“M—Malvolio; M—why, that begins my name!” came the sudden flash of discovery.
The succeeding letters were not so easy to explain, for they did not follow in their proper order. But Malvolio was not discouraged; he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that every one of these letters was in his name.
“Soft! There follows prose,” he continued.
“If this fall into thy hands, reflect,” ran the absurd epistle. “In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness; some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands, and to accustom thyself to what thou art likely to be, throw off thy humble shell, and appear afresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of State; put thyself into the trick of singularity; she thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered—I say, remember! Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee,
“The Fortunate-Unhappy.”
There was also a postscript, which said:
“Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling. Thy smiles become thee well, therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.”
This ridiculous letter quite turned poor Malvolio’s head. He never doubted but that Olivia had really written it; he resolved in rapture to do everything he was bidden, and hurried away to put on as quickly as possible the yellow stockings and cross-garters.
Maria was delighted with the success of her trick, for all the things she had commended to Malvolio were what Olivia especially disliked.
“He will come to my lady in yellow stockings, and it is a colour she abhors,” she cried gleefully; “and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests. And he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into great contempt.”