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Shakespeare's Tempest.
The great and striking peculiarity of this play is that its action lies wholly in the ideal world. It differs, therefore, from every other work of Shakespeare in the character of its mediation. Our poet, in most of his dramas, portrays the real world, and exhibits man as acting from clear conscious motives, and not from supernatural influences. But here he completely reverses his procedure; from beginning to end the chief instrumentalities of the poem are external; its conflicts and solutions are brought about by powers seemingly beyond human might and intelligence.
It should, however, be classified with "As You Like it" and "Midsummer Night's Dream," in both of which the ideal world is the grand mediating principle. But in these two plays the real world is also present, and there is in the coarse of the action a transition from one to the other. Hence, too, there follows a change of place and time, and the so-called unities must be violated. But the "Tempest" has not this double element: with the first scene we are in the magic realm of the island and its influences, which do not cease till the last line of the play. Hence it is more unique, more homogeneous, than the two dramas before mentioned; the unities of time and place can be observed, and the action lies wholly in the ideal world.
It is now the duty of the interpreter to translate these poetic forms and mediations into Thought. Thus he gives the same meaning, the same content, which is found in the play; but he addresses the Reason and Understanding instead of the Imagination. What Shakespeare expresses in poetry he must express in prose, and moreover must supply the logical nexus which the imaginative form cannot give. Hence, above all things, let him not fall into the error of merely substituting one poetical shape for another, whereby nothing is explained and only confusion is increased. If Prospero is called Shakespeare, or by any other name, what is gained by the change? The same difficulties remain for Thought as before. The task is not easy, nor is it likely to give satisfaction at first to the reader; for these beautiful ideal shapes must perish before our eyes and be transformed into the dry, abstract forms of prose. The contrast is striking, perhaps repulsive; but, if we wish to comprehend and not merely to enjoy Shakespeare, there is no alternative.
Let us bring before our minds the leading elements of the play. First, Alonso and his company represent the real world; but they have arrived at a magic isle where they are under the sway of unknown external agencies. Within certain limits they still can act through themselves, but their chief movements are determined from without by the ideal world, Ariel and his spirits, who constitute the second element. Thus the fact is indicated that the ideal, supernatural world is master of the real, natural world. Thirdly, there is Prospero, a being who commands both, yet partakes of both these principles, the real and the ideal, the natural and the supernatural: he is connected by nationality and even by family with those in the ship, but is at the same time lord of Ariel and of the spirit-world, who fulfil his behests with implicit obedience.
Here appears the two-fold nature of Prospero, which is the pivotal point of the drama, and hence its comprehension must be our first object. He controls the elements, he is gifted with foresight, he possesses absolute power; yet he has been expelled from his throne and country. To be sure, there is the difference of time between his expulsion and his present greatness, but this cannot adequately account for the change. Let us try to explain these two elements of his character, as they have been elaborated fully by the poet in the course of the drama. In the first place, Prospero must manifest the finite side
of his nature. As an individual, he comes in contact with other individuals and things; in general, with the realm of finitude in which he himself is finite.
Limitation begets struggle; thus arise the collisions of life. Many men, it seems, have been his superiors in these struggles; his brother is a much more practical man — has dethroned him and driven him off. Such is Prospero the individual, and as such he collides with various forms of finite existence. He has been hitherto defeated in these conflicts. This is the one element. But Prospero also possesses the side of universality; he is spirit, intelligence, which comprehends, solves, and portrays all the collisions of the finite world. It is only through long discipline and devoted study that he has attained this power. His pursuit of knowledge, moreover, cost him his dukedom, and hence was the source of his chief conflict — that with his brother.
He thus stands for spirit in its highest potence, the Universal, but he is at the same time individual, and hence is exposed to the realm of finite relation and struggle, which, however, his reason must bring into a harmonious unity.
But his spiritual activity is mostly confined to a special form of intelligence, that form which embodies its content in pictures and symbols, namely, the creative Imagination. Prospero does not employ pure thought, but poetic shapes and images. He must therefore be the Poet, who has within him the world in ideal forms, and hence possesses over it an absolute power. He calls up from the vasty deep whatever shapes he wishes in order to execute his purposes and perform his mediations. Thus he solves all the contradictions in which he as an individual is involved, and subdues all the influences which come within his magic circle. For he is this universal power, and in the sphere of ideality, in the realm of spirit, nothing can resist him. The revenge of Prospero is therefore ideal, for certainly our poet would never have taken such instrumentalities to portray a real revenge. Moreover, the play must end in reconciliation, the harmony of the Individual with the Universal; for spirit possesses just this power over the conflicts of finite existence: it must show itself to be master.
