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"Where the Split Began" (Prometheus Unbound, Act III)

"Where the Split Began" (Prometheus Unbound, Act III)

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"Where the Split Began"



237



The Rape of Thetis (Scene i)



Shelley devotes only fifty-one lines to conjuring up for his readers some image

of what Jupiter's "Heaven" has been like through the millennia. The first,

perhaps most hellish, thing about it is that its ruler is a monologist. A large

cast, made up of "Thetis and other Deities," is assembled, but they are props,

extras; not one has a line of dialogue. Addressed as "Powers," they function

only as vehicles for Jupiter's own power, a process he calls "sharing" (III.i.1).

In contrast "the soul of man," described in a Promethean simile as "like

unextinguished fire" (III.i.5), resists such total assimilation, though in a confused and still ineffectual way. With an interestingly Blakean turn, Jupiter

describes the source of his ages-long strength as "eldest faith, and Hell's coeval,

fear" (III.i. 10)—that is, as the process, described by Hogle (89ff.), by which

humans alienate their own powers through the concept of an all-powerful

Other, empty themselves as the "Powers" of heaven have been emptied, and

then live in subservient fear of their own false creation. So the "Father in

Heaven" conceived through this "eldest faith" is actually Lord of Hell. As with

Dante's Satan and Blake's Urizen, his malevolence expresses itself in images

not of fire but of cold: "And though my curses through the pendulous air / Like

snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by flake/And cling to it [the soul of man] . . .

/ It yet remains supreme o'er misery" (III.i.11-13, 16).

As Reiman and Powers point out (SPP 180), Jupiter's image of snow piling

up "flake by flake" on mountain peaks to describe his gathering power ironically echoes Asia's words on the process by which just perception builds

"flake after flake, in Heaven-defying minds / As thought by thought is piled"

(II.iii.39-40) and so looks forward to the avalanche of changed perception

about to sweep Jupiter down into the abyss. But on its own terms the image

also shows the action whereby Jupiterean discourse blanks out all signification

except its own. Functioning as the discourse of all those political, religious,

legal, and social agencies that serve as conduits of Jupiterean power, its purpose is to make that power seem an inescapable given, certainly, but also,

ideally, to make it an acceptable good. Jupiter's snow, in brief, is the blanketing ideology that Shelley describes in "A Philosophical View of Reform": "It

is in vain to exhort us to wait until all men shall desire Freedom whose real

interest will consist in its establishment. It is in vain to hope to enlighten them

whilst their tyrants employ the utmost artifices of all their complicated engine

to perpetuate the infection of every species of fanaticism & error from generation to generation." Its soft and constant fall obliterates all the boundaries

between separate subjectivities: "Unless the cause which renders them passive

subjects instead of active citizens be removed, they will sink with accelerated

gradations into that barbaric & unnatural civilization which destroys all differences among men" (SHC VI, 1056).

From Jupiter's own admission, an "unextinguish'd fire" in the "soul of

man" (III.i.5) has so far prevented that merging of subjectivity into an undifferentiated mass. That fire is Promethean, of course, but also—in the moun-



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Re-Membering the Mother



tain landscape described by Jupiter's extended simile—the allusion conjures

up the figure of Demogorgon. Given my adaptation and extension of Matthews's argument so as to link Demogorgon with both repressed sexuality and

the spirit of revolution, the "unextinguish'd fire" therefore has sexuality as

part of its fuel. Indeed, there is evidence to suggest that Shelley, making an

identification that Foucault has shown to be axiomatic by the early nineteenth

century (History of Sexuality I, 155-56), takes sexuality to be definitive in the

structuring of a sense of individual identity.

A marshaling of this evidence must begin with Jupiter's gloating over a

"fatal Child," product of his union with Thetis, who will finally smother the

unextinguished fire burning on despite the Jupiterean reign of ice and snow:

Even now have I begotten a strange wonder,

That fatal Child, the terror of the Earth,

Who waits but till the destined Hour arrive,

Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne

The dreadful might of ever living limbs

Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld—

To redescend and trample out the spark . . .

