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England had been rendered a painful
out, as he would search the external universe for some valued thing which was hidden from him upon its surface."
In reading Shelley's poetry, we often find similar verses, resembling, but not imitating the Greek in this species of imagery; for, though he adopted the style, he gifted it with that originality of form and colouring which sprung from his own genius.
In the Prometheus Unbound, Shelley fulfils the promise quoted from a letter in the Note on the Revolt of Islam. The tone of the composition is calmer and more majestic; the poetry, more perfect as a whole; and the imagination displayed, at once more pleasingly beautiful and The description more varied and daring. of the Hours, as they are seen in the cave of Demogorgon, is an instance of thisit fills the mind as the most charming picture-we long to see an artist at work to bring to our view the
been used, the line might have been explained in a metaphorical instead of an absolute sense, as we say means,' and 'wanderings' for error and confusion. But they meant literally paths or roads, such as we tread with our feet; and wanderings, such as a man makes when he loses himself in a desert, or roams from city to city-as Edipus, the speaker of this verse, was destined to wander, blind and asking charity. What a picture does this line suggest of the mind as a wilderness of intricate paths, wide as the universe, which is here made its symbol; a world within a world which he who seeks some knowledge with respect to what he ought to do searches through-residence to Shelley, as much by the sort of persecution with which in those days all men of liberal opinions were visited, and by the injustice he had lately endured in the Court of Chancery, as by the symptoms of disease which made him regard a visit to Italy as necessary to prolong his life. An exile, and strongly impressed with the feeling that the majority of his countrymen regarded him with sentiments of aversion such as his own heart could experience towards none, he sheltered himself from such disgusting and painful thoughts in the calm retreats of poetry, and built up a world of his own-with the more pleasure, since he hoped to induce some one or two to believe that the earth might become such, did mankind themselves consent. The charm of the Roman climate helped And, as to clothe his thoughts in greater beauty than they had ever worn before. he wandered among the ruins made one with Nature in their decay, or gazed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol, and the palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of loveliness which became a portion of itself. There are many passages in the Prometheus which show the intense delight he received from such studies, and give back the imHe felt this, as pression with a beauty of poetical description peculiarly his own. a poet must feel when he satisfies himself by the result of his labours; and he wrote from Rome, "My Prometheus Unbound shall send it. It is a drama, with charis just finished, and in a month or two I
A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight.
Through the whole poem there reigns a sort of calm and holy spirit of love; it soothes the tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till the prophecy is fulfilled, and Love, untainted by any evil, becomes the law of the world.
cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds Which trample the dim winds; in each there stands 1 While correcting the proof-sheets of that poem, it struck me that the poet had indulged in an exaggerated view of the evils of restored despotism; which, however injurious and degrading, were less openly sanguinary than the triumph of anarchy, such as it appeared in France at the close of the last century. But at this time a book, Scenes of Spanish Life, translated by Lieutenant Crawford from the German of Dr. The Huber, of Rostock, fell into my hands. account of the triumph of the priests and the serviles, after the French invasion of Spain in 1823, bears a strong and frightful resemblance to some of the descriptions of the massacre of the patriots in the Revolt of Islam.
acters and mechanism of a kind yet with domestic and political tyranny and unattempted; and I think the execution is better than any of my former attempts." I may mention, for the information of the more critical reader, that the verbal alterations in this edition of Prometheus are made from a list of errata written by Shelley himself.
imposture which the tenor of your life has illustrated, and which, had I health and talents, should illustrate mine, let us, comforting each other in our task, live and die.
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
LEIGH HUNT, Esq.
MY DEAR FRIEND-I inscribe with your name, from a distant country, and after an absence whose months have seemed years, this the latest of my literary efforts.
Those writings which I have hitherto published, have been little else than visions which impersonate my own apprehensions of the beautiful and the just. I can also perceive in them the literary defects incidental to youth and impatience; they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be. The drama which I now present to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an instructor, and am content to paint, with such colours as my own heart furnishes, that which has been.
Had I known a person more highly endowed than yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess, I had solicited for this work the ornament of his name. One more gentle, honourable, innocent and brave; one of more exalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet himself more free from evil; one who knows better how to receive, and how to confer a benefit though he must ever confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler, and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and manners I never knew: and I had already been fortunate in friendships when your name was added to the list.
