Caliban’s sunken eyes gleamed at the memory. He turned his heavy head towards Miranda. She drew back in horror. “I pitied thee,” she said, with bitter regret, “took pains to make thee speak . . .”
“You taught me language,” answered Caliban, savagely, “and my profit on’t is, I know how to curse!”
But because it had been gentle Miranda who had taught him to use the words, his very curses were musical; and because he knew no other way, helplessly he clothed the darkest and most brutish thoughts in the language of light.
“Hag-seed, hence!” commanded Prospero abruptly and, under threat of sharp aches and bone-grinding cramps, despatched the monster of the isle to fetch more fuel, for he had heard faint music in the air.
The sea-nymph returned, and with a strange catch from the sea. Playing upon a small, delicate stringed instrument, and singing very high and silvery, the spirit drew along, as if by invisible cords, a youth, richly dressed and noble in appearance.
“Come unto these yellow sands . . .” tempted the invisible Ariel; and the youth stumbled after, haunted and tantalized by the music in the air. It was Ferdinand, the King of Naples’ son. He had been mourning the father he believed drowned, when he had heard the music and had followed it helplessly. For a moment the singing ceased, and the youth looked about him in bewilderment; then it began again:
“Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes . . .”
He sank down in despair as the song remembered his loss.
“Say what thou seest . . .” murmured Prospero to Miranda, for the youth was too wrapped in grief and the mysteries of the isle to see the watching enchanter and his daughter.
“What is’t? a spirit?” breathed Miranda, lost in wonderment, for she had never seen a young man before.
“No, wench,” smiled her father; “it eats and sleeps and hath such senses as we have.”
Then Ferdinand saw Miranda.
“At the first sight they have changed eyes,” breathed Prospero. “Delicate Ariel, I’ll set thee free for this.” Fondly he looked on as the youth and his daughter stood in amazed admiration of one another. Though Ferdinand, unlike the girl, was no stranger to his own kind, he had never seen such a one as she. Surely the magic of the isle had made its masterpiece, and whatever wonders were to come, none could out-dazzle Miranda! Eagerly he explained that he was now the King of Naples as he feared his father had perished in the storm; and, in a wild burst of adoration, offered to make Miranda the Queen.
Here Prospero intervened, and stepped between his daughter and the youth, cutting off the ardour of their looks. Their love had been so quick and sudden that he feared it could not last. Some testing time, some hardship, some obstacle to be overcome was needed to judge its strength.
Sternly he confronted Ferdinand. He was lying. He was not the King of Naples. He was a spy, set upon the island to seize it.
“No, as I am a man!” protested Ferdinand, peering from side to side round the grim father for a sight of his entrancing daughter; and Miranda, her head wandering likewise, like a waving flower, strongly supported him.
“Speak not you for him!” Prospero commanded, spreading his mantle to obscure her view. “He’s a traitor. Come; I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together . . .”
Angrily Ferdinand drew his sword. A foolish move. Prospero raised his staff, and Ferdinand felt the air turn to iron and fix him from head to toe.
“Beseech you, father!” implored Miranda, on behalf of the marble Ferdinand.
“Silence!” commanded Prospero, turning upon his daughter. What did she know of the world of men? “Having seen but him and Caliban,” he said contemptuously. “Foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban, and they to him are angels!”
“My affections are then most humble,” cried Miranda, still striving, round her father, for another glimpse of Ferdinand; “I have no ambition to see a goodlier man!”
And Ferdinand too, released enough from enchantment to speak, pleaded his love. Let great Prospero chain and enslave him, he would willingly endure all, if, but once a day, even through prison bars, he might see Miranda.
Prospero, hiding his smiles, withdrew and, briefly, let their craning looks meet. Rapidly he murmured more instructions to the invisibly hovering Ariel, who nodded, bowed half a hundred times, and sped away. Then, resuming his sternness, he returned. “Come, follow!” he commanded Ferdinand harshly; and then to Miranda, who begged, pleaded and clung obstinately to his mantle, “Speak not for him!”
