When Shakespeare wrote The Tempest, he was approaching the
end of a long, productive, and highly successful career in the
theater. He was respected by his fellow playwrights, and was
possibly the most popular playwright of his day though his
considerable reputation wasn't nearly as dazzling as it is now.
Today, of course, few people would argue that the world has
produced a greater writer, in any language, than William
Shakespeare. Yet when it comes to his life, we don't have a
great deal of information, and guesswork outweighs the facts.
Actually, however, we do know more facts about Shakespeare
than about most of the other dramatists of Renaissance England.
Unfortunately, those facts gleaned from some forty documents
that name Shakespeare and many more that refer to members of his
family--don't reveal much. We're not even sure of the exact
date of Shakespeare's birth--the first document that mentions
him records his baptism, on April 26, 1564, in
Stratford-on-Avon, the quiet village where he was born. We
accept April 23 as his birthdate since children were generally
baptized three days after their birth. Today Stratford has
become a literary shrine to which tourists from all over the
world travel to see performances by the Royal Shakespeare
Company. Four centuries after his birth, Shakespeare's plays
are still performed more than any other playwright's, living or
dead.
Shakespeare's father was comfortably well-off; he had married
the daughter of a wealthy land-owner, and he owned a business
that dealt in leather goods (such as gloves) and farm
commodities. John Shakespeare also dabbled in local affairs.
By 1568 he had risen to the post of high bailiff, the equivalent
of mayor; but for some reason he dropped out of politics, and
suffered some financial setbacks.
We know nothing of Shakespeare's schooling, but it's probable
that as the son of a public official he attended the town's
grammar school, where he would have received a fine education in
Latin. He would draw on his knowledge of Latin rhetoric, logic,
and literature in his later playwriting. (Prospero's farewell
to his art, for example, in Act V of The Tempest, owes something
to the Metamorphoses of the Roman poet Ovid.) In 1582
Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway, who was eight years his
senior. She was pregnant at the time of the marriage, since
Susanna Shakespeare was born six months later. It was
considered permissible, in Shakespeare's England, for engaged
couples to sleep together, so there's no reason to assume it was
a forced wedding. In 1585 the couple had twins, Hamnet and
Judith. Hamnet, Shakespeare's only son, died two years later.
Some time after the birth of the twins, Shakespeare left
Stratford for London. There's a tradition that he was forced to
leave Stratford because he was caught poaching (illegally
hunting) deer on a local aristocrat's land, but there's no firm
evidence to verify this. According to another tradition, he
became a country schoolteacher; some people have suggested that
he worked as a traveling actor. It was time when country towns
like Stratford were declining in prosperity. London was the
main center of opportunity for ambitious young men and women, so
it's not surprising that Shakespeare went there to seek his
fortune.
Nobody knows when or how Shakespeare became involved in the
theater, but he made a name for himself in a relatively brief
time. By 1592, when he was just twenty-eight, he was attacked
by a rival playwright, Robert Greene. Greene wrote a pamphlet
in which he sneered at Shakespeare as an "upstart crow," a mere
actor who, with no university education, had the nerve to think
he could write plays. (Attacks on Shakespeare's education would
continue to plague him. Even several years after his death, his
great contemporary Ben Jonson could accuse him, in a poem that's
otherwise complimentary, of having "small Latin, and less
Greek." Study of the plays, however, proves that this wasn't
altogether just.) Shakespeare must have been quite popular by
the time of Greene's attack, because it drew complaints, and
Greene's editor apologized to Shakespeare in Greene's next
pamphlet.
During his career as a playwright, Shakespeare continued to
act as well, though the profession was considered slightly
beneath anything a real gentleman might undertake. He was
listed in a document in 1598 as a "principal comedian," and in
1603 as a "principal tragedian." In 1594 he became one of the
founders of a company called the Chamberlain's Men, which he
remained with for the rest of his career. When James I took the
throne after the death of Queen Elizabeth in 1603, the company
became the King's Men. The name change indicated royal support:
from then on, they enjoyed the official status of servants of
the King.
All this meant profits for Shakespeare. He earned one tenth
of the take at the Globe Theatre, where the Chamberlain's Men
performed. (He was the only London dramatist who held a share
in a theater.) He bought real estate in Stratford, where he had
become a famous native son. In 1597 he purchased a fine house
in the town--the house to which he retired not long after he
wrote The Tempest.
From about 1592 to about 1612 (the dates of most of the plays
are conjectures), Shakespeare produced some thirty-seven plays
that are as rich and varied as anything in the body of world
literature. They're remarkable for the beauty of their verse
and for the intensity and nuance with which Shakespeare delves
into the psychology of his characters. In addition, their wide
range is amazing. The First Folio of Shakespeare's collected
works, published in 1623, seven years after his death, divided
them into comedies, histories, and tragedies; they range in tone
and subject matter from the highjinks of A Midsummer Night's
Dream to the gentle melancholy of As You Like It to the
political philosophizing of Henry IV to the bitter ironies of
Hamlet to the almost unbearable agonies of King Lear. The plays
are stunningly profound and complex. But toward the end of his
career, Shakespeare began writing a different kind of
drama--much lighter, much simpler, much less psychological; you
could almost call these plays fairy tales. (Most critics refer
to them as "romances".) But their simplicity is a kind of
purity--not the simplicity of shallowness, or of a playwright
who can't handle anything more difficult, but a simplicity that
goes beyond complexity. First Shakespeare wrote Pericles, then
Cymbeline, then The Winter's Tale; finally, with The Tempest, he
perfected this interesting form. After he wrote The Tempest, he
left London and apparently retired from the theater. The last
plays, Henry VIII and possibly The Two Noble Kinsmen, were
probably collaborations with other playwrights. He died in
Stratford in 1616.
For most of his working life, Shakespeare was associated with
the Globe Theatre. It was an open-air theater located across
the Thames from London proper, so that it was out of the city's
jurisdiction. It was round or octagonal; inside, the stage
jutted halfway out into the yard. There was a second story
above the stage that could be used for a balcony scene, as in
Romeo and Juliet, or for the battlements in Hamlet; above that,
a third story held the musicians' gallery. On the very top, a
flag waving from a turret announced the day's performance.
The cheapest tickets, at one penny (a day's wage for an
apprentice), admitted you to the yard, where you stood with the
other "groundlings" to watch the play. Another penny would buy
you a seat in the upper galleries, and a third would get you a
cushioned seat in the lower gallery--the best seats in the
house. Sets were simple, but costumes were ornate. The
audience was diverse--theater held a position in Shakespeare's
England similar to the position movies hold today. People of
all social classes went to the theater, so Shakespeare had to
include something in his plays for everyone. There had to be
erudition to appeal to the scholars: there were clowns who made
awful puns, as Trinculo does in The Tempest, for the spectators
in the yard. And of course Shakespeare had to be careful that
nothing he wrote would offend the King, for whom the King's Men
performed at court. For example, Shakespeare had to be
sensitive in his presentation of Prospero as a magician. James
I considered himself an authority on magic, and if Shakespeare
had seemed to endorse black magic he could have landed in
jail.
Since the Globe was an open-air theater, it couldn't be used
during cold weather. During the winter, the King's Men
performed at court or in one of London's indoor theaters. In
1608, Shakespeare and six partners took over the Blackfriars
Theatre, which was much more like the theaters we're used to: a
large indoor room, artificially lit. Admission to the indoor
theaters was more expensive, and the stage machinery was more
sophisticated. The Tempest may well have been acted at the
Globe--the King's Men used both theaters after 1608--but it was
almost certainly performed at Blackfriars, and the kind of
spectacle in the play suggests that it was conceived with the
sophisticated indoor theater in mind. The extensive music in
the play also seems more appropriate to an indoor theater.
Music was an important and popular element of Globe
performances, appealing as it did to every class of spectator;
however, in an indoor theater you could achieve more subtle
musical effects because the acoustics were so much better.
That's probably one reason there's so much music, especially
instrumental music, in The Tempest.
We know the play was acted at court, because there's a record
of a performance attended by the King at Whitehall Palace on
November 1, 1611. This was an early performance, perhaps even
the first. The play is fairly easy to date. It can't have been
written later than that 1611 performance, and it can't have been
written before 1610, because passages in it rely on the "Bermuda
pamphlets" (see the section on Sources), which were published
that year.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: THE PLOT
A ship at sea is the victim of a fierce tempest (storm). The
terrified passengers include Alonso, the King of Naples; his son
Ferdinand; his brother Sebastian; his kind old councilor
Gonzalo; and Antonio, the false Duke of Milan. The men don't
know it, but the storm has brought them to the island of the
magician Prospero (who conjured up the tempest) and his daughter
Miranda.
Prospero is the real Duke of Milan. Twelve years earlier, he
had been overthrown by his younger brother Antonio. With the
help of Alonso and Sebastian, Antonio drove Prospero and
Prospero's daughter Miranda out of Milan and had them cast out
to sea. But divine providence brought them to the island.
Prospero has two servants: the airy spirit Ariel, through whom
he commands other, lesser spirits; and Caliban, a monster he
found on the island and treated kindly until Caliban tried to
rape Miranda. Now Prospero rules him sternly.
Prospero has a plan to deal with his old enemies. He's
separated Alonso's son, Prince Ferdinand, from the others. When
Ferdinand and Miranda meet, they quickly fall in love. But
Prospero wants to make sure that Ferdinand fully deserves his
daughter, so he tests him with the heavy task of piling a
thousand logs before sunset.
King Alonso, meanwhile, is grief-stricken, because he thinks
Prince Ferdinand has drowned. His councilor Gonzalo tries to
comfort him; Gonzalo believes deeply in divine providence,
though Antonio and Sebastian jeer at his optimism. These two
plot to kill Alonso and Gonzalo as they sleep, so Sebastian can
usurp his brother's crown just as Antonio stole Prospero's. But
Ariel wakes the king and his councilor before the two villains
can drive their swords into them.
Two other survivors of the tempest are Stephano, a drunken
butler who's managed to salvage a keg of wine, and Trinculo, a
jester. They encounter Caliban, and soon all three are roaring
drunk. Caliban takes these fools for gods who will free him
from his slavery to Prospero; together they scheme to kill the
magician. But Trinculo and Caliban squabble, especially after
Ariel starts doing mischief. The invisible spirit keeps calling
Caliban a liar; Stephano thinks the insult comes from Trinculo,
and eventually he pummels the innocent jester. Before they can
set their scheme against Prospero in motion, Ariel leads them
off with enchanted music, then goes to report the scheme to his
master.
The King's party, discouraged in its search for Ferdinand,
stops to rest. Ariel and the other spirits prepare a banquet
for the group, but then turn into harpies and snatch it away.
As the men look on astonished and terrified, Ariel tells the
guilty ones (Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio) that they're being
punished for their crime against Prospero. The spirit's voice
sends them into a maddened frenzy.
Ferdinand, meanwhile, has passed his test. After Prospero
lectures the young man to remain chaste until the marriage, the
spirits entertain the lovers with a masque, in which the
goddesses Iris, Ceres, and Juno wish the couple a prosperous and
happy life. The masque ends abruptly when Prospero remembers
Caliban's plot on his life and starts up in anger. He and Ariel
lure the plotters with expensive clothing. Stephano and
Trinculo are so carried away by the loot that they forget about
their scheme. Suddenly Prospero and Ariel unleash the spirits,
who attack the conspirators fiercely with pinches and cramps.
Prompted, perhaps, by Ariel, Prospero has decided to forgive
his old enemies. He brings Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio
before him, along with Gonzalo and the rest of the King's party.
After removing the spell that had maddened them, he reveals his
identity. Alonso quickly asks his pardon, though Antonio and
Sebastian never really repent. To Alonso's delight, Ferdinand
turns out to be not only alive but betrothed to the lovely
Miranda as well. Ariel leads in the captain of the ship and the
boatswain, who declares that the ship they'd thought was ruined
is--incredibly--in perfect condition (more of Ariel's magic).
When Ariel brings in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, they're in
sorry shape from the punishing spirits. Prospero forgives
Caliban, too. He's decided to give up his magic and return with
the others as the rightful Duke of Milan. After commanding
Ariel to speed their trip, Prospero promises the airy spirit the
freedom he's wanted for so long.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: PROSPERO
Prospero stands at the very center of The Tempest. He has
more lines than any other character. He prompts most of the
action, and he has the last word. He's contradictory, a
difficult character to evaluate.
He was once the Duke of Milan, but a love of study led him to
leave governing to his brother Antonio; the treacherous Antonio
then drove him out of Milan. Later, on his island, he lovingly
educated the monster Caliban and gave him freedom. Caliban
returned that kindness by trying to rape Prospero's daughter,
Miranda. Prospero makes essentially the same mistake with both
Antonio and Caliban: he fails to keep them in their proper
place, and he fails to exercise his responsibilities. It may be
an error on the side of kindness, but it's an error all the
same, and he and others suffer because of it. It makes him a
less than perfect ruler.
If Prospero has a lesson to learn, however, he's learned it
by the time the play opens. The Prospero you see exemplifies
wisdom, justice, and super-human good judgment. This
near-faultlessness has led some readers to regard Prospero as a
representation, in human terms, of God. Prospero stands in
relation to the other characters as God does to humanity:
judging, punishing, and forgiving. (Thanks to Ariel, he's
all-knowing too.) But he's an Old Testament God, prone to
vengeful fury when he's crossed, and quite willing to look on
calmly while those in his power are punished. You could argue
that the sufferings of Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo are
comic; however, there's something cruel in the way Prospero toys
with his old enemy Alonso, letting him think until the last
minute that his beloved son Ferdinand is dead. (Bringing
Ferdinand back from the dead, so to speak, is God-like too.) But
if Prospero feels anger, he also overcomes it. Ultimately he's
a benevolent figure. Why do you think some readers of this play
regard him as even more forgiving than a Christian God?
An equally popular view is that Prospero is a stand-in for
Shakespeare. Prospero is deeply interested in marrying off his
daughter; Shakespeare was the father of two daughters, only one
of whom had married when The Tempest was written. Prospero's
time of life is roughly equivalent to Shakespeare's: he's aging
and starting to think about death. Supporters of this theory
point to the speech (Act V, Scene I, lines 33-57) generally
known as Prospero's farewell to his art, in which he declares
that he'll abandon magic when he leaves the island. Since The
Tempest is probably the last play that Shakespeare wrote, or
wrote alone, and since not long after he wrote it he left London
for a quiet retirement in Stratford-on-Avon, many readers have
interpreted Prospero's speech as Shakespeare's farewell to his
own art. These readers say that Prospero's magic stands for
Shakespeare's poetry, and that Prospero's breaking of his wand
symbolizes Shakespeare laying down his pen. But there's an
equally adamant group of readers who argue that it's unnecessary
to look outside The Tempest for its meaning, when there's so
much meaning before you on the page.
Prospero is a disturbing, even contradictory mixture of
blanket forgiveness and almost wanton cruelty--although many
would argue that his enemies deserved harsh treatment. Even if
you accept his vengeful pleasure in tormenting Alonso,
Sebastian, and Antonio, you still have to ask: Why does he let
kind old Gonzalo suffer too? Why does he nearly break Miranda's
heart by letting her think he hates Ferdinand? It may be that
these moral and psychological issues are exactly the kinds of
questions you shouldn't be asking about the play. You face a
fundamental problem in trying to analyze Prospero (and most of
the other characters in The Tempest), and this problem stems
from the type of work The Tempest is. Late in his career,
Shakespeare wrote four "romances"--Pericles, Cymbeline, The
Winter's Tale, and The Tempest--that are much simpler in
technique than his earlier plays, almost like fairy tales. They
strive not for psychological depth but for lightness,
simplicity, and grace. If Prospero isn't as complex a man as,
say, Hamlet, it's not because Shakespeare failed to develop his
character adequately, but because he was striving toward a very
different goal.
There is one psychological trait, however, that Shakespeare
clearly means you to observe, and even condemn, in Prospero,
because he wants to make a moral point about it. This trait is
anger. Late in the fourth act, Prospero interrupts the spirits'
pleasant masque when he's suddenly overcome with rage at the
thought of Caliban's plot against him. Then, early in Act V, he
admits to Ariel that he can only forgive his enemies by letting
his "nobler reason" overcome his all-too-evident "fury." This
fury, more than any other quality, makes Prospero a
flesh-and-blood human being instead of a stick-figure wise man.
But it doesn't always make him a likable character. You might
think of the last time you were furious about something in order
to achieve a better understanding of Prospero's behavior. Did
you handle yourself better than he did?
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ARIEL
The "airy spirit" can assume different shapes (flame, nymph,
or harpy), and it's through him that Prospero commands the
lesser spirits. Ariel is all lightness, quickness, and grace.
But his foremost characteristic is intelligence; he's
practically made of intelligence, and he even moves with the
speed of thought. ("Come with a thought," Prospero tells him in
Act IV, Scene I.) It's part of his nature--as, perhaps, it's
characteristic of thought--to be free. Thus, he serves Prospero
loyally but not willingly, in return for Prospero's aid in
freeing him from the cloven pine tree, where the witch Sycorax
had imprisoned him.
Ariel declares in Act V, Scene I, that he doesn't have human
emotions. But his mischievous streak--which he displays in the
tricks he plays on Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo--suggests
that he has a sense of humor. More importantly, he has a strong
moral sense. You can deduce this from his harsh speech to the
"three men of sin" (Act III, Scene III), in which he stresses
the themes of justice and repentance. Of course, Prospero could
have prompted those lines. But you also know, from Prospero's
reminiscences in Act I, Scene II, the reason Sycorax imprisoned
Ariel in the cloven pine: the good spirit was "too delicate" to
carry out her "abhorred commands."
Readers looking for concealed autobiography in The Tempest
have sometimes argued that Ariel represents a specific aspect of
Shakespeare, usually his poetic genius. Ariel certainly is
"creative"; he constructs the situations that Prospero has
dreamed up for various characters. In addition, he's the most
musical of the characters in a play filled with music--he's
constantly singing, playing, or calling forth enchanted music, a
fact that adds not only to his charm but to his aura of magic
too, especially since so many of his songs are both vague and
lovely. If Ariel's personality is hard to pin down, it's
because he's so light, so misty. He's meant to be mysterious,
because he's a magic being.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: CALIBAN
The monster offspring of a witch and a devil, Caliban is a
would-be rapist, thief, and killer. Yet it's almost impossible
not to like him. Maybe this is because it's easy to see one
side of yourself in him: who wouldn't rather lie around in the
sun than haul firewood and clean the house? One view of Caliban
is that he's too innocent, too childlike to be a full-fledged
villain. Like an animal, he simply snatches at what he wants
without thinking about right or wrong. He's generally
unteachable. Prospero's problems with Caliban, in this view,
are really his own fault for failing to recognize the monster
for what he is, and giving him an education that only makes him
dissatisfied with his low place in the social order.
An opposing view, which Prospero seems to share, regards the
"born devil" as a deeply evil being. It's clear that Caliban
doesn't repent his attempt to rape Miranda; he only regrets that
it was stopped. ("Would't had been done!" he cries in Act I,
Scene II.) His lack of any moral sense makes him the opposite of
Ariel. In fact, he's almost a negative or anti-Ariel:
slow-moving, earthbound, stupid, and lazy. He wants freedom not
because it's in his nature but because he hates work. If
Ariel's nature embodies freedom, Caliban is by nature a slave.
He needs authority because he can't control himself. Those who
look for autobiography in The Tempest regard him as the dark
side of Shakespeare's personality: greed and appetite. The
fact that Prospero keeps him chained in a rocky den may signify
the poet's self-discipline, the way he keeps his desires under
control.
Caliban is also contrasted with Miranda. Prospero carefully
nurtures his daughter; her education turns her into a fine,
moral young woman. But Caliban is a beast "on whose
nature/Nurture can never stick" (Act IV, Scene 1); education
rolls right off him when it doesn't do outright harm.
Finally, Caliban forms a strong contrast to the real villains
of the play, Antonio and Sebastian. The monster strays into
crime because he doesn't know better. Antonio and Sebastian,
however, do know better; they're noblemen, and their only excuse
for their behavior is greed and sinfulness. Perhaps this
explains why in the last act Shakespeare suggests that the
supposedly unteachable Caliban has learned a lesson: "I'll be
wise hereafter/And seek for grace."
As you read you'll note that Caliban is given some of the
loveliest poetry in the play. Certainly this is a part of what
makes him so likable: any beast who responds to music with
Caliban's sensitivity (see the speech in Act III, Scene II)
can't be all brute. His poetry also reminds you that, like
Ariel, he's a magical being. His coarse cohorts, Stephano and
Trinculo, speak prose; Caliban's verse is part of the
enchantment of Prospero's island.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ALONSO
Alonso, King of Naples, was one of the men who plotted
against Prospero; thus, he deserves his punishment on the
island. But he isn't a villain on the order of Antonio and
Sebastian. Besides, his part in the plot seems to have been
mainly political. The deal brought him the annual tribute that
Milan paid Naples, and you can at least understand the
motivations of a leader who seeks wealth for his realm. But the
main reasons that Alonso comes off far better than Antonio and
Sebastian are that he's grieving deeply for Ferdinand--you can't
help feeling sorry for a bereaved father; and, when confronted
with his crime he feels guilty, repents, and asks for pardon.
Alonso is a pessimist, constantly looking on the dark side of
things. After the tempest he's certain, although he has no real
evidence, that Ferdinand is dead; he refuses to be consoled by
the voices of reason. And when at last Prospero reveals to him
the living Ferdinand, his first reaction is worry: What if it's
an illusion? In the context of a play whose major emphasis is
on divine providence, this pessimism is seen by some as a major
character flaw. Alonso (as Prospero rebukes him in Act V) lacks
patience, and patience is a sign of faith in the God who watches
benevolently over human events.
Overall, though, many regard Alonso as a good man if not a
great one. His love for his son speaks in his favor, as does
his quick acceptance of Miranda as Ferdinand's betrothed. Like
everyone else, he's capable of wrongs; however, he's also
capable of recognizing them, regretting them, and atoning for
them.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: GONZALO
Gonzalo is the voice of patience in The Tempest. He probably
comes closer than any other character of the older generation to
representing Shakespeare's idea of a good Christian, because
he's not flawed with Alonso's pessimism or Prospero's anger.
Gonzalo always trusts Providence. Even during the tempest he's
calm enough to joke about the boatswain's gallows-bound looks,
and to find a sign of hope in them. It's Gonzalo who
appreciates the miracle of their safety on Prospero's island,
Gonzalo who unwaveringly insists that Ferdinand is still
alive.
Above all, Gonzalo is loyal. When Antonio and Sebastian plot
to murder the King, they know they have to kill Gonzalo too; he
would never accept Sebastian as King. Later, when Alonso is
maddened by guilt, Gonzalo stands beside him weeping, the most
grief-stricken of the mourners.
His kindness extends even further. He oversaw the actual
casting-out-to-sea of Prospero and Miranda, and Prospero, rather
than feeling bitter toward him, remembers his "charity" with
fondness twelve years later. Gonzalo provided the clothing,
food and fresh water that kept them alive, and the beloved books
that have allowed Prospero to master the spirits.
But your picture of Gonzalo might not be as sentimental as
all this suggests. Shakespeare had a knack for satirizing gabby
old men (Polonius in Hamlet is a prime example), and he appears
to have sketched Gonzalo with a hint of a smile. The old man
doesn't deserve the rude jeers of Antonio and Sebastian in Act
II, Scene I, but his manner is befuddled and talkative enough to
give some point to their jokes. His speech about how he would
rule the island (Act II, Scene I) is far more starry-eyed than
practical, though it's true that he's chattering mainly to
entertain King Alonso and distract him from his grief. In
addition, he gets carried away during his great Act V speech on
divine providence, ending with the assertion that everybody has
attained self-knowledge, which is a long way from the truth.
These little imperfections make Gonzalo seem more human than he
otherwise might.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ANTONIO
Antonio is the obvious villain of The Tempest. He betrayed
his brother Prospero by stealing his dukedom and driving him out
of Milan. Once on the island, he plots with Sebastian to kill
Alonso and steal his kingdom. He's rude to the boatswain (Act
I, Scene I) and to kind old Gonzalo (Act II, Scene I). Despite
all the talk about the importance of repentance, he never says
he's sorry for anything he's done. In fact, during the
reconciliations of Act V he remains silent except for one
sarcastic jab at Caliban.
Antonio is a character of little psychological complexity;
he's simply evil. The term "motiveless malignancy," which the
English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge devised to describe Iago,
the villain of Othello, applies equally well to Antonio. If you
regard the play from a Christian viewpoint in which Prospero
stands for God, Alonso represents the sinner who repents, and
Antonio and Sebastian represent unrepentant sinners. The
shortcoming with this interpretation is that instead of being
damned they're forgiven along with everybody else (though it's
probable, considering Prospero's threat of blackmail, that he's
planning to keep them on a very short leash).
Without Antonio and Sebastian, The Tempest really would seem
as light as a fairy tale--especially because Caliban, despite
all his wickedness, strikes audiences as such a funny, likable
creature. Antonio and Sebastian are sour notes--figures of
real, human evil. By letting them off unrepentant, Shakespeare
brings the world of The Tempest much closer to our own imperfect
world. Evil exists, he might be saying, and sometimes it goes
unpunished; we can't say why.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: SEBASTIAN
Alonso's treacherous brother Sebastian is to some extent a
carbon copy of Antonio--not quite as evil, perhaps, since he
merely follows Antonio's lead in the scheme to kill Alonso.
Though Sebastian, like Antonio, is unrepentant at the end, he's
not as sourly silent. His last line, accusing Stephano and
Trinculo of theft, is hypocritical enough to be funny.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: FERDINAND
If Antonio and Sebastian are thoroughly evil, then Ferdinand
and Miranda are completely good. Certainly they're no more
complex psychologically--they resemble the brave, handsome
prince and the beautiful, sweet princess of a fairy tale.
Ferdinand is the son of Alonso and thus heir to the throne of
Naples. He's a dutiful son, grieving for his father when he
thinks he's drowned, and begging his pardon for becoming
betrothed without his permission when he learns Alonso is alive
after all. He's courageous enough to draw a sword against
Prospero when the magician threatens him, and patient enough to
perform the burdensome task of piling a thousand logs when he
knows Miranda is the prize.
Ferdinand's chastity forms a sharp contrast to Caliban's
uncontrolled desire. (This subject is the substance of his
conversation with Prospero near the beginning of Act IV.) But
he's not prissy. The young prince is red-blooded enough for
Prospero to have to chastise him (Act IV, Scene I) about
embracing Miranda a little too warmly.
Through their children Ferdinand and Miranda, Alonso and
Prospero find a way to heal their old enmity. It's easier for
them to be reconciled once their son and daughter are
betrothed.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: MIRANDA
Miranda's only experience of people--at least since the age
of three, when she was cast out to sea with Prospero--has been
her father. Thus, she's a bit naive. When she first sees
Ferdinand (Act I, Scene II), she thinks he's a spirit; when she
sees the royal party (Act V, Scene I), she's so overcome by
their splendor that she's convinced they're "goodly creatures,"
even though two of those creatures are Antonio and Sebastian.
(But since Caliban attempted to rape her, she's learned to hate
him; she clearly has had some experience of evil.)
Miranda's innocence is her great charm. She's had the best
of both worlds: a splendid and civilized education without the
corrupting influence of civilization. Because she doesn't know
how to be coy, she's straightforward about her feelings for
Ferdinand; this lack of cunning is part of what wins his heart.
Overcome by Ferdinand's handsomeness, she falls in love with him
at once. But the way their love is depicted is so far from
realistic that you can't condemn her for overhasty judgment:
love at first sight is a convention of the literary form known
as a romance.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: STEPHANO
Stephano is a coarse, drunken brute. He bullies Caliban and
Trinculo mercilessly, and he has no qualms about joining a plot
to kill Prospero, steal his island, and rape his daughter. But
Stephano's wickedness shouldn't be taken too seriously. Like
Caliban, he can be excused for having a low nature. He's
principally a comic creation whose job is to give the audience
some relief from the more serious main plot. Stephano is the
kind of character whose slapstick distress makes you laugh. For
example, when the goblins attack him and his cohorts at the end
of Act IV, it's funny, not awful.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: TRINCULO
Trinculo probably says less of real intelligence than any of
Shakespeare's other jesters, though he does have a jester's ear
for a good pun. He always seems to be afraid of something: the
weather, Caliban, or Ariel's music. Stephano bullies him, but
he follows Stephano's lead in a way that parodies Sebastian's
relationship with Antonio.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: BOATSWAIN
The boatswain, the officer in charge of the ship's deck crew,
is a gruff sailor who's too competent to be intimidated by the
interference of Antonio and Sebastian during the tempest.
Gonzalo's comments suggest that his appearance is thoroughly
disreputable ("perfect gallows"), but the old man's jokes about
his blasphemy aren't supported by anything in the text. His
oaths may have been spoken onstage but left out of the published
version.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: IRIS, CERES, JUNO
Prospero's spirits imitate these three goddesses of Greek and
Roman mythology during the masque, in Act IV, for Ferdinand and
Miranda. Iris is the goddess of the rainbow and the messenger
of the gods. Ceres oversees the harvest and fertility in
general, so her blessing would be important to a couple who want
children. Juno, queen of the gods, is the protector of
marriage.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: SETTING
All the action of The Tempest takes place on (or, in the
first scene, very close to) the remote island where Prospero and
Miranda have spent the last twelve years. The island must be
somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, because Prospero and Miranda
were cast out to sea from Italy, and because Alonso's fleet is
on its way home to Naples, in Italy, from Tunis, in northern
Africa, when the storm strikes. But the island has more in
common with the Bermuda Islands in the Atlantic Ocean than with
any islands in the Mediterranean. This is because one of
Shakespeare's sources was a series of pamphlets that had been
written about a recent shipwreck in the Bermudas. (For more
information, see the Note about "the still-vexed Bermoothes" in
Act I, Scene II.)
Popular superstition held that the Bermudas were aswarm with
fairies and demons, just as Prospero's island is. Everything
about the island whispers magic, especially the ever-present
music that Caliban describes in his beautiful speech, "Be not
afeard; the isle is full of noises" (Act III, Scene II).
By setting the play on an island and limiting his cast to a
few characters, Shakespeare lets his themes stand out in sharper
relief. A court setting would be far more complex; Prospero
would have to worry about the influence of current events, and
as head of government he'd have to curb his vengeance and act in
a way that appeared more responsible. The shipwrecked
characters feel lost and forlorn on the island and thus behave
with a straightforwardness that would be more guarded if they
were in their normal setting.
Once on the island, some of the characters recreate the
society from which they came. Gonzalo, for example, is mainly
interested in preserving the social order by guarding the
well-being of King Alonso. Antonio, ever the schemer, sees in
the shipwreck a means for upsetting the social order and seizing
more power. Stephano and Trinculo, on the other hand, behave so
freely and amorally because they think they're outside the
limits of society and have no punishment to fear.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: THEMES
1. PROVIDENCE AND PATIENCE
Prospero tells Miranda (Act I, Scene II) that they reached
the island "By providence divine"--that is, through the guidance
and benevolence of God. Though there are few direct references
to God in The Tempest, this highly Christian theme permeates the
play. Ferdinand phrases it briefly in Act V: "Though the seas
threaten, they are merciful." The Tempest is a play about a
storm that turns into a blessing. There are times in all our
lives when things may look bleak, even desperate; but a good
Christian trusts in the wisdom and mercy of God to bring things
to a happy end.
If Prospero represents the workings of providence (he raises
the storm and offers the blessing), Gonzalo is the good
Christian, the man of faith. (His speech in Act V, Scene I, is
the great summation of the providence theme.) Another name for
this faith is patience: Gonzalo patiently endures doubt and
hardship because his faith sustains him. His firm belief in a
just God convinces him that no matter how bad things look,
they'll turn out for the best. Alonso, in contrast, is the
impatient man, rebuffing Gonzalo's attempts to console him.
Because he lacks faith in providence, he insists that Ferdinand
is dead and that searching for him is useless. He refuses to
believe a just power oversees events, and this doubt signifies a
lack of trust in God.
2. FORGIVENESS AND REPENTANCE
The Tempest is clearly a play about reconciliation. What
isn't clear is whether Prospero intends from the beginning to
forgive his old enemies or whether his mercy is a last-minute
decision. The fact that he plans from the first to marry
Ferdinand to Miranda would suggest that he had planned a
reconciliation with Ferdinand's father, Alonso, all along. On
the other hand, however, you can point to the anger that grips
Prospero until the end; if he were planning to forgive from the
beginning, wouldn't he already have overcome his anger? Those
who think he decides only late in the play to forgive, focus
especially on Ariel's description, early in Act V, of Alonso and
his party in distress, which may be the turning point in
prompting Prospero to pity and mercy.
But Prospero's words here lead to a further confusion. "They
being penitent," he tells Ariel, is all he wanted--which is
essentially what Ariel told the "three men of sin" in his harsh
speech near the end of Act III, Scene III. Alonso asks for
Prospero's pardon and expresses remorse for his crimes to
Miranda as well. Antonio and Sebastian, however, give no hint
that they're penitent, when even the bestial Caliban is
declaring he'll "be wise hereafter/And seek for grace."
Then why does Prospero forgive these unremorseful villains?
That's one of the mysteries of the play. (Even God forgives
only sinners who repent.) It may be that Shakespeare considers
humanity so depraved that if you only forgave those who deserved
it, then nobody would ever be forgiven. Or he may think that
the forgiveness itself is what's important, regardless of
whether the forgiven party deserves it; as Prospero says, "The
rarer action is/In virtue than in vengeance" (Act V, Scene I).
But if that's the case, where does justice fit in--isn't it also
right to punish criminals, especially unrepentant ones? This is
a question to which Shakespeare doesn't provide the answer.
What advice might you give to Prospero regarding Antonio and
Sebastian?
3. KNOWLEDGE AND ORDER
Shakespeare uses education to contrast Miranda, who has a
"high" nature, with "low"-natured Caliban. Miranda's education
nurtures her into a fine, moral, and chaste young woman. But
Caliban, as Prospero complains in Act IV, Scene I, is a creature
"on whose nature/Nurture can never stick"; his education only
makes him dissatisfied with his low status. As Caliban says,
his main profit from learning language is knowing how to
curse.
Prospero made the same mistake with Caliban as he had made
with Antonio: he failed to keep them in their proper places,
and his leniency gave both of them a taste for a station higher
than their own. Shakespeare's audience had a highly developed
sense of order--the King ruled by divine right, aristocrats were
people with high natures, and the poor drudged at their low
station because God intended it that way. Trying to rise above
your station was doing exactly what got Satan expelled from
heaven.
Knowledge, though precious, can be dangerous if it interferes
with order. Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge because
they wanted to be "as gods." Prospero, too, lost his dukedom
because he neglected governing for studying. Prospero's book
may be the source of his power on the island, but he must learn
the proper place of knowledge on the scale of values if he is to
be a truly wise ruler.
4. BEAUTY AND VIRTUE
Much is said about beauty in The Tempest. Miranda in
particular is taken with the way people look. She falls in love
at her first sight of Ferdinand's "brave form", and later, when
she beholds Alonso and his nobles, she cries,
O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in't!
(Act V, Scene I, lines 181-184)
Miranda associates beauty with "goodliness" not only because
of Ferdinand, but also because her main image of evil has been
Caliban--who, as Prospero informs you in Act IV, Scene I, grows
uglier as his mind cankers. Caliban's mother, the "foul witch
Sycorax, was equally deformed, "grown into a hoop" with "age and
envy" (Act I, Scene II).
Shakespeare's audience believed in a connection between
physical and moral beauty; the body, they thought, was a
reflection of the soul. (According to Genesis, after all, God
created humanity in his own image.) But they weren't quite as
naive as Miranda, and neither was Shakespeare: the "goodly
creatures" she extols include Antonio and Sebastian, who may
look noble but aren't. The theme of beauty-equals-virtue works
on a simple, fairy-tale plane in the Miranda-Ferdinand scenes,
but before the play is over Shakespeare reminds you that reality
isn't as neat.
5. CHASTITY AND APPETITE
A contrast in The Tempest is made between Ferdinand, who
praises chastity, and Caliban, a creature of uncontrolled
desire. (See especially the beginning of Act IV, where Prospero
lectures Ferdinand on the subject.) Prospero must learn to
control his own appetites, especially for knowledge, and to
control his anger.
Though Caliban is the prime example of appetite run amuck,
Shakespeare also offers Stephano (a drunkard) and Trinculo--who
plan murder, rape, and robbery--as well as Antonio and
Sebastian, as horrible examples of what uncontrolled appetites
can do to people.
6. OTHER THEMES
The above listing of themes is only a beginning; it doesn't
exhaust the thematic richness of The Tempest. The list of
themes goes on and on. An important one is the contrast between
nature and society. Nature's representative is Caliban; when
you compare him to the wise, just, and civilized Prospero you
can appreciate the sharp differences. However, society has also
produced Antonio and Sebastian, and Caliban compares favorably
with these villains. A civilized man may be superior to an
uncivilized beast, but the natural beast is better than the
depraved products of society.
