Italy Diaries: Rome-antics

The perils of being a Romantic in Rome

Maybe I’d like to be a Romantic Poet, if the life expectancy wasn’t so short. That’s what I’m thinking as I stand looking at John Keats’ deathbed.

Or at least his deathbed’s replica. It’s not the actual one he died in. They didn’t just take his body away and tuck in the sheets. What they did, according to the sign on the wall, is recreate Keats’ old bedroom as best as they could based on the historical record. This, it goes without saying, is a disappointment.

It shouldn’t be, given Keats died of tuberculosis, not a fun time by anyone’s description. The reason the original furniture isn’t here is because they burned it, completely and with great urgency, since they had figured out by then that someone who died a horrible, spluttering death from tuberculosis sometimes had the habit of taking people with them. It is a disappointment though. If something is billed as deathbed, I want actual deathbed.

John Keats was only 25 when he died. This is far too young, obviously, a tragedy.

The main thought that occurs to me though, as I stand and look at the immaculate sheets on his fake deathbed, is how irritating it is that by 25 Keats had produced enough works of genius to make him so famous that the bed he died in should be lovingly recreated.

Normally, if I want to feel inadequate or like an enormous underachiever I watch the Olympics. At least I don’t want to be a gymnast, those 16-year-olds can keep their medals. But famous for writing? By 25? Go easy on us, John.

Let me see, where am I? I’m so distracted by all of my inadequacy that I haven’t explained just what is going on. I’m at the Keats-Shelley House, next to the Spanish Steps. It was John Keats’ final address, and is now a museum, dedicated to Keats and the other Romantic Poets who spent time in Italy.

The Shelley is Percy Bysshe Shelley, another swinging dick of the poetry world, and another who died young. He was only 29 when he drowned off the coast of Tuscany, a death better than tuberculosis, by my reckoning, but not by much.

The House is austere and old-fashioned inside. A big central parlour is filled with bookshelves and information about Keats, Shelley and others like Lord Byron*. It’s filled with old furniture that looks like it will break if you sit on it, though of course you won’t, as a stern member of staff keeps watch over the room.

The best bit of the whole place is the balcony. It comes off one of the rooms and overlooks the Spanish Steps. The Steps are, incidentally, one of Rome’s more baffling tourist attractions. I could spend a few lines here describing them for you, but if you’ve seen some steps in a city before, picture those, will you? You’ll save me the effort and yourself some time.

Sure, they have a nice view looking up them, and an even nicer one looking down to the Piazza, but about the only thing I can really say for them is that Rome hasn’t yet thought to put ticket booths at either end and charge you to climb them.

Their main distinguishing feature today as I sit and look over them is the city police who blow their whistles at anyone who dares to sit and rest on them. That, and the tourists who occasionally clock me sitting on the balcony and wonder how much I paid for the seat. Only 6 euro, as it happens, though I try and make myself look more expensive.

Back inside the Keats-Shelley House for one last look around. Out the window of Keats’ old bedroom the Piazza di Spagna bustles below. Tour guides lead their groups with raised umbrellas. Local police blow their whistles and city workmen empty the bins. The Piazza is different to what it was in Keats’ day. So is his room. So are the sheets, so are the furnishings, so is the air, thank god.

* the asterisk next to Lord Byron’s name was to direct you down here, where I can tell you my favourite Lord Byron fact. When he wasn’t writing poetry our boy Byron really got around, and one of his conquests was rumoured to be his half-sister. This is not at all relevant, but it’s a fact that you simply have to share anytime his Lordship crops up.

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