I wrote The Tempest at Stratford, the only play I wrote at home. For the first time I had leisure to write, in my garden, the summer warm: this was an island for an island: time faded: I remembered scenari I had seen at the commedia dell’arte: I remembered the wreck of the Sea Adventure in Bermuda: a drunk sailor stopped me and described that grievous storm, described the bewitched island, and I began:
On ship at sea:
| Captain: | Boatswain! |
| Boatswain: | Here, Master, what cheer? |
| Captain: | Good fellow, talk to the sailors, warn them, fall to it quickly or we’ll run aground! |
Enter sailors:
| Boatswain: | Quickly, my fellows! Take in the topsail speedily! That’s the captain’s warning whistle! |
Then the shipwreck followed.
It was pleasant to invent without pressure: I wanted a lively yet serene play, with a mixture of philosophy, humor and fantasy: I wanted a play to fit the new mode, free of symbolism.
I walked about my garden and my peace trees, and there, over there was Caliban, a savage slave; I took another turn, and there was Ariel; I heard the wind blow hollowly across an uninhabited island...
“Safely in harbor is the king’s ship; in the deep nook where once you called me at midnight... Go, make yourself a nymph of the sea... Where should this music be? In the air, or the earth? Delicate Ariel, sea nymphs ring the knell...in the dark backward and abysm of time...”
Discs of spinning yellow, pink, lavender: