As I sit in my room listening to the cries of my soon-to-be two year old nephew outside, and peer out the window at cloudy skies and the vistas provided by a persistent wind that bends the branches of the trees to and fro, I can't help but take this as a moment of release. I have to admit that I daydream frequently, and while I am not partial to fantastic landscapes, I do find myself attracted to quiet and open spaces, those are seem to envelope us in a soothing calm. Which is not to say that these qualities are present in the Shakespeare play "The Tempest", whose very title seems to suggest conflict and drama, and which to my mind resembles a premise that is not adequately fleshed out.
This is a play that I have encountered in the past in the course of my studies, one that has been associated variously with fantasy and with colonial discourses. We have a situation, after all, in which a scholarly ruler, the Duke of Milan, has been exiled to an island in an unspecified location in the Mediterranean, supplanted by his worldly and ambitious brother. The displaced rule is much enamored by books, and he is privy to lore that, apparently after his exile, have given him power over an island that is inhabited by magical creatures. He becomes lord of this place, and he comes to command not only magical creatures such as the spirit Ariel, but also a monstrous and deformed servant named Caliban. Prospero, for such is the name of this new ruler, finds his rule challenged by these same creatures, those who express a wish to free themselves from what they perceive as a tyranny, and yet they are tied to this leader, both by fear (Caliban lives in terror of the physical torments that can be delivered by his master) as by the accusation of ingratitude. The ruler wields an inventory of ideological tools to assert his mastery.
The play opens with a scene in which a group comprised of nobles, a king and other dignitaries is beset by a tempest while returning from a wedding ceremony. They are in mortal fear, and they are inexorably drawn into this island, fearing that they will shortly lose their lives. It is noteworthy that this tempest is one that is designed precisely to draw them in so that they may participate in a spectacle of what promises to be vengeance, but which turns to forgiveness.
Exoticism has long exerted a hold on the western imagination. We have only to recall that this period in which Shakespeare was writing was the age of the great voyages, in which travellors ventured out to new continents and returned with tales of strange beings and fantastic civilizations. There is a note not only of curiosity and fascination that would point to the effects of narratives of wonder but also, perversely, of self-validation in a purely political, as western travelors reflect on the relative stability and rationality of their own societies. Which is not to say that the exotic was not also a worthy trope for social satire and irony, as well witnessed in works such as Voltaire's Candide and Montaigne's famous essay on cannibals.
Exotic locales thus, despite the description of bewildering and magical creatures and of social systems that at times seemed more egalitarian while at others more tyrannical than those evident in western Europe, represent nonetheless an ideological landscape in which to project at times the worries that seemed to beset the observers. Deformity as such as an ever-present theme, and we have only to recall the drawings that depicted beings with heads located on the level of their torsos, or other curious creatures that seemed to deviate from that comforting norm that was represented by the panoply of creatures and institutions that were associated with the home countries. Thus it is possible to reflect on the fascination we have with Caliban, the deformed "monster" who is subject to continual insults on the part of Prospero and his daugher Miranda. This is especially evident in the words of the latter, who remonstrates with him as follows:
When thous didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thous didst learn, had that in't which good
natures
Could not abide to be with. Therefore wast thou
Deservedly confined into this rock, who hadst
Deserved more than a prison.
(435-449, Act. I, Sc. II)
These are harsh words, and seem fully to support the claim of tyranny that is made by Caliban, who chafes bitterly under this servitude and views language as part of a discourse that was meant to enforce a hierarchy that was unfavorable to him.
In this way, I can't help but reflect that these exotic realmns frequently uphold the most cherished values of the observer, and among these cherished values are those having to do with order and supposed intelligibility. This island is not as strange as it may seem, for power is in play, and I can't help but question the order that has been imposed on this island by Prospero, a ruler who may have been deprived of his rightful role as the Duke of Milan, but who is nonetheless part of an ideological system that uses a repertoire of tools, among which we may include as well those that have to do with obligation and with ostensible ethical entreaties, that serve to weave a web that binds them all.
This is why Caliban has exerted such a powerful attaction in the minds of scholars who have seen in him a forebearer of resistance to colonial discourse. As I read this I am reminded of other episodes, such as the one in which a book was presented to the Inca ruler by a priest who was accompanying a party of Spanish conquistadores, and after bringing it up to his head to listen to it, the ruler threw it away angrily, alleging that the book was a ruse because it possessed no voice as claimed. And yet, this was no ruse, and little could he understand the notion of how language and writing have served to establish order, an aim that was an essential component of any colonial enterprise.
