William Shakespeare’s romances are sometimes considered the bitterest of his plays because they evoke a sense of loss, only to be undercut by an  artificially happy ending at the hands of the divine. A typical plot arc of a romance play includes an aristocrat enduring a tragic loss, usually as a result of his own mistake or fatal flaw, before repenting and being reunited with the object of his loss by way of nature or the divine (Gualberto 112-113; Hillman 151; Cohen 1625). Still, this universal reconciliation lends itself to potentially tragic futures in the plays because some characters ultimately receive more than they deserve (Cohen 1635). In The Tempest, that mystical realm is harnessed by the mortal god Prospero who uses his powers for his own gain, under the guise of divine reconciliation. In sheltering his political motivations behind the conventions of the romance genre, Prospero becomes analogous to a dystopian leader, invoking censorship and widespread emotional manipulation of his subjects for his own benefit.

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A dystopia, for the purposes of this paper, is a society with a leader who censors information under the guise of a utopia, while evoking large-scale emotional manipulation to benefit himself. Because Prospero’s powers and motives are hidden, he must censor the information that Miranda and others receive about his plot to regain the throne of Milan. Instead of telling her the truth, Prospero fabricates the diversion of a perfect society: a land of mystical desire and no death. Prospero’s emotional manipulation involves artificially fabricating the things the characters feel by controlling where the characters are on the island and when they reunite. He takes the romantic idea of a false sense of loss, typically used to inspire repentance, and twists it into a bribe to gain political power by holding the reunions as a bargaining chip. He invokes psychological suffering under the guise of romantic spiritual transformation in those he hopes to profit from (Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio), but doles out only physical punishments, devoid of reconciliation, to those who can offer him nothing (Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo). Through it all, Prospero frames himself as the innocent victim of a usurped throne. His extreme power over others’ situations coupled with his selfish motivations prime him as the quintessential dystopian figurehead. 

 

Prospero tells only half-truths in a play where so much reality is censored from the characters. Ariel is the eyes and ears of the island, which is otherwise devoid of technology, fulfilling the role of constant surveillance. Both Ariel and Prospero have control over sleep, and Ariel has the ability to create auditory hallucinations to deceive the characters, ensuring that they do not hear the information that would allow them to rebel against Prospero’s plot. The magic-makers also use the power of suggestion—both in Prospero’s mannerisms of speech and in the mood-altering power of Ariel’s music—to change the way the characters feel and remove any suspicions about Prospero’s plans.

 

In his initial talk with Miranda, Prospero frames the conversation as if he has told her the whole history of their journey to the island, but he denies her knowledge of his powers and his inner motivations. Clearly, Miranda knows enough to understand that Prospero has power over nature, since she questions him about the tempest, but he has never revealed to her the full extent of his magic. At the end of his soliloquy about their journey to the island, Prospero says to Miranda, “Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow,” presenting it as if he has told her the entirety of his story (I. ii. 170; italics mine). However, he excludes information about the “sea-sorrow” he intends to impose on Antonio and Alonso. When Miranda again asks about why he caused the tempest, he refuses to answer: “Here cease more questions” (I. ii. 184). The tale he has told proves insufficient, so he puts Miranda to sleep instead. Even this, he does not admit to causing; instead, he frames it as if her drowsiness comes from within: “Thou art inclined to sleep” (I. ii. 185). By denying Miranda true knowledge of his powers and framing his interactions with her as if she has absolute agency over her sleep, he manipulates her into believing that she has freedom, knowledge, and control. This hypnosis also is a microcosm of the rest of the play, in which Prospero frames himself as powerless over others while subtly inspiring them with thought control to relinquish their agency to him. 

