This is a modern-English version of Letters of John Keats to Fanny Brawne: Written in the years MDCCCXIX and MDCCCXX and now given from the original manuscripts, originally written by Keats, John.
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and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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LETTERS
OF JOHN KEATS TO
FANNY BRAWNE
Letters of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
by Joseph Severn 28 Jany 1821, 3 O’Clock morng
by Joseph Severn January 28, 1821, 3:00 AM
London. Reeves & Turner 1878.
London. Reeves & Turner 1878.
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE WRITTEN IN THE YEARS MDCCCXIX AND MDCCCXX AND NOW GIVEN FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY HARRY BUXTON FORMAN
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE WRITTEN IN THE YEARS 1819 AND 1820 AND NOW GIVEN FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY HARRY BUXTON FORMAN
LONDON REEVES & TURNER
196 STRAND MDCCCLXXVIII
LONDON REEVES & TURNER
196 STRAND 1878
[All rights reserved]
All rights reserved
NOTE.
There is good reason to think that the lady to whom the following letters were addressed did not, towards the end of her life, regard their ultimate publication as unlikely; and it is by her family that they have been entrusted to the editor, to be arranged and prepared for the press.
There is good reason to believe that the woman these letters were addressed to did not think their eventual publication was unlikely towards the end of her life; and it is her family that has entrusted them to the editor to be organized and prepared for print.
The owners of these letters reserve to themselves all rights of reproduction and translation.
The owners of these letters retain all rights to reproduction and translation.
TO JOSEPH SEVERN, ROME.
The happy circumstance that the fifty-seventh year since you watched at the death-bed of Keats finds you still among us, makes it impossible to inscribe any other name than yours in front of these letters, intimately connected as they are with the decline of the poet’s life, concerning the latter part of which you alone have full knowledge.
The fortunate fact that it's been fifty-seven years since you kept vigil at Keats’ deathbed and that you are still with us makes it impossible to write any name other than yours at the beginning of these letters, as they are closely tied to the poet's final days, about which only you have complete insight.
It cannot be but that some of the letters will give you pain,—and notably the three written when the poet’s face was already turned towards that land whither you accompanied him, whence he knew there was no return for him, and where you[viii] still live near the hallowed place of his burial. All who love Keats’s memory must share such pain in the contemplation of his agony of soul. But you who love him having known, and we who love him unknown except by faith in what is written, must alike rejoice in the good hap that has preserved, for our better knowledge of his heart, these vivid and varied transcripts of his inner life during his latter years,—must alike be content to take the knowledge with such alloy of pain as the hapless turn of events rendered inevitable.
Some of the letters will definitely cause you pain—especially the three written when the poet was already facing the direction of that place you accompanied him to, from which he knew he would not return, and where you[viii] still live close to the sacred site of his burial. Everyone who cherishes Keats's memory must feel that pain when reflecting on his suffering. But you who love him knowing him, and we who love him without knowing him except through faith in his writings, must also find joy in the fortunate preservation of these vivid and varied accounts of his inner life in his later years for a deeper understanding of his heart—we must also be willing to accept this knowledge along with the inevitable pain caused by the unfortunate twists of fate.
On a memorable occasion it was said of you by a great poet and prophet that, had he known of the circumstances of your unwearied attendance at the death-bed, he should have been tempted to add his “tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds[ix] in the recollection of his own motives;” and he uttered the wish that the “unextinguished Spirit” of Keats might “plead against Oblivion” for your name. Were any such plea needed, the Spirit to prefer it, then unextinguished, is now known for inextinguishable; and whithersoever the name of “our Adonais” travels, there will yours also be found.
On a memorable occasion, a great poet and prophet said about you that if he had known about your tireless presence at the deathbed, he would have been tempted to add his “tribute of applause to the more solid reward that a virtuous person finds[ix] in the memory of their own intentions;” and he expressed the hope that the “unextinguished Spirit” of Keats would “plead against Oblivion” for your name. If any such plea were needed, the Spirit that would make it, now known to be inextinguishable, is recognized; and wherever the name of “our Adonais” goes, yours will also be found.
This opportunity may not unfitly serve to record my gratitude for your ready kindness in affording me information on various points concerning your friend’s life and death, and also for the permission to engrave your solemn portraiture of the beautiful countenance seen, as you only of all men living saw it, in its final agony.
This opportunity might be a good way to express my gratitude for your willingness to provide information about various aspects of your friend’s life and death, as well as for allowing me to engrave your serious depiction of the beautiful face that you alone, of all living people, witnessed in its final moments.
H. B. F.
H. B. F.
CONTENTS.
| PAGE | |
| Publisher's Note | v. |
| To Joseph Severn, Rome | vii. |
| Editor's Introduction | xiii. |
| Letters to Fanny Brawne:— | |
| First Period, I to IX, Shanklin, Winchester, Westminster | 3 |
| Second Period, X to XXXII, Wentworth Place | 43 |
| Third Period, XXXIII to XXXVII, Kentish Town—Preparing for Italy | 91 |
| Appendix: The Area of Wentworth Place | 111 |
| Index | 123 |
Transcriber’s Note: Despite the date on the title page, this is the 1888 edition (see date at end of introduction). The front matter from the prior edition of 1878 seems to have been carried across to this one without being fully checked and updated. This edition doesn’t have an index, and the Appendix about Wentworth Place isn’t on page 111.
Transcriber’s Note: Even though the date on the title page says otherwise, this is the 1888 edition (see the date at the end of the introduction). The introductory material from the previous 1878 edition seems to have been copied over to this one without being completely reviewed and updated. This edition does not include an index, and the Appendix about Wentworth Place is not on page 111.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
| Portrait of Keats, created by Joseph Severn and etched by W. B. Scott. | Frontispiece. |
| Silhouette of Fanny Brawne, created by Edouart and photo-lithographed by G. F. Tupper. | Opposite page 3. |
| Copy of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, created by G. I. F. Tupper | Opposite page 76. |
INTRODUCTION.
The sympathetic and discerning biographer of John Keats says, in the memoir prefixed to Moxon’s edition of the Poems[1], “The publication of three small volumes of verse, some earnest friendships, one profound passion, and a premature death are the main incidents here to be recorded.” These words have long become “household words,” at all events in the household of those who make the lives and works of English poets their special study; and nothing is likely to be discovered which shall alter the fact thus set forth.[xiv] But that documents illustrating the fact should from time to time come to the surface, is to be expected; and the present volume portrays the “one profound passion” as perfectly as it is possible for such a passion to be portrayed without the revelation of things too sacred for even the most reverent and worshipful public gaze, while it gives considerable insight into the refinements of a nature only too keenly sensitive to pain and injury and the inherent hardness of things mundane.
The empathetic and insightful biographer of John Keats states, in the introduction to Moxon’s edition of the Poems[1], “The publication of three small volumes of poetry, some deep friendships, one intense love, and an early death are the main events to be noted here.” These words have become widely recognized, especially among those who specifically study the lives and works of English poets; it is unlikely that anything will change the truth laid out here.[xiv] However, it is expected that documents illustrating this truth will emerge from time to time, and the present volume depicts the “one intense love” as accurately as possible without revealing details too sacred for even the most respectful public eye, while also providing significant insight into the complexities of a nature that is all too acutely sensitive to pain and harm and the inherent harshness of everyday life.
The three final years of Keats’s life are in all respects the fullest of vivid interest for those who, admiring the poet and loving the memory of the man, would fain form some conception of the working of those forces within him which went to the shaping of his greatest works and his greatest woes. In those three years were produced most of the compositions wherein the lover of poetry can discern the supreme hand of a master, the ultimate and[xv] sovereign perfection beyond which, in point of quality, the poet could never have gone had he lived a hundred years, whatever he might have done in magnitude and variety; and in those years sprang up and grew the one passion of his life, sweet to him as honey in the intervals of brightness and unimpeded vigour which he enjoyed, bitter as wormwood in those times of sickness and poverty and the deepening shadow of death which we have learned to associate almost constantly with our thoughts of him.
The last three years of Keats's life are incredibly significant for anyone who admires the poet and cherishes his memory, as they seek to understand the inner workings that shaped both his greatest achievements and his deepest struggles. During these three years, most of the pieces were created in which poetry lovers can recognize the unmistakable touch of a master, the ultimate and[xv] sovereign perfection that, in terms of quality, the poet could never have surpassed had he lived a hundred years, no matter what he might have accomplished in scale and variety. In those years also blossomed the one great passion of his life, sweet to him like honey during moments of clarity and vitality he experienced, yet bitter as wormwood during his times of illness, poverty, and the looming presence of death that we almost constantly associate with our thoughts of him.
Of certain phases of his life during these final years we have long had substantial and most fascinating records in the beautiful collection of documents entrusted to Lord Houghton, and to what admirable purpose used, all who name the name of Keats know too well to need reminding,—documents published, it is true, under certain restrictions, and subject to the depreciatory operation of asterisks and blanks of[xvi] varying significance and magnitude, proper enough, no doubt, thirty years ago, but surely now a needless affliction. But of the all-important phases in the healthy and morbid psychology of the poet connected with the over-mastering passion of his latter days, the record was necessarily scanty,—a few hints scattered through the letters written in moderately good health, and a few agonized and burning utterances wrung from him, in the despair of his soul, in those last three letters addressed to Charles Brown,—one during the sea voyage and two after the arrival of Keats and Severn in Italy.
Of certain parts of his life during these final years, we have long had significant and fascinating records in the beautiful collection of documents given to Lord Houghton. Everyone who appreciates Keats knows too well how admirably these documents have been used. They were published under certain restrictions and are marked with asterisks and blanks of[xvi] different meanings and levels of importance, which was appropriate thirty years ago but now seems unnecessary. However, the crucial aspects of the poet's healthy and troubled psychology, tied to the overwhelming passion of his later days, have been documented very little—a few hints scattered throughout letters written when he was in fairly good health, along with a few heartfelt and desperate expressions drawn from him during the despair of his soul in those last three letters to Charles Brown—one written during the sea voyage and two after Keats and Severn arrived in Italy.
It was with the profoundest feeling of the sacredness as well as the great importance of the record entrusted to me that I approached the letters now at length laid before the public: after reading them through, it seemed to me that I knew Keats to some extent as a different being from the Keats I had known; the features of his mind took[xvii] clearer form; and certain mental and moral characteristics not before evident made their appearance. It remained to consider whether this enhanced knowledge of so noble a soul should be confined to two or three persons, or should not rather be given to the world at large; and the decision arrived at was that the world’s claim to participate in the gift of these letters was good.
It was with a deep sense of the sacredness and significance of the record entrusted to me that I approached the letters now finally presented to the public: after reading through them, it seemed to me that I understood Keats in a new way, different from the Keats I had previously known; the aspects of his mind became clearer, and certain mental and moral traits that hadn’t been obvious before came to light. It was necessary to decide whether this deeper understanding of such a noble soul should be kept to just two or three people, or whether it should be shared with the wider world; and the conclusion reached was that the world’s right to share in the gift of these letters was indeed valid.
The office of editor was not an arduous one so far as the text is concerned, for the letters are wholly free from anything which it seems desirable to omit; they are legibly and, except in some minute and trivial details, correctly written, leaving little to do beyond the correction of a few obvious clerical errors, and such amendment of punctuation as is invariably required by letters not written for the press. The arrangement of the series in proper sequence, however, was not nearly so simple a matter; for, except as regards the first[xviii] nine, the evidence in this behalf is almost wholly inferential and collateral; and I have had to be content with strong probability in many cases in which it is impossible to arrive at any absolute certainty. Of the whole thirty-seven letters, not one bears the date of the year, except as furnished in the postmarks of numbers I to IX; two only go so far as to specify in writing the day of the month, or even the month itself; and one of these two Keats has dated a day later than the date shewn by the postmark. Those which passed through the post, numbers I to IX, are fully addressed to “Miss Brawne, Wentworth Place, Hampstead,” the word “Middx.” being added in the case of the six from the country, but not in that of the three from London. Numbers X to XVII and XIX to XXXII are addressed simply to “Miss Brawne”; while numbers XVIII, XXXIII, XXXIV, and XXXVI are addressed to “Mrs. Brawne,” and numbers XXXV and XXXVII bear no address whatever.
The editor's job wasn't too difficult regarding the text itself, since the letters are completely free from anything that seems necessary to leave out; they are legibly and, aside from a few minor and trivial details, correctly written, leaving little to do other than fix a few obvious typos and make the usual punctuation adjustments required by letters not intended for publication. However, arranging the series in the correct order was much more complicated; because, except for the first[xviii] nine, the evidence for this is mostly inferred and indirect. I've had to settle for a strong likelihood in many instances where it's impossible to achieve absolute certainty. Out of the thirty-seven letters, not one includes the year date, except for the postmarks on letters I to IX; only two specify the day of the month or even the month itself in writing; and one of these two has a date that is one day later than what's shown on the postmark. The letters that went through the mail, numbers I to IX, are fully addressed to “Miss Brawne, Wentworth Place, Hampstead,” with the word “Middx.” added for the six from the countryside but not for the three from London. Numbers X to XVII and XIX to XXXII are simply addressed to “Miss Brawne,” while numbers XVIII, XXXIII, XXXIV, and XXXVI are addressed to “Mrs. Brawne,” and numbers XXXV and XXXVII have no address at all.
These material details are not without a psychological significance: the total absence of interest in the progress of time (the sordid current time) tallies with the profound worship of things so remote as perfect beauty; and the addressing of four of the letters to Mrs. Brawne instead of Miss Brawne indicates, to my mind, not mere accident, but a sensitiveness to observation from any unaccustomed quarter: three of the letters so addressed were certainly written at Kentish Town, and would not be likely to be sent by the same hand usually employed to take those written while the poet was next door to his betrothed; the other one was, I have no doubt, sent only from one house to the other; but perhaps the usual messenger may have chanced to be out of the way.
These material details have a psychological significance: the complete disregard for the passage of time (the unpleasant present) aligns with a deep reverence for things as distant as perfect beauty; and the fact that four of the letters are addressed to Mrs. Brawne instead of Miss Brawne suggests, to me, not just a coincidence, but an awareness of scrutiny from an unexpected source. Three of those letters were definitely written in Kentish Town and probably wouldn’t have been sent by the same person who usually delivered those written while the poet was right next door to his fiancée; the other one, I’m sure, was simply sent from one house to the other, but maybe the usual messenger happened to be unavailable.
The letters fall naturally into three groups, namely (1) those written during Keats’s sojourn with Charles Armitage Brown in the Isle of Wight, and his[xx] brief stay in lodgings in Westminster in the Summer and Autumn of 1819, (2) those written from Brown’s house in Wentworth Place during Keats’s illness in the early part of 1820 and sent by hand to Mrs. Brawne’s house, next door, and (3) those written after he was able to leave Wentworth Place to stay with Leigh Hunt at Kentish Town, and before his departure for Italy in September, 1820. Of the order of the first and last groups there is no reasonable doubt; and, although there can be no absolute certainty in regard to the whole series of the central group, I do not think any important error will have been made in the arrangement here adopted.
The letters naturally divide into three groups: (1) those written during Keats’s time with Charles Armitage Brown in the Isle of Wight and his brief stay in lodgings in Westminster in the summer and autumn of 1819, (2) those written from Brown’s house in Wentworth Place during Keats’s illness in early 1820 and personally delivered to Mrs. Brawne’s house next door, and (3) those written after he was able to leave Wentworth Place to stay with Leigh Hunt in Kentish Town, and before he left for Italy in September 1820. There's no reasonable doubt about the order of the first and last groups; although there's no absolute certainty regarding the entire series of the central group, I don't think any significant errors have been made in the arrangement presented here.
The slight service to be done beside this of arranging the letters, involving a great deal of minute investigation, was simply to elucidate as far as possible by brief foot-notes references that were not self-explanatory, to give such attainable particulars of the principal persons and places concerned as are desirable by[xxi] way of illustration, and to fix as nearly as may be the chronology of that part of Keats’s life at the time represented by these letters,—especially the two important dates involved. The first date is that of the passion which Keats conceived for Miss Brawne,—the second that of the rupture of a blood-vessel, marking distinctly the poet’s graveward tendency,—two events probably connected with some intimacy, and concerning which it is not unnoteworthy that we should have to be making guesses at all. If these and other conjectural conclusions turn out to be inaccurate (which I do not think will be the case), they can only be proved so by the production of more documents; and if documents be produced confuting my conclusions, my aim will have been attained by two steps instead of one.
The small task to be accomplished alongside organizing the letters, which requires a lot of detailed investigation, is simply to clarify as much as possible through brief footnotes any references that aren't self-explanatory, to provide any relevant details about the main individuals and places involved as needed for illustration, and to establish as accurately as possible the timeline of that part of Keats’s life represented by these letters—particularly the two significant dates mentioned. The first date is when Keats developed feelings for Miss Brawne—the second is when he suffered a ruptured blood vessel, clearly signaling the poet's decline—two events likely linked to their relationship, and it’s worth noting that we even have to make guesses about them. If these and other speculative conclusions turn out to be incorrect (which I don’t think will happen), they can only be disproven by presenting more documents; and if documents come to light that contradict my conclusions, my goal will have still been achieved through two steps instead of one.
The lady to whom these letters were addressed was born on the 9th of August in the year 1800, and baptized Frances, though, as usual with bearers[xxii] of that name, she was habitually called Fanny. Her father, Mr. Samuel Brawne, a gentleman of independent means, died while she was still a child; and Mrs. Brawne then went to reside at Hampstead, with her three children, Fanny, Samuel, and Margaret. Samuel, being next in age to Fanny, was a youth going to school in 1819; and Margaret was many years younger than her sister, being in fact a child at the time of the engagement to Keats, which event took place certainly between the Autumn of 1818 and the Summer of 1819, and probably, as I find good reason to suppose, quite early in the year 1819. In the Summer of 1818 Mrs. Brawne and her children occupied the house of Charles Armitage Brown next to that of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wentworth Dilke, in Wentworth Place, Hampstead, which is not now known by that name. On Brown’s return from Scotland, the Brawne’s moved to another house in the neighbourhood; but they afterwards returned[xxiii] to Wentworth Place, occupying the house of Mr. Dilke. Mr. Severn remembered that when he visited Keats during the residence of the poet with Brown, Keats used to take his visitor “next door” to call upon the Brawne family. “The house was double,” wrote Mr. Severn, “and had side entrances.”
The lady these letters were addressed to was born on August 9, 1800, and was named Frances, but, like many with that name, she was usually called Fanny. Her father, Mr. Samuel Brawne, a man of independent means, passed away when she was still a child. After that, Mrs. Brawne moved to Hampstead with her three children: Fanny, Samuel, and Margaret. Samuel, being Fanny’s younger brother, was a schoolboy in 1819, and Margaret was significantly younger, actually a child at the time Fanny became engaged to Keats. This engagement clearly happened between the fall of 1818 and the summer of 1819, likely quite early in 1819. In summer 1818, Mrs. Brawne and her children lived in Charles Armitage Brown's house, next to Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wentworth Dilke, on Wentworth Place, Hampstead, which is no longer known by that name. When Brown returned from Scotland, the Brawne family moved to another nearby house, but they eventually came back to Wentworth Place, renting the Dilke’s house. Mr. Severn recalled that when he visited Keats during the poet's stay with Brown, Keats would take his guests “next door” to visit the Brawne family. “The house was double,” Mr. Severn wrote, “and had side entrances.”
It is said to have been at the house of Mr. Dilke, who was the grandfather of the present Baronet of that name, that Keats first met Miss Brawne. Mr. Dilke eventually gave up possession of his residence in Wentworth Place, and took quarters in Great Smith Street, Westminster, where he and Mrs. Dilke went to live in order that their only child, bearing his father’s name, and afterwards the first Baronet, might be educated at Westminster School.
It is said that Keats first met Miss Brawne at the house of Mr. Dilke, the grandfather of the current Baronet with the same name. Mr. Dilke eventually moved out of his home in Wentworth Place and took up residence on Great Smith Street in Westminster, where he and Mrs. Dilke lived so that their only child, who shared his father's name and later became the first Baronet, could be educated at Westminster School.
Keats’s well known weakness in regard to the statement of dates leaves us without such assistance as might be expected from his general correspondence[xxiv] in fixing the date of this first meeting with Miss Brawne. I learn from members of her family that it was certainly in 1818; and, as far as I can judge, it must have been in the last quarter of that year; for it seems pretty evident that he had not conceived the passion, which was his “pleasure and torment,” up to the end of October, and had conceived it before Tom’s death “early in December”; and, as he says in Letter III of the present series, “the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal,” we must perforce regard the date of first meeting as between the end of October and the beginning of December, 1818.
Keats's well-known difficulty with dating leaves us without the help we might expect from his general correspondence[xxiv] to pinpoint when he first met Miss Brawne. Family members have informed me that it definitely occurred in 1818; and, as far as I can tell, it must have been in the last part of that year. It seems quite clear that he hadn't developed the passion, which was both his "pleasure and torment," until the end of October, and that he had feelings for her before Tom's death "early in December." As he states in Letter III from this series, "the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal," we must assume that their first meeting was between the end of October and the beginning of December, 1818.
In conducting the reader to this conclusion it will be necessary to remove a misapprehension which has been current for nearly thirty years in regard to a passage in the letter that yields us our starting-point. This is the long letter to George Keats, dated the 29th of October, 1818, given in Lord Houghton’s[xxv] Life, Letters, &c.,[2] and commencing at page 227 of Vol. I, wherein is the following passage:
In guiding the reader to this conclusion, it's important to clear up a misunderstanding that has persisted for nearly thirty years regarding a part of the letter that serves as our starting point. This refers to the lengthy letter to George Keats, dated October 29, 1818, included in Lord Houghton’s[xxv] Life, Letters, &c.,[2] which begins on page 227 of Volume I, where the following passage appears:
“The Misses —— are very kind to me, but they have lately displeased me much, and in this way:—now I am coming the Richardson!—On my return, the first day I called, they were in a sort of taking or bustle about a cousin of theirs, who, having fallen out with her grandpapa in a serious manner, was invited by Mrs. —— to take asylum in her house. She is an East-Indian, and ought to be her grandfather’s heir. At the time I called, Mrs. —— was in conference with her up stairs, and the young ladies were warm in her praise down stairs, calling her genteel, interesting, and a thousand other pretty things, to which I gave no[xxvi] heed, not being partial to nine days’ wonders. Now all is completely changed: they hate her, and, from what I hear, she is not without faults of a real kind; but she has others, which are more apt to make women of inferior claims hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but is, at least, a Charmian: she has a rich Eastern look; she has fine eyes, and fine manners. When she comes into the room she makes the same impression as the beauty of a leopardess. She is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any man who may address her: from habit she thinks that nothing particular. I always find myself more at ease with such a woman: the picture before me always gives me a life and animation which I cannot possibly feel with anything inferior. I am, at such times, too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble: I forget myself entirely, because I live in her. You will, by this time, think I am in love with her, so, before I go any further, I will[xxvii] tell you I am not. She kept me awake one night, as a tune of Mozart’s might do. I speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which I can feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very ‘yes’ and ‘no’ of whose life is to me a banquet. I don’t cry to take the moon home with me in my pocket, nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her, and her like, because one has no sensations: what we both are is taken for granted. You will suppose I have, by this, had much talk with her—no such thing; there are the Misses —— on the look out. They think I don’t admire her because I don’t stare at her; they call her a flirt to me—what a want of knowledge! She walks across a room in such a manner that a man is drawn towards her with a magnetic power; this they call flirting! They do not know things; they do not know what a woman is. I believe, though, she has faults, the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might[xxviii] have had. Yet she is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way; for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things—the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal. In the former, Bonaparte, Lord Byron, and this Charmian, hold the first place in our minds; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child’s cradle, and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feelings. As a man of the world, I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an eternal being, I love the thought of you. I should like her to ruin me, and I should like you to save me.
“The Misses —— are really nice to me, but they’ve recently upset me a lot, and here’s how:—now I’m on my way to becoming a Richardson!—When I returned, on the first day I visited, they were all worked up about a cousin of theirs who had a serious falling out with her grandfather and was invited by Mrs. —— to stay at her house. She’s from East India and should be her grandfather’s heir. When I called, Mrs. —— was upstairs talking with her, and the young ladies were singing her praises downstairs, calling her classy, interesting, and a thousand other flattering things, to which I paid no attention, not being interested in fleeting fads. Now everything's completely changed: they can’t stand her, and from what I hear, she has some real flaws; but she has other qualities that tend to make women of lesser status dislike her. She’s not a Cleopatra, but at least she’s a Charmian: she has a rich Eastern look; beautiful eyes and manners. When she enters a room, she makes the same impression as a leopardess's beauty. She’s too refined and too aware of herself to turn away any man who speaks to her: she’s so used to it that she thinks it’s nothing special. I always feel more at ease with a woman like that: the image before me gives me a life and energy I simply can’t feel with anything less. At those times, I’m too caught up in admiration to feel awkward or nervous: I completely forget myself because I’m living in her presence. By now, you might think I’m in love with her, so before I go any further, I’ll tell you I’m not. She kept me awake one night, like a tune by Mozart might do. I’m speaking about this as a pastime and enjoyment, something deeper than anything else than a conversation with an extraordinary woman, the very ‘yes’ and ‘no’ of whose life is a feast for me. I don’t cry to take the moon home in my pocket, nor do I fret about leaving her behind. I like her and others like her because they don’t provoke feelings: what we both are is understood. You might think that, because of this, I’ve had a lot of conversations with her—not at all; the Misses —— are watching closely. They think I don’t admire her because I don’t stare at her; they call her a flirt to me—what a lack of understanding! She walks across a room in such a way that a man is drawn to her like a magnet; and they mistake that for flirting! They don’t understand things; they don’t know what a woman truly is. I believe, though, that she has flaws, just like Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she’s quite something, if we talk in worldly terms; because there are two different mindsets we use to judge things—the worldly, theatrical, and dramatic; and the unworldly, spiritual, and ethereal. In the former, figures like Bonaparte, Lord Byron, and this Charmian take center stage in our thoughts; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child’s cradle, and you, my dear sister, represent the most profound sentiments. As a man of the world, I enjoy the rich conversations with a Charmian; as a spiritual being, I cherish the thought of you. I would love for her to ruin me, and I would love for you to save me.”
This is ‘Lord Byron,’ and is one of the finest things he has said.”
This is 'Lord Byron,' and it's one of the best things he has ever said.
Now it is clear from this passage that a lady had made a certain impression on Keats; and Lord Houghton in his[xxix] latest publication states explicitly what is only indicated in general terms in the Memoirs published in 1848 and 1867,—that the lady here described was Miss Brawne. In the earlier Memoirs, three letters to Rice, Woodhouse, and Reynolds follow the long letter to George Keats; then comes the statement that “the lady alluded to in the above pages inspired Keats with the passion that only ceased with his existence”; and, as the letter to Reynolds contains references to a lady, it might have been possible to regard Lord Houghton’s expression as an allusion to that letter only. But in the brief and masterly Memoir prefixed to the Aldine Edition of Keats[3], his Lordship cites the passage from the letter of the 29th of October as descriptive of Miss Brawne,—thus confirming by[xxx] explicit statement what has all along passed current as tradition in literary circles.