Though he was a mighty enchanter, with power over lightning, thunder, wind and rain, though he could turn men to stone, fill them with pains, and drowse them to sleep, though he could call up visions and bewitch the air, he had no power over love. There his authority stopped. All he could do was, by harsh pretence, to test the strength of it.
In another part of the island, in a green glade thickly curtained with trees, there was heaped up the richest treasure of the wrecked ship. A gathering of gorgeous castaways, velvet gentlemen, embroidered all over with crowns and coronets sat and strolled and debated their situation. Alonzo, the King of Naples, sat on the stump of a tree, his tragic head in his tragic hands, and mourned the loss of his son.
“Beseech you, sir, be merry,” comforted an old councillor, by name of Gonzalo, and pointed out that the King had much to be thankful for. After all, he and his companions were saved and on dry land . . .
“Prithee, peace,” said the King, in no mood for philosophy.
“He receives comfort like cold porridge,” remarked the King’s brother Sebastian, to Antonio, the Duke of Milan. They were a sharp, knowing, ambitious pair of gentlemen, men of the real world. Though they were pleased enough to find themselves alive, they were none too pleased to find themselves on such an island, far from courts and affairs. Nor were they better pleased with their company. The King was feeble and Gonzalo was a tedious old fool, fit for nothing but to laugh at.
“Here is everything advantageous to life,” said Gonzalo, examining the grass, fingering the soil and peering at the trees through spectacles that enlarged all virtues to his kindly eyes.
“True,” said Antonio mockingly; “save means to live.”
They would not let him be. Whatever he praised, from the miracle of their salvation to the wonder of their clothing seeming fresh and new, they jeered at. Until, at last, the old man gave up.
“You are gentlemen of brave mettle,” he said wearily. He yawned. Suddenly he was overcome by a strong desire for sleep. It was strange: there seemed to be a sound of music in the air, very sweet and heavy. And stranger still, some heard it and some did not. Of those who heard it, first Gonzalo, then two other lords, and then the grieving King himself, were overcome by its drowsy charm, and closed their eyes in sleep. Then the music ceased, and Ariel, the unseen musician, silently left the glade. The two who had heard nothing, remained awake, wide awake.
“What a strange drowsiness possesses them,” wondered Sebastian, gazing round at the figures on the grass, who lay, quiet as painted people.
“It is the quality o’ the climate,” murmured Antonio, his eyes fixed upon the sleeping King. The two gentlemen stared at one another; and each saw in the other an image of himself. Each was brother to greatness; one had taken his chance and succeeded; the other’s was still to come.
Antonio, still staring at the sleeping King, began to say something, as if to himself, then stopped, then sighed, then looked Sebastian quickly in the face, and murmured: “My strong imagination sees a crown dropping upon thy head.”
Sebastian looked puzzled, and pretended not to catch the drift of Antonio’s remark; but very quietly. It would be foolish to wake the sleepers. The two gentlemen began to stroll about, on tiptoe, and to peer and stare among the trees.
“Will you grant with me,” proposed Antonio, reassuring himself that a shadow was not a watcher, “that Ferdinand is drowned?”
&
nbsp; “He’s gone,” agreed Sebastian, confirming that a bush was not a spy.
“Then tell me,” pursued Antonio, approaching the breathing King, “who’s the next heir of Naples?”
The King’s daughter. But she was Queen of Tunis, pointed out Antonio, and that was far from Naples. Carefully he measured with his eyes the distance between the helpless King and the helpless Gonzalo. Then he looked hard at Sebastian. Being damned himself in the destruction of a brother, he wanted company in his damnation. Sebastian nodded, and Antonio knew that the idea he had put into Sebastian’s head had found a ready kennel.
“Draw thy sword,” whispered Sebastian, nodding towards his sleeping brother.
“Draw together,” breathed Antonio, not wanting to be the only murderer and so in another’s power. He nodded towards Gonzalo. Then he drew his sword, but not until he had seen Sebastian do the same. Together they stood, poised for double murder.
Suddenly Gonzalo awoke! “Now good angels,” he cried out, “preserve the King!” As if in a dream he had heard a high, silvery voice singing in his ear: “Shake off slumber and beware! Awake, awake!”
