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.
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.
Shelley
Farewell!
Farewell!
BERNARDO:
I cannot say, farewell!
CAMILLO:
Oh, Lady Beatrice!
BEATRICE:
Give yourself no unnecessary pain,
My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie
My girdle for me, and bind up this hair _160
In any simple knot; ay, that does well.
And yours I see is coming down. How often
Have we done this for one another; now
We shall not do it any more. My Lord,
We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. _165
THE END.
NOTE ON THE CENCI, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
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.
BERNARDO:
I cannot say, farewell!
CAMILLO:
Oh, Lady Beatrice!
BEATRICE:
Give yourself no unnecessary pain,
My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie
My girdle for me, and bind up this hair _160
In any simple knot; ay, that does well.
And yours I see is coming down. How often
Have we done this for one another; now
We shall not do it any more. My Lord,
We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. _165
THE END.
NOTE ON THE CENCI, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
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.