Now it's clear from this passage that a woman had made a significant impression on Keats; and Lord Houghton, in his[xxix] latest publication, explicitly states what is only generally suggested in the Memoirs published in 1848 and 1867—that the lady described here was Miss Brawne. In the earlier Memoirs, three letters to Rice, Woodhouse, and Reynolds follow a long letter to George Keats; then there’s a statement that “the lady mentioned in the above pages inspired Keats with a passion that lasted until his death”; and since the letter to Reynolds references a lady, it could have been seen as Lord Houghton simply hinting at that letter. However, in the concise and skillful Memoir prefixed to the Aldine Edition of Keats[3], his Lordship cites the passage from the letter dated October 29 as describing Miss Brawne—thus confirming with a clear statement what has always been accepted as traditional knowledge in literary circles.
When Lord Houghton’s inestimable volumes of 1848 were given to the world there might have been indelicacy in making too close a scrutiny into the bearings of these passages; but the time has now come when such cannot be the case; and I am enabled to give the grounds on which it is absolutely certain that the allusion here was not to Miss Brawne. As Lord Houghton has elsewhere recorded, Keats met Miss Brawne at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Dilke, who had no daughters, while the relationship of “the Misses ——” and “Mrs. ——” of the passage in question is clearly that of mother and daughters. Mrs. Brawne had already been settled with her children at Hampstead for several years at this time, whereas this cousin of “the Misses ——” had just arrived when Keats returned there from Teignmouth. The “Charmian” of this anecdote[xxxi] was an East-Indian, having a grandfather to quarrel with; while Miss Brawne never had a grandfather living during her life, and her family had not the remotest connexion with the East Indies. Moreover, Keats’s sister, who is still happily alive, assures me positively that the reference is not to Miss Brawne. In regard to the blank for a surname, I had judged from various considerations internal and external that it should be filled by that of Reynolds; and, on asking Mr. Severn (without expressing any view whatever) whether he knew to whom the story related, he wrote to me that he knew the story well from Keats, and that the reference is to the Misses Reynolds, the sisters of John Hamilton Reynolds. Mr. Severn does not know the name of the cousin of these ladies.
When Lord Houghton’s invaluable volumes from 1848 were released to the public, it might have seemed inappropriate to closely examine the meanings of these passages. However, the time has come when that is no longer the case; I can now provide the reasons why it’s absolutely certain that the reference here was not to Miss Brawne. As Lord Houghton has noted elsewhere, Keats met Miss Brawne at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Dilke, who had no daughters, while the relationship of “the Misses ——” and “Mrs. ——” in the passage clearly indicates a mother and her daughters. By this time, Mrs. Brawne had already been settled in Hampstead with her children for several years, while the cousin of “the Misses ——” had just arrived when Keats returned there from Teignmouth. The “Charmian” in this anecdote[xxxi] was of East Indian descent and had a grandfather to argue with; meanwhile, Miss Brawne never had a grandfather alive during her lifetime, and her family had no connection to the East Indies whatsoever. Furthermore, Keats’s sister, who is still happily living, assures me that the reference is definitely not to Miss Brawne. Regarding the blank for a surname, I had deduced from various internal and external considerations that it should be filled in with Reynolds; and when I asked Mr. Severn (without sharing any opinion) if he knew to whom the story referred, he wrote back that he was familiar with the story from Keats and that the reference is to the Misses Reynolds, the sisters of John Hamilton Reynolds. Mr. Severn does not know the name of these ladies' cousin.
It is clear then that the lady who had impressed Keats some little time before the 29th of October, 1818, and was still fresh in his mind, was not Fanny[xxxii] Brawne. That the impression was not lasting the event shewed; and we may safely assume that it was really limited in the way which Keats himself averred,—that he was not “in love with her.” But it is incredible, almost, that, in his affectionate frankness with his brother, he would ever have written thus of another woman, had he been already enamoured of Fanny Brawne. This view is strengthened by reading the letter to the end: in such a perusal we come upon the following passage:
It’s clear that the woman who had left an impression on Keats a little while before October 29, 1818, and was still on his mind, was not Fanny Brawne. The fact that the impression didn’t last is evident, and we can safely assume that it was indeed limited in the way Keats himself claimed—that he was not “in love with her.” It’s almost unbelievable that, in his open affection towards his brother, he would have written about another woman like that if he were already in love with Fanny Brawne. This perspective is reinforced by reading the letter in full; as we do, we come across this passage:
“Notwithstanding your happiness and your recommendations, I hope I shall never marry: though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, and the curtains of the morning clouds, the chairs and sofas stuffed with cygnet’s down, the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winandermere, I should not feel, or rather my happiness[xxxiii] should not be, so fine; my solitude is sublime—for, instead of what I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me home; the roaring of the wind is my wife; and the stars through my window-panes are my children; the mighty abstract Idea of Beauty in all things, I have, stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. An amiable wife and sweet children I contemplate as part of that Beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone, but in a thousand worlds. No sooner am I alone, than shapes of epic greatness are stationed around me, and serve my spirit the office which is equivalent to a King’s Body-guard: ‘then Tragedy with scepter’d pall comes sweeping by:’ according to my state of mind, I am with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theocritus in the vales of Sicily; or throw my whole being into[xxxiv] Troilus, and, repeating those lines, ‘I wander like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank, staying for waftage,’ I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate, that I am content to be alone. Those things, combined with the opinion I have formed of the generality of women, who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar-plum than my time, form a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in. I have written this that you might see that I have my share of the highest pleasures of life, and that though I may choose to pass my days alone, I shall be no solitary; you see there is nothing splenetic in all this. The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing day, is any doubt about my powers of poetry: I seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none.”[4]
"Even with your happiness and your suggestions, I really hope I never get married. Even if the most beautiful person was waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; even if the floor was covered in silk, the curtains looked like morning clouds, the chairs and sofas were stuffed with cygnet down, the food was heavenly, the wine was exquisite, and the window opened onto Winandermere, I wouldn’t feel—well, my happiness wouldn’t be that amazing. My solitude is incredible—because instead of all that, there’s a greatness that welcomes me home; the sound of the wind is my partner; and the stars through my window are my kids. The powerful concept of Beauty in everything I see overwhelms smaller domestic happiness. I envision a kind wife and sweet children as part of that Beauty, but I would need many of those beautiful pieces to fill my heart. Every day, as my imagination strengthens, I realize I don’t live in this world alone, but in a thousand different worlds. As soon as I’m alone, epic shapes surround me, serving my spirit like a royal bodyguard: then Tragedy in a majestic cloak sweeps by. Depending on my mood, I’m either with Achilles shouting in the trenches or with Theocritus in the Sicilian valleys; or I throw myself completely into Troilus, and while repeating those lines, ‘I wander like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank, waiting for a ferry,’ I dissolve into the air with a pleasure so fine that I’m happy to be by myself. These thoughts, along with my opinion of most women, who seem to me like children I’d rather give a candy to than spend my time with, create a barrier against marriage that I’m glad for. I’ve written this so you can see I experience the highest pleasures in life, and although I may choose to spend my days alone, I won’t be lonely; you can see there's nothing bitter about this. The only thing that ever affects me deeply for more than a day or two is any doubt about my poetic abilities: I rarely have doubts, and I look forward to the day when I will have none."
There is but little after this in the letter, and apparently no break between the time at which he thus expressed himself and that at which he signed the letter and added—“This is my birthday.” If therefore my conclusion as to the negative value of this and the “Charmian” passage be correct, we may say that he was certainly not enamoured of Miss Brawne up to the 29th of October, 1818, although it is tolerably clear, from the evidence of Mr. Dilke, that Keats first met her about October or November. Again, in a highly interesting and important letter to Keats’s most intimate friend John Hamilton Reynolds, a letter which Lord Houghton placed immediately after one to Woodhouse dated the 18th of December, 1818, we read the following ominous passage suggesting a doom not long to be deferred:—
There is very little following this in the letter, and it seems there was no gap between the moment he expressed himself this way and when he signed the letter, adding, “This is my birthday.” So if my conclusion about the negative value of this and the “Charmian” passage is correct, we can say he was definitely not in love with Miss Brawne up until October 29, 1818, although it’s fairly clear, based on Mr. Dilke's account, that Keats first met her around October or November. Additionally, in a very interesting and significant letter to Keats's closest friend John Hamilton Reynolds, a letter that Lord Houghton placed right after one to Woodhouse dated December 18, 1818, we find the following ominous passage suggesting a fate not far off:—
“I never was in love, yet the voice and shape of a woman has haunted me[xxxvi] these two days—at such a time when the relief, the feverish relief of poetry, seems a much less crime. This morning poetry has conquered—I have relapsed into those abstractions which are my only life—I feel escaped from a new, strange, and threatening sorrow, and I am thankful for it. There is an awful warmth about my heart, like a load of Immortality.
“I’ve never been in love, but the voice and shape of a woman have been on my mind these past two days—especially when the comfort, that intense relief of poetry, feels like a much smaller sin. This morning, poetry has won—I’ve slipped back into those thoughts that are my only reality—I feel like I’ve escaped from a new, strange, and looming sorrow, and I’m grateful for it. There’s a heavy warmth in my heart, like a burden of Immortality.[xxxvi]
There is no date to this letter; and, although it was most reasonable to suppose that the fervid expressions used pointed to the real heroine of the poet’s tragedy,—that he wrote in one of those moments of mastery of the intellect over the emotions such as he experienced when writing the extraordinary fifth Letter of the present series,—the fact is[xxxvii] that the reference is to “Charmian,” and that the letter was misplaced by Lord Houghton. It really belongs to September 1818, and should precede instead of following this “Charmian” letter.
There’s no date on this letter; and while it seems reasonable to think that the passionate expressions used point to the real heroine of the poet’s tragedy,—that he wrote it during one of those moments when intellect takes over emotions, like when he wrote the incredible fifth Letter in this series,—the truth is[xxxvii] that the reference is to “Charmian,” and the letter was misplaced by Lord Houghton. It actually belongs to September 1818 and should come before this “Charmian” letter instead of after it.
When Keats wrote the next letter in Lord Houghton’s series (also undated) to George and his wife, Tom was dead; and there is another clue to the date in the fact that he transcribes a letter from Miss Jane Porter dated the 4th of December, 1818. After making this transcript he proceeds to draw the following verbal portrait of a young lady:
When Keats wrote the next letter in Lord Houghton’s series (also undated) to George and his wife, Tom had passed away; and there’s another clue to the date in the fact that he copies a letter from Miss Jane Porter dated December 4th, 1818. After making this copy, he goes on to create the following verbal portrait of a young lady:
“Shall I give you Miss ——? She is about my height, with a fine style of countenance of the lengthened sort; she wants sentiment in every feature; she manages to make her hair look well; her nostrils are very fine, though a little painful; her mouth is bad and good; her profile is better than her full face, which, indeed, is not full, but pale and thin, without showing any bone; her[xxxviii] shape is very graceful, and so are her movements; her arms are good, her hands bad-ish, her feet tolerable. She is not seventeen, but she is ignorant; monstrous in her behaviour, flying out in all directions, calling people such names that I was forced lately to make use of the term—Minx: this is, I think, from no innate vice, but from a penchant she has for acting stylishly. I am, however, tired of such style, and shall decline any more of it. She had a friend to visit her lately; you have known plenty such—she plays the music, but without one sensation but the feel of the ivory at her fingers; she is a downright Miss, without one set-off. We hated her, and smoked her, and baited her, and, I think, drove her away. Miss ——, thinks her a paragon of fashion, and says she is the only woman in the world she would change persons with. What a stupe,—she is as superior as a rose to a dandelion.”[6]
“Should I introduce you to Miss ——? She's about my height, with an elongated face that gives her a refined look; there's a depth in every feature that speaks to her character. She manages to style her hair well; her nostrils are quite distinguished, though somewhat piercing; her mouth has its good and bad moments; her profile is more appealing than her full face, which is actually not full at all, but rather pale and thin, without any visible bone structure. Her shape is very graceful, and so are her movements; her arms are nice, her hands are slightly off, and her feet are passable. She isn't yet seventeen, but she's rather naive; her behavior can be quite outrageous, often lashing out and calling people names that made me recently label her a—Minx: I believe this is not due to any inherent wickedness, but rather her desire to seem fashionable. I am, however, weary of this kind of fashion and will be stepping away from it. She recently had a friend over; you know plenty of girls like her—she plays the piano but feels nothing beyond the keys under her fingertips; she's just an ordinary Miss, lacking any standout qualities. We couldn't stand her, teased her, and I think we ultimately ran her off. Miss —— thinks she's the epitome of style, claiming she's the only woman she'd want to switch places with. What a fool—she's as superior to a rose as a dandelion is.”[xxxviii]
There is nothing explicit as to the date of this passage; but there is no longer any doubt that this sketch has reference to Miss Brawne, and that Keats had now found that most dangerous of objects a woman “alternating attraction and repulsion.”
There’s no clear date for this passage, but it’s now clear that this sketch refers to Miss Brawne, and that Keats had found the most perilous object in a woman who created a push-pull dynamic of attraction and repulsion.
The lady’s children assured me that the description answered to the facts in every particular except that of age: the correct expression would be “not nineteen”; but Keats was not infallible on such a point; and the holograph letter in which he wrote “Miss Brawne” in full shews that he made a mistake as to her age. When he wrote this passage, he was, I should judge, feeling a certain resentment analogous to what found a much more tender expression in the first letter of the present series, when the circumstances made increased tenderness a matter of course,—a resentment of the feeling that he was becoming enslaved.
The lady's children told me that the description matched the facts in every detail except for the age: the accurate term would be “not nineteen”; but Keats wasn't perfect on that point; and the handwritten letter where he wrote “Miss Brawne” in full shows that he got her age wrong. When he wrote this passage, I think he was feeling a certain resentment similar to what he expressed more tenderly in the first letter of this series, where the circumstances made tenderness expected—a resentment about feeling trapped.
There is no announcement of his[xl] engagement in the original letter to his brother and sister-in-law, which I have read; and it would seem improbable that he was engaged when he wrote it. But of the journal letter begun on the 14th of February, 1819, and finished on the 3rd of May, only a part of the holograph is accessible; and there may possibly have been such an announcement in the missing part, while, under some date between the 19th of March and the 15th of April, Keats writes the following paragraph and sonnet, from which it might be inferred that the engagement had been announced in an unpublished letter.
There’s no mention of his[xl] engagement in the original letter to his brother and sister-in-law that I’ve read; it seems unlikely that he was engaged when he wrote it. However, of the journal letter started on February 14, 1819, and completed on May 3, only part of the original is available; there might have been such an announcement in the missing part. Between March 19 and April 15, Keats writes the following paragraph and sonnet, suggesting that the engagement was announced in an unpublished letter.
“I am afraid that your anxiety for me leads you to fear for the violence of my temperament, continually smothered down: for that reason, I did not intend to have sent you the following Sonnet; but look over the two last pages, and ask yourself if I have not that in me[xli] which will bear the buffets of the world. It will be the best comment on my Sonnet; it will show you that it was written with no agony but that of ignorance, with no thirst but that of knowledge, when pushed to the point; though the first steps to it were through my human passions, they went away, and I wrote with my mind, and, perhaps, I must confess, a little bit of my heart.
“I’m afraid that your concern for me makes you worry about my temper, which I continually hold back. For that reason, I didn’t plan to send you the following sonnet; but take a look at the last two pages and ask yourself if I don’t have what it takes[xli] to handle the challenges of the world. It will be the best commentary on my sonnet; it will show you that it was written with no pain except the pain of not knowing, with no desire except the desire for knowledge, when I was pushed to the limit; although the first steps came from my human emotions, they faded away, and I wrote with my mind, and, I must admit, a little bit of my heart.
Again in the same letter, on the 15th of April, Keats says “Brown, this morning, is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Miss B —— and me,”—a reference, doubtless, to Miss Brawne, probably indicative of the engagement being an understood thing; and, seemingly on the same date, he writes as follows:
Again in the same letter, on April 15th, Keats says, “Brown, this morning, is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Miss B —— and me,”—a clear reference to Miss Brawne, likely showing that the engagement was an understood thing; and seemingly on the same date, he writes as follows:
“The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more; it is that one in which he meets with Paulo and Francesca. I had passed many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst of them I dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The dream was one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life; I floated about the wheeling atmosphere, as it is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined, it seemed for an age; and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm; ever-flowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them, sometimes with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind blew[xliii] us away again. I tried a Sonnet on it: there are fourteen lines in it, but nothing of what I felt. Oh! that I could dream it every night.
“The fifth canto of Dante brings me more joy each time I read it; it’s the one where he meets Paolo and Francesca. I had spent many days feeling quite low, and during that time I dreamed I was in that part of Hell. The dream was one of the most pleasurable experiences I’ve ever had; I floated through the swirling atmosphere, as described, with a beautiful figure, our lips joined as if for an eternity; and amidst all that cold and darkness, I felt warm; flower-filled treetops sprouted up, and we rested on them, sometimes as light as a cloud, until the wind blew[xliii] us away again. I tried writing a Sonnet about it: there are fourteen lines, but they capture none of what I felt. Oh! How I wish I could dream it every night.”
The meaning of this dream is sufficiently clear without any light from the fact that the sonnet itself was written in a little volume given by Keats to Miss Brawne, a volume of Taylor & Hessey’s miniature edition of Cary’s Dante, which[xliv] had remained up to the year 1877 in the possession of that lady’s family.[9]
Although the present citation of extant documents does not avail to fix the date of Keats’s passion more nearly than to shew that it almost certainly lies somewhere between the 29th of October and beginning of December, 1818, there can be little doubt that, if a competent person should be permitted to examine all the original documents concerned, the date might be ascertained much more nearly;—that is to say that the particular “first week” of acquaintance in which Keats “wrote himself the[xlv] vassal” of Miss Brawne, as he says (see page 13), might be identified. But in any case it must be well to bring into juxtaposition these passages bearing upon the subject of the letters now made public.
Although the current reference to existing documents doesn't help pinpoint the exact date of Keats's infatuation more precisely than to suggest it likely occurred between October 29 and early December 1818, it’s clear that if a qualified person were allowed to review all the original documents involved, the date could be determined much more accurately. This means that the specific "first week" of their acquaintance, during which Keats “declared himself the vassal” of Miss Brawne, as he describes (see page 13), could be identified. In any case, it’s valuable to place these passages alongside each other that relate to the letters now being made public.
The natural inference from all we know of the matter in hand is that after his brother Tom’s death, Keats’s passion had more time and more temptation to feed upon itself; and that, as an unoccupied man living in the same village with the object of that passion, an avowal followed pretty speedily. It is not surprising that there are no letters to shew for the first half of the year 1819, during which Keats and Miss Brawne probably saw each other constantly, and to judge from the expressions in Letter XI, were in the habit of walking out together.
The natural conclusion from everything we know about the situation is that after his brother Tom’s death, Keats had more time and more temptation to focus on his feelings; and that, as a free man living in the same village as the object of his passion, he quickly confessed his feelings. It’s not surprising that there are no letters from the first half of 1819, during which Keats and Miss Brawne likely saw each other all the time, and judging by the expressions in Letter XI, they routinely went out for walks together.
The tone of Letter I is unsuggestive of more than a few weeks’ engagement; but it is impossible, on this alone, to found safely any conclusion whatever.[xlvi] From the date of that letter, the 3rd of July, 1819, we have plainer sailing for awhile: Keats appears to have remained in the Isle of Wight till the 11th or 12th of August, when he and Brown crossed from Cowes to Southampton and proceeded to Winchester. At page 19 we read under the date “9 August,” “This day week we shall move to Winchester”; but in the letter bearing the postmark of the 16th (though dated the 17th) Keats says he has been in Winchester four days; so that the patience of the friends with Shanklin did not hold out for anything like a week.
The tone of Letter I doesn’t suggest an engagement of more than a few weeks; however, it’s impossible to safely draw any conclusions based solely on this.[xlvi] From the date of that letter, July 3, 1819, things become clearer for a bit: Keats seems to have stayed in the Isle of Wight until August 11th or 12th, when he and Brown traveled from Cowes to Southampton and then on to Winchester. At page 19, we see under the date “August 9,” “This day week we shall move to Winchester”; but in the letter postmarked the 16th (though dated the 17th), Keats mentions he has been in Winchester for four days; so it appears the friends’ patience with Shanklin didn’t last much longer than a week.
At Winchester the poet remained till the 11th of September, when bad news from George Keats hurried him up to Town for a few days: he meant to have returned on the 15th, and was certainly there again by the 22nd, remaining until some day between the 1st and 10th of October, by which date he seems to have taken up his abode at lodgings in College Street, Westminster.[xlvii] Here he cannot have remained long; for on the 19th he was already proposing to return to Hampstead; and it must have been very soon after this that he accepted the invitation of Brown to “domesticate with” him again at Wentworth Place; and on the 19th of the next month he was writing from that place to his friend and publisher, Taylor.[10]
At Winchester, the poet stayed until September 11th, when he received bad news from George Keats that prompted him to head to Town for a few days. He planned to return on the 15th and was definitely back by the 22nd, staying until some day between October 1st and 10th, by which time he had apparently settled into a place in College Street, Westminster.[xlvii] He couldn't have stayed there long; because on the 19th he was already planning to go back to Hampstead. It must have been shortly after this that he accepted Brown’s invitation to "live with" him again at Wentworth Place; and on the 19th of the following month, he was writing from there to his friend and publisher, Taylor.[10]
This brings us to the fatal winter of 1819-20, during which, until the date of Keats’s first bad illness, we should not expect any more letters to Miss Brawne, because, in the natural course of things, he would be seeing her daily.
This brings us to the harsh winter of 1819-20, during which, until Keats’s first serious illness, we shouldn't expect any more letters to Miss Brawne, because, naturally, he would be seeing her every day.
The absence of any current record as to the exact date whereon he was struck down with that particular phase of his malady which he himself felt from the first to be fatal, must have seemed peculiarly regretworthy to Keats’s lovers; but it is not impossible to deduce from the various materials at command the[xlviii] day to which Lord Houghton’s account refers. This well-known passage leaves us in no doubt as to the place wherein the beginning of the end came upon the poet,—the house of Charles Brown; but the day we must seek for ourselves.
The lack of any current record regarding the exact date when he was impacted by that specific phase of his illness, which he believed from the start to be fatal, must have felt particularly unfortunate to Keats’s admirers. However, it’s not impossible to piece together the day referenced in Lord Houghton’s account from the various materials available. This well-known passage makes it clear where the beginning of the end started for the poet—at Charles Brown’s house; but we have to find the exact day on our own.
Passing over such premonitions of disease as that recorded in the letter to George Keats and his wife dated the 14th of February, 1819, and printed at page 257 of the first volume of the Life, namely that he had “kept in doors lately, resolved, if possible, to rid” himself of “sore throat,”—the first date important to bear in mind is Thursday, the 13th of January, 1820, which is given at the head of a somewhat remarkable version of a well-known letter addressed to Mrs. George Keats. This letter first appeared without date in the Life; but, on the 25th of June, 1877, it was printed in the New York World, with many striking variations from the previous text, and with several additions, including the date already quoted, the genuineness[xlix] of which I can see no reason for doubting. The letter begins thus in the Life, Letters, &c.—
Passing over such warnings about illness as the one mentioned in the letter to George Keats and his wife dated February 14, 1819, found on page 257 of the first volume of the Life, where he stated that he had "stayed indoors lately, determined, if possible, to get rid" of his "sore throat,"—the first date we should pay attention to is Thursday, January 13, 1820. This date heads a notable version of a well-known letter addressed to Mrs. George Keats. This letter first appeared undated in the Life; however, on June 25, 1877, it was printed in the New York World, featuring many striking differences from the previous text, along with several additions, including the aforementioned date, the authenticity[xlix] of which I see no reason to doubt. The letter begins like this in the Life, Letters, & c.—
“My dear Sister,
"My dear Sis,
By the time you receive this your troubles will be over, and George have returned to you.”
By the time you get this, your problems will be solved, and George will be back with you.
In The World it opens thus—
In The World, it starts like this—
“My dear Sis.: By the time that you receive this your troubles will be over. I wish you knew that they were half over; I mean that George is safe in England, and in good health.”
“My dear Sis: By the time you get this, your troubles will be over. I wish you knew that they were halfway over; I mean that George is safe in England and doing well.”
It is not my part to account here for the verbal inconsistency between these two versions; but the inconsistency as regards fact, which has been charged against them, is surely not real. Both versions alike indicate that Keats was writing with the knowledge that his letter would not reach Mrs. George[l] Keats till after the return of her husband from his sudden and short visit to England; and, assuming the genuineness of another document, this was certainly the case.
It’s not my place to explain the verbal contradictions between these two versions; however, the inconsistencies regarding fact, which have been pointed out, are definitely not real. Both versions clearly show that Keats was aware his letter wouldn't reach Mrs. George[l] Keats until after her husband returned from his unexpected and brief trip to England; and, assuming another document is genuine, this was definitely true.
In The Philobiblion[11] for August, 1862, was printed a fragment purporting to be from a letter of Keats’s, which seems to me, on internal evidence alone, of indubitable authenticity; and, if it is Keats’s, it must belong to the particular letter now under consideration. It is headed Friday 27th, is written in higher spirits, if anything, than the rest of this brilliant letter, giving a ludicrous string of comparisons for Mrs. George Keats’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Henry Wylie, which,[li] together with a final joke, were apparently deemed unripe for publication in 1848, being represented by asterisks in the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 49). The fragment closes with the promise of “a close written sheet on the first of next month,” varying in phrase, just as the World version of the whole letter varies, from Lord Houghton’s.[12]
In The Philobiblion[11] from August 1862, a fragment was published that claims to be from a letter by Keats, which, based on its content alone, seems undeniably authentic to me; and if it is indeed Keats’s, it must be part of the specific letter we’re discussing. It is dated Friday 27th and is written in even higher spirits than the rest of this brilliant letter, offering a humorous series of comparisons for Mrs. George Keats’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Henry Wylie. These, along with a final joke, were apparently considered too immature for publication in 1848, as they were represented by asterisks in the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 49). The fragment ends with a promise of “a close written sheet on the first of next month,” varying in phrase, just like the World version of the whole letter differs from Lord Houghton’s.[12]
Keats explains, under the inaccurate and unexplicit date Friday 27th, that he has been writing a letter for George to take back to his wife, has unfortunately forgotten to bring it to town, and will have to send it on to Liverpool, whither George has departed that morning[lii] “by the coach,” at six o’clock. The 27th of January, 1820, was a Thursday, not a Friday; and there can be hardly any doubt that George Keats left London on the 28th of January, 1820, because John, who professed to know nothing of the days of the month, seems generally to have known the days of the week; and this Friday cannot have been in any other month: it was after the 13th of January, and before the 16th of February, on which day Keats wrote to Rice, referring to his illness.[13] But whether the date at the head of the fragment should be Thursday 27th or Friday 28th is immaterial for our present purpose, because the Thursday after that date would be the same day in either case; and it was on the Thursday after George left London that Keats was taken ill. This appears from the following passage extracted by Sir Charles Dilke from a letter of George Keat[liii]s’s to John, and communicated to The Athenæum of the 4th of August, 1877:
Keats mentions, under the incorrect and vague date Friday 27th, that he has been writing a letter for George to take back to his wife. He unfortunately forgot to bring it to town and will have to send it to Liverpool, where George left that morning[lii] “by the coach” at six o’clock. January 27th, 1820, was actually a Thursday, not a Friday; and it's almost certain that George Keats left London on January 28th, 1820, because John, who claimed to know nothing about the days of the month, seems to have generally known the days of the week. This Friday couldn’t have been in any other month: it was after January 13th and before February 16th, the day on which Keats wrote to Rice about his illness.[13] But whether the date at the start of the fragment should read Thursday 27th or Friday 28th doesn’t matter for our current purpose, because the Thursday after that date would be the same day in either case; and it was on the Thursday after George left London that Keats fell ill. This is supported by the following excerpt taken by Sir Charles Dilke from a letter George Keats wrote to John, which was published in The Athenæum on August 4th, 1877:
“Louisville, June 18th, 1820.