In this way we can account for the commanding position of Prospero in the drama. He is the grand central figure, the absolute power who controls ultimately the movements of every person and from whom all the action proceeds. The form of mediation is therefore external; but, truly considered, Prospero is no deus ex machina , no merely external divinity brought in to cut the knot that cannot be untied. The interpretation must always exhibit him inside of the action; the clew is his double nature. As an individual, he is engaged in conflict; but then he steps back, beholds and portrays that conflict, and solves it through spirit in the form of Imagination. He is therefore the mediator of his own collisions; thus externality falls away. The solution is hence not external, which would be the case if the absolute power simply stood outside of the action, and commanded everything to take place. It is the special duty of the critic to explain these external mediations, of which the play is full, into a clear, spiritual signification.
Prospero is, therefore, the mighty spirit standing behind and portraying the collisions of his own individual life and of finite existence generally. But this is not enough to account for his activity. He could easily put his experiences and struggles in a drama without invoking the aid of the supernatural' world. The necessity of this element must be seen. If he would give a complete picture of his own activity, he mast not only portray the above-mentioned conflicts, but also portray himself as portraying them. In other words, he must depict himself as Poet, as Universal; he must give an account of his own process, and that account must also be in a poetic form. This will push the
about through Ariel; it is, therefore, not a tempest which has taken place through natural causes, but through spiritual causes: it is, evidently, a poetical tempest. For certainly Shakespeare would not have us believe that storms are produced by spirits ordinarily; but this one certainly is. What, then, does the author mean? for his conduct here assuredly needs explanation. I, think he tells us, in saying that Ariel, by command of Prospero, caused the tempest and dispersed the company, that tempests are called up by the Poet — that they are a poetical instrument employed to bring about a separation of parties, and to scatter them into different places as here.
We are, therefore, led to inquire whether Shakespeare himself has ever employed this means in any of his dramas. Accordingly, we find the same instrumentality in "Twelfth Night" and "Comedy of Errors" used for the same purpose. It is an artifice of the Poet for scattering, or possibly uniting, his characters in an external manner. Here then, in the very first scene, the Poet is portraying his own process.
The second scene of the First Act, which now follows, is the most important one in the play, for it gives the key to the action. A careful analysis of all its elements will therefore be necessary. First appears before us the Family, the primary relation of man — here that of father and daughter, the latter of whom speaks in the first line of her parent's art, which she herself, being purely individual, does not possess, but still knows of. The relation is a natural one, not spiritual, between parent and child. She is excited by sympathy for the sufferers, when the father assures her that no one has perished — in fact, no one can perish — in the vessel.
Again we ask the question, why this confidence of Prospero that all will be saved? The prevision in his art, which he speaks of, is that of the Poet, who ordains beforehand, by the strictest necessity, the course of the action and the fate of the characters, and knows what kind of a drama he is going to write. He lays down his magic mantle — that is, he assumes the individual relation to his daughter — and then begins to give an account of his life and conflicts as an individual. Here, then, he relates his first collision: a brother, with the aid of a foreign king, has driven him from his dukedom.
Nor does Prospero conceal the cause of his banishment. He neglected the Practical for the Theoretical; he handed over the administration of his government to others, and devoted his time to his books, his study, his art. The logic of this transition is evident. He cuts loose from the real world, and the real word retorts by cutting loose from him — drives him off. Where, now, is he? Having severed all his individual relations, he is manifestly left just in his ideal realm. But there is one tie which he cannot break; he is a father: this bond still unites him to finite existence; or, if he must depart for the ideal world, the daughter must go along. The two therefore, are put in a vessel together, and reach the magic island. Prospero intimates that it was this relation which saved him, otherwise he would have given that final stroke which dissolves all individual relations:
Mir. Alack, what trouble was I then to you! Pro. O, a cherubim Thou wast, that didst preserve me. Thou didst smile Infused with a fortitude from heaven.
The nature of the transition of Prospero from the real to the ideal world is thus made manifest. It differs, therefore, from "As You Like it," where there is a similar transition, based, however, upon the flight from the World of Wrong.
It also differs from "Midsummer Night's Dream," where there is likewise a similar transition, based, however, upon the flight from the world of Institutions or of Right. But in the "Tempest" this transition is based upon the flight from the whole finite world of conflict, of individual relation, of practical activity; and hence necessarily lands Prospero in the magic island, in an ideal world.
It is furthermore to be noticed that both parties have their just and their unjust element. Prospero is wronged; he is dispossessed of his recognized rights by violence. Yet he himself is not without guilt; the real world has a claim upon him as ruler, which claim he has totally ignored. Hence the play must result in reconciliation and not in the death of the wrong-doers. Prospero as Poet must see both sides and represent them in their truth, and cannot avenge himself as an individual. This drama, therefore, will not have a tragic termination; it must, as previously stated, end in the repentance of the one party and forgiveness of the other.