(III.i.18-24)



Again, as in the echo of Asia's words "flake on flake," the passage is heavily

ironic in that the forthcoming event in no way resembles Jupiter's anticipation

of it. Jupiter's own, unironic message also deserves—and has received—

scholarly attention, notably from Pulos, who suggests that the "Child" on

whom Jupiter rests his hope for total possession of the human spirit "may

quite possibly be a symbol for Malthusianism" ("Shelley and Malthus" 120).

With clarity and sweet reason Malthus sets forth his foundational principle: "Population, when unchecked, increases in a geometrical ratio. Subsistence increases only in an arithmetical ratio" (9). The "checks" to population

explosion are moral restraint, vice, and misery. Of these the negative ones,

vice and misery, take their greatest toll among the poor, whose marginal

resources make them most vulnerable when the population level becomes

disproportionate to the food supply. It is therefore particularly incumbent on

the poor—a matter for them of special "Necessity" within this mathematical

schema—to use the "positive" check of moral restraint and/or sexual abstinence: to practice continence before marriage, to marry late, and to observe

prolonged periods of abstinence in marriage.

Shelley's diatribe against Malthus in "A Philosophical View of Reform"

(where, unnamed, he is characterized as "a priest of course—for his doctrines

are those of a eunuch & of a tyrant" [SHC VI, 1023]) focuses on these

Malthusian dicta against sexual expression among the poor. In its inclusion of

all domestic bonds within the sexual, Shelley's description of sexuality as "the

single alleviation of their sufferings & their scorns, the one thing which made

it impossible to degrade them below the beasts" actually resembles Eagleton's

"aesthetic." Shelley makes sexuality the very core of identity, "the last tie by

which Nature holds them [the poor] to the benignant earth" and connects it



"Where the Split Began"



239



also with those qualities the maternal ideology placed within the purview of

the feminine: "all the soothing elevating & harmonious gentlenesses of the

sexual intercourse, & the humanizing charities of domestic life which are its

appendandages" [sic] (SHC VI, 1024). The vehemence of his indignation

stems from a proto-Foucauldian insight that the whole area with which the

uniqueness of each individual seems most identified can actually be the site of

its deepest inscription. The volatility of Demogorgon, however, serves as

dramatic parallel to Eagleton's assertion that "the aesthetic as custom, sentiment, spontaneous impulse may consort well enough with political domination; but these phenomena border embarrassingly on passion, imagination,

sensuality, which are not always so easily incorporable" (28).

In annotating the text of "A Philosophical View," Reiman feels bound in

fairness to point out that Malthus "though a priest was hardly a eunuch (he

sired a son and two daughters) or a tyrant" (SHC VI, 1023). But read again in

the context of act three, scene one of Prometheus Unbound, the epithets take

on particular doubled significance. As an instrument of Jupiter (i.e., of the

hegemonic power structure) Malthus, emptied of sexual desire himself and

thereby a "passive subject" rather than an "active citizen," advises that others

be likewise emptied; he is in that capacity a eunuch and a propagandist or

sycophant. As the image or microcosm of Jupiter, he is, for reasons to be

discussed next, a rapist and a tyrant.

Rape functions in this scene as both metaphor and metonym for Jupiter's

tyrannical inscription of vulnerable mirroring subjectivity. The narrated rape

of Thetis constitutes the only action in the scene besides that of Jupiter's fall

and serves to characterize his whole reign. In a use of ventriloquism as

charged with meaning as that in act one when the shade of Jupiter repeats

Prometheus' curse, but with a very different dramatic purpose, Shelley has

Jupiter so totally appropriate Thetis' speech that the account of the rape is his

alone, and her very cry of protest becomes a vehicle for his expression of

sadistic pleasure. Through the passage reverberate other versions of a similar

event; Jupiter's words comment ironically on Hesiod's admiration for Zeus'

cunning in swallowing Metis (Hesiod 143) and on Zeus' infiltration of lo's

dreaming mind in Prometheus Bound (11. 949-68):

And thou

Ascend beside me, veiled in the light

Of the desire which makes thee one with me,

Thetis, bright Image of Eternity!—

When thou didst cry, "Insufferable might!

God! spare me! I sustain not the quick flames,

The penetrating presence; all my being,

Like him whom the Numidian seps did thaw

Into a dew with poison, is dissolved,

Sinking through its foundations"—

(III.i.33-42)



The intertexuality of these lines involves not only classical allusions but

thematic connections with two works that Shelley was soon to write, The



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Cenci and "On Life." The relevant passage from "On Life" is the meditation

on the nature of pronouns that have been considered before in other contexts: "The existence of distinct individual minds . . . is likewise found to be

a delusion. The words, /, you, they, are not signs of any actual difference

subsisting between the assemblage of thoughts thus indicated, but are merely

marks employed to denote the different modifications of the one mind"

(SPP 477-78). The perceiving mind is not a Lockean, separate, bourgeois

entity cheerfully gathering, filing, and storing impressions. Perceptions invade mind so that one becomes what one experiences. We have acquired

signifiers for the process—"introjection," "colonization"—unavailable to

Shelley, but his "thread of reasoning" has brought him to the concept.

Now, as Shelley's use of the word "eunuch" to characterize Malthus and as

the ravaged body of Prometheus both show, a male subject's castration could

represent human vulnerability to impression at least as well as a female subject's rape. Both in this scene of Prometheus Unbound and in The Cenci,

however, Shelley veils and displaces the horror of castration, substituting for

it the rape of a powerless and virtuous woman by a syphilitic patriarch whose

purpose is to permeate and disease her body while making her mind a mirror

and receptacle of his own. That is, like most men of his time and on up to our

time, Shelley drew back from imagining psychic vulnerability as universal,

preferring to accept guilt for a male sexuality constructed as violent and

intrusive if it were also both signifier for and guarantor of impermeable autonomy. The split in the Eagleton passage quoted at the beginning of this chapter

between the "lonely autonomy" of "individuals" on the one hand and "exchange or appropriation" among subjectivities on the other is elided by the

gendering of one as male, the other as female.

The lines with which Jupiter first addresses Thetis mildly foreshadow the

more violent mirroring to come. He moves quickly from satisfaction with

Thetis as his mirror to exhibitionist pleasure in using her words of protest to

reveal his potency. Central to Thetis' quoted speech, and proof that hers is not

an orgasmic cry in any positive sense, is the allusion to a grotesquely horrible

incident in Lucan's Pharsalia (IX.762-88) in which Sabellus is bitten by a

seps. The poison of this serpent dissolves bone itself, reducing his body to a

revolting jelly. The image thus carries the thought that syphilitic Jupiter

(Crook and Guiton 188) is a universal source of contagion; his mirror in world

history is the diseased Count Cenci, who says of his incestuous rape of his

daughter, Beatrice, "I will make / Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin"

([SPP] Cenci IV.i.94-95).

A similar echo of Thetis' cry appears in Beatrice's maddened screams after

her rape. She comes on stage suffering the delusion that blood is pouring into

her eyes. The next sensations she describes are schizophrenic: one "self"

stands watching, while another experiences a sickening, giddy dissolution.

Further images of blood follow, and then (the two selves collapsing into one)

evocations of loathsome smells. The most intimate of the senses, smell invades the body even more than hearing does. As image of that penetration



"Where the Split Began"



241



Shelley has these smells assume a visible form in a "clinging, black, contaminating mist" that "glues / My fingers and my limbs to one another, / And eats

into my sinews, and dissolves / My flesh to a pollution" (III.i.17-22).

For both Thetis and Beatrice this sense of physical dissolution serves

merely as trope for a more appalling fear that subjectivity itself now permanently includes the "penetrating presence" of the rapist Other. This, a horrible but parallel version of Jupiter's plan to make Thetis "one" with himself, is

the ultimate suffering that Cenci intends to inflict on his daughter: "She shall

become (for what she most abhors / Shall have a fascination to entrap / Her

loathing will), to her own conscious self/ All she appears to others" (IV.i.8588). And Cenci almost succeeds. Condemned to die for having murdered him,

Beatrice quails before the possibility that after death there will be no God and

no Heaven but no oblivion either:

If all things then should be ... my father's spirit

His eyes, his voice, his touch surrounding me;

The atmosphere and breath of my dead life!

If sometimes, as a shape more like himself,

Even the form which tortured me on earth,

Masked in grey hairs and wrinkles, he should come

And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix

His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down!

For was he not alone omnipotent

On Earth, and ever present?

(V. iv.60-69)



The fantasy is by no means irrational but, as I have noted, shows a psychologically astute understanding of the fluid nature of subjectivity. Beatrice's

stepmother, the loving but ineffectual Lucretia, offers an escape from it

through trust in "the tender promises of Christ" and the hope of attaining

Paradise. But Shelley's Beatrice can take no comfort from Lucretia's words:

"You do well telling me to trust in God, / 1 hope I do trust in him, In whom

else / Can any trust?" (V.iv.87-89). All the action of the play suggests that the

answer to her rhetorical question is "in no one—including God." One might

even say "especially not in God," since, as Curran points out, "the paternal

power in this play is almost mystical, a direct reflection of God's authority and

the Pope's" (Shelley's "Cenci" 67), and all three are manifestations of the

paternal power called Jupiter in Prometheus Unbound.

The "sad reality" (SPP 237) of the historically based Cenci contrasts

sharply with the mythic and Utopian Prometheus Unbound. In the one, having

characterized "revenge, retaliation, atonement" as "pernicious mistakes"

(SPP 240), Shelley dramatizes a situation in which Beatrice's only recourse in

the face of subjective dissolution is murder. No Demogorgon rises to her

rescue. Indeed, the murder of Cenci itself does not offer a resolution, since it

leaves her still in danger of possession by her father's spirit. Only acceptance

of death as reunion with the mother exorcises that paternal spirit and makes it

possible for Beatrice to die bravely (V.iv. 115-18). As I shall shortly discuss,



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relationship with the mother is of similarly crucial significance in Prometheus

Unbound.

Also, if one puts aside the kind of response to patriarchal appropriation of

subjectivity available to the protagonists in the two plays and focuses rather

on that appropriation itself, one can see a parallel between the myth and its

reflection in history. Both Prometheus Unbound and The Cenci suggest that

the patriarchal assault on subjectivity that seeks finally to appropriate sexuality itself acts as "the last straw" in the cliche, the last snowflake in Shelley's

metaphor, which overwhelms Cenci in death, Jupiter in the downfall created

by the appearance of Demogorgon.

Crook and Guiton, building on Matthews's association of Demogorgon

with the many-headed rebel giant Typhon and on Pulos's theory that the

Malthusian fatal Child envisioned by Jupiter turns out to be his doom, offer an

interpretation of the conclusion of act three, scene one of Prometheus Unbound that I find convincing though incomplete: "Demogorgon can therefore

be identified with the force of the proletariat, irresistible because of its

'unvanquishable number' once roused from sleep. The increase in population,

held by Malthus to be the reason for keeping the masses in perpetual subservience, is the very means of their self-deliverance" (196).

While true to the political aspect of Shelley's thought, signaled through its

applicability to The Mask of Anarchy, this reading does not address the

closely related problems centered on subjectivity and language. Nor do gender politics enter into it. As prelude to a later consideration of all these, we

need to hear one further echo in Thetis' reported speech: the fate of Semele.

Like lo, Semele had the misfortune to arouse the ardor of Zeus and the

consequent jealousy of Hera. Taking the form of Semele's nurse, Hera persuaded the young woman to ask Zeus, as the favor he had promised, that he

come to her in the full panoply of his godhead; doing so, he consumed her by

fire. Dionysus, the infant she had conceived, was saved from the fire and

carried in Zeus' thigh until he was mature enough to be born.

The evocation of Semele in the line "God! spare me! I sustain not the

quick flames" (III.i.39), coupled with Demogorgon's statement to Jupiter "I

am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's child" (III.i.54), elides Demogorgon with

Dionysus. Abstractly or allegorically described, the process by which Jupiter

produces Demogorgon involves a Jupiterean overreaching that attempts the

final takeover of the unity in which "each is at once the centre and the

circumference" ("On Life," SPP 476). The attempt to infiltrate that unity to

its depths finds in those depths its nemesis. For the "unity" is in fact a mysteriously shared life—Dionysian, not Jupiterean. Again, a statement of Eagleton's offers a useful gloss: " 'Deep' subjectivity is just what the ruling social

order desires, and exactly what it has most cause to fear. If the aesthetic is a

dangerous, ambiguous affair, it is because . . . there is something in the body

which can revolt against the power which inscribes it; and that impulse could

only be eradicated by extirpating along with it the capacity to authenticate

power itself" (28).