I am fascinated by the power of books and how they would seem to confer on Prospero the power he has to maintain dominion, and even to bring forth to himself the party of illegitimate rulers who have so wronged him. The island and these books work in tandem, and they bring to light the intentions of a character who has been wronged and who wishes to restore what is perceived as a proper order. It is, of course, ironic that this is the same claim that is made by Caliban, his much-abused servant.
It is notable that these powers allow him to commune and rule the group of spirits that inhabit the island. These spirits, foremost among whom we must count Ariel, are able to guarantee the safety of the shipwrecked crew, as well as maintain an apparatus of surveillance such that Prospero is informed of the actions of the numerous characters. By virtue of the fact that these spirits are able to become invisible, they would seem to conform to a network of spies, ones who furthermore have power over the other characters, and are able to transport them from one place to another. It would seem all the time as if this magical island represents more of a prison environment, for movements are strictly controlled, and there is little scope for the characters, among whom we may count Alonso, the King of Naples, his brother Sebastian, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, Adrian and Francisco as unsuspecting prisoners. This is no recreational outing.
We have as well the embryonic story of Sycorax the witch, "this blue-eyed hag" that was "hither brought with child / And here was left by the sailors" (326-328, Act. I, Sc. II). What becomes apparent is that the situation of the characters evolves in a prism of mirrors, for Prospero himself was similarly left stranded on the island, and Ariel was imprisoned by the witch and "liberated" by the ruler in a way that recalls the manner in which Caliban is "educated" and brought into the web of obligation created by Prospero. One wonders if Sycorax might not have been exiled for daring to challenge the establishment, as would be understandable if we were to reflect on the destabilizing influence of a female who seemed to assert her own power and dominion. Sycorax is the mother of Caliban, and their "deformity" has ever been a physical marker of their unsuitability for dominion.
Prospero thus is the entity who exerts power over all who inhabit this island, and he chooses to manifest it, for example, by assigning tasks. Ariel and Caliban are his lieutenants, unwilling as Caliban may be, but he also has another emblem of power: his daughter Miranda. She is ostensibly a beautiful and innocent being who, nonetheless, heaps abuse on Caliban, and she is subject to control by her father. She is the one who will fall in love with Ferdinand, the son of the King of Naples, and who will in turn fall under her attraction as well. All of this orchestrated by Prospero, of course. And in the meantime the play will provide us with an illustration of the sordidness of ambition and power, as Sebastian, under the prompting of Antonio, schemes to kill Alonso and become King of Naples.
It is notable that filial devotion represents a bond that is comforting and which confers legitimacy. This is evident in the sympathetic portrayal of Alonso who continually laments what he fears is the death of his son Ferdinand in the shipwreck. These expressions of bitterness and despair serve to distract the attention of the audience and readers from other questions that have to do with the legitimacy of rule. For Prospero, legitimacy is provided by his mastery of discourse, simbolized by the recourse to books and by his appeal to the role of educator and liberator. Antonio is illegitimate because of his mobilization of a political network that enables him to dethrone his brother, and which is furthermore revealed as a will-to-power that leads him furthermore to convince Sebastian to engage in the same, an event that one would imagine would further strengthen his position by enabling him to free his reign from being subject to tribute to the King of Naples. It is all politics in the end, and the threat of the dissolution of bonds is one that is subject to suppression.
This would thus seem to be a play in which traditional bonds of hierarchy are reasserted. While Ariel is promised his liberation, one wonders at the fate of Caliban, one of the schemers who is seemingly instigated to regret his impulse to rebel against Prospero. The plot by Sebastian against his brother is seemingly revealed and repressed, and in the end the two political units (the Dukedom of Milan and the Kingdom of Naples) are reinforced in their ties by virtue of the fact that Miranda, the daughter of Prospero, will marry the son of the King of Naples. We have a happy scene of reconciliation at the end, in which the bonds of power are reasserted, as is the case with exotic narratives as well, in which the observer is confirmed in his prejudices and in his vantage point that asserts order by means of classification and description.
Language is power, especially language and lore as invested, in a somewhat mysterious way, in the books that Prospero brought with him. Once wonders at the emblematic importance of these books. What is it that they represent? Suggestion is a powerful force, and the characters represent a fertile terrain for the implantation of this sense of order that will come after the seeming disarray and threat of the tempest. Why is a tempest necessarily such an evil occurrence, if a tempest is needed in order to change an order that is unjust? We have seen a wave sweep over the Middle East in the last few months, and long-standing dictators have been removed, renewing in this way hopes that had long been suppressed.
It would seem as if in this case the authoritarian figure has been confirmed in his authority. This is a play about power, and in this instance, Prospero held all the cards.
Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2011
Copyrights ORomero 2011
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