MIRANDA                                          I do not know

One of my sex, no woman’s face remember—

Save, from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen

More that I may call men than you, good friend,

And my dear father. How features are abroad

I am skilless of, but by my modesty

(The jewel in my dower), I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you,

Nor can imagination form a shape,

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts

I therein do forget. (3.1.48-59)

A lovely mirroring and inversion here, and not least in Miranda’s evocation of her glass, her mirror, but also a reminder of her innocence and utter dependence on her father – and now, on Ferdinand – for any account of how the world of people, the world beyond their island isolation, might actually work. I do not know one of my sex: I don’t know how to be a woman. (Says the boy actor.) More poignantly: I do not remember another woman’s face; I do not remember my mother, and my memories of the women who cared for me when I was little are hazy, and indistinct. But – and perhaps a realization – I have seen my own face, in my mirror. I am a woman, like those ones you have just catalogued and rejected as inadequate. I haven’t seen any men, either – or rather, more that I may call men than you, good friend, and my dear father – Caliban doesn’t count. And her addressing him as friend is intimate, and quite emotionally fraught – as is her close juxtaposition of her newfound good friend with her dear father, as if Ferdinand is already the other pole of her existence, of equal status. I have no idea what people look like, how features are abroad – I am skilless, ignorant, clueless. But, by my modesty, my chastity, my virginity (the jewel in my dower, which I will bring my husband: Prospero has taught her well indeed, and, listening, could nod approvingly) I couldn’t wish any companion in the world but you. I can’t imagine a man more attractive than you, not in my wildest dreams. And I can’t imagine loving anyone but you. But I prattle, talk too much – and also, I’m forgetting, still, what my father’s told me. Don’t talk to Ferdinand. And, perhaps, don’t talk too much in general.