days when you will have the Book[118] sent from Town. I am glad to hear
you are in progress with another Picture. Go on. I am afraid I shall pop
off just when my mind is able to run alone.
Your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLIII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Mortimer Terrace [July 22, 1820].
My dear Fanny--I have been gaining strength for some days: it would be
well if I could at the same time say I am gaining hopes of a speedy
recovery. My constitution has suffered very much for two or three years
past, so as to be scarcely able to make head against illness, which the
natural activity and impatience of my Mind renders more dangerous. It will
at all events be a very tedious affair, and you must expect to hear very
little alteration of any sort in me for some time. You ought to have
received a copy of my Book ten days ago. I shall send another message to
the Booksellers. One of the Mr. Wylie's will be here to-day or to-morrow
when I will ask him to send you George's Letter. Writing the smallest note
is so annoying to me that I have waited till I shall see him. Mr. Hunt
does everything in his power to make the time pass as agreeably with me as
possible. I read the greatest part of the day, and generally take two
half-hour walks a-day up and down the terrace which is very much pester'd
with cries, ballad singers, and street music. We have been so unfortunate
for so long a time, every event has been of so depressing a nature that I
must persuade myself to think some change will take place in the aspect of
our affairs. I shall be upon the look out for a trump card.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
CLIV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820].
My dear Fanny--'Tis a long time since I received your last. An accident of
an unpleasant nature occurred at Mr. Hunt's and prevented me from
answering you, that is to say made me nervous. That you may not suppose it
worse I will mention that some one of Mr. Hunt's household opened a Letter
of mine--upon which I immediately left Mortimer Terrace, with the
intention of taking to Mrs. Bentley's again; fortunately I am not in so
lone a situation, but am staying a short time with Mrs. Brawne who lives
in the house which was Mrs. Dilke's. I am excessively nervous: a person I
am not quite used to entering the room half chokes me. 'Tis not yet
Consumption I believe, but it would be were I to remain in this climate
all the Winter: so I am thinking of either voyaging or travelling to
Italy. Yesterday I received an invitation from Mr. Shelley, a Gentleman
residing at Pisa, to spend the Winter with him: if I go I must be away in
a month or even less. I am glad you like the Poems, you must hope with me
that time and health will produce you some more. This is the first morning
I have been able to sit to the paper and have many Letters to write if I
can manage them. God bless you my dear Sister.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
CLV.--TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
[Wentworth Place, Hampstead, August 1820.]
My dear Shelley--I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country,
and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of
the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it
will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy.
There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so
in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either voyage or journey
to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at present are
the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I
shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred
of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my
poor poem, which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if
possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. I received a
copy of the Cenci, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of
it I am judge of--the poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits
nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a
purpose, which may be the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have
"self-concentration"--selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive
me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be
more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. The
thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who
perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And is
not this extraordinary talk for the writer of Endymion, whose mind was
like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My
imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk. I am in expectation of
Prometheus every day. Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it
still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I
remember you advising me not to publish my first blights, on Hampstead
Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in the
volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have
been published but for hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to
take your advice now. I must express once more my deep sense of your
kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley.
In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain most sincerely yours
JOHN KEATS.
CLVI.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.
Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820].
My dear Taylor--My chest is in such a nervous state, that anything extra,
such as speaking to an unaccustomed person, or writing a note, half
suffocates me. This journey to Italy wakes me at daylight every morning,
and haunts me horribly. I shall endeavour to go, though it be with the
sensation of marching up against a battery. The first step towards it is
to know the expense of a journey and a year's residence, which if you will
ascertain for me, and let me know early, you will greatly serve me. I have
more to say, but must desist, for every line I write increases the
tightness of my chest, and I have many more to do. I am convinced that
this sort of thing does not continue for nothing. If you can come, with
any of our friends, do.
Your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLVII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Mrs. Brawne's Next door to Brown's,
Wentworth Place, Hampstead,
[August] 1820.
My dear Haydon--I am much better this morning than I was when I wrote the
note: that is my hopes and spirits are better which are generally at a
very low ebb from such a protracted illness. I shall be here for a little
time and at home all and every day. A journey to Italy is recommended me,
which I have resolved upon and am beginning to prepare for. Hoping to see
you shortly
I remain your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLVIII.--TO CHARLES BROWN.
[Wentworth Place, August 1820.]
