How sweet thy melody Keats | A coffee to remember

Lord Byron is my first love – so profound was my love for him that I once traipsed around Europe following his tracks, visiting all the places he was known to have visited. That quested ended satisfactorily, but my story is about John Keats, another “love” I grew up reading. He was, after all, the king of Romanticism but I adore him for another reason – his love for Lord Byron. Like me.

It always leads back to Byron…

Keats was enamoured with Lord Byron and wrote a poem to that effect when he was merely nineteen. The interesting bit is that he had never met Byron but his short poem includes the lyrical imagery for which he later became known.

Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch’d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer’d them to die.

Table of Contents

A Tryst with Keats

When I arrived at Piazza di Spagna (Spanish Square) in the eternal city called Rome on a cold December morning, I had in mind to explore its coffee shops, particularly Cafe Grecco which was famous for entertaining great literary figures back in the time (have I told you of my love for coffee and literature?).

Rome had other plans. When I exited the metro station and in a few steps arrived at the famous Spanish Steps, I asked a passerby for the “cafe of the famous poet.” The said person, assuming my question as referring to Keats, pointed at an old building hugging the Spanish Steps and smiled victoriously.

Keats- Shelly Home

An unexpected revelation that it was, it left me feeling energetic and enthused.

This trip was turning out to be an unexpected treat.

I looked up at the the Keats-Shelley House (now a museum), every cell in my body screaming to make haste. There was no time to waste. I shivered in excitement (and the cold), snapped a picture and dashed in. In my eagerness I had forgotten all about the Bernini’s Fountain (Fountain of the Old Boat) right outside where people had congregated and gave in to the burning desire to know Keats – the young English poet and other Romantic poets of his time, trying to recall everything I knew about him.

Keats and Shelly House

I paid 4 Euro entry fee for a walk back in time. It was my chance to share space with the best the world has seen. The rooms were beautifully decorated – tall shelves filled with books and so many paraphernalia associated with the lives and works of Romantic poets, Keats included. There are over 8,000 volumes displayed here – making it one of the finest collection of Romantic literature. The house contains a fine collection of Romantic literature, besides manuscripts, paintings, sculpture and memorabilia. While I toured the museum, a group of young students arrived for a poetry recital session. I asked to be allowed to sit in with them. It helped me establish a connection.

Like every other lover of Keats, I soon found myself in his bedroom. When Keats died, Vatican had ordered everything in this room to be burnt for the fear of spreading tuberculosis, the disease that eventually killed him. Years later the room was reconstructed to resemble the original. Above the bed was a drawing by his friend Joseph Severn. From the window I looked down at the Spanish Steps – it was crowded and I bet, noisy. But in Keats bedroom, the noise didn’t bother me. I had my moment with Keats but I couldn’t help but wonder if Keats ever enjoyed the sound of the fountain on cold, lonely nights.

In addition to the exhibition rooms, there were terraces with stunning boasting views, a book and gift shop (here I went overboard), and a small cinema room that plays introductory films about the Romantics.

I’d known that 26 Piazza di Spagna was the final dwelling place of John Keats who died here in 1821, aged just 25, loveless, mourning his lady love Fanny Brawne who he had left behind in England.

An Espresso with Keats, Shelley

The curator told me that Keats, like Byron, Shelly, Mark Twain, Henry James and Dickens and few other literary-greats often visited Caffe Greco, just a few steps away. high on Keats, I bent my steps towards Caffe Grecco and walked into a time in the distant past. An elegantly dressed waiter returned my smile and led me towards the back of the crowded room, past the walls filled with gilt framed paintings and around old wood tables. The coffee was not cheap, but to recreate a moment of romance with Keats or Byron, it was an investment I had to make. And I never deny myself coffee, whatever the cost.

Rome was already showing me its romantic side. So what if I romanced a fantasy over a cup of expensive coffee!

It was time to visiting his resting place. John Keats died in Rome on 23 February 1821 and was buried in a Protestant cemetery. I stood by his grave and imagined what is was like to die so far away from home and his love. Fanny. But the words carved into his gravestone—were an eye opener.

“Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.”

I returned to Piazza di Spagna to witness its beauty by night.

About Spanish Steps

The present day area of the Spanish Steps was known as the English Ghetto in the 19th century. A popular hangout of travelers from Great Britain. One such British poet was Keats who arrived here to escape the weather and get some sun required to restore his health. When in Rome, Keats stayed in a second-floor apartment in Piazza di Spagna 26, a building dating from around 1600.

The Spanish Steps numbering 138 steps connect the lower Piazza di Spagna with the upper piazza Trinita dei Monti, with its beautiful twin tower church dominating the skyline.

A Bangladeshi rose-seller was stalking me. It was a cold December night and I was braving the chill to experience the magic of Piazza di Spagna at night.

The Bangladeshi rose-seller is stalking me. I tell him I do not want a rose. Or any flower that he is trying to push at me. I am forced to make small talk – I ask him about his land, how long he’s lived in Rome and about his family. Small talk that I am good at. Suddenly we have become friends. His Italian is better than his English but he is happy to talk. In the cold night in Rome, with thoughts of Keats, Shelly and Byron running through my mind, I have made a new friend. He when I leave, he gives me a rose. A bright red rose that dazzles in the Christmas lights.