an immediate slowing down of the pace, even a momentary halt, very effective after the tempo sustained since Sebastian's exciting entrance.

Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
Nor can there be that deity in my nature
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.

218

There follows the exquisitely beautiful duologue in which the twins gradually identify each other. Their meeting having been put off until now, the positive recognition, viz. the revelation of Viola, is thus further delayed. They are not allowed to race into each other's arms. Nevill Coghill has an excellent passage describing why a delayed recognition can be so particularly moving. He rightly stresses the visual element in this:

It is in the delay that we taste the recognition most feelingly: for with our eyes we see that a longed-for thing is about to happen, even before it has begun: we see the certainty of a joy to come, delayed in order to prolong the thrill of having it in prospect. This is an experience in art that I think can most feelingly be given through the medium of theatre …¹⁴

As to the peculiar delicacy and restraint of the twins' duologue, Alice Shalvi has observed how

the use of the third person in their mention of Viola is a beautifully subtle method of indicating the way in which neither wants to be overwhelmed by emotion, even while it excellently conveys the emotion that is pent up, and implied by, their words.¹⁵

As regards gesture and grouping, Viola's speech concluding the recognition-passage is particularly interesting:

If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp'd attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola; which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserv'd to serve this noble Count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.

241

The desire to withhold the inner surge of joy until the last shadow of a doubt has been removed is most clearly in evidence when Viola requests her brother not to embrace her. This however seems to pose a real problem in performance. Whereas scholars may easily take Viola's words at their face-value, there are few producers who can deny their Sebastian the emotional relief of a brotherly embrace. Alice Shalvi, pursuing her theme of restraint, finds it significant that

Shakespeare even makes Viola delay her brother's happy embrace until she shall have abandoned her doublet for a gown, and the same is true of her betrothal to Orsino.¹⁶

This is very persuasive, and soundly based on the text. Yet when it comes to producing the scene, Viola's cautious reserve seems to overtax our strength and even to border on the unnatural. The principle of postponing the happy celebrations is here driven to its limits. Producers must feel that before Sebastian can turn to Olivia to stress the lighter side of what has occurred,

So comes it, lady, you have been mistook,

251

“each circumstance …” has surely cohered and jumped. In accordance with this, the beginning of Viola's critical sentence tends to get slurred over, while the end, “That I am Viola,” is detached from the rest as much as possible and given the special emphasis of a solemn affirmation.

In Viola's concluding line Shakespeare again hints at the intended stage-picture. During much of the scene, when she was the bone of contention, and again now, when the twins meet at the centre of the stage, Viola has been placed between “this lady and this lord.” The dangers inherent in her false position between Orsino and Olivia had only been latent before this final scene. Now it has all come to a head. Viola's place on stage therefore symbolizes the “occurrence” of her fortune since she came to Illyria, her ambiguous rôle as a go-between

… between this lady and this lord.

250

Her last words contain a strong gestic impulse to stress her position in the danger zone between the two proud, noble personages, at the very point when this scenic image is about to be replaced by a new constellation. After the arrival of Sebastian and the ensuing revelation of Viola, the happy, permanent equilibrium of two couples is substituted for the uneasy, precarious symmetry of the triangle.

Sebastian, as we have seen, is a resolving figure par excellence, since his mere entrance at the right moment disposes of all the confusions at a stroke. To achieve this startling effect, Shakespeare exploits a theme he has introduced into the play only at a very late stage. Harold Jenkins has pointed out that in Twelfth Night the dramatist “is, in fact, combining the plots of The Two Gentlemen of Verona and The Comedy of Errors”:

He does not, however, combine them in equal degree. The heartsick heroine who in page's disguise takes messages of love to another woman provided little more than an episode in the complicated relations of the two gentlemen of Verona; but in Twelfth Night this episode has grown into the central situation from which the play draws its life. On the other hand, the confusion of twins which entertained us for five acts in The Comedy of Errors appears now as little more than an adroit device to bring a happy ending.¹⁷

This hardly overstates the case. The theme of mistaken identity only begins to make its contribution when Sebastian and Antonio have at last found their way to the capital of Illyria. From the first, of course, there is the similarity in the shipwreck stories of The Comedy of Errors and Twelfth Night, but not before III.iv. does Antonio mistake Viola for Sebastian. In IV.i. Feste for his part believes Sebastian to be Viola. Sebastian's exasperation on that occasion recalls the atmosphere of Ephesus:

Are all the people mad?

