PROSPERO [to Ferdinand] Come on, obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again
And have no vigour in them.
FERDINAND So they are!
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats
(To whom I am subdued) are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid. All corners else o’ th’ earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
PROSPERO [aside] It works. (1.2.484-494)
Ferdinand is weak as well as frozen to the spot; Prospero has either disarmed him already, or his weapon has now clattered to the ground, his arm too limp to hold it (Prospero could be describing, or he could be instructing). To say that his nerves are in their infancy describes that weakness but it also, of course, infantilises Ferdinand, emphasising that he is completely in Prospero’s power. If Ferdinand is like an infant, then Prospero’s power is at least partly paternal; he will (perhaps) become a father-figure for Ferdinand too. But that’s in the future: for the moment, he’s the one in charge. Ferdinand doesn’t seem to mind much, though: So they are, he says, wonderingly, of his lack of strength, perhaps limply waving a hand, failing to flex a muscle. And his spirits, his energy, his rational capacity, his thoughts and feelings, are also all bound up, confined, as in a dream. As if he’s in slow motion. Underwater? (Traumatised as well as enchanted, by Prospero and by Miranda.) Everything is too much: his father’s death, his mysterious loss of strength, the wreck, the loss of all his friends (the remembered trauma of the wreck itself; the experience of watching his friends, courtiers, servants apparently drown) – and this bullying, powerful, angry man, who is entirely in control. A reminder, for Ferdinand – and Prospero, and Miranda – and the audience – of everything that he’s going through. But then the switch: none of this matters, all these losses, these terrible things are but light to me; if you’re going to imprison me, enslave me – you threatening, bullying man – it’ll be alright if only I’m able to see this maid, just once a day. (He imagines a cell, a barred window, from which he will be able to glimpse Miranda. Just like in the Two Noble Kinsmen where, spoiler alert! it does not end well…) That’s all I need, just that daily glimpse: everyone else, everyone else who’s free, who has liberty, can do what they like with all corners else o’ th’ earth, the rest of the world. So long as I can see Miranda, then I have space enough, in such a prison. (A commonplace of romantic poetry.) It works, says Prospero, smugly – not just in the sense of, this is going well, this is succeeding, but my plan, even my enchantment, is acting upon him, like a spell. Yes, alright Prospero, it’s all down to you… Nearly at the end of 1.2! Ooof.
