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 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; 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_ 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 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 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 fail I shall die hard. O my love, your lips are
growing sweet again to my fancy—I must forget them. Ever your
affectionate
KEATS.
VI.
Fleet Street,[35] Monday Morn.
[_Postmark_, Lombard Street, 14 September, 1819.]
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 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
bear the pain of being happy: ’tis out of the question: I must
admit no thought of it.
Yours ever affectionately
JOHN KEATS.
VII.
College Street.[37]
[_Postmark_, 11 October, 1819.]
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 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.
Ever yours
JOHN KEATS.
Ah hertè mine!
VIII.
25 College Street.
[_Postmark_, 13 October, 1819.]
My dearest 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 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.” I can do that no
more—the pain would be too great. My love is selfish. I cannot
breathe without you.
Yours for ever
JOHN KEATS.
IX.
Great Smith Street, Tuesday Morn.
[_Postmark_, College Street, 19 October, 1819.]
My sweet 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. 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.
Ever my love yours
JOHN KEATS.
X TO XXXII.
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.
Yours ever sweetest love.—
J. KEATS.
turn 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.
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.
XI.
My dearest 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 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.
Your affectionate
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
“Your Beauty grows upon me and I feel
A greater love through all my essence steal.”
My greatest torment since I have known 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.
Dearest Fanny,
Your affectionate
J. K.
XIII.
My dearest 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.
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
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.
Happen what may I shall ever be my dearest Love
Your affectionate
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 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.
Remember me to your Mother and Margaret.
Your affectionate
J. K.
XV.
My dearest 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.
Your affectionate
J. K.
XVI.
My dearest 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 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!
J. KEATS.
P.S. I am sitting in the back room. Remember me to your Mother.
XVII.
My 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 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 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.
God bless you, Love.
J. KEATS.
XVIII.
My dearest 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 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.
Ever your affectionate
JOHN KEATS.
XIX.
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
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.
Ever yours my sweet Fanny
J. K.
XX.
My dearest 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.
Ever your affectionate
JOHN KEATS.
XXI.
My 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
My sweet Love!
J. KEATS.
XXII.
My dearest 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 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.
Ever yours affectionately my dearest,
J. K.
You had better not come to day.
XXIII.
My dearest 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.
Your ever affectionate
J. KEATS.
XXIV.
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 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:
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.
Your affectionate
J. KEATS.
XXV.
My 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. 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.
Good bye my sweetest Girl.
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 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.
Good bye Love.
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 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.
Your affectionate
J. K.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XXVIII.
My dearest Fanny,