Prospero thus brings the story of his life down to the tempest, embracing the conflicts of his individual existence. His enemies, wrecked in the ship, are now scattered over the island and in his power. Here begins the action proper of the drama. But behold! Miranda sleeps in the presence of the spirit-world; she is mortal, individual merely — she possesses not the vision and faculty divine. It is no wonder that she cannot choose but sleep in the invisible world, for eyes cannot help her. But who appears here in this spirit-realm? An airy being called Ariel, who seems not to be restrained by any bonds of Space and Time, who flies abroad and performs on land and sea the behests of his master. He was the cause of the shipwreck we now learn, and he gives a vivid account of his feats in that work. Again an explanation is demanded, and we feel compelled to say that Ariel is that element of Prospero before designated as Imagination, which thus gives an account to itself of its own deeds in a poetic form. For Ariel controls the elements, is sovereign over the powers of Nature, and directs them for the accomplishment of his master's purposes.
In general, he seems to perform every essential mediation in the entire poem. What possesses this power but Imagination? Yet Me must not press this meaning too closely, for Shakespeare does not allegorize, but always individualizes; he fills out his characters, whether they be natural or supernatural, to their sensuous completeness. We shall observe that there are many sides given which are necessary to the image, but not necessary to the thought even when the thought preponderates. Therefore these Shakespearean creations cannot be interpreted as allegories, in which each particular stroke has its separate signification, but rather the purport of the whole should be seized and its general movement.
But this dainty spirit Ariel is not wholly satisfied with his lot; he has that absolute aspiration of intelligence — nay, of Nature herself — namely, the aspiration for freedom. What is meant here by freedom? merely to get rid of labor and then be idle? We think not; it is rather to accomplish the work in hand — to embody itself in some grand result: this is the toil of Spirit, of the Imagination. The freedom is the realization of its end, when the Imagination has clothed itself in an adequate form, which process, it may be added, can only be completed at the close of the poem; then Ariel is dismissed to the elements. But he never could have been free unless he realized aspiration in ah objective form. It will thus be seen that Ariel quite corresponds to that element of Prospero's character which was called Spirit, Intelligence, or the Universal as opposed to the Individual.
So much is introductory. The Poet has elaborated all his instrumentalities, has brought the story of his life down to the time of the action, and is now ready to portray the collisions of the play. Our Ariel brings to the fair maiden a lover — the Poet never fails to do so. By his mysterious music, Ferdinand, one of the ship's company, is led to Miranda. Both fall in love at first sight; the natural unity of sex, which calls forth the Family, asserts itself on the spot. What else could happen? Ferdinand is alone in the world, Miranda is almost so — only her father is known to her. If man and woman belong together, certainly these two must feel their inseparableness, for there is nobody else to whom they can belong. It is the old climax: admiration, sympathy, love. "They are both in either's powers"; each one finds his or her existence in the other. But now appears the obstacle, for the course of true love can never run smooth — at least, in a drama. The collision so frequently portrayed by Shakespeare again arises for a new treatment, that between the will of the parent and the choice of the daughter. Prospero opposes the match, charges Ferdinand with being a traitor and spy, and lays upon him the menial task of removing "some thousands of logs." But Miranda is present with consolation and even offers to assist in the labor; the young prince bravely stands the trial — he is willing to undergo any toil for love's sake. The mutual declaration is made; then follows the mutual promise the unity of feeling is complete. It is the essence of all love-stories.
The next time we meet with the father in this connection, he has yielded his objections and sealed their pledge with his consent. But all along we have been aware that his opposition was feigned, that he intended from the start to acquiesce in their marriage. In fact, he was the very person that brought it about. For his conduct he has adduced an external motive: "lest too light winning make the prize light." Still deeper is the design which he cherishes of not only restoring his daughter to his own possessions, but also of making her queen of Naples. But the true internal necessity for his opposition being feigned lies in his double nature. The Poet, who is none other than Prospero himself, interposes an obstacle — the refusal of the parent — which parent, also, is none other than Prospero himself. As father he stands in an individual relation to his daughter and comes into conflict with her; but as Poet he has brought about this conflict, and must solve it by giving validity to the right of choice.
Such is the solution demanded by reason, and the one which Shakespeare universally gives to such a collision. Prospero knows, therefore, from the beginning that his daughter will triumph — in fact, that he must make her triumph. The key to his conduct is that the father or individual and the Poet or Universal are one and the same man.
The right of choice is therefore victorious over the will of the parent, a right which, though generally conceded at the present time, was once stoutly contested. Their love has been portrayed through its successive stages: the first predilection, the mutual declaration, the secret plight of troth, the consent of the father. But one thing more remains to be done: the ceremony with full and holy rite must be ministered. Upon this point Prospero lays the greatest stress; he speaks of it no less than three times in different places. Without the formal solemnization of marriage their union cannot be ethical; it can only bring forth the most baleful weeds — hate, disdain, and discord. Lust is not love; indeed it is the destruction of genuine love: a Caliban cannot truly enter the marriage relation.
Moreover, the ceremony gives reality to the Family, which hitherto existed only in the subjective emotions of the parties. Religion (or the State in our time) comes in with its sanction and objectifies their union — makes it an institution in the world.
