**This post is Part 7 of an ongoing series in which I’ll be reading various Shakespeare plays, along with the Harold Bloom commentary from his book Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, and providing my thoughts/reactions.**

By what measure can we say that The Tempest is a comedy? While it is highly entertaining, it is barely witty by Shakespearean standards, much less funny.

Ok, fine. That’s not what we mean in theater when we describe a play as a comedy. The essential element of a comedic play is the triumph of a certain character (the protagonist) over adversity. A comedy “ends well,” and it is by this standard that The Tempest is broadly accepted as one of Shakespeare’s late comedies.

But does it end well? Consider the fate of Prospero, the occult protagonist and animator of reality in The Tempest. The play ends with what should be a triumph—Prospero regains his dukedom and defeats his enemies. Yet something feels deeply wrong about this resolution.

The Fall

In Act I, Scene 2, Prospero explains to his daughter, Miranda, that he was once the Duke of Milan “and / A prince of power” (55-56) but that his brother Antonio had, through deceitful means, usurped him and conspired with the King of Naples to have Prospero banished to sea.

This is the “tragic” beginning that sets the stage for Prospero’s redemption in this comedy.

Confounding the Fall

But life did not remain tragic for Prospero long. He took with him his daughter, and the noble Gonzalo supplied them with garments and other necessities, including Prospero’s rich library of books.

With this foundation thus secured, Prospero and Miranda were able to establish a life for themselves on a distant island. While they were cut off from other humans, Prospero did manage to “liberate” (and subsequently indenture to servitude) two semi-magical creatures, Ariel and Caliban.

With their help (or through their enslavement, depending on your point of view), Prospero was able to establish a new, albeit lonely, kingdom upon the island. He studied for years, and his powers increased.

He became, in no uncertain terms, magical, having control over spirits and nature alike. In other words, he became the god of this new kingdom and all who enter it.

The Turn

At the opening of the play, the King of Naples and Antonio, Prospero’s usurping brother, are on a ship not far off the coast of the island of Prospero’s exile. Using his magical powers, Prospero conjures a storm, destroying their boat and marooning its passengers on the island.

His former assailants and their kin are now under his jurisdiction and–as the play will prove out–at his mercy.

The “Redemption”

Suffice it to say (for the purposes of this post) that Prospero is able to continue to manipulate these marooned passengers and their circumstances so as to bring them forth to him for judgment. By the time they get there, they are so fearful of his might, they surrender and beg his forgiveness.

The King of Naples offers Prospero his dukedom back, not only out of fear of further magical revenge but also because his own son (also shipwrecked) has been enchanted to marriage by Miranda, Prospero’s daughter.

The Absurd

What strikes me as irredeemably absurd in this play is that Prospero accepts. Not only does he accept the restoration of his dukedom and agree to leave the island forever and return to Naples–he also renounces his otherworldly powers, discarding his book of divine collected knowledge.

Being Duke of Milan is a fine thing, no doubt. But renouncing god-like powers to return to the world of courtly administration on behalf of the King is the height of insanity. Bloom coins it well:

Prospero, bidding farewell to his art, tells us that he even has raised the dead, a role that Christianity reserves for God and for Jesus. To be Duke of Milan is to be only another potentate; the abandoned art was so potent that politics is absurd in contrast.
– Bloom, 667

Some Objections

Perhaps one might think, “ah, yes, it’s an absurd choice, but the heart wants what it wants. Clearly Prospero’s heart belongs to the people of Milan.”

Yet, rather than supporting such an interpretation. Shakespeare seems to go out of his way to confound it. For by his own account, when Prospero was Duke, he himself gave his brother charge of his estate, preferring to study his books:

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

With that which, but by being so retired,

O’er-prized such popular rate

[…]

Me, poor man, my library

Was dukedom large enough […]

– Act I, Scene 2, 89-93, 109-110

Examining the facts, we might conclude that Prospero was not usurped but rather voluntarily abdicated his dukedom to his brother to make room for his true pleasure in life, which is his studies. But, if that is true, why abandon this project at its zenith to return to the throne of Milan?

Or perhaps one might say, “yes but either he tired of life alone and wished to change his circumstances and return to Milan.”

But is a magician who is capable of summoning storms powerful enough to wreck royal envoys not also powerful enough to rule Milan and an island? Or, if he should choose to rule Milan alone (sancta simplicitas!), what necessitates the abdication of his powers as magus? Wouldn’t such command over nature be of use in his government? Why settle for Milan, when one has brought the King of Naples to his knees?

Conclusion

There’s something uncomfortable about The Tempest, something that makes it “hard to hold steady in our view” (Bloom, 669). The sense of unease emanates from our inability to properly grasp Prospero’s motivations, which as readers is tantamount to an inability to grasp the motivations of Shakespeare himself.

Despite a nominal triumph through the neutralization of his enemies, it’s hard to say what Prospero has won. But this should come as no surprise, since we know little of what he wanted to win in the first place. His knowledge–hard won, to be sure–is easily surrendered.

In The Tempest, we watch Prospero trade this knowledge for his dukedom, as if his plan all along were to study, growing his powers to achieve his revenge. But such an understanding conveniently forgets that he neglected his dukedom in pursuit of this same knowledge. What was he reaching for then?

At turns tragic, at others comic, this tale of the duke-turned-scholar-turned-duke can hardly be categorized as simply as the word “comedy” suggests. For now, it is enough to say that I enjoyed the play and will be puzzling through its implications for many years to come.

Rating: 7/10