"Where the Split Began"



243



Utopian Paradigms (Scene n)



Scenes three and four of act three further explore the nature of this unity, and

I shall discuss the topic at length, pausing only to consider before that what

purpose scene two serves in the drama. In brief I would say that its principal

function is its pastoral form. Structurally, this scene balances act two, scene

two, thereby picking up a pastoral motif expressive of the determination to

achieve an art that "leads man who cannot now go back to Arcady forward to

Elysium" (Schiller, Naive and Sentimental Poetry 153), a purpose that will

dominate the drama from this point on. At least complicating, if not hampering, this linear trajectory, however, is the pastoral's tendency toward a regressive or a cyclic vision. Both these complicating tendencies are given particular

opportunity to flourish by the scene's setting: "The Mouth of a great River in

the Island Atlantis."

As was true in the "forest" scene of act two, scene two, a book-lined

study is more truly the locus of the action than the river mouth, and our eyes

lift to scan texts by Plato and Bacon on the surrounding shelves. The story of

an ancient and powerful civilization centered on the island of Atlantis somewhere west of the Pillars of Hercules appears first in the Platonic dialogues

Timaeus and Critias. The Timaeus contrasts luxurious, commercial, slaveholding Atlantis (much resembling Plato's contemporary Athens) with an

equitable and moderate Athens of an earlier period. But in Critias we learn

that at one time the power-mad Atlantans also "bore the burden of their

wealth and possessions lightly, and did not let their high standard of living . . . make them lose their self-control" (145). Similarly, in Bacon's New

Atlantis the admirable people of the island of Bensalem, while expert mariners, "maintain a trade, not for gold, silver, or jewels; nor for silks; nor for

spices; nor for any other commodity of matter; but only for God's first

creature, which was Light: to have light... of the growth of all parts of the

world" (58).

Critias takes up the subject of Athens and Atlantis once again, beginning

with a description of Athens in prehistoric times:

Once upon a time the gods divided up the Earth between them—not in the

course of a quarrel. . . . Each gladly received his just allocation, and settled

his territories; and having done so they proceeded to look after us, their

creatures and children, as shepherds look after their flocks. They did not use

physical means of control, like shepherds who direct their flock with blows,

but brought their influence to bear on the creature's most sensitive part,

using persuasion as a steersman uses the helm to direct the mind as they saw

fit and so guide the whole mortal creature. (131-32)



With elegant allusion to his precedent masters in the Utopian, Shelley

takes up these ideas and images while adding touches of his own. as he has

Ocean say:



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and from their glassy thrones

Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall mark

The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see

The floating bark of the light-laden moon

With that white star, its sightless pilot's crest,

Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea;

Tracking their path no more by blood and groans;

And desolation and the mingled voice

Of slavery and command—but by the light

Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating odours.

And music soft, and mild, free, gentle voices,

That sweetest music, such as spirits love.

(III. ii. 23-34)



An extended simile structures the passage: Proteus and his nymphs "marking" the humans' ships that sail above them are compared to human beings

noting the "light-laden" moon ship—the crescent moon of the cow-goddess

Hathor/Isis bearing the outlined full moon—piloted by the planet Venus. In

addition to setting up this parallel, however, the phrase "as mortals see,"

through the breadth of the term "mortals," shifts the image so that the particular ship noted by Proteus changes into Earth as a spaceship mirroring the

moon ship, both piloted by a Venus that as light source needs no sight, being

the transcendent focus for all other sight.

The synonym "note" that I have used for "mark" seems adequate until one

comes to Shelley's own synonym "tracking," which carries the suggestion that

Proteus and his nymphs also have the function of pilots, though unheeded

ones in the times just past. The passage thus places the world within a circle of

care that extends from the sea's depths up through the heavens. In that circle

the former language in which "mirroring" inscribes the slave disappears. In its

place is a synesthetic language of difference mingling into harmony, "flowers," "odours," "music," and "voices" all blending in a "light" that mirrors the

light of the "white star," Venus.