 

This censorship allows Prospero to show Miranda only what he wants to: a utopic version of the island. In one sense, this is literal; when Miranda first sees Ferdinand, it takes Prospero’s spell, “The fringed curtains of thine eye advance/And say what thou seest yond,” for her to see him, as if it required Prospero’s consent (I. ii. 407-08). Because Prospero hides the knowledge of these sensory powers from Miranda, she does not suspect that he has such profound control over her perceptions. It also means that he can choose to show her only the most romantic and idealistic parts of the island.

 

Prospero hiding his magic means that Miranda never encounters Ariel to witness the abuse he suffers at the hand of her father. Ariel only arises after Miranda falls asleep (I. ii. 187-188), and Miranda stays sleeping while Prospero guilts Ariel into staying in servitude by comparing the ease of his travail now to his arduous years with the witch Sycorax (I. ii. 247-298). Ariel re-enters after Miranda wakes up, but he whispers in Prospero’s ear without any acknowledgement from Miranda (I. ii. 318). Asides are very typical in theater, but this instance could foreshadow the later scene with Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, which reveals Ariel’s blatant ability to only let certain people hear his speech. Ariel is likely under strict orders from Prospero not to let Miranda see him, lest her idealistic perceptions be shattered.

 

The exception to this is Caliban; Prospero’s cruel treatment of him is no secret. Prospero threatens to “rack [him] with old cramps” in front of Miranda, and she does not chastise her father for his threats (II. i. 368). Miranda seems distressed by Caliban’s presence on the island (I. ii. 350-361), but she also does not voice her concerns to her father afterwards. She and Caliban do not interact again in the play. Maybe Caliban is so dehumanized in her eyes that she does not recognize that this treatment of him is unjust. Otherwise, it is possible that Prospero shows her a bit of negativity on the island so she does not suspect that he is hiding anything else. Creating the illusion that he would share any problematic elements on the island makes her less suspicious of other things going wrong, the same way that saying “the last of our sea-sorrow” makes her less likely to anticipate more to his story (I. ii. 170). Either way, Miranda’s first sight of Ferdinand washes those thoughts away (I. ii. 374-418). 

 

While Prospero plots, he grants Miranda her perfect society by subtly pushing her and Ferdinand to fall in love. Thomas Bulger argues that Miranda and Ferdinand’s love is precisely that which allows the play to enter a utopic state; they epitomize the purity and innocence that Prospero lacks, even though he bears more power than they do on the island (Bulger 41). Ferdinand allows Miranda reprieve from thoughts of Caliban and the other losses around them. Even Ferdinand’s work, carrying logs for Prospero, becomes a labor of love because he is trying to win over Miranda, so he “considers his bondage as freedom” (Boss 148). Similarly, both Ferdinand and Miranda are free from the hierarchies of monarchical life, as symbolized by the mere shadows of sovereignty on the island. The only kings and pawns they concern themselves with are in chess, since Prospero does not reveal his political concerns to Miranda (V. i. 173).

 

As idyllic as Miranda finds the situation, broadening the scope reveals the falseness of their relationship, since it is all controlled by Prospero. Stephan Laqué argues that Ferdinand’s entire reason for falling for Miranda is the priming of Ariel’s music right before they meet (Laqué 153). Prospero sets the stage for their union in a literal way. Even before Miranda meets Ferdinand, Prospero may have primed her for a royal marriage by sheltering her from anyone else; she admits to Ferdinand never having seen another man or woman (III. i. 48-52).

 

Prospero has led her to believe that he must initiate the ongoings of her romantic life, and he sends mixed signals towards Ferdinand to bait Miranda into falling in love with him. In her first meeting with Ferdinand, she believes that she is going against her father’s wishes to talk to him, confessing, “O my father,/I have broke your hest to say so!” (III. i. 36-37). Prospero is overjoyed by seeing them fall in love (III. i. 92-96), probably because he wants his daughter to become Queen of Naples. However, he feels it necessary to feign disapproval through “trials of thy love” (IV. i. 6) so Miranda and Ferdinand will think it to be a more appealing love affair. In truth, these trials are simple—carrying some wood for Prospero and winning Miranda’s hand, which Prospero has already helped with via Ariel’s music—but he makes it seem as though they have overcome great difficulties together. 