“Louisville, June 18, 1820.”
My dear John,
Dear John,
Where will our miseries end? So soon as the Thursday after I left London you were attacked with a dangerous illness, an hour after I left this for England my little girl became so ill as to approach the grave, dragging our dear George after her. You are recovered (thank [sic] I hear the bad and good news together), they are recovered, and yet....”
Where will our suffering end? Just a week after I left London, you fell seriously ill. An hour after I left for England, my little girl became so sick that she seemed close to death, pulling our dear George down with her. You have recovered (thank [sic] goodness I hear both the bad and good news together), they have recovered, and yet....
Thus, it was on Thursday, the 3rd of February, 1820, that Keats, as recounted by Lord Houghton (Vol. II, pp. 53-4), returned home at about eleven o’clock, “in a state of strange physical excitement,” and told Brown he had received a severe chill outside the stage-coach,—that he coughed up some blood on getting into bed, and read in its colour[liv] his death-warrant. Mr. Severn tells me that Keats left his bed-room within a week of his being taken ill: within a fortnight, as we have seen, he was so far better as to be writing (dismally enough, it is true) to Rice; but, that he was confined to the house for some months, is evident. The whole of the letters forming the second division of the series, Numbers X to XXXII, seem to me to have been written during this confinement; and I should doubt whether Keats did much better, if any, than realize his hope of getting out for a walk on the 1st of May.
Thus, it was on Thursday, February 3, 1820, that Keats, as recounted by Lord Houghton (Vol. II, pp. 53-4), returned home around eleven o’clock, “in a state of strange physical excitement,” and told Brown he had caught a severe chill outside the stagecoach—that he coughed up some blood after getting into bed and saw in its color[liv] his death sentence. Mr. Severn tells me that Keats left his bedroom within a week of falling ill: within a fortnight, as we have seen, he was well enough to be writing (dismally enough, it is true) to Rice; however, it’s clear that he was stuck at home for a few months. All the letters in the second part of the series, Numbers X to XXXII, seem to have been written during this confinement, and I would doubt whether Keats did much better, if at all, than achieve his hope of going out for a walk on May 1st.
At that time he was not sufficiently recovered to accompany Brown on his second tour in Scotland; and was yet well enough by the 7th to be at Gravesend with his friend for the final parting. I understand from the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 60), that Keats then went at once to Kentish Town: Lord Houghton says “to lodge at Kentish Town, to be near his friend Leigh Hunt”; but[lv] Hunt says in his Autobiography (1850), Vol. II, p. 207, “On Brown’s leaving home a second time, ... Keats, who was too ill to accompany him, came to reside with me, when his last and best volume of poems appeared....”[14] These accounts are not necessarily contradictory; for Keats may have tried lodgings near Hunt first, and moved under the same roof with his friend when the lodgings became intolerable, as those in College Street had done before. He was reading the proofs of Lamia, Isabella, &c. on the 11th of June, as shown by a letter to Taylor of that date;[15] and, on the 28th, appeared in The Indicator, beside the Sonnet
At that time, he hadn’t fully recovered enough to go with Brown on his second trip to Scotland; however, he was well enough by the 7th to be at Gravesend with his friend for their final goodbye. I’ve learned from the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 60) that Keats immediately went to Kentish Town: Lord Houghton says it was “to stay near his friend Leigh Hunt”; but[lv] Hunt states in his Autobiography (1850), Vol. II, p. 207, “On Brown’s second departure, ... Keats, who was too ill to accompany him, came to live with me when his last and best volume of poems came out....”[14] These accounts can coexist without contradiction; Keats may have initially sought lodgings near Hunt and then moved in with his friend when those lodgings became unbearable, just like his previous place on College Street. On June 11th, he was reviewing the proofs of Lamia, Isabella, &c., as indicated by a letter to Taylor from that date;[15] and on the 28th, he was featured in The Indicator, alongside the Sonnet.
the paper entitled “A Now,” at the composition of which Keats is said to have been not only present but assisting;[16] and, as Hunt wrote pretty much “from hand to mouth” for The Indicator, we may safely assume that Keats was with him, at all events till just the end of June. On a second attack of spitting of blood, he returned to Wentworth Place to be nursed by Mrs. and Miss Brawne; and he was writing from there to Taylor on the 14th of August.
the paper titled “A Now,” which Keats is said to have been not only present for but also helped with;[16] and, as Hunt wrote pretty much “from hand to mouth” for The Indicator, we can safely assume that Keats was with him, at least until the end of June. After a second bout of coughing up blood, he went back to Wentworth Place to be cared for by Mrs. and Miss Brawne; and he was writing from there to Taylor on August 14th.
Between these two attacks he would seem to have written the letters forming the third series, Numbers XXXIII to XXXVII. I suspect the desperate tone of Number XXXVII had some weight in bringing about the return to Wentworth[lvii] Place; and that this was the last letter Keats ever wrote to Fanny Brawne; for Mr. Severn tells me that his friend was absolutely unable to write to her either on the voyage or in Italy.
Between these two attacks, he appears to have written the letters in the third series, Numbers XXXIII to XXXVII. I think the desperate tone of Number XXXVII played a role in bringing him back to Wentworth Place; and that this was the last letter Keats ever wrote to Fanny Brawne, because Mr. Severn told me that his friend was completely unable to write to her either during the voyage or in Italy.
There are certain passages in the letters, taking exception to Miss Brawne’s behaviour, particularly with Charles Armitage Brown, which should not, I think, be read without making good allowance for the extreme sensitiveness natural to Keats, and exaggerated to the last degree by terrible misfortunes. Keats was himself endowed with such an exquisite refinement of nature, and, without being in any degree a prophet or propagandist like Shelley, was so intensely in earnest both in art and in life, that anything that smacked of trifling with the sacred passion of love must have been to him more horrible and appalling than to most persons of refinement and culture. Add to this that, for the greater part of the time[lviii] during which his good or evil hap cast him near the object of his affection, his robust spirit of endurance was disarmed by the advancing operations of disease, and his discomfiture in this behalf aggravated by material difficulties of the most galling kind; and we need not be surprised to find things that might otherwise have been deemed of small account making a violent impression upon him. In a memoir[17] of his friend Dilke, written by that gentleman’s grandson, there is an extract from some letter or journal, emanating from whom, and at what date, we are not told, but probably from Mr. or Mrs. Dilke, and which is significant enough: it is at page 11:
There are certain parts of the letters that criticize Miss Brawne’s behavior, especially regarding Charles Armitage Brown, which I think should be read with an understanding of Keats’s extreme sensitivity, which was heightened by his tragic experiences. Keats had an exquisite nature, and even though he wasn't a prophet or activist like Shelley, he was deeply earnest about both art and life. Therefore, anything that seemed to trivialize the sacredness of love must have been even more disturbing to him than to most refined and cultured people. Additionally, for much of the time when his fate brought him close to the object of his affection, his strong spirit of endurance was weakened by the progression of illness, and his struggles were made worse by the most frustrating material challenges. So, it’s not surprising that things that might otherwise seem minor had a strong impact on him. In a memoir of his friend Dilke, written by that gentleman’s grandson, there is an excerpt from some letter or journal, from whom and when we are not told, but it’s likely from Mr. or Mrs. Dilke, and it’s significant enough: it is on page 11:
“It is quite a settled thing between Keats and Miss ——. God help them. It’s a bad thing for them. The mother says she cannot prevent it, and that her only hope is that it will go off. He don’t like anyone to look at her or to speak to her.”
“It’s pretty much a done deal between Keats and Miss ——. God help them. It’s not good for them. The mother says she can’t stop it, and her only hope is that it will blow over. He doesn't want anyone to look at her or talk to her.”
This indicates, at all events, a morbid susceptibility on the part of Keats as to the relations of his betrothed with the rest of the world, and must be taken into account in weighing his own words in this connexion. That things went uncomfortably enough to attract the attention of others is indicated again in an extract which Sir Charles Dilke has published on the same page with the foregoing, from a letter written to Mrs. Dilke by Miss Reynolds:
This shows, in any case, that Keats had an unhealthy sensitivity regarding his fiancée's relationships with others, and this should be considered when evaluating his own comments about it. The fact that things were sufficiently uncomfortable to draw others' attention is further highlighted in an excerpt Sir Charles Dilke published on the same page as the previous one, from a letter Miss Reynolds wrote to Mrs. Dilke:
“I hear that Keats is going to Rome, which must please all his friends on every account. I sincerely hope it will benefit his health, poor fellow! His mind and spirits must be bettered by it; and[lx] absence may probably weaken, if not break off, a connexion that has been a most unhappy one for him.”
“I hear that Keats is heading to Rome, which should make all his friends happy for various reasons. I really hope it helps his health, the poor guy! It should improve his mind and spirits; and[lx] being away might likely lessen, if not completely end, a connection that has been quite unhappy for him.”
Unhappy, the connexion doubtless was, as the connexion of a doomed man with the whole world is likely to be; but it would be unfair to assume that the engagement to Miss Brawne took a more unfortunate turn than any engagement would probably take for a man circumstanced as Keats was,—a man without independent means, and debarred by ill-health from earning an independence. Above all, it would be both unsafe and extremely unfair to conclude that either Miss Brawne or Keats’s amiable and admirable true friend Charles Brown was guilty of any real levity.
Unhappy, that connection undoubtedly was, like the connection of a doomed person with the whole world; however, it would be unfair to think that the engagement to Miss Brawne took a more unfortunate turn than any engagement would likely take for a man in Keats's position—a man without financial independence and hindered by poor health from earning one. Most importantly, it would be both unreasonable and very unfair to assume that either Miss Brawne or Keats's kind and admirable true friend Charles Brown acted with any real insensitivity.
That Keats’s passion was the cause of his death is an assumption which also should be looked at with reserve. Shelley’s immortal Elegy and Byron’s ribald stanzas have been yoked together to draw down the track of years the false notion that adverse criticism killed[lxi] him; and now that that form of murder has been shewn not to have been committed, there seems to be a reluctance to admit that there was no killing in the matter. Sir Charles Dilke says, at page 7 of the Memoir already cited, that Keats “‘gave in’ to a passion which killed him as surely as ever any man was killed by love.” This may be perfectly true; for perhaps love never did kill any man; but surely it must be superfluous to assume any such dire agency in the decease of a man who had hereditary consumption. Coleridge’s often-quoted verdict, “There is death in that hand,” does not stand alone; and the careful reader of Keats’s Life and Letters will find ample evidence of a state of health likely to lead but to one result,—such as the passage already cited in regard to his staying at home determined to rid himself of sore throat, the account of his return, invalided, from the tour in Scotland, which his friends agreed he ought never to have undertaken,[lxii] and his own statement to Mr. Dilke, printed in the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 7), that he “was not in very good health” when at Shanklin.
That Keats’s passion caused his death is an assumption that should be considered with caution. Shelley’s timeless Elegy and Byron’s crude verses have combined over the years to create the false idea that harsh criticism killed him; and now that it’s been shown that this type of murder didn't happen, there seems to be a reluctance to accept that there was no killing involved. Sir Charles Dilke states on page 7 of the referenced Memoir that Keats “‘gave in’ to a passion that killed him just as surely as any man has been killed by love.” This may be perfectly true, because perhaps love never actually killed anyone; but it seems unnecessary to assume such a dire influence in the death of a man with hereditary consumption. Coleridge’s often-cited judgment, “There is death in that hand,” isn’t alone; and a careful reader of Keats’s Life and Letters will find plenty of evidence indicating a health condition likely to lead to a single outcome—like the previously mentioned passage about him staying home to recover from a sore throat, the account of his return, sickly, from the trip to Scotland that his friends believed he should never have gone on, and his own statement to Mr. Dilke, printed in the Life, Letters, &c. (Vol. II, p. 7), that he “was not in very good health” while at Shanklin.
Lord Houghton’s fine perception of character and implied fact sufficed to prevent his giving any colour to the supposition that Keats was not sufficiently cherished and considered in his latter days: the reproaches that occur in some of the present letters do not lead me to alter the impression conveyed to me on this subject by his Lordship’s memoirs; nor do I doubt that others will make the necessary allowance for the fevered condition of the poet’s mind and the harassed state of body and spirit. Mr. Severn tells me that Mrs. and Miss Brawne felt the keenest regret that they had not followed him and Keats to Rome; and, indeed, I understand that there was some talk of a marriage taking place before the departure. Even twenty years after Keats’s death, when Mr. Severn returned to England, the[lxiii] bereaved lady was unable to receive him on account of the extreme painfulness of the associations connected with him.
Lord Houghton’s keen understanding of character and underlying truths was enough to prevent him from suggesting that Keats wasn’t truly valued and cared for in his later days. The criticisms found in some of the current letters don’t change the impression I got from his Lordship’s memoirs on this topic; I’m sure others will also consider the intense emotions of the poet’s mind and the troubled state of his body and spirit. Mr. Severn told me that Mrs. and Miss Brawne deeply regretted not following him and Keats to Rome; in fact, I’ve heard there was talk of a marriage before they left. Even twenty years after Keats’s death, when Mr. Severn came back to England, the grieving lady couldn’t meet him because of the intense pain associated with their memories together.
In Sir Charles Dilke’s Memoir of his grandfather, there is a strange passage wherein he quotes from a letter of Miss Brawne’s written ten years after Keats’s death,—a passage which might lead to an inference very far from the truth:
In Sir Charles Dilke’s Memoir of his grandfather, there’s a strange part where he quotes a letter from Miss Brawne written ten years after Keats’s death—a quote that could suggest something very different from the truth:
“Keats died admired only by his personal friends, and by Shelley; and even ten years after his death, when the first memoir was proposed, the woman he had loved had so little belief in his poetic reputation, that she wrote to Mr. Dilke, ‘The kindest act would be to let him rest for ever in the obscurity to which circumstances have condemned him.’”
“Keats died admired only by his close friends and Shelley; even ten years later, when the first memoir was suggested, the woman he loved had so little faith in his poetic legacy that she wrote to Mr. Dilke, ‘The kindest thing would be to let him rest forever in the obscurity that circumstances have forced upon him.’”
That Miss Brawne should have written thus at the end of ten years’ widowhood does not by any means imply[lxiv] weakness of belief in Keats’s fame. Obscurity of life is not identical with obscurity of works; and any one must surely perceive that an application made to her for material for a biography, or even any proposal to publish one, must have been intensely painful to her. She could not bear any discussion of him, and was, till her death in 1865, peculiarly reticent about him; but in her latter years, as a matron with grown-up children, when the world had decided that Keats was not to be left in that obscurity, she said more than once that the letters of the poet, which form the present volume, and about which she was otherwise most uncommunicative, should be carefully guarded, “as they would some day be considered of value.”
That Miss Brawne wrote like this after ten years of being a widow doesn’t necessarily show any doubt about Keats’s reputation. A quiet life doesn’t mean his work is also obscure; anyone can see that being asked for material for a biography or even any suggestion to publish one must have been extremely painful for her. She couldn’t handle any conversation about him and was especially reserved about him until her death in 1865. However, in her later years, as a mother of grown children, when society had decided that Keats wouldn’t be forgotten, she mentioned more than once that the poet's letters, which are part of this book and about which she was otherwise very tight-lipped, should be carefully protected “as they would someday be valued.”
It would be irrelevant to the present purpose to recount the facts of this honoured lady’s life; but one or two personal traits may be recorded. She had the gift of independence or self-sufficingness[lxv] in a high degree; and it was not easy to turn her from a settled purpose. This strength of character showed itself in a noticeable manner in the great crisis of her life, and in a manner, too, that has to some extent robbed her of the small credit of devotion to the man whose love she had accepted; for those who knew the truth would not have it discussed, and those who decried her did not know the truth.
It would be irrelevant to the current purpose to recount the facts of this esteemed lady's life; however, a couple of personal traits can be noted. She had a high degree of independence and self-sufficiency, and it was not easy to sway her from a determined goal. This strength of character became evident during the crucial moments of her life, and in a way that has somewhat diminished her deserved recognition for the devotion to the man whose love she had accepted; because those who knew the truth preferred not to discuss it, and those who criticized her were unaware of the reality.
On the news of Keats’s death, she cut her hair short and took to a widow’s cap and mourning. She wandered about solitary, day after day, on Hampstead Heath, frequently alarming the family by staying there far into the night, and having to be sought with lanterns. Before friends and acquaintance she affected a buoyancy of spirit which has tended to wrong her memory; but her sister carried into advanced life the recollection that, when the stress of keeping up appearances passed, Fanny[lxvi] spent such time as she remained at home in her own room,—into which the child would peer with awe, and see the unwedded widow poring in helpless despair over Keats’s letters.
On hearing about Keats’s death, she cut her hair short and started wearing a widow’s cap and mourning clothes. She wandered alone, day after day, on Hampstead Heath, often worrying her family by staying there late into the night, requiring them to search for her with lanterns. In front of friends and acquaintances, she tried to appear cheerful, which has misrepresented her memory; but her sister carried into later life the memory that, once the pressure to maintain appearances faded, Fanny[lxvi] spent the time she was at home in her own room—where the child would peek in with awe and see the unmarried widow lost in despair over Keats’s letters.
Without being in general a systematic student she was a voluminous reader in widely varying branches of literature; and some out-of-the-way subjects she followed up with great perseverance. One of her strong points of learning was the history of costume, in which she was so well read as to be able to answer any question of detail at a moment’s notice. This was quite independent of individual adornment; though, à propos of Keats’s remark, “she manages to make her hair look well,” it may be mentioned that some special pains were taken in this particular, the hair being worn in curls over the forehead, interlaced with ribands. She was an eager politician, with very strong convictions, fiery and animated in discussion; and this characteristic she preserved till the end.
Without being a systematic student, she was an enthusiastic reader across a wide range of literature; and she pursued some unique subjects with great determination. One of her strong areas of knowledge was the history of costume, and she was so well-read that she could answer any detail-related question in an instant. This knowledge was separate from personal style; however, in reference to Keats’s comment, “she manages to make her hair look good,” it’s worth noting that she took special care in this regard, wearing her hair in curls over her forehead, intertwined with ribbons. She was a passionate politician, holding very strong beliefs and lively in discussions, and she maintained this trait until the end.
The sonnet on Keats’s preference for blue eyes,
The sonnet about Keats’s preference for blue eyes,
written in reply to John Hamilton Reynolds’s sonnet[18] in which a preference is expressed for dark eyes,—
written in response to John Hamilton Reynolds’s sonnet[18] where he expresses a preference for dark eyes,—
has no immediate connexion with Miss Brawne; but it is of interest to note that the colour of her eyes was blue, so that the poet was faithful to his preference. No good portrait of her is extant, except the silhouette of which a reproduction is given opposite page 3: a miniature which is perhaps no longer extant is said by her family to have been almost worthless, while the silhouette is regarded as characteristic and accurate as far as such things can be. Mr. Severn, however, told me that the[lxviii] draped figure in Titian’s picture of Sacred and Profane Love, in the Borghese Palace at Rome, resembled her greatly, so much so that he used to visit it frequently, and copied it, on this account. Keats, it seems, never saw this noble picture containing the only satisfactory likeness of Fanny Brawne.
has no direct connection to Miss Brawne; however, it's interesting to note that her eye color was blue, which aligns with the poet’s preference. There's no good portrait of her available, except for the silhouette that’s reproduced opposite page 3: a miniature that may no longer exist is considered almost worthless by her family, while the silhouette is seen as characteristic and accurate as far as such representations can be. Mr. Severn, though, mentioned to me that the draped figure in Titian’s painting of Sacred and Profane Love, located in the Borghese Palace in Rome, resembled her closely; he visited it often and copied it for that reason. It appears that Keats never saw this remarkable painting that contains the only satisfactory likeness of Fanny Brawne.
The portrait of Keats which forms the frontispiece to this volume has been etched by Mr. W. B. Scott from a drawing of Severn’s, to which the following words are attached:
The portrait of Keats featured as the frontispiece of this volume was etched by Mr. W. B. Scott from a drawing by Severn, which includes the following words:
“28th Jany. 3 o’clock mg. Drawn to keep me awake—a deadly sweat was on him all this night.”
“28th Jan. 3 o’clock a.m. Drawn to keep me awake—a chilling sweat was on him all night.”
Keats’s old schoolfellow, the late Charles Cowden Clarke, assured me in 1876 that this drawing was “a marvellously correct likeness.”
Keats’s old school friend, the late Charles Cowden Clarke, told me in 1876 that this drawing was "a remarkably accurate likeness."
Postscript.—During the past ten years my work in connexion with the writings and doings of Keats has involved the[lxix] discovery and examination of a great mass of documents of a more or less authoritative kind, both printed and manuscript; and many points which were matters of conjecture in 1877 are now no longer so.
Postscript.—Over the past ten years, my work related to the writings and actions of Keats has involved the[lxix] discovery and analysis of a large collection of documents that are somewhat authoritative, both printed and handwritten; and many issues that were speculative in 1877 are now established.
Others also have busied themselves about Keats; and, since the foregoing remarks were first published in 1878, Mr. J. G. Speed, a grandson of George Keats, has identified himself with the contributor to the New York World, alluded to at pages xlviii and xlix, in reissuing in America Lord Houghton’s edition of Keats’s Poems, together with a collection of letters.[19] This work, though containing one new letter, unhappily threw no real light whatever either on the inconsistencies of text already referred to or on any other[lxx] question connected with Keats. Later, Professor Sidney Colvin has issued, with a very different result, his volume on Keats[20] included in the “English Men of Letters” series; and I have not hesitated to use, without individual specification, such illustrative facts as have become available, whether from Mr. Colvin’s work or from my own edition of Keats’s whole writings,[21] which also appeared some time after the publication of the Letters to Fanny Brawne, though years before Mr. Colvin’s book.
Others have also taken an interest in Keats; and since the earlier comments were first published in 1878, Mr. J. G. Speed, a grandson of George Keats, has aligned himself with the contributor to the New York World, mentioned on pages xlviii and xlix, by reissuing in America Lord Houghton’s edition of Keats’s Poems, along with a collection of letters.[19] This publication, while it includes one new letter, unfortunately did not shed any real light on the inconsistencies of the text already mentioned or any other[lxx] issues related to Keats. Later, Professor Sidney Colvin released his volume on Keats[20] as part of the “English Men of Letters” series, with a very different outcome; and I have not hesitated to incorporate, without specific attribution, such illustrative facts that have become available, whether from Mr. Colvin’s work or from my own edition of Keats’s complete writings,[21] which was also published some time after the Letters to Fanny Brawne, although years before Mr. Colvin’s book.
Two letters, traced since the body of the present volume passed through the press are added at the close of the series; and I have now reason to think that the letter numbered XXVIII should precede that numbered XXV, the date[lxxi] being probably the 23rd or 25th of February, 1820, rather than the 4th of March as suggested in the foot-note at page 78.
The cousin of the Misses Reynolds whom Keats described as a Charmian was Miss Jane Cox,[22] at least so I was most positively assured by Miss Charlotte Reynolds in 1883.
The cousin of the Misses Reynolds, whom Keats called a Charmian, was Miss Jane Cox,[22] at least that’s what Miss Charlotte Reynolds firmly told me in 1883.
It is now pretty clear that the intention to return to Winchester on the 14th of September, 1819, was not carried out quite literally, and that Keats really returned to that city on the 15th. In regard to the foot-note at page 33, it should now be stated that, in a letter post-marked the 16th of October, 1819, he speaks of having returned to Hampstead after lodging two or three days in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Dilke.
It is now pretty clear that the plan to return to Winchester on September 14, 1819, didn’t go exactly as planned, and that Keats actually got back to that city on the 15th. Regarding the footnote at page 33, it should be noted that in a letter dated October 16, 1819, he mentions having returned to Hampstead after staying for two or three days near Mrs. Dilke's place.
Having mentioned in the foot-note at page 101 that Keats had elsewhere recorded[lxxii] himself and Tom as firm believers in immortality, I must now state that the record cited was a garbled one. Lord Houghton, working from transcripts furnished to him by the late Mr. Jeffrey, the second husband of George Keats’s widow, printed the words “I have a firm belief in immortality, and so had Tom.” The corresponding sentence in the autograph letter is “I have scarce a doubt of an immortality of some kind or another, neither had Tom.”
Having noted in the footnote at page 101 that Keats had previously written about himself and Tom as strong believers in immortality, I must clarify that the record mentioned was inaccurate. Lord Houghton, using transcripts provided by the late Mr. Jeffrey, the second husband of George Keats’s widow, published the phrase “I have a firm belief in immortality, and so had Tom.” However, the actual sentence from the handwritten letter reads, “I have scarce a doubt of an immortality of some kind or another, neither had Tom.”
Finally, it remains to supply an omission which I find it hard to account for. In Medwin’s Life of Shelley occur some important extracts about Keats, seeming to emanate from Fanny Brawne. In 1877 I learnt from the lady’s family that Medwin’s mysteriously introduced correspondent was no other than she. Indeed I had actually cut the relative portion of Medwin’s book out for use in this Introduction; but by some inexplicable oversight I omitted even to[lxxiii] refer to it; and it remained for Professor Colvin to call attention to it. I now gladly follow his lead in citing words which have a direct bearing upon the vexed question of the appreciation of Keats by her whom he loved; and, in the appendix to the present edition, the passage in question will be found.
Finally, I need to address an omission that I find hard to explain. Medwin’s Life of Shelley includes some important excerpts about Keats that appear to come from Fanny Brawne. In 1877, I learned from her family that Medwin’s mysteriously mentioned correspondent was actually her. I even cut the relevant part of Medwin’s book to use in this Introduction, but due to some strange oversight, I failed to mention it at all; it was left to Professor Colvin to bring it to light. I now happily follow his example in citing words that directly relate to the complicated question of how Keats was appreciated by the woman he loved. The passage in question can be found in the appendix of this edition.
H. BUXTON FORMAN.
H. Buxton Forman.
46 Marlborough Hill, St. John’s Wood,
November, 1888.
46 Marlborough Hill, St. John's Wood,
November, 1888.
CORRECTIONS.
Page 18, there should be a foot-note to the effect that Meleager in line 6 is written Maleager in the original.
Page 18, there should be a footnote stating that Meleager in line 6 is written Maleager in the original.
LETTERS
TO FANNY BRAWNE.
I to 9.
SHANKLIN, WINCHESTER, WESTMINSTER.
Fanny Brawne from a silhouette by Monsr Edouart.
Fanny Brawne from a silhouette by Monsr Edouart.
I-IX.
Shanklin, Winchester, Westminster.
I.
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday.
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thurs.
[Postmark, Newport, 3 July, 1819.]
[Postmark, Newport, July 3, 1819.]