The marriage rite is therefore not a meaningless and unnecessary formality. Yet the origin and primal basis of the Family is love, which the Poet has here portrayed in all its fervor. But by itself simply, and ungoverned, it degenerates into lust. Our author would teach the lesson, if we understand him, that the ethical element and the emotional element must both be present in true affection; for it is destroyed by the Ethical alone, which is the case when the daughter is wholly obedient, and simply follows the will of the parent, and lets him choose for her. She thus cannot have much intensity in her love, and hence Miranda insists upon her affection, and the father at last yields.
On the other hand, passion alone without any ethical restraint is even more fatal to love. Now both these elements in their one-sidedness are represented by Shakespeare as antagonistic to the unity of marriage. The truth is, the Emotional must be regulated, restrained, and made permanent, by the Ethical; and the Ethical, which now takes the form of devotion to husband or wife instead of obedience to parent, must be tilled, vivified, and intensified, by the Emotional.
Next comes the masque, whose connection with the rest of the play must be carefully studied, for it reveals more than anything else in the work the special character of Prospero as Poet. He calls up Ariel, who, it will be noticed, always appears when some important mediation of the drama is about to be performed. For what purpose is he now invoked? Mark the language of Prospero:
I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art; it is my promise And they expect it from me.
At once there rise up before us the goddesses of the ancient Greek world, the poetical forms of all ages. These, then, are the spirits over which Prospero has power through his minister Ariel; this, too, is his art, which has brought forth all the other wonderful shapes of the poem. They are the beautiful forms of the Imagination, over which the Poet alone has control.
But let us notice the content of this little interlude: what will be its theme? Nothing else but what has already taken place, only in a new form for the lovers, who thus behold a representation of their own unity. The main-spring of the action is Juno, the spouse of the king of Gods and Men; therefore both the type and guardian of wifehood, of chastity, of domestic life. She sends Iris, her many-colored messenger, for Ceres —
A contract of true love to celebrate. And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers.
Such is the object of the visit of the two goddesses, which is still more precisely expressed by each in their songs: Juno particularly confers marriage-blessing and honor — Ceres, physical comfort and prosperity. But mark that Venus and her blind boy are invited to stay away. They represent unholy lust; they plotted the means whereby dusky Dis, or devilish sensuality, carried off the innocent Proserpine, the daughter of Ceres, to the infernal regions. Thus the ethical element is again emphasized. The relation of Prospero as parent, as individual, has now been portrayed, as well as the collision resulting therefrom and its solution. But he is also Poet, and hence must
conveniently scattered the ship's company into groups, in one of which are to be found all the offenders. But first there arises a conflict among themselves. There are three good characters — that is, those without guilt — Gonzalo, Adrian, and Francisco; opposed to these are the three wicked ones — Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian. The two latter show their hatred, especially of the honest Gonzalo, by bitter ridicule, while Alonso is beginning to feel repentance for his deeds through the loss of his son. Yet a deeper retribution appears to be impending over him: he has aided in dethroning a brother; a brother now threatens to dethrone him. The same man whom he assisted seems about to punish him. But his repentance will save him from final overthrow.
So much for Alonso; Antonio is a much worse man. His conduct is consistent; he cannot stop in his negative career; he must continue dispossessing and assailing the rights of others, for that is the logical necessity of his character. Having wrongfully expelled his nearest relative, he very naturally begins to plot against his greatest benefactor, the king of Naples. But the poetical mediator Ariel is again on hand to prevent the consummation of the plan; the Poet cannot let the matter end in that way.
The main poetical mediation is next to be accomplished, of course through Ariel. It is reconciliation by repentance. Repentance means that man has the power to make his wicked deed undone, as far as its influence upon his own mind is concerned. He can free himself from remorse, from the consequence of his own negative act. But the repentance must be complete; it includes the confession of the wrong, contrition adequate to its magnitude, and an entire restoration of its advantages. Spirit thus becomes again at peace with itself, and is relieved from its own destructive gnawings. This reconciliation is therefore a spiritual process, and hence must be accomplished by the representative of spirit, Ariel.
The three criminals are in the presence of Prospero, who is invisible to them; they are hence in the presence of their own wrong; retribution is at hand. Again we urge upon the reader to keep in mind the double nature of Prospero: as individual he has suffered these injuries, but as universal he is the Poet who mediates and portrays them. He therefore puts into operation his spirit-world, whose main object is now to excite conscience, to rouse remorse. They are hungry; a banquet is spread before them by several strange shapes. When the king and the rest begin eating, the banquet vanishes. Thus it is indicated to them that a power beyond their consciousness is at work in the isle. Here he is — Ariel — who now drops his invisible form and appears to them like a harpy, the symbol of vengeance. He calls himself Destiny, or a minister of Fate; his function is retribution. He comes to avenge the wrong done to Prospero,
for which foul deed The powers, delaying;, not forgetting, have Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all creatures. Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce by me Lingering perdition — worse than any death
So far it resembles that external power which the Greeks called Fate, and which even controlled Jupiter himself. But is there no salvation from the wicked deed? Hear Ariel again:
... whose [the powers'] wraths to guard you from— Which here in this most desolate isle else falls
Upon your heads — is nothing but heart's sorrow, And a clear life ensuing.
