Dead Poets Society: The Protestant Cemetery in Rome
If you're into the Romantic poets as much as I am, you might want to swing by
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” ~ John Keats
In June of 1819, when Frankenstein author Mary Shelley, one-time inamorata and now wife of poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, climbed into a coach to Geneva at her husband’s behest, she’d already buried one child, a daughter Clara. Wrapped tightly in her arms was her son, William or “Willmouse,” a boy so beautiful, the Italian servants hovered in his doorway while he slept just to gaze upon his angelic countenance.
But Willmouse was seriously ill, likely malarial. Mary begged Shelley not to move him. Unfortunately, Shelley was in a bind. He’d lied to his friend George, Lord Byron, for reasons that are lost to us now, regarding his own whereabouts. If Mary didn’t come at once, his deceit would be exposed.
Clutching the sick child against her chest, Mary heeded Shelley’s summons, only to have her beloved Willmouse die in her arms. He is buried in the Cimitero Inglese, or English Cemetery, in Rome, a place locals called the Protestant Cemetery. Next to it looms the Pyramid of Cestius, built around 18-12 BC to entomb Gaius Cestius, a renowned Roman magistrate. A colony of feral cats lives within its shadow now.
Shortly after July 8, 1822, little Willmouse was joined by his illustrious father, Percy Bysshe Shelley, who died in a tragic boating accident in Livorno. His ashes were interred beneath a dedicational stone erected by his friend, Edward Trelawney, whose own memorial sits adjacent. Poor Willmouse’s final resting place is far away, an afterthought. I cannot imagine these were the wishes of his mother, whose heartache and depression after her son’s death inspired Shelley to write:
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,
And left me in this dreary world alone?
Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—
But thou art fled, gone down a dreary road
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode.
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee
Do thou return for mine
The Romantic poet John Keats is also buried in the Protestant Cemetery. He died at twenty-five of tuberculosis, coughing up his life’s blood in a cramped apartment overlooking the Spanish Steps in Rome. Largely ignored during his lifetime (much as Shelley was), Keats achieved posthumous fame and is now considered one of the finest of the second generation of Romantic poets.
From the moment of my arrival in Italy, I was eager to visit the Protestant Cemetery, and spent hours roaming its leafy paths. Edward Trelawney’s tribute to his friend Shelley is quite touching, although it’s debatable whether Shelley would have considered Trelawney the kind of friend he wanted to lie next to for eternity. The yacht Trelawney helped Shelley to build, the craft that killed him, was far from sea-worthy. Trelawney was a notorious liar who inflated his knowledge and credentials to impress people. What if that “touching tribute” he paid to Shelley actually has blood on it?
Such were my thoughts as I laid a rose on Shelley’s grave. I have my problems with Shelley, both as a man and a poet. It is his wife, Mary, who deserves my admiration, not only for her masterpiece, Frankenstein, but for the exquisite guardianship she gave to Shelley’s legacy. Without her efforts, he might well have been forgotten. And I cannot help but imagine her great suffering as, one by one, everyone she loved was taken from her.
Do you have a favorite cemetery, one that speaks to your heart and imagination? If so, I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to leave your comments below.