In that patient and irreconcilable enmity
All happiness attend you! Your affectionate friend, PERCY B. SHELLEY.
ROME, May 29, 1819.
A MANUSCRIPT was communicated to me during my travels in Italy, which was copied from the archives of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the noblest and richest families of that city during the Pontificate of Clement VIII, in the year 1599. The story is, that an old man having spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived at length an implacable hatred towards his children; which showed itself towards one daughter under the form of an incestuous passion, aggravated by every circumstance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, after long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination both of body and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and brother to murder their common tyrant. The young maiden, who was urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse which overpowered its horror, was evidently a most gentle and amiable being, a creature formed to adorn and be admired, and thus violently thwarted from her nature by the necessity of circumstance and opinion. The deed was quickly discovered, and, in spite of the most earnest prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The old man had during his life repeatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and unspeakable kind, at the price of a hundred thousand crowns; the death therefore of his victims can scarcely be accounted for by the love of justice. The Pope, among other motives for severity, probably felt
that whoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source of revenue. Such a story, if told so as to present to the reader all the feelings of those who once acted it, their hopes and fears, their confidences and misgivings, their various interests, passions, and opinions, acting upon and with each other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, would be as a light to make apparent some of the most dark and secret caverns of the human heart.
On my arrival at Rome I found that the story of the Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in Italian society without awakening a deep and breathless interest; and that the feelings of the company never failed to incline to a romantic pity for the wrongs, and a passionate exculpation of the horrible deed to which they urged her, who has been mingled two centuries with the common dust. All ranks of people knew the outlines of this history, and participated in the overwhelming interest which it seems to have the magic of exciting in the human heart. I had a copy of Guido's picture of Beatrice which is preserved in the Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly recognised it as the portrait of La Cenci.
This national and universal interest which the story produces and has produced for two centuries and among all ranks of people in a great City, where the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, first suggested to me the conception of its fitness for a dramatic purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which has already received, from its capacity of awakening and sustaining the sympathy of men, approbation and success. Nothing remained as I imagined, but to clothe it to the apprehensions of my countrymen in such language and action as would bring it home to their hearts. The deepest and the sublimest tragic compositions, King Lear and the two plays in which the tale of Edipus is told, were stories which
1 The Papal Government formerly took the most extraordinary precautions against the publicity of facts which offer so tragical a demon. stration of its own wickedness and weakness; so
that the communication of the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of some difficulty.
already existed in tradition, as matters of popular belief and interest, before Shakspeare and Sophocles made them familiar to the sympathy of all succeeding generations of mankind.
This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently fearful and monstrous: any thing like a dry exhibition of it on the stage would be insupportable. The person who would treat such a subject must increase the ideal, and diminish the actual horror of the events, so that the pleasure which arises from the poetry which exists in these tempestuous sufferings and crimes may mitigate the pain of the contemplation of the moral deformity from which they spring. There must also be nothing attempted to make the exhibition subservient to what is vulgarly termed a moral purpose. The highest moral purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to the possession of which knowledge, every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. If dogmas can do more, it is well: but a drama is no fit place for the enforcement of them. Undoubtedly, no person can be truly dishonoured by the act of another; and the fit return to make to the most enormous injuries is kindness and forbearance, and a resolution to convert the injurer from his dark passions by peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought in this manner she would have been wiser and better; but she would never have been a tragic character: the few whom such an exhibition would have interested, could never have been sufficiently interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want of finding sympathy in their interest among the mass who surround them. It is in the restless and anatomising casuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitious horror with which they contemplate alike her wrongs and their revenge, that the dramatic character of what she did and suffered, consists.
before death; this being esteemed by Catholics as essential to salvation; and she only relinquishes her purpose when she perceives that her perseverance would expose Beatrice to new outrages.
