(1) It’s a cliché to say of the opening speech that it reveals Duke Orsino to be a man “in love with being in love.” Nevertheless, like most clichés, it’s true. What’s less noticed, but I think more significant, is how self-aware he is about it. He analyzes his condition and even rationalizes it. He is fickle, to the point where the Clown later thinks his doublet should be made of “changeable taffeta” as his “mind is a very opal.” He calls for more music and then seven lines later says “Enough, no more!”

This changeableness is of a piece with the “spirit of love” itself, which is “quick and fresh.” Later in the play he will say the lover is “unstaid and skittish in all motions” save the image of the beloved, and then a few lines later he adapts this to say that even those fancies (of love) remain “giddy and unfirm.” Nothing can satisfy the spirit of love, even for a minute, except the work of the imagination. Indeed it is the fancy that is constantly undercutting love. It alone is high fantastical, which is to say it’s even better than the real thing. And so the Duke prefers to live in a world of imagination, especially if it involves lying in a bed canopied with flowers. Perhaps reading romance novels, or watching porn. OK, that modern reference may jar, but you tell me that what the Duke is describing here isn’t the Renaissance version of edging.

The Duke’s mooning over Olivia is often compared to Romeo’s love for Rosalind before he sees Juliet. And I think we all get the feeling by the end of the scene that these two posers deserve each other. But again the difference is that the Duke is aware of the fact that he’s just playing a game, as (or so he supposes) is Olivia, and that the chase is more fun than actually getting what he wants, which will only lead to his loss of appetite. He’d rather be pursued by his fell desires than have them catch up to him. And this is something he’s thought about.

Shakespeare’s great theme is the world as a stage and our lives all performances. This is most obvious in his political plays (kings are always conscious of playing to an audience), but it’s just as important in the romances and comedies. It’s certainly the structuring principle in Twelfth Night, and for the skill with which it’s introduced here I think this the best opening speech in the canon.

(2) Does Orsino’s self-awareness make him cynical? I think the shoe fits. Illyria is a profoundly cynical place. It’s not one of Shakespeare’s magical, topsy-turvy forest worlds of freedom and liberty, where “Nothing that is so is so.” That only happens when everything gets disrupted by the new arrivals. Normally, it’s a world where everything has its place and its price. I think Feste has more coins tossed at him than any other fool of Shakespeare’s. Olivia, when targeting Cesario, calculates what she’ll need to “bestow of him”: “For youth more oft is bought than begged or borrowed.” You have to pay for the young stuff! Toy boys don’t come cheap, even in Illyria. Viola, meanwhile, is offended at the notion of receiving pay for her services (“I am no fee’d post.”). She’s from out of town, and I’m left feeling that neither she nor her brother are going to be happy long in this place.

The final scene goes further in underlining the underlying nastiness. Sir Toby isn’t a jolly Falstaff (to which he’s often compared) but an angry drunk. Which is to say, the worst kind. His line “I would we were well rid of this knavery” after the abuse of the imprisoned Malvolio is often seen as his expressing a moment of conscience. In fact, as the immediate follow-up makes clear, he is only concerned about offending his niece and putting his longer game at risk. In his final lines he explodes on Sir Andrew in an uncalled for way, revealing the hate that fuels his cruel pranks. Orsino threatens Viola with some unspeakable torment (“My thoughts are ripe in mischief”) just to spite Olivia. It’s all about getting back, getting revenge: “I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love. To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.” Not nice! But not to be outdone in this orgy of nastiness, Feste turns out to have been a bitter grievance collector all this time, waiting for the “whirligig of time” to bring him his revenges on Malvolio. You’d think a professional fool would have a tougher skin. And finally Malvolio stalks off threatening his own revenge on everyone, and not without cause.

What was Malvolio’s crime? “He hath been most notoriously abused,” but why? Because he’s a Puritan spoilsport? I don’t think so. I think a more likely reason lies in the way cynical people naturally tear each other apart. Malvolio may be a responsible steward (and in that household someone has to do the job), but he’s also a climber who gives himself airs. Imagine him having a chance with Olivia! As the Reverend Elton explains to Emma, “Everybody has their level.” And he (the Reverend) should know, as he was trying to be a climber too. Sir Andrew is, unconsciously, also aware of this: delighting in playing the same trick on Malvolio that is already being played on him. That’s psychologically apt and a very nice touch.

What I mean by cynics tearing each other apart is that when you’re just using people to get ahead the thing that really makes you mad is seeing other people using people to get ahead. Malvolio at least has a job; Sir Toby and Maria are only mean-spirited parasites, feeding off Olivia or Sir Andrew’s three thousand ducats a year. And being parasites they see everyone else as having the same jealous motivations. Malvolio is a threat not because he’s a killjoy but because he’s competition. The same sort of attitude can be seen in Valentine’s suspicion, noted by Viola, of how quickly Cesario has risen in Duke Orsino’s affections. This is just the kind of place Illyria is. Cynical. Nasty.