TNIV.i.26

he exclaims, in a mood of frustration not unlike that of the Syracusan Antipholus when he concludes that

There's none but witches do inhabit here.

CEIII.ii.154

In line with Jenkins' observation, however, most echoes of The Comedy of Errors occur in the last scene. Antonio's sad experience reminds us most strongly of Shakespeare's first comedy. Like Aegeon, he believes himself shamefully betrayed by one he loves.¹⁸ Just as Duke Solinus of Ephesus confounds Aegeon:

I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
Have I been patron to Antipholus,
During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa,

CEV.i.325

so Duke Orsino of Illyria reduces Antonio to silence with an unanswerable rebuttal:

…—fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months this youth hath tended upon me—…

TNV.i.92

At the point when everyone stands amazed by the likeness of the twins, there is even a literal echo. Duke Solinus, beholding the Dromios and Antipholuses together, had wondered:

One of these men is genius to the other;
And so of these. Which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? …

CEV.i.331

Pointing at Sebastian in disbelief (“So went he suited”) Viola says to Sebastian her brother:

Such a Sebastian was my brother too;
So went he suited to his watery tomb;
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.

TNV.i.225

Yet even such a verbal parallel in a similar situation does not necessarily imply the simple repetition of an old idea. In Twelfth Night, “spirit” takes on an additional meaning: it is beyond a Dromio or Antipholus to answer, like Sebastian:

                    A spirit I am indeed,
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.

228

Solinus thinks in terms of genius as the attendant spirit of a man, Viola at first fears she has to deal with her brother's “ghost” returned from the grave, like a Hamlet senior or a Banquo, and Sebastian uses the same word to refer to his immortal soul.

Olivia now faces her real husband, and it is all visibly too much for her. Orsino reassures her with new-found consideration and sympathy:

Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood.

256

Then it is time for him to grapple with the changed situation himself, to address himself to the newly revealed Viola. Whereas Sebastian, having served his turn, is heard of no more, the fate of his sister remains the central concern of the audience. Orsino now gives the first, veiled, and as yet conditional intimation of his intentions towards the girl:

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.(19)

257

Though he could easily be more specific, his meaning is obviously in the spectators' mind when he now faces Cesario/Viola. Addressing her still as a “boy,” he reminds her of her former pledges which, now he knows she is a woman, take on a new significance:

Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

259

This gives Viola her second opportunity to express the full depth of her love for him. His response to her fervent and solemn declaration is ambiguous, to say the least: his gestic reaction may give her hope, but his words are strangely guarded and reserved.

                    Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.

264

Now as before, the writing focuses on Viola. Explicit gestic notation, such as Orsino's imperative (“Give me thy hand”) invariably refers to her. In contrast to this, we do not know what is going on between Olivia and her husband. In their case, everything is already settled, whereas Orsino quite understandably needs some time to adjust himself: he cannot transfer his affections from Olivia to Viola too fast, or he risks appearing in too comic a light. It is almost as if he reserved his position until he knows whether Viola's true “outside” can charm him as her male disguise had charmed Olivia. The awkwardness of his situation must explain the discrepancy between his instinctive gesture and his noncommittal words.

Nevertheless, things seem to be drawing to a close. Yet there is still that other matter, the strange frenzy of Olivia's steward, who even now languishes in the “dark house.” Orsino's reference to her “woman's weeds” reminds Viola of the captain with whom she left her things in I.ii. That self-same sea-captain, she reveals, “Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit …” This—Viola's last speech, by the way—in turn reminds Olivia of her steward. The New Cambridge Shakespeare notes that “we have heard nothing before of this lawsuit” and explains: “it is Shakespeare's device for bringing Malvolio back upon the scene.”²⁰ Yet Shakespeare goes out of his way to show that he does not need the mysterious lawsuit to bring Malvolio back. Before Olivia can even send for the “madman,” Feste comes in, unbidden by anyone, with Malvolio's letter of complaint. Enter Clowne with a letter, and Fabian, as the Folio direction puts it. Evidently there must be some other point to this curious coincidence which led to a case, “Malvolio vs. Captain.” Our recollection of the trusty Captain and of Viola's high opinion of him²¹ engages our sympathies on his side. The wrong done to Malvolio, on the other hand, will shortly be so much emphasized that we might mistakenly conclude he was more sinned against than sinning. So Clifford Leech may well be right with his reading:

