24 October 1818: Romantic Encounters, Sublime Solitude, & Passion for the Beautiful
34 Gloucester Street, London
The home of the mysterious (at least for Keats) Mrs. Isabella Jones, with whom Keats has had an earlier romantic encounter near Hastings (in an adjacent village with the delightful name of Bo-Peep), May 1817.
On this day, a week before his twenty-third birthday, Keats passes Isabella on the street. He turns back to greet the alluring older
woman, and he ends up walking her home, to 34 Gloucester Street, off Queen Square,
wondering
all the while what it might lead to. As he will write in a letter to his brother and
sister-in-law in America (George and Georgiana) that describes the encounter, She has
always been an enigma to me
(24 Oct 1818). They spend some time in, he notes, her very
tasty
sitting room, with all its books, pictures, statues, aeolian harp, music, and
liquor—not to mention a couple of birds. Nothing romantic happens. Keats, however,
seems to
have thought a little kiss might not be a bad way to part. Isabella, without any prudishness,
thinks otherwise. It seems a nice hand-pressing will have to do. Keats recalls that
in his
earlier encounter he had warmed with her before and kissed her,
though what exactly
this means is unclear—he differentiates warmed
from kissed,
so it could be
something more or something less than kissing. At this point, he concludes I have no
libidinous thought about her
(14-31 Oct 1818), though it seems otherwise. Keats then
later notes he receives much game—including pheasant—from Mrs. Jones, which he re-gifts.
(This, of course, tempts a witty comment about what exactly, in this particular case,
the
bird-in-the-hand proverb might suggest.)
Mrs. Jones may be responsible for suggesting the Eve of St. Agnes as a poetic topic to Keats, which, in the first few months of 1819, he takes up (remarkably so!) in an engaging and remarkably atmospheric narrative poem. The poem contains a sexual encounter that, controversially, exists somewhere between an allegory of the sensual imagination and flesh-and-blood rape, coloured by deception.
Keats this month also expresses some barely closeted feelings about a certain Jane Cox, whom he meets via the Reynolds sisters. Within
a longer journal letter to his brother and sister-in-law in America, Keats on 14 October
bothers to describe her; she has, in fact, made Keats a little hot and bothered: Miss
Cox, he
writes, has fine eyes and fine manners,
and When she comes into a room she makes the
impression the same as the beauty of a leopardess [. . .] a man is drawn toward her
with a
magnetic power.
She intrigues him, and he confesses to losing some sleep thinking about
her.
In this journal letter (14-31 Oct) in which he writes about his personal circumstances,
Keats
also communicates, I hope I shall never marry.
He says, Solitude is sublime,
that there is Pleasure in Solitude,
and that he has a barrier against Matrimony
which I rejoice in.
The comments really point to Keats’s desire to find, as it were,
space to study, think about, and compose poetry.
The interesting feature about the ideas he develops this October is how he plays off
the
mighty abstract Idea of Beauty,
his strengthening imagination, and concerns about his
powers for poetry
against domestic happiness.
As mentioned, his desire for and
love of poetical solitude greatly outweigh any other personal circumstance. Keats’s
commitment
to poetry is clear and his path extraordinarily confident: I think I shall be among the
English Poets after my death,
he writes 14 October to George Keats. Ten days later, he sets out his determination and
direction: The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short
passing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry—I seldom have any.
And then a few
days later, in writing to Richard Woodhouse
and attempting to muster some resolve, he writes, I will assay to reach to as high a summit
on Poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer
(letter, 27 Oct). As he assesses his
own happiness in light of solitude, he confesses the yearning Passion I have for the
beautiful, connected and made one with the ambition of the intellect.
This appears to be
a passing train of thought—Enough of this,
he adds—but the idea is clearly definitive
in terms of his progress: to embrace the truthfulness of beauty in a measured, controlled
manner, and to attempt to carefully measure his own desire and abilities; these set
the way
for the qualitative leap poetry takes into 1819.
Keats’s accumulating comments about poetic directions and conditions, as well as his confidence in his poetic powers, thus point to lurking, immanent achievement. He is reaching toward, and ready for, the power of poetry. For us, though, with the hindsight of knowing his actual achievement in 1819, this is an easy prediction.
But this prediction of greatness is not just Keats’s. Woodhouse, who is realistic
and
tough-minded in his ideas about poetry and poetic greatness, this month writes to
a third
party at length about Keats’s poetic merits.
To Mary Frogley on 23 October, he
resolutely expresses his belief in Keats’s greater gifts: such original genius, I verily
believe, has not appeared since Shakespeare & Milton.
He knows Endymion displays the faults of early work, but Reynolds puts
himself out on a limb by prophesying now, while Keats is unknown unheeded, despised [and .
. .] neglected],
and if Keats lives to a usual age, and critics do not drive him from
the free air of the poetic heaven before his Wings are fullfledged,
that he will rank
on a level with the best of the past or of the present generation; and after his death
will
take his place at their head.
This is indeed a fully-felt conviction, but Woodhouse
claims he makes it in the spirit of true criticism.
Well, it turns out Woodhouse was
correct, except inasmuch as Keats’s wings will appear within months, not years. Winter
is
coming, with Spring not far behind.