Another important theme might be called purification through
suffering. Prospero, in his long exile, has more than atoned
for whatever mistakes he might have made when he ruled Milan.
Ferdinand must suffer through Prospero's tests before he can win
Miranda's hand. Most significantly, Alonso must undergo the
suffering that Prospero has designed for him before Prospero can
find it in his heart to forgive him. Prospero has created a
Purgatory for Alonso and his companions on the island; only
after they're purged is he ready to show them his benevolent
side.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: STYLE
Shakespeare's dramatic verse is written in iambic pentameter.
An iamb is a metrical foot composed of an unaccented syllable
followed by an accented one--for example, to-DAY. A pentameter
line consists of five feet, as at the opening of Act IV:
if I / have TOO / ausTERE/ly PUN/ished YOU.
But The Tempest was written at the end of Shakespeare's
career, and by the time he wrote it he had begun introducing
subtle variations into his usual iambic pentameter. Thus, you
won't find many lines that fit the mold as perfectly as the
above example.
The Tempest contains some of Shakespeare's finest verse.
Compared to his earlier plays, however, it's relatively scarce
in imagery. One view is that Shakespeare had become so adept by
the time he wrote The Tempest that his metaphors, instead of
being rich and highly developed, dart in and out of the verse,
mere hints of images that move as quickly as thought. An
equally interesting suggestion is that The Tempest doesn't need
as many images in its language because the play itself is an
image--you don't need metaphors for a metaphor.
An example will serve to illustrate the complexity of
Shakespeare's late style. In Act I, Scene II, as Prospero is
telling Miranda about the way Antonio betrayed him, he says that
his treacherous brother,
having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' th' state
To what tune pleased his ear...
(lines 83-85)
The imagery here isn't especially vivid or sensuous, but the
metaphor is quite complicated, and it hinges on a pun. With the
figure of a key--the kind of key that opens a door--Prospero
declares that Antonio had control over both the dukedom and the
Duke (Prospero himself). But then the meaning of "key" changes
to a musical one, as in "the key of C-sharp," and the metaphor
changes to a musical one, too.
The Tempest is one of Shakespeare's romances, and as such it
has a fairy-tale quality. The language of the play reflects
that quality. It's stark and tragic at points, notably during
the beginning storm scene and in the last two acts, when
Prospero is deciding between vengeance and forgiveness, and a
tragic outcome seems possible. But generally the language is
among Shakespeare's loveliest and most delicate. Caliban's
famous speech, "Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises" (Act
Ill, Scene II) provides an excellent example of the language of
the romance.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ELIZABETHAN ENGLISH
All languages change. Differences in pronunciation and word
choice are apparent even between parents and children. If
language differences can appear in one generation, it is only to
be expected that the English used by Shakespeare four hundred
years ago will differ markedly from the English used today. The
following information on Shakespeare's language will help you
understand The Tempest.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: MOBILITY OF WORD CLASSES
Adjectives, nouns, and verbs were less rigidly confined to
particular classes in Shakespeare's day. Adjectives were often
used adverbially. In Act V, scene i, line 309, Prospero speaks
of "dear-beloved" where today we would require "dearly-beloved."
Adjectives could also function as nouns, In Act I, scene ii,
line 329, Prospero describes "that vast of night," where a
modern speaker would use "vast abyss."
Nouns were often used as verbs. Caliban complains:
...here you sty me...
(I, ii, 344)
where "sty" is the equivalent of "keep me in filthy
conditions.
And verbs could occasionally function as nouns, as when
"manage" is used for "management" in
The manage of my state
(I, ii, 69)
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: CHANGES IN WORD MEANING
The meanings of words undergo changes, a process that can be
illustrated by the fact that "nice" formerly meant "wanton."
Many of the words in Shakespeare still exist today, but their
meanings have changed. The change may be small, as in the case
of "plantation," which meant "colonization," as in
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord
(II, i, 137)
or more fundamental, so that "complexion" (I, i, 29) meant
"outward appearance," "gaberdine" (II, ii, 103) meant "long,
outer garment," "monstrous" (III, iii, 31) meant "nonhuman,"
"rack" (IV, i, 156) meant "small cloud" and "admire" (V, i, 154)
meant "wonder at, be amazed by."
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: VOCABULARY LOSS
Words not only change their meanings, but are frequently
discarded from the language. In the past, "bootless" (I, ii,
35) meant "useless," "foison" (II, i, 159) meant "abundant
harvest," and "welkin" (I, ii, 4) meant "sky, heavens." The
following words used in The Tempest are no longer current in
English, but their meaning can usually be gauged from the
context in which they occur.
YARE (I, i, 6) promptly, speedily
TEEN (I, ii, 64) sorrow, trouble
COIL (I, ii, 207) confusion
FLOTE (I, ii, 234) sea
BATE (I, ii, 246) reduce, abate
HESTS (I, ii, 274) commands
CHIRURGEONLY (II, i, 136) surgeonlike
TILTH (II, i, 148) tillage of the land
CHOUGH (II, i, 261) jackdaw, kind of crow
FEATER (II, i, 268) more gratefully
KIBE (II, i, 272) chilblain, inflamed sore
INCH-MEAL (II, ii, 3) inch by inch
MOW (II, ii, 9) make faces, grimace
BOMBARD (II, ii, 21) vessel for carrying liquids
DEBOSHED (III, ii, 25) debauched
DOIT (II, ii, 32) small coin
SCAMEL (II, ii, 172) bird, seagull
PATCH (III, ii, 62) jester, fool
FRESHES (III, ii, 66) springs of fresh water
MURRAIN (III, ii, 78) disease
WEZAND (III, ii, 89) windpipe
TROLL (III, ii, 115) sing cheerfully
CATCH (III, ii, 124) song, tune
LAKIN (III, iii, 1) little lady, By Our Lady
FORTHRIGHTS (III, iii, 3) straight paths
DOWLE (III, iii, 65) small feather
BASS (III, iii, 99) speak in deep/low tones
STOVER (IV, i, 63) hay, cattle fodder
TWILLED (IV, i, 64) woven
BOSKY (IV, i, 82) wooded
VARLETS (IV, i, 170) rogues
PARD (IV, i, 261) leopard
PIONED (IV, ii, 64) dug
DEMI-PUPPETS (V, i, 36) small spirits
JUSTLE (V, i, 158) push, drive
MO (V, i, 234) more
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: VERBS
Shakespearean verb forms differ from modern usage in three
main ways: 1. Questions and negatives could be formed without
using "do/did," as when Alonso asks Gonzalo:
Heard you this, Gonzalo?
(II, ii, 311)
where today we would say: "Have you heard this?," or where
Antonio states:
...But I feel not
This deity in my bosom
(II, i, 272)
where modern usage demands: "I do not feel..." Shakespeare
had the option of using the following forms a and b, whereas
contemporary usage permits only a:
a b
How do you look? How look you?
How did he look? How looked he?
You do not look well. You look not well.
You did not look well. You looked not well.
2. A number of past participles and past tense forms are
used that would be ungrammatical today. Among these are:
"holp" for "helped" in
By foul play, as thou sayest, were we heaved thence,
But blessedly holp hither
(I, ii, 62-3)
"forgot" for "forgotten" in
...Hast thou forgot
(I, ii, 257)
"broke" for "broken" in
I have broke your hest to say so
(III, i, 37)
"spoke" for "spoken" in
Fairly spoke
(IV, i, 31)
and "waked" and "oped" for "wakened" and "opened" in
...graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
(V, i, 48-9).
3. Archaic verb forms sometimes occur with "thou" and
"he/she/it":
Thou wert but a lost monster
(IV, i, 202)
...he hath lost his fellows
(I, ii, 418)
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: PRONOUNS
Shakespeare and his contemporaries had one extra pronoun,
"thou," which could be used in addressing a person who was one's
equal or social inferior. "You" was obligatory if more than one
person was addressed, and this is the pronoun used by the
boatswain to the courtly party:
Do you not hear him? You mar our labour; keep your cabins
(I, i, 12-13)
but it could also be used to indicate respect, as when
Miranda and Ferdinand express their love for each other:
Mir. Do you love me?
Fer. ...I
Beyond all limit of what else i' th' world
Do love, prize, honour you.
(III, i, 67ff)
Frequently, a person in power used "thou" to a subordinate
but was addressed "you" in return, as when Gonzalo and the
boatswain speak:
Gon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard
Boat. ...You are a counsellor, if you can
command these elements to silence...
(I, i, 19ff)
but if "thou" was used inappropriately, it could cause grave
offense.
One further pronominal reference warrants a comment. There
was not a sharp distinction between "it" and "he/she" in
Elizabethan English. Miranda describes Caliban:
'Tis a villain, sir
(I, ii, 311)
and Stephano used "it" where "she" would now be obligatory:
Is it so brave a lass?
(III, ii, 101)
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: PREPOSITIONS
Prepositions were less standardized in the past than they are
today, and so we find several uses in The Tempest that would
have to be modified in contemporary speech. Among these are
"on" for "of" in
And sucked my verdure out on it
(I, ii, 87)
"to" for "for" in
Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon
to their Queen
(II, i, 71-2)
"of" for "from":
...she was of Carthage, not of Tunis
(II, i, 79)
"with" for "in":
...with a twink
(IV, i, 43)
and "on" for "in":
...on a trice
(V, i, 238)
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: MULTIPLE NEGATION
Contemporary English requires only one negative per statement
and regards such utterances as "I haven't none" as nonstandard.
Shakespeare often used two or more negatives for emphasis and
the following occur in The Tempest:
This is no mortal business nor no sound
That the earth owes
(I, ii, 409-10)
and
Nor go neither; but you'll lie, like dogs, and yet
say nothing neither
(III, ii, 18-19)
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: POINT OF VIEW
Usually it isn't productive to talk about "point of view" in
a play. A novel, in contrast, has a narrator. He or she may be
omniscient, standing outside the story, reading the characters'
thoughts and perhaps offering some opinions of his or her own;
or the narrator may be one of the characters in the story. But
a play rarely has a narrator, as the various characters speak
for themselves.
To an unusual degree, however, you see The Tempest from one
character's point of view--Prospero's. Shakespeare seems to
endorse Prospero's opinions: the magician may not be perfect,
but most of what he says is trustworthy (except, perhaps, when
he's very angry). Besides, like author and spectator, Prospero
witnesses almost all of the action (and he controls most of it).
When he's not there, Ariel is there in his stead, so he misses
very little. He witnesses Miranda and Ferdinand's declaration
of love (Act III, Scene I) and the punishment of the "three men
of sin" (Act III, Scene III). Prospero doesn't tell the story,
like an omniscient narrator; however, in the sense that he's
behind the events, he creates it. You may feel, however, as
some readers have, that this limitation in the point of view is
a drawback. Because you see everything from Prospero's
standpoint, it's difficult to develop real sympathy for some of
the other characters. What would the play be like, for example,
if you saw things through Alonso's eyes? Or Gonzalo's? It
would have a very different feeling, and Prospero would
certainly seem less ideal than he does as the play stands.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: FORM AND STRUCTURE
The Tempest is unique among Shakespeare's mature plays in
observing the classical unities of time (everything happens in
one day--a matter of hours, in fact) and of place (everything
happens in one locale, Prospero's island or just offshore).
Critics in Shakespeare's time thought observing the unities was
essential to good drama. Could Shakespeare have been sensitive
to criticism, attempting in The Tempest to prove that he was
adept at dramatic construction?
The play has been criticized, however, for lacking one of the
most basic elements of good drama: tension. There's conflict,
of course--between Prospero and, at one point or another,
practically all the other characters--but there's not much
suspense about the outcome. Prospero is in control from
beginning to end. The only real question is whether he'll
forgive his enemies.
The Tempest is also unusual in its division by Shakespeare
into five acts, along the lines of classical Roman tragedies.
Of course, we're accustomed to five-act Shakespeare, but these
divisions are usually the work of later editors. Here, however,
structural evidence suggests the playwright himself divided The
Tempest into five acts.
Shakespeare's romances differ from his other comedies, with
which they're often grouped, in their emphasis on the passage of
time. In The Winter's Tale, for example, sixteen years pass
between Acts Ill and IV. The Tempest differs from the other
romances in that time passes not within the play--the action
takes place in just a few hours--but before it. Twelve years
have passed between Prospero's exile from Milan and the storm
that opens the play.
The romances, as a group, share certain other
characteristics. One is the gross improbability of the action.
Magical things happen; the plays are almost like fairy tales.
(Improbable events happen in the comedies, too, but those events
are more like coincidence than magic.) Also, the character
relationships, especially the love relationships, are simpler in
the romances than in the other comedies. Ferdinand and
Miranda's love isn't much different from that of Prince Charming
and the Sleeping Beauty; it doesn't have the psychological depth
that you find in Shakespeare's earlier love relationships such
as Romeo and Juliet's.
Two plot elements are noteworthy in the romances. First,
they share a concern with storm--a concern that gives The
Tempest its title. Second, travel on the sea always plays a
part in them. The Tempest begins with a voyage, and ends with
the characters preparing for another one.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: THE FIVE-ACT STRUCTURE
ACT I: EXPOSITION. The storm; Prospero fills Miranda in on
past events; introduction of Ariel and Caliban.
ACT II: Rising Action. Antonio and Sebastian plot against
Alonso; Caliban joins forces with Stephano and Trinculo.
ACT III: Climax. Ferdinand and Miranda declare their love;
Ariel charms Caliban's group into following him, and punishes
the "three men of sin."
Act IV: Falling Action. The spirits' masque for Ferdinand
and Miranda; Prospero and Ariel punish the thieves.
ACT V: Conclusion. Prospero forgives his enemies.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: SOURCES
The Tempest is one of a handful of Shakespearean comedies for
which we can't pinpoint the sources. There have been some
attempts to link it to a slightly earlier German comedy Comedia
von der schonen Sidea, by Jakob Ayrer (1543-1605), but the
evidence isn't convincing.
There are, however, elements within the play that are clearly
related to other documents. The most important of these
documents are a series of pamphlets concerning the survival of
some mariners in the Bermuda Islands after a tempest in 1609.
Until then, the Bermudas were popularly thought to be inhabited
by demons and fairies. The Bermuda pamphlets were published in
1610, around the time Shakespeare was writing The Tempest, and
it's evident from certain similarities of phrase, especially in
the first act, that he read and remembered them. It's also
probable that the whole idea of survival on a lush, remote,
magical island influenced his conception of The Tempest.
There are several speeches for which we can cite a specific
source. One is Gonzalo's fantasy (Act II, Scene I) about
governing the island; this was based on the French essayist
Montaigne's "Of the Cannibals," a treatise on the American
Indians, which was published in the English translation of John
Florio in 1603. Prospero's farewell to his art (Act V, Scene I)
adopts phrases from the Roman poet Ovid's Metamorphoses;
Shakespeare apparently drew both on Arthur Golding's 1567
translation and on the Latin original. There are a few other
details whose origins we can trace: for example, the name of
the devil-god Setebos, whom Caliban and his mother worship,
comes from Robert Eden's History of Travel (1577), where Setebos
is mentioned as a devil worshipped by the Patagonians of South
America.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ACT I, SCENE I
The Tempest opens with the excitement of a raging storm at
sea. The wind is howling violently, and huge waves threaten the
ship. Confusion reigns on board. The ship's boatswain (the
officer in charge of the deck crew) is vigorously calling out
orders as he attempts to save the ship. But a group of
frightened noblemen keep hounding him, making it difficult for
him to do his job. You get a glimpse of Alonso, the King of
Naples, the first of the nobles to speak, and later you hear
that he and his son the Prince are praying below. Despite the
mariners' best efforts, the storm triumphs; cries of "We split!"
signal that the boat is breaking apart. As the scene ends, the
men prepare to sink with their king.
NOTE: THE SOCIAL ORDER In Shakespeare's day, people regarded
the social hierarchy--with the king (or queen) at the top, then
the nobles, and then the commoners at the bottom--as the earthly
reflection of a larger "chain of being." This great hierarchy
descended from God, at the top, to the lowest earthly vermin;
human beings had their place between the angels and the animals.
Monarchs were God's lieutenants on earth, and it was their
responsibility to see that the proper order was maintained
there. The tempest of this opening scene, however, turns the
social order topsy-turvy. In a well-ordered world, the King
would be giving directions and the seamen would be obeying them,
but in the midst of a natural disaster, the order is inverted.
In the next scene, you'll learn that the social order has
been inverted in another way: one of the noblemen on board,
Antonio, is a usurper--a false monarch who has stolen power from
a real one. In a sense, the tempest, a natural upheaval, is a
symbol for this social upheaval.
Though the first scene is brief and chaotic, Shakespeare has
already begun drawing character portraits. Spectators wouldn't
know yet who Antonio and Sebastian are, but they'd be able to
see that they're arrogant, meddlesome aristocrats who don't have
the good sense to leave the boatswain alone. (To his credit,
the boatswain manages to come back with a snappy response. When
Sebastian curses his insolence, he retorts, "Work you,
then"--Get to work!) You are also amply introduced to Gonzalo.
The old councilor, though talkative, is even-tempered and
optimistic. While the other nobles are panicking or praying for
their lives, he manages to inject a little humor into the
situation. Making a joke of the proverb "He that's born to be
hanged need fear no drowning," he observes that the rough
boatswain looks exactly like the kind of scoundrel who's bound
for the gallows--so perhaps they're all safe from drowning. At
the end of the scene, he invokes Providence--the will of a
benevolent God--with the words, "The wills above be done!"
Providence will form an important theme in The Tempest, for the
shipwreck, though seemingly a disaster, will turn out to be a
kind of blessing for the men on board.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 1-186
The scene shifts from the enchanted island where the rest of
the play takes place. Prospero, scholar and magician, stands
before his quarters talking with his kind-hearted daughter
Miranda. She knows her father has called up the storm and she
begs him to calm it, for she has spotted the ship and is
terrified for whomever might be aboard.
NOTE: Observe that while Miranda addresses her father as
"you," he uses the "thou" form of the second-person pronoun with
her. In Elizabethan English (as in present-day French, German,
and other languages), the "you" form is more formal or
respectful; the "thou" form expresses familiarity.
Prospero promises Miranda that the storm hasn't harmed a hair
of anybody aboard the ship. But at the moment he wants to speak
to Miranda about something else: her background, about which
he's so far avoided telling her. He reminds her that she wasn't
quite three years old when they came to the island; because he
mentions, a few lines later, that they've been there twelve
years, you can estimate her age at fifteen.
Prospero tells Miranda that he was once the powerful Duke of
Milan (Shakespeare puts the accent on the first syllable:
MI-lan. The Italy of Shakespeare's day was not the unified
nation it is today, but rather a collection of states, each of
which had its own government.) Miranda, the princess, was
Prospero's only child and heir. "Foul play" drove them out of
Milan, but a blessing brought them to this island. (Note that
the theme of divine providence is invoked again.)