"What a wonderful change! Ariel is no longer the representative of Grecian Fate, but is a preacher of Christian Gospel, whose doctrine is repentance — "heart's sorrow and a clear life ensuing." Man can now avoid the retribution of ancient Destiny. Though Ariel has assumed this shape to the wicked three, yet the reader has all along known that it was merely a poetical form; that Ariel, in reality, is not a minister of Fate, but of Prospero, of spirit, of self-determination.
Thus the three "men of sin" are brought to a consciousness of their crimes; they wax desperate at their guilt, which now reacts negatively upon their minds — "like poison, 'gins to bite the spirits." The innocent three weep over them, "brimful of sorrow and dismay." When the guilty have sufficiently atoned for the wrongs which they have committed, Prospero is ready to grant forgiveness; he declares that their repentance is "the sole drift of his purpose." The frenzy begins to subside after they enter his charmed circle; gradually reason returns, and Prospero, though invisible, tells to their innermost conscience the nature of their crimes and the consequent punishment. All is now plain to them subjectively. But, to remove the last doubt, Prospero presents himself to their eyes looking just as when lie was Duke of Milan, and confirms his previous utterances. Alonso, in particular, repents in the most heartfelt manner, surrenders the advantages of his wrong, and asks pardon; he makes his deed undone as far as lies in his power. Therefore his son is restored to him: the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda receives blessing; thus it is ethically complete, having received the sanction of both parents.
It is evident that the ability which the mind possesses of healing its own wounds, of cancelling its own negative deeds, is here portrayed. Spirit alone can reconcile itself with itself and come to inner harmony. For if it is truly universal, it must have the power to mediate all its conflicts. Therefore the play cannot have a tragic termination, as was before stated. It must end in reconciliation, mediation. Prospero himself, in his highest potence, represents this absolute might of spirit, which cannot succumb 'to any struggle, but must overcome every conflict. Though Shakespeare has to a certain extent employed the heathen form of Fate, he has truly expressed the Christian doctrine of Repentance.
We are now ready to take up the third thread, the collision between Prospero and Caliban. The character and origin of the latter have already been noticed; it was stated that he represented the natural man— man still immersed in his senses and not yet elevated to a rational existence. He therefore must collide with the world of spirit represented by Prospero, for the reason that it necessarily subordinates him and even reduces him to a slave. Such is the function of the senses — they are the pack-horses of intelligence; and the physical man, even if he constitute the whole man, must follow the same law. Caliban is therefore a menial of the lowest type, and is set to performing the most degrading services for Prospero. His ignorance and utter slavishness to the External are manifest from the fact that he cannot comprehend either the mediations of Spirit or of Nature; he regards them as ghosts and goblins sent to torment him. ....
The next thing, therefore, is the appearance of the representatives of this element, Trinculo and Stephano. They, too, have been separated from the ship's company by the tempest, and from a natural attraction of character have been brought together with Caliban. Here we see the sensual trio made up from the ship and the island. The two strangers bear the stamp of reality, are men of flesh and blood, belong therefore to
participate, to a certain extent at least, in his own double character. Each person through repentance reflects Prospero, and places himself in unity with him. Nor must his double nature be Considered anything strange or unknown. It is found more or less developed in every soul. As a moral, and particularly as a thinking being, man must solve the conflicts of his individual existence. Indeed, the sum of all conflicts, and the greatest of all contradictions, is the one above mentioned which in abstract language was called that between the Individual and Universal. Nay, the mightiest of men — for he was a man — whose spirit, however, raised him to be a divinity — Christ himself — was he not the embodiment of this contradiction?
A celebrated sarcasm was once uttered concerning him: "Yes, Christ was able to save the whole world, but couldn't save himself." True, and his chief merit. Christ as individual was necessarily involved in the struggles of the world and perished; but as spirit he created it anew, and made it, so to speak, a different world, for its history since his time is the history of Christianity. So, too, Prospero as an individual is overwhelmed with the collisions of life, but as spirit he has mastered and portrayed them, and even converted his enemies into his own image.
Prospero's career is now at an end, his work is done when the reconciliation is completed. He calls up once more the world of spirits who have been his faithful instrumentalities, in order to bid them farewell forever. He abjures his rough magic, his art; and soon he will break his staff, bury it in the earth, and drown his book. For the present Ariel is retained, who brings together the entire company, and restores even the ship. "Then to the elements," the play ends, his poetical activity ceases.
The relation of the play to Shakespeare himself has frequently been discussed. Long ago a critic suggested that Prospero was Shakespeare. But the mistake has been that the play was supposed to represent Shakespeare's individual life. It might be taken as a portraiture of his poetic, universal life, or that of any great poet. Other mighty individuals have been suggested in place of Prospero, but in such cases there is merely the substitution of one name for another, whereby however nothing is explained. We can only say as we began, Prospero is the Poet generically, who, in the first place, embodies the manifold themes of his art in a dramatic form; and, in the second place, portrays himself in the act, portrays himself performing his own process also in a dramatic form. The drama can go no further; it has attained the universality of Thought.