 

In truth, the ceremony of their marriage is equally as false as their first meeting, since Ariel is the one bestowing many of the blessings. In talking to Prospero, Ariel reveals that he “presented Ceres,” likely meaning that he took the form of Ceres instead of the real goddess (IV. i. 167). This casts doubt on all the blessings bestowed upon Miranda and Ferdinand in the ceremony; Juno and Iris may have also been other lowly spirits imitating royal forms. This ceremony is simply another toy of Prospero’s to solidify the bond between Miranda and Ferdinand so he can ensure his own political gain in Milan. Prospero emotionally manipulates his daughter by creating tension in her life: potentially jeopardizing her relationship with Ferdinand by putting him through trials and drawing out her love to him with a ceremony of falseness. He threatens to take away her happiness and then reaffirms it, since she is a pawn. All the while, she believes her life to be utopic because of the ‘magic’ she feels with Ferdinand. 

 

This pattern of enduring trials restored to ultimate happiness begins long before Miranda and Ferdinand’s relationship, since it is a staple of the genre. However, Prospero is the one always pulling these strings for his own benefit, and it is not always as idyllic as Ferdinand and Miranda’s love story. Some characters endure loss and violence before they can be redeemed. As The Tempest is full of microcosms, this pattern begins in Miranda and Prospero’s very first conversation. Miranda expresses her concerns about the storm killing those on the boat, even going so far as to say that she has “suffered/With those that I saw suffer” (I. ii. 5-6). With this admission of suffering, Prospero heals her pain by restoring her romantic, idealistic perception of the world by promising, “There’s no harm done” (I. ii. 15). In these few lines, Shakespeare has created a microcosm of the entire genre of romance and largely the trajectory of The Tempest. What is not seen here is the prequel: Prospero and Ariel have been cultivating fits of violence that characters will have to repent for later (Sebastian and Antonio) and separating people from their families (Alonso and Ferdinand) in order to gain bargaining chips to use in Prospero’s fight for the throne. Ariel imposes his powers of suggestion of thought on both parties to spur violence, but Caliban and his men endure physical punishments that do not lead to their redemption, while Antonio and Sebastian endure psychological torment that causes them to want to resign from power. Prospero and Ariel fabricate tragedies as a means of collateral. 

 

Ariel creates auditory hallucinations to drive Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo to commit senseless acts of violence. They have been living in their own form of a Golden Age utopia, since Stephano symbolizes a harmless monarch that Caliban can escape from anytime. They are ultimately idle and unconfined, like Gonzalo’s vision of pleasure-driven animals (Boss 152-53). To cause disputes between Caliban and Trinculo, Ariel says, “Thou liest” after Caliban recounts that Prospero had cheated him of his place on the island (III. ii. 38-41). Trinculo’s confused response, “Why, I said nothing,” implies that he did not hear anything either, since he does not acknowledge the voice (III. ii. 47). Ariel seems to have the power of selective speech, creating illusions of sound in one person’s world but not another to evoke certain reactions. 

 

However, Ariel does not do this only to spur a fight that leads to a confession and remission of sins, as would be the goal of a romance play. He seems to be hunting for a potential plot to murder Prospero, which surfaces only after they have beaten each other and apologized (III. ii. 104-107). Ariel puts the three men under a spell (IV. i. 178-179) to lure them to where they will be chased down by dogs (IV. i. 252-263).