My dear Brown--You may not have heard from ----, or ----, or in any way,
that an attack of spitting of blood, and all its weakening consequences,
has prevented me from writing for so long a time. I have matter now for a
very long letter, but not news: so I must cut everything short. I shall
make some confession, which you will be the only person, for many reasons,
I shall trust with. A winter in England would, I have not a doubt, kill
me; so I have resolved to go to Italy, either by sea or land. Not that I
have any great hopes of that, for, I think, there is a core of disease in
me not easy to pull out. I shall be obliged to set off in less than a
month. Do not, my dear Brown, teaze yourself about me. You must fill up
your time as well as you can, and as happily. You must think of my faults
as lightly as you can. When I have health I will bring up the long arrear
of letters I owe you. My book has had good success among the literary
people, and I believe has a moderate sale. I have seen very few people we
know. ---- has visited me more than any one. I would go to ---- and make
some inquiries after you, if I could with any bearable sensation; but a
person I am not quite used to causes an oppression on my chest. Last week
I received a letter from Shelley, at Pisa, of a very kind nature, asking
me to pass the winter with him. Hunt has behaved very kindly to me. You
shall hear from me again shortly.
Your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLIX.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Wednesday Morning.
[August 23, 1820.]
My dear Fanny--It will give me great Pleasure to see you here, if you can
contrive it; though I confess I should have written instead of calling
upon you before I set out on my journey, from the wish of avoiding
unpleasant partings. Meantime I will just notice some parts of your
Letter. The seal-breaking business is over blown. I think no more of it. A
few days ago I wrote to Mr. Brown, asking him to befriend me with his
company to Rome. His answer is not yet come, and I do not know when it
will, not being certain how far he may be from the Post Office to which my
communication is addressed. Let us hope he will go with me. George
certainly ought to have written to you: his troubles, anxieties and
fatigues are not quite a sufficient excuse. In the course of time you will
be sure to find that this neglect, is not forgetfulness. I am sorry to
hear you have been so ill and in such low spirits. Now you are better,
keep so. Do not suffer your Mind to dwell on unpleasant reflections--that
sort of thing has been the destruction of my health. Nothing is so bad as
want of health--it makes one envy scavengers and cinder-sifters. There are
enough real distresses and evils in wait for every one to try the most
vigorous health. Not that I would say yours are not real--but they are
such as to tempt you to employ your imagination on them, rather than
endeavour to dismiss them entirely. Do not diet your mind with grief, it
destroys the constitution; but let your chief care be of your health, and
with that you will meet your share of Pleasure in the world--do not doubt
it. If I return well from Italy I will turn over a new leaf for you. I
have been improving lately, and have very good hopes of "turning a Neuk"
and cheating the consumption. I am not well enough to write to George
myself--Mr Haslam will do it for me, to whom I shall write to-day,
desiring him to mention as gently as possible your complaint. I am, my
dear Fanny,
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
CLX.--TO CHARLES BROWN.
[Wentworth Place, August 1820.]
My dear Brown--I ought to be off at the end of this week, as the cold
winds begin to blow towards evening;--but I will wait till I have your
answer to this. I am to be introduced, before I set out, to a Dr. Clark, a
physician settled at Rome, who promises to befriend me in every way there.
The sale of my book is very slow, though it has been very highly rated.
One of the causes, I understand from different quarters, of the
unpopularity of this new book, is the offence the ladies take at me. On
thinking that matter over, I am certain that I have said nothing in a
spirit to displease any woman I would care to please; but still there is a
tendency to class women in my books with roses and sweetmeats,--they never
see themselves dominant. I will say no more, but, waiting in anxiety for
your answer, doff my hat, and make a purse as long as I can.
Your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLXI.--TO CHARLES BROWN.
Saturday, September 28 [1820], _Maria Crowther_,
Off Yarmouth, Isle of Wight.
My dear Brown--The time has not yet come for a pleasant letter from me. I
have delayed writing to you from time to time, because I felt how
impossible it was to enliven you with one heartening hope of my recovery;
this morning in bed the matter struck me in a different manner; I thought
I would write "while I was in some liking," or I might become too ill to
write at all; and then if the desire to have written should become strong
it would be a great affliction to me. I have many more letters to write,
and I bless my stars that I have begun, for time seems to press,--this may
be my best opportunity. We are in a calm, and I am easy enough this
morning. If my spirits seem too low you may in some degree impute it to
our having been at sea a fortnight without making any way.[119] I was very
disappointed at not meeting you at Bedhampton, and am very provoked at the
thought of you being at Chichester to-day. I should have delighted in
setting off for London for the sensation merely,--for what should I do
there? I could not leave my lungs or stomach or other worse things behind
me. I wish to write on subjects that will not agitate me much--there is
one I must mention and have done with it. Even if my body would recover of
itself, this would prevent it. The very thing which I want to live most
for will be a great occasion of my death. I cannot help it. Who can help
it? Were I in health it would make me ill, and how can I bear it in my
state? I daresay you will be able to guess on what subject I am
harping--you know what was my greatest pain during the first part of my
illness at your house. I wish for death every day and night to deliver me
from these pains, and then I wish death away, for death would destroy even
those pains which are better than nothing. Land and sea, weakness and
decline, are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.
