Bright Star Page #3

the soul to accept mystery.

I Love mystery.

I found your fairy princess

on the wall in my room.

And you could make her out?

She wears a butterfly frock.

Shall we continue?

Mr. Keats is very brilliant.

I'm not sure he really likes me.

He prefers Toots and Samuel, even our cat,

who he is always petting to death.

Mr. Keats knows he cannot Like you.

He has no Living and no income.

Mr. Keats isn't here.

He said to tell you he had a sore throat

and thought it best to stay on in Chichester.

Samuel, hello.

You don't believe me. Come in.

Come in.

There, no Keats.

Tell us, what Chaucer did you read?

AII of it.

Also, Mr. Spenser,

Mr. Milton, and The Odyssey.

That's a lot to read in one week.

What did you think of The Odyssey?

Thank you.

I am yet partway through it,

but I have read all Mr. Keats has written.

Have you?

''Out went the taper as she hurried in

''Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died

''She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin

''To spirits of the air, and visions wide''

And... And what, Miss Brawne,

did you make of Paradise Lost?

-I... I liked it.

-Did you?

You didn't find Milton's rhymes

a little pouncing?

No.

-Did you not?

-Not very.

Is it the material of her dress that makes

Miss Brawne's eyes so amber-Like?

Yes, they are golden.

-Amber almost.

-Yes, yes.

What color are yours, Mr. Brown?

Mine?

-Suitcase brown.

-Fanny!

Did you see Mr. Brown? He was amazed.

Well, all those authors in just one week

is a bit incredible.

I know.

But he sees I'm serious.

And I will read them.

Fanny, it's a letter.

I think it's a valentine.

''Darling Valentine, I am not sure

if you should have a kiss

''for your amber enchantress eyes

or a whipping.

''Yours, the Suitcase.''

Fanny,

Mr. Keats is behaving very oddly.

Should I invite him inside?

-Mr. Brown sent you a Valentine?

-I think it was a joke.

Keats! Keats! John, wait.

-John.

-I was away but 10 days, Brown,

with you encouraging me

to stay on and get well.

-John, easy.

-Now,

you write Miss Brawne a valentine card.

Are you lovers?

-John.

-Is that the truth?

-Easy.

-You sent a card, Charles!

You have the income to marry,

where I have not.

Did you accept him, Miss Brawne?

John, I sent that valentine...

It was only a jest.

For whom? I'm not laughing.

Miss Brawne is not Laughing!

John, I wrote the valentine to amuse Fanny,

who makes a religion of flirting.

John, she's what?

A poetry scholar one week

-and, what, a military expert the next?

-You disgust me.

It is a game. It is a game to her.

She collects suitors. John... John...

There is a holiness to the heart's affections.

Know you nothing of that?

Believe me, it's not pride!

You're in Love with Mr. Brown?

Why don't you speak?

She can't speak because she only knows

how to flirt and sew.

Isn't that right?

Yes, and read all Milton,

whose rhymes do not pounce, Miss Brawne,

because there are none!

John, there are one or two of her kind

in every fashionable drawing room

of this city,

gasping over skirt lengths.

I'm sorry.

We can have a poetry Lesson tomorrow.

No! I want to dance and flirt,

talk of flounces and ribbons

till I find my old happiness and humor.

What if the dwarf were to die in Act 2?

And then we could introduce

the princess sooner.

The princess.

Perhaps Act 3 could begin with a tempest.

What else do you think?

We're going to live next door.

The Dilkes are moving to Westminster,

and we get six months half rent!

So we'll be in the same house.

We can all play football.

It's a great economy for Mama.

But only if you Like.

Have we broken for the day, Keats?

Keats!

-Throw the rope up.

-Excuse me, miss.

There should be another one of them.

But if the princess has already abandoned

the dwarf,

I mean, cannot we keep his Love speech?

We have to change it.

Find another place for it.

-We could give the Love speech to...

-Look out!

Sorry, right in the face.

Brown? Brown!

Oh, no!

-What was that, Toots?

-Oh, no!

If Mr. Keats and myself

are strolling in a meadow,

lounging on a sofa or staring into a wall,

do not presume we're not working.

Doing nothing is the musing of the poet.

Are these musings what we common people

know as thoughts?

Thoughts, yes, but of a weightier nature.

Sinking thoughts?

Not really, Miss Brawne. Musing,

making one's mind available to inspiration.

Mr. Brown?

As in amusing?

Mr. Brown, our thoughts are all very simple,

so you never need worry

about interrupting us.

And we should be happy

if you would join us for dinner on any day.

Can I choose which bed?

Mr. Keats.

They're sniffing all the flowers in the garden

to try and find the best scent.

Mr. Keats is being a bee.

Thank you.

Fanny!

Come in.

I need your help.

Lie to me.

Tell me you did not dance last night.

I did not sit down a single tune.

You can see the truth in my slippers,

completely scuffed.

I don't know how I could have prevented it.

I don't want to sit and wait under the trees

while you talk.

-I want to go and play on the swing.

-AII right.

-Lovely.

-I'm not! Don't go lower. Go higher. Higher.

No. A bit Lower.

I had such a dream last night.

I was floating above the trees

with my lips connected

to those of a beautiful figure

for what seemed Like an age.

Flowery treetops sprang up beneath us,

and we rested on them

with the lightness of a cloud.

Who was the figure?

I must have had my eyes closed,

because I can't remember.

And yet, you remember the treetops.

Not so well as I remember the Lips.

Whose lips? Were they my lips?

Fanny?

Fanny?

Fanny?

Fanny!

Mr. Brown bet I couldn't find

the nightingale's nest.

There is no nest and no bet.

That one over there.

You couldnt have seen it in a tree.

They don't nest in trees.

I know what I saw. It was a nightingale.

''Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest

''In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay''

See, here, there are tears.

You're so far ahead of me and above me.

Brown, I'm amazed.

Your writing is the finest thing in my life.

You wrote this, Little hand, did you do it?

As one who truly loves you,

I must warn you kindly

of a trap that you are walking into, John.

If you are going to speak of Miss Brawne,

we have never agreed and cannot agree.

For one or two of your ''slippery blisses,''

you'll lose your freedom permanently.

You will be slaving at medicine

To keep Mrs. Keats in French ribbon.

I cherish your talent. I truly do.

Then allow me my happiness,

for I am writing again.

''My heart aches,

and a drowsy numbness pains

''My sense, as though of hemlock

I had drunk

''Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

''One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk

'''Tis not through envy of thy happy lot

But being too happy in thine happiness

''That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

''In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless

''Singest of summer in full-throated ease

''Darkling I listen,

''and, for many a time

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