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 be 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.