My dearest Lady,
My dear Lady,
I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a Letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night—’twas too much like one out of Rousseau’s Heloise. I am more reasonable this morning. The morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I love so much: for at night, when the lonely day has[4] closed, and the lonely, silent, unmusical Chamber is waiting to receive me as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would not have you see those Rhapsodies which I once thought it impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me[23]] either too unhappy or perhaps a little mad. I am now at a very pleasant Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine. I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here and breathing and wandering as free as a stag about this beautiful Coast if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me. I have never known any unalloy’d Happiness for many days together: the death or sickness of some one[24] has always spoilt my hours—and[5] now when none such troubles oppress me, it is you must confess very hard that another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my Fate does[6] not turn up Pam[25] or at least a Court-card. Though I could centre my Happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely—indeed if I thought you felt as much for me as I do for you at this moment I do not think I could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one embrace. But no—I must live upon hope and Chance. In case of the worst that can happen, I shall still love you—but what hatred shall I have for another! Some lines I read the other day are continually ringing a peal in my ears:
I’m glad I didn’t get a chance to send the letter I wrote for you on Tuesday night—it was too much like something out of Rousseau’s Heloise. I feel more reasonable this morning. Morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful girl I love so much; at night, when the lonely day has closed and the silent, unmusical room awaits me like a tomb, my passion completely takes over. I wouldn’t want you to see those rhapsodies I once thought I could never succumb to, and which I used to laugh at in others, for fear you’d think I was either too unhappy or maybe a little crazy. Right now, I’m looking out from a lovely cottage window at a beautiful hilly landscape with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is stunning. I don’t know how light my spirit could feel or what joy I might find living here and wandering freely like a stag along this beautiful coast if the thought of you didn’t weigh so heavily on me. I’ve never experienced pure happiness for many days in a row; the death or illness of someone has always ruined my hours—and now that I'm free from such troubles, it's hard to admit that another kind of pain hangs over me. Ask yourself, my love, if you aren’t very cruel to have tied me up like this, to have taken away my freedom. Will you admit this in the letter you must write right away and do everything you can to comfort me with it? Make it as rich as a drink of poppies to intoxicate me—write the sweetest words and kiss them so I can at least touch my lips where yours have been. I don’t know how to express my devotion to such a beautiful form; I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived just three summer days—three such days with you could fill me with more joy than fifty ordinary years ever could. But no matter how selfish I might feel, I know I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London unless my fate brings me Pam or at least some card from the court. Even though my happiness could center around you, I can’t expect to monopolize your heart so completely—in fact, if I thought you felt as much for me as I do for you at this moment, I don’t think I could hold back from seeing you again tomorrow just for the joy of one embrace. But no—I have to live on hope and chance. If the worst happens, I will still love you—but how will I hate anyone else! Some lines I read the other day keep ringing in my ears:
J.
J.
Do write immediately. There is no Post from this Place, so you must address Post Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know before night I shall curse myself for having sent you so cold a Letter; yet it is better to do it as much in my senses as possible. Be as kind as the distance will permit to your
Do write back right away. There's no mail service from here, so you need to send it to the Post Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know I'll regret sending you such a cold letter by tonight, but it's better to do it while I'm as composed as I can be. Please be as kind as distance allows to your
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
II.
July 8th.
July 8.
[Postmark, Newport, 10 July, 1819.]
[Postmark, Newport, July 10, 1819.]
My sweet Girl,
My sweet girl,
Your Letter gave me more delight than any thing in the world but yourself could do; indeed I am almost astonished that any absent one should have that luxurious power over my senses which I feel. Even when I am not thinking of you I receive your influence and a tenderer nature stealing upon me. All my thoughts, my unhappiest days and nights, have I find not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, but made it so intense that I am miserable that you are not with me: or rather breathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life. I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it,[9] lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, ’twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures. You mention ‘horrid people’ and ask me whether it depend upon them whether I see you again. Do understand me, my love, in this. I have so much of you in my heart that I must turn Mentor when I see a chance of harm befalling you. I would never see any thing but Pleasure in your eyes, love on your lips, and Happiness in your steps. I would wish to see you among those amusements suitable to your inclinations and spirits; so that our loves might be a delight in the midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather than a resource from vexations and cares. But I doubt much, in case of the worst, whether I shall be philosopher enough to follow my own Lessons: if I saw my resolution give you a pain I could not. Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since without that I could[10] never have lov’d you?—I cannot conceive any beginning of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its Power. You say you are afraid I shall think you do not love me—in saying this you make me ache the more to be near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, I do not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; and here I must confess, that (since I am on that subject) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given[11] away by a Novel. I have seen your Comet, and only wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well whose illness makes him rather a melancholy companion: and the more so as so to conquer his feelings and hide them from me, with a forc’d Pun. I kiss’d your writing over in the hope you had indulg’d me by leaving a trace of honey. What was your dream? Tell it me and I will tell you the interpretation thereof.
Your letter brought me more joy than anything else in the world except for you. Honestly, I’m almost amazed that someone who is not here can have such a strong impact on my senses. Even when I’m not thinking about you, I can still feel your presence, and a gentler side of me comes alive. All of my thoughts, especially my saddest days and nights, haven't cured my love of beauty; if anything, they’ve made it so intense that I feel miserable without you. Instead, I’m just stuck in a dull kind of patience that can hardly be called life. I never understood what this kind of love was until you showed me; I didn’t believe in it. My imagination was scared of it, thinking it might consume me. But if you truly love me, even if there’s some pain, it won’t be more than we can handle when mixed with joy. You mention "horrid people" and ask if they control whether I see you again. Please understand, my love, that I have so much of you in my heart that I can’t help but feel protective when I sense any danger to you. I want to see nothing but joy in your eyes, love on your lips, and happiness in your steps. I wish to see you enjoying activities that suit your interests and spirit, so our love can be a pleasure among other delights, rather than a refuge from troubles and worries. But I doubt whether I’ll be wise enough to follow my own advice in the worst case; if I saw my resolve cause you pain, I wouldn’t be able to do it. Why shouldn’t I speak of your beauty, since without it, I could never have loved you? I can't imagine a love I have for you that began without beauty. There may be a kind of love that I respect and can admire in others, but it doesn't have the richness, the vibrance, or the magic of the love I feel. So let me talk about your beauty, even if it puts me at risk, especially if you’re cruel enough to test its power elsewhere. You say you’re afraid I might think you don’t love me—saying this only makes me want to be near you even more. I’m using my time here diligently; I don’t pass a day without writing some blank verse or putting together rhymes. And I have to admit that (since I’m on that topic) I love you even more because I believe you like me for who I am and nothing else. I’ve come across women who I genuinely think would prefer to be married to a poem and given away by a novel. I’ve seen your comet, and I only wish it meant that poor Rice would get better, as his illness makes him a rather sad companion, especially since he tries to hide his feelings from me with forced jokes. I kissed your writing in hopes that you left a hint of sweetness. What was your dream? Tell me, and I’ll share its interpretation.
Ever yours, my love!
Always yours, my love!
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
Do not accuse me of delay—we have not here an opportunity of sending letters every day. Write speedily.
Do not blame me for the delay—we don’t have the chance to send letters every day. Write quickly.
III.
Sunday Night.
Sunday Night.
[Postmark, 27 July, 1819.[27]]
My sweet Girl,
My sweet girl,
I hope you did not blame me much for not obeying your request of a Letter on Saturday: we have had four in our small room playing at cards night and morning leaving me no undisturb’d opportunity to write. Now Rice and Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown to my sorrow confirms the account you give of your ill health. You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour——for what is in the world? I say you cannot conceive; it is impossible you should[13] look with such eyes upon me as I have upon you: it cannot be. Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ’d in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with you—two things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt the Letter as the very next time I saw you I thought you manifested some dislike to me. If you should ever feel for Man at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to happen—only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as a Man as you are as a Woman. Perhaps I am too vehement, then fancy me on my knees, especially when I mention a part of your Letter which hurt me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn “but you must be satisfied in knowing that I admired you much more[14] than your friend.” My dear love, I cannot believe there ever was or ever could be any thing to admire in me especially as far as sight goes—I cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be admired. You are, I love you; all I can bring you is a swooning admiration of your Beauty. I hold that place among Men which snub-nos’d brunettes with meeting eyebrows do among women—they are trash to me—unless I should find one among them with a fire in her heart like the one that burns in mine. You absorb me in spite of myself—you alone: for I look not forward with any pleasure to what is call’d being settled in the world; I tremble at domestic cares—yet for you I would meet them, though if it would leave you the happier I would rather die than do so. I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world: it[15] batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it. From no others would I take it. I am indeed astonish’d to find myself so careless of all charms but yours—remembering as I do the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest with me. What softer words can I find for you after this—what it is I will not read. Nor will I say more here, but in a Postscript answer any thing else you may have mentioned in your Letter in so many words—for I am distracted with a thousand thoughts. I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
I hope you didn't blame me too much for not writing you that letter on Saturday. We had four people in our small room playing cards all day and night, leaving me no quiet time to write. Now that Rice and Martin are gone, I'm free. Unfortunately, Brown confirms the news you shared about your poor health. You can't imagine how much I long to be with you—I'd give anything for just one hour—because what else is there in this world? I say you can't understand; it's impossible for you to look at me the way I look at you. It just can’t be. Forgive me if I ramble a bit this evening; I've spent all day working on a very abstract poem and I'm deeply in love with you—two things that should excuse me. Believe me, it hasn't taken forever for me to give myself to you; I wrote myself as your servant the very first week I met you, but I burned that letter because the next time I saw you, I thought you seemed to dislike me. If you ever felt for a man at first glance what I felt for you, I’d be lost. But I wouldn't blame you; I would despise myself if that were to happen—only I would explode if it weren’t a man who was as wonderful as you are as a woman. Maybe I’m being too intense, so picture me on my knees, especially when I mention part of your letter that hurt me; you wrote, speaking of Mr. Severn, “but you must be satisfied in knowing that I admired you much more than your friend.” My dear love, I can't believe there ever was or could be anything to admire in me, especially when it comes to looks—I can’t be admired; I’m not something to be admired. You are, I love you; all I can offer you is a faint admiration of your beauty. I hold a place among men similar to how snub-nosed brunettes with meeting eyebrows hold a place among women—they mean nothing to me—unless I find one of them with a fire in her heart like the one that burns in mine. You consume me despite myself—you alone: I don’t look forward with any excitement to what’s called settling down in the world; I dread domestic responsibilities—but for you, I would face them, although if it would make you happier, I’d rather die than do so. I have two luxuries to think about during my walks: your loveliness and the hour of my death. Oh, how I wish I could possess them both in the same moment. I hate the world: it beats down too much on my self-will, and I wish I could take a sweet poison from your lips to escape it. I wouldn’t take it from anyone else. I’m truly astonished to find myself so indifferent to all charms except yours—especially remembering the time when even a little ribbon caught my interest. What softer words can I find for you after this—what I will not read. And I won’t say more here, but I’ll answer anything else you mentioned in your letter in a postscript because I’m overwhelmed with a thousand thoughts. Tonight, I’ll imagine you as Venus and pray, pray, pray to your star like a pagan.
Your’s ever, fair Star,
Yours always, dear Star,
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
My seal is mark’d like a family table cloth with my Mother’s initial F for[16] Fanny:[28] put between my Father’s initials. You will soon hear from me again. My respectful Compliments to your Mother. Tell Margaret I’ll send her a reef of best rocks and tell Sam[29] I will give him my light bay hunter if he will tie the Bishop hand and foot and pack him in a hamper and send him down for me to bathe him for his health with a Necklace of good snubby stones about his Neck.[30]
My seal is marked like a family tablecloth with my mom's initial F for[16] Fanny:[28] placed between my dad's initials. You'll hear from me again soon. Please send my respectful regards to your mom. Tell Margaret I'll send her a bunch of the best rocks, and let Sam[29] know I'll give him my light bay hunter if he ties the Bishop up hand and foot, packs him in a hamper, and sends him down for me to bathe him for his health with a necklace of good, snubby stones around his neck.[30]
IV.
Shanklin, Thursday Night.
Shanklin, Thursday evening.
[Postmark, Newport, 9 August, 1819.]
[Postmark, Newport, August 9, 1819.]
My dear Girl,
My dear girl,
You say you must not have any more such Letters as the last: I’ll try that you shall not by running obstinate the other way. Indeed I have not fair play—I am not idle enough for proper downright love-letters—I leave this minute a scene in our Tragedy[31] and[18] see you (think it not blasphemy) through the mist of Plots, speeches, counterplots and counterspeeches. The Lover is madder than I am—I am nothing to him—he has a figure like the Statue of Meleager and double distilled fire in his heart. Thank God for my diligence! were it not for that I should be miserable. I encourage it, and strive not to think of you—but when I have succeeded in doing so all day and as far as midnight, you return, as soon as this artificial excitement goes off, more severely from the fever I am left in. Upon my soul I cannot say what you could like me for. I do not think myself a fright any more than I do Mr. A., Mr. B., and Mr. C.—yet if I were a woman I should not like A. B. C. But enough of this. So you intend to hold me to my promise of seeing you in a short time. I shall keep it[19] with as much sorrow as gladness: for I am not one of the Paladins of old who liv’d upon water grass and smiles for years together. What though would I not give tonight for the gratification of my eyes alone? This day week we shall move to Winchester; for I feel the want of a Library.[32] Brown will leave me there to pay a visit to Mr. Snook at Bedhampton: in his absence I will flit to you and back. I will stay very little while, for as I am in a train of writing now I fear to disturb it—let it have its course bad or good—in it I shall try my own strength and the public pulse. At Winchester I shall get your Letters more readily; and it[20] being a cathedral City I shall have a pleasure always a great one to me when near a Cathedral, of reading them during the service up and down the Aisle.
You say you don’t want any more letters like the last one: I’ll make sure you don’t get any by being stubborn in the other direction. Honestly, I’m not being treated fairly—I’m not idle enough for proper love letters—I’m leaving a dramatic scene right now[31] and[18] see you (don’t think it’s crazy) through the haze of plots, speeches, counterplots, and counterspeeches. The lover is crazier than I am—I mean nothing to him—he has a figure like the statue of Meleager and burning passion in his heart. Thank God for my busyness! If it weren’t for that I would be miserable. I try to encourage it and avoid thinking of you—but just when I manage to do that all day until midnight, you come back, and when this artificial excitement wears off, I feel even worse than before. Honestly, I can’t figure out what you like about me. I don’t think I’m any uglier than Mr. A., Mr. B., or Mr. C.—but if I were a woman, I wouldn’t like A., B., or C. But enough of this. So you plan to hold me to my promise of seeing you soon. I’ll keep it[19] with as much sadness as happiness: I’m not like the knights of old who lived on water, grass, and smiles for years. What wouldn’t I give tonight just for the pleasure of seeing you? We’ll be moving to Winchester in a week; I feel the need for a library.[32] Brown will leave me there to visit Mr. Snook at Bedhampton: while he’s gone, I’ll pop in to see you and then head back. I won’t stay too long, as I’m in the middle of writing and worry I might disrupt it—whether it’s good or bad, I want it to run its course—I’ll measure my own strength against the public's reaction. In Winchester, I’ll have an easier time getting your letters; and since it’s a cathedral city, I’ll get great enjoyment from reading them during the service while walking up and down the aisle.
Friday Morning.—Just as I had written thus far last night, Brown came down in his morning coat and nightcap, saying he had been refresh’d by a good sleep and was very hungry. I left him eating and went to bed, being too tired to enter into any discussions. You would delight very greatly in the walks about here; the Cliffs, woods, hills, sands, rocks &c. about here. They are however not so fine but I shall give them a hearty good bye to exchange them for my Cathedral.—Yet again I am not so tired of Scenery as to hate Switzerland. We might spend a pleasant year at Berne or Zurich—if it should please Venus to hear my “Beseech thee to hear us O Goddess.” And if she should hear, God forbid we[21] should what people call, settle—turn into a pond, a stagnant Lethe—a vile crescent, row or buildings. Better be imprudent moveables than prudent fixtures. Open my Mouth at the Street door like the Lion’s head at Venice to receive hateful cards, letters, messages. Go out and wither at tea parties; freeze at dinners; bake at dances; simmer at routs. No my love, trust yourself to me and I will find you nobler amusements, fortune favouring. I fear you will not receive this till Sunday or Monday: as the Irishman would write do not in the mean while hate me. I long to be off for Winchester, for I begin to dislike the very door-posts here—the names, the pebbles. You ask after my health, not telling me whether you are better. I am quite well. You going out is no proof that you are: how is it? Late hours will do you great harm. What fairing is it? I was alone for a couple of days while Brown went gadding over the country[22] with his ancient knapsack. Now I like his society as well as any Man’s, yet regretted his return—it broke in upon me like a Thunderbolt. I had got in a dream among my Books—really luxuriating in a solitude and silence you alone should have disturb’d.
Friday Morning.—Just as I had written this much last night, Brown came down in his morning coat and nightcap, saying he had a good sleep and was very hungry. I left him eating and went to bed, too tired to get into any discussions. You would really enjoy the walks around here; the cliffs, woods, hills, sands, rocks, etc. They aren't so impressive that I won't say a hearty goodbye to trade them for my Cathedral. Still, I’m not so tired of the scenery that I hate Switzerland. We could spend a nice year in Bern or Zurich—if Venus happens to listen to my “I beseech you to hear us, O Goddess.” And if she does listen, God forbid we should what people call, settle—turn into a stagnant pond, a dull Lethe—a wretched collection of buildings. Better to be unpredictable moveables than secure fixtures. I’d rather open my mouth at the street door like the Lion’s head in Venice to receive annoying cards, letters, and messages. Go out and wither at tea parties; freeze at dinners; bake at dances; simmer at parties. No, my love, trust yourself to me and I’ll find you better amusements, fortune willing. I fear you won’t get this until Sunday or Monday: as the Irishman would write, don’t hate me in the meantime. I can’t wait to leave for Winchester, as I’m starting to dislike even the door frames here—the names, the pebbles. You ask about my health, not saying whether you are better. I’m quite well. Your going out doesn’t prove that you are: how is it? Late nights will do you a lot of harm. What’s happening? I was alone for a couple of days while Brown was wandering around the countryside with his old knapsack. I enjoy his company as much as anyone’s, but I regretted his return—it interrupted me like a thunderbolt. I had gotten lost in a dream among my books—really enjoying a solitude and silence that only you should have disturbed.
Your ever affectionate
Your always affectionate
JOHN KEATS.
JOHN KEATS.
V.
[Postmark, 16 August, 1819.]
[Postmark, August 16, 1819.]
My dear Girl—what shall I say for myself? I have been here four days and not yet written you—’tis true I have had many teasing letters of business to dismiss—and I have been in the Claws, like a serpent in an Eagle’s, of the last act of our Tragedy. This is no excuse; I know it; I do not presume to offer it. I have no right either[24] to ask a speedy answer to let me know how lenient you are—I must remain some days in a Mist—I see you through a Mist: as I daresay you do me by this time. Believe in the first Letters I wrote you: I assure you I felt as I wrote—I could not write so now. The thousand images I have had pass through my brain—my uneasy spirits—my unguess’d fate—all spread as a veil between me and you. Remember I have had no idle leisure to brood over you—’tis well perhaps I have not. I could not have endured the throng of jealousies that used to haunt me before I had plunged so deeply into imaginary interests. I would fain, as my sails are set, sail on without an interruption for a Brace of Months longer—I am in complete cue—in the fever; and shall in these four Months do an immense deal. This Page as my eye skims over it I see is excessively unloverlike and ungallant—I cannot help it—I am no officer in yawning quarters;[25] no Parson-Romeo. My Mind is heap’d to the full; stuff’d like a cricket ball—if I strive to fill it more it would burst. I know the generality of women would hate me for this; that I should have so unsoften’d, so hard a Mind as to forget them; forget the brightest realities for the dull imaginations of my own Brain. But I conjure you to give it a fair thinking; and ask yourself whether ’tis not better to explain my feelings to you, than write artificial Passion.—Besides, you would see through it. It would be vain to strive to deceive you. ’Tis harsh, harsh, I know it. My heart seems now made of iron—I could not write a proper answer to an invitation to Idalia. You are my Judge: my forehead is on the ground. You seem offended at a little simple innocent childish playfulness in my last. I did not seriously mean to say that you were endeavouring to make me keep my promise. I beg your pardon for it. ’Tis but just[26] your Pride should take the alarm—seriously. You say I may do as I please—I do not think with any conscience I can; my cash resources are for the present stopp’d; I fear for some time. I spend no money, but it increases my debts. I have all my life thought very little of these matters—they seem not to belong to me. It may be a proud sentence; but by Heaven I am as entirely above all matters of interest as the Sun is above the Earth—and though of my own money I should be careless; of my Friends’ I must be spare. You see how I go on—like so many strokes of a hammer. I cannot help it—I am impell’d, driven to it. I am not happy enough for silken Phrases, and silver sentences. I can no more use soothing words to you than if I were at this moment engaged in a charge of Cavalry. Then you will say I should not write at all.—Should I not? This Winchester is a fine place: a beautiful Cathedral and many other[27] ancient buildings in the Environs. The little coffin of a room at Shanklin is changed for a large room, where I can promenade at my pleasure—looks out onto a beautiful—blank side of a house. It is strange I should like it better than the view of the sea from our window at Shanklin. I began to hate the very posts there—the voice of the old Lady over the way was getting a great Plague. The Fisherman’s face never altered any more than our black teapot—the knob however was knock’d off to my little relief. I am getting a great dislike of the picturesque; and can only relish it over again by seeing you enjoy it. One of the pleasantest things I have seen lately was at Cowes. The Regent in his Yatch[34] (I think they spell it) was anchored opposite—a beautiful vessel—and all the Yatchs [28]and boats on the coast were passing and repassing it; and circuiting and tacking about it in every direction—I never beheld anything so silent, light, and graceful.—As we pass’d over to Southampton, there was nearly an accident. There came by a Boat well mann’d, with two naval officers at the stern. Our Bow-lines took the top of their little mast and snapped it off close by the board. Had the mast been a little stouter they would have been upset. In so trifling an event I could not help admiring our seamen—neither officer nor man in the whole Boat moved a muscle—they scarcely notic’d it even with words. Forgive me for this flint-worded Letter, and believe and see that I cannot think of you without some sort of energy—though mal à propos. Even as I leave off it seems to me that a few more moments’ thought of you would uncrystallize and dissolve me. I must not give way to it—but turn to my writing again—if I[29] fail I shall die hard. O my love, your lips are growing sweet again to my fancy—I must forget them. Ever your affectionate
My dear girl—what should I say for myself? I’ve been here for four days and haven’t written to you yet. It’s true that I’ve had a lot of annoying business letters to deal with, and I’ve been caught up, like a snake in an eagle’s claws, in the last act of our tragedy. This isn’t an excuse; I know that and don’t mean to offer it. I don't have the right to ask for a quick reply to know how forgiving you are—I have to stay in a fog for a few more days—I see you through a fog, as I’m sure you see me by now. Trust the first letters I wrote you; I assure you I felt as I wrote them—I can’t write like that now. The countless images that have crossed my mind—my restless spirit—my uncertain fate—have all created a barrier between us. Remember, I haven’t had any idle time to dwell on you—maybe it’s better that I haven’t. I couldn’t have handled the crowd of jealousies I used to have before I dove so deeply into imaginary concerns. I’d like to continue sailing without interruption for another couple of months—I’m completely focused—I’m in the zone; and in these four months, I’ll accomplish a lot. As I skim over this page, I see it’s way too unromantic and uncharming—I can’t help it—I’m no officer in dull quarters; no Parson-Romeo. My mind is full; stuffed like a cricket ball—if I try to cram more in, it might burst. I know most women would dislike me for this; that I could be so tough, so hardened, as to forget them; forget the brightest realities for the dull thoughts of my own mind. But I urge you to really think about this; ask yourself if it’s not better to be honest about my feelings than to write fake passion.—Besides, you’d see right through it. It would be pointless to try to deceive you. It’s harsh, I know. My heart feels like it’s made of iron—I couldn’t respond properly to an invitation to Idalia. You’re my judge: I’m bowing my head. You seem offended by a bit of innocent childish playfulness in my last letter. I didn’t mean to imply that you were trying to make me keep my promise. I’m sorry for that. It’s only fair for your pride to take offense—seriously. You say I can do as I please—but I don’t think I can in good conscience; my cash situation is currently halted; I fear it will be for a while. I’m not spending any money, but my debts are piling up. I’ve always thought very little about these matters—they don’t seem to belong to me. It may be a proud statement; but by heaven, I’m as entirely above all financial matters as the sun is above the earth—and though I’d be careless with my own money, I must be cautious with my friends’. You can see how I go on—like so many blows from a hammer. I can’t help it—I’m compelled, driven to it. I’m not happy enough for soft phrases and silver sentences. I can’t use comforting words to you any more than if I were currently engaged in a cavalry charge. Then you might say I shouldn’t write at all.—Should I not? This Winchester is a nice place: a beautiful cathedral and many other old buildings nearby. The tiny coffin of a room at Shanklin has been replaced with a larger room, where I can walk around as I please—it looks out onto a beautiful—blank side of a house. It’s strange that I prefer this view over the sea we had at Shanklin. I began to despise even the posts there—the old lady’s voice across the way was becoming quite a nuisance. The fisherman’s face remained unchanged, just like our black teapot—the knob, however, was knocked off to my slight relief. I’m developing a strong dislike for the picturesque; and can only enjoy it again by seeing you savoring it. One of the nicest things I’ve seen lately was at Cowes. The Regent was anchored nearby in his yacht (I think that’s how they spell it)—a beautiful vessel—and all the yachts and boats along the coast were passing by, circling and maneuvering around it in every direction—I’ve never seen anything so silent, light, and graceful.—As we crossed over to Southampton, there was almost an accident. A well-manned boat with two naval officers at the stern passed by. Our bow-lines caught the top of their little mast and snapped it off close to the deck. Had the mast been a little sturdier, they would have capsized. In such a trivial event, I couldn’t help but admire our sailors—neither officer nor crew moved a muscle—they hardly even noticed it with words. Forgive me for this blunt letter, and know that I can’t think of you without some sort of energy—though inappropriate. Even as I finish this, it seems to me that a few more moments of thinking about you would break me down and dissolve me. I must not give in to it—but turn to my writing again—if I falter, I’ll struggle hard. Oh my love, your lips are becoming sweet again in my mind—I must forget them. Ever yours.
KEATS.
KEATS.
VI.
Fleet Street,[35] Monday Morn.
Fleet Street, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Monday Morning.
[Postmark, Lombard Street, 14 September, 1819.]
[Postmark, Lombard Street, 14 September, 1819.]
My dear Girl,
My dear girl,
I have been hurried to town by a Letter from my brother George; it is not of the brightest intelligence. Am I mad or not? I came by the Friday night coach and have not yet been to Hampstead. Upon my soul it is not my fault. I cannot resolve to mix any pleasure with my days: they go one like another, undistinguishable. If I were[31] to see you today it would destroy the half comfortable sullenness I enjoy at present into downright perplexities. I love you too much to venture to Hampstead, I feel it is not paying a visit, but venturing into a fire. Que feraije? as the French novel writers say in fun, and I in earnest: really what can I do? Knowing well that my life must be passed in fatigue and trouble, I have been endeavouring to wean myself from you: for to myself alone what can be much of a misery? As far as they regard myself I can despise all events: but I cannot cease to love you. This morning I scarcely know what I am doing. I am going to Walthamstow. I shall return to Winchester tomorrow;[36] whence you shall hear from me in a few days. I am a Coward, I cannot[32] bear the pain of being happy: ’tis out of the question: I must admit no thought of it.