It is evident that the ambitious steward has exercised authority with a long arm: our realization of that moderates our pity for him.²²

A sizeable section of the scene is now set aside for the conclusion to the Malvolio-intrigue; the upshot, however, will be that it cannot be truly concluded at all. Olivia and the gull himself must at least learn what really happened. Fabian, who was not among the instigators, is the ideal man to tell them.²³ Viola has had no part in all this, yet Shakespeare does not allow her to be totally eclipsed for such a long time. Having heard Malvolio's letter, Olivia sends for him. While we are waiting, she uses the lull to attend to her own business:

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown th'alliance on't, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.

303

Some reflection has taught her that there is really nothing left to prevent her and Orsino being friends. She moves towards reconciliation. At the same time, she already deals with an important point which is normally part of the closing-speech: she will arrange for the festivities to come. She foresees a double marriage: a curious feature of her speech is the request to Orsino

To think me as well a sister as a wife.

304

She hopes she will be no less acceptable to him as a sister-in-law than she would have been as his wife. Yet Orsino, as we have seen, has not really committed himself to Viola as yet. Could it be that Olivia, sympathizing with Viola in her predicament, indulges in a bit of gentle prompting on behalf of the girl she once fell in love with?²⁴ If so, it certainly works: Orsino briefly thanks her and then again turns to Viola:

Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you call'd me master for so long,
Here is my hand; you shall from this time be
Your master's mistress.

308

Now he no longer speaks to “Cesario.” He recognizes and indeed stresses her womanhood and her noble birth, acknowledging all she has done for him. This is not without irony when we remember the vanity with which he used to pontificate about the inferiority of a woman's love to that of a man. He repeats his former gesture, and even here the change from “Give me thy hand” (264) to “Here is my hand” is surely significant. It looks more like a pledge this time—and he comes out with a well-nigh unequivocal proposal. In the case of Viola, we know very well that the Duke's proposal is welcome, but no more than Isabella in Measure for Measure is she permitted to respond. We never hear another word from her after her mention of Malvolio's suit against the Captain. Perhaps the promise in Orsino's words makes her speechless, but there is also the fact that “the madman” now comes in, escorted by the ever-useful Fabian. The investigation of Malvolio's misadventure is resumed.

This short interlude (from Fabian's exit to his return with the steward) inserted into the segment devoted to Malvolio helps to achieve two important effects. It has a bearing on Orsino's switch from Olivia to Viola, which requires to be handled with delicacy and tact. The interlude is a device which allows the change to be effected in three evenly spaced-out steps, so that it appears like a gradual process which is not truly completed even at the end of the play, while assuring us of Viola's future happiness. The other consequence of this insertion concerns Malvolio and his influence on the mood of the ending: many things usually left until the end are already settled before Malvolio enters, so that very little will be left for Orsino's closing-speech. As a result, the totally unreconciled, defiant exit-line

I'll be reveng'd on the whole pack of you

364

hits the audience as late as possible, only ten lines before everyone else withdraws too, leaving us alone with Feste and his epilogue-song. This harsh and jarring note, placed where it has maximum effect, justifies the view that “the most interesting thing in Twelfth Night is its ultimate drawing back from a secure sense of harmony.”²⁵ Malvolio's last words reverberate in Olivia's sympathetic reaction:

He hath been most notoriously abus'd

365

which is doubly effective because it echoes Malvolio's first, solemn (if mistaken) accusation when he came in:

Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.

315

The sorry business is even allowed to spill over into Orsino's closing-speech:

Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace;
He hath not told us of the captain yet.

366

It is remarkable how consistently Shakespeare discourages too simple, black-and-white judgements of the issue. In referring to the Captain, Orsino provides an immediate corrective to Olivia's sympathy for her steward. We may already have winced at the word “pack,” and now, lest we feel too much pity, we are further reminded of the nasty streak in Malvolio. With the steward in the “dark house,” Maria's jest has no doubt gone a little too far, but on the other hand Malvolio himself is apparently quite prepared to put decent men in prison. It will not be easy to placate him, but Orsino will at least try.

