Keats Shelley Memorial House

It was pleasantly warm when Emma and I set off on a brisk walk from St. John’s on our way to the Keats Shelley Memorial House. The two of us were excited, as both of us have a love for the work of both John Keats and Percy Shelley. I myself had a particular interest in seeing the small rooms where Keats stayed during his time in the Eternal City as I had learned more about him and Shelley for my site report on the Non-Catholic Cemetery, where both men are buried. 

The Piazza de Spagna was bustling with noisy tourists and street vendors, the most memorable of which was a man pretending to play the violin for a crowd of hoodwinked onlookers. The museum itself wasn’t hard to find; the sign was large and red, clearly displaying the names of the two poets right on the corner next to the steps. We pushed our way through the crowd, past the fountain, and made our way to the heavy wooden doors of the museum. I stopped to check the time: 5 o’clock, one hour before the museum closed at 6:00 PM. Perfect.

Closing the door brought immediate relief from the noise of the piazza. We found ourselves in at small hallway that lead to a narrow spiral staircase. Excitedly, we noticed that the walls were covered in manuscripts, photos, and signatures of other authors who had come to pay homage to Keats’ deathbed. We ascended to the gift shop to buy our tickets, which took a bit longer than expected. A small group of children were already inside, each purchasing a postcard or two. Soon, they cleared out and we bought our tickets, and then the attendant directed us upstairs to the four rooms of the museum.

Immediately after entering the space I was enthralled. Display cases containing manuscripts and letters sat in the center of a cosy library in the first room. The books were locked in their wooden shelving and contained titles upon titles of classic literature. Throughout the room was scattered paraphernalia belonging to Keats, Shelley, and Lord Byron, who also spent some time visiting Rome. Interestingly, Shelley seemed to be everywhere in the most literal sense; a large chunk of his hair on one shelf and a piece of bone on another, relics in their own right. 

Lord Byron’s room was first, which contained some items that he had own and many letters penned in his own hand. I always enjoy seeing the handwriting of authors and poets; it is so much more intimate to read the words as they wrote them. Also in this room were letters from Mary Shelley, Percy’s arguably more famous wife, that told of Percy’s experiences in Rome. 

Next we went into the Severn Room, where much of Joseph Severn’s, Keats’ longtime and closest friend, artistic work was on display. Anecdotes about Keats’ life and friendships filled the room, and each blurb from an acquaintance was accompanied by a small painting by Severn. Also in this room was a Life Mask of John Keats, which was startling in its humanity. It is one thing to see a painting of someone’s face. it is quite another to be confronted with a three dimensional cast of one. 

Finally, we entered Keats’ personal room. A small golden plaque on the wall caught my attention. It read: “In this room, on the 23rd of February 1821, died John Keats”. His desk sat right underneath the open window, overlooking the base of the Spanish Steps. I can only imagine the young Keats, writing his beautiful words as he watched the Roman world pass him by. His bed, covered in its original white and green silk, sat nestled in the corner. The painting on display next to it was by Severn, showing a tired Keats by candle light as he lay awake in pain. This is where he passed of tuberculosis, this small room with its tall window and tiny bed. He died young, only 25 years of age. But Keats was not alone, perhaps there is solace in that. Emma and I spend a fair amount of time in that quiet little room, simply thinking. 

We left shortly after that, stopping in the gift shop once more. I bought several postcards and two books, one the collection of Keats and Shelley and the other a book of artwork about the Non-Catholic Cemetery. We left as it closed and took a leisurely walk back to St. Johns. I loved the museum. It was small, but simply walking through it any visitor could see the tender care with which the space was curated. It was a church, in a way, and devotion of its worshipers were visible in each placard and note. Keats is loved still in this city, and will be immortalized here forever.