Another Platonic text in which the gods of a former age are compared to

shepherds calls for attention because it bears on the significance not only of

this scene but also of the one to follow. The description of life in the age of

Kronos as it appears in Plato's Statesman is one that Jane Harrison describes

as "haunted by reminiscences . . . of matrilinear social structure" (Themis

496). Its appeal to someone as imbued as Shelley was with the Godwinian

form of "anarchy" is also obvious:

When God was Shepherd there were no political constitutions and no taking

of wives and begetting of children. For all men rose up anew into life out of

earth, having no memory of former things. Instead they had fruits without

stint from trees and bushes; these needed no cultivation but sprang up of

themselves out of the ground without man's toil. For the most part they

disported themselves in the open needing neither clothing nor couch, for the

seasons were blended evenly so as to work them no hurt, and the grass which

sprang up out of the earth in abundance made a soft bed for them. (150)



"Where the Split Began"



245



The "Stranger" who gives Socrates and his followers this account concludes it

by asking, with heavy irony, "Our present life—said to be under the government of Zeus—you are alive to experience for yourself," and adds: "But

which of these makes for greater happiness do you think? Can you give a

verdict?" (150). Shelley's challenge as he begins writing scene three is to

answer the same questions. He has to make an imagined return to innocence

something other than a regression. He also has a problem inherited from his

Platonic cyclical model: Is the renewal of human life the start of what eventually will be a repetition?



Mother and Son (Scene iii)

The climactic scene in Prometheus Unbound, in that it depicts the very moment of "unbinding," gets off to an awkwardly anticlimactic start. Aeschylus

gives eighty-five emotion-packed lines as accompaniment to the "stage business" during which Hephaestus, along with Power and Force, labors over the

binding of Prometheus. But the unbinding by Hercules in Shelley's play is

performed without a word, and Hercules' opening comment on the feat he has

performed seems formulaic: "Thus doth strength / To wisdom, courage, and

long suffering love, / And thee, who art the form they animate, / Minister, like

a slave" (III.iii.1-4). Still, the contrast between Hercules' attitude here as

personified Strength and that of Power and Force in Prometheus Bound does

help recall the Aeschylean trilogy, as do the stage presences of Hercules and

Earth. Appropriately so, for the drama of the scene inheres not in the actions

performed on stage so much as in Shelley's situation as a dramatist. The

moment has come to transform the Aeschylean "catastrophe" into the vision

of a new world order. What will it be?

"It" is essentially two long speeches, one by Prometheus describing a

"Cave" (III.iii. 10) where he with Asia, Panthea, and lone will live without

parting; the other by Earth describing a "Cavern" (III.iii. 124), which she

also calls a "Cave," beside a "Temple" (III.iii. 175). These allusions create an

interpretive crux: Are these two different caves or descriptions of the same

one? And whichever way that question is answered—whether this odd quartet, Prometheus and the three Oceanides, is imagined as stay-at-homes in a

single cave or as leisured gentry with the diversion of travel between two—

there arises the more serious difficulty that the Promethean agon seems to

be resolving itself into an eternity of boredom. Dramatically that judgment

has to be correct. The excitement charging this crucial scene is not dramatic

but altogether lyric: it turns upon the significance to be read into descriptions of the cave(s), and the mixture there of aesthetic and erotic pleasure

that was the consolation offered Prometheus in the fourth Spirit's song of act

one: feeding "on the aerial kisses / Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses" (I.i.741-42).

