Giornale: Keats and Shelley House

Finding tranquility in the hustle and bustle of Rome life is hard to find. Even my own dorm room in St. Johns is not immune to the sounds of loud cars, late-night walkers, and cawing seagulls. Who knew that I would find serenity next to one of the busiest tourist sites in Rome?

Taking the metro to the Spanish Steps was easy. With croissant bag in hand, Emily and I sat on the famous steps and waited for our phones to read 10:00. I checked the once closed wooden doors on the apartment directly next to where we sat, and gladly proclaimed that they were now open. I threw out my paper bag, and we walked inside and up a small marble staircase. After buying out tickets, we climbed the marble steps to the next level and found ourselves in a whole new world. The room was completely encircled by old books in dark wood cases. Small paintings were hung up and in the center of the room was a line of glass cases with books, letters, and other things inside. The room instantly made me think of whiskey and cigars. I breathed in the familiar and comforting smell of decaying paper which evoked an aura of wisdom and knowledge. On the far edge was a window and behind its deep red curtains were the Spanish Steps. If it was not for this window, I would think that we had time traveled.

I did not know much about the Romantic poets of the late-18^th, early 19^th century, so I was eager to read the signs and increase my knowledge on the subject. I slowly moved around the first room, reading that Romanticism was about the irrational parts of human nature, admiring Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein with a hand-written dedication to her son, and questioning the practice of giving locks of hair to friends. Mary Shelley’s writing desk stopped me for a while. I stared at the green felt and knew not only that she touched it but created masterpieces upon it. Off of the first room was a small, dark room that smelled of old wood. More books surrounded us, and so did some handwritten letters, a copy of Don Juan, a wax mask, and framed drawings, especially of Lord Byron’s many wives. On the other side of the salon was another room, again filled to the brim with books on the walls. The entire house seemed to be built of books and intelligence. Through this room was a plain room with blue walls. A bed stood in the corner and light came in through small windows. A plaque read “In this room on the 23^rd of February 1821 died John Keats.” Next to the plaque, a sign described Tuberculosis and its mortal effects on its captives. The romanticism of the Romantics disappeared. The small room held a glass case in which was the white death mask of John Keats. His eyes were closed, and his eyebrows were relaxed in a perpetual state of tranquility. I stared at his face. I knew almost nothing about John Keats when I entered the museum, but at that moment, I felt an intimacy, standing in his death spot, looking at his face.

I could have spent the whole day in that little apartment, sitting among the books, reading, creating relationships with people who died long before I was born. As we leave, I look out the window again. It is so bright, and loud, and crowded out there. I breath in the serenity one last time and step out into my own world that is filled with tourists, vendors, and, thankfully, smartphones and modern medicine.

(Keats and Shelly Memorial House, 5/28/19)