We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
— PROSPERO
The Tempest is Shakespeare’s last play. The closing lines, in fact, seem to be his farewell address intended for his audience. One of the characters, a mythical creature called Ariel, repeatedly has been promised that at the play’s end he will be granted his release, his freedom. As Ariel has faithfully served Prospero, so Shakespeare in his epilogue seems to ask for the same consideration from those who have benefited so long from the magic his own plays have wrought:
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands.
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails
Which was to please. (V.i.9-10)
The imagery is unmistakably nautical: Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill. As Ariel is an aerial being, so is also the ethereal breath of those admirers who once filled the sails of Shakespeare’s own writings. He asks gently that they now do not prevent him from going on his own voyage. He asks for their release.
The opening of The Tempest, however, is anything but gentle. A ship is battered by a storm, on the verge of shipwreck. On deck are experienced seamen, harrying about in an ever growing futile attempt to prevent a catastrophe. On board are passengers, seemingly oblivious to the dangers and peril around them, but who insist on matters that do not matter.
This opening scene of only some 63 lines affords an insight, not so much into the dangers of a storm at sea, but rather into the human condition, and its preference for blindness and contrived reality rather than for what actually confronts and threatens life. The play, however, best tells its own story, its own message—
A boatswain address both mariners and wind alike. Only the mariners,
however, respond.
Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my
hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend
to the master's whistle.—Blow, till thou burst thy
wind, if room enough!
Alonso, the King of Naples, apparently is also on deck and chides the boatswain— mariners must act like men. The mariners must do more; the wind and the sea must somehow be subdued.
The boatswain, of course, responds, telling the King he would be better below deck. Let the experienced seamen do what they know best. The force of waves and sea are not subject to the words of a mere King. Gonzalo, the Counselor of the King, defends the monarch’s words. Another member of the King’s entourage also interferes.
Alonso: Good boatswain, have care. Where's
the master? Play the men.
Boatswain: I pray now, keep below.
Antonio: Where is the master, boson?
Boatswain: Do you not hear him? You mar our
labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the
storm.
Gonzalo: Nay, good, be patient.
Boatswain: When the sea is. Hence! What cares
these roarers for the name of king? To cabin:
silence! trouble us not.
The King’s Counselor next threatens the boatswain for his seeming
insolence and disregard for the person of the King. The boatswain again
responds pragmatically by saying he is trying now to save his own life
and if the counselor wants to counsel, then, let him counsel the fury
of the storm.
Gonzalo: Good, yet remember whom thou hast
aboard.
Boatswain: None that I more love than myself.
You are a counsellor: if you can command
these elements to silence, and work the peace
of the present, we will not hand a rope more;
use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks
you have lived so long, and make yourself ready
in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if
it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our
way, I say.
Others from the entourage now join with Gonzalo in chiding the boatswain,
threatening him with hanging, with small pox, berating him, “You
whorseson, insolent noisemaker!”
The irony, of course, is that they themselves are the insolent noisemakers,
and are the very bastards they call others.
The boatswain apparently hears their shouting, but a far greater shout of wind and waves must be heeded. There simply is no time for silly protests. Passenger and ship both are at imminent risk. The entourage, however, continues their shoutings, and their accusations—
Boatswain: Down with the topmast! yare! lower,
lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [A
cry within.] A plague upon this howling! they
are louder than the weather, or our office.—
The boatswain orders one final effort, but the ship begins to break apart.
Preparing for the cold water, the mariners take a quick swig of liquor.
Even at this moment, the entourage refuses to accept reality, blaming
the storm and impending shipwreck on drunk mariners.
There is a double meaning in the line, What must our
mouths be cold?
The seamen are drinking in an effort to offset the chill of cold seawater.
Yet, liquor can neither alleviate the chill of certain death nor protect
the mouths that death will silence from turning stone cold. With land
in sight, however, the swig of liquor may forestall hypothermia long enough
for a good swimmer to reach shore.
Boatswain: Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses;
off to sea again; lay her off.
[Enter Mariners, wet.]
Mariners All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
[Exeunt.]
Boatswain: What, must our mouths be cold?
Eventually, though, reality does set in — even for the entourage who cry out for themselves and their children. The same voices that had once placed blame and cursed, now offer a weak prayer, “Mercy on us!” And when Antonio accepts his fate of drowning with the King, Sebastian retorts that he will abandon such notions, “Let’s take leave of him.”
Mercy on us! —
We split, we split!—Farewell, my wife and
children!—
Farewell, brother!—'We split, we split, we
split!—
Antonio: Let's all sink wi' the king.
Sebastian: Let's take leave of him.
In the play, of course, no one is actually lost at sea. An unseen intervention saves all of them, but the ships do, however, break apart. Shakespeare’s depiction of a shipwreck is told with a chilling sense of reality and insight. We hear both desperation and panic on the part of the mariners. Their experience at sea tells them how perilous things actually are. Their words recreate the last few moments immediately before shipwreck. We hear in their voices what it is like to be at sea, knowing that all is irretrievably lost.
Just as real, however, is Shakespeare’s insight into how self-deception works. The royal entourage stubbornly refuses to acknowledge their impending doom. In their mind, the storm is not serious, cannot, will not, dare not engulf them or the ship. Gonzalo is even presumptive enough to guarantee that the boatswain cannot drown because Gonzalo has already sentenced him to hanging. It must be so. It cannot be otherwise. Though large breaking waves are on every side of the ship, Gonzalo apparently believes that his threat is more real than the threat of any storm.
What is particularly disturbing is how the entourage chooses illusion over reality. It is as if they dissent strongly enough, reality must conform to what they want. It cannot, will not, must not be otherwise. Such a viewpoint, of course, is beyond reason, but the entourage goes even beyond that by blaming the very people who attempt to salvage both life and ship. In the self-deceived mind, illusion trumps reality, spewing bitter hatred toward all who dare to disagree. In The Tempest, a storm of wind and waves threatens a ship, but a very different storm, one vastly more dangerous and pernicious, engulfs the deck and any semblance of reason.
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