(3) What with all of the present day’s obsessions over gender fluidity and gender obsessions, Twelfth Night is as current now as it’s ever been. Is the play’s interest in these matters superficial though? Is there anything more to it than just cross-dressing and a change of pronouns?

Instances of true homosexual attraction are rare in Shakespeare. Seeing any of that going on involves a fair bit of reading between the lines, and building up cases of same-sex affection that may have been only literary conventions in 1600. These same conventions may have been strategies to work around the fact that Shakespeare couldn’t very well have presented a loving homosexual couple on stage at the time. Antonio in this play (much like Antonio in The Merchant of Venice) is one example of a same-sex bond that today we’re likely to look at as representing sublimated sexual feelings. It just seems as though there must be something more going on in this place than friendship can account for.

That said, Duke Orsino wins my vote as the most openly gay character in Shakespeare. Of course here we’re reading between the lines here too, but many critics have pointed to the significance of the way Viola never puts on her “woman’s weeds” at the end of the play, and that Orsino takes her hand calling her “boy.” As Tony Tanner puts it: “It is possible that Orsino actually prefers her as Cesario – the adoring, beautiful boy servant.” Which is much like the role Olivia has in mind for him.

But then, Viola seems to like being Orsino’s boy. There’s no particular reason why she adopts male dress in the first place. What should she do in Illyria? Why, play dress-up. Sebastian, in comparison, just wants to wander about and play the tourist: “let us satisfy our eyes / With the memorials and the things of fame / That do renown the city.” Then he’ll hit the pub. But Viola jumps right away at the chance to play a eunuch and then a young man. I wonder if she heard something more about Orsino from her father, and she chooses to put on drag to conquer. All of which makes me ask what Sebastian means when he says that “nature in her bias drew” Olivia to Cesario. Is it a bias in Orsino’s nature that drew him to the same boy?

A story best known today for its progressive views on race. And it still feels progressive well over a hundred years later.

A man named Grant Munro comes to Holmes concerned about the strange behaviour of his wife, Effie. She’d been previously married to a man living in Atlanta, Georgia who she’d had a child with. Both this husband and child had reportedly died in a fire. Munro claims to have seen the death certificate. Or more specifically, he says he’s seen the husband’s death certificate. This is actually a clever bit of clue-dropping. Of course, when we hear that he’s seen the death certificate (actually not in use in Georgia for another twenty years) we immediately think it must be bogus. Because why else mention it? But what we might not register is that he only says he’s seen the husband’s death certificate.

As it turns out the child is alive. Holmes speculates that the wife is being blackmailed by her still-living first husband, who has moved into a nearby cottage. Meanwhile, what’s really happened is that a truculent Scottish governess is living there with Effie’s daughter, who has been seen looking out the second-floor window while wearing a yellow mask.

There are two twists. First, Effie isn’t being blackmailed by her first husband. Second: her daughter is “a little coal-black negress.” Effie had, you see, “cut herself off from my race to wed” a Black man. After overcoming a bit of shock, however, Grant scoops the child up and agrees to adopt her, claiming to be a better man than his wife has credited him with being.

I call the husband’s views progressive, but Wikipedia goes further in finding them “extraordinarily liberal for the 1890s.” Though interracial marriage wasn’t illegal in Britain at the time, I think the reveal here would still have been quite something. For comparison, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles had just come out in 1891. This story was published in 1893. So they’re almost exactly contemporary. In Tess, Angel is so appalled when he finds out Tess had been effectively raped as a sixteen-year-old and had a child who died, that he abandons her and flees to Brazil. Diff’rent strokes indeed.

Watson introduces the story as one of Holmes’s rare failures, even though everything turned out well in the end. He tries to excuse Holmes’s shortcomings by saying that it was “when he was at his wits’ ends that his energy and his versatility were most admirable,” but the fact is that his guess as to the inhabitant of the cottage was nothing but the wildest speculation. Which, in turn, quite undercuts all his boasting about not indulging in a lot of guesswork in the absence of facts. But as regular readers should have known by now, Holmes is actually quite a fantasist, and while most of his solutions turn out to be accurate they are just as often as not lucky shots.

A little point that caught my attention is that when Effie gets up in the middle of the night to visit the cottage, Munro checks the time by taking his watch “from under the pillow.” This triggered very old memories of sleeping with my watch under my pillow. Memories so old now I can’t be sure if this is something I actually ever did. But at least it wasn’t unheard of, back in the day.

Holmes index