Throughout the plays examined in this course, we have focused on the singular perspective of the perpetrator- the Sceptic who, because their failure to acknowledge petrifies or destroys another in the process. King Lear’s banishment of Cordelia, Othello’s doubt of Desdemona, and even Leontes’ rejection of Hermione is all essentially the same story of misrecognition. Each time, the question was why they failed to recognize, why they continuously all shunned those who wished to recognize them. Maybe that was the wrong question to ask. More accurately would be to understand the actions of the skeptic are those that most naturally come to us. While the stores remain extreme, we inherently understand their motives rooted in fears, anxieties, and insecurities- and recognize their failure to acknowledge as an act of self-preservation in order to avoid vulnerability. To fully see another requires oneself to be full seen, and that is the true challenge. Vulnerability is hard.
It is fitting then, that the Tempest is last in the line of plays examined, because our attention shifts from the perpetrator to the victim. Beckwith quickly caught on to Cavell’s logic, recognizing that forgiveness as the antidote to the skeptic returns control to the harmed. Why can Cordelia approach her father after he banishes her? Why can Desdemona breath her last words in defense of her murderer? Why does Hermione choose to return to Leontes at all? Beckwith’s final article asks her reader to see the other side of the Cavellian Skeptics coin: the skepticism of the victim. Within the mind of the wronged there is a battle of a particular skepticism that rages as well. To extend forgiveness requires the recognition- the full recognition of oneself. The tempest in its entirety is a play about that particular storm within Prospero.
Beckwith outlines why this process of self-recognition is so painful and difficult:
“For in entertaining the idea that the person who hurt us [must] acknowledge the full dimensions of that hurt, we may forget that we must in this case see ourselves as the one so nearly crushed or defeated by that hurt, see ourselves as [their] victim.”[1]
To understand Prospero’s process towards re-acknowledgement, or rather, to come to terms with how he has been wronged and reach the point of full forgiveness, one must understand the island, powers, and people he has surrounded himself with. (this paper focuses heavily on the first few scenes, because they are intriguingly revealing of the conclusion we should expect) The Island is under his command, something we can assume in the fact that he has either subjugated or “enslaved” the only two other entities on it, but at the same time it is his prison.[2] It is easy to see that the island represents some type of mindscape of Prospero’s processing of the crime against him, and already we recognize that control in the form of his authority is equally a prison: the petrification of failing to let go.[3]
Moreover, the Island was already inhabited upon Prospero’s arrival. What we learn of Caliban is that he is a “freckled whelp, hag-born -not honored with a human shape.” [4] He is a figure whose relationship with Prospero appears key to understanding something dark about his experience and therefore skepticism. Further, even Caliban does not deny his “wickedness,” claiming it as an inheritance from his mother along with the island itself: “This Island’s mine by Sycorax my mother, which thou tak’st from me.” [5] In Caliban’s eyes, Prospero is invading his land, “capturing” him through acts that appeared kind. Prospero objects saying that these acts were indeed an extension of initial friendship, where he fed Caliban, teaching him knowledge and language. Some type of civil exchange much has occurred on the outset. Caliban goes as far as to claim he loved Prospero, showing him “all the qualities o’th’isle.” [6] This extension of language acts as a type of infant rearing on the part of Prospero. What happens when you teach an inherently embodies being language and extend friendship? It learns to curse. [7] Caliban, nurtured and raised in the mind of a hurt, and suffering Prospero gained a private control in his mind- almost like a festering resentment that aims to dominate and control as well. This manifests in the betrayal of this relationship: Prospero did not come to the Island alone. While Prospero had treated Caliban with kindness, used him with “human care” and lodged him in his cell Caliban overstepped: “thou didst seek to violate the honor of my child.” [8]
In the film adaptation, the animalistic predatory undercurrent behind the character’s insanity that seems to linger just behind their wild hair and eyes, snarls, and literal growls, minimized the differences between the play’s main characters from the “inhuman” Caliban. Prospero’s escape/exile to the island is equally a shutting out of his self from acknowledgment, and a mental depiction of his isolation from his own vulnerability (I am not saying it’s all in his head, I agree with Beckwith that such an interpretation takes away from the play). [9] On the island, Prospero coexists with evil (Caliban), learning the ways of recesses of his own dark mind, [10] brooding and wallowing in the much easier course of blame, rather than self-acknowledgment of his own victimhood. [11] Except for the presence of Miranda. If Caliban is the manifestation of all Prospero’s bitterness and resentment- that which in part enslaves him to the island and “his only subject, then what was it about Miranda that caused him to attempt to dominate her through rape?