When the pang of this thought has passed through my mind, I may say the
bitterness of death is passed. I often wish for you that you might flatter
me with the best. I think without my mentioning it for my sake you would
be a friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead. You think she has many
faults--but for my sake think she has not one. If there is anything you
can do for her by word or deed I know you will do it. I am in a state at
present in which woman merely as woman can have no more power over me than
stocks and stones, and yet the difference of my sensations with respect to
Miss Brawne and my sister is amazing. The one seems to absorb the other
to a degree incredible. I seldom think of my brother and sister in
America. The thought of leaving Miss Brawne is beyond everything
horrible--the sense of darkness coming over me--I eternally see her figure
eternally vanishing. Some of the phrases she was in the habit of using
during my last nursing at Wentworth Place ring in my ears. Is there
another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we
cannot be created for this sort of suffering. The receiving this letter is
to be one of yours. I will say nothing about our friendship, or rather
yours to me, more than that, as you deserve to escape, you will never be
so unhappy as I am. I should think of--you in my last moments. I shall
endeavour to write to Miss Brawne if possible to-day. A sudden stop to my
life in the middle of one of these letters would be no bad thing, for it
keeps one in a sort of fever awhile. Though fatigued with a letter longer
than any I have written for a long while, it would be better to go on for
ever than awake to a sense of contrary winds. We expect to put into
Portland Roads to-night. The captain, the crew, and the passengers, are
all ill-tempered and weary. I shall write to Dilke. I feel as if I was
closing my last letter to you.
My dear Brown, your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
CLXII.--TO MRS. BRAWNE.
October 24 [1820], Naples Harbour.
My dear Mrs. Brawne--A few words will tell you what sort of a Passage we
had, and what situation we are in, and few they must be on account of the
Quarantine, our Letters being liable to be opened for the purpose of
fumigation at the Health Office. We have to remain in the vessel ten days
and are at present shut in a tier of ships. The sea air has been
beneficial to me about to as great an extent as squally weather and bad
accommodations and provisions has done harm. So I am about as I was. Give
my Love to Fanny and tell her, if I were well there is enough in this Port
of Naples to fill a quire of Paper--but it looks like a dream--every man
who can row his boat and walk and talk seems a different being from
myself. I do not feel in the world. It has been unfortunate for me that
one of the Passengers is a young Lady in a Consumption--her imprudence has
vexed me very much--the knowledge of her complaints--the flushings in her
face, all her bad symptoms have preyed upon me--they would have done so
had I been in good health. Severn now is a very good fellow but his nerves
are too strong to be hurt by other people's illnesses--I remember poor
Rice wore me in the same way in the Isle of Wight--I shall feel a load off
me when the Lady vanishes out of my sight. It is impossible to describe
exactly in what state of health I am--at this moment I am suffering from
indigestion very much, which makes such stuff of this Letter. I would
always wish you to think me a little worse than I really am; not being of
a sanguine disposition I am likely to succeed. If I do not recover your
regret will be softened--if I do your pleasure will be doubled. I dare not
fix my Mind upon Fanny, I have not dared to think of her. The only comfort
I have had that way has been in thinking for hours together of having the
knife she gave me put in a silver-case--the hair in a Locket--and the
Pocket Book in a gold net. Show her this. I dare say no more. Yet you must
not believe I am so ill as this Letter may look, for if ever there was a
person born without the faculty of hoping I am he. Severn is writing to
Haslam, and I have just asked him to request Haslam to send you his
account of my health. O what an account I could give you of the Bay of
Naples if I could once more feel myself a Citizen of this world--I feel a
spirit in my Brain would lay it forth pleasantly--O what a misery it is to
have an intellect in splints! My Love again to Fanny--tell Tootts I wish I
could pitch her a basket of grapes--and tell Sam the fellows catch here
with a line a little fish much like an anchovy, pull them up fast.
Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Dilke--mention to Brown that I wrote him a
letter at Portsmouth which I did not send and am in doubt if he ever will
see it.