Here also can be found the reason why it is impossible to give a theatrical representation of this play. What form shall we assign to Ariel and Caliban? A child for the one, and a low human shape for the other? Then we feel the impassible chasm which shuts off the poet's creation from the stage. The illustrative art is equally impotent in reaching these conceptions. Why is this? Because Ariel and Caliban are thoughts more than images; they are not only far beyond the realm of sensuous representation, but even begin to transcend the realm of pure imagination; hence we can read them and think them, but cannot image them with clearness; they lie too far in the sphere of unpicturable thought.
If we now put together the beginning and the end of the drama, we find that Prospero departs from the Real, passes through the Ideal, and returns to the Real. The middle stage is alone portrayed in the play. It would seem, therefore that Prospero, being forced to abandon the practical world on account of his devotion to his books and his art, solves in his theoretical domain all the contradictions of finite existence, and thus returns in triumph to the practical world. Thought therefore, though at first antagonistic,
finally restores action. Here we behold the theme of Goethe's "Faust," yet treated in a very different manner. But, though it touches the real world at both ends, its action lies wholly in the ideal world.
We have now arrived at the point where we can see the unifying principle of three of Shakespeare's most important works, namely, "As You Like it," "Midsummer Night's Dream," and "Tempest." That principle is mediation through an ideal world. In "As You Like it," this world is idyllic, exhibits a primitive pastoral existence, hence approaches what is actual; but in the remaining two it is wholly supernatural. The three constitute a new species of drama, which belongs to Shakespeare alone. Though other poets have used similar materials and means, yet their products have been entirely different from these plays not only in degree of excellence but also in kind. The general movement is the same in all three: a breach in the real world, a transition to the ideal world where the breach is healed, and a return to the real world. The fundamental distinction between them — though they are not at all alike in details — lies in the fact that in "As You Like it" there is no self- reflection of any kind, hence it is the simplest in structure; that in "Midsummer Night's Dream" the objective dramatic action reflects itself in the "play within the play"; that in "Tempest" the subjective process of the Poet reflects itself along with the action. Taken together they constitute a dramatic cyclus, and may be called the ideal dramas of Shakespeare.
Forgiveness and Reconciliation in The Tempest
Many scholars argue that, along with Shakespeare’s other late romances, The Tempest is a play about reconciliation, forgiveness, and faith in future generations to seal such reconciliation. However, while it is clear that the theme of forgiveness is at the heart of the drama, what is up for debate is to what extent the author realizes this forgiveness. An examination of the attitudes and actions of the major characters in the play, specifically Prospero, illustrates that there is little, if any, true forgiveness and reconciliation in The Tempest.
We must first set a standard by which to judge the effectiveness of forgiveness in the play. Undoubtedly, the most important Christian lesson on the true nature of forgiveness can be found in Christ’s Sermon on the Mount : But I say to unto you which hear, love your enemies, do good to them which hate you Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despiseth you… For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? For sinners also do even the same. But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again… (Luke 6:27-35) Prospero’s conduct from the moment the play begins seems to contradict the basic tenets of Christian forgiveness. Fortune has brought his enemies within his grasp and Prospero seizes the opportunity for revenge. “Desire for vengeance has apparently lain dormant in Prospero through the years of banishment, and now, with the sudden advent of his foes, the great wrong of twelve years before is stirringly present again, arousing the passions and stimulating the will to action” (Davidson 225). While it is true that Prospero does not intend to harm anyone on the ship, and asks his servant sprite with all sincerity, "But are they, Ariel, safe?" (1.1.218), he does not hesitate to put the men
me" (1.2.334). In return, Caliban showed Prospero "all the qualities o’ th’ isle" (1.2.339), as there was little else he could give his new master. But Caliban, in an expression of his natural instincts, tried to ravage Miranda. It is an atrocious deed, but, to Caliban, it is a basic biological urge, springing from no premeditation but his simple desire to procreate, and can be equated to the crimes of a child, which is itself an ironic juxtaposition. Caliban is "unlike the incontinent man, whose appetites subdue his will, and the malicious man, whose will is perverted to evil ends" (Kermode, xlii). Caliban is, in fact, "the bestial man [with] no sense of right and wrong, and therefore sees no difference between good and evil. His state is less guilty” (Kermode, xlii). While he should have taken measures to prevent such an occurrence from ever happening again, Prospero goes further to ensure that Caliban pay dearly for his actions. He threatens continually to "rack [him] with old cramps" (1.2.371), and confines him "in this hard rock" (1.2.345) away from the rest of the island. For Caliban Prospero has no mercy or forgiveness. Prospero brands him "a born devil, on whose name/Nurture can never stick" (4.1.188-9), and vows, "I will plague them all" (4.1.192).