The heroes of tragedy are often good men who have a fatal
flaw. Although The Tempest is no tragedy, the Prospero who
ruled Milan had just such a flaw: he loved learning too much,
and it proved to be his downfall. He spent more and more time
alone in study, turning the rulership of Milan over to his
brother Antonio. But Antonio's head was swayed by power: he
convinced himself that he was the rightful duke. Thus, he made
a deal with Prospero's enemy, the King of Naples: If the King
would help Antonio drive his brother out of office, then Antonio
would see that Milan paid him a yearly sum of money ("annual
tribute") and would make Milan, which had been a sovereign
power, subservient to Naples. His plan wasn't only treacherous,
it was unpatriotic. Prospero, recalling it, cringes at the
thought of Milan bowing to Naples. The King of Naples
accordingly raised a "treacherous army" that one midnight
carried off Prospero and the child Miranda. The army didn't
dare kill them, because the two were so beloved by the people;
instead, they were set adrift in a rotten little boat. The one
bright spot was the behavior of Gonzalo, the kindly Neapolitan
councilor. He provided them with food and fresh water, and also
with some "rich garments"--which may explain the existence of
Prospero's magic robe, as well as the fine clothes with which,
in Act IV, he tempts a band of thieves. (Antonio, the King of
Naples, and Gonzalo have already appeared--though a spectator
might not realize it--in the opening of the shipboard scene.)
You may find Prospero's narrative a little difficult to
follow at first. These memories excite and anger him, thus his
sentence structure isn't as clean and precise as it would be if
he were calmer. His excitement is probably also one reason that
he keeps asking Miranda if she's listening, though it's
perfectly obvious that she's very attentive.
NOTE: THE CLASSICAL UNITIES Prospero's long speech provides
the background information you need in order to follow the rest
of the story. But it would have been almost as easy, and much
more dramatic, for Shakespeare to have included one or two early
scenes actually showing these events. By giving the narrative
to Prospero, he observes what were known as the classical
unities.
The ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle had observed that
most tragedies confine themselves to "a single revolution of the
sun." Renaissance critics turned his observation into a strict
rule, insisting that not only must the action of a play be
restricted to a single day, it should remain in a single place
as well. If you're familiar with Shakespeare's other plays,
you'll know that he wasn't impressed by these so-called rules;
in fact, he was criticized for not adhering to them. Some
scholars believe that in composing The Tempest along such
strictly unified lines (the play takes place within a few hours
and everything happens on Prospero's island, or just offshore),
Shakespeare was showing his critics how rigorous he could be if
he wanted to. But it's equally possible that Shakespeare didn't
care at all about critical theory--that he constructed The
Tempest as he did simply because it suited the effect for which
he was striving.
Prospero ends his tale by informing Miranda that his enemies
are now on the shore of his island, and that he must act swiftly
to make his good luck secure. Miranda promptly, and rather
unexpectedly, falls asleep. Possibly she sleeps because it
suits Prospero's purposes: he wants her out of the way so he
can talk privately with Ariel. But there's also a chance that
Shakespeare is poking fun at himself here, as if to say, "I know
how tedious all this background is getting. Look, even the
actors can't keep their eyes open."
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 187-304
Perhaps you noticed that Prospero, in his narrative, moved
from a rather stark and tragic realism, as he recalled his
downfall, to the almost fairy-tale tone with which he described
the journey to the blessed island. The texture of the play has
changed, too. It began with a terrifying and realistic storm;
now, as Prospero summons the spirit Ariel, it moves into the
realm of delightful fantasy.
Ariel is described in the opening cast of characters as "an
airy spirit." He's all lightness, speed, fire, and music;
there's nothing bodily about him. In fact, you can only call
him "he" for the sake of convenience, since he can assume a
female form as easily as a male one.
Prospero asks whether Ariel has created the tempest he was
commanded to create, and Ariel replies with a description of his
mischief. Turning himself into fire, he danced in the guise of
flames all around the ship, terrifying the men. All the
noblemen on board jumped into the sea, but Ariel has seen to it
that they're all safely ashore; in fact, their clothes are even
fresher than before. Ariel has separated them into groups; the
King's son, Ferdinand (who was the first to jump overboard), is
by himself. The ship is hidden in a "deep nook" in the harbor;
the sailors are below deck, sleeping a sleep that's half
exhaustion, half enchantment.
NOTE: "THE STILL-VEXED BERMOOTHES" When Ariel mentions going
to "fetch dew" from the Bermuda Islands, it's the only allusion
to the Bermudas in the play, but it isn't coincidental. (The
spelling "Bermoothes" imitates the Spanish pronunciation of the
name.) In 1609 a group of British ships had set sail for the new
Jamestown colony in Virginia; one of the ships, separated from
the others in a storm, ran aground in the Bermuda Islands. But
the report that first reached England was that the ship had
sunk, and that the crew was dead. Thus, when the English public
learned the next year that the seamen had survived after all,
the news caused quite a stir. Several pamphlets about the
adventure were published, and Shakespeare, who was writing The
Tempest at about that time, apparently read them attentively,
since some of them seem to have provided a source for certain
descriptions in the play. The storm scene at the outset, for
example, echoes phrases from the Bermuda pamphlets. Ariel's
description of his fiery antics recalls a description of
"Sea-fire" in one of the pamphlets.
The safety of the shipwrecked men on the lush Bermuda Islands
caught the imagination of the English public for another reason
as well. Until then, there was a great deal of superstition
surrounding the islands. They were associated in the public
mind with winds and enchantments, with fairies and demons.
That's why Ariel calls them "still-vexed," ever-tormented. (In
our day there's talk about the treacherous Bermuda Triangle,
where ships and airplanes have disappeared.) The disaster that
turns out to be a blessing is, as you will see, an important
theme in The Tempest. The theme has already been mentioned
once: in Prospero's speech describing the way he and Miranda
reached the fortunate island, "By providence divine."
The idea of an exotic island, inhabited by fairies appealed
to Shakespeare's imagination. Geographically, however,
Prospero's island is nowhere near the Bermudas; it's somewhere
in the Mediterranean Sea. You know this because you learn, in
Act II, that the King of Naples' fleet was returning to Italy
from North Africa when the tempest struck.
Prospero is pleased with Ariel's report, and he tells him
that the next four hours--from two until six--will be of the
highest importance. But Ariel isn't eager for more work. He
reminds Prospero of a promise he made to take a year off Ariel's
term of service. You may be surprised that Prospero is angered
by Ariel's request. The magician suddenly becomes threatening.
He makes Ariel recall the terrible punishment from which he once
saved him. Years earlier, Ariel had been the servant of the
"foul witch" Sycorax, who was banished to the island from her
native Algiers "For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible."
(When Prospero calls her a "blue-eyed hag," he's referring to
the color of her eyelids, not her eyes, Blue eyelids were
considered a sign of pregnancy, and when Sycorax arrived at the
island she was pregnant with the monster Caliban--whom you'll
shortly meet.)
Sycorax's commands were so horrible that Ariel refused to
carry them out. As a punishment, she imprisoned him in a cloven
(split) pine tree, and he remained there, in groaning agony, for
a dozen years, during which time Sycorax died. Eventually
Prospero arrived on the island, opened the pine with a magic
stronger than Sycorax's, and released Ariel--on the condition
that Ariel work for him.
Sycorax's punishment seems especially terrible because Ariel,
the air spirit, is the very essence of freedom. By the same
token, it may strike you as wrong that he should have to be
anybody's servant. Thus, Prospero's rage at Ariel's wish for
liberty seems overly harsh, and when he threatens to imprison
Ariel in an oak tree for another twelve years, you may think
he's gone too far. (The horrified Ariel quickly promises to do
whatever he's told.)
You should keep several factors in mind, however. The first
is that the following hours are very important indeed. Prospero
has already told Miranda that if he doesn't seize his good
fortune now, it will desert him forever. A second, deeper
factor concerns what Prospero has learned from past experience.
He lost Milan by being a weak, inattentive ruler; thus, he keeps
a firm (but not cruel) control over his island domain. Finally,
it was part of fairy folklore that anyone who controlled the
spirits had to keep a careful eye on them, because their natural
inclination was toward freedom, not work.
But just when Prospero is starting to seem tyrannical, he
becomes kindly--as if his harshness had been a joke. Once he's
assured of Ariel's service, he promises Ariel that if he
performs well, he'll set him free in two days. Ariel is
delighted. Prospero orders him to assume female shape--"a nymph
o' th' sea"--and to make himself invisible to everyone but
Prospero.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 305-374
Prospero wakens Miranda, then calls Caliban, the monster son
of Sycorax. Miranda hates Caliban ("'Tis a villain, sir,/I do
not love to look on"), but Prospero reminds her that they need
him: he builds their fire, fetches their wood, and performs
similar menial tasks.
Caliban is described in the opening cast of characters as "a
salvage [that is, savage] and deformed slave." Prospero keeps
him imprisoned in a kind of rock-den. His first words, a
complaint from offstage, are typical: "There's wood enough
within." He knows he's being called to work, and he doesn't feel
like it. Caliban is sullen, insolent, uncooperative, and lazy.
When Prospero says that he was "got by the devil himself/Upon
thy wicked dam," he's probably referring to the actual
circumstances of Caliban's birth rather than simply insulting
him. The monster's mother, you remember, was the witch Sycorax;
his father was apparently a demon.
At first Caliban seems sympathetic even though he's
bad-tempered. Prospero has nothing but nasty words for him
("poisonous slave," "lying slave" and so forth), and when
Caliban resists his authority, Prospero is even harsher than he
was with Ariel. Prospero threatens to set "urchins" (goblins)
on him, who will pinch him so cruelly he'll look like a
honeycomb. Caliban delivers a speech that makes him seem even
more cruelly victimized, claiming that the island, which once
belonged to him, has been stolen from him. When Prospero first
arrived on the island, he treated Caliban kindly, teaching him
language and petting him. In return, Caliban acquainted him
with his wide knowledge of the island. Now he curses himself
for having helped Prospero, since Prospero has made him a slave
and imprisoned him. Poor Caliban can't even roam the island
that was once all his own. Consider the plight of the
seventeenth-century American Indians if you want to show some
sympathy for Caliban.
One of the qualities that made Shakespeare a supreme
dramatist was his profound understanding of, and sympathy for,
his characters--even his villains. For the moment, Shakespeare
takes you into the monster's mind and shows you the world from
his point of view; he gives Caliban a fair chance to speak for
himself.
Prospero retorts that Caliban is a liar, and that what works
with him is whipping, not kindness. He had raised and educated
the monster with great kindness--which Caliban repaid by trying
to rape Miranda. Caliban, on being reminded of his crime,
cries, "O ho, O ho! Would't had been done!" and he basks,
remorseless, in the vision of an island populated by baby
Calibans. Suddenly you glimpse Caliban's true nature.
You should keep in mind that English citizens of
Shakespeare's day held very different ideas about the social
order than we do. Notions of equality and democracy were
completely foreign, even upsetting, to them. They believed in a
strict hierarchy, from king down to commoner, and they believed
that the world was ordered that way because that was how God had
ordained it. Kings ruled by divine right, a right bestowed on
them by God. Aristocrats weren't just lucky men and women who
had the benefits of wealth, education, and comfort--they enjoyed
these blessings because their noble natures deserved them.
Similarly, laborers toiled because physical work suited their
lower, earthier natures. Such ideas may strike you as silly and
superstitious, but they were fundamental to the Elizabethan
picture of an ordered society.
Caliban is a slave by nature. (Prospero calls him "slave"
six times in this brief section.) Servitude is what he's fit
for. The attempt to educate him for something better and nobler
has only perverted him--a fact Prospero has learned the hard
way. No wonder Prospero sometimes appears so stern, even
authoritarian. Caliban represents his second failure as a
ruler. (Losing Milan to his brother Antonio was his first.)
In many ways, Caliban is central to the structure of The
Tempest. Shakespeare has set up implied contrasts between the
monster and several other characters. For example, Caliban is
described in the cast of characters as "deformed," and his
ugliness--which is the outward reflection of his inner
vileness--contrasts sharply with Miranda's beauty, which is in
turn the emblem of her beautiful nature. Prospero has taken
great pains to educate his daughter:
...here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princess' can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
Miranda benefits greatly from her education because she has a
noble nature to begin with. On the other hand, the main benefit
Caliban has reaped from learning to speak is that he's become an
expert at cursing. Education has only made him into a
malcontent concerning his low position. He may have been born
to serve, but learning has made him hate serving.
Miranda isn't the only character with whom Shakespeare
contrasts Caliban. As the former ruler of the island, and the
representative of "nature," Caliban is a counterpart to the
current ruler, Prospero, the representative of "art" or
learning. Caliban is even more obviously Ariel's precise
opposite. Ariel is "an airy spirit"--light, speedy,
intelligent. But almost the first words Prospero speaks to
Caliban are "Thou earth, thou!" Caliban may be viewed as heavy,
earthbound, stupid--everything that Ariel isn't. Whereas Ariel
is pure spirit, Caliban is all body, and thus, all uncontrolled
appetite. He doesn't control his desires because he can't.
(Hence his attempt to rape Miranda.) Later he'll turn out to be
a drunkard as well.
You'll see another contrast with Caliban in Ferdinand, the
King of Naples' son. Ferdinand, like Miranda the child of
royalty, has a noble nature. Among his many virtues is
chastity, or, more broadly, self-control. Caliban, all
appetite, will never know the meaning of self-control.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 375-503
Ariel returns singing, invisible to everyone but Prospero
(this effect was probably accomplished in Shakespeare's day by
having the actor wear a special robe signaling invisibility).
Ferdinand, son of the King of Naples, closely resembles a
fairy-tale prince--handsome, brave, and noble. Shakespeare
never really develops an in-depth portrait of his character.
(Similarly, he doesn't develop Miranda much, beyond making her
charming and virginal--a fairy-tale princess.)
Ferdinand had been weeping over what he thought was the death
of his father when this strange music came creeping by him. It
calmed both him and the storm, and Ferdinand followed it almost
against his will.
Ariel's second song, even lovelier than his first (and more
understandable), describes the "sea-change" of a drowned man
whose eyes turn to pearls and whose bones turn to coral. Sure
that the words concern his father's drowning, Ferdinand decides
that the music must be the work of spirits--"no mortal
business." Prospero spots the young man and points him out to
Miranda.
NOTE: Prospero's words are, "The fringed curtains of thine
eyes advance/And say what thou seest yond." These lines have
been the center of a lively controversy for centuries, with such
famous literary names as Alexander Pope and Samuel Taylor
Coleridge lining up on opposite sides. Pope's followers think
the phrasing is too pompous, since it's nothing more than an
overblown way of saying, "Look what's coming." Coleridge's
followers defend Shakespeare, arguing that the words are
appropriate to Prospero's general solemnity, and that Prospero
obviously wants Miranda's first view of Ferdinand to make a
strong impression on her. It's a small but unresolved issue,
and you'll have to read the lines several times in context to
decide which argument you favor.
When Miranda sees Ferdinand, she's so overwhelmed by his good
looks that she decides he must be a spirit, or even a god (a
"thing divine"). Ferdinand has the same reaction: is Miranda a
goddess? Prospero observes that everything is proceeding
according to his plan: "They have changed eyes", that is,
they've fallen in love at first sight (another fairy-tale
convention). Prospero is so delighted that he promises the
invisible Ariel he'll set him free for this.
But Prospero doesn't show his pleasure to the young lovers.
Ferdinand, surprised to hear Miranda speaking his own language,
tells her that he's "the best," the highest-ranking, of the
people who speak it. Prospero challenges him: What would the
King of Naples say if he heard that statement? The King of
Naples does hear, Ferdinand replies, because Ferdinand himself
is the King of Naples. (Remember, Ferdinand thinks his father
has drowned.)
NOTE: Ferdinand's statement that the Duke of Milan (Antonio)
and his son went down with the ship is a mystery, because it's
the only mention in the play of Antonio's son. Scholars have
offered various explanations: perhaps the reference is a
holdover from an earlier version of the play; perhaps at this
point in the writing Shakespeare hadn't decided on all the
character relationships. Because the statement gives Prospero
an opening for a witty response, it's possible that Shakespeare
left it in the play simply because he didn't want to cut a good
line.
Miranda is shocked at her father's harshness; she's never
seen him behave so unpleasantly.
Prospero explains in an aside that if he doesn't make it
difficult for Ferdinand to win Miranda, Ferdinand might not
value her highly enough. Do you think this is a convincing
explanation? Keep in mind, at least, that you're in the realm
of fairy tale here. It's also probably worth remembering that
Shakespeare had two daughters of his own. He must have
understood Prospero's mixed feelings at seeing his young
daughter leaving the nest--even though she's leaving it for a
fine young man.
NOTE: "ASIDE" You'll encounter this stage direction
frequently. It indicates that a line is to be spoken
secretively--either to another character onstage (for example,
when Prospero speaks to Ariel out of Miranda and Ferdinand's
hearing), or directly to the audience (Caliban's lament that he
must obey Prospero because his magic is so powerful). Asides to
the audience are particularly useful for letting spectators in
on a character's thoughts.
To Miranda's horror, Prospero grows even more belligerent.
He accuses Ferdinand of trying to steal his island, and he
threatens to imprison him. Finally he drives the young man to
anger. Ferdinand draws his sword, but before he can use it
Prospero freezes him with a charm. Ferdinand's action tells you
that he's brave, but his bravery is no match for Prospero's
magic.
Miranda begs her father to be merciful. Ferdinand, for his
part, is ready for hardship, even imprisonment, as long as he
can glimpse Miranda once a day. (Again, his declaration has a
storybook quality.) The act closes with Prospero maintaining his
facade of harshness but secretly whispering his delight, and
promises of freedom, to Ariel.
NOTE: BEAUTY It isn't unusual for storybook characters like
Ferdinand and Miranda to be attractive, but you may be wondering
why Shakespeare places so much emphasis on their appearance.
Isn't there more to a person than good looks? As a matter of
fact, it was commonly believed in Shakespeare's day that
physical beauty was the outward reflection of moral beauty.
After all, according to the Bible, God created man in his own
image. Ugliness was believed to be evidence of some kind of
inward evil. (See Richard III for clear evidence of this
theory.) Thus Caliban, with his low nature, is ugly and
deformed. His mother, the witch Sycorax, was "with age and
envy/Grown into a hoop." Throughout the play, physical beauty is
linked with moral beauty.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 1-188
Attention now focuses on Ferdinand's father, the King of
Naples, and the other nobles you met in the storm scene. Kindly
old Gonzalo--the same good councilor who provided Prospero and
Miranda with food, fresh water, and clothing when they were set
adrift twelve years ago--is trying to cheer King Alonso. But
Alonso is in no mood for words of comfort; his first line is
"Prithee, peace"--Please be quiet.
