2 novembre 1820

Our little house is quite in an uproar.  Frederico (actually Friedrich) has flown, with a month’s rent still to pay. The tenants on the third floor keep quietly behind their doors; they know better than to confront Mamma when she is in one of her furies. It might be worse. She has yet to discover than some of the money owed has gone into a little gold locket that is presently pinned into a fold of Teresa’s chemise, not daring to be worn. Teresa lies on our bed weeping at Frederico’s betrayal.

 

15 novembre

They are arrived this evening, our new lodgers: Mr Joseph Severn (a painter) and Mr John Keats (a poet). They are handsome young men, in the English way, pale of complexion, with hair that strays and curls. I can see Mamma thinking they are ingenuous and innocent of the world, so she softens her briskness and tempers her tone. But she does not alter her demands. She does not forget the loss of income from Frederico. She agrees the rent is high, but they wish to be near the English colony, do they not, and certainly they are very fine rooms, richly furnished and well-appointed. They will not find better elsewhere. While she directs the porter with the disposition of their belongings we exchange our names in Italian. Giuseppe shows me his paints and brushes; Giovanni tenderly unpacks his books.

 

22 novembre,

After Mass we are permitted to make our passegiata in the Pincio. The trees that line the avenues are shedding their leaves and they rustle under our feet and quieten the ringing of the horses’ hooves. When we see the Englishmen riding towards us, Teresa twists her parasol and smiles like a sleepy cat. Buon giorno, signorine, say the young men and we ask them how they are enjoying their outing.  Giovanni has not been well and our climate will restore his health. Certainly he looks stronger for his exercise and his limbs do not hang so loosely in his clothing. Once he is recovered I will ask him to help me with the art of writing.  He is a gentle man, considerate of others. I do not believe he would mock my yearning.

27 novembre

Such amusement this evening, though Teresa and I have to stifle the mirth which comes whenever we recall the incident.  We are sitting at our embroidery when something speeds past our window and crashes onto the cobblestones in the piazza. As we rise to our feet it happens a second time. A dish of maccheroni alla crema rushes past our very noses. And on the ground there is a mess of pasta and sauce and china quite smashed and a small crowd has gathered to point and exclaim. Teresa and I go outside to join these onlookers. They are now all staring upwards at the faces of the two young men, hanging from their window, wreathed in laughter.

The porter comes to our door with his empty basket clutched close to his chest. He explains with hesitation, for like us all he is afraid of my mother’s wrath, that there is no knowing the English tastes, but they have said the food is so bad they cannot eat it.  Mamma is quite mortified.

 

28 novembre

 Mamma has sent instructions to the trattoria, that they must improve the quality of the dishes they provide for her lodgers. She complains it is always the same with these foreigners. They find fault because our customs differ from theirs and they do not understand that we need to make a living.

I do not believe this is true of Giovanni. Although he is troubled by sickness, he shows patience and gives his time to listen. He is trained as a doctor but has given up this work for the calling of poetry. It is hard to continue, he says, if the fierce bitterness of critics is against you, but he has had some volumes printed. He shows me one. I stroke the binding and look at the shape of the words on the page. A loose sheet of paper falls to the floor. Tis the only poem I have written in these rooms, he says sadly. My muse deserts me. I am sure she will return, I say with passion. He smiles, takes his pen and writes on both sheet and flyleaf: to dear Laura Angeletti from John Keats. I marvel that he will give me his new poem so freely but he tells me the words are in his head. I know I am flushed with excitement and must hide his gift from Mamma, as Teresa hid Frederico’s locket.

 

2 dicembre

Giovanni is lying on his bed, with a book between his fingers but his demeanour is listless. I tap at his window as I pass on the steps up to the church. He turns his head towards me and his eyes are so sorrowful I catch my breath. But when he sees me he smiles a little and I suppose he is feeling lonely. It must be hard to be away from friends and family, and men of all natures manage their lives better with a woman’s touch.

 

6 dicembre

Che due sorelle belle, Giuseppe used to remark on meeting us. He had ever a gay and lively manner, a desire to be sociable, to exchange pleasantries.  But now his shoulders droop, his eyes are shaded by the brim of his hat and he avoids our company. I wonder if we have given cause for offence: if Mamma has been too grasping in her arrangements or Teresa too careless in her flirting. But my sister is of the persuasion that the Englishmen are cold fish – either this or they have some dark secret to hide.