Even if we avoid the gross mistake of turning Malvolio into a tragic figure, his appearance in V.i. is bound to have a sobering effect on the play's ending. With his furious departure, however, his person at least is removed from sight before the actual conclusion. Shakespeare continues to tidy up the stage for the final speech when Orsino says:

Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace.

366

Though there is no stage-direction in the Folio, and modern editors refrain from supplying one, it would look absurd if no one stirred at Orsino's command. No doubt the invaluable Fabian, perhaps with one or more of Orsino's men, leaves in pursuit of the “madly-us'd” Malvolio: When therefore Orsino closes the play, the two couples have to share the stage only with Antonio and Feste, who are at a respectful distance with attendants, officers, and possibly the Priest.

After all the thoughtful preparation by Olivia, there are no loose threads left for Orsino to tie up:

He hath not told us of the captain yet.
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence, Cesario, come;
For so you shall be while you are a man;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.
[Exeunt all but the Clown.]

367

Even at the very end Orsino's tone remains singularly subdued. However beautiful his phrase about “golden time,” he still rather ungraciously insists on checking the truth of Viola's story. We, the audience, shall of course never know the circumstances which delivered the Captain into the power of Malvolio. When Orsino knows, and when Viola sheds her disguise, the marriage will take place. In looking forward to the consummation of Viola's desires, Orsino speaks almost with the gravity of the Priest: “A solemn combination Of … souls” will be made. He avoids all mention of “triumphs,” “mirth,” “revels” or “jollity.” We are not invited, as in earlier comedies, to think in terms of merry-making festivity.

Then he addresses Olivia, and one short sentence now suffices to set all things aright between them. In calling her “sweet sister,” taking up her own word of l.313, he accepts her offer of friendship together with the invitation to stay at her house. “Cesario, come” prepares the imminent departure: most likely he takes her by the hand a third time. He will lead her out. Orsino and Viola leave as a couple, like Olivia and Sebastian. Nevertheless, his restraint keeps the upper hand to the end:

                    … Cesario, come;
For so you shall be while you are a man.

371

The last time he spoke to her, he had been mindful of her “soft and tender breeding,” now he playfully reverts to treating her according to her male disguise. Only the final couplet reassures us that Viola will reap her reward. Orsino reiterates his proposal in much the same terms as he had used before:

But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.

373

In keeping with the theatrical notation throughout the scene, the place of honour belongs to Viola. Orsino's final gesture is addressed to her, and so are the last words of the play.

Notes

1. There has been little change in this since H. B. Charlton, in his Shakespearian Comedy (London, 1938) discussed the play, together with Much Ado About Nothing and As You Like It, in a chapter entitled “The Consummation.”

2. William Shakespeare (London, 1894), p. 209.

3. “Shakespeare's Twelfth Night,” in Shakespeare's Comedies, ed. Kenneth Muir (Englewood Cliffs, 1965), p. 72.

4. Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
   Clo. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.

   V.i.7

5. Italics mine throughout this chapter.

6. Whereas the New Variorum edition (1901) says this “probably accompanied by a gesture to the Duke to keep silent and let Cesario speak” (l. 110, n., p. 286), it has become “a polite request to Orsino to let Viola speak first” in M. M. Mahood's New Penguin edition of 1968 (l. 104, n., p. 180). The distinction may be a nice one, but Olivia's next speech rather indicates that she is beyond making polite requests.

7. Shakespeare at the Globe 1599-1609 (New York, 1962), p. 210.

8. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Speed and Launce never make it to the forest of the outlaws. In A Midsummer Night's Dream the mechanicals are withdrawn first, to make room for Theseus' closing-speech and the incantations of the fairies. In The Merchant of Venice Launcelot Gobbo only just fleets across the stage, announcing the return of Bassanio. Even this brief intrusion into Belmont has been much resented. In Much Ado About Nothing, Dogberry is remunerated and firmly dismissed before the last scene begins. The elimination of Sir Andrew and Sir Toby has thus numerous precedents. While clowns are withdrawn, however, the fool will return. Feste has a word to say to Malvolio, and he is even entrusted with the epilogue-song. Similarly, As You Like It has room for Touchstone and his Audrey.