My dear Mrs. Brawne, yours sincerely and affectionate
JOHN KEATS.
Good bye Fanny! God bless you.
CLXIII.--TO CHARLES BROWN.
Naples, November 1 [1820].
My dear Brown--Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my
health suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done
the whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well
enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;--if that can be
called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would fainest dwell
upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on a little;--perhaps it
may relieve the load of WRETCHEDNESS which presses upon me. The persuasion
that I shall see her no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I should have
had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear
to die--I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God! God! God! Every thing I have
in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk
lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is
horribly vivid about her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the
world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the
case when I was in England; I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the
time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on
Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again--Now!--O
that I could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to write to
her--to receive a letter from her--to see her handwriting would break my
heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more
than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do? Where can I look for
consolation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would
kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and
at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you
write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (poste
restante)--if she is well and happy, put a mark thus +; if----
Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently. A
person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear. Write
a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn is very
well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming to Rome. I fear
there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George? O
that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers!--then I
might hope,--but despair is forced upon me as a habit. My dear Brown, for
my sake be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do
not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties around me. I am afraid
to write to her--I should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh,
Brown I have coals of fire in my breast--It surprises me that the human
heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for
this end? God bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and
his wife, and you, and all!
Your ever affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
[Thursday, November 2.]
I was a day too early for the Courier. He sets out now. I have been more
calm to-day, though in a half dread of not continuing so. I said nothing
of my health; I know nothing of it; you will hear Severn's account from
Haslam. I must leave off. You bring my thoughts too near to Fanny. God
bless you!
CLXIV.--TO CHARLES BROWN.
Rome, November 30, 1820.
My dear Brown--'Tis the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a
letter. My stomach continues so bad, that I feel it worse on opening any
book,--yet I am much better than I was in quarantine. Then I am afraid to
encounter the pro-ing and con-ing of anything interesting to me in
England. I have an habitual feeling of my real life having passed, and
that I am leading a posthumous existence. God knows how it would have
been--but it appears to me--however, I will not speak of that subject. I
must have been at Bedhampton nearly at the time you were writing to me
from Chichester--how unfortunate--and to pass on the river too! There was
my star predominant! I cannot answer anything in your letter, which
followed me from Naples to Rome, because I am afraid to look it over
again. I am so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any
handwriting of a friend I love so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little
horse, and at my worst even in quarantine, summoned up more puns, in a
sort of desperation, in one week than in any year of my life. There is one
thought enough to kill me; I have been well, healthy, alert, etc., walking
with her, and now--the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade,
all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem, are great
enemies to the recovery of the stomach. There, you rogue, I put you to the
torture; but you must bring your philosophy to bear, as I do mine, really,
or how should I be able to live? Dr. Clark is very attentive to me; he
says, there is very little the matter with my lungs, but my stomach, he
says, is very bad. I am well disappointed in hearing good news from
George, for it runs in my head we shall all die young. I have not written
to Reynolds yet, which he must think very neglectful; being anxious to
send him a good account of my health, I have delayed it from week to
week. If I recover, I will do all in my power to correct the mistakes made
during sickness; and if I should not, all my faults will be forgiven.
Severn is very well, though he leads so dull a life with me. Remember me
to all friends, and tell Haslam I should not have left London without
taking leave of him, but from being so low in body and mind. Write to
George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I am, as far as you
can guess; and also a note to my sister--who walks about my imagination
like a ghost--she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you good-bye, even in
a letter. I always made an awkward bow.
God bless you!
JOHN KEATS.[120]
INDEX
NOTE.--The first lines of all verses quoted in the letters are given here
under the first word. An asterisk is prefixed to the names of those to
whom letters are written, the letters themselves, as well as the addresses
from which Keats wrote, being given under the heading "Letters."
Abbey, Miss, 122
Abbey, Mr., 52 and note, 58, 119, 123, 161, 162, 182, 185, 216, 218,
232, 268, 271, 273, 274, 284, 290, 294, 297, 311, 313, 315, 318,
331, 336, 347, 350, 354, 356, 359.
Referred to as "my guardian," 267
Abbey, Mrs., 51, 123, 197, 262, 271, 359
Abbeys, the, 363
Abbot, 231
Abelard, Sandt, like a young, 300
Academy, the Royal, 329
Achievement, a man of, needs negative capability, 48
Achilles, 21, 80, 180
Adam's dream (_Paradise Lost_, Bk. viii.), compared to imagination, 41,
42
_Adonais_, xix.
Adonis, 263
_Adonis, Venus and_, quoted, 45