 

9 dicembre

I wear my best lace fichu and thread new ribbons through my hair but Giuseppe will not open the door. Through the keyhole I try to tell him that I am come to read Dante as Giovanni has requested. He is sleeping, he whispers – he is very tired. Then I hear a coughing, such a loud powerful coughing that surely no-one could sleep through it. And I see the doctor crossing the piazza, brushing away the hawkers and the flower sellers like troublesome flies, knocking urgently at the portone.

10 dicembre

Today I contrive to meet Giuseppe on the stairs and he is carrying, not his sketchbook and sharpened quills, but a small dish covered with a napkin. Beneath the napkin is poor Giovanni’s dinner: one anchovy and one piece of bread, because his digestion is so bad. Later comes the doctor with his leeches in a jar.

 

15 dicembre

Mamma is most displeased. Her lips tighten around her teeth and her eyes narrow as if they could peer into one’s soul. She does not like ill health in the house. She is not happy with this doctor coming four or five times a day. People will think she is poisoning her tenants, especially since the fiasco from the window.

 

18 dicembre

Teresa lies on the day-bed admiring her dainty ankles and complaining she will never find a worthy suitor.  We are confined to our room for we have had a grand quarrel with Mamma. She seeks to throw our English lodgers onto the streets which can only add to their suffering. We plead and beg until our voices are hoarse and finally she says: Very well, but I can no longer permit the servants to work for them. From now on Giuseppe must himself carry the firewood and light the fires, sweep the dust and change the laundry.

          We argue that he is of good birth, how can he know to do these things? But she will not listen. Nor will she tell us her fears: they bubble inside her like the lava in a volcano and when they erupt I would not wish to be caught in the flow.

 

25 decembre,

To Mass this morning. We hear low laughter through the walls of our chamber.  Giovanni may be feeling a little better.

 

6 gennaio, 1821,

We have been very busy these twelve days with visits from relatives and all manner of forms of entertainment. I have had no time to keep my journal. Teresa mocks me for my bookishness. She says no man cares for a woman to have such interests; I tell her I do not care what men think. Then my sister – the hypocrite – begs me to pen a note as my hand is more graceful and better formed than hers. She wishes to contact a young Veneziano who has visited our house this season and stays nearby. (As he is distantly related to us, she insists, this is not improper.)

 

9 gennaio

Mamma says she must tell us something terrible; she has already informed the polizia as is her duty.  Signor Keats does not suffer, as we had thought, from a disease of the stomach, but from that deadly disease of the lungs for which there is no cure. He will be consumed till neither air nor blood is left in his body. She declares it is a contagious condition and anyone touched by the tongue of this disease may be sure to die.

I will not be frightened. I take Giovanni’s little book, ENDYMION, from its hiding place and trace with my forefinger the first few lines of the poem he has given me. Teresa’s sharp eyes catch me. Do you not heed Mamma’s words? she hisses. I enfold my secret once again in linen and lace.

 

11 gennaio

Mamma in her black taffeta rustles like a tree in a high wind. She has agreed to keep our poor lodgers under her roof, but she means to make them know she will not lose money on their account. With a silk kerchief covering her mouth she whirls into their apartment. We can hear her strong voice, if we listen at the wall, the phrasing icy clear so there may be no mistake, explaining that all the furniture Giovanni touches – even the rented piano if he so much a rests his hand upon its polished surface – must be destroyed, and replacements be paid for. Her words fall like hard stones into silence.

 

12 gennaio

Strange sounds have woken me. I can hear the heavy dragging of objects across the wooden floor. I slip out of bed and softly try the handle to the door that links our chambers. The handle turns but the door does not move. I realise then what Giuseppe is doing. If he can prevent Mamma from making her unexpected visits, if he can make her believe Giovanni is keeping to his bed in the little room with the double windows that overlook the steps, she will not charge so much. He does not know Mamma. She will charge him for everything.

 

16 gennaio

I am alone this morning when Giuseppe comes to request fresh laundry. He has with him a bundle of stained and soiled linen to be taken for washing. He has become both nurse and servant to his friend and much as I admire his devotion I am shocked by his new demeanour. When first they came to us he was tall and upright, his hair flowing, his eyes merry. Now he is cowed like a beaten dog and weary from lack of sleep.

