The sort of mistake that Shelley made as to the extent of his own
genius and powers, which led him deviously at first, but lastly into
the direct track that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious
instance of his modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human
mind uses at once to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to
make its way out of error into the path which Nature has marked out as
its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy:
he conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always
most earnest and energetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate
any talent I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate
of my powers; and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of
the fact) I was far too young to have any chance of succeeding, even
moderately, in a species of composition that requires a greater scope
of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then
have fallen to my lot,--or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever
possessed, even at the age of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci.
On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to be
destitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisites
was the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He
fancied himself to he defective in this portion of imagination: it was
that which gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though
he laid great store by it as the proper framework to support the
sublimest efforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical
and abstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as
a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion with
himself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any
specimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of a
story, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted
such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to
him as an occupation.
The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I: and he had
written to me: 'Remember, remember Charles I. I have been already
imagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of "St.
Leon" begins with this proud and true sentiment: "There is nothing
which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute."
Shakespeare was only a human being.' These words were written in 1818,
while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of
his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in
Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account
of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces,
where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast
the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley's
imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as
one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I
entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded
swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human
beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and
gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works
that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the
arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake
we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought
to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely
death, worked to its depths)--his richly gifted mind.
We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest
child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly
to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world,
anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his
presence and loss. (Such feelings haunted him when, in "The Cenci", he
makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Camillo of
'that fair blue-eyed child
Who was the lodestar of your life:'--and say--
All see, since his most swift and piteous death,
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,
And all the things hoped for or done therein
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief.')
Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn,
and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the
town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa
was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they
worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and
in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation
went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges:
Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of
a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed.
At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often
such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only
roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a
wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near
sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most
picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark
lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became water-spouts that
churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and
scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and
heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in
both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In
this airy cell he wrote the principal part of "The Cenci". He was
making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies
with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from
Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon,
both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his
judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first
acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept
into the composition of "The Cenci"; and there is no trace of his new
studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as
suggested by one in "El Purgatorio de San Patricio".
Shelley wished "The Cenci" to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being
of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad
filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure
from England, however, he saw Miss O'Neil several times. She was then
in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her
impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the
intense pathos, the sublime vehemence of passion she displayed. She
was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he
became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the
advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the
heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in
London:
'The object of the present letter us to ask a favour of you. I have
written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my
conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my
play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge
favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and
opinions which characterize my other compositions; I have attended
simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is
probable the persons represented really were, together with the
greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a
development. I send you a translation of the Italian manuscript on
which my play is founded; the chief circumstance of which I have
touched very delicately; for my principal doubt as to whether it would
succeed as an acting play hangs entirely on the question as to whether
any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be
admitted on the stage. I think, however, it will form no objection;
considering, first, that the facts are matter of history, and,
secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it. (In
speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelley said that
it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he had never
mentioned expressly Cenci's worst crime. Every one knew what it must
be, but it was never imaged in words--the nearest allusion to it being
that portion of Cenci's curse beginning--
"That, if she have a child," etc.)
'I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt
of mine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative
at present; founding my hopes on this--that, as a composition, it is
certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been
acted, with the exception of "Remorse"; that the interest of the plot
is incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond
what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand,
either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a
complete incognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do,
you will at least favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential,
deeply essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and
successfully (could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I
pleased, and use the celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes.
'What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at Covent
Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for
Miss O'Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God
forbid that I should see her play it--it would tear my nerves to
pieces); and in all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The
chief male character I confess I should be very unwilling that any one
but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with
an inferior actor.'
The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject
to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss
O'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would
write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept.
Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness;
as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text
when distance prevented him from correcting the press.
Universal approbation soon stamped "The Cenci" as the best tragedy of
modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: 'I have been
cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition;
diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness,
generality, and, as Hamlet says, "words, words".' There is nothing
that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice,
proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution,
and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to
passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so
beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of
the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate
girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever
wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary,
but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed
with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice
that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with
the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven
the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through
the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have
shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a
double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write
again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was not less
instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the
other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended
on character and incident, he would start off in another direction,
and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in
so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the
expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human
nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master
passion of his soul.