It is also true that Caliban is guilty of planning the murder of Prospero after he finds a new master, Stephano, whom, he believes, will treat him better than Prospero. But, again, Caliban, in his primitive (and drunken) state cannot be held accountable. Even though Prospero understands that Caliban’s bad behaviour is like that of a child, he does not offer mercy and forgiveness as freely and earnestly as one should. The best Prospero can do is couch a rather lackluster pardon inside a command:
Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. (5.1.292)
Shakespeare no doubt understood that ending the play with this sour meeting would leave the reader wanting, so he crafts the union of Miranda and Ferdinand as a vehicle by which the two fathers can further their reconciliation. It is fitting that the most innocent and virtuous of all the characters in the play, Gonzalo, should express the most hope for the future:
Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his Issue Should become kings of Naples? O rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: in one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand her brother found a wife Where he himself was lost: Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves, Where no man was his own. (5.1.204-12)
With these words of hope invested in the new royal couple, Alonso and Prospero rejoice together as the play comes to a close. But, despite the traditional happy ending befitting a Shakespeare comedy, ultimately, we are left with the feeling that true forgiveness and reconciliation have not been realized.
Magic, Books, and the Supernatural in Shakespeare's Tempest
In reading The Tempest we must bear in mind that the belief in magic and witchcraft was in Shakespeare's day an established article in the popular creed, and accepted by the
great majority of the cultivated and learned. To attack it was a bold thing to do, and few writers had ventured it. In 1583 Howard, Earl of Northampton, published his Defensative against the Poyson of Supposed Prophecies and in 1584 Reginald Scot brought out his Discoverie of Witchcraft in which, with great learning and ability, he exposed the pretensions of the magicians and their craft. He made many enemies by it; and James I ordered all the copies of it that could be found to be burned by the public hangman. In 1603 the king published his own book on Daemonologie , in the preface to which he asserts that he wrote the book "chiefly against the damnable opinions of Wierus 1 and Scot." Richard Bernard, an eminent Puritan divine, also took Scot to task in his Guide to Grand Jurymen with respect to Witches (1627); as also did Joseph Glanvil (in his Blow at Modern Sadducism , etc.) and sundry other authors of the time. Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), records that magic, in which he appears to have been a believer himself, is "practised by some now;" and he says that the Roman emperors "were never so much addicted to magic of old as some of our modern princes and popes are nowadays."
We have no reason to suppose that Shakespeare believed in magic. From his 14th Sonnet we may infer that he did not believe even in astrology, as most people did long after his day; and yet Prospero is the grandest conception of the magician to be found in all our literature. The delineation is in strict accordance with the prevalent theory of the magic art, and yet it is so ennobled and idealized that in our day, when that theory is reckoned among the dead superstitions of a bygone age, we see nothing mean or unworthy in it.
Prospero belongs to the higher order of magicians — those who commanded the services of superior intelligences — in distinction from those who, by a league made with Satan, submitted to be his instruments, paying for the enjoyment of the supernatural power thus gained the price of their souls' salvation. The former class of magicians, as Scot remarks, "professed an art which some fond [foolish] divines affirm to be more honest and lawful than necromancy, wherein they work by good angels." Thus we find Prospero exercising his power over elves and goblins through the medium of Ariel, a spirit "too delicate to act the abhorr'd commands" of the foul witch Sycorax, but who answered his best pleasure and obeyed his "strong bidding."
The poet has, moreover, given to Prospero some of the ordinary adjuncts of the professional magician of the time. Peculiar virtue was inherent in his robe, according to Scot and other writers; and we find Prospero saying to Miranda:—
"Lend thy hand And pluck my magic garment from me;"
and as it is laid aside he adds, "Lie there, my art."
His wand also, as in the case of ordinary conjurors, was a potent instrument. With it he renders Ferdinand helpless:—
"I can here disarm thee with this stick. And make thy weapon drop."
And when he abjures his art be is to break his staff and "bury it certain fathoms in the earth," lest it should fall into hands that might not use it as wisely and beneficently as he has done.
His books were of yet greater importance to his art; and these the old magicians were supposed to guard with the utmost care. Scot says: "These conjurors carry about at this day books intituled under the names of Adam, Abel, Toby, and Enoch; which Enoch they repute the most divine fellow in such matters. They have also among them books
it is marvellous. It is at once supernatural and natural. It is the highest exercise of the magic art, and yet it all goes on with as little jar to our credulity as the ordinary sequence of events in our everyday life.
Sundry attempts have been made to prove The Tempest an allegory, but Shakespeare had no such intention. The human characters are men and women distinctly individualized, not abstractions personified. Prospero, great as he is both as man and as magician, is not perfect, — not the ideal type of human genius and character, and not absolute master of himself. This is the explanation of something in the second scene which has puzzled and misled some of the commentators, and of which no one of them, so far as I am aware, has given the correct interpretation. When Prospero is telling Miranda the story of her early life, why does he again and again charge her with being inattentive to a narration in which it is impossible that she should not be intensely interested? If we could have any doubt on this point, it ought to be removed by her evident surprise that he could suppose her a careless or indifferent listener to so thrilling a tale. It is amazing that two critics at least should have taken the ground that Miranda is not listening attentively.