 

25 gennaio

An Englishwoman comes to the house today. A nurse. How brave she must be to risk her own life.  There are no other visitors in these days. I have not dared to speak with Giovanni since Mamma forbade it, but I see his face through the glass of the window when we are on our way to Mass. If Mamma is not looking I wave my hand in greeting and sometimes he will lift his own in reply.

 

15 febraio

It is the time of carnivale. Teresa is curling her hair and pinching her cheeks, preparing to slip outside. Mamma has absolutely forbidden us to go out without a chaperone, but Teresa knows that if she masquerades, like so many others, as Punchinella, it will be impossible to distinguish her in the crowd. How I wish, I say to her, that Giovanni might have the advantage of a balcony. That he might take the early spring sun, smell the fragrance of orange blossom, listen to the music and watch the horses race. It would surely gladden his heart to see so much revelry. She rounds on me in anger: You know the Englishman has not come here to woo but to die! And now he will taint us all.

 

20 febraio

Teresa is locked in our bedchamber. Mamma has discovered her excursions and also her letters. She has taken away all writing paper and pens, save what I have hidden with this journal. I must now write very small across the page. Mamma is determined Teresa should marry as speedily as possible.

 

24 febraio

I cannot believe it is over. We learn that Giovanni has died in the night, in Giuseppe’s arms.

 

25 febraio

Mamma is quite distraught. She must await the autopsy and the taking of Giovanni’s death mask.  She does not want the body to remain in her house terrifying all the servants, yet there is the coffin and carriage to obtain and our laws forbid any protestant to be buried by daylight.

The doctor calls and informs Mamma he has obtained a special dispensation.  Mr Keats will be taken to burial beneath the cypress trees, where the tomb of Caius Cestius points to the heavens and sheep and goats crop the meadows. This will be done very early in the morning while the city still sleeps, so as not to disturb good Catholics. Mamma must be satisfied with the arrangement. She is most prompt in contacting the workmen and the polizia who will supervise the de-contamination of the apartment.

 

26 febraio

We have all risen very early. From our window Teresa and I have watched Giovanni’s coffin being loaded onto its bier, a procession of six or eight mourners walking with slow dignity alongside. Mamma claps her hands and orders the servants to their tasks. At seven a.m. the labourers arrive and begin to scour the walls and floors, to take out the windows and doors, to prepare to burn the furniture. Mamma has covered the table with their crockery; she bids us break it piece by piece.

There is so much activity, so much noise of scrubbing, sawing, banging and smashing, that not one of us notices the entrance of Giuseppe. His black cloak swirls around him and he raises his stick like an avenging angel. I am afraid he will beat us all in his fury, especially Mamma with her calculations and her chant of money owed. His stick could surely crush her skull. But he brings it down with vengeance upon the china: the dishes, bowls and cups from which Giovanni took his final gulps of milk. The broken pieces fly about the room and Giuseppe vents his feverish anger until they are dust.

No-one can beat Mamma into submission. She hands him her bill.

 

27 febraio

The Englishmen’s rooms are empty, bleached and purged of the evil destructive powers of consumption. I see the two of them in my mind, their joy squeezed out of them like a last breath.

With my gloved hand I uncover Giovanni’s volume of verse and his final poem, that I shall always think of as mine. My eyes fill with tears at the thought that now I may never learn the meaning of his words. And I cast both glove and book upon the fire.
 

*    *    *

17 febraio, 1823

Teresa, carissima,

It is always good to have news of you from Venezia and of your fine husband and your wonderful baby. It still seems so strange to me to have become zia Laura. I wonder whenever I shall become accustomed to it.

Today it has been raining again. Carnivale will be quite washed out. But now I must tell you whom I have met, while sheltering in a shop doorway. Mr Joseph Severn! Giuseppe! He was looking so sleek, so prosperous, you cannot imagine. It appears his painting has found much favour and he is now a leading artist within the English colony and highly regarded in the best circles.

I scarcely liked to remind him of the horror of our last encounter; he was, however, most charming to me. He began talking of Giovanni, of how he had opened so many doors for him, doors of the mind and soul as well as society. Such a great poet, he sighed. There is much eagerness to reprint his work. Then he told me how finally, after these two years, he has arranged the headstone for his friend’s grave, though he is not happy with the inscription Giovanni insisted upon. It is thus: Here lies one whose name is writ in water.

With the point of his umbrella he traced in a puddle those letters we do not even have in our alphabet: J.K. See, he said, how they disappear.

No, I assured him. They do not disappear. In ripples they spread.