9. Jenkins, p. 73. One cannot help suspecting that Orsino's extravagant threat to kill Cesario owes something to the desire to frighten us with a sufficiently lurid disaster. Northrop Frye's statement that “comedy contains a potential tragedy within itself” also comes to mind here: “Even in New Comedy, the dramatist usually tries to bring his action as close to a tragic overthrow of the hero as he can get it and reverses his movement as suddenly as possible.” “The Argument of Comedy,” in Essays in Shakespearian Criticism, ed J. L. Calderwood and H. E. Toliver (Englewood Cliffs, 1970), p. 53.

10. Shakespeare's Stagecraft (Cambridge U.P., 1967), p. 109ff.

11. Styan, p. 109.

12. Styan, p. 111, shows the ultimate refinement of this method in Lear, II.iv., where “the succession of entrances is used to … jar upon the nerves of the hero, each entrance a signal for the redoubling of his fury.”

13. The Merry Wives of Windsor, IV.v. 58ff.

14. Shakespeare's Professional Skills (Cambridge U.P., 1964), p. 25.

15. The World and Art of Shakespeare (Jerusalem, 1967), p. 167.

16. Shalvi, p. 167.

17. Jenkins, p. 73.

18. Aege.                                                  … but perhaps, my son,
    Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery.

    CEV.i.320

    Ant.                                                                                … his false cunning,
    Not meaning to partake with me in danger,
    Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
    And grew a twenty years removed thing
    While one would wink; …

    TNV.i.80

19. The central position of Twelfth Night in Shakespeare's work and the peculiar wealth of this play are both illustrated by the fact that while it harks back to his first comedy, it also looks forward to his last plays. Viola's

    Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

    III.iv.368

    and Orsino's reference to “this most happy wreck” evoke an idea which is central to Pericles and important in The Tempest. Likewise, the delayed recognition between Viola and Sebastian looks like a sketch for the much more protracted, almost painfully moving reunion of Pericles and Marina in Pericles, V.i.

20. Twelfth Night (1930), ll.274-275, n., p. 167.

21. See I.ii.47:

    There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain;
    And though that nature with a beauteous wall
    Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
    I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
    With this thy fair and outward character.

22. “Twelfth Night” and Shakespearian Comedy (Toronto U.P., 1965), p. 45.

23. Malvolio's appearance in V.i. is so important to Shakespeare that he breaks one of his rules. The audience is informed of what it already knows. However, we are rewarded with a piece of authentic, and welcome, news: Toby has married Maria after all.

24. H. H. Furness, in the New Variorum edition (1901), l.333, n., p. 308, sees her motive as somewhat more selfish. According to him, Olivia “wishes to silence the Duke's importunities for ever, by marrying him to Viola.” Since Olivia is as good as married to Sebastian, however, it would appear that Orsino is already silenced.

25. Leech, p. 38. In earlier comedies, villains and others who threaten to jeopardize the sense of harmony are either removed long before the end (Shylock), or converted and then allowed to participate in the happy ending (Oliver), or we hear that they will be duly punished (Don John). Some remove themselves because they cannot abide what others call happiness (Jaques). Malvolio is in a quite different category. His case produces a much more subtle effect, as Clifford Leech points out in his account of the peculiar uneasiness we sometimes feel in Illyria:

    To put Malvolio on a tragic level is to disregard the general effect of his appearance on the stage: rather, he is one of those comic figures at whom it is too easy to laugh, so easy that, before we know it, we have done harm and are ashamed.

    (“Twelfth Night” and Shakespearian Comedy, p. 44).

    Even if we add to this the agonizing experience of Antonio, for example, it remains an exaggeration to maintain that “the predominant mood” in Twelfth Night is “one of suffering.” (Shalvi, p. 168). When Malvolio is on stage in V.i., we may be disturbed even while the theatre echoes with our laughter. A comparable incident, though much less disturbing, is Dr. Caius' furious departure at the end of The Merry Wives of Windsor. He too voluntarily withdraws from the festive community, and storms out with the cry: “… be gar, I'll raise all Windsor.” (V.v.198). His exit has however no appreciable effect on the good humour of the ending. It is eclipsed by the generous rehabilitation of Falstaff, the “villain” who threatened the social order of Windsor. Once he is punished and even turned into a victim by the vicious “fairies,” he is invited to Mistress Page's “country fire.”