Gonzalo is supported in his efforts at optimism by two
lords--Adrian and Francisco. They're no match, however, for two
nasty, cynical noblemen who keep interrupting their cheerful
talk with jeers and insults. One of these mockers, Antonio, is
Prospero's brother, who drove Prospero and Miranda out of Milan
and usurped Prospero's dukedom. The other cynic, Sebastian, is
Alonso's brother, who is no more likable than Antonio.
NOTE: PAIRING You might pause here to consider with what
symmetry Shakespeare has cast The Tempest. Almost every
character has a counterpart. Prospero and Alonso, rightful
rulers as well as fathers, form one pair; their wicked brothers,
Antonio and Sebastian, form another; their children, Miranda and
Ferdinand, form a third. Adrian and Francisco, two lords, both
have bit parts. Ariel and Caliban, the two fantastic beings on
Prospero's island, are counterparts and opposites. In Act II,
Scene II, you'll meet Trinculo and Stephano, two low-born clowns
who survive the shipwreck. Among the major characters, only
Gonzalo stands alone outside these symmetries; he has no
counterpart. Why do you think this is the case? You might say
he's the exception that proves the rule, though in fact
sometimes Gonzalo is paired with Alonso, as the voice of
optimism countering Alonso's voice of pessimism.
As Antonio and Sebastian continue their sarcastic comments
and stupid jokes, you may find them more and more irritating.
Here Shakespeare gives you an example of the way a person's
temperament shapes his perceptions. To the optimistic Gonzalo,
the grass on the island is "lush and lusty... how green!" But
to the sour Antonio it looks "tawny"--dried up by the sun. (Can
you give a similar example from your own experience of how two
people saw the same incident in two different ways?) Gonzalo is
amazed that their clothing, instead of being stained with salt
water, seems clean and fresh. (Recall that in Act I, Scene II,
Ariel told Prospero that his magic had made the men's garments
"fresher than before.") However, Antonio and Sebastian don't
seem convinced.
Gonzalo and his tormentors argue rather trivially for several
lines. Gonzalo identifies the city of Tunis, from which the
King's fleet was returning, with the ancient city of Carthage.
In fact, the ruins of Carthage are quite close to Tunis. But
Antonio and Sebastian belittle him as if he were an idiot for
saying so. When Gonzalo refers to the "widow Dido," they hoot
at that too; apparently because people don't usually think of
Dido, the passionate lover of Aeneas in Virgil's epic The
Aeneid, as a widow, even though she was one. The whole passage
is difficult to follow, and scholars still aren't completely
sure what all the characters are talking about here. But the
gist is clear: Sebastian and Antonio are mocking the old man
for no good reason.
Finally the King has tolerated enough. He complains that he
doesn't feel like being cheered; grief-stricken, he laments the
death of his son Ferdinand. Francisco offers some comfort: he
says he saw Ferdinand swimming strongly over the water, and
there's every reason to believe he reached the shore.
Nevertheless, Alonso still doesn't believe that Ferdinand might
be alive.
Sebastian doesn't even try to comfort his brother. Instead,
he's cruel enough to rub salt in his wounds. The whole
disaster, he says, is the King's fault. The storm struck while
their fleet was on its way home to Naples from North Africa,
where they had all attended the wedding of the King's daughter
Claribel to the King of Tunis. Sebastian reminds the King that
he (Sebastian) and many others--including Claribel
herself--opposed the marriage. They didn't want her marrying
someone from so remote a land. Alonso had refused to yield,
however, and his stubbornness, Sebastian tells him, was the real
cause of the present catastrophe.
Gonzalo reproaches Sebastian for talking to a grieving man
that way. Still determined to cheer the King, the old councilor
decides to entertain him with a fantasy of what he'd do if he
had "plantation of this isle"--that is, colonization rights.
(But Sebastian and Antonio make another inane joke--that Gonzalo
would plant it with briars and weeds.)
Gonzalo's odd little speech envisions an island without
money, jobs, or farming; without ownership, inheritance, or
weapons. An innocent, uncivilized population would live off the
fat of a fertile land, an Eden. His fantasy of an ideal society
is a far cry from the highly organized monarchies of
seventeenth-century Europe.
NOTE: MONTAIGNE Gonzalo's speech is one of the few spots in
The Tempest for which we are sure of Shakespeare's source: a
piece of writing called "On the Cannibals" by the great French
essayist Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592). Montaigne's essay was
published in an English translation in 1603, and Gonzalo's
speech echoes phrases from it so closely that it's certain
Shakespeare had read it.
Montaigne idealized primitive, "natural" societies at the
expense of the highly "artificial" social organization of
European monarchies, with their crime, poverty, and vice.
Shakespeare's purpose in quoting him, however, is less clear.
Gonzalo, trying to divert the King, is speaking half-jokingly.
But is he half-serious too? The Shakespeare who created Caliban
certainly hasn't idealized brute nature. On the other hand,
like Montaigne, he's evidently concerned with the corrupting
influence of civilization, because he includes Antonio and
Sebastian in the play. These two men, you could argue, are
worse than Caliban; the monster behaves according to his low
nature, but in their corruption they've allowed their higher
nature to be perverted. How seriously Shakespeare intends
Gonzalo's speech is a point you'll have to decide about later,
after gathering evidence from the rest of the play. Watch for
two themes: the benevolence of nature, and the corrupting force
of civilization.
Patient as he is, Gonzalo doesn't enjoy the jeers of Antonio
and Sebastian. He keeps his temper, but he leaves no doubt as
to his opinion of their "wit."
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 189-331
Ariel enters, still invisible and playing magical music that
immediately puts Gonzalo, Adrian, and Francisco into an
enchanted sleep. As Alonso grows drowsy too, Sebastian
encourages him to sleep and soothe his grief. Antonio promises
that they'll guard the King's safety while he dozes--an
outrageous lie, in view of the murderous scheme he's about to
hatch with Sebastian. Ariel leaves, and Sebastian and Antonio
wonder why they haven't become sleepy too. As you'll see,
leaving them awake is part of Prospero's plan.
With the others out of the way, Antonio draws Sebastian into
a plot to kill the King and take the crown for himself. (If
you've read Macbeth, what resemblance do you find between
Antonio and the scheming Lady Macbeth?) Sebastian only gradually
perceives his meaning. Antonio tells the King's brother that he
has a great opportunity here, if he'll only seize it. The King
is asleep, defenseless; Ferdinand, who would inherit the crown
if anything happened to his father, has surely drowned, despite
Gonzalo's optimism. Ferdinand's sister Claribel, to whom the
crown would belong after Ferdinand's death, is so far away in
Tunis that for all practical purposes she's out of the picture.
Antonio's style is elevated, but his meaning is simple and
brutal: if Sebastian murders his brother as he sleeps, he can
take the crown for himself--just as Antonio stole the crown of
his own brother, Prospero.
Antonio's reasoning may sound logical to someone who's ready
to be convinced, but a closer examination will reveal its
falsity. Look at these sleeping lords, Antonio says; if they
were dead, they'd be no worse off than they are right now.
Besides, Sebastian could rule Naples just as well as Alonso.
Furthermore, murdering the talkative Gonzalo would be no loss to
anybody. Antonio reminds Sebastian of his own crime against
Prospero; just see how he's benefited from it, he says.
Sebastian's brief reply is straightforward: what about
Antonio's conscience? Antonio assures him that his conscience
doesn't even bother him as much as a kibe (a cold sore) on his
foot would--less, in fact, because he would feel the sore, but
he doesn't feel guilt. He tells the hesitant Sebastian that
he'll murder the King at once if Sebastian will draw his sword
beside him and kill loyal Gonzalo. The rest of the lords, he
promises him, won't cause any problem--they'll support whoever
holds the power.
Sebastian reaches a firm resolution: he'll do it. And for
helping him this way, he'll free Antonio from the annual tribute
that Alonso exacted for helping Antonio get rid of Prospero. If
Antonio has any motive beyond sheer wickedness for urging
Sebastian into the scheme, this is probably it. The two
villains prepare to draw their swords, but the nervous Sebastian
hesitates again, and they pause for a moment to discuss the
matter further.
NOTE: REENACTMENT When Shakespeare decided to observe the
classical unities in The Tempest, he sacrificed a great dramatic
possibility. Antonio's plot against Prospero, which is central
to the drama, would have supplied some exciting scenes.
Moreover, by not staging them, Shakespeare risked not having his
audience see how villainous Antonio really was. It's one thing
to hear about a crime, but another to see it being planned and
carried out. Therefore, by having Antonio mastermind this plot
against Alonso--a plot that's almost identical to his earlier
crime against Prospero--Shakespeare portrays Antonio as a
usurper without having to spread the action of the play over
twelve years. He even manages to create a little
suspense--though not a great deal, since you'll shortly learn
that everything is proceeding according to Prospero's plan.
Prospero has foreseen the danger to his old friend Gonzalo,
just as he's foreseen Sebastian and Antonio's scheme. Ariel
reenters and awakens Gonzalo the same way he had put him to
sleep: with music. This time there's nothing vague about his
song: it's a clear warning of danger. When Gonzalo opens his
eyes to see Sebastian and Antonio with their swords drawn, he
cries out, waking the King and the other lords.
Caught red-handed, the two villains have to invent a story.
Sebastian starts rattling that he heard a noise like bulls or
lions--evidently he hasn't gotten his story straight yet.
Antonio chimes in that the noise was terrible. Alonso seems
slightly suspicious ("I heard nothing"), but Gonzalo admits that
he heard something too, though it was more like humming than
roaring. Gonzalo seems ready to accept their tale if for no
other reason than that he doesn't like being suspicious.
Reassuring the King once more that Ferdinand must be alive
somewhere on the island, they go off searching for him, while
Ariel leaves to report to Prospero.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ACT II, SCENE II
On another part of the island, Caliban is at one of his
chores, hauling firewood; as usual, he's cursing Prospero with
every plague he can think of. He isn't worried about the
spirits overhearing him because he knows they won't torment him
unless Prospero orders them to. Caliban reveals their pet
tortures: they pinch him, throw him in the mud, lead him astray
with magic lights, turn into apes that grimace and bite him, or
into hedgehogs that prick his feet, or into snakes that wind
around him. Then he sees Trinculo and mistakes him for one of
Prospero's spirits come to punish him for working too slowly.
He falls flat (there are no trees to hide behind) in the hope
that the "spirit" won't notice him.
Trinculo, another survivor of the storm, is a jester from
Alonso's court. After enduring the terror of the storm, he's
still nervous about the weather. It looks like a new tempest is
brewing, but he doesn't see any trees or bushes to shelter him.
He sees only Caliban, and he doesn't know what to make of him.
The monster smells as bad as an old fish, but he seems more like
an inhabitant of the island struck dead by lightning. (Caliban,
frightened of the "spirit," is lying very still.) Trinculo
reflects that in England, Caliban could make his fortune:
people would gladly pay a high price to behold such a marvel.
Indeed, as Shakespeare knew, the English were great fans of
side-shows.
NOTE: At the time Shakespeare was writing The Tempest,
American Indians were a popular curiosity in England. They were
brought over to be exhibited, but after suffering abuse they
rarely lived to return home--thus, perhaps, Trinculo's reference
to "a dead Indian."
Trinculo is a jester to Alonso, and he functions in the play
as a clown, too. Shakespeare hasn't made him convincingly
Italian; after all, he makes topical jokes about England. Note
the way he uses images of drinking. The black cloud he spots
looks like "a foul bombard"--a large leather jug--"that would
shed his liquor"; he'll have to wait until "the dregs of the
storm" are past. At this point he isn't drunk (his friend
Stephano is the drunkard), but before long he'll be reeling
around the stage. In any case, though he dislikes Caliban's
looks, the approaching storm convinces him to crawl under
Caliban's gaberdine (cloak) for protection.
Stephano, described in the cast of characters as "a drunken
butler", wanders in at this point. He too was on the King's
ship, and like Trinculo he thinks he's the only survivor. He
stumbles around, bellowing a song about dying on dry land. It
suddenly strikes him that this is hardly an appropriate song, in
view of the fact that his friends have all drowned. So he takes
another swig and launches into a lewd song about a woman who
doesn't like sailors.
Caliban, meanwhile, is terrified of Trinculo, who's crawled
under his cloak: "Do not torment me!" he cries. Stephano hears
Caliban's voice, then notices the four legs (Caliban's and
Trinculo's) jutting out from the cloak, and decides that he's
stumbled on some kind of talking monster. It occurs to him, as
it had to Trinculo, that a marvel like this could make his
fortune at home.
Caliban, who still thinks he's being punished by a spirit,
promises, "I'll bring my wood home faster." Stephano decides
that Caliban must be having some kind of fit, and he offers the
monster his favorite remedy: a swig of wine. Caliban is wary,
but Stephano assures him he's a friend.
Trinculo, meanwhile, has heard Stephano's voice, and
believing that Stephano drowned with the others, he decides
devils must be at work. Stephano, on hearing Trinculo's voice,
is even more confused: the monster seems to have not only four
legs but two voices as well. They talk, and finally he drags
Trinculo out with an obscene joke about Trinculo's being the
dung ("siege") of a monster ("mooncalf").
Trinculo is so delighted to see his friend that he embraces
him a little too energetically. Stephano, whose stomach is
queasy from too much drink, asks him to stop. These two clowns
form a sorry spectacle, but Caliban is convinced they're gods.
After all, Stephano has given him "celestial liquor," and so he
kneels to him.
Stephano, it turns out, floated to safety on (appropriately)
"a butt of sack"--a keg of wine. His repeated oath, "by this
bottle," is a drunkard's joke. But Caliban takes it seriously,
and he offers to swear "upon that bottle" to serve Stephano.
Trinculo and Stephano pay no attention to him at first. They're
more excited about the butt of sack Stephano managed to save.
When they do turn to Caliban, the innocent monster wants to
know if they dropped from heaven. Taking advantage of his
trustfulness, Stephano claims to be the man in the moon. (In
fact, the early European explorers told lies very much like this
to the innocent Indians.) In any case, Stephano is delighted to
have anyone admiring him. He accepts Caliban's services and
gives him more wine. Trinculo, in contrast, is disgusted with
Caliban's gullibility as well as his increasing tipsiness, and
he's suddenly embarrassed that he feared the monster at first.
Caliban begs Stephano to let him kiss his foot, and he
promises to show them all the nooks and crannies of the island
exactly as he had done twelve years earlier for Prospero. He's
so delighted at the idea of escaping Prospero that he offers to
catch fish for Stephano and to fetch his wood. Notice that the
idea of slavery itself doesn't bother him, because he's a
natural slave. All he wants is a new master.
NOTE: It's curious that while Stephano and Trinculo speak in
prose, Caliban's speech is beautiful poetry. The jester and the
drunken butler are ordinary men--funny, but contemptible.
Caliban may be a monster, but he isn't merely brutal. He's a
fairy-tale monster, and the beauty of his language describes his
wonderful and magical nature. Do you know of another less than
admirable Shakespearean character who also delivers some potent
and moving lines?
Stephano decides that, because the real King has drowned, he
is now the king of the island. He turns his bottle over to
Trinculo, and they head off to refill it. Caliban, now
thoroughly drunk, leads the way, singing and howling in joy at
his new "freedom."
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ACT III, SCENE I
The action returns to Prospero's part of the island.
Ferdinand enters, carrying a log. Although Ferdinand was born a
prince, Prospero has him hauling firewood, which is usually the
slave Caliban's task. Because this scene immediately follows
the Caliban-Trinculo-Stephano farce, the shift in tone from low
comic to elevated is extremely striking. While Caliban curses
and complains about his chores, Ferdinand performs his task with
joy, as he explains in his opening soliloquy. (A soliloquy is a
form of thinking aloud--a monologue addressed directly to the
audience.) Some sports, Ferdinand reflects, are painfully
strenuous, but we take part in them because the fun outweighs
the pain. By the same token, chores which under other
circumstances would be disgusting to someone so high-born are a
pleasure because he's doing them in order to win Miranda. She's
easily worth the toil, though her father is "composed of
harshness." Miranda has wept to watch Ferdinand engage in such
base labor; but thinking of her, he says, makes the work easy.
Ferdinand's task is appropriate to the fairy-tale aspect of
his character: Prospero has ordered him to remove a thousand
logs and pile them up. This kind of feat is typical of legends
that were old by the time Shakespeare wrote The Tempest. In
older versions, the young man being tested had to chop the wood,
plow the ground, and reap the harvest all in one day.
NOTE: "MOST BUSIEST WHEN I DO IT." Scholars have spent
centuries trying to decipher this line. The Tempest, written
about 1611, was first published in 1623 in the First Folio, the
famous first collected edition of Shakespeare's plays. There
the line reads: "Most busie lest, when I doe it." Since that
time, a number of conjectures have been offered. One is that
the word should be "busieliest," meaning "most busily" (an odd
formation, but it has parallels elsewhere in late Shakespeare).
Another is that the line was supposed to read "Most busiest when
idlest," but some letters were dropped off in the process of
printing, and the printer then patched the line up incorrectly.
Other explanations have also been suggested. Editors of
Shakespeare often have to deal with this type of difficulty.
Because spelling wasn't standardized in Shakespeare's day, and
because printers were often careless, there are a number of
lines in the plays where we can't be certain we're reading what
Shakespeare actually wrote. Fortunately, these difficulties are
usually minor; in any case, Ferdinand's meaning here seems
relatively clear. Beginning with "I forget," he's reflecting
that in pausing to think aloud this way, he's forgetting to
continue his labors, even though thoughts of Miranda make those
labors pleasant.
Miranda enters and urges Ferdinand to rest, since her father
is busy studying and won't stir for the next three hours. But
Miranda is wrong: Prospero is secretly watching the two young
lovers. Miranda says she wishes that lightning had burned the
logs during the tempest, so poor Ferdinand wouldn't have to
stack them now. Creating a beautiful metaphor of the resin
they'll exude when they finally do burn, she says they'll "weep
for having wearied you."
Ferdinand won't stop, however, even when Miranda offers to
work in his place. (A princess aiding her toiling prince was
another feature of old legends.) They argue charmingly, and
Prospero sees how deeply in love Miranda is.
Ferdinand doesn't even know Miranda's name, and when she
tells him (even though her father had told her not to), he
cries, "Admired Miranda!" This is another example of
Shakespeare's puns, for the word "admire" comes from the Latin
for "to wonder at"; "Miranda" means "wonderful." (Recall that
when Ferdinand first saw Miranda, in Act I, Scene II, he
addressed her, "O you wonder!") Ferdinand says he's known many
women, but they each had some flaw. But not Miranda: she's
perfect and peerless.