 

By the end of the play, Prospero does say, “Set Caliban and his companions free:/Untie the spell” (V. i. 255-256), which could be taken to mean that he sets them free of bondage. However, this could simply free them from the trance Ariel had placed on them with his music to lure them into their punishment; there is no other evidence in the text of this spell being undone. Prospero’s last words to Caliban are, “As you look/To have my pardon, trim [my cell] handsomely” (V. i. 294-95; my italics). The phrasing implies that Caliban has not yet received Prospero’s pardon, even after enduring his punishments. Although he is left on the island as king, there is no formal transfer or power or acknowledgement that Caliban has become more than Prospero’s former slave. In this way, order has not been restored to Caliban, as would be conventional in a romance after he has endured his own form of loss. Prospero, then, is not the objective, benevolent god of the typical romance, and this is not its happy ending. Instead, Prospero is an authoritarian who grants pardons only to those who have a chance to benefit him in return. To all the others, he casts them away without a chance for redemption of its own sake. 

 

In contrast, Ariel plants the idea of violence in the minds of Antonio and Sebastian so that they can ruminate on this sin, declare themselves unfit for power, and redeem themselves by transferring their power to Prospero. In the scene where Antonio and Sebastian plot to kill the king, it is evident that Ariel is the one causing the sleeping spell: Gonzalo and the others in the scene begin to feel the heaviness right after Ariel arrives, “playing solemn music” (II. i. 178). The same way that Prospero conditions Ferdinand to fall in love with Miranda by setting the scene with his music (Laqué 153), Ariel uses this unconscious sensory perception to charm Gonzalo, Alonso, and Adrian. Ostensibly, this is to ensure that the conversion between Antonio and Sebastian regarding the killing of Alonso arises naturally: removing all other parties from the picture. Within the genre of romance, this plot to kill Alonso must take place to render Antonio and Sebastian aware of their misdeeds so they can repent and be redeemed.

 

However, the dialogue directly after everyone drifts to sleep casts doubt on whether the conversation taking place between Antonio and Sebastian arises naturally at all. Although Sebastian finds “[n]ot [him]self disposed to sleep,” he views Antonio as in “a strange repose, to be asleep/With eyes wide open” (II. i. 194, 206-07). Sebastian seems to be in a trance-like state, feeling almost as if Antonio’s voice is a hallucination. He says that he is “standing water,” which the footnote reveals to mean “open to suggestion” (II. i. 213n7). The scene with Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano establishes that Ariel is capable of creating auditory hallucinations, so it is reasonable to imagine that Ariel could create visual ones as well. Sebastian and Antonio deny the effect Ariel’s music has on them because it has not rendered them unconscious. Still, is it a coincidence that Antonio’s “strong imagination sees a crown/Dropping upon [Sebastian’s] head” (II. i. 201-02)? Or is this yet another illusion planted into the mind of Antonio by Ariel, who has not yet exited the scene? Antonio has committed political misdeeds before by usurping Prospero’s throne, but he chose deliberately not to kill Prospero and Miranda. He sent them instead to an island where they would survive; violence is not within his character. It is possible, then, that these fantasies of killing Alonso are not the product of Antonio’s consciousness, but instead Ariel’s thought control.

 

As the romance genre is inherently self-reflective, this emotional manipulation could serve to inspire reflection on the part of Antonio and Sebastian; if they deemed themselves unfit for power because of their corruptness, Antonio would have less resistance turning over the throne to Prospero. This scene, then, is a prequel to Ariel’s grand entrance in Act III to condemn Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian by saying, “You are three men of sin” (III. iii. 54). The speech dwells mostly on Antonio dethroning Prospero and the plot to kill Alonso. However, Ariel admits in this speech, “I have made you mad” (III. iii. 59; italics mine). He mentions that the three men have “suchlike valor,” which the footnote deems to mean “fearlessness that comes from madness” (III. iii. 60n1; italics mine). This could be Ariel’s subtle admission to stirring the violent desires of Antonio and Sebastian, for the sole purpose of calling them out for their ruthlessness and guilting them into relinquishing their power. 

