This is Part III of several Director’s Notes blog entries on Twelfth Night: Act 2, Scene 5.
The Sophy refers to the Shah of Persia, who is plentiful rich, and might be one of the few people the Elizabethans all know who can afford to “pay a pension of thousands” (as opposed to trade in buildings and land, as the budget-cut English monarchy had been resorting to. read: real payment!). Toby’s totally delighted, and Andrew, too (though, he just echos Toby):
Fabian: I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
Toby: I could marry this wench for this device.
Andrew: So could I too.
Toby: And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest.
Andrew: Nor I neither.
Maria returns — after the spectacle with the tree guys behind the boxtree, and Malvolio giving his ego-solo.
Fabian seems the only one who still has his wits about him. Toby and Andrew are head over heels in awe of Maria, Toby even asking if Maria would let him kiss her foot, or become her slave:
Fabian: Here comes my noble gull catcher.
Toby: Wilt thou let thy foot o’my neck?
Andrew: Or o’mine either?
Toby: Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bondslave?
Andrew: I’faith, or I either?
Toby continues speculating on Malvolio, saying that if Malvolio is so deep in his delusions, he’d go crazy when he finds the truth. Maria, perhaps still holding her breath on whether it’d worked, finally asks the direct question. Toby assures her, that it’s worked precisely and perfectly:
Toby: Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad.
Maria: Nay but say true, do’s it work upon him?
Toby: Like Aqua vitae with a Midwife.
Maria, now assured of how badly Malvolio’s fallen, reveals the full evilness of her plan:
Maria: If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my Lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross garter’d, a fashion she detests: and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy, as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it follow me.
Toby is now giddiy with wild abandon, raging about going to the gates of hell. The trio follow her out, with Andrew loitering just slightly behind, still confused, but giving the last word:
Toby: To the gates of Tarter, thou most excellent devil of wit.
Andrew: I’ll make one too.
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