The Beautiful Woman Without Mercy

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats, 1819

The life mask of John Keats. Everyone should have one of these done.



I was thinking of John Keats after having a discussion about him with a friend in a bar on St. Patrick's Day. St. Patrick's led to Ireland led to Scotland led to suffering led to Keats-and all this leads to my affection for Pre-Raphaelite artists who loved the inspiration of Keats. I came home and re-read Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci. It is late autumn, the location is England in the age of Chivalry, and a lovesick knight tells the story of a beautiful Faery's child he encounters. They cavort in a meadow, she lures him to sleep, then abandons him, leaving him forever doomed to remain on the hillside wishing for her return. Poor Knight is definitely associated with images of death, especially the lily on his forehead...I don't think there is much question that he represents the ailing poet. The question is this: is the Woman without Mercy, death herself, symbolic of the tuberculosis that Keats knew was draining the life from him when he wrote this poem, or is she the beloved friend, Fanny Brawne, his true love whom he broke his engagement with after learning of his disease, or maybe she is his conflicting other love, the witty Isabella Jones whom he met on holiday. Keats died less than two years after writing La Belle Dame, racked with tuberculosis which he caught while nursing his most beloved brother. He lived a short life, was penniless at his death, but the man knew love. I think La Dame may not be any of those named above, but love herself, lacking the mercy to go with him.

Here she is, "the large and in charge" version as represented by Frank Cowper- putting that hair back up after putting young Knight to sleep with her charms. I love the combination of the poppies and sleep. Sort of like Wizard of Oz... Tin-Man asleep in the poppy field.

The polite, "let's hold hands and then we'll take a long nap" Walter Crane version. Walter keeps it clean.. he was mainly a children's illustrator.

Whoa Nelly....The Frank Dicksee interpretation with a holding back, less willing Knight. "She put me under a spell and I had nothing to do with any of it"

The master, Waterhouse, demonstrating a little Avatar inspired "Haloing" with the hair. Waterhouse always gets it right.. and his knights are the best. Look at the bare (light) feet, the wild eyes, the faded purple in the dress, the Knights clenched fist, and look who's wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Happy Birthday to the "Mad, Bad and Dangerous" Lord Byron

"In solitude, where we are least alone." Lord Byron

Lord Byron, the Romantic Anglo Scottish poet, was born this day in 1788. He was the public "bad boy" of his time. His treatment and his life shows us that celebrities in the early 18th century endured much of the same torture from fame as those of today, even without modern media.

Byron had a deformed foot from birth which caused a limp and lifelong misery. "The Morning Post in particular has found out that I am a sort of Richard the third--deformed in mind and body--the last piece of information is not very new to the man who passed five years at a public school." He also constantly worried about his inclination to plumpness and was a vigorous dieter, feasting for days on soda water and crackers. He was tortured because of who he loved, regardless of who was the rumored object of his affection: hundreds of women, men, boys, or his half-sister. He wrote beautiful poems to the men he loved using deceptive female names in them to avoid attacks. He loved animals, and began collecting exotic pets, including monkeys, a bear cub, badgers, foxes, an eagle, crocodiles and of course, his beloved Newfoundland dog, Boatswain. Boatswain contracted rabies and Byron nursed him for days until his death, without concern for his own safety. "Epitaph to a Dog" was for Boatswain.

Byron would be treated with so much hostility on the streets of England that he would only venture out in disguise. He was experiencing the lonliness of being recognized everywhere you go. Finally, it all got to be too much so he left for Greece in hopes of finding more acceptance of his lifestyle. The Greeks welcomed and worshipped him, and when he died there at age 36, they buried his heart under a tree before embalming his body and sending it back to England. His body was delivered to Westminster Abbey, but he was turned away. Unexpectedly, there was a public outcry for the dead poet and viewing of the body was in such demand that he was publicly displayed for days. Tickets had to be sold for the viewing and a wooden frame built around the coffin to prevent trampling by the crowds of newly devoted fans, mostly hordes of tearful ladies. He was buried next to Ada, his child that he never knew. Later, his body was exhumed and moved to Westminster Abbey to the Poet's Corner.

His contemporary Englishmen were never really able to prevent his provocative lifestyle from overshadowing his beautiful work. Sounds a little familiar.

I became especially interested in Byron when I was in my 20's after my friend, Ron, saw where Byron had etched his name in the castle wall of Chateau Chillon while traveling in Switzerland. Byron wrote the epic poem "The Prisoner of Chillon" after visiting the castle with his buddy, Percy Shelley in 1816. Byron was fascinated by the legend of Francois Bonivard, who was allegedly kept prisoner in the castle's dungeon. I'm not sure if he was channeling Byron or Bonivard, but my friend, the voice of strength in suffering, unexpectedly recited a long section of the poem in the backseat of my car once when drunk. It was inspiring. The first line of the sonnet version, "Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind" reinvents "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" from Pope's "Eloisa to Abelard."

Byron was also one of the five writers present for that locked-up wet and spooky weekend in June when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein.