Although I am no fox…
“Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool” (1.5.64-65)
Something strange has happened in this house during my absence. I can see it in the Malvolio’s brand new swagger. And of course I can here it in Malvolio’s countless retellings of his afternoon adventure: “There it is in your eye! If it be worth stooping for…”
Apparently a young man sent by the Duke had the “audacity and unmitigated gall” (Malvolio’s words) to leave a ring that my lady has no interest in keeping. Malvolio practically kicked his heels with delight as he was sent off to break the poor Duke’s heart. And—apparently—since the young man denied the ring belonged to him Malvolio threw it on the street in front of him.
By many accounts—Sir Toby’s included—I am no fox: I drink late at night with my lady’s cousin; I disappear for days; I call my lady a fool by way of apology. But Malvolio is no fox either. He burns too many bridges and agitates too many decent people with his strict adherence to the rules.
And to tell the truth I am worried that his self-love will set him up for a fall. I heard from Toby that last night—after I escaped Malvolio’s glare—that Maria has threated to avenge herself on him. According to Toby, she plans to leave an “epistle of love” in Olivia’s writing for Malvolio to find, in which she will describe her intense admiration for the man.
O poor fool!
I want to watch this happen to Malvolio for calling me unfunny in front of my lady and for bullying me in front of my drinking buddies. And I am certain that Maria is clever enough to pull it off. If this plan works and he acts on the instructions of the letter, then I don’t think he could possibly remain employed in this household. Ha-ha! I will dance on his discarded chains of office!
Meanwhile, if Toby manages to stay sober for only a short while, he will discover that Maria is a very good match for him. Sir Andrew, however, has no chance with Olivia; my lady has said that she wants to marry someone with less intelligence, but I don’t think she means that little.
This is Puck. He is angry in this picture because this is the third piece of bread we tried.
This is Motley Crue. It is what fools listen to. It is embarrassing.
This is motley. It is what fools wear. It is fashionable.
Let’s get this Feste started! (Feste means “party” in Spanish, right?)
“Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any Illyria” (1.1.22-24)
This is Feste typing inside of the internet. This blog will be my outlet to express my frustration that although I know EVERYTHING about EVERYONE around me, no one listens to me. Like just today, I’m all like: Maria-if-he-stops-drinking-he-will-like-you-back, and then she goes all like, “Peace, you rogue!” Like, like, like… you know.
Gah! And then my mopping mistress is too busy behaving the way she thinks she should that she is unable to enjoy her life. That’s why I say that although my clothes are made of motley, my brain isn’t.
My likes include behaving roguishly (i.e. going missing for days… bear-baiting n’ stuff) and then cunningly unreasoning my way out of it. Did anything I said to Olivia really make sense? (Other than the brother stuff.) No.
My dislikes include Malvolio. I cannot stand that guy. I would rather eat my unwashed motley socks than spend one more afternoon in that man’s company. He takes himself far too seriously. And if I’m not more careful, he’s going to get me fired. It’s a good thing my lady told him that he takes my “bird-bolts” for “cannonballs” this afternoon, but I can only count on her good humour for so long. I mean, all I did was call his intelligence into question… but then it was tamer than the alternative: pointing out his shrivelled liver. I can’t remember the last time that Malvolio has betrayed that he harbours human emotions in the cavernous void of his soul.
I am unhappy that Olivia is unhappy. While he is entertaining, I am unhappy that Toby drinks so much—because I think that watching him finally notice Maria would be even more entertaining. It would appear that I live off of the thrill of vicarious experiences.
I need to get a better hobby.
I can explain why it is generally a bad idea to do the things that the internet tells you to do in two words: cat breading.
My first mistake was taking a piece of bread and pressing my cat’s face into. It did not work and my cat was not pleased. I ended up with Puck’s face imprint on a stale piece of bread. Further research into cat breading revealed that cutting a hole in the bread is an important first step.
The fact that my cat was still perched on the back of the couch when I returned from the kitchen highlights—while I may be a mindless drone for obeying strange and impractical internet memes—that I am still smarter than my cat.
Attempt number two was more successful. The cat was successfully breaded, but I had some difficulty taking the picture while he squirmed around. I now have a several pictures of the side of his head. It looks a lot like I was following him around the mall all day trying to get the right picture to hang in my locker. Creepy.
After the second attempt, Puck bolted and hid in the box spring of my bed. I think I’ll wait a few days before I try again.