I’ve been rushed into town by a letter from my brother George; it’s not the best news. Am I losing my mind or what? I took the coach on Friday night and haven’t even been to Hampstead yet. Honestly, it’s not my fault. I can’t bring myself to mix any joy into my days; they all feel the same, indistinguishable. If I were to see you today, it would ruin the somewhat comfortable gloom I’m enjoying right now and turn it into total confusion. I love you too much to risk going to Hampstead; it feels like not just a visit but stepping into a fire. Que feraije? as the French novelists jokingly say, and I mean it seriously: what can I really do? Knowing full well that my life will be filled with fatigue and trouble, I've been trying to distance myself from you. After all, what misery can I feel when it's just me? As far as my feelings go, I can brush aside all events, but I can’t stop loving you. This morning, I barely know what I’m doing. I’m heading to Walthamstow. I’ll return to Winchester tomorrow;[36] and you’ll hear from me in a few days. I’m a coward; I can’t handle the pain of being happy: it’s not even an option for me. I must not allow myself to think about it.
Yours ever affectionately
Yours always affectionately
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
VII.
[Postmark, 11 October, 1819.]
[Postmark, October 11, 1819.]
My sweet Girl,
My sweet girl,
I am living today in yesterday: I was in a complete fascination all day. I feel myself at your mercy. Write me ever so few lines and tell me you will never for ever be less kind to me than yesterday.—You dazzled me. There is nothing in the world so bright and[34] delicate. When Brown came out with that seemingly true story against me last night, I felt it would be death to me if you had ever believed it—though against any one else I could muster up my obstinacy. Before I knew Brown could disprove it I was for the moment miserable. When shall we pass a day alone? I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the thousand and first—’twould put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through. If you should ever carry your threat yesterday into execution—believe me ’tis not my pride, my vanity or any petty passion would torment me—really ’twould hurt my heart—I could not bear it. I have seen Mrs. Dilke this morning; she says she will come with me any fine day.
I’m living in yesterday: I was completely fascinated all day. I feel like I’m at your mercy. Just write me a few lines and tell me you’ll never be less kind to me than you were yesterday.—You amazed me. There is nothing in the world as bright and[34] delicate. When Brown came out with that seemingly true story about me last night, I felt it would break me if you had ever believed it—though I could stand my ground against anyone else. Before I knew Brown could disprove it, I was momentarily miserable. When will we spend a day alone? I’ve had a thousand kisses, for which I thank love with all my heart—but if you deny me the thousand and first— it would truly test how much misery I could endure. If you ever follow through on your threat from yesterday—believe me, it’s not my pride, my vanity or any petty feelings that would bother me—really, it would hurt my heart—I couldn’t take it. I saw Mrs. Dilke this morning; she says she’ll come with me any nice day.
Ever yours
Yours forever
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
Ah hertè mine!
Ah, my heart!
VIII.
25 College Street.
25 College St.
[Postmark, 13 October, 1819.]
[Postmark, October 13, 1819.]
My dearest Girl,
My darling girl,
This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else. The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life. My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again—my[36] Life seems to stop there—I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving—I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love.... Your note came in just here. I cannot be happier away from you. ’Tis richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion—I have shudder’d at it. I shudder no more—I could be martyr’d for my Religion—Love is my religion—I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet. You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.[37]” I can do that no more—the pain would be too great. My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
Right now, I’ve decided to write out some verses nicely. I can’t focus on anything else. I need to write you a line or two and see if that helps me forget you, even if just for a little while. Honestly, you are all I can think about. The time has passed when I could advise and warn you about the disappointing beginnings of my life. My love has made me selfish. I can’t live without you. I forget everything except the thought of seeing you again—my[36] life seems to stop there—I see nothing beyond that. You have consumed me. Right now, I feel like I’m melting away—I would be incredibly miserable without hope of seeing you soon. I’d be scared to be far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? There’s no limit to my love for you.... Your note arrived just now. I can’t be happier away from you. It’s worth more than a ship full of pearls. Don’t tease me about serious things, even in fun. I was amazed that people could die as martyrs for their religion—I used to shudder at the thought. Not anymore—I could be a martyr for my religion—Love is my religion—I would die for that. I could die for you. My creed is Love and you are its only principle. You’ve taken me away with a power I can’t fight; yet I could resist until I saw you; and even since I’ve seen you, I’ve often tried “to reason against the reasons of my Love.[37]” I can’t do that anymore—the pain would be too much. My love is selfish. I can’t breathe without you.
Yours for ever
Yours forever
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
IX.
Great Smith Street, Tuesday Morn.
Great Smith Street, Tuesday morning.
[Postmark, College Street, 19 October, 1819.]
[Postmark, College Street, 19 October, 1819.]
My sweet Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
On awakening from my three days dream (“I cry to dream again”) I find one and another astonish’d at my idleness and thoughtlessness. I was miserable last night—the morning is always restorative. I must be busy, or try to be so. I have several things to speak to you of tomorrow morning. Mrs. Dilke I should think will tell you that I purpose living at Hampstead. I must impose chains upon myself. I shall be able to do nothing. I should like to cast the die for Love or death.[39] I have no Patience with any thing else—if you ever intend to be cruel to me as you say in jest now but perhaps may sometimes be in earnest, be so now—and I will—my mind is in a tremble, I cannot tell what I am writing.
Upon waking from my three-day dream (“I cry to dream again”), I find that people are surprised by my laziness and lack of focus. I was miserable last night—mornings always feel refreshing. I need to keep myself busy, or at least try to. I have a few things to discuss with you tomorrow morning. I believe Mrs. Dilke will mention my plan to live in Hampstead. I must put restrictions on myself. Otherwise, I'll be completely unproductive. I'd like to leave everything to chance, whether it's love or death.[39] I have no patience for anything else—if you ever plan to be cruel to me, as you sometimes joke about but might mean seriously, then be that way now—and I will—my mind is all jumbled, and I can’t even tell what I’m writing.
Ever my love yours
Always my love, yours.
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
X to 32.
WENTWORTH PLACE.
X—XXXII.
WENTWORTH PLACE.
X.
Dearest Fanny, I shall send this the moment you return. They say I must remain confined to this room for some time. The consciousness that you love me will make a pleasant prison of the house next to yours. You must come and see me frequently: this evening, without fail—when you must not mind about my speaking in a low tone for I am ordered to do so though I can speak out.
Dearest Fanny, I’ll send this the moment you get back. They say I have to stay in this room for a while. Knowing that you love me will make being stuck in the house next to yours feel comfortable. You have to come visit me often: this evening, for sure—don’t worry about me talking softly since I’ve been told to do that even though I can speak louder.
Yours ever sweetest love.—
Forever your sweetest love.—
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
turn over
flip over
Perhaps your Mother is not at home and so you must wait till she comes. You must see me tonight and let me hear you promise to come tomorrow.
Perhaps your mom isn't home, so you'll have to wait until she returns. You need to see me tonight and let me hear you promise that you'll come tomorrow.
Brown told me you were all out. I have been looking for the stage the whole afternoon. Had I known this I could not have remain’d so silent all day.
Brown told me you were all out. I've been looking for the stage all afternoon. If I had known this, I wouldn't have stayed so quiet all day.
XI.
My dearest Girl,
My beloved Girl,
If illness makes such an agreeable variety in the manner of your eyes I should wish you sometimes to be ill. I wish I had read your note before you went last night that I might have assured you how far I was from suspecting any coldness. You had a just right to be a little silent to one who speaks so plainly to you. You must believe—you shall, you will—that I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing of you but what has its spring in the Love which has so long been my pleasure and torment. On the night I was taken ill—when so violent a rush of blood came to my Lungs that I felt nearly suffocated—I assure you I felt it possible I might not survive, and at[46] that moment thought of nothing but you. When I said to Brown “this is unfortunate”[38] I thought of you. ’Tis true that since the first two or three days other subjects have entered my head.[39] I shall be looking forward to Health and the Spring and a regular routine of our old Walks.
If being sick makes your eyes look so lovely, I almost wish you would be ill sometimes. I wish I had read your note before you left last night so I could have told you how little I suspected any coldness. You had every right to be a bit quiet with someone who is so straightforward with you. You must believe—you will believe—that I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing about you except what comes from the love that has been both my joy and my struggle for so long. On the night I got sick—when such a strong rush of blood filled my lungs that I felt nearly suffocated—I honestly thought I might not make it, and at that moment, all I could think about was you. When I said to Brown, “this is unfortunate,” I was thinking about you. It's true that after the first couple of days, other things have crossed my mind. I'm looking forward to getting better, enjoying the spring, and having our regular walks again.
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. K.
J.K.
XII.
My sweet love, I shall wait patiently till tomorrow before I see you, and in the mean time, if there is any need of such a thing, assure you by your Beauty, that whenever I have at any time written on a certain unpleasant subject, it has been with your welfare impress’d upon my mind. How hurt I should have been had you ever acceded to what is, notwithstanding, very reasonable! How much the more do I love you from the general result! In my present state of Health I feel too much separated from you and could almost speak to you in the words of Lorenzo’s Ghost to Isabella
My sweet love, I will patiently wait until tomorrow to see you, and in the meantime, if it’s necessary, I want you to know that whenever I’ve written about an uncomfortable topic, it’s always been with your well-being in mind. How hurt I would have been if you had ever agreed to something that is, after all, very reasonable! I love you even more based on the overall outcome! Right now, in my current state of health, I feel so far away from you that I could almost speak to you in the words of Lorenzo’s Ghost to Isabella.
My greatest torment since I have known[48] you has been the fear of you being a little inclined to the Cressid; but that suspicion I dismiss utterly and remain happy in the surety of your Love, which I assure you is as much a wonder to me as a delight. Send me the words ‘Good night’ to put under my pillow.
My biggest worry since I met[48] you has been the fear that you might be a bit like Cressida; but I completely push that thought away and stay happy knowing your love, which I promise you is both a surprise and a joy to me. Send me the words ‘Good night’ to tuck under my pillow.
Dearest Fanny,
Dear Fanny,
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. K.
J.K.
XIII.
My dearest Girl,
My dear Girl,
According to all appearances I am to be separated from you as much as possible. How I shall be able to bear it, or whether it will not be worse than your presence now and then, I cannot tell. I must be patient, and in the mean time you must think of it as little as possible. Let me not longer detain you from going to Town—there may be no end to this imprisoning of you. Perhaps you had better not come before tomorrow evening: send me however without fail a good night.
According to everything I can see, I’ll be kept away from you as much as possible. I don’t know how I’ll handle it or if it’ll be worse than having you around occasionally. I need to stay patient, and in the meantime, try not to think about it too much. I won’t keep you from going to town any longer—there’s no telling how long I might be holding you back. Maybe it’s best if you don’t come until tomorrow evening; however, please make sure to send me a good night message.
You know our situation——what hope is there if I should be recovered ever so soon—my very health will not suffer me to make any great exertion. I am recommended not even to read[50] poetry, much less write it. I wish I had even a little hope. I cannot say forget me—but I would mention that there are impossibilities in the world. No more of this. I am not strong enough to be weaned—take no notice of it in your good night.
You know our situation—what hope do I have if I recover anytime soon? My health won’t allow me to put in any significant effort. I'm advised not even to read[50] poetry, let alone write it. I wish I had at least a little hope. I can't say to forget me, but I want to mention that some things are impossible. No more of this. I'm not strong enough to move on—just ignore it in your good night.
Happen what may I shall ever be my dearest Love
Happen what may, I will always be my dearest love.
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. K.
J.K.
XIV.
My dearest Girl, how could it ever have been my wish to forget you? how could I have said such a thing? The utmost stretch my mind has been capable of was to endeavour to forget you for your own sake seeing what a chance there was of my remaining in a precarious state of health. I would have borne it as I would bear death if fate was in that humour: but I should as soon think of choosing to die as to part from you. Believe too my Love that our friends think and speak for the best, and if their best is not our best it is not their fault. When I am better I will speak with you at large on these subjects, if there is any occasion—I think there is none. I am rather nervous today perhaps from being a little recovered and suffering my mind to[52] take little excursions beyond the doors and windows. I take it for a good sign, but as it must not be encouraged you had better delay seeing me till tomorrow. Do not take the trouble of writing much: merely send me my good night.
My dearest Girl, how could I ever want to forget you? How could I say such a thing? The most my mind could do was try to forget you for your own good, considering the risk I might stay in a delicate state of health. I would have handled it just like I would handle death if fate were in that mood: but I'd rather think about dying than being apart from you. Please believe, my Love, that our friends think and speak with the best intentions, and if their best isn’t what we want, it’s not their fault. When I’m feeling better, I’ll talk with you more about this stuff, if there’s a reason—though I don’t think there is. I’m a bit anxious today, maybe because I’m feeling a little better and letting my mind wander beyond the doors and windows. I see it as a good sign, but since it shouldn’t be encouraged, it’s best if you wait to see me until tomorrow. Don’t worry about writing much: just send me goodnight.
Remember me to your Mother and Margaret.
Remember me to your mom and Margaret.
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. K.
J.K.
XV.
My dearest Fanny,
My beloved Fanny,
Then all we have to do is to be patient. Whatever violence I may sometimes do myself by hinting at what would appear to any one but ourselves a matter of necessity, I do not think I could bear any approach of a thought of losing you. I slept well last night, but cannot say that I improve very fast. I shall expect you tomorrow, for it is certainly better that I should see you seldom. Let me have your good night.
Then all we have to do is be patient. Whatever hurt I might cause myself by suggesting what anyone else would see as necessary, I really don't think I could handle even the thought of losing you. I slept well last night, but I can't say I'm getting better quickly. I'll be expecting you tomorrow, as it's definitely better for me to see you less often. Wishing you a good night.
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. K.
J.K.
XVI.
My dearest Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
I read your note in bed last night, and that might be the reason of my sleeping so much better. I think Mr Brown[40] is right in supposing you may stop too long with me, so very nervous as I am. Send me every evening a written Good night. If you come for a few minutes about six it may be the best time. Should you ever fancy me too low-spirited I must warn you to ascribe it to the medicine I am at present taking which is of a nerve-shaking nature. I shall impute any depression I may experience to this[55] cause. I have been writing with a vile old pen the whole week, which is excessively ungallant. The fault is in the Quill: I have mended it and still it is very much inclin’d to make blind es. However these last lines are in a much better style of penmanship, tho’ a little disfigured by the smear of black currant jelly; which has made a little mark on one of the pages of Brown’s Ben Jonson, the very best book he has. I have lick’d it but it remains very purple. I did not know whether to say purple or blue so in the mixture of the thought wrote purplue which may be an excellent name for a colour made up of those two, and would suit well to start next spring. Be very careful of open doors and windows and going without your duffle grey. God bless you Love!
I read your note in bed last night, and that might be why I slept so much better. I think Mr. Brown[40] is right in thinking you might stay too long with me, since I'm feeling so nervous. Please send me a written "Good night" every evening. If you can come by for a few minutes around six, that might be the best time. If you ever think I'm too low-spirited, I should warn you to attribute it to the medication I'm currently taking, which is really making me anxious. I'll blame any sadness I experience on that[55] reason. I've been writing with a terrible old pen all week, which is really not charming. The problem is with the quill: I've fixed it, but it still tends to make inkblots. However, these last lines are much better written, though they’re a bit smudged with black currant jelly, leaving a little mark on one of the pages of Brown’s Ben Jonson—his best book. I've tried to clean it, but it still looks very purple. I wasn't sure whether to call it purple or blue, so in my mix of thoughts, I wrote "purplue," which might actually be a great name for a color made from those two, especially for next spring. Please be careful with open doors and windows and don’t forget your gray duffle coat. God bless you, Love!
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
P.S. I am sitting in the back room. Remember me to your Mother.
P.S. I'm in the back room. Say hi to your mom for me.
XVII.
My dear Fanny,
Dear Fanny,
Do not let your mother suppose that you hurt me by writing at night. For some reason or other your last night’s note was not so treasureable as former ones. I would fain that you call me Love still. To see you happy and in high spirits is a great consolation to me—still let me believe that you are not half so happy as my restoration would make you. I am nervous, I own, and may think myself worse than I really am; if so you must indulge me, and pamper with that sort of tenderness you have manifested towards me in different Letters. My[57] sweet creature when I look back upon the pains and torments I have suffer’d for you from the day I left you to go to the Isle of Wight; the ecstasies in which I have pass’d some days and the miseries in their turn, I wonder the more at the Beauty which has kept up the spell so fervently. When I send this round I shall be in the front parlour watching to see you show yourself for a minute in the garden. How illness stands as a barrier betwixt me and you! Even if I was well——I must make myself as good a Philosopher as possible. Now I have had opportunities of passing nights anxious and awake I have found other thoughts intrude upon me. “If I should die,” said I to myself, “I have left no immortal work behind me—nothing to make my friends proud of my memory—but I have lov’d the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember’d.” Thoughts like these came very[58] feebly whilst I was in health and every pulse beat for you—now you divide with this (may I say it?) “last infirmity of noble minds” all my reflection.
Do not let your mother think that you hurt me by writing at night. For some reason, your last note wasn’t as precious as the ones before. I would love for you to still call me Love. Seeing you happy and in good spirits is a great comfort to me—still, let me believe that you aren't nearly as happy as I would make you if I were restored. I admit I’m nervous and may be thinking I'm worse off than I really am; if so, you have to indulge me and shower me with the kind of tenderness you've shown in your various letters. My[57] sweet creature, when I reflect on the pains and torments I've endured for you since I left for the Isle of Wight, the ecstasy of some days and the misery of others, I wonder even more at the beauty that has sustained the enchantment so fervently. When I send this around, I'll be in the front room, waiting to see you for just a minute in the garden. How illness acts as a barrier between us! Even if I were well, I would need to be as good a philosopher as possible. Now that I've had nights of anxiety and sleeplessness, other thoughts have intruded on me. “If I should die,” I said to myself, “I have left no lasting work behind—nothing to make my friends proud of my memory—but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had the time, I would have made myself remembered.” Thoughts like these came very[58] weakly while I was healthy and every heartbeat was for you—now, you share with this (may I say it?) “last infirmity of noble minds” all my reflection.
God bless you, Love.
Bless you, Love.
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XVIII.
My dearest Girl,
My dear girl,
You spoke of having been unwell in your last note: have you recover’d? That note has been a great delight to me. I am stronger than I was: the Doctors say there is very little the matter with me, but I cannot believe them till the weight and tightness of my Chest is mitigated. I will not indulge or pain myself by complaining of my long separation from you. God alone knows whether I am destined to taste of happiness with you: at all events I myself know thus much, that I consider it no mean Happiness to have lov’d you thus far—if it is to be no further I shall not be unthankful—if I am to recover, the day of my recovery[60] shall see me by your side from which nothing shall separate me. If well you are the only medicine that can keep me so. Perhaps, aye surely, I am writing in too depress’d a state of mind—ask your Mother to come and see me—she will bring you a better account than mine.
You mentioned in your last note that you were feeling unwell: have you recovered? Your note brought me great joy. I'm stronger than I was: the doctors say there’s not much wrong with me, but I can't believe them until the heaviness and tightness in my chest go away. I won’t weaken myself by complaining about how long we’ve been apart. Only God knows if I’m meant to be happy with you: I at least know this much, that I consider it a great happiness to have loved you this much—if it doesn’t go any further, I won’t be ungrateful—if I’m meant to recover, the day I get better[60] will find me by your side, and nothing will separate us. If you’re well, you’re the only medicine that can keep me healthy. Maybe, yes surely, I'm writing this in too gloomy a state of mind—ask your mother to come and see me—she’ll give you a better update than I can.
Ever your affectionate
Always your loving
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
XIX.
My dearest Girl,
My dearest girl,
Indeed I will not deceive you with respect to my Health. This is the fact as far as I know. I have been confined three weeks[41] and am not yet well—this proves that there is something wrong about me which my constitution will either conquer or give way to. Let us hope for the best. Do you hear the Thrush singing over the field? I think it is a sign of mild weather—so much the better for me. Like all Sinners now I am ill I philosophize, aye out of my attachment to every thing, Trees, Flowers, Thrushes, Spring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c.—aye[62] every thing but you.—My sister would be glad of my company a little longer. That Thrush is a fine fellow. I hope he was fortunate in his choice this year. Do not send any more of my Books home. I have a great pleasure in the thought of you looking on them.
I won’t lie to you about my health. Here’s the truth as I know it: I’ve been stuck here for three weeks[41] and I’m still not well. This shows there’s something wrong with me that either my body will fight off or succumb to. Let’s hope for the best. Do you hear the thrush singing over the field? I think that’s a sign of nice weather—so that’s good for me. Like all sinners, now that I’m sick, I’m reflecting, yes, because of my attachment to everything: trees, flowers, thrushes, spring, summer, claret, etc.—yes, everything but you. My sister would love to have my company for a little longer. That thrush is a great bird. I hope he was lucky in his mate this year. Please don’t send any more of my books home. I take great pleasure in thinking about you looking at them.
Ever yours my sweet Fanny
Forever yours, my sweet Fanny
J. K.
J.K.
XX.
My dearest Girl,
My beloved girl,
I continue much the same as usual, I think a little better. My spirits are better also, and consequently I am more resign’d to my confinement. I dare not think of you much or write much to you. Remember me to all.
I’m pretty much the same as always, but maybe a little bit better. My mood is improved too, so I’m more accepting of my situation. I can’t think about you too much or write to you too often. Please say hi to everyone for me.
Ever your affectionate
Always your loving
John Keats.
John Keats.
XXI.
My dear Fanny,
Dear Fanny,
I think you had better not make any long stay with me when Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes out you may bring your work. You will have a pleasant walk today. I shall see you pass. I shall follow you with my eyes over the Heath. Will you come towards evening instead of before dinner? When you are gone, ’tis past—if you do not come till the evening I have something to look forward to all day. Come round to my window for a moment when you have read this. Thank your Mother, for the preserves, for me. The raspberry will be too sweet not having any acid; therefore as you are so good a girl I shall make you a present of it. Good bye
I think it’s best if you don’t stay too long with me while Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes out, you can bring your work. You’ll enjoy a nice walk today. I’ll see you pass by, and I’ll follow you with my eyes over the Heath. Can you come in the evening instead of before dinner? When you leave, that’s it—if you wait until the evening to come, I’ll have something to look forward to all day. Stop by my window for a moment after you read this. Please thank your mom for the preserves. The raspberry one will be too sweet without any acidity, so since you’re such a good girl, I’ll give it to you as a present. Goodbye.
My sweet Love!
My sweet love!
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XXII.
My dearest Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
The power of your benediction is of not so weak a nature as to pass from the ring in four and twenty hours—it is like a sacred Chalice once consecrated and ever consecrate. I shall kiss your name and mine where your Lips have been—Lips! why should a poor prisoner as I am talk about such things? Thank God, though I hold them the dearest pleasures in the universe, I have a consolation independent of them in the certainty of your affection. I could write a song in the style of Tom Moore’s Pathetic about Memory if that would be any relief to me. No—’twould not. I will be as obstinate as a Robin, I will not sing in[66] a cage. Health is my expected heaven and you are the Houri——this word I believe is both singular and plural—if only plural, never mind—you are a thousand of them.
The power of your blessing isn’t so weak that it fades away in twenty-four hours—it’s like a sacred Chalice once blessed and always blessed. I will kiss your name and mine where your Lips have been—Lips! Why should a poor prisoner like me talk about such things? Thank God, even though I hold them as the greatest pleasures in the universe, I have a comfort independent of them in knowing your love. I could write a song in the style of Tom Moore’s Pathetic about Memory if that would help me. No— it wouldn’t. I’ll be as stubborn as a Robin; I won’t sing in[66]a cage. Health is my hoped-for paradise, and you are the Houri—this word I believe can mean both singular and plural—if it only means plural, that’s fine—you are a thousand of them.
Ever yours affectionately my dearest,
Yours affectionately, my dear,
J. K.
J.K.
You had better not come to day.
You shouldn't come today.
XXIII.
My dearest Love,
My dear Love,
You must not stop so long in the cold—I have been suspecting that window to be open.—Your note half-cured me. When I want some more oranges I will tell you—these are just à propos. I am kept from food so feel rather weak—otherwise very well. Pray do not stop so long upstairs—it makes me uneasy—come every now and then and stop a half minute. Remember me to your Mother.
You shouldn't stay in the cold for too long—I’ve had a feeling that window is open. Your note made me feel a bit better. When I need more oranges, I’ll let you know—these ones are just right. I'm not eating much, so I'm feeling a bit weak—but otherwise, I'm doing well. Please don’t stay upstairs for too long—it makes me anxious—just come down every now and then and stay for a minute. Say hi to your mom for me.
Your ever affectionate
Your always loving
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XXIV.
Sweetest Fanny,
Sweetest Fanny,
You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My dear Girl I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known the more have I lov’d. In every way—even my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you. I have vex’d you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass’d my window home yesterday, I was fill’d with as much admiration as if I had then seen you[69] for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov’d your beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish’d with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy—but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment—upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about our Loves in your last note is an immense pleasure to me:[70] however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out—but here is Mrs. Wylie[42]—when she is gone I shall be awake for you.—Remembrances to your Mother.
You sometimes worry that I don't love you as much as you wish? My dear girl, I love you more and more and without reservation. The more I get to know you, the more I love you. In every way—even my jealous feelings have been intense acts of love; in my most passionate moments, I would have died for you. I've upset you too often. But it’s love! Can I help it? You always seem fresh and new. The last kiss you gave me was the sweetest; the last smile was the brightest; the last move was the most graceful. When you walked past my window yesterday, I felt as much admiration as if I had just seen you for the first time. You once mentioned that I only love your beauty. Is that all I love in you? Can’t I see a heart that is naturally free try to confine itself with me? No bad situation has been able to make you think of anything else but me, even for a moment. This might be as much a cause for sadness as it is for joy—but I won’t talk about that. Even if you didn’t love me, I couldn’t help but be completely devoted to you; so how much more must I feel for you knowing that you love me? My mind has been more restless and discontented than any body could hold. I’ve never been able to focus completely on anything—no one but you. When you’re in the room, my thoughts never escape; you always capture my entire attention. The worry you expressed about our love in your last note gives me immense pleasure: however, you must not let that kind of speculation bother you anymore; I will also stop believing that you could ever hold a grudge against me. Brown has left—but here is Mrs. Wylie—when she’s gone, I will be waiting for you. Please send my regards to your mother.
Your affectionate
Your love
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XXV.
My dear Fanny,
Dear Fanny,
I am much better this morning than I was a week ago: indeed I improve a little every day. I rely upon taking a walk with you upon the first of May: in the mean time undergoing a babylonish captivity I shall not be jew enough to hang up my harp upon a willow, but rather endeavour to clear up my arrears in versifying, and with returning health begin upon something new: pursuant to which resolution it will be necessary to have my or rather Taylor’s manuscript,[43] which you, if you please, will send by my Messenger either today or tomorrow. Is Mr.[72] D.[44] with you today? You appeared very much fatigued last night: you must look a little brighter this morning. I shall not suffer my little girl ever to be obscured like glass breath’d upon, but always bright as it is her nature to. Feeding upon sham victuals and sitting by the fire will completely annul me. I have no need of an enchanted wax figure to duplicate me, for I am melting in my proper person before the fire. If you meet with anything better (worse) than common in your Magazines let me see it.
