And then, with all his wishes satisfied, his heart's desire accomplished, Prospero is ready to set out for Milan again and home. We all expect some expression of joy from him, but this is what we get:
“And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.”
The despair is wholly unexpected and out of place, as was the story of his weakness and infirmity, his “beating mind.” It is evidently Shakespeare's own confession. After writing “The Tempest” he intends to retire to Stratford, where “every third thought shall be my grave.”
I have purposely drawn special attention to Shakespeare's weakness and despair at this time, because the sad, rhymed Epilogue which has to be spoken by Prospero has been attributed to another hand by a good many scholars. It is manifestly Shakespeare's, out of Shakespeare's very heart indeed; though Mr. Israel Gollancz follows his leaders in saying that the “Epilogue to the play is evidently by some other hand than Shakespeare's”: “evidently” is good. Here it is:
“Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not
Since I have my dukedom got,
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
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. Now I want,
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults
As you from crimes would pardon'd be
Let your indulgence set me free.”
From youth to age Shakespeare occupied himself with the deepest problems of human existence; again and again we find him trying to pierce the darkness that enshrouds life. Is there indeed nothing beyond the grave—nothing? Is the noble fabric of human thought, achievement and endeavour to fade into nothingness and pass away like the pageant of a dream? He will not cheat himself with unfounded hopes, nor delude himself into belief; he resigns himself with a sigh—it is the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns. But Shakespeare always believed in repentance and forgiveness, and now, world-weary, old and weak, he turns to prayer, {Footnote: Hamlet, too, after speaking with his father's ghost, cries: “I'll go pray."} prayer that—
“assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.”
Poor, broken Shakespeare! “My ending is despair”: the sadness of it, and the pity, lie deeper than tears.
What a man! to produce a masterpiece in spite of such weakness. What a play is this “Tempest”! At length Shakespeare sees himself as he is, a monarch without a country; but master of a very “potent art,” a great magician, with imagination as an attendant spirit, that can conjure up shipwrecks, or enslave enemies, or create lovers at will; and all his powers are used in gentle kindness. Ariel is a higher creation, more spiritual and charming than any other poet has ever attempted; and Caliban, the earth-born, half-beast, half-man—these are the poles of Shakespeare's genius.