Miranda answers, modestly, that unlike Ferdinand she's
inexperienced. She can't compare herself to other women,
because she doesn't know any. For that matter, she doesn't know
any men, either, except for her father and now Ferdinand. But
she knows she wants no other man than Ferdinand.
Ferdinand admits that as royalty he would ordinarily detest
this kind of labor. Because his heart has made him Miranda's
slave, however, he can bear it patiently. Miranda very simply
asks if he loves her; his reply is such an ecstatic "yes" that
it makes her cry. Prospero, still watching, is delighted.
Miranda is weeping, she says, because she feels so unworthy.
Because she wants to be simple, not sly, she asks him
straightforwardly if he will marry her. She also promises to be
his "maid" if he refuses, with a pun on "maid" as both "virgin"
(because she won't marry anybody else) and "servant." Ferdinand,
of course, is as eager to marry her as a slave is to be free--an
appropriate comparison, considering his present bondage. Thus,
they part happily.
Prospero, left alone onstage, reflects that though he can't
be as happy as the lovers, he couldn't be any happier than he
is. Still, there's much to be done to complete his plan.
NOTE: RECONCILIATION OVER GENERATIONS Prospero and Alonso
are old enemies, as you know from Prospero's reminiscences in
Act I, Scene II. Now their children, Miranda and Ferdinand,
have fallen in love. The notion that a younger generation can
heal the rifts between their parents is an element in several of
Shakespeare's later plays. It may also remind you of one of the
earlier plays in which the tragic love of Romeo and Juliet
ultimately brings together their feuding families, the Montagues
and the Capulets.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ACT III, SCENE II
In another sharp contrast, a delicate and serious exchange is
now followed by some broad slapstick humor, including a barrage
of comic puns.
Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo are all roaring drunk at this
point. Stephano commands the others to drink up. Trinculo
observes that if the other inhabitants of the island (Caliban
has told them about Prospero and Miranda) have brains like
theirs, then "the state totters"--a pun on their drunken
staggering.
Stephano is swaggering as usual, claiming that he swam
"five-and-thirty leagues" (around 120 land miles) to reach the
shore. He offers to make Caliban his standard-bearer, or
flag-carrier, at which Trinculo cracks that he'd be an unfit
standard because he's too drunk to stand. He'd make a better
lieutenant, "if you list." This is yet another pun: the phrase
means "if you wish," but Stephano is listing like a
ship--tilting drunkenly to the side.
As for Caliban, he's drunk so much wine that at first he
seems barely able to talk. When he finally does, he's still
fawning on Stephano. Earlier he'd begged to kiss Stephano's
foot; now he wants to lick his shoe. But Caliban is not so
drunk that he can't sense Trinculo's contempt. Trinculo can't
believe that Caliban regards a fool like Stephano as a lord, and
so he taunts him, "That a monster should be such a natural!"
with still another pun. A "natural" is an idiot, but a monster,
of course, is unnatural. Stephano finally comes to Caliban's
defense, and with his usual exaggeration he threatens to hang
the jester.
Now Caliban is ready to inform Stephano of the scheme he's
been formulating: he wants his new master to rid him of
Prospero. As soon as he starts to outline his plot, however,
Ariel enters and begins his mischief. When Caliban claims that
Prospero cheated him out of the island, Ariel says, "Thou
liest." Because the airy spirit is still invisible, Caliban and
Stephano assume the words are Trinculo's. Stephano threatens to
knock the jester's teeth out, and Trinculo, understandably,
protests his innocence.
Caliban continues: once Stephano eliminates Prospero, the
island will be Stephano's. His idea is to sneak up on Prospero
and kill him while he's sleeping. Notice the parallel with
Antonio and Sebastian's plot to murder Alonso in his
sleep--another instance of symmetry in The Tempest. In some
respects, the drunkards act out on a comic level what the
noblemen attempt on a more serious plane.
When Ariel once again calls Caliban a liar, the monster turns
on the innocent Trinculo and jeers him as a "pied ninny,"
referring to his multi-colored jester's costume. He threatens
to refuse to show Trinculo where to find fresh water on the
island. Stephano's threat, to "make a stockfish out of" him, is
more direct: stockfish was dried cod that had been beaten flat.
Again, Trinculo claims he's blameless. But when Ariel repeats,
for the third time, "Thou liest," Stephano grabs the jester and
pummels him, to Caliban's delight. (Caliban's sadistic pleasure
is another indication of his ignoble nature.) As you read, try
to imagine this broad and basic comedy performed: if it's
staged well it is hilarious.
Once Trinculo is beaten to Caliban's satisfaction, the
monster continues with his scheme, offering a list of sadistic
ways to kill Prospero. (He obviously enjoys picturing each
one.) Stephano must remember to seize Prospero's magic books,
because without them, Caliban claims, the magician can't command
his spirits. At this point he also mentions the remarkably
beautiful Miranda.
NOTE: You've probably observed that the monster continues to
talk largely in verse while Stephano and Trinculo speak in
prose. In fact, scholars have noticed that even Caliban's prose
speeches seem to split into lines of poetry. These lines may
well be "verse fossils" of an earlier draft of the play, but
what this means isn't clear. Perhaps Shakespeare intended at
first to have Caliban speak solely in verse, and then changed
his mind. It's possible, too, that some other writer may have
done some tampering. And there's always the chance--since the
lines don't divide exactly--that their closeness to verse is
just a coincidence.
When Caliban says, "I never saw a woman/But only Sycorax my
dam and she" ("she" is Miranda), Shakespeare has drawn a further
parallel between the monster and the young women, who's already
said that she can't remember seeing any men other than her
father and Ferdinand. Recall that in Act I, Scene II,
Shakespeare offered a parallel, or at least a contrast, in the
way Miranda and Caliban were educated. Whereas education had
beneficial effects on Miranda's high nature, its effects on
Caliban's low one were extremely harmful. Keep these parallels
in mind, as they continue developing until the end of the
play.
Stephano is charmed with the prospect of so beautiful a
woman; thus, he drunkenly decides to follow Caliban's advice and
kill Prospero. Then he'll rule the island with Miranda as his
queen and Caliban and Trinculo as his court. Ariel eavesdrops
on Stephano's plan and pledges to report the plot to Prospero.
Stephano is so elated with the plan that he begins a "catch" (a
musical round similar to "Row, row, row your boat"). He gets
the tune wrong, however, and Ariel, playing pipe and drum,
corrects him. This invisible music startles them all.
Trinculo, sure that it comes from demons, cries out, "O, forgive
me my sins!" Stephano is more defiant. But Caliban calms them
both. In another unexpected contrast, he interrupts this farce
to deliver one of the loveliest speeches in the play, in which
he assures them that there's music all over the island, and that
it's nothing to fear. Once again, there's something wonderful
about the way in which music charms the monster.
NOTE: MUSIC It should be apparent by now that music is a
vital element in The Tempest. In fact, this relatively brief
play has more songs in it that any of Shakespeare's others, as
well as frequent intervals of instrumental music. While the
songs don't always advance the plot, they seem perfectly
designed to fit each singer. Thus, Ariel's music is light,
airy, often mysterious; Caliban's is robust; Stephano's is
coarse. And, as you can see from Caliban's speech, the
instrumental music is a convenient stage device for making the
island seem truly enchanted.
Caliban's speech does calm the two men. Stephano is pleased
at the prospect of ruling an island where music is free.
Trinculo, at first so fearful, now wants to pursue the music.
They follow Ariel out, with Caliban in the lead, and Trinculo,
still perhaps a little nervous, bringing up the rear.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ACT III, SCENE III
By now Alonso and his court are thoroughly exhausted from
searching for Ferdinand. Gonzalo complains that the
"forthrights and meanders"--the straight paths and winding
ones--have fatigued him, and Alonso calls for a rest. Never an
optimist, the King, after this long and fruitless search, has
given up all hope of finding the Prince.
As the others rest, the conspirators confer. Sebastian
assures Antonio that he's still ready to kill his brother.
Antonio advises waiting until night-time, since the men are so
tired that they won't be able to maintain much of a guard.
An unusually elaborate stage direction calls for "Solemn and
strange music," associated as usual with magic. Suddenly the
spirits enter, bearing a banquet, and perform a highly courteous
dance inviting the men to dine. When they depart they leave
Prospero perched, unseen, at the top of the stage.
Naturally, the men are astounded. Sebastian calls the
spectacle a "living drollery"--a puppet-show that's come to
life. He and Antonio agree that from now on they'll believe all
travelers' tales, no matter how preposterous they sound.
Gonzalo is more impressed with the spirits' behavior: they may
be "of monstrous shape" but their manners are so "gentle" and
"kind" that they surpass those of most human beings. Prospero
notes how right Gonzalo is, especially since some of the men in
his own company are "worse than devils."
Alonso, too, is astonished; he observes that although the
shapes didn't speak, they communicated an "excellent" message.
Prospero, still unheard, utters the proverb, "Praise in
departing," meaning that one should not praise the host until
the meal is over. Soon Alonso will think the spirits' message
is far less excellent.
Sebastian is hungry, but Alonso hesitates, apparently wary of
a meal served by spirits. But the confident Gonzalo reassures
him: after all, when they were boys, there were many wonders
that they would never have believed in, but now every traveler
knows that these wonders really exist. By extension, therefore,
there's no need to fear what they've witnessed simply because
it's unfamiliar.
NOTE: When Gonzalo mentions "Each putter-out of five for
one," he's referring to an early form of insurance at a time
when travel was quite dangerous. Travelers leaving England
would deposit a sum of money with an agent. If they didn't come
back, the agent kept the money; but if they returned safe, he
paid it back five-fold. (Some scholars have argued that if
Shakespeare was talking about travelers, he should have said
"each putter-out of one for five.")
Alonso is convinced, partly because he's so grief-stricken
over Ferdinand that he doesn't care whether or not the food
harms him. He invites the others to join him. But just as
they're starting to dine, thunder and lightning break out;
Ariel, transformed into a harpy, swoops down and steals their
food. Harpies are legendary creatures of Greek and Roman
mythology. They have faces of women and the bodies of predatory
birds and not only steal food, but leave a sickening stench
behind them. This scene is based on events in Book III of
Virgil's Aeneid, the great Roman epic poem. When Shakespeare's
noblemen draw their swords against the harpies, they're
following Virgil; as in Virgil, their attempt to kill them is
useless. The stage direction mentions only Ariel, but some of
his fellow spirits probably appeared as additional harpies,
since Ariel refers to his "fellow ministers."
NOTE: STAGING THE BANQUET By the time The Tempest was
written, stage machinery had grown quite sophisticated; the
banquet scene, therefore, was probably produced as elaborately
as anything Shakespeare ever wrote. The stage directions call
for the banquet to vanish "with a quaint device." Although we
don't know exactly how this was accomplished, one scholar
conjectures that the table rose onto the stage through a trap
door, a cloth around the sides concealing a stagehand
underneath. Ariel descended from above and covered the table
with his harpy's wings; meanwhile, the stagehand snatched the
food through a trap door in the table. Thus, when Ariel removed
his wings, the food was gone. Shakespeare may have placed
Prospero "at the top"--above the upper stage--so the actor could
give signals to the musicians behind him, who in turn would
relay them to the stagehands. The scene, with music, thunder
and lightning, and special effects, must have formed an
impressive spectacle.
Ariel the harpy addresses a long speech to Alonso, Sebastian,
and Antonio--"three men of sin." (Apparently the others don't
hear it.) The spirit explains that the ever-hungry sea has put
them on an uninhabited island because they're not fit to live
among men. He claims he's made them insane, and hints that
often, with the courage of that kind of madness, men kill
themselves. At this point they draw their swords against him,
but he taunts them that they can no more kill harpies than they
could kill the sea by stabbing it. Besides, their swords have
suddenly become too heavy for them. (Prospero's magic seems to
be at work here.) Then he tells them the reason they're being
punished: for usurping Prospero's dukedom and casting him and
Miranda out to sea. (Note that this is the first you hear of
Sebastian's involvement in the plot against Prospero.) The
powers of destiny haven't forgotten the crime--they've only
delayed the punishment. Now it has started, however, with the
tempest and the loss of Ferdinand. Ariel promises the villains
"Ling'ring perdition"--prolonged damnation, worse than any quick
death--unless they repent their crime and lead a blameless life
on the desolate island. With a clap of thunder, he vanishes.
The other spirits reappear with "mocks and mows" (jeers and
grimaces)--behavior very different from the elaborate courtesy
which earlier led Gonzalo to praise their manners.
NOTE: Ariel has delivered the classic Christian message:
Repent and be saved; repent or be damned. Shakespeare will
further develop this deeply religious theme in the final act.
Prospero praises Ariel's excellent performance, noting that
the other spirits have done well, too. He's pleased that his
enemies "now are in my power" and he exits to visit Ferdinand
and Miranda.
Gonzalo, meanwhile, is puzzled: why is Alonso suddenly
staring so wildly? Alonso's answer seems almost deranged: the
waves, the winds, the thunder spoke to him during the tempest,
and what they uttered was: "Prospero." (When he says, "it did
bass my trespass," he's using a musical figure, turning his
crime or "trespass" into music to which the thunder, speaking
Prospero's name, provided the bass line.) Understanding that
Ferdinand was snatched from him as a punishment, he determines
in a fit of despair to kill himself and join his son in the
underwater mud. Alonso then runs out.
Sebastian and Antonio, however, don't seem to feel the
remorse that Ariel told them would be their only salvation.
Instead, they agree to fight the spirits, even though they've
just seen how useless that is. They too dash out.
The others may not have heard Ariel's speech, but Gonzalo at
least understands what's happened: their old guilt about
Prospero has worked on the "three men of sin" like a slow poison
and suddenly driven them mad. Gonzalo suggests that they be
watched closely lest they do harm to themselves in their
insanity.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 1-59
Prospero is addressing Ferdinand in a tone very different
from his earlier crustiness. The trials he put the young man
through were severe, but Miranda was worth the struggle.
Prospero estimates her value at "a third of mine own life," a
line that readers have interpreted in several ways. Is he
dividing "mine own life" into himself, his dead wife, and
Miranda; or, perhaps, into himself, Miranda, and his kingdom?
Or does he mean that raising his fifteen-year-old daughter has
taken a third of his forty-five years? In any case, he's
offering her now to the young prince, who has passed all his
tests to Prospero's great satisfaction. Ferdinand may be
smiling at Prospero's extravagant praise, because Prospero
assures him that he isn't exaggerating, but Ferdinand declares
that he'd believe him even if an oracle pronounced the opposite.
(An oracle in Greek and Roman religion, was the utterance of a
deity, usually spoken by a priest or priestess.)
Prospero then delivers a speech that has caused many readers
to wonder about its meaning. There's nothing unusual in
praising chastity before marriage--many parents still do it.
But Prospero speaks so harshly--more like the severe old father
of the earlier acts--that his words border on gracelessness.
Instead of emphasizing chastity's positive aspects, he delivers
a warning that is very nearly a threat: if Ferdinand takes
Miranda's virginity before their wedding day, their marriage
will be full of "disdain" and "discord"; he also speaks of
"barren hate," implying that they won't have any children.
Some readers have felt that Prospero's tone is inappropriate
here--hasn't he been hard enough on Ferdinand already? Do you
agree with them? Ferdinand's reply, however, shows that he
isn't offended. He agrees that premarital sex would threaten
the peace of the marriage, as well as "fair issue" or healthy
children. He promises Prospero that no matter what the
temptation, he'll preserve Miranda's virginity so he'll be able
to enjoy the "edge"--the keen pleasure--of sexual love on their
wedding day. He ends by picturing that day,
When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds are foundered
Or Night kept chained below.
That is, he'll be so impatient for his wedding night that it
will seem either that the horses that draw the sun god, Phoebus,
have gone lame, prolonging the daylight, or that Night
(personified here) is being kept in chains so he can't arrive
when he's supposed to. It's an elaborate flourish, not the kind
of speech you would choose in the heat of passion. Ferdinand is
thus talking about chastity abstractly.
NOTE: CHASTITY AND SELF-CONTROL Prospero's speech is more
than the advice of a protective father to his prospective
son-in-law; it's central to the meaning of The Tempest.
Chastity is a convenient symbol for general self-control, an
ability to govern one's appetites. The personification of
appetite in the play is Caliban, who has no control over his own
desires, and who, you'll remember, once tried to rape Miranda.
Thus the contrast between him and the chaste Ferdinand is clear.
In Shakespeare's day, self-control was regarded as an important
attribute of the successful magician as well as the successful
ruler. You could argue that Prospero's downfall in Milan was
due to his lack of self-control: he allowed Antonio to take
over the reins of government so he could satisfy his own
uncontrollable appetite for knowledge. On his island, Prospero
has to learn the lesson of self-control. You'll see him put
this lesson into practice in the fifth act, when he must
demonstrate his self-control by restraining his anger.
Prospero, pleased by Ferdinand's speech, leaves the young man
chatting with Miranda while he calls Ariel, who appears
immediately. The magician commends the way Ariel and the lesser
spirits ("thy meaner fellows") carried off the performance at
the banquet. Now he wants them to perform for Ferdinand and
Miranda. He tells Ariel to bring the lesser spirits (the
"rabble") and gives him command over them. Ariel declares his
readiness with a light and airy five-line rhyme.
When Prospero turns around again, evidently the young lovers
are doing more than chatting, because Prospero has to admonish
them to be more temperate. Probably they are embracing. Oaths,
after all, mean very little in the heat of the moment.
Ferdinand's response has been variously interpreted:
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardor of my liver.
The liver was considered the seat of sexual passion. Some
readers think Ferdinand is saying that the idea of Miranda, like
snow on his heart, cools his passion. Other readers, however,
think he's speaking more literally: Miranda's breast against
his heart cools his passion--though it's hard to imagine, no
matter how pure Miranda is, how embracing her could lessen his
passion. Of course, a young man who has been caught like
Ferdinand has, might have to talk his way rapidly out of an
embarrassing situation.
Prospero replies with a curt "Well," but it's uncertain
whether he accepts Ferdinand's response or just doesn't want to
argue. He summons Ariel and his fellow spirits to start the
masque.
NOTE: "NO TONGUE! ALL EYES! BE SILENT." Prospero's
admonition is more than just a request for polite attention. It
was thought that silence was absolutely necessary during magical
operations; the spirits would flee at the sound of human voices
(which in fact is very like what happens at the close of the
masque). Later Prospero warns, "Hush and be mute,/Or else our
spell is marred."