I'm doing a lot better this morning than I was a week ago; in fact, I improve a little every day. I'm looking forward to taking a walk with you on the first of May. In the meantime, while I’m going through this tough time, I won’t be sad enough to hang my harp on a willow tree, but I’ll try to catch up on my poetry and, with my health returning, start something new. To do that, I’ll need my manuscript, or rather Taylor’s manuscript,[43], which I’d appreciate you sending by my Messenger either today or tomorrow. Is Mr.[72] D.[44] with you today? You looked really tired last night; I hope you’re a bit brighter this morning. I won’t allow my little girl to be dimmed like glass fogged up by breath; she should always shine as it’s in her nature to. Living on fake food and sitting by the fire will completely ruin me. I don’t need a magical wax figure to duplicate me because I’m literally melting in front of the fire. If you come across anything better (or worse) than average in your magazines, let me know.
Good bye my sweetest Girl.
Goodbye, my sweetest girl.
J. K.
J.K.
XXVI.
My dearest Fanny, whenever you know me to be alone, come, no matter what day. Why will you go out this weather? I shall not fatigue myself with writing too much I promise you. Brown says I am getting stouter.[45] I[74] rest well and from last night do not remember any thing horrid in my dream, which is a capital symptom, for any organic derangement always occasions a Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idle amusement to hunt after a motto for my Book which I will have if lucky enough to hit upon a fit one—not intending to write a preface. I fear I am too late with my note—you are gone out—you will be as cold as a topsail in a north latitude—I advise you to furl yourself and come in a doors.
My dearest Fanny, whenever you know I'm alone, just come over, no matter what day it is. Why are you going out in this weather? I promise I won’t tire myself out by writing too much. Brown says I’m getting heavier.[45] I[74] slept well and don’t remember anything terrible from my dream last night, which is a good sign because any health issues usually lead to weird dreams. It’ll be a nice, lazy pastime to look for a motto for my book, which I’ll include if I’m lucky enough to find a good one—not planning to write a preface. I’m worried this note is too late—you’ve gone out—you’ll be as cold as a sail in the northern latitudes—I suggest you wrap up and come inside.
Good bye Love.
Goodbye, Love.
J. K.
J.K.
XXVII.
My dearest Fanny, I slept well last night and am no worse this morning for it. Day by day if I am not deceived I get a more unrestrain’d use of my Chest. The nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more his anxiety becomes; so I lingering upon the borders of health feel my impatience increase. Perhaps on your account I have imagined my illness more serious than it is: how horrid was the chance of slipping into the ground instead of into your arms—the difference is amazing Love. Death must come at last; Man must die, as Shallow says; but before that is my fate I fain would try what more pleasures than you have given, so sweet a creature as you can give. Let me have another opportunity of[76] years before me and I will not die without being remember’d. Take care of yourself dear that we may both be well in the Summer. I do not at all fatigue myself with writing, having merely to put a line or two here and there, a Task which would worry a stout state of the body and mind, but which just suits me as I can do no more.
My dearest Fanny, I slept well last night and feel no worse this morning for it. Day by day, if I'm not mistaken, I’m getting a freer use of my chest. The closer a racer gets to the finish line, the more anxious they become; similarly, as I linger on the edge of health, my impatience is growing. Perhaps because of you, I've imagined my illness to be more serious than it is: how terrible it would be to slip into the ground instead of into your arms—the difference is incredible. Love. Death will come eventually; we all must die, as Shallow says; but before that happens, I really want to experience more pleasures than you alone have given me, since you are such a sweet creature. If I could have another few years in front of me, I won’t die without being remembered. Take care of yourself, dear, so we can both be well in the summer. I’m not exhausting myself with writing, as I only have to jot down a line or two here and there, a task that would tire someone with a strong body and mind, but it suits me just fine since I can do no more.
Your affectionate
Your love
J. K.
J.K.
XXVIII.
My dearest Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
I had a better night last night than I have had since my attack, and this morning I am the same as when you saw me. I have been turning over two volumes of Letters written between Rousseau and two Ladies in the perplexed strain of mingled finesse and sentiment in which the Ladies and gentlemen of those days were so clever, and which is still prevalent among Ladies of this Country who live in a state of reasoning romance. The likeness however only extends to the mannerism, not to the dexterity. What would Rousseau have said at seeing our little correspondence! What would his Ladies have said! I don’t care much—I[78] would sooner have Shakspeare’s opinion about the matter. The common gossiping of washerwomen must be less disgusting than the continual and eternal fence and attack of Rousseau and these sublime Petticoats. One calls herself Clara and her friend Julia, two of Rousseau’s heroines—they all [sic, but qy. at] the same time christen poor Jean Jacques St. Preux—who is the pure cavalier of his famous novel. Thank God I am born in England with our own great Men before my eyes. Thank God that you are fair and can love me without being Letter-written and sentimentaliz’d into it.—Mr. Barry Cornwall has sent me another Book, his first, with a polite note.[46] I must do what I can to make[79] him sensible of the esteem I have for his kindness. If this north east would take a turn it would be so much the better for me. Good bye, my love, my dear love, my beauty—
I had a better night last night than I have since my attack, and this morning I feel the same as when you saw me. I've been reading two volumes of letters exchanged between Rousseau and two women, showcasing the complicated mix of wit and emotion that people of that era were so skilled at, which still exists among women in this country who live in a thoughtful romantic way. However, the similarity only goes as far as the style, not the skill. What would Rousseau have thought of our little exchanges? What would his ladies have said! Honestly, I’m not too concerned—I’d rather know what Shakespeare would think about it. The everyday chatter of washerwomen must be less bothersome than the endless back-and-forth of Rousseau and those lofty ladies. One calls herself Clara and her friend Julia, two of Rousseau’s heroines—they all [sic, but qy. at] also name poor Jean Jacques St. Preux—who is the gentleman from his famous novel. Thank God I was born in England with our own great men around me. Thank God you are beautiful and can love me without being caught up in letters and sentimentality. Mr. Barry Cornwall has sent me another book, his first, along with a polite note.[46] I need to find a way to show him how much I appreciate his kindness. If this northeast wind would change, it would be much better for me. Goodbye, my love, my dear love, my beauty—
love me for ever.
love me forever.
J. K.
J.K.
XXIX.
My dearest Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
Though I shall see you in so short a time I cannot forbear sending you a few lines. You say I did not give you yesterday a minute account of my health. Today I have left off the Medicine which I took to keep the pulse down and I find I can do very well without it, which is a very favourable sign, as it shows there is no inflammation remaining. You think I may be wearied at night you say: it is my best time; I am at my best about eight o’Clock. I received a Note from Mr. Procter[47] today. He says he cannot pay me a visit this weather as he is fearful of an inflammation in the Chest.[81] What a horrid climate this is? or what careless inhabitants it has? You are one of them. My dear girl do not make a joke of it: do not expose yourself to the cold. There’s the Thrush again—I can’t afford it—he’ll run me up a pretty Bill for Music—besides he ought to know I deal at Clementi’s. How can you bear so long an imprisonment at Hampstead? I shall always remember it with all the gusto that a monopolizing carle should. I could build an Altar to you for it.
Though I'll see you very soon, I can't help but send you a few lines. You say I didn't give you a detailed update on my health yesterday. Today, I've stopped taking the medication I had for my pulse, and I notice I can manage just fine without it, which is a good sign since it means there's no inflammation left. You mentioned I might be tired at night, but that's actually my best time; I feel great around eight o'clock. I got a note from Mr. Procter[47] today. He says he can't visit me in this weather because he's worried about getting chest inflammation.[81] What a terrible climate this is, or what careless people live here? You’re one of them. My dear girl, please don’t joke about it—don’t expose yourself to the cold. There’s that thrush again—I can't afford it; he’ll rack up quite a bill for music—plus, he should know I shop at Clementi’s. How can you stand such a long stay at Hampstead? I’ll always remember it with all the pleasure a possessive person should. I could build an altar to you for it.
Your affectionate
Your love
J. K.
J.K.
XXX.
My dearest Girl,
My sweetest girl,
As, from the last part of my note you must see how gratified I have been by your remaining at home, you might perhaps conceive that I was equally bias’d the other way by your going to Town, I cannot be easy tonight without telling you you would be wrong to suppose so. Though I am pleased with the one, I am not displeased with the other. How do I dare to write in this manner about my pleasures and displeasures? I will tho’ whilst I am an invalid, in spite of you. Good night, Love!
As you can tell from the last part of my note, I'm really happy that you stayed home. You might think that I would feel the opposite way about you going to town, but I want to assure you that's not the case. While I'm happy about one thing, I'm not unhappy about the other. How can I even express my feelings like this about what makes me happy or unhappy? I will, though, while I’m not well, regardless of what you think. Good night, Love!
J. K.
J.K.
XXXI.
My dearest Girl,
My beloved Girl,
In consequence of our company I suppose I shall not see you before tomorrow. I am much better today—indeed all I have to complain of is want of strength and a little tightness in the Chest. I envied Sam’s walk with you today; which I will not do again as I may get very tired of envying. I imagine you now sitting in your new black dress which I like so much and if I were a little less selfish and more enthusiastic I should run round and surprise you with a knock at the door. I fear I am too prudent for a dying kind of Lover. Yet, there is a great difference between going off in warm blood like Romeo, and making[84] one’s exit like a frog in a frost. I had nothing particular to say today, but not intending that there shall be any interruption to our correspondence (which at some future time I propose offering to Murray) I write something. God bless you my sweet Love! Illness is a long lane, but I see you at the end of it, and shall mend my pace as well as possible.
As a result of our meeting, I guess I won't see you until tomorrow. I'm feeling much better today—really, the only thing bothering me is a lack of strength and a bit of tightness in my chest. I envied Sam's walk with you today, but I won't let myself do that again since I might get really tired of feeling envious. I picture you sitting in your new black dress, which I really like, and if I were a little less selfish and more excited, I'd run over and surprise you with a knock at the door. I worry I’m too cautious for a love that’s about to fade. Still, there's a big difference between going out with passion like Romeo and leaving like a frog in the cold. I didn't have anything specific to say today, but since I don’t want our correspondence to be interrupted (which I plan to offer to Murray at some point), I felt I should write something. God bless you, my sweet love! Illness is a long road, but I can see you at the end of it, and I’ll do my best to pick up the pace.
J. K.
J.K.
XXXII.
Dear Girl,
Hey Girl,
Yesterday you must have thought me worse than I really was. I assure you there was nothing but regret at being obliged to forego an embrace which has so many times been the highest gust of my Life. I would not care for health without it. Sam would not come in—I wanted merely to ask him how you were this morning. When one is not quite well we turn for relief to those we love: this is no weakness of spirit in me: you know when in health I thought of nothing but you; when I shall again be so it will be the same. Brown has been mentioning to me that some hint from Sam, last night,[86] occasions him some uneasiness. He whispered something to you concerning Brown and old Mr. Dilke[48] which had the complexion of being something derogatory to the former. It was connected with an anxiety about Mr. D. Sr’s death and an anxiety to set out for Chichester. These sort of hints point out their own solution: one cannot pretend to a delicate ignorance on the subject: you understand the whole matter. If any one, my sweet Love, has misrepresented, to you, to your Mother or Sam, any circumstances which are at all likely, at a tenth remove, to create suspicions among people who from their own interested notions slander others, pray[87] tell me: for I feel the least attaint on the disinterested character of Brown very deeply. Perhaps Reynolds or some other of my friends may come towards evening, therefore you may choose whether you will come to see me early today before or after dinner as you may think fit. Remember me to your Mother and tell her to drag you to me if you show the least reluctance—
Yesterday, you must have thought I was worse than I actually am. I assure you, there was nothing but regret at having to miss an embrace that has brought me so much joy in life. I wouldn't want my health without it. Sam didn’t come in—I just wanted to ask how you were feeling this morning. When we’re not feeling well, we seek comfort from those we love: this isn’t a weakness on my part; you know that when I’m healthy, all I think about is you; when I’m back to that, it will be the same. Brown has mentioned that something Sam said last night is causing him some worry. He whispered something to you about Brown and old Mr. Dilke, which seemed to be somewhat negative about the former. It was related to concerns about Mr. Dilke Sr.’s death and a desire to head to Chichester. These kinds of hints usually point to their own solution: we can’t pretend to be unaware of what’s going on; you understand the whole situation. If anyone, my sweet love, has misrepresented anything to you, your mother, or Sam that might stir up suspicions among people who easily spread rumors for their own selfish reasons, please let me know, as I take any hint against Brown’s integrity very seriously. Some of my friends, perhaps Reynolds or another, might come by in the evening, so you can decide whether you’d like to visit me early today, before or after dinner, as you prefer. Please remember me to your mother and tell her to drag you to me if you show even the slightest hesitation.
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XXXIII to XXXVII.
KENTISH TOWN—PREPARING FOR ITALY.
XXXIII-XXXVII.
KENTISH TOWN—GETTING READY FOR ITALY.
XXXIII.
My dearest Girl,
My darling Girl,
I endeavour to make myself as patient as possible. Hunt amuses me very kindly—besides I have your ring on my finger and your flowers on the table. I shall not expect to see you yet because it would be so much pain to part with you again. When the Books you want come you shall have them. I am very well this afternoon. My dearest ...
I try to be as patient as I can. Hunting is really entertaining for me—plus, I have your ring on my finger and your flowers on the table. I won’t expect to see you just yet because it would be too painful to say goodbye again. When the books you want arrive, you'll get them. I'm doing really well this afternoon. My dearest ...
[Signature cut off.[49]]
XXXIV.
Tuesday Afternoon.
Tuesday Afternoon.
My dearest Fanny,
Dear Fanny,
For this Week past I have been employed in marking the most beautiful passages in Spenser, intending it for you, and comforting myself in being somehow occupied to give you however small a pleasure. It has lightened my time very much. I am much better. God bless you.
For the past week, I’ve been busy highlighting the most beautiful parts of Spenser, planning to share them with you, and it has given me some comfort to be doing something that might bring you even a little joy. It’s made my time feel much lighter. I’m doing much better. God bless you.
Your affectionate
Your loving
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XXXV.
Wednesday Morning.
Wednesday morning.
My dearest Fanny,
My beloved Fanny,
I have been a walk this morning with a book in my hand, but as usual I have been occupied with nothing but you: I wish I could say in an agreeable manner. I am tormented day and night. They talk of my going to Italy. ’Tis certain I shall never recover if I am to be so long separate from you: yet with all this devotion to you I cannot persuade myself into any confidence of you. Past experience connected with the fact of my long separation from you gives me agonies which are scarcely to be talked of. When your mother comes I shall be very sudden and[94] expert in asking her whether you have been to Mrs. Dilke’s, for she might say no to make me easy. I am literally worn to death, which seems my only recourse. I cannot forget what has pass’d. What? nothing with a man of the world, but to me deathful. I will get rid of this as much as possible. When you were in the habit of flirting with Brown you would have left off, could your own heart have felt one half of one pang mine did. Brown is a good sort of Man—he did not know he was doing me to death by inches. I feel the effect of every one of those hours in my side now; and for that cause, though he has done me many services, though I know his love and friendship for me, though at this moment I should be without pence were it not for his assistance, I will never see or speak to him[50] until we are both old men, if we[95] are to be. I will resent my heart having been made a football. You will call this madness. I have heard you say that it was not unpleasant to wait a few years—you have amusements—your mind is away—you have not brooded over one idea as I have, and how should you? You are to me an object intensely desirable—the air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy. I am not the same to you—no—you can wait—you have a thousand activities—you can be happy without me. Any party, any thing to fill up the day has been enough. How have you pass’d this month?[51] Who have you smil’d with? All this may seem savage[96] in me. You do not feel as I do—you do not know what it is to love—one day you may—your time is not come. Ask yourself how many unhappy hours Keats has caused you in Loneliness. For myself I have been a Martyr the whole time, and for this reason I speak; the confession is forc’d from me by the torture. I appeal to you by the blood of that Christ you believe in: Do not write to me if you have done anything this month which it would have pained me to have seen. You may have altered—if you have not—if you still behave in dancing rooms and other societies as I have seen you—I do not want to live—if you have done so I wish this coming night may be my last. I cannot live without you, and not only you but chaste you; virtuous you. The Sun rises and sets, the day passes, and you follow the bent of your inclination[97] to a certain extent—you have no conception of the quantity of miserable feeling that passes through me in a day.—Be serious! Love is not a plaything—and again do not write unless you can do it with a crystal conscience. I would sooner die for want of you than——
I went for a walk this morning with a book in my hand, but as usual, I've been preoccupied with nothing but you. I wish I could express this in a nicer way. I'm tormented day and night. They suggest I should go to Italy. It's clear I'll never recover if I have to be away from you for so long; yet despite my devotion, I can't bring myself to trust you. My past experiences and the long separation from you cause me immense pain that's hard to talk about. When your mother comes, I'll be quick to ask her if you've been to Mrs. Dilke’s, hoping she might say no to spare my feelings. I'm literally worn out, and it feels like my only option. I can't forget what has happened. What? Nothing major for a worldly man, but to me, it's excruciating. I'll try to let this go as much as I can. When you were flirting with Brown, you would have stopped if your heart had felt even a fraction of the pain mine did. Brown is a decent guy—he had no idea he was slowly killing me. I still feel the impact of every one of those hours now; and for that reason, even though he has done many kind things for me, even though I would be broke without his help right now, I won't see or speak to him until we’re both old men, if we make it that far. I will resent my heart being played with like a toy. You’ll call this madness. I’ve heard you say it wasn’t unpleasant to wait a few years—you have fun—your mind is elsewhere—you haven't fixated on one idea like I have, and how could you? To me, you are intensely desirable—the air I breathe in a room without you is suffocating. I'm not the same to you—no—you can wait—you have a thousand things to do—you can be happy without me. Any gathering, anything to fill the day is enough for you. How have you spent this month? Who have you smiled with? All this might seem harsh of me. You don't feel as I do—you don't know what it means to love—someday you might—your time hasn't come yet. Ask yourself how many unhappy hours Keats has caused you in loneliness. For me, I have been a martyr this entire time, and for this reason, I speak; the confession comes out of me from the torment. I appeal to you by the blood of the Christ you believe in: do not write to me if you’ve done anything this month that would hurt me to know about. You might have changed—if you haven’t—if you still act in dance halls and other social events the way I’ve seen you—I don’t want to live—if you've done that I wish tonight would be my last. I can't live without you, and not just you, but the pure you; the virtuous you. The sun rises and sets, the day goes by, and you do what you want to an extent—you have no idea how much miserable feeling I go through in a single day. Be serious! Love is not a game—and please don’t write unless you can do it with a clear conscience. I would rather die for lack of you than——
Yours for ever
Yours forever
J. KEATS.
J. Keats.
XXXVI.
My dearest Fanny,
My dear Fanny,
My head is puzzled this morning, and I scarce know what I shall say though I am full of a hundred things. ’Tis certain I would rather be writing to you this morning, notwithstanding the alloy of grief in such an occupation, than enjoy any other pleasure, with health to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my soul I have loved you to the extreme. I wish you could know the Tenderness with which I continually brood over your different aspects of countenance, action and dress. I see you come down in the morning: I see you meet me at the Window—I see every thing over again eternally that I ever have seen. If I get on the pleasant[99] clue I live in a sort of happy misery, if on the unpleasant ’tis miserable misery. You complain of my illtreating you in word, thought and deed—I am sorry,—at times I feel bitterly sorry that I ever made you unhappy—my excuse is that those words have been wrung from me by the sharpness of my feelings. At all events and in any case I have been wrong; could I believe that I did it without any cause, I should be the most sincere of Penitents. I could give way to my repentant feelings now, I could recant all my suspicions, I could mingle with you heart and Soul though absent, were it not for some parts of your Letters. Do you suppose it possible I could ever leave you? You know what I think of myself and what of you. You know that I should feel how much it was my loss and how little yours. My friends laugh at you! I know some of them—when I know them all I shall never think of them again as friends or even acquaintance. My[100] friends have behaved well to me in every instance but one, and there they have become tattlers, and inquisitors into my conduct: spying upon a secret I would rather die than share it with any body’s confidence. For this I cannot wish them well, I care not to see any of them again. If I am the Theme, I will not be the Friend of idle Gossips. Good gods what a shame it is our Loves should be so put into the microscope of a Coterie. Their laughs should not affect you (I may perhaps give you reasons some day for these laughs, for I suspect a few people to hate me well enough, for reasons I know of, who have pretended a great friendship for me) when in competition with one, who if he never should see you again would make you the Saint of his memory. These Laughers, who do not like you, who envy you for your Beauty, who would have God-bless’d me from you for ever: who were plying me with disencouragements with respect to you eternally.[101] People are revengful—do not mind them—do nothing but love me—if I knew that for certain life and health will in such event be a heaven, and death itself will be less painful. I long to believe in immortality. I shall never be able to bid you an entire farewell. If I am destined to be happy with you here—how short is the longest Life. I wish to believe in immortality[52]—I wish to live with you for ever. Do not let my name ever pass between you and those laughers; if I have no other merit than the great Love for you, that were sufficient to keep me sacred and unmentioned in such society. If I have been cruel and unjust I swear my love[102] has ever been greater than my cruelty which last [sic] but a minute whereas my Love come what will shall last for ever. If concession to me has hurt your Pride God knows I have had little pride in my heart when thinking of you. Your name never passes my Lips—do not let mine pass yours. Those People do not like me. After reading my Letter you even then wish to see me. I am strong enough to walk over—but I dare not. I shall feel so much pain in parting with you again. My dearest love, I am afraid to see you; I am strong, but not strong enough to see you. Will my arm be ever round you again, and if so shall I be obliged to leave you again? My sweet Love! I am happy whilst I believe your first Letter. Let me be but certain that you are mine heart and soul, and I could die more happily than I could otherwise live. If you think me cruel—if you think I have sleighted you—do muse it over again and see into my heart. My love to you is “true[103] as truth’s simplicity and simpler than the infancy of truth” as I think I once said before. How could I sleight you? How threaten to leave you? not in the spirit of a Threat to you—no—but in the spirit of Wretchedness in myself. My fairest, my delicious, my angel Fanny! do not believe me such a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in illness and as believing in Love as I am able.
My head is a bit messed up this morning, and I hardly know what to say even though my mind is filled with a hundred thoughts. I definitely would rather be writing to you this morning, even with the pain of sadness in doing so, than enjoy any other joy, even with good health, that’s not connected to you. I swear I have loved you deeply. I wish you could understand the tenderness with which I constantly think about your different expressions, actions, and outfits. I see you come down in the morning: I see you meet me at the window—I replay every moment I’ve ever seen with you over and over. When I’m in a good mood, I live in a kind of happy misery, but when I’m feeling down, it's pure misery. You complain that I mistreat you with my words, thoughts, and actions—I’m sorry—I sometimes feel extremely sorry for ever making you unhappy—my excuse is that those words have come out because of how intense my feelings are. In any case, I have been wrong; if I could believe I hurt you without cause, I would be the most sincere of repentants. I could give in to my remorse now, I could take back all my doubts, I could connect with you fully despite the distance, if not for some parts of your letters. Do you think it's possible for me to ever leave you? You know what I think of myself and what I think of you. You know that I would feel the weight of my loss far more than yours. My friends laugh at you! I know some of them – when I know them all, I won’t consider them friends or even acquaintances anymore. My friends have treated me well in every situation except one, and there they became gossipers and nosy about my actions, spying on a secret I’d rather die than share with anyone. For this, I can’t wish them well, I don’t want to see any of them again. If I’m the topic of conversation, I won’t be a friend to idle gossipers. It’s such a shame our love should be scrutinized by a group. Their laughter shouldn’t affect you (I may share reasons for their laughter someday, as I suspect some people who claim to be my friends dislike me for reasons I know, even while pretending to care). When compared to someone who, even if he never sees you again, would keep you as a saint in his memory, those laughers who don’t like you, who envy your beauty, who’d happily keep me away from you forever, were constantly trying to discourage me about you. People are vengeful—don’t let them bother you—just love me—if I knew that for sure, life and health would be heaven, and even death would feel less painful. I long to believe in immortality. I could never say a complete goodbye to you. If I’m meant to be happy with you here—how short even the longest life is. I want to believe in immortality—I wish to be with you forever. Don’t let my name come up in front of those laughers; if my only merit is my great love for you, that should be enough to keep me sacred and unmentioned in their company. If I have been cruel and unjust, I swear my love has always been greater than my cruelty, which lasts only a moment, while my love will last forever. If my being accommodating has hurt your pride, God knows I’ve had little pride in my heart when thinking of you. Your name never leaves my lips—don’t let mine leave yours. Those people don’t like me. After reading my letter, you still want to see me. I’m strong enough to walk over—but I’m afraid to. I’ll feel so much pain parting with you again. My dearest love, I’m afraid to see you; I am strong, but not strong enough to face you. Will my arms ever be around you again, and if so, will I have to leave again? My sweet love! I’m happy while I believe your first letter. Just let me know that you are mine heart and soul, and I could die more happily than I could live otherwise. If you think I’m cruel—if you think I’ve slighted you—please think it over again and see into my heart. My love for you is “true as truth’s simplicity and simpler than the infancy of truth,” as I think I said before. How could I slight you? How could I threaten to leave you? Not out of spite towards you—no—but from my own suffering. My fairest, my sweetest, my angel Fanny! Don’t believe I’m just some typical guy. I will be as patient in illness and as trusting in love as I can.
Yours for ever my dearest
Yours forever, my dearest
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
XXXVII.
I do not write this till the last,
that no eye may catch it.[53]
I’m writing this only at the end,
so that no one will see it.[53]
My dearest Girl,
My dearest girl,
I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; every thing else tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it almost impossible to go to Italy—the fact is I cannot leave you, and shall never taste one minute’s content until it pleases chance to let me live with you[105] for good. But I will not go on at this rate. A person in health as you are can have no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine go through. What Island do your friends propose retiring to? I should be happy to go with you there alone, but in company I should object to it; the backbitings and jealousies of new colonists who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me yesterday, and gave me a very great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste like brass upon my Palate. If I cannot live with you I will live alone. I do not think my health will improve much while I am separated from you. For all this I am averse to seeing you—I cannot bear flashes of light and return into my gloom again. I am not so unhappy[106] now as I should be if I had seen you yesterday. To be happy with you seems such an impossibility! it requires a luckier Star than mine! it will never be. I enclose a passage from one of your letters which I want you to alter a little—I want (if you will have it so) the matter express’d less coldly to me. If my health would bear it, I could write a Poem which I have in my head, which would be a consolation for people in such a situation as mine. I would show some one in Love as I am, with a person living in such Liberty as you do. Shakespeare always sums up matters in the most sovereign manner. Hamlet’s heart was full of such Misery as mine is when he said to Ophelia “Go to a Nunnery, go, go!” Indeed I should like to give up the matter at once—I should like to die. I am sickened at the brute world which you are smiling with. I hate men, and women more. I see nothing but thorns for the future—wherever I may be next winter, in Italy[107] or nowhere, Brown will be living near you with his indecencies. I see no prospect of any rest. Suppose me in Rome—well, I should there see you as in a magic glass going to and from town at all hours,——I wish you could infuse a little confidence of human nature into my heart. I cannot muster any—the world is too brutal for me—I am glad there is such a thing as the grave—I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there. At any rate I will indulge myself by never seeing any more Dilke or Brown or any of their Friends. I wish I was either in your arms full of faith or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
I wish you could come up with a way to make me happy at all without you. Every hour, I focus more and more on you; everything else feels like nothing to me. I find it almost impossible to go to Italy—the truth is I can’t leave you, and I won’t find even a moment of happiness until luck lets me live with you for good. But I can’t keep going like this. Someone as healthy as you can’t understand the horrors that someone with my nerves and temperament goes through. What island are your friends planning to escape to? I’d be happy to go there alone with you, but in a group, I’d disagree; I can’t stand the gossip and jealousy of new settlers who have nothing else to occupy their time. Mr. Dilke visited me yesterday and caused me a lot more pain than joy. I can’t stand being around anyone from Elm Cottage or Wentworth Place anymore. The last two years taste like metal to me. If I can’t live with you, I’ll live alone. I don’t think my health will improve much while I’m apart from you. Despite that, I dread seeing you—I can’t handle brief moments of happiness only to fall back into my sadness. I’m not as unhappy now as I would’ve been if I had seen you yesterday. Being happy with you seems impossible! I need a luckier star than mine! It will never happen. I’ve enclosed a part of one of your letters that I want you to change a bit—I’d prefer if it were expressed to me in a warmer way. If my health allowed, I could write a poem I have in my head that would comfort people in situations like mine. I’d portray someone in love like I am, connected to someone living so freely as you do. Shakespeare always sums things up so well. Hamlet had the same kind of misery I do when he told Ophelia, “Go to a nunnery, go, go!” Honestly, I would like to give it all up right now—I would like to die. I’m disgusted by the brutal world you’re smiling at. I hate men, and even more, I hate women. All I see for the future are thorns—wherever I am next winter, in Italy or anywhere else, Brown will be nearby with his indecencies. I see no chance for rest. Imagine me in Rome—there I would see you like a vision, coming and going all hours—I wish you could give me a little faith in humanity. I can’t summon any—the world is too harsh for me—I’m glad there’s such a thing as the grave—I’m sure I’ll never find peace until I get there. In any case, I’ll treat myself by avoiding Dilke, Brown, and their friends. I wish I were either in your arms filled with trust, or that a thunderbolt would strike me.