Prometheus' opening address to Asia after their millennia-long separation

scarcely bears out my contention that an erotic dynamism crackles through



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the language of this scene. True, the two epithets he uses for Asia—"Thou

light of life, / Shadow of beauty unbeheld" (III.iii.6-7)—recall with exquisite

succinctness the epiphanic moment in which her unveiled presence becomes

the veil or atmosphere for the sunlike fire of love "filling the living world"

(II.v.26-27) and its return as herald of Prometheus' release. Nonetheless,

Prometheus does not address as much as a full sentence to Asia but links her

instantly to the "fair sister nymphs" whose love and care were so long his only

comfort. The form of his address makes it clear that the promise "Henceforth

we will not part" firmly includes Panthea and lone as part of the household

(III.iii.8-10). Drama's generically necessary reifications create some of this

awkwardness. As triune aspects of the introjected feminine—specifically, relation through the maternal to body, to language, and to feeling—all three

Oceanides belong with a Prometheus healed of inner divisions. Also, Asia's

task as reverie, as the memory trace of relationship with the mother, is completed once the memory itself is activated, once Prometheus gets "back of the

Muses" to Mnemosyne herself (Duncan 27). This culminating event is about

to occur through Prometheus' reunion with Earth.1

Rationally, if not romantically, Prometheus' first concern is a dwelling for

his menage, and his opening words on the subject—"There is a Cave"—

should be "heard" on the mind-stage of this closet drama as somewhat tentative and reminiscent in tone, but growing more assured as the recollection of

physical details recreates a past experience of happiness:

There is a Cave

All overgrown with trailing odorous plants

Which curtain out the day with leaves and flowers

And paved with veined emerald, and a fountain

Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound;

From its curved roof the mountain's frozen tears

Like snow or silver or long diamond spires

Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light;

And there is heard the ever-moving air

Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds

And bees; and all around are mossy seats

And the rough walls are clothed with long soft grass;

A simple dwelling, which shall be our own.

(III.iii. 10-22)



Synesthesia plays some part in the effect of this passage—as in the phrase

"raining forth a doubtful light"—but the emphasis on sensual fulfillment

comes also through the doubling or tripling of pleasure in the description of

each detail. Thus "trailing odorous plants" refresh sight, smell, and feeling;

the floor of veined emerald appeals simultaneously to sight and touch, and so

on. Only taste seems neglected, though the dramatic placing of "And bees"

metonymically calls up honey. Though complex in this fashion, the pleasures

described are also simple. The dazzle of "emerald," "silver," and "diamond"

enriching the dwelling shines out of the natural surroundings. The setting,

including the abundant grass, thus recalls Plato's fantasy of the age of Kronos.



"Where the Split Began"



247



Shelley must now address the question posed in Politicus: how are those

favored with a life passed in beautiful natural surroundings with all their

physical needs met to use their time? A certain insecurity about the answer

may lie behind Shelley's overdependence on a passage from King Lear as he

starts out:

Where we will sit and talk of time and change

As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves unchanged—

What can hide man from Mutability?—

And if ye sigh, then I will smile, and thou

lone, shall chant fragments of sea-music,

Until I weep, when ye shall smile away

The tears she brought, which yet were sweet to shed.

(III.iii.23-29)



For convenience let me set down the haunting lines from King Lear to which

this passage obviously and repeatedly alludes:

No. no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison.

We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.

When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down

And ask of thce forgiveness. So we'll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too—

Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out—

And take upon's the mystery of things,

As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out.

In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,

That ebb and flow by th' moon.

(V.iii.8-19)



Return to infant joys is a theme that links both passages. The difficulty is

that the context of Lear's speech sweeps in with his echoed words to trouble

the vision of Prometheus' unchanging happiness at its very inception. Prometheus' plan to "sit and talk of time and change / . . . ourselves unchanged"

echoes Lear's "and we'll wear out, / In a wall'd prison packs and sets of great

ones / That ebb and flow by th' moon," but with heart-aching difference. Lear

and Cordelia are about to experience the final mutability of death. Prometheus' exemption from such change gives an unpleasantly fatuous ring to

"What can hide man from Mutability?" And while the Promethean group's

pleasure in both sighing and smiling over human life's transience has the

doctrines of "sensibility" as its rationale, their exquisitely complex enjoyments seem contemptibly trifling when made so closely parallel to Lear's

desire to reenact the pain of repentance in order to reexperience the joy of

reconciliation. A further difference lies in the dynamics of the infant play

itself. The "we" of Lear's speech—himself and Cordelia—share a condition

of wise childhood, while the "I" and "ye" of Prometheus' fantasy take on

some of the character of an infant with adoring baby-sitters.



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"Where the Split Began" (Prometheus Unbound, Act III)

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