Like The Winter’s Tale, the role of the feminine in skepticism’s dichotomy is to act as the recaller towards reconciliation. Prospero mimics Hermione’s words to Perdita when he says “Thou wast that did preserve me.” [12] The children in these two plays allow their parents to escape their petrification through the unconditional recognition that they offer for the parent to accept. [13] We are told the events of the exchange, where Prospero stops Caliban from assaulting Miranda, the embodiment of recollection- interestingly through an act of recall on the part of Prospero, Miranda, and Caliban.
Beckwith notes that the play and its theatricalization of the process of forgiveness is “inextricably intertwined with recall.” [14] In her essay on the Winter’s Tale, Beckwith notes, “Forgiveness [...] requires the presence of others; and in the acknowledgment of that mutuality lies the truth that others have reality in a past that is no one’s individual possession.”[15] Through Miranda, we see that this recollection act is “utterly bound up with the minds and thoughts of others.” [16] For The victim of a wrongdoing, the struggle of self-acknowledgment begins with recognizing that they do not claim the entirety of the memory.
Through Miranda, Prospero finds the beginnings of gentle reminder that some control is not entirely in his command, and therefore there is comfort in relishing more:
“Can you remember a time before this cell? [...] I don’t think thou canst.”
“Certainly, sir I can,” [17] Miranda objects. But she then presents this memory without force, first admitting it feels like a dream rather than a certainty, and secondly, offering a question: “Had I not Four or five women once that tended me?” [18] Beckwith notes that unlike her father, who uses recall to control Ariel (“Dost thou forget from what a torment I did free thee?” [19]) or to contradict and dominate the memory of Caliban (“Thou most lying slave”[20]); Instead, Miranda offers memory merely as a resistance to his attempts to claim her. It is “a testimony that she cannot be the blank slate that Prospero imagines she is.” [21] Moreover, by recalling as a question demonstrates reconciliation through the offer to share in the memory by seeking the reassurance of the uncertain memory from her father.
In this way, the Island is both the place where Prospero rules, but also his prison. Caliban is a manifestation of his darker, unrecognized self while his daughter is his preserver, slowly drawing out the past towards a final recognition. Yet all are still in some way trapped by Prospero, much like he is trapped on “his” own island. Prospero’s magic and employment (or capturing) of Ariel, enslavement of Caliban, even the grand scheme to revenge his wrongdoer - in fact his very presence on the island all highlight a different sort of Cartesian mask. While not so directly a disguise as the past plays, we can still observe how all these components act as extensions of Prospero, distancing him from the island inhabitants and his perpetrators. These layers of protection, particularly through Ariel, do as much to reveal him as to cover him because to see his is powerful with his magic and control of the island is to also recognize that without these forces, he is just a man robbed of a kingdom, and who is hurt and wronged. He must let go.
Reconciliation finally is demonstrated by the releasing of these figures and his control throughout the play. Early on, Miranda tells he father to calm the storm. Perhaps she spoke of that first tempest that caused the shipwreck, but in a larger way the entire play was the storm, slowly calming as Prospero released his iron grip of control. Upon the release of Ariel, he asks him to “calm seas and auspicious gales,” a final answering of Miranda’s initial request. Then, he releases Ariel: “Then to the elements be free.” It is a release of his control and power over the island- but also a release of that authority that he clutched to tightly. Prospero stands exposed, without the help of Miranda or Ariel. Vulnerability is necessary for forgiveness. The image that comes to mind is. Of stiff, frozen fingers grasping at something, self-petrifying to hold it together a little longer. Finally releasing, Prospero is revealed beneath: a man. It is fitting then, that the play ends with his asking the audience for release from his bonds. It is the destoning of reconciliation.
[1] Sarah Beckwith. Shakespeare And the Language of Forgiveness (London, Cornell University Press 2011), 147. [2] William Shakespeare, The Tempest, ed. Stephen Orgel (New York, Oxford University Press, 1987) Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 20. [3] Stanley Cavell. Disowning Knowledge: in Seven Plays of Shakespeare (New York, Cambridge University Press 1987), 196-198. [4] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 183-184. [5] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 331-332. [6] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 336-338. [7] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 362-363. [8] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 347-348. [9] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 163. [10] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 166. [11] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 154. [12] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 154. [13] It still has to be accepted, which is the failure of King Lear. [14] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 159. [15] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 133. [16] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 159. [17] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 38-42. [18] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 46-47. [19] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 250-251. [20] Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1. Sc. 2. Line 344. [21] Beckwith. Shakespeare, 161.
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