Her thoughts, they agree in telling us, are wandering off to the foundered ship and the unfortunate folk in it, for whom her tender heart was so deeply moved when she witnessed the shipwreck. A keener critic gets somewhat nearer the truth when he says, "He thinks she is not listening attentively to his speech, partly because he is not attending to it himself, his thoughts being busy with the approaching crisis of his fortune, and drawn away to the other matters which he has in hand, and partly because in her trance of wonder at what he is relating she seems abstracted and self-withdrawn from the matter of his discourse." But it is not mere mental abstraction on his part, — if, indeed, this were possible in telling the tale of his "high wrongs," — nor is Prospero the man to mistake entranced wonder for lack of interest and attention. His error is simply due to nervous excitement, which, as in meaner mortals, makes him irritable, impatient, and unreasonable. Shakespeare has given us varied and abundant evidence that this crisis in his fortunes is a tremendous strain upon his powers, and he almost breaks down under it. It does overcome his ordinary steadiness of nerve and tranquillity of spirit. It is this that makes him so unjust to Miranda, and, in the latter part of the same scene, so impatient with Ariel when the tricksy spirit ventures to remind him of the promise to set him free ere long. Prospero himself is not unconscious of the weakness later, when he says to Ferdinand (and Miranda):—
"Sir, I am vex'd; Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled Be not disturb'd with my infirmity. If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell, And there repose; a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind."
When Prospero, usually so self-poised and self-possessed, speaks thus, we get some notion of the mental strain, the terrible suspense and anxiety, of these three hours, on which his whole future life and that of his beloved daughter are dependent.
It is also to be noted that Prospero, mighty magician though he be, has no power to bring two young hearts to beat as one. He cannot make Ferdinand and Miranda love each other. He can bid Ariel bring them together; but, that done, he can only watch with paternal fondness and hope to see whether all goes on as his soul prompts it. But, it may be said, the notion that love could be excited by magic arts is old and familiar; and we find it more than once in Shakespeare. Why, then, did not Prospero exercise his art upon Ferdinand and Miranda, and thus settle in advance one at least of the uncertainties of that anxious day? One critic, who is rarely astray in a case like this, believes that he did
play the magician here. "In the planting of love," he says, "Ariel beats old god Cupid all to nothing; for it is through some witchcraft of his that Ferdinand and Miranda are surprised into a mutual rapture." The misconception is a gross one, — gross in a double sense. Love could indeed be awakened by magic, according to the ancient theory of the art; but it was only love in the lower animal sense that was thus excited. The purer, nobler passion was beyond the control of wizard or necromancer; and Prospero. It is quite unnecessary to say, could never descend to the base devices of those who, having gained a measure of superhuman power by a compact with the great adversary of souls, became the ministers of his dark purposes. Almost any other dramatist of that day might have been willing to admit this as a prelude to a more honorable love (we find things not unlike it in the plays of the time), but Shakespeare never so degrades his mighty magic.
In this, as in other respects, Prospero is like his creator, though not, as some have supposed, intended to be the portrait of that creator.
The Contrast Between Ariel and Caliban in The Tempest
Ariel
Nowhere in Shakespeare's plays are two more sharply contrasted characters than Ariel and Caliban. Both are equally preternatural; Ariel is the air spirit, Caliban the earth spirit. Ariel's very being is spun of melody and fragrance; if a feeling soul and an intelligent will are the warp, these are the woof of his exquisite texture. He has just enough of human-heartedness to know how he would feel were he human, and a proportionable sense of that gratitude which has been aptly called the memory of the heart; hence he needs to be often reminded of his obligations, but he is religiously true to them so long as he remembers them. His delicacy of nature is nowhere more apparent than in his sympathy with right and good; the instant he comes within their touch he follows them without reserve, and he will suffer any torments rather than "act the earthy and abhorr'd commands" that go against his moral grain. And what a merry little personage he is withal; as if his being were cast together in an impulse of play, and he would spend his whole life in one perpetual frolic. Small wonder that Prospero calls him "my tricksy spirit," V, i, 226. In his fondness for mischievous sport Ariel is strongly reminiscent of Puck. With what gusto he relates the trick he played on Caliban and his confederates, when they were proceeding to execute their conspiracy against the hero's life:
I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears, Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter'd their frail shins: at last I left them I' th' filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell. There dancing up to th' chins. [IV, i, 171-183.]
But the main ingredients of Ariel's zephyr-like constitution are shown in his leading inclinations, as he naturally has most affinity for that of which he is framed. Moral ties are irksome to him; they are not his proper element When he enters their sphere, he feels them to be holy mdeed, but, were he free, he would keep out of their reach and