In a moment, all were awake and on their feet, and staring with amazement at the two who stood, with glaring eyes and dangerous swords.
“Why are you drawn?” demanded the King, his hand upon his own weapon.
Confusedly, first Sebastian and then Antonio, said they had heard the roaring of lions nearby.
“Heard you this, Gonzalo?” asked the King. The old man frowned and admitted that he had indeed heard a strange sound that had awakened him. The King was satisfied; nonetheless, they must all leave the glade and continue the search, even though it was hopeless, for his lost son.
Mouse-eyed Ariel watched them go. There was nothing on the isle that could be unknown to the lord of it. Prospero, through the eyes of his servant, watched over all.
There was a growling of thunder and the sky was overcast. On a desolate part of the shore, where a leaden sea lapped upon leaden sands, Caliban toiled under his burden of wood. Savagely he cursed his master, who, for the smallest offence, visited him with biting terrors and with hissing snakes.
“Lo, now lo!” he cried out suddenly. “Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me for bringing wood in slowly! I’ll fall flat . . .”
And down the monster fell, flinging his stinking cloak over his stinking head, and leaving nothing visible but his hairy legs and feet.
The spirit approached; a queer spirit in patched colours with tiny bells sewn to points on his sleeves and cap, so that he jingled like a town of distant churches. It was Trinculo, the King of Naples’ jester, an ageing fool who lived only on the echo of old jokes. Saved from the shipwreck by a Providence that plainly did not know right from wrong, he wandered across the shore until he spied the cloak and the ugly legs and feet.
“What have we here?” wondered Trinculo, peering at the strange object and poking at it with his toe. “A man, or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish; he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell . . .” Thunder growled and threatened again. Trinculo stared about him. There was no shelter anywhere. “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,” he said, and, shutting his eyes and holding his nose, crept under the creature’s cloak. Caliban, in mortal terror of the strange spirit, neither spoke nor moved.
Came sounds of a song: not magical in the island’s sense, but weavy and peppered with hiccups. A portly fellow in important breeches, waving a bottle like a weapon against flies, came tottering and staggering along the shore. It was Stephano, the King’s butler, who had floated to land on a barrel of wine. He kicked against the cloak, not in anger, but because he was too drunk to see it.
“Do not torment me:—O!” came a voice that was thick and harsh. Cautiously Stephano examined the speaking bundle; found it had four legs and no head. Was not surprised. Prodded it.
“Do not torment me, prithee,” moaned Caliban, putting out his head. “I’ll bring my wood home faster.”
Stephano pondered. “He shall taste of my bottle,” he said, and thrust it, vaguely, into the hazy, bristly monster’s mouth.
“Stephano!” came another voice from the cloak. This was truly uncanny. Stephano flew into a panic. Then Trinculo came out, and the two friends embraced and danced about in their joy at finding each other alive.
Caliban looked on, awed beyond measure by the splendour of the new spirits, and in particular by the one who had given him wine. It seemed to hold a greater enchantment than even Prospero’s. “I will kneel to him,” whispered Caliban, and crawled humbly towards the ponderous, swaying drunkard. “Hast thou not dropped from heaven?” he asked, staring up at the bottle.
“Out o’ the moon,” said Stephano; and Caliban believed him.
The drunkard was charmed by his worshipper, and gave him more to drink; but the jester was not pleased. “A most ridiculous monster,” he sneered enviously, “to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!”
Nonetheless, off they went together in a staggering bundle, to find where Stephano had hidden his barrel of wine: the butler hiccuping, the jester jeering, and the monster singing and promising his new master all the wonders of the isle. “ ’Ban, ’Ban, Ca-Caliban,” he roared, “has a new master—get a new man!”
A little way from Prospero’s dwelling—a rough house of wood, sufficient to keep out the weather and keep in comfort and warmth—the King of Naples’ son was carrying logs. Back and forth he toiled, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his brow. He had sworn that he would gladly endure enslavement if only he could see Miranda once a day; and Prospero had put him to the test. Suddenly the house door opened and Miranda, with a quick, backward glance, came running out. “Alas!” she cried, seeing Ferdinand bent, like a beckoning finger, under his heavy burden, “pray you, work not so hard!” She begged him to rest. “My father is hard at study,” she promised, with another backward glance. “He’s safe for these three hours.”