I have avoided with great care in writ
In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate one another, the former being reserved simply for the full development and illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the
I have endeavoured as nearly as possible to represent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid the error of making them actuated by my own conceptions of right or wrong, false or true thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the sixteenth centurying this play the introduction of what is into cold impersonations of my own mind. commonly called mere poetry, and I They are represented as Catholics, and as imagine there will scarcely be found a Catholics deeply tinged with religion. detached simile or a single isolated deTo a Protestant apprehension there will scription, unless Beatrice's description of appear something unnatural in the earnest the chasm appointed for her father's and perpetual sentiment of the relations murder should be judged to be of that between God and men which pervade the nature.1 tragedy of the Cenci. It will especially be startled at the combination of an undoubting persuasion of the truth of the popular religion with a cool and determined perseverance in enormous guilt. But religion in Italy is not, as in Protes-immortal God which should assume flesh tant countries, a cloak to be worn on for the redemption of mortal passion. It particular days; or a passport which is thus that the most remote and the most those who do not wish to be railed at familiar imagery may alike be fit for carry with them to exhibit; or a gloomy dramatic purposes when employed in the passion for penetrating the impenetrable illustration of strong feeling, which raises mysteries of our being, which terrifies its what is low, and levels to the apprehenpossessor at the darkness of the abyss to sion that which is lofty, casting over all the brink of which it has conducted him. the shadow of its own greatness. In Religion coexists, as it were, in the mind other respects, I have written more careof an Italian Catholic, with a faith in that lessly; that is, without an over-fastidious of which all men have the most certain and learned choice of words. In this knowledge. It is interwoven with the respect I entirely agree with those modern whole fabric of life. It is adoration, critics who assert that in order to move faith, submission, penitence, blind admira- men to true sympathy we must use the tion; not a rule for moral conduct. It familiar language of men, and that our has no necessary connection with any one great ancestors the ancient English poets virtue. The most atrocious villain may are the writers, a study of whom might be rigidly devout, and without any shock incite us to do that for our own age which to established faith, confess himself to be they have done for theirs. But it must be So. Religion pervades intensely the the real language of men in general and whole frame of society, and is according not that of any particular class to whose to the temper of the mind which it in society the writer happens to belong. habits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, So much for what I have attempted; I a refuge; never a check. Cenci himself need not be assured that success is a very built a chapel in the court of his Palace, different matter; particularly for one and dedicated it to St. Thomas the whose attention has but newly been awakApostle, and established masses for the ened to the study of dramatic literature. peace of his soul. Thus in the first scene of the fourth act Lucretia's design in exposing herself to the consequences of an expostulation with Cenci after having administered the opiate, was to induce him by a feigned tale to confess himself
I endeavoured whilst at Rome to observe
1 An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in "El Purgatorio de San which I have intentionally committed in the of Calderon; the only plagiarism whole piece.
such monuments of this story as might be accessible to a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna Palace is admirable as a work of art: it was taken by Guido during her confinement in prison. But it is most interesting as a just representation of one of the loveliest specimens of the workmanship of Nature. There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features: she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate; the eyebrows are distinct and arched: the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity which united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another: her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation on the scene of the world.
The Cenci Palace is of great extent; and though in part modernised, there yet remains a vast and gloomy pile of feudal architecture in the same state as during the dreadful scenes which are the subject of this tragedy. The Palace is situated in an obscure corner of Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, and from the upper windows you see the immense ruins of Mount Palatine half hidden under their profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court in one part of the Palace (perhaps that in which Cenci built the Chapel to St. Thomas), supported by granite
columns and adorned with antique friezes of fine workmanship, and built up, according to the ancient Italian fashion, with balcony over balcony of open-work. One of the gates of the Palace formed of immense stones and leading through a passage, dark and lofty and opening into gloomy subterranean chambers, struck me particularly.
Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no further information than that which is to be found in the manuscript.
COUNT FRANCESCO Cenci.
SAVELLA, the Pope's Legate.
ANDREA, Servant to Cenci.
LUCRETIA, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children. BEATRICE, his Daughter.
The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
TIME. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
SCENE I.-AN APARTMENT IN THE CENCI PALACE.
Enter COUNT CENCI, and CARDINAL CAMILLO.
THAT matter of the murder is hushed up If you consent to yield his Holiness Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian
It needed all my interest in the conclave To bend him to this point: he said that you Bought perilous impunity with your gold;