Before I went to sleep in the Duomo, my dreams haunted by owls, I would read two or three pages of Holme's biography of Coleridge - I would stoke up the fiery stove, gaze at portraits of the poet - he and Wordsworth, I thought, were like two planets, whirling around each other - one was a glorious disc of clouds and fire, the other, dark and sombre, ringed with vast mountain ranges -
We had, therefore, to visit Dove Cottage - I had been there, before, with Russell - he had swaggered through the low ceilinged rooms - he idolised Byron and Shelley - I listened to him reciting The Mask of Anarchy in the cigarette smoke filled Triumph Herald -
We were shown round the house by a clever slender girl - the floorboards lurched beneath our feet - one tiny icy room had been wallpapered with copies of The Times - an grizzled American asked about the panelling in the houseplace - I was sure that I could smell sea coal smoke -
The shadowy, numinous, house delighted me - I could have stayed there for hours, listening for voices, snuffing the air - but the guide moved us on, out into the drizzly late afternoon -
We sat in the garden, where Dorothy Wordsworth had sat, looking down at the house - a row of three storied stone houses blocked her view of the lake - we'd been told these houses were built in the 1860's, to lodge Victorian tourists -
I thought about the mysterious, quicksilver, sister of the poet - Coleridge wrote - her manners are simple, ardent, impressive -
I imagined her, walking upon the fells by moonlight, a shining spirit, her feet hardly touching the grass -
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