A shadow stirred in the doorway. Prospero was indeed at study, but it was hearts, not books. He smiled at the innocence of his daughter’s conspiracy.
“If you’ll sit down,” urged Miranda, “I’ll bear your logs the while.”
Ferdinand shook his head. Though the work was heavy, there was pleasure in it: it was not for a harsh master that he laboured, but for a mistress, fair as the sun.
Again Prospero smiled. He had given the young man Caliban’s task so that he might seem a Caliban in Miranda’s eyes; but Ferdinand laboured willingly and the harsh toil, far from debasing him, had made him seem more noble than before.
“The very instant that I saw you,” panted Ferdinand, between logs, “did my heart fly to your service . . .”
“Do you love me?” asked Miranda, more used to plainer speech and hoping she had understood. He did indeed, and told her so again and again; and she, weeping with happiness, confessed the same. Then she left him, for the endless space of half an hour; and he went on heaving logs that seemed as light and airy as dandelion clocks. And Prospero, the hidden observer, shook his head, and sighed, and smiled.
Stephano’s wine barrel had been found. He had hidden it beside a stream, under trees. Now he sat astride it, like the king of grapes, while his two subjects squabbled among themselves. Caliban hated Trinculo, who was too familiar with the god of the bottle; and Trinculo despised Caliban because he did not think Stephano worth worshipping.
“Why thou deboshed fish!” jeered Trinculo, as Caliban kissed Stephano’s foot.
“Bite him to death, I prithee!” implored Caliban, longing for his new master to dispose of the jester. But Stephano, like a wise ruler, kept the peace; and bent an ear to Caliban who told him of the sorcerer who had stolen the isle.
“Thou liest!” said a voice like Trinculo’s. Savagely Caliban turned upon him. Trinculo denied all knowledge of having opened his mouth. Caliban grunted and went on to propose how the isle might be captured by murdering Prospero as he slept.
“Thou liest: thou canst not,
” said Trinculo’s voice again; and again Trinculo denied having spoken. Caliban raged at him, and Stephano warned Trinculo to hold his tongue; and for good measure, and to Caliban’s delight, he punched his head.
Even though they were all drunk enough for marvels, it was a strange confusion that had fallen on them, hearing voices when no one spoke; and matters grew stranger still when Stephano began to sing, and was accompanied by mysterious music in the air. The butler and the jester stared at one another aghast. This was more uncanny than anything out of a bottle!
“Be not afeard,” urged Caliban, anxious to calm them; “the isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not . . .”
They took his word for it, and, indeed, as they listened, found a strange pleasure in the music. So much so that, when it began to move away, they rose and, floating on clouds of wine, followed after. This way and that, they went, clinging one to another, as Ariel, the invisible imitator of Trinculo, and the invisible musician to Stephano, led them on. Their conspiracy was as open to Prospero as was the conspiring of Sebastian and Antonio. Plots and murders, greed and cunning were but as waking dreams.
“I can go no further, sir,” groaned Gonzalo as the King’s party came into a glade that seemed the very image of a glade they had not long left. “I must needs rest me.”
The King sighed and took pity on the weary old man, and consented to rest a while.
“The next advantage will we take thoroughly,” breathed Sebastian to Antonio, as their companions sank down exhausted on the grass. His resolve was as firm as ever Antonio could have wished; both men were now eye-deep in thoughts of blood. “I say tonight—”
He fell silent and clutched Antonio by the sleeve; and amazement seized the glade. A rich music had invaded the air. The trees wavered, like trees painted on a veil, became unreal, then seemed to be drawn aside, as if to reveal, briefly, the true face of the haunted isle. Filmy shapes appeared in the air, as if they had always been present, and wanted only clearer sight to be seen. Some had heads like birds, others like wolves, or bears or stags. They were grim in aspect, but gentle in movement. They carried a great table, laden with fruits and meat and tall flagons of wine, which they placed upon the ground; and, with courteous bows and gestures, invited those present to partake of the feast. Then they dissolved, leaving the table behind.
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 6