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 60-142
Before considering the play-within-a-play that the spirits
now present in Ferdinand and Miranda's honor, you will need some
background on this unique form of drama, known as a masque. The
masque evolved from older spectacles and games; in its medieval
form, it involved a surprise visit by masked dancers to an
unwitting person's home. By the time of Queen Elizabeth I, who
ruled England from 1558 until her death in 1603, it had become
popular at court and had already developed formal conventions.
But it was really under Elizabeth's successor, James I, who
ruled from 1603 to 1625, that the masque reached its height as a
dramatic form.
The story line of a masque was often insignificant; the
emphasis was on spectacle. Huge sums of money were spent on
sets and costumes. Music and dance were also important
elements. It's generally agreed that nothing more spectacular
has ever been presented on the English stage. You might even
compare these spectacles to multimillion-dollar science-fiction
films, especially because these movies also usually depend more
on spectacle than on content.
Masques were often performed on such special occasions as a
wedding or, as here, a betrothal. This betrothal masque made
The Tempest a particularly appropriate play to revive at court,
as indeed it was, during the winter of 1612-1613, as part of a
series of entertainments that celebrated the betrothal of King
James' daughter Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine (an elector
was a German prince) during his visit to the English court.
Because the masque was such a popular form, it's not
surprising that several of Shakespeare's plays show its
influence. In addition to the actual masque in The Tempest,
some readers have pointed out masquelike elements in the overall
structure of the play. Prospero resembles a traditional masque
"presenter," a ringmaster who introduces the other characters
and controls their actions. In a sense, the action of The
Tempest has as much in common with the static spectacle of the
masque as with the developing tension and resolution of the
traditional five-act drama. Little true tension develops;
there's never much uncertainty about the outcome of the plot.
This isn't to say that The Tempest is a masque in disguise;
however, you can see that Shakespeare responded to one of the
popular dramatic forms of his time.
The masque opens with a speech by Iris, who in Greek
mythology was the messenger of the gods as well as goddess of
the rainbow. Thus, Ceres addresses her as "many-colored
messenger" and as "heavenly bow." Iris is speaking for Juno,
queen of the gods. (Ceres and Juno are Roman names for the
Greek goddesses Demeter and Hera.) Although her meaning is quite
simple ("Please come"), Shakespeare gives her sixteen lines of
highly elaborate, highly artificial verse. The diction in this
masque is far more stilted than anywhere else in The Tempest,
which has led some readers to suspect that another writer had a
hand in it. In fact, however, the conventions of the masque
demanded a much more formal diction than did a five-act drama,
In addition, there's probably an element of parody: Shakespeare
may be poking gentle fun at the stilted verse of the popular
masques. Shakespeare's "plays within plays" are often cast in
verse much more artificial than his usual expert poetry. You
may be familiar with the rhymed couplets of the traveling
players in Act III of Hamlet, or the ridiculous "Pyramus and
Thisby" in Act V of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
As goddess of the harvest and, by extension, of fertility,
Ceres is a natural choice to bless a young couple who want to
have children. In a similar vein, Juno is the protector of
marriage. Iris's speech includes numerous images of the
fertility associated with her: fields of wheat, rye, barley,
pruned vineyards, and so forth. Iris announces that Juno is
already approaching in a chariot drawn by the peacocks that were
her special birds. Although the stage direction says, "Juno
descends," Juno doesn't speak for another thirty lines. It's
possible that she appeared at this point in a device that
descended very slowly to the stage.
Ceres enters, with an equally elaborate speech and an equally
simple point: What does Juno want? Iris replies, more briefly,
that Juno wants her to celebrate and bless a betrothal, "a
contract of true love."
Ceres returns to the theme of chastity that Prospero and
Ferdinand discussed earlier. She wants to know if Venus and her
son Cupid are with Juno. Although Juno is the protector of
marriage, Venus is the goddess of love and of the passion about
which Prospero has been warning Ferdinand. Cupid carried a bow
and arrows, and anyone he pierced would fall passionately in
love.
Ceres has a particular reason to resent Venus and Cupid, who
she says "did plot/The means that dusky Dis my daughter got."
She's alluding to the way the god of the underworld, Dis (better
known as Hades or Pluto), kidnapped her daughter Persephone
(Proserpine). Ceres' grief was said to be the cause of
winter.
In a reply rich with classical allusions, Iris assures Ceres
that although Venus and Cupid had been planning some mischief,
it's been averted. Iris may be referring to the embrace between
Ferdinand and Miranda that Prospero promptly ended. The dove is
Venus's bird; thus, she and Cupid travel "Dove-drawn" away from
them and toward Paphos, the city in Cyprus that was the center
of her cult. She is referred to as "Mars's hot minion" because
Mars, the god of war, was her lover. The core of Iris's speech
is her assurance "that no bed-right shall be paid/Till Hymen's
torch be lighted." Hymen is the god of the wedding feast; he was
often pictured carrying a torch. Iris means that Ferdinand and
Miranda won't sleep together until after the wedding.
Finally Juno appears, greets Ceres, and invites her to join
her in singing a blessing to Ferdinand and Miranda. Their song
was probably divided, with Juno singing the first four lines,
which refer specifically to her, and Ceres singing the remaining
eight, which are mainly about her particular concerns, harvest
and abundance ("foison"). When she sings,
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest
she's saying, "May spring come right on the heels of fall";
in other words, "May your lives be without winter." The
sentiment was a conventional one in Shakespeare's day.
Ferdinand is so impressed with the masque that he can't
resist offering a compliment. He asks whether the players are
spirits; Prospero confirms that they are and that he called them
up himself. Ferdinand chatters on that Prospero is wise and
that the island resembles paradise. At this point, Prospero
warns him to be quiet: the masque isn't finished, and human
talk could break the spell.
At the behest of Juno and Ceres, Iris calls forth a group of
Naiads, or water nymphs, and another group of reapers. The
masque closes with its traditional ending, a dance. (In court
masques, the dancers were often drawn from among the
spectators.) Toward the end of this graceful entertainment,
however, Prospero suddenly remembers the conspiracy of Caliban,
Trinculo, and Stephano to murder him. His face darkens, and his
agitated words break the spell. Sorrowfully, the spirits vanish
in a confused mass.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 143-266
It's probably at this point that Prospero seems least
godlike, most human and fallible. The change that's come over
him is so sudden, and so extreme, that it upsets both Ferdinand
and Miranda. Miranda says she's never seen her father so angry.
But Prospero notices their concern and urges them not to worry.
Then, beginning with "Our revels now are ended," he delivers the
most famous and, many readers believe, the most beautiful lines
of poetry in the play.
The masque, by its very nature, was a form that left the
audience thinking about the transitory nature of life. Its time
span was brief, and at its end the audience was probably
thinking rather sadly about how the maskers would disband and
the breathtaking scenery would be dismantled. ("The
cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,/The solemn temples,
The great globe itself" were probably all pieces of masque
scenery.) Thus, the kind of sentiment that Prospero now delivers
was, not surprisingly, rather commonplace at the end of masques.
After viewing a vision of perfection--an ideal world of beauty
and abundance, a world without winter--the thought of Caliban
returns Prospero sharply to the real world of brutality and
evil. His immediate anger yields to profound depression. As he
contemplates the end of the masque, it seems to him for a moment
that life is equally insubstantial: "We are such stuff/As
dreams are made on [of]." Have you ever felt this way in a
moment of depression--you can work, study, exhaust yourself
trying to do good; however, the final reality is death. As
Prospero says, "our little life/Is rounded"--that is, finished
off--"with a sleep."
But Prospero at least recognizes that his bleak thoughts are
the result of his melancholy mood. He tells the young lovers to
bear with him: he only needs to walk it off and collect
himself. They understand and exit obediently, wishing him peace
of mind.
Prospero summons Ariel: "Come with a thought."
Traditionally, spirits were supposed to be able to travel as
fast as thought, and thus appear at their masters' desire.
Prospero reminds him that it's time to deal with Caliban, and
Ariel tells him that the matter was on his mind, too, "when I
presented Ceres."
NOTE: This phrase could mean simply that Ariel was the
"presenter" of the masque, but it might also mean "when I played
Ceres." Ariel probably played one of the roles, though Iris
would be as likely a choice as Ceres.
At a question from Prospero, Ariel tells you what's happened
to Caliban and his cohorts since you last saw them. They were
drunk when he surprised them with his magic music. They
followed, unable to resist, like calves after their mother.
Then Ariel started playing tricks. He led them through briars
and thorns, and finally into a pond with a coat of filthy scum.
There they stood, with the water chin-high and smelling so awful
that it "O'erstunk their feet."
Prospero is rather vindictively satisfied at this report, and
he sends Ariel off for "stale"--decoys--with which to trap the
conspirators. He then utters some extremely bitter thoughts on
the subject of Caliban. The monster, he says, is "a born
devil," which is probably literally true, as Caliban's father
was a demon.
NOTE: Don't forget that the "three men of sin" (Alonso,
Antonio, and Sebastian) are, according to Prospero, "worse than
devils." The difference between Caliban and them lies in their
respective low and high natures. Caliban was born low; thus,
he's not responsible for his beastliness. This is not the case
with the noblemen, however.
Prospero assails Caliban as a beast "on whose nature/Nurture
can never stick." This pun summarizes one of the play's
important themes. Lowborn Caliban has a low nature; thus,
"nurture"--Prospero's nurturing education--can't stick to it and
do him any good. The embittered Prospero laments the humane
efforts he wasted on the monster: "all, all lost, quite lost."
In that aching repetition, you can sense Prospero's anguish.
But perhaps Prospero is really lamenting his own failure. After
all, it isn't Caliban's fault that he can't be educated, but it
may be Prospero's fault that he failed to recognize this fact.
Prospero has failed twice to keep persons or beasts at their
proper station. First he elevated Antonio to the level of ruler
while he himself studied undisturbed; then he tried to educate
Caliban. In both cases it may be impossible for Prospero to
reverse the damage. Antonio hasn't shown any signs of
repenting. And there's no way for Prospero to take back
Caliban's education and return his contentment with his low
station.
Instead of accepting the blame, Prospero seems to vent a
rather cruel bitterness: "I will plague them all,/Even to
roaring." Do you think he is being unfair? He may have been
mistaken in trying to educate Caliban, but he was erring on the
side of kindness. Surely he has the right to be angry upon
discovering a plot to murder him. Or do you feel that as a
ruler, Prospero should have known better than to treat Caliban
as he did? To what extent do you think Prospero is wrong?
NOTE: Prospero observes, "And as with age his body uglier
grows,/So his mind cankers"--his thoughts grow more evil. Note
again that physical ugliness is related to moral vice, a theme
discussed in the Note at the end of Act I, Scene II.
Ariel returns laden with "glistering apparel," perhaps the
"rich garments" that Gonzalo long ago supplied Prospero with.
When the three conspirators enter, they are soaking wet and
smell terrible. Stephano and Trinculo are particularly irked
that they've lost their bottles; Stephano is ready to dive for
the wine. Caliban pleads for quiet: he doesn't want them to
wake Prospero. Then Stephano and Trinculo notice the
garments.
NOTE: Trinculo's exclamation--"O King Stephano! O peer! O
worthy Stephano, look what a wardrobe here is for thee"--is a
joking allusion to a popular ballad. One version of it is sung
in Act II, Scene III of Shakespeare's Othello:
King Stephen was and a worthy peer
His breeches cost him but a crown.
Stephano and Trinculo grab the clothes so greedily that they
forget all about their murder plot. Caliban is more
level-headed. He warns them to ignore the trousers, which are a
decoy, but they act like children, their appetites uncontrolled,
enthralled by every new bauble. They pile fine clothes on the
protesting monster.
NOTE: PUNS ON "LINE" Prospero directs Ariel to hang the
garments on a line. It's uncertain whether the words means
"clothes-line" or "lime tree," but it doesn't really matter.
Stephano and Trinculo, however, offer a number of puns on the
word "line." First it's the "line" on which the clothes are
hanging. Next a jerkin (jacket) is "under the line"--across the
equator. (It's a "bald jerkin," apparently, because when people
crossed the equator, they supposedly ran fevers that made their
hair fall out.) Then they're stealing "by line and
level"--literally, by plumb-line and carpenter's level, but the
phrase means "according to rule." When Trinculo tells Caliban to
put some lime on his fingers, he's probably taking the pun even
further. "Lime" is birdlime, a sticky substance that was used
to snare birds, and which was almost a synonym for theft
(similar to "sticky fingers").
Finally, justice arrives, in the form of further spectacle.
The spirits return as hounds, set on by Prospero and Ariel, and
chase away the three conspirators. You can imagine the comic
possibilities. But perhaps there's an undertone of cruelty,
too, as Prospero orders his goblins to torment them with
convulsions, cramps, and pinches. Ariel cries, "Hark, they
roar!"--fulfiling Prospero's vow to "plague them all,/Even to
roaring." This is Prospero's supreme moment of power: "At this
hour/ Lies at my mercy all mine enemies." As the act closes,
he's in complete control.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 1-57
As previously noted, The Tempest is one of the few plays that
Shakespeare actually cast in classical five-act structure.
Hence the break between Acts IV and V, even though Act V opens
with the same two characters onstage and little, if any, time
having past.
It's six o'clock, the hour that Prospero earlier forecast
would mark the end of his plan. The "three men of sin," Ariel
informs him, are gathered in a nearby lime ("line") grove,
gripped by an enchanted madness from which only Prospero can
release them. The others are mourning them, with the tearful
Gonzalo forming an especially pitiful spectacle. The sight
would make Prospero's feelings grow tender, Ariel tells him; his
own feelings certainly would if he were human. Remember that
Ariel is a spirit; thus, he can only imagine human feelings.
Some readers view Ariel's comment as the turning point in the
drama, because it prompts Prospero's forgiveness. Others argue
that because Prospero has arranged the marriage of Ferdinand and
Miranda, he was obviously planning to forgive his enemies all
along. Which view do you agree with? Prospero won't be outdone
by a spirit when he himself is "One of their kind"--that is,
human--and thus should be "kindlier" affected than the inhuman
Ariel. (This pun on "kind"--both "kindhearted" and "sort,"--is
one of Shakespeare's favorites.) Prospero doesn't downplay his
sufferings. He's still aggrieved when he thinks of his enemies
and "their high wrongs." It's something of a higher order than
emotion--"my nobler reason" working "'gainst my fury"--that
convinces him to forgive them. He forgives them not so much
because he wants to as because he ought to: "the rarer action
is/In virtue than in vengeance." This concise observation
crystallizes a major theme of the play. Christian virtue, with
its great emphasis on forgiveness, is a higher mode of behavior
than pagan revenge. Remember that this sentiment, though
conventional, was uttered before an audience for whom the
revenge tragedy was a major form of entertainment.
NOTE: THE RELIGIOUS INTERPRETATION Do you see The Tempest as
a deeply Christian drama? If so, you will place a great deal of
emphasis on the above lines, as well as on the ones that follow.
Prospero declares that his only purpose in tormenting Alonso,
Sebastian, and Antonio is to make them repent. As you'll
recall, this was also Ariel's message in Act III, Scene III.
Readers who support a religious interpretation point out that
Prospero isn't merely godlike: he stands in relation to the
other characters much as God traditionally does to
humanity--judging, punishing, forgiving. In the figure of Ariel
you might think he even has an angel. Other readers, however,
feel that this interpretation can be carried too far. They
point out that Prospero, powerful and wise as he is, isn't
perfect. You already know of his failures with Antonio and
Caliban. In addition, his forgiveness, though noble, is tinged
with anger; it isn't quite the all-embracing love of a
completely merciful God.
At a word from Prospero, Ariel leaves to fetch the
wrongdoers. Prospero now delivers the soliloquy that's
generally known as his farewell to his art. This speech can be
divided into three roughly equal parts. The first eight lines
form an address to his magical helpers: the fairies who leave
no footprints on the beach, the puppet-sized elves who make
small circles of discolored grass, sometimes called "fairy
circles," on the ground, and who make mushrooms grow overnight
(a natural phenomenon that seems magical), and so forth.
Lines 41 to 50 describe some of Prospero's magical feats.
He's dimmed the sun at noon. He's made the wind blow and
created huge waves which he describes as setting the sea at war
with the sky). He's called forth thunder and lightning and
shaken the ground--in other words, he's created tempests. He's
even summoned the dead from their graves.
NOTE: PROSPERO'S MAGIC Prospero is clearly a good magician
whose "white magic" is very different from the "black magic" of
Caliban's mother, the witch Sycorax. White magicians gained
their abilities only through long study and strict self-control;
black magicians made pacts with demons. (Sycorax worshipped the
demon Setebos and mated with a devil to produce Caliban.) Magic
was a serious subject to Shakespeare's audience. King James I
was an authority on the subject, and Shakespeare had to present
magic very carefully on the stage. He could have created
serious legal problems for himself and the King's Men if his
play seemed to glorify black magic.
Prospero's list of his accomplishments has therefore created
a snag for Shakespeare scholars. Getting spirits to work for
them was the natural province of white magicians; however,
raising storms, and especially raising the dead, were the domain
of black magicians. Many of Prospero's claims seem to be based
on lines in Book III of the Metamorphoses by the Roman poet
Ovid. Shakespeare was apparently more engrossed in creating a
play than in keeping the domains of white and black magicians
separate. Raising the dead, which is found in the
Metamorphoses, doesn't play a serious role in the plot. Raising
a storm, however, does--it's essential both to the story and to
the title of the play.
In any case, Prospero and Ariel's tempest doesn't harm
anybody. It doesn't even stain the clothes of the survivors of
the shipwreck. In fact, the storm that seemed so terrible will
turn out to be a blessing. Thus, Prospero can hardly be
convicted of performing evil magic. Nevertheless, the fact that
Prospero now renounces his magic probably is related to the poor
reputation sorcery had in Shakespeare's England. Prospero has
accomplished his goals with his magic. Now he demonstrates his
good faith by giving it up.
The last eight lines of Prospero's soliloquy comprise his
actual renunciation. His plan completed, he says, he'll break
and bury his magic staff and throw his magic book into the sea.
But he'll require two or three more spells. The first is a
"heavenly music" to bring Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian out of
their madness; a stage direction now calls for "solemn music."
NOTE: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL INTERPRETATION As was noted
earlier, one popular theory identifies Prospero with Shakespeare
himself. Like a skilled dramatic poet, Prospero manipulates the
characters, involving them in situations that he created for
them. In this interpretation, Prospero's magic stands for
Shakespeare's poetry. Ariel and Caliban can even be regarded as
two different aspects of the poet. Ariel, with his lightness,
elegance, and speed-of-thought grace, is the poet's genius.
