widowhood does not by any means imply 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.”
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 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.
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 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.
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.
The sonnet on Keats’s preference for blue eyes,
“Blue! ’tis the hue of heaven,” &c.,
written in reply to John Hamilton Reynolds’s sonnet[18] in which a
preference is expressed for dark eyes,—
“Dark eyes are dearer far
Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine bell”—
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 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.
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:
“28th Jany. 3 o’clock mg. Drawn to keep me awake—a deadly sweat
was on him all this night.”
Keats’s old schoolfellow, the late Charles Cowden Clarke, assured me in
1876 that this drawing was “a marvellously correct likeness.”
_Postscript._—During the past ten years my work in connexion with the
writings and doings of Keats has involved the 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.
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 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.
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 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.
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.
Having mentioned in the foot-note at page 101 that Keats had elsewhere
recorded 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.”
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 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.
H. BUXTON FORMAN.
46 MARLBOROUGH HILL, ST. JOHN’S WOOD, _November, 1888_.
CORRECTIONS.
Page xxxi, line 6 from foot, for _does_ read _did_.
Page 16, end of foot-note 3, add _or perhaps a dog_.
Page 18, there should be a foot-note to the effect that _Meleager_ in
line 6 is written _Maleager_ in the original.
Page 73, end of foot-note, strike out the words _of which period there
are still indications in Letter XXVIII_.
Page 94, line 2 of note, for _in_ read _on_.
Page 95, line 2 of notes, for 1819 read 1820.
Page 96, line 3 of note, for 1819 read 1820.
LETTERS TO FANNY BRAWNE.
I TO IX.
SHANKLIN, WINCHESTER, WESTMINSTER.
[Illustration: Fanny Brawne from a silhouette by Mons^r Edouart.]
I-IX.
SHANKLIN, WINCHESTER, WESTMINSTER.
I.
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday.
[_Postmark_, Newport, 3 July, 1819.]
My dearest 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 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 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
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:
To see those eyes I prize above mine own
Dart favors on another—
And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar)
Be gently press’d by any but myself—
Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing
It were beyond expression!
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
J. KEATS.
Present my Compliments to your mother, my love to Margaret[26]
and best remembrances to your Brother—if you please so.
II.
July 8th.
[_Postmark_, Newport, 10 July, 1819.]
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, 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 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 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.
Ever yours, my love!
JOHN KEATS.
Do not accuse me of delay—we have not here an opportunity of
sending letters every day. Write speedily.
III.
Sunday Night.
[_Postmark_, 27 July, 1819.[27]]
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 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
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 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.
Your’s ever, fair Star,
JOHN KEATS.
My seal is mark’d like a family table cloth with my Mother’s
initial F for 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]
IV.
Shanklin, Thursday Night.
[_Postmark,_ Newport, 9 August, 1819.]
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 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 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 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.
_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 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 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.
Your ever affectionate
JOHN KEATS.
V.
Winchester, August 17th.[33]
[_Postmark_, 16 August, 1819.]