God bless you.
God bless you.
J. K.
J.K.
ADDITIONAL LETTERS.
ADDITIONAL LETTERS.
II bis.
Shanklin
Shanklin
Thursday Evening
Thursday Night
[15 July 1819?[54]]
My love,
My dear,
I have been in so irritable a state of health these two or three last days, that I did not think I should be able to write this week. Not that I was so ill, but so much so as only to be capable of an unhealthy teasing letter. To night I am greatly recovered only to[112] feel the languor I have felt after you touched with ardency. You say you perhaps might have made me better: you would then have made me worse: now you could quite effect a cure: What fee my sweet Physician would I not give you to do so. Do not call it folly, when I tell you I took your letter last night to bed with me. In the morning I found your name on the sealing wax obliterated. I was startled at the bad omen till I recollected that it must have happened in my dreams, and they you know fall out by contraries. You must have found out by this time I am a little given to bode ill like the raven; it is my misfortune not my fault; it has proceeded from the general tenor of the circumstances of my life, and rendered every event suspicious. However I will no more trouble either you or myself with sad prophecies; though so far I am pleased at it as it has given me opportunity to love your disinterestedness towards me.[113] I can be a raven no more; you and pleasure take possession of me at the same moment. I am afraid you have been unwell. If through me illness have touched you (but it must be with a very gentle hand) I must be selfish enough to feel a little glad at it. Will you forgive me this? I have been reading lately an oriental tale of a very beautiful color[55]—It is of a city of melancholy men, all made so by this circumstance. Through a series of adventures each one of them by turns reach some gardens of Paradise where they meet[114] with a most enchanting Lady; and just as they are going to embrace her, she bids them shut their eyes—they shut them—and on opening their eyes again find themselves descending to the earth in a magic basket. The remembrance of this Lady and their delights lost beyond all recovery render them melancholy ever after. How I applied this to you, my dear; how I palpitated at it; how the certainty that you were in the same world with myself, and though as beautiful, not so talismanic as that Lady; how I could not bear you should be so you must believe because I swear it by yourself. I cannot say when I shall get a volume ready. I have three or four stories half done, but as I cannot write for the mere sake of the press, I am obliged to let them progress or lie still as my fancy chooses. By Christmas perhaps they may appear,[56] but I am[115] not yet sure they ever will. ’Twill be no matter, for Poems are as common as newspapers and I do not see why it is a greater crime in me than in another to let the verses of an half-fledged brain tumble into the reading-rooms and drawing-room windows. Rice has been better lately than usual: he is not suffering from any neglect of his parents who have for some years been able to appreciate him better than they did in his first youth, and are now devoted to his comfort. Tomorrow I shall, if my health continues to improve during the night, take a look fa[r]ther about the country, and spy at the parties about here who come hunting after the picturesque like beagles. It is astonishing how they raven down scenery like children do sweetmeats. The wondrous Chine here is a very great Lion: I wish I had as many guineas as there have been spy-glasses in it. I have been, I cannot tell why, in capital spirits this last hour. What reason? When I have[116] to take my candle and retire to a lonely room, without the thought as I fall asleep, of seeing you tomorrow morning? or the next day, or the next—it takes on the appearance of impossibility and eternity—I will say a month—I will say I will see you in a month at most, though no one but yourself should see me; if it be but for an hour. I should not like to be so near you as London without being continually with you: after having once more kissed you Sweet I would rather be here alone at my task than in the bustle and hateful literary chitchat. Meantime you must write to me—as I will every week—for your letters keep me alive. My sweet Girl I cannot speak my love for you. Good night! and
I’ve been feeling really irritable these past few days, and I didn’t think I’d be able to write this week. I wasn’t seriously ill, just enough to only manage a somewhat unhealthy, teasing letter. Tonight, I feel much better, but I still have the lingering fatigue that always hits me after you’ve touched me with passion. You suggested that you might have made me feel better; but then again, you might have made me feel worse. Now, if you could actually cure me, what wouldn't I give, my sweet doctor, to make that happen? Don’t call it foolish when I tell you I took your letter to bed with me last night. In the morning, I noticed your name on the sealing wax was smudged. I was a bit worried by that bad omen until I remembered that it must have happened in my dreams, which, as you know, often go the opposite way. You must have realized by now that I have a tendency to expect the worst, like a raven; it’s my misfortune, not my fault. It stems from the general circumstances of my life, which have made every event seem suspicious. However, I won’t bother you or myself with gloomy predictions anymore; though I do appreciate that it has allowed me to recognize how selfless you are towards me. I can no longer be a raven; you and joy fill me at the same time. I’m worried you haven’t been well. If my presence has made you unwell (and it must have been very gently), I must admit I feel a bit glad about it. Will you forgive me for that? I’ve recently been reading an Eastern tale with an exquisite theme—it’s about a city of melancholic men, all made so by their circumstances. Through a series of adventures, they each visit a paradise garden where they meet a stunning lady; just as they’re about to embrace her, she tells them to close their eyes—they do—and when they open them again, they find themselves descending to Earth in a magic basket. The memory of this lady and the joys they lost forever leaves them sad for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t help but apply this to you, my dear; how I felt it deeply; how the fact that you’re in the same world as I am, though as beautiful, not quite as magical as that lady; how I can’t bear the thought of you being lost; you must trust that because I swear it on your name. I can’t say when I’ll have a collection ready. I have three or four stories partly finished, but since I can’t write just for the sake of publishing, I have to let them progress or sit idle as my mood dictates. By Christmas, they may be ready, but I’m not sure they ever will be. It doesn’t matter too much because poems are as common as newspapers, and I don’t see why it’s a bigger crime for me than anyone else to let the verses of an unfinished mind slip into reading rooms and drawing rooms. Rice has been doing better lately; he’s not suffering from any neglect from his parents, who have come to appreciate him more than they did when he was younger and are now devoted to his happiness. Tomorrow, if my health continues to improve tonight, I’ll take a look around the countryside and check out the people here who are hunting for picturesque sights like eager beagles. It’s amazing how they devour scenery like children do sweets. The remarkable Chine here is a big attraction; I wish I had as many guineas as there have been binoculars used on it. For some reason, I’ve been in great spirits this past hour. What’s the reason? When I have to take my candle and retreat to a lonely room, with no thought of seeing you tomorrow morning or the day after, or the day after that—it starts to feel impossible and eternal—I’ll say a month—I’ll say I’ll see you in a month at the latest, even if no one but you should see me; even if it’s just for an hour. I wouldn’t want to be close to you in London without being constantly with you; after once more kissing you, darling, I’d prefer to stay here alone with my work than in the chaos of annoying literary chatter. In the meantime, you must write to me—as I will every week—because your letters keep me going. My sweet girl, I can’t find the words to express my love for you. Good night!
Ever yours
Forever yours
JOHN KEATS.
John Keats.
XXXIV bis.
Tuesday Morn.
Tuesday Morning.
My dearest Girl,
My beloved girl,
I wrote a letter[57] for you yesterday expecting to have seen your mother. I shall be selfish enough to send it though I know it may give you a little pain, because I wish you to see how unhappy I am for love of you, and endeavour as much as I can to entice you to give up your whole heart to me whose whole existence hangs upon you. You could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart—I am greedy of you. Do not think of anything but me. Do not live as if I was not existing. Do not forget me—But[118] have I any right to say you forget me? Perhaps you think of me all day. Have I any right to wish you to be unhappy for me? You would forgive me for wishing it if you knew the extreme passion I have that you should love me—and for you to love me as I do you, you must think of no one but me, much less write that sentence. Yesterday and this morning I have been haunted with a sweet vision—I have seen you the whole time in your shepherdess dress. How my senses have ached at it! How my heart has been devoted to it! How my eyes have been full of tears at it! I[n]deed I think a real love is enough to occupy the widest heart. Your going to town alone when I heard of it was a shock to me—yet I expected it—promise me you will not for some time till I get better. Promise me this and fill the paper full of the most endearing names. If you cannot do so with good will, do my love tell me—say what you think—confess if your heart is too much[119] fasten’d on the world. Perhaps then I may see you at a greater distance, I may not be able to appropriate you so closely to myself. Were you to loose a favourite bird from the cage, how would your eyes ache after it as long as it was in sight; when out of sight you would recover a little. Perhaps if you would, if so it is, confess to me how many things are necessary to you besides me, I might be happier; by being less tantaliz’d. Well may you exclaim, how selfish, how cruel not to let me enjoy my youth! to wish me to be unhappy. You must be so if you love me. Upon my soul I can be contented with nothing else. If you would really what is call’d enjoy yourself at a Party—if you can smile in people’s faces, and wish them to admire you now—you never have nor ever will love me. I see life in nothing but the certainty of your Love—convince me of it my sweetest. If I am not somehow convinced I shall die of agony. If we love we must not live[120] as other men and women do—I cannot brook the wolfsbane of fashion and foppery and tattle—you must be mine to die upon the rack if I want you. I do not pretend to say that I have more feeling than my fellows, but I wish you seriously to look over my letters kind and unkind and consider whether the person who wrote them can be able to endure much longer the agonies and uncertainties which you are so peculiarly made to create. My recovery of bodily health will be of no benefit to me if you are not mine when I am well. For God’s sake save me—or tell me my passion is of too awful a nature for you. Again God bless you.
I wrote a letter[57] for you yesterday, hoping to have seen your mother. I’m going to be selfish and send it anyway, even though I know it might hurt you a little, because I want you to see how unhappy I am out of love for you and how hard I try to persuade you to give your whole heart to me, the one whose entire existence depends on you. You could barely move an eyelid without it affecting my heart—I crave you. Don’t think about anything but me. Don’t live as if I don’t exist. Don’t forget me—But[118] do I even have the right to say you forget me? Maybe you think about me all day. Do I have the right to wish you would be unhappy for me? You would forgive me for wanting that if you knew how intensely I desire your love—and for you to love me as I love you, you need to think of no one but me, especially not write that sentence. Yesterday and this morning, I’ve been haunted by a sweet vision—I’ve seen you the whole time in your shepherdess dress. How my senses have ached at it! How my heart has been devoted to it! How my eyes have filled with tears at it! I truly believe that real love is enough to fill the largest heart. Hearing that you went to town alone was a shock to me—yet I expected it—promise me you won’t for a while until I get better. Promise me this and fill the paper with the most affectionate names. If you can’t do it with goodwill, please tell me—say what you really think—confess if your heart is too attached to the outside world. Maybe then I can see you from a greater distance; I might not be able to hold you so closely. If you were to lose a favorite bird from its cage, how would your heart ache after it as long as it was in sight? When it’s out of sight, you might feel a little better. Maybe if you would, if it’s the case, confess to me how many other things are important to you besides me, I could be happier by being less tormented. You might say, how selfish, how cruel not to let me enjoy my youth! To wish me to be unhappy. You must be unhappy if you love me. I swear I can be satisfied with nothing else. If you really want to enjoy yourself at a party—if you can smile in people’s faces and want them to admire you now—you never have loved me and you never will. I see life only in the certainty of your love—convince me of it, my sweetest. If you don’t somehow convince me, I’ll die of agony. If we love, we can’t live like other men and women do—I can’t tolerate the poison of fashion and gossip—you must be mine or I’ll suffer greatly if I want you. I don’t claim to have more feelings than others, but I need you to seriously read over my letters, both kind and unkind, and think about whether the person who wrote them can endure much longer the pain and uncertainty that you seem to be made to create. My recovery of health won’t mean anything to me if you’re not mine when I’m well. For God’s sake, save me—or tell me my passion is too overwhelming for you. Again, God bless you.
J. K.
J.K.
No—my sweet Fanny—I am wrong—I do not wish you to be unhappy—and yet I do, I must while there is so sweet a Beauty—my loveliest, my darling! good bye! I kiss you—O the torments!
No—my sweet Fanny—I’m wrong—I don’t want you to be unhappy—and yet I do, I must while there is such a lovely Beauty—my dearest, my darling! Goodbye! I kiss you—oh, the pain!
APPENDIX.
I.
Fanny Brawne's opinion of Keats.
In discussing the effect which the Quarterly Review article had on Keats, Medwin[58] quotes the following passages from a communication addressed to him by Fanny Brawne after her marriage:—
In talking about how the Quarterly Review article impacted Keats, Medwin[58] quotes these passages from a message she sent him after her marriage:—
“I did not know Keats at the time the review appeared. It was published, if I remember rightly, in June, 1818.[59] However great his mortification might have been, he was not, I should say, of a character likely to have displayed it in the manner mentioned in Mrs. Shelley’s Remains of her husband. Keats, soon after the appearance of the review in question, started on a walking expedition into the Highlands. From thence he was forced to return, in consequence of the illness of a brother, whose death a few months afterwards affected him strongly.
“I didn't know Keats when the review came out. It was published, if I remember correctly, in June 1818.[59] No matter how upset he might have been, I don't think he was the type to show it in the way described in Mrs. Shelley’s Remains of her husband. Soon after the review was published, Keats went on a hiking trip in the Highlands. He had to come back because his brother got sick, and his brother's death a few months later really hit him hard.”
“It was about this time that I became acquainted with Keats. We met frequently at the house of a mutual friend, (not Leigh Hunt’s), but neither then nor afterwards did I see anything in his manner to give the idea that he was brooding over any secret[124] grief or disappointment. His conversation was in the highest degree interesting, and his spirits good, excepting at moments when anxiety regarding his brother’s health dejected them. His own illness, that commenced in January 1820,[60] began from inflammation in the lungs, from cold. In coughing, he ruptured a blood-vessel. An hereditary tendency to consumption was aggravated by the excessive susceptibility of his temperament, for I never see those often quoted lines of Dryden without thinking how exactly they applied to Keats:—
“It was around this time that I got to know Keats. We often met at the home of a mutual friend (not Leigh Hunt’s), but neither then nor later did I ever notice anything in his demeanor that suggested he was carrying any hidden sorrow or disappointment. His conversation was incredibly engaging, and his mood was generally good, except for moments when he was worried about his brother’s health. His own illness began in January 1820 due to inflammation in the lungs from a cold. While coughing, he ruptured a blood vessel. An inherited tendency toward tuberculosis was worsened by his highly sensitive nature, as I can't see those often quoted lines of Dryden without thinking how perfectly they fit Keats:—
From the commencement of his malady he was forbidden to write a line of poetry,[61] and his failing health, joined to the uncertainty of his prospects, often threw him into deep melancholy.
From the start of his illness, he was not allowed to write a single line of poetry,[61] and his declining health, along with the unpredictability of his future, often plunged him into profound sadness.
“The letter, p. 295 of Shelley’s Remains, from Mr. Finch, seems calculated to give a very false idea of Keats. That his sensibility was most acute, is true, and his passions were very strong, but not violent, if by that term violence of temper is implied. His was no doubt susceptible, but his anger seemed rather to turn on himself than on others, and in moments of greatest irritation, it was only by a sort of savage despondency that he sometimes grieved and wounded his friends. Violence such as the letter describes, was quite foreign to his nature. For more than a twelvemonth before quitting England, I saw him every day, often witnessed his sufferings, both mental and bodily, and I do not hesitate to say that he never could have addressed an unkind expression, much less a violent[125] one, to any human being. During the last few months before leaving his native country, his mind underwent a fierce conflict; for whatever in moments of grief or disappointment he might say or think, his most ardent desire was to live to redeem his name from the obloquy cast upon it;[62] nor was it till he knew his death inevitable, that he eagerly wished to die. Mr. Finch’s letter goes on to say—‘Keats might be judged insane,’—I believe the fever that consumed him, might have brought on a temporary species of delirium that made his friend Mr. Severn’s task a painful one.”
“The letter on p. 295 of Shelley’s Remains from Mr. Finch gives a misleading impression of Keats. It’s true that his sensitivity was very sharp and his passions were intense, but they weren't violent in the sense of a temper. He was undoubtedly sensitive, but his anger tended to be directed more inwardly than outwardly, and during his most frustrated moments, he often expressed his grief in a sort of savage despondency that sometimes hurt his friends. The kind of violence described in the letter was completely against his nature. For over a year before leaving England, I saw him every day and often witnessed both his mental and physical suffering, and I can confidently say he never directed any unkind word, let alone a violent one, at anyone. In the last few months before he left his homeland, his mind suffered a fierce struggle; despite what he might say or think in moments of grief or disappointment, his strongest desire was to live and clear his name from the disgrace thrown upon it; it wasn’t until he realized his death was unavoidable that he started to wish for it. Mr. Finch’s letter continues—‘Keats might be judged insane’—I believe the fever that afflicted him could have caused a temporary sort of delirium that made Mr. Severn's experience a painful one.”
II.
Wentworth Place Area.
The precise locality of Wentworth Place, Hampstead, has been a matter of uncertainty and dispute; and I found even the children of the lady to whom the foregoing letters were addressed without any exact knowledge on the subject. The houses which went to make up Wentworth Place were those inhabited respectively by the Dilke family, the Brawne family, and Charles Armitage Brown; but these were not three houses as might be supposed, the fact being that Mrs. Brawne rented first Brown’s house during his absence with Keats in the summer of 1818, and then Dilke’s when the latter removed to Westminster.
The exact location of Wentworth Place in Hampstead has always been uncertain and debated; even the children of the woman to whom the previous letters were addressed didn’t have any clear information about it. The homes that made up Wentworth Place were those occupied by the Dilke family, the Brawne family, and Charles Armitage Brown. However, it’s not as simple as it sounds, since Mrs. Brawne initially rented Brown’s house while he was away with Keats in the summer of 1818, and then she moved into Dilke’s house when he relocated to Westminster.
At page 98 of the late Mr. Howitt’s Northern Heights of London,[63] it is said of Keats:—
At page 98 of the late Mr. Howitt’s Northern Heights of London,[63] it mentions Keats:—
“From this time till 1820, when he left—in the last stage of consumption—for Italy, he resided principally at Hampstead. During most of this time, he lived with his very dear friend Mr. Charles Brown, a Russia merchant, at Wentworth Place, Downshire Hill, by[127] Pond Street, Hampstead. Previously, he and his brother Thomas had occupied apartments at the next house to Mr. Brown’s, at a Mrs. ——’s whose name his biographers have carefully omitted. With the daughter of this lady Keats was deeply in love—a passion which deepened to the last.”
“From this time until 1820, when he left for Italy in the final stage of his illness, he mainly lived in Hampstead. Throughout most of this period, he shared a home with his close friend Mr. Charles Brown, a Russian merchant, at Wentworth Place, Downshire Hill, near [127] Pond Street, Hampstead. Before that, he and his brother Thomas had lived in the next house to Mr. Brown’s, at a Mrs. ——’s whose name has been carefully left out by his biographers. Keats was deeply in love with the daughter of this woman—a passion that grew stronger until the end.”
No authority is given for the statement that John and Tom Keats lodged with the mother of the lady to whom John was attached; and I think it must have arisen from a misapprehension of something communicated to Mr. Howitt, perhaps in such ambiguous terms as every investigator has experienced in his time. At all events I must contradict the statement positively; nor is there any doubt where the brothers did lodge, namely in Well Walk, with the family of the local postman, Benjamin Bentley. Charles Cowden Clarke mentions in his Recollections that the lodging was “in the first or second house on the right hand, going up to the Heath”; and the rate books show that Bentley was rated from 1814 to 1824 for the house which, in 1838, was numbered 1, the house next to the public house formerly called the “Green Man,” but now known as the “Wells” Tavern. At page 102, Mr. Howitt says:—
No evidence supports the claim that John and Tom Keats stayed with the mother of the woman John was interested in; I believe this must have come from a misunderstanding of something conveyed to Mr. Howitt, possibly expressed in the vague way that every researcher has encountered at some point. In any case, I must clearly deny this claim; it's undisputed where the brothers actually stayed, which was in Well Walk, with the family of the local postman, Benjamin Bentley. Charles Cowden Clarke mentions in his Recollections that the lodging was “in the first or second house on the right hand, going up to the Heath”; and the rate books show that Bentley was listed from 1814 to 1824 for the house that, in 1838, was numbered 1, the house next to the pub formerly known as the “Green Man,” but now referred to as the “Wells” Tavern. On page 102, Mr. Howitt states:—
“It is to be regretted that Wentworth Place, where Keats lodged, and wrote some of his finest poetry, either no longer exists or no longer bears that name. At the bottom of John Street, on the left hand in descending, is a villa called Wentworth House; but no Wentworth Place exists between Downshire Hill and Pond Street, the locality assigned to it. I made the most rigorous search in that quarter, inquiring of the tradesmen daily supplying the houses there, and of two residents of forty and fifty years. None of them had[128] any knowledge or recollection of a Wentworth Place. Possibly Keats’s friend, Mr. Brown, lived at Wentworth House, and that the three cottages standing in a line with it and facing South-End Road, but at a little distance from the road in a garden, might then bear the name of Wentworth Place. The end cottage would then, as stated in the lines of Keats, be next door to Mr. Brown’s. These cottages still have apartments to let, and in all other respects accord with the assigned locality.”
“It’s unfortunate that Wentworth Place, where Keats stayed and wrote some of his best poetry, either no longer exists or doesn’t go by that name anymore. At the bottom of John Street, on the left side as you head down, there’s a villa called Wentworth House; however, there’s no Wentworth Place between Downshire Hill and Pond Street, the area where it was supposed to be. I conducted a thorough search in that area, asking the local shopkeepers who supply the homes there everyday, as well as two long-time residents of forty and fifty years. None of them had[128] any knowledge or memory of a Wentworth Place. It’s possible that Keats’s friend, Mr. Brown, lived at Wentworth House, and that the three cottages lined up with it facing South-End Road, but set back a bit in a garden, might have originally been called Wentworth Place. The end cottage would then, as Keats noted, be next to Mr. Brown’s. These cottages still have rooms for rent, and in every other way match the location described.”
Mr. Howitt seems to have meant that Wentworth House with the cottages may possibly have borne the name of Wentworth Place; and he should have said that the house was on the right hand in descending John Street. But the fact of the case is correctly stated in Mr. Thorne’s Handbook to the Environs of London,[64] Part I, page 291, where a bolder and more explicit localization is given:
Mr. Howitt seems to have meant that Wentworth House with the cottages might have actually been called Wentworth Place; and he should have noted that the house was on the right side when going down John Street. However, the truth is accurately presented in Mr. Thorne’s Handbook to the Environs of London,[64] Part I, page 291, where a clearer and more definitive location is provided:
“The House in which he [Keats] lodged for the greater part of the time, then called Wentworth Place, is now called Lawn Bank, and is the end house but one on the rt. side of John Street, next Wentworth House.”
“The house where he [Keats] stayed most of the time, previously known as Wentworth Place, is now called Lawn Bank and is the second-to-last house on the right side of John Street, next to Wentworth House.”
Mr. Thorne adduces no authority for the statement; and it must be assumed that it is based on some of the private communications which he acknowledges generally in his preface. He may possibly have been biassed by the plane-tree which Mr. Howitt, at page[129] 101 of Northern Heights, substitutes for the traditional plum-tree in quoting Lord Houghton’s account of the composition of the Ode to a Nightingale. Certainly there is a fine old plane-tree in front of the house at Lawn Bank; and there is a local tradition of a nightingale and a poet connected with that tree; but this dim tradition may be merely a misty repetition, from mouth to mouth, of Mr. Howitt’s extract from Lord Houghton’s volumes. Primâ facie, a plane-tree might seem to be a very much more likely shelter than a plum-tree for Keats to have chosen to place his chair beneath; and yet one would think that, had Mr. Howitt purposely substituted the plane-tree for the plum-tree, it would have been because he found it by the house which he supposed to be Brown’s. This however is not the case; and it should also be mentioned that at the western end of Lawn Bank, among some shrubs &c., there is an old and dilapidated plum-tree which grows so as to form a kind of leafy roof.
Mr. Thorne doesn't provide any sources for his statement; we have to assume it's based on some of the private communications he generally mentions in his preface. He might have been influenced by the plane-tree that Mr. Howitt, on page[129] 101 of Northern Heights, replaces with the traditional plum-tree when quoting Lord Houghton’s account of composing the Ode to a Nightingale. There is indeed a beautiful old plane-tree in front of Lawn Bank; and there's a local legend about a nightingale and a poet related to that tree; but this vague tradition may simply be a lingering echo, passed down verbally, of Mr. Howitt’s excerpt from Lord Houghton’s works. At first glance, a plane-tree might seem like a more fitting shelter than a plum-tree for Keats to have chosen for his chair; yet, one would think that if Mr. Howitt deliberately swapped the plane-tree for the plum-tree, it would be because he saw it by the house he believed to be Brown’s. However, that’s not the case, and it’s also worth mentioning that at the western end of Lawn Bank, among some shrubs and so on, there is an old and rundown plum-tree that grows in a way that creates a sort of leafy canopy.
Eleven years ago, when I attempted to identify Wentworth Place beyond a doubt by local and other enquiries, the gardener at Wentworth House assured me very positively that, some fifteen or twenty years before, when Lawn Bank (then called Lawn Cottage) was in bad repair, and the rain had washed nearly all the colour off the front, he used to read the words “Wentworth Place,” painted in large letters beside the top window at the extreme left of the old part of the house as one faces it; and I have since had the pleasure of reading the words there myself; for the colour got washed thin enough again some time afterwards. After a great deal of enquiry among older inhabitants of Hampstead than this gardener, I found[130] a musician, born there in 1801, and resident there ever since, a most intelligent and clear-headed man, who had been in the habit of playing at various houses in Hampstead from the year 1812 onwards. When asked, simply and without any “leading” remark, what he could tell about a group of houses formerly known as Wentworth Place, he replied without hesitation that Lawn Bank, when he was a youth, certainly bore that name, that it was two houses, with entrances at the sides, in one of which he played as early as 1824, and that subsequently the two houses were converted into one, at very great expense, to form a residence for Miss Chester,[65] who called the place Lawn Cottage. This informant did not remember the names of the persons occupying the two houses. A surgeon of repute, among the oldest inhabitants of Hampstead, told me, as an absolute certainty, that he was there as early as 1827, knew the Brawne family, and attended them professionally at Wentworth Place, in the house forming the western half of Lawn Bank. Of Charles Brown, however, this gentleman had no knowledge.