Caliban is his appetite or desire, and the fact that Prospero
keeps him chained down in a rocky den denotes the poet's
self-control or self-discipline.
Prospero's farewell to his art is central to the
autobiographical interpretation. The Tempest may be the last
play that Shakespeare wrote, or wrote alone. Just before or,
more probably, just after he created it, he retired from
theatrical life in London to the quiet country village of his
birth, Stratford-on-Avon. We don't know why; he doesn't seem to
have been ill. In his late forties, he could reflect on an
active and successful career in the theater. Perhaps he just
wanted to enjoy his leisure. In any case, readers looking for
hints of autobiography see Prospero's farewell to his art as a
parallel to Shakespeare's farewell to his own dramatic art.
Indeed, there's something melancholy and final about the tone of
the entire play.
On the other hand, some readers find the autobiographical
interpretation unlikely. They argue that it isn't necessary to
look outside the work to find its meaning. They feel that it's
ludicrous to try to make The Tempest fit the mold of
Shakespeare's life, about which very little is known. No matter
how you feel about this interpretation, it's probably true that
at this point in his own career, Shakespeare could appreciate
Prospero's emotions. It's this deep empathy that makes the
speech so convincing.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: LINES 58-215
Prospero has drawn a magic circle on the ground (a typical
feature of magic ceremonies), into which Ariel leads Alonso and
his court. All six men stand there frozen in enchantment, as
the solemn melody gradually soothes the three maddened "men of
sin." (Music was--and still is--a widely accepted therapy for
nervous agitation.)
Although moved by Gonzalo's tears, Prospero can't resist
rehashing the crimes committed against him. It's clear that
though he's planning to forgive them, he still feels wronged.
Because the men are regaining consciousness little by little, he
sends Ariel to fetch the royal robes by which they'll recognize
him as the deposed Duke of Milan.
As Ariel dresses Prospero, he sings the last of his fairy
songs; this one tells of sucking nectar with the bees and riding
on the backs of bats. Then Prospero sends him to the ship to
get the master (captain) and the boatswain.
By now the noblemen are coming out of the spell. Gonzalo,
the first to speak, calls on "some heavenly power" to get them
off this eerie island. Note that even when he's terrified he
trusts in Providence. Observing rank, Prospero speaks first to
the flabbergasted king. He announces that he's the "wronged
Duke of Milan," and before Alonso can respond he embraces him to
demonstrate his lack of anger.
Alonso has endured so much in the past hours that he doesn't
know whether to believe Prospero or not. At least Prospero
feels real to the touch--real enough to make Alonso grow
defensive: "Thy dukedom I resign," he quickly assures him. Of
course, Alonso has never been ruler of Prospero's dukedom. He
refers to the annual tribute that Milan has been paying Naples
since Prospero was ousted.
Prospero embraces his old friend Gonzalo, who, like Alonso,
isn't quite sure that all this is really happening. He's
tasting "some subtleties o' th' isle," Prospero tells him.
"Subtleties" were Renaissance pastries in the shapes of castles,
temples, and so forth; Prospero is joking that Gonzalo can't
believe that what he's seeing is any more real than those
pastries.
Prospero welcomes them all; then, almost in the same breath,
he threatens Sebastian and Antonio. He tells them in an aside
that he knows all about their plot against Alonso. With
distinct overtones of blackmail, perhaps in order to be able to
keep them in line in the future, he promises to remain silent,
at least for the moment.
NOTE: When Sebastian says, "The devil speaks in him," he
isn't merely making a rude comment. Sebastian doesn't know that
Prospero is a white magician; thus, he has every reason to
believe he's a sorcerer in league with the devil.
Prospero now formally forgives Antonio. Read this speech
carefully; do you think Prospero has conquered his anger and
resentment? Notice that he begins by addressing his brother
formally, as "you"; however, with forgiveness comes the more
intimate "thou" form:
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault--all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which perforce I know
Thou must restore.
NOTE: FORGIVENESS AND REPENTANCE This is one of several
places in Shakespeare's comedies where a villain is forgiven
even though he seems to deserve punishment rather than mercy.
Some readers think Shakespeare is suggesting that humanity is so
depraved that Prospero must forgive, because he can't spend his
life drowning in hate. In a Christian view, everyone is flawed;
everyone needs to be forgiven. Prospero knows how villainous
Antonio is, but as he's explained already, he's using his reason
instead of his anger because he knows that virtue is superior to
vengeance.
It's not difficult for Prospero to forgive Alonso. The King
is genuinely remorseful; he even pleads for forgiveness. In
contrast, Antonio shows no remorse at all. Although both Ariel
and Prospero have stressed the importance of repentance, Antonio
gives no indication, either now or later, that he's sorry for
his crimes. Prospero's kindness to him, like his kindness to
Caliban, doesn't improve him, for Antonio is a true villain.
This doesn't mean, however, that Prospero is wrong to forgive
Antonio. Shakespeare's audience was composed of Christians, and
they would have agreed wholeheartedly that forgiveness was
essential. It does mean that in the future, Prospero would be
foolish to put much trust in his brother. As a wise prince, he
should know how to temper Christian virtue with princely
authority. In fact, he does this here, demonstrating virtue by
forgiving, and authority by demanding the return of his
dukedom.
As the thought of Ferdinand strikes Alonso again, he grows
miserable once more. His loss is so deep, he claims, that
patience can't help. Prospero gently rebukes him: You haven't
really sought help from patience.
NOTE: PATIENCE This theme correlates with the notion of
Providence. A good Christian trusts in God; no matter how
terrible events seem on the surface, a benevolent God is
watching. Gonzalo personifies this virtue. He's always
hopeful, always optimistic; in contrast, impatient King Alonso
is always sure that things will turn out for the worst. Thus,
the tempest can teach Alonso an important lesson in patience:
an apparent disaster can turn out to be a blessing.
Prospero claims that just as Alonso lost a son in the
tempest, he, Prospero, lost a daughter. Prospero is referring
to the fact that he has "lost" Miranda to Ferdinand. When
Alonso cries out that he wishes their children were alive as
King and Queen of Naples, Shakespeare is sharing a joke with
you, because you know that not only are they alive, they will
someday rule Naples.
Prospero promises to explain the whole story when there's
more time. He welcomes them all again, and, he stretches the
truth by claiming that here in his small dominion he has no
subjects. But because Alonso has returned his dukedom, Prospero
will give him "as good a thing." Probably by throwing back a
curtain, he reveals Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess. The
lovers, absorbed in their game, don't notice the others at
first. Their words here have caused some confusion, but the
general meaning is clear: Miranda is teasing Ferdinand about
cheating, and he's swearing innocence.
Alonso's first response is characteristic: he's worried. If
this is another illusion, he says pessimistically, then he'll
have lost his son twice. Ferdinand notices his father, and his
words express the theme of Providence in a nutshell: "Though
the seas threaten, they are merciful."
Miranda's wonder is different. She's never seen so many
people before, and she's awed by their noble appearance:
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in't!
"Brave" is used here, as elsewhere, to mean excellent or
fine.
These are among the most famous lines in The Tempest. The
English novelist Aldous Huxley took the title of his futuristic
novel Brave New World from them. He uses the word ironically,
though, because the future he depicted was anything but
excellent. You can feel Miranda's wonder and admiration, and
once more you should recall the notion of humanity created in
God's image. But Shakespeare also knows that among these
"goodly creatures" there lurk villains like Sebastian and
Antonio. Thus, he gives Prospero the rather wry comment, "'Tis
new to thee." Prospero knows that the novelty will wear off;
someday a sadder but wiser Miranda will learn to be more
discriminating.
Like Ferdinand when he first beheld Miranda in Act I, Alonso
is ready to take the young woman for a goddess. But Ferdinand,
invoking Providence once again, assures him that she's mortal
and she's his. He asks his father's pardon for having become
betrothed without his permission. Alonso, in turn, wants to ask
Miranda's pardon for his long-ago treachery in casting her and
her father out to sea. Prospero, however, generously insists
that there's no reason to dwell on an old sorrow, Gonzalo hasn't
said much up to this point. He explains that he was inwardly
weeping, but now the good-natured old councilor is ready to
talk. He calls upon the gods (a Renaissance convention; he
means God) to bless the young couple. He sees clearly now that
it was Providence that brought them to the island and turned
disaster into blessing. And he asks,
Was Milan thrust from Milan that his issue
Should become kings of Naples?
That is, was the Duke of Milan, Prospero, banished from the
city-state of Milan so that his offspring--Miranda's children
and grandchildren--should become kings of Naples? After urging
everyone to rejoice, he delivers the play's great message of
Providence. In one voyage, Claribel found a husband at Tunis;
Ferdinand found a wife "Where he himself was lost," on
Prospero's island; and Prospero regained his dukedom. Perhaps
he's overwhelmed by his beautiful language, because he adds that
"all of us [found] ourselves/When no man was his own,"
suggesting that everyone has acquired self-knowledge. In the
glory of the moment, no one thinks about what Gonzalo has said.
It's true for Alonso and Ferdinand, but is it true for
Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo?
Alonso blesses the young lovers, and Gonzalo offers a hearty
"Amen." Ariel returns leading the master of the ship and the
boatswain, though they, of course, can't see him. You may be a
little puzzled at Gonzalo's jokes about the boatswain's
blasphemy, because there's nothing in the boatswain's lines
either here or in Act I that really qualifies as blasphemy.
Possibly the boatswain's oaths were censored from the published
version of the play.
The boatswain tells an amazing story. He and the master were
asleep with the other sailors (Ariel's enchanted sleep) and were
wakened by horrible noises. Suddenly they were looking at the
ship, which appeared to be in excellent condition, even though
they'd given it up for ruined some three hours earlier. Then
just as suddenly they were brought dazed to this spot.
Prospero, after promising to explain everything later,
commands Ariel to bring in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo.
They enter in their stolen clothing, and the tone shifts to
comedy again.
NOTE: CALIBAN, MIRANDA, AND HUMAN BEAUTY When Caliban
regards the assembled group, he cries, "These be brave spirits
indeed!" This isn't the first time a character mistakes human
beauty for a supernatural quality. Recall that in Act I, when
Miranda and Ferdinand first saw each other, she thought he was a
spirit or a "thing divine"; he addressed her as a goddess, just
as Alonso did earlier in this act. Now Caliban, too, is
sufficiently awed by human splendor to take the company for
spirits. He immediately recognizes their superiority over him,
just as he recognizes Prospero's authority: "How fine my master
is!"--dressed in his robes as Duke of Milan. "I am afraid/He
will chastise me." The implication is that the unteachable
Caliban has learned a lesson; at least, he appears in a better
light throughout this scene than do the unrepentant Sebastian
and Antonio.
There is no mistaking the echo in Caliban's words of
Miranda's "O brave new world/That has such people in't!" For the
last time, Shakespeare draws a parallel between them; this time,
however, rather than holding Caliban up for disapproval,
Shakespeare compares him favorably with Miranda. In your last
view of Caliban, you see a monster who's not entirely
unsympathetic. If his nature is low, at least he's learned his
place; unlike some of the higher-natured human beings on stage,
at least he regrets his wrongs.
When Antonio sees Caliban, his reaction is very much like
Stephano's and Trinculo's in Act II. He calls the monster a
"fish" (a reference to Caliban's general oddity, not to his
aquatic nature) and reflects that he's "marketable," that is,
that he could be displayed as a freak.
Prospero reveals that Stephano, Trinculo, and Caliban robbed
him and plotted to kill him. But he doesn't mention Antonio and
Sebastian's plot against Alonso. Stephano and Trinculo, he
declares, are Alonso's men; he acknowledges Caliban as his
own.
NOTE: This straightforward statement has been cited by
readers who support an autobiographical reading of the play.
These readers think that Prospero is saying that this dark,
physical, greedy thing (Caliban) is one side of his personality,
but he keeps it under control. Do you agree, or do you have
another explanation?
Trinculo lightens the mood by making puns on "in a pickle"
(in a mess) and "pickled" (both drunk and preserved). He adds
that he's so pickled that he won't have to worry about flies,
for pickling preserved meat from flies. Stephano is in so much
pain from the briars, the pond, and the goblin hounds Prospero
and Ariel set on them that he says he's "not Stephano, but a
cramp."
But Prospero's forgiving mood is pervasive, and he sends
Caliban off, with Stephano and Trinculo, to clean his cell,
promising a pardon if Caliban does his task well. Caliban's
reply tells you that he may really have learned something from
his experiences. He may be one of the characters who, as
Gonzalo suggested, has acquired self-knowledge. He resolves to
"be wise hereafter,/And seek for grace"; he perceives what a
fool he was to mistake Stephano and Trinculo for gods. Standing
next to the rest of the magnificent company, he probably sees
them more easily for what they really are.
Alonso orders Stephano and Trinculo to put the treasure back
where they found it, and Sebastian adds, "Or stole it rather."
Both Alonso and Sebastian helped steal Milan from Prospero;
Sebastian even plotted to steal the crown from Alonso. Do you
find their lines here hypocritical? Shakespeare may be making
gentle fun of them here, but he doesn't press the point.
Prospero tells the group that he'll relate the story of his
life on the island. After that, he promises, they'll sail back
to Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda will be married; then
he'll return to Milan, where "Every third thought shall be my
grave." In Act IV he'd said that Miranda made up "a third of
mine own life,/Or that for which I live." Perhaps every first
and second thought will be of his daughter and his dukedom. Or
it may be a figure of speech for thinking a great deal about
death.
Prospero's last promise is that the winds will be so helpful
that their ship will catch up with the rest of King Alonso's
fleet before it reaches Naples. Speeding the ship homeward is
Ariel's last assignment; after that, he tells the spirit, "Be
free, and fare thou well!" With this command, the curtain falls
on the final act.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: EPILOGUE
At the end of Act V, the actor playing Prospero returns to
the stage and addresses the audience directly in twenty brief,
rhyming lines. He requests that just as he pardoned Antonio,
the audience should pardon any faults in the production.
Prospero's words here continue to stress the theme of
forgiveness, but his appeal for approval and, specifically,
applause ("the help of your good hands") was a conventional way
to end a comedy.
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON CALIBAN
The character of Caliban is wonderfully conceived: he is a
sort of creature of the earth, partaking of the qualities of the
brute, and distinguished from them in two ways: 1. By having
mere understanding without moral reason; 2. By not having the
instincts which belong to mere animals.--Still Caliban is a
noble being: a man in the sense of the imagination, all the
images he utters are drawn from nature, and are all highly
poetical; they fit in with the images of Ariel: Caliban gives
you images from the Earth--Ariel images from the air. Caliban
talks of the difficulty of finding fresh water, the situation of
Morasses, and other circumstances which the brute instinct not
possessing reason could comprehend. No mean image is brought
forward, and no mean passion, but animal passions, and the sense
of repugnance at being commanded.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
from a lecture on Shakespeare, 1811
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON PROSPERO
Prospero is the central figure of The Tempest; and it has
often been wildly asserted that he is a portrait of the
author--and embodiment of that spirit of wise benevolence which
is supposed to have thrown a halo over Shakespeare's later life.
But, on closer inspection, the portrait seems to be as imaginary
as the original. To an irreverent eye, the ex-Duke of Milan
would perhaps appear as an unpleasantly crusty personage, in
whom a twelve years' monopoly of the conversation had developed
an inordinate propensity for talking. These may have been the
sentiments of Ariel, safe at the Bermoothes; but to state them
is to risk at least ten years in the knotty entrails of an oak,
and it is sufficient to point out, that if Prospero is wise, he
is also self-opinionated and sour, that his gravity is often
another name for pedantic severity, and that there is no
character in the play to whom, during some part of it, he is not
studiously disagreeable.
-Lytton Strachey, "Shakespeare's Final Period," 1922;
reprinted in Twentieth Century Interpretations
of "The Tempest," ed. Hallett Smith, 1969
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON THE SCARCITY OF METAPHOR
...The Tempest will be found peculiarly poor in metaphor. There is the less need for it in that the play is itself metaphor. Shakespeare's favourite imagery of storm and wreck cannot powerfully recur as descriptive comparison since the whole play, as its title announces, revolves round that very con
-G. Wilson Knight,
The Crown of Life, 1947
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON ANTONIO
"Good wombs," says Miranda, "have borne bad sons"--in the
realm of the better nature there are "unnatural" men....
Obviously among the better natures there were those upon whom
some encounter or accident might beget an evil nature; that from
the seed could grow degenerate plants. Many reasons were
alleged to explain this, some astrological, some theological;
and ultimately noblemen do ill because, being sons of Adam, they
are free to choose.... Caliban has no choice but to be vile;
but in Antonio there was surely a predisposition to virtuous
conduct; and it could not be easy to think of one who, in the
eyes of Caliban, was a "brave spirit", as the betrayer of the
fulness of his own more perfect nature, as a man so unnatural as
to be impervious to the action of grace, a Macbeth of comedy.
We see in Antonio the operation of sin in a world magically
purified but still allowing freedom to the will; inhabitants of
this world can abase themselves below those who live unaided at
the level of nature. And it is as a comment upon his unnatural
behaviour that we are offered a close structural parallel
between Antonio's corrupt and Caliban's natural behaviour in the
two plots against Alonso and Prospero.
-Frank Kermode, Introduction to the
Arden edition of The Tempest, 1954
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON THE YOUNGER GENERATION
Not only do Ferdinand and Miranda sustain Prospero in
representing a new order of things that has evolved out of
destruction; they also vouch for its continuation. At the end
of the play Alonso and Prospero are old and worn men. A younger
and happier generation is needed to secure the new state to
which Prospero has so painfully brought himself, his friends,
and all his enemies save Caliban.
-E. M. W. Tillyard,
Shakespeare's Last Plays, 1958
^^^^^^^^^^
THE TEMPEST: ON GONZALO
The Renaissance voyagers [who wrote the Bermuda pamphlets],
in their casting about for classical and Christian analogues to
their experience, in their eagerness to see the miraculous at
work and the special providence of God in all that happens, to
see hope in disaster and lessons in trials, remind us more than
a little of Gonzalo. From his comments on the breakdown of
shipboard discipline during the opening storm to his wishful
celebration of everyone's self-recovery near the end, Gonzalo
tries, like the Renaissance voyagers behind him, to see a
providential design in the experience of the play, to moralize
that experience into what the Renaissance would call an
"allegory." In doing so, although he does not "mistake the truth
totally," as Antonio claims, he does have to bend reality ever
so slightly to the desires of his mind and to that extent
falsify it; not quite everyone, for example, has found himself
by the end of the play as Gonzalo would like to think. His
allusions to Carthage and "widow Dido" do distort Virgil in the
strenuous effort to hammer out the parallel, and are
representative of his efforts at perception throughout. One
such effort is his benevolent vision of an island utopia [Act
