Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
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