 

Antonio, Sebastian, and Alonso face psychological torments that spur self reflection. Alonso still mourns the ostensible loss of his son Ferdinand, but Antonio and Sebastian, who do not have children, dwell on the sins Ariel imposed on them. When Ariel next speaks of Antonio and Sebastian after the sinning speech, he reports to Prospero that they are in prison cells, “[b]rimful of sorrow and dismay” (V. i. 14). Prospero seems to soften after this report from Ariel, saying, “The rarer action is/In virtue than in vengeance” (V. i. 27-28). However, it feels unconvincing that Prospero would have a secondhand epiphany; turning a new leaf in response to only hearing about the pain of the King and his men, as opposed to witnessing it himself, seems unlikely for someone who has gone his whole life in search of their power. These lines may simply be Prospero’s artistic or sarcastic way of posing as the moral center, internally smug at having succeeded so far in his deceptions and knowing that it is time to reap his rewards by removing his magic and asking for his throne. His charms have worked; as soon as Alonso rouses, he confers the throne to Prospero: “Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat/Thou pardon me my wrongs” (V. i. 118-119). Because Caliban endures physical punishment that does not allow him to reflect on his sins, he simply falls back into his place as a servant. In contrast, Alonso has been primed to reconcile with Prospero—not for virtue of its own sake, but for Prospero’s political gain in Milan. 

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Had Prospero truly wanted to repent, he would have confessed to the king and his men that he was the one causing the torments. However, Alonso is not aware that Prospero was the wizard behind the curtain: in talking with Prospero, he says, “a madness held me,” without any indication that the statement is directed at Prospero’s magic (V. i. 116; italics mine). 

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Throughout the play, Prospero has been playing chess. The image of Miranda and Ferdinand playing the ancient game (V. i. 172-174) does more than establish another repetition of kings. This scene has been passed off as representative of the political maneuvers subtly at play, since the real-life king has been captured on the island in a thrust for power (Kott 31). One critic even interpreted Miranda’s place as the “Machiavellian Princess,” having learned from her father that sometimes one must feign loss or condone trickery in order to win in the long run (Laqué 154). What critics miss here is the centrality of chess as an anticipatory game. There are inherent political connotations because of the nature of the pieces, but the essence of a game of chess is projecting into the future to see how the other player will react to one’s moves and planning accordingly. Prospero has indeed been playing this game, placing the characters on the island in situations where he can control the outcome: allowing Alonso to fall asleep in front of Antonio and Sebastian, or playing sweet music to make Ferdinand swoon at first sight of Miranda.  

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When mixed with a god who is selfishly mortal, the conventions of a romance enable manipulation by allowing Prospero to take the lives of the islanders as collateral, which he exchanges for the fulfillment of his own desires. In any other world, this would be considered dystopian manipulation. But the romantic conventions of The Tempest naturally allow Prospero to claim the status of a divine entity and the power of manipulation that comes with it.

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In line with the genre as well, Prospero is set up for future tragedy. Having not repented for his past mistakes on the island, Prospero does not realize the many torments that come with being in power. The play is cyclical; in the prequel to the story, Prospero had been in power in Milan, only to be overtaken by Antonio and fueled with rage at his usurpation. By the end of the play, Prospero has not relinquished those desires or recognized the extent of his true power on the island. In fact, Katrin Trüstedt adds on to the possibility of the tragic political future by raising questions about Antonio’s son. Even if Antonio himself agreed to a long-term future with Prospero in power in Milan, there could be future problems of legitimacy with Antonio’s seldom-mentioned heir, who did not experience the magic of the island (Trüstedt 355). In any case, Prospero’s role as the god of The Tempest has thwarted him from seeing the folly of his own beliefs. The “fate” that seems to come into the play, of Ferdinand and Miranda falling in love and Alonso being separated from his son only to reunite, appear as dystopian tools of censorship and manipulation because Prospero is guided by his own political desires, not a divine moral compass. Perhaps the only thing he has not anticipated is his transformation into a tragic king in the theoretical sequel of this play, awaiting his own fall and punishment.