Eleven years ago, when I tried to confirm Wentworth Place for sure through local inquiries and other sources, the gardener at Wentworth House confidently told me that, about fifteen or twenty years earlier, when Lawn Bank (then known as Lawn Cottage) was in disrepair and the rain had washed away most of the paint on the front, he could clearly read the words “Wentworth Place,” painted in large letters next to the top window on the far left side of the old part of the house as you look at it; and I later had the pleasure of seeing those words myself because the paint had worn thin again after some time. After a lot of questioning among older residents of Hampstead than this gardener, I found a musician, born there in 1801 and living there ever since, a very intelligent and clear-headed man, who had played at various homes in Hampstead from 1812 onward. When I asked him, simply and without any leading questions, what he knew about a group of houses once called Wentworth Place, he instantly replied that Lawn Bank definitely had that name when he was a young man, that it consisted of two houses with entrances on the sides, one of which he played in as early as 1824, and that later the two houses were combined into one, at significant expense, to create a home for Miss Chester, who referred to it as Lawn Cottage. This informant didn’t remember the names of the people living in the two houses. A well-known surgeon, one of the oldest residents of Hampstead, told me with complete certainty that he was there as early as 1827, knew the Brawne family, and attended to them professionally at Wentworth Place, in the house that made up the western half of Lawn Bank. However, this gentleman had no information about Charles Brown.
Not perfectly satisfied with the local evidence, I forwarded to Mr. Severn a sketch-plan of the immediate locality, in order that he might identify the houses in which he visited Keats and Brown and the Brawne family: he replied that it was in Lawn Bank that Brown and Mrs. Brawne had their respective residences; and he also mentioned side entrances; but Sir Charles Dilke says his grandfather’s house[131] had the entrance in front, and only Brown’s had a side entrance. Two relatives of Mrs. Brawne’s who were still living in 1877, and were formerly residents in the house, also identified this block as that in which she resided, and so did the late Mr. William Dilke of Chichester, by whose instructions, during the absence of his brother, the name was first painted upon the house. It is hard to see what further evidence can be wanted on the subject. The recollection of one person may readily be distrusted; but where so many memories converge in one result, their evidence must be accepted; and I leave these details on record here, mainly on the ground that doubts may possibly arise again. At present it does not seem as if there could be any possible question that, in Lawn Bank, we have the immortalized Wentworth Place where Keats spent so much time, first as co-inmate with Brown in the eastern half of the block, and at last when he went to be nursed by Mrs. and Miss Brawne in the western half.
Not entirely satisfied with the local evidence, I sent Mr. Severn a sketch of the area so he could identify the houses where he visited Keats, Brown, and the Brawne family. He responded that Brown and Mrs. Brawne lived at Lawn Bank and mentioned side entrances, but Sir Charles Dilke claims his grandfather’s house[131] had a front entrance, and only Brown’s had a side entrance. Two relatives of Mrs. Brawne who were still alive in 1877 and had previously lived in the house also confirmed this block as her residence, as did the late Mr. William Dilke from Chichester, who had the name painted on the house during his brother’s absence. It’s hard to see what more evidence could be needed on this topic. One person’s memory can easily be questioned, but when so many memories point to the same conclusion, their evidence should be accepted. I'm recording these details mainly because doubts might arise again. Right now, there seems to be no question that Lawn Bank is the celebrated Wentworth Place where Keats spent so much time, first living with Brown in the eastern half of the block, and later being cared for by Mrs. and Miss Brawne in the western half.
It should perhaps be pointed out, in regard to Mr. Thorne’s expression that Keats lodged there, that this was not a case of lodging in the ordinary sense: he was a sharing inmate; and his share of the expenses was duly acquitted, as recorded by Mr. Dilke. In the hope of identifying the houses by some documentary evidence, I had the parish rate-books searched; in these there is no mention of John Street; but that part of Hampstead is described as the Lower Heath Quarter: no names of houses are given; and the only evidence to the purpose is that, among the ratepayers of the Lower Heath Quarter, very few in number, were Charles Wentworth Dilk (without the final e) and Charles Brown. The name of Mrs.[132] Brawne does not appear; but, as she rented the house in Wentworth Place of Mr. Dilke, it may perhaps be assumed that it was he who paid the rates.
It should maybe be noted, regarding Mr. Thorne’s comment that Keats stayed there, that this wasn't just a typical lodging situation: he was a shared tenant, and he paid his fair share of the expenses, as Mr. Dilke recorded. Hoping to find some documentary evidence to identify the houses, I had the parish rate books checked; however, there is no mention of John Street in them. Instead, that area of Hampstead is referred to as the Lower Heath Quarter: no house names are provided, and the only relevant evidence is that among the few ratepayers in the Lower Heath Quarter were Charles Wentworth Dilk (without the final e) and Charles Brown. The name of Mrs. [132] Brawne doesn’t show up; however, since she rented the house in Wentworth Place from Mr. Dilke, it may be assumed that he was the one who paid the rates.
It will perhaps be thought that the steps of the enquiry in this matter are somewhat “prolixly set forth”; and the only plea in mitigation to be offered is that, without evidence, those who really care to know the facts of the case could hardly be satisfied.
It might be considered that the steps of the investigation are outlined a bit too lengthy; and the only justification for this is that, without evidence, those who genuinely want to understand the facts would hardly be satisfied.
THE END.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES
[2] Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by Richard Monckton Milnes (Two Volumes, Moxon, 1848). My references, throughout, are to this edition; but it will be sufficient to cite it henceforth simply as Life, Letters, &c., specifying the volume and page.
[2] Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by Richard Monckton Milnes (Two Volumes, Moxon, 1848). I’ll reference this edition throughout, but from now on, I’ll just call it Life, Letters, &c., noting the volume and page.
[3] The Poetical Works of John Keats. Chronologically arranged and edited, with a Memoir, by Lord Houghton, D.C.L., Hon. Fellow of Trin. Coll. Cambridge (Bell & Sons, 1876). See p. xxiii, Memoir.
[3] The Poetical Works of John Keats. Chronologically arranged and edited, with a Memoir, by Lord Houghton, D.C.L., Hon. Fellow of Trin. Coll. Cambridge (Bell & Sons, 1876). See p. xxiii, Memoir.
[9] This little book, now in my collection, is of great interest. It is marked throughout for Miss Brawne’s use,—according to Keats’s fashion of “marking the most beautiful passages” in his books for her. At one end is written the sonnet referred to in the text, apparently composed by Keats with the book before him, as there are two “false starts,” as well as erasures; and at the other end, in the handwriting of Miss Brawne, is copied Keats’s last sonnet,
[9] This little book, now in my collection, is really interesting. It’s annotated throughout for Miss Brawne’s use, following Keats’s habit of “marking the most beautiful passages” in his books for her. At one end, there’s a sonnet mentioned in the text, which Keats apparently wrote while having the book in front of him, as there are two “false starts” and some erasures; and at the other end, in Miss Brawne's handwriting, is a copy of Keats’s last sonnet.
The Spenser similarly marked, the subject of Letter XXXIV, is missing.
The Spenser similarly marked, the subject of Letter XXXIV, is missing.
[11] The Philobiblion a monthly Bibliographical Journal. Containing Critical Notices of, and Extracts from, Rare, Curious, and Valuable Old Books. (Two Volumes. Geo. P. Philes & Co., 51 Nassau Street, New York. 1862-3.) The Keats letter is at p. 196 of Vol. I, side by side with one purporting to be Shelley’s, a flagrant forgery which has been publicly animadverted on several times lately, having been reprinted as genuine.
[11] The Philobiblion, a monthly bibliographical journal, featuring critical reviews and excerpts from rare, interesting, and valuable old books. (Two volumes. Geo. P. Philes & Co., 51 Nassau Street, New York. 1862-3.) The Keats letter is on page 196 of Volume I, next to one that claims to be by Shelley, which is an obvious forgery that has been publicly criticized several times recently, having been reprinted as if it were authentic.
[12] The correspondent of The World would seem (I only say seem; for the matter is obscure) to have used Lord Houghton’s pages for “copy” where a cursory examination indicated that they gave the same matter as the original letter,—transcribing what presented itself as new matter from the original. The fragment of Friday 27th was, on this supposition, in its place when the copies were made for Lord Houghton, because there is the close; but between that time and 1862 it must have been separated from the letter.
[12] The correspondent of The World seems (I say seems; as the situation is unclear) to have used Lord Houghton’s pages as “copy” where a quick look showed that they contained the same information as the original letter—copying what appeared to be new material from the original. The part from Friday 27th was, based on this assumption, included at the right time when the copies were made for Lord Houghton, since that’s where the conclusion is; however, it must have been separated from the letter between that time and 1862.
[14] It is interesting, by the way, to extract the following note of locality from the Autobiography (Vol. II, p. 230): “It was not at Hampstead that I first saw Keats. It was in York-buildings, in the New-road (No. 8), where I wrote part of the Indicator; and he resided with me while in Mortimer-terrace, Kentish-town (No. 13), where I concluded it.”
[14] It’s worth noting, by the way, the following detail about location from the Autobiography (Vol. II, p. 230): “I didn’t first meet Keats in Hampstead. It was in York-buildings on the New Road (No. 8), where I wrote part of the Indicator; and he lived with me while I was at Mortimer-terrace, Kentish-town (No. 13), where I finished it.”
[16] See Hunt’s Autobiography, Vol. II, p. 216. It may be noted in passing that the Indicator version of the Sonnet varies in some slight details from the Original in the volume of Dante referred to at page xliv, and from Lord Houghton’s text. It is natural to suppose that Hunt’s copy was the latest of the three; and his text is certainly an improvement on the others where it varies from them.
[16] See Hunt’s Autobiography, Vol. II, p. 216. It’s worth mentioning that the Indicator version of the Sonnet has some minor differences from the Original in the Dante volume mentioned at page xliv, and from Lord Houghton’s text. It’s reasonable to assume that Hunt’s copy was the most recent of the three, and his version definitely improves upon the others where it differs.
[17] The Papers of a Critic. Selected from the Writings of the late Charles Wentworth Dilke. With a Biographical Sketch by his Grandson, Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, Bart., M.P., &c. In Two Volumes. (London. John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1875.) See Vol. I, p. 11.
[17] The Papers of a Critic. Selected from the Writings of the late Charles Wentworth Dilke. With a Biographical Sketch by his Grandson, Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, Bart., M.P., etc. In Two Volumes. (London. John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1875.) See Vol. I, p. 11.
[19] The Letters and Poems of John Keats. In three volumes. (Dodd, Mead & Co., New York, 1883). Vol. I is called The Letters of John Keats, edited by Jno. Gilmer Speed: Vol. II and III, The Poems of John Keats, with the Annotations of Lord Houghton and a Memoir by Jno. Gilmer Speed.
[19] The Letters and Poems of John Keats. In three volumes. (Dodd, Mead & Co., New York, 1883). Vol. I is titled The Letters of John Keats, edited by Jno. Gilmer Speed: Vol. II and III, The Poems of John Keats, with the Annotations of Lord Houghton and a Memoir by Jno. Gilmer Speed.
[20] Keats by Sidney Colvin. (Macmillan & Co., 1887). Mr. Colvin has also contributed to Macmillan’s Magazine (August, 1888) an Article On Some Letters of Keats, which I have also duly consulted.
[20] Keats by Sidney Colvin. (Macmillan & Co., 1887). Mr. Colvin has also contributed to Macmillan’s Magazine (August, 1888) an article On Some Letters of Keats, which I have also reviewed.
[26] Fanny’s younger sister: see Introduction.
[29] Samuel Brawne, the brother of Fanny: see Introduction.
[30] I am unable to obtain or suggest any explanation of the allusion made in this strange sentence. It is not, however, impossible that “the Bishop” was merely a nickname of some one in the Hampstead circle.
[30] I can't find or offer any explanation for the reference in this odd sentence. However, it's not out of the question that “the Bishop” was simply a nickname for someone in the Hampstead group.
[31] The Tragedy referred to is, of course, Otho the Great, which was composed jointly by Keats and his friend Charles Armitage Brown. For the first four acts Brown provided the characters, plot, &c., and Keats found the language; but the fifth act is wholly Keats’s. See Lord Houghton’s Life, Letters, &c. (1848), Vol. II, pp. 1 and 2, and foot-note at p. 333 of the Aldine edition of Keats’s Poetical Works (Bell & Sons, 1876). A humorous account of the progress of the joint composition occurs in a letter written by Brown to Dilke, which is quoted at p. 9 of the memoir prefixed by Sir Charles Dilke to The Papers of a Critic, referred to in the Introduction to the present volume, p. lviii.
[31] The tragedy mentioned is, of course, Otho the Great, which was collaboratively written by Keats and his friend Charles Armitage Brown. For the first four acts, Brown provided the characters, plot, etc., while Keats created the language; however, the fifth act is entirely Keats’s work. See Lord Houghton’s Life, Letters, &c. (1848), Vol. II, pp. 1 and 2, and the footnote on p. 333 of the Aldine edition of Keats’s Poetical Works (Bell & Sons, 1876). There’s a humorous account of the progress of their joint composition in a letter from Brown to Dilke, which is quoted on p. 9 of the memoir by Sir Charles Dilke prefixed to The Papers of a Critic, mentioned in the Introduction to this volume, p. lviii.
[32] He did not find one; for, in a letter to B. R. Haydon, dated Winchester, 3 October, 1819, he says: “I came to this place in the hopes of meeting with a Library, but was disappointed.” For this letter see Benjamin Robert Haydon: Correspondence and Table-Talk (Two volumes, Chatto and Windus, 1875), Vol. II, p. 16, and also Lord Houghton’s Life, Letters, &c. (1848), Vol. II, p. 10, where there is an extract from the letter somewhat differently worded and arranged.
[32] He didn’t find one; in a letter to B. R. Haydon, dated Winchester, October 3, 1819, he says: “I came to this place hoping to find a library but was disappointed.” For this letter, see Benjamin Robert Haydon: Correspondence and Table-Talk (Two volumes, Chatto and Windus, 1875), Vol. II, p. 16, and also Lord Houghton’s Life, Letters, &c. (1848), Vol. II, p. 10, where there is an excerpt from the letter that is worded and arranged somewhat differently.
[33] The discrepancy between the date written by Keats and that given in the postmark is curious as a comment on his statement (Life, Letters, &c., 1848, Vol. I, p. 253) that he never knew the date: “It is some days since I wrote the last page, but I never know....”
[33] The difference between the date Keats wrote and the postmark date is interesting as it relates to his statement (Life, Letters, &c., 1848, Vol. I, p. 253) that he never knew the date: “It’s been a few days since I wrote the last page, but I never know....”
[34] This word is of course left as found in the original letter: an editor who should spell it yacht would be guilty of representing Keats as thinking what he did not think.
[34] This word is, of course, kept as it appears in the original letter: an editor who spells it yacht would misrepresent Keats as thinking something he didn't think.
[36] Whether he carried out this intention to the letter, I know not; but he would seem to have been at Winchester again, at all events, by the 22nd of September, on which day he was writing thence to Reynolds (Life, Letters, &c., Vol. II, p. 23).
[36] I don't know if he actually followed through on this plan exactly as he intended, but it seems he was back in Winchester by September 22nd, the day he was writing to Reynolds from there (Life, Letters, &c., Vol. II, p. 23).
[37] It would seem to have been in this street that Mr. Dilke obtained for Keats the rooms which the poet asked him to find in the letter of the 1st of October, from Winchester, given at p. 16, Vol. II, of the Life, Letters, &c. (1848). How long Keats remained in those rooms I have been unable to determine, to a day; but in Letter No. IX he writes, eight days later, from Great Smith Street (the address of Mr. Dilke) that he purposes “living at Hampstead”; and there is a letter headed “Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 17th Nov. [1819.]” at p. 35, Vol. II, of the Life, Letters, &c.
[37] It seems that it was on this street where Mr. Dilke found the rooms for Keats that the poet requested in his letter dated October 1st from Winchester, referenced on page 16 of Volume II of the Life, Letters, &c. (1848). I haven’t been able to figure out exactly how long Keats stayed in those rooms; however, in Letter No. IX, written eight days later from Great Smith Street (Mr. Dilke's address), he mentions that he plans to “live at Hampstead.” There’s also a letter dated “Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 17th Nov. [1819.]” on page 35 of Volume II of the Life, Letters, &c.
[38] It may be that consideration for his correspondent induced this moderation of speech: presumably the scene here referred to is that so graphically given in Lord Houghton’s Life (Vol. II, pp. 53-4), where we read, not that he merely “felt it possible” he “might not survive,” but that he said to his friend, “I know the colour of that blood,—it is arterial blood—I cannot be deceived in that colour; that drop is my death-warrant. I must die.”
[38] It might be that his consideration for his correspondent led to this careful way of speaking: the scene mentioned here is likely the one vividly described in Lord Houghton’s Life (Vol. II, pp. 53-4), where we find that he didn’t just “feel it possible” he “might not survive,” but told his friend, “I know that color of blood—it's arterial blood—I can’t be mistaken about that color; that drop is my death sentence. I have to die.”
[41] If we are to take these words literally, this letter brings us to the 24th of February, 1820, adopting the 3rd of February as the day on which Keats broke a blood-vessel.
[41] If we take these words at face value, this letter leads us to February 24, 1820, treating February 3 as the day Keats ruptured a blood vessel.
[42] George Keats’s Mother-in-law. The significant but indicates that the absence of Brown was still, as was natural, more or less a condition of the presence of Miss Brawne. That Keats had, however, or thought he had, some reason for this condition, beyond the mere delicacy of lovers, is dimly shadowed by the cold My dear Fanny with which in Letter XXI the condition was first expressly prescribed, and more than shadowed by the agonized expression of a morbid sensibility in Letters XXXV and XXXVII. Probably a man in sound health would have found the cause trivial enough.
[42] George Keats’s Mother-in-law. The important but suggests that Brown's absence was, as expected, a factor in Miss Brawne's presence. However, Keats believed he had a reason for this situation, beyond the usual delicacy of lovers, hinted at by the cold My dear Fanny in Letter XXI when this condition was first clearly stated, and even more emphasized by the pained expression of a sensitive soul in Letters XXXV and XXXVII. A healthy man would likely have seen the cause as quite trivial.
[45] This statement and a general similarity of tone induce the belief that this letter and the preceding one were written about the same time as one to Mr. Dilke, given by Lord Houghton (in the Life, Letters, &c., Vol. II, p. 57), as bearing the postmark, “Hampstead, March 4, 1820.” In that letter Keats cites his friend Brown as having said that he had “picked up a little flesh,” and he refers to his “being under an interdict with respect to animal food, living upon pseudo-victuals,”—just as in Letter XXV he speaks to Miss Brawne of his “feeding upon sham victuals.” In the letter to Dilke he says: “If I can keep off inflammation for the next six weeks, I trust I shall do very well.” In Letter XXV he expresses to Miss Brawne the hope that he may go out for a walk with her on the 1st of May. If these correspondences may be trusted, we are now dealing with letters of the first week in March, of which period there are still indications in Letter XXVIII.
[45] This statement and a general similarity in tone suggest that this letter and the one before it were written around the same time as the letter to Mr. Dilke that Lord Houghton mentions (in the Life, Letters, &c., Vol. II, p. 57), which has a postmark from “Hampstead, March 4, 1820.” In that letter, Keats mentions his friend Brown saying he had “gained a bit of weight,” and he talks about being “under an interdict regarding animal food, living on fake food,”—just like in Letter XXV where he tells Miss Brawne about “eating sham food.” In the letter to Dilke, he writes: “If I can avoid inflammation for the next six weeks, I believe I’ll be fine.” In Letter XXV he shares with Miss Brawne his hope to go out for a walk with her on May 1st. If we can trust these connections, we're looking at letters from the first week of March, which are still reflected in Letter XXVIII.
[46] The reference to Barry Cornwall and the cold weather indicate that this letter was written about the 4th of March, 1820; for in the letter to Mr. Dilke, with the Hampstead postmark of that date, already referred to (see page 73), Keats recounts this same affair of the books evidently as a quite recent transaction, and says he “shall not expect Mrs. Dilke at Hampstead next week unless the weather changes for the warmer.”
[46] The mention of Barry Cornwall and the cold weather suggests that this letter was written around March 4, 1820. In the letter to Mr. Dilke, which has a Hampstead postmark from that date, already mentioned (see page 73), Keats talks about the same issue with the books as if it has just happened, and he says he “won’t expect Mrs. Dilke at Hampstead next week unless the weather gets warmer.”
[47] Misspelt Proctor in the original.
Misspelled Proctor in the original.
[48] It is of no real consequence what had been said about “old Mr. Dilke,” the grandfather of the first baronet and the father of Keats’s acquaintance; but it is to be noted that this curious letter might have been a little more self-explanatory, had it not been mutilated. The lower half of the second leaf has been cut off,—by whom, the owners can only conjecture.
[48] It doesn’t really matter what was said about “old Mr. Dilke,” the grandfather of the first baronet and the father of Keats’s friend; however, it’s worth noting that this strange letter might have been a bit clearer if it hadn't been damaged. The bottom half of the second page has been cut off—by whom, the owners can only guess.
[49] The piece cut off the original letter is in this instance so small that nothing can be wanting except the signature,—probably given to an autograph-collector.
[49] The section removed from the original letter is so tiny in this case that the only thing missing is the signature,—likely taken by an autograph collector.
[50] This extreme bitterness of feeling must have supervened, one would think, in increased bodily disease; for the letter was clearly written after the parting of Keats and Brown at Gravesend, which took place on the 7th of May, 1819, and on which occasion there is every reason to think that the friends were undivided in attachment. I imagine Keats would gladly have seen Brown within a week of this time had there been any opportunity.
[50] This intense bitterness must have led to worsening physical health; the letter was definitely written after the separation of Keats and Brown at Gravesend, which happened on May 7, 1819, and it seems that the friends were very close at that time. I believe Keats would have happily met with Brown again within a week of this event if there had been any chance to do so.
[51] This question may perhaps be fairly taken to indicate the lapse of a month from the time when Keats left the house at Hampstead next door to Miss Brawne’s, at which he probably knew her employments well enough from day to day. If so, the time would be about the first week in June, 1819.
[51] This question might reasonably suggest that a month has passed since Keats left the house in Hampstead next door to Miss Brawne’s, where he likely knew her daily activities quite well. If that’s the case, it would be around the first week of June 1819.
[52] He was seemingly in a different phase of belief from that in which the death of his brother Tom found him. At that time he recorded that he and Tom both firmly believed in immortality. See Life, Letters, &c., Vol. I, p. 246. A further indication of his having shifted from the moorings of orthodoxy may be found in the expression in Letter XXXV, “I appeal to you by the blood of that Christ you believe in:”—not “we believe in.”
[52] He seemed to be in a different stage of belief than when the death of his brother Tom occurred. Back then, he wrote that both he and Tom firmly believed in immortality. See Life, Letters, &c., Vol. I, p. 246. Another sign that he had moved away from traditional beliefs can be seen in the phrase in Letter XXXV, “I appeal to you by the blood of that Christ you believe in:” —not “we believe in.”
[53] This seems to mean that he wrote the letter to the end, and then filled in the words My dearest Girl, left out lest any one coming near him should chance to see them. These words are written more heavily than the beginning of the letter, and indicate a state of pen corresponding with that shown by the words God bless you at the end.
[53] This appears to mean that he wrote the letter in its entirety and then added the words My dearest Girl, avoiding them because someone nearby might see them. These words are written with more pressure than the start of the letter and reflect a level of emotion consistent with the words God bless you at the end.
[54] This letter appears to belong between those of the 8th and 25th of July, 1819; and of the two Thursdays between these dates it seems likelier that the 15th would be the one than that the letter should have been written so near the 25th as on the 22nd. The original having been mislaid, I have not been able to take the evidence of the postmark. It will be noticed that at the close he speaks of a weekly exchange of letters with Miss Brawne; and by placing this letter at the 15th this programme is pretty nearly realized so far as Keats’s letters from the Isle of Wight are concerned.
[54] This letter seems to fit between those dated July 8 and July 25, 1819. Of the two Thursdays in this timeframe, it’s more likely that it was written on the 15th rather than so close to the 25th on the 22nd. Since the original has been misplaced, I can't check the postmark for evidence. You'll notice that at the end, he mentions a weekly exchange of letters with Miss Brawne. By placing this letter on the 15th, this plan is almost achieved regarding Keats’s letters from the Isle of Wight.
[55] The story in question is one of the many derivatives from the Third Calender’s Story in The Thousand and One Nights and the somewhat similar tale of “The Man who laughed not,” included in the Notes to Lane’s Arabian Nights and in the text of Payne’s magnificent version of the complete work. I am indebted to Dr. Reinhold Köhler, Librarian of the Grand-ducal Library of Weimar, for identifying the particular variant referred to by Keats as the “Histoire de la Corbeille,” in the Nouveaux Contes Orientaux of the Comte de Caylus. Mr. Morris’s beautiful poem “The Man who never laughed again,” in The Earthly Paradise, has familiarized to English readers one variant of the legend.
[55] The story in question is one of the many versions derived from the Third Calender’s Story in The Thousand and One Nights and the somewhat similar tale of “The Man who Laughed Not,” which is included in the Notes to Lane’s Arabian Nights and in the text of Payne’s brilliant version of the complete work. I am grateful to Dr. Reinhold Köhler, Librarian of the Grand-ducal Library of Weimar, for identifying the specific variant mentioned by Keats as the “Histoire de la Corbeille,” found in the Nouveaux Contes Orientaux of the Comte de Caylus. Mr. Morris’s beautiful poem “The Man who Never Laughed Again,” in The Earthly Paradise, has introduced one version of the legend to English readers.
[57] I do not find in the present series any letter which I can regard as the particular one referred to in the opening sentence. If Letter XXXV (p. 93) were headed Tuesday and this Wednesday, that might well be the peccant document which appears to be missing.
[57] I can't find any letter in this series that I can identify as the specific one mentioned in the opening sentence. If Letter XXXV (p. 93) was labeled Tuesday and this one is Wednesday, then that could be the missing document we're looking for.
[60] See p. liii: it was the 3rd of February, 1820.
[60] See p. liii: it was February 3rd, 1820.
[63] The Northern Heights of London or Historical Associations of Hampstead, Highgate, Muswell Hill, Hornsey, and Islington. By William Howitt, author of ‘Visits to Remarkable Places.’ (London: Longmans, Green, & Co. 1869.)
[63] The Northern Heights of London or Historical Associations of Hampstead, Highgate, Muswell Hill, Hornsey, and Islington. By William Howitt, author of ‘Visits to Remarkable Places.’ (London: Longmans, Green, & Co. 1869.)
[64] Handbook to the Environs of London, Alphabetically Arranged, containing an account of every town and village, and of all the places of interest, within a circle of twenty miles round London. By James Thorne, F.S.A. In Two Parts. (London: John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1876.)
[64] Handbook to the Environs of London, Alphabetically Arranged, featuring information on every town and village, as well as all the places of interest, within a twenty-mile radius of London. By James Thorne, F.S.A. In Two Parts. (London: John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1876.)
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