Steven A. Jent: Keats and Chapman

Steven A. Jent

Author

Keats and Chapman

From 1940 until he died in 1966 Brian O'Nolan, under the nom de plume Myles na Gopaleen (Myles of the Ponies), wrote a column in the Irish Times entitled "Cruiskeen Lawn" (brimming jug). He also wrote several novels as Flann O'Brien. In his column he applied his satirical wit to topics that included Irish and world politics, the eccentricities of Irish culture, and the prevalence of banal writing.

The converse of this latter subject was his own manic love of colorful language and word play. One form in which he occasionally indulged this was brief stories of Keats and Chapman. One protagonist was ostensibly John Keats, the Romantic poet; the other was George Chapman, the Elizabethan poet and translator of the Iliad and the Odyssey, of whom Keats wrote with admiration in his sonnet "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer". This was somewhat puzzling in that Chapman died more than 150 years before Keats was born. Nevertheless the duo appeared in dozens of little fables, each of which concluded with a wretched pun based on a familiar expression or a literary quotation. Copyright forbids me to reproduce the stories here, but I will risk citing a few of the punch lines: "Foals rush in where Engels feared to tread", "There's a nip in the heir", "A fête worse than debt", "F. Huehl and his Monet are soon parted".

A number of the original Keats and Chapman tales are included in The Best of Myles, a generous sampler from the column. After reading these I am convinced that they ended too soon. There is more, much more, left for Keats and Chapman to do. Therefore I have reanimated the pair for my own little stories, which exhibit the most despicable wordplay of which I am capable. Complaints from defenders of literary standards and threats from public morals committees notwithstanding, I propose to add to this collection from time to time. Eventually I'll have enough to fill a book, and then watch out, world.

If a punch line is just too obscure—or too ridiculous—to make sense, click the adjoining [?]. This will take you to a brief explanation of the original phrase.

In response to accumulating evidence of the ecological damage caused by peat mining, Her Majesty's Government ruled that all new peat extraction sites would first have to submit to an environmental assessment. The resources to perform these assessments were limited, however, so applicants would have to take their turn. This prompted raucous protests from would-be peat miners, who resented having to wait in line.

Chapman thought the proposed system was the only orderly way to handle the situation, and these complaints were no more than petty, even childish behavior. Keats agreed: "They should all just learn to mine their peats in queues."

All the same he tried to see their point of view. Peat did have many uses, not the least important being the production of whiskey. "All they are saying", he reflected, "is 'Give peats a chance.'" [?]

From time to time Keats had to caution Chapman to resist the temptation to use big words in large numbers. Left too long at his own discretion, Chapman was likely to say "I've purchased a splendid automobile in pristine condition" instead of simply "I bought a nice new car", or "I'm experiencing an intensely disagreeable sensation" when "Ouch!" would do. One evening he invited Keats to join him and some of his friends at the Shield and Shamrock, something Keats was by all means up for at any time. But the way Chapman phrased the invitation told Keats he was due for another reminder.

Keats walked in to find Chapman already at the bar with some new faces. Introductions made and the first round ordered, Keats was soon cozy and content. At a lull he observed mildly to Chapman, "To you this may be an opportunity to make the acquaintance of some new individuals and imbibe an assortment of fermented beverages." He paused, then said, "But it's meet and drink to me." [?]

In an attempt to wean townspeople from the usual extravaganza of junk food, this year's Fall festival placed an emphasis on healthful dishes instead. Pastries, cakes, pies, tarts, puddings, all the familiar treats were nearly unobtainable. Instead fairgoers could look forward to a day of virtually nothing but locally grown vegetables and fruit. On top of that, the grain harvest had been uncommonly bountiful, which meant that two booths in every three were serving porridge, or groats, or polenta, or oatmeal.

Neither Keats nor Chapman approved of the new menu. They longed for their annual indulgence in everything that was bad for them. Keats in particular expressed his disappointment in strenuous terms to any bystander who unwarily lingered within reach. He grumbled that he hadn't come to the fair to eat nothing but boiled cereal, and moaned: "What did we ever do to deserve this gruel fête?" [?]

Chapman heard this and lost the little appetite he still had.

Keats and Chapman are of the camp who maintain that the ultimate main course is a traditional standing beef rib roast. Their host for the evening must have understood this, because he carried in from the kitchen an eight-pound beauty and placed it with reverence on the dining room table. As complements he offered mustard, horseradish, Worcestershire, chutney, or gravy. Chapman pondered which would best enhance the flavor of his cut, but in Keats's mind there was no such dilemma. To add any foreign substance would be merely to debase perfection, and the assortment of sauces scarcely registered in his field of vision. When asked what he would like on his serving, he replied, "I only have eyes for jus." [?]

Chapman had been planning a small garden party for weeks. But on the eve of the big day, it seemed the number of emergencies that could suddenly arise was without limit. His sink backed up; the florist ran out of carnations; the caterer's van wouldn't start. One by one, however, all these obstacles were overcome, as Chapman refused to let anything stand between him and a diverting afternoon for his guests.

The final crisis was reserved for the very morning of the party. Chapman hadn't heard any rain overnight, but when he looked out his back window he was appalled to see the grass glistening. He shuddered as he imagined dozens of shoes churning his wet lawn into a replica of the Grimpen Mire. But soon Keats arrived and assured him that he had nothing to fear. It hadn't rained at all; the night had merely been cool and damp. All Chapman was seeing was ordinary condensation, which would quickly evaporate. Keats reminded him of the much greater trials he had already withstood, and promised him, "This dew shall pass." [?]

Flyers from a new cheese shop in Chapman's neighborhood announced an opening-day giveaway. For an hour beginning at noon the public was invited to taste, at no charge, unlimited samples from a copious variety of fermented curd: Red Leicester, Jarlsberg, Camembert, Cheshire, Gruyère, Wensleydale, and on and on. Even a bouzouki player would be on hand to provide musical entertainment.

Chapman planned to attend, and invited Keats to join him. But his reaction was pure skepticism. He thought it quite naive of Chapman to believe there was no catch to this offer of a complimentary mid-day repast. "Honestly", he said, "You should know at your age, there's no such thing as a Brie lunch." [?]

Chapman was exercising at his gym when an acquaintance stepped onto the treadmill next to his. Chapman had briefly met Ivan on a tour of St. Petersburg, so he nodded in recognition and continued jogging in place. He did notice that Ivan was wearing a curious object on a chain around his neck—a one-inch crystal globe which, according to one Doctor Hentschel, who had made a fortune selling the things on late-night television, could intensify the natural energy waves of one's body. Unfortunately people believed these trinkets enabled them to exceed their physical limitations. As a result, many of them needed medical attention when they pushed themselves too hard.

Apparently Ivan too was a victim of Doctor Hentschel's humbuggery. After 30 vigorous minutes on the treadmill he sagged, then fell to the floor with his eyes glazed over. The trainer was there in a second, and a whiff of smelling salts soon revived him. Although Ivan had seriously overdone it, he was not in any danger and could just go home to recover.

When Chapman told Keats what had happened, he expressed no surprise. Instead he said knowingly, as if Ivan were there to hear him, "Fools, Russian, wear a Hentschel sphere to tread." [?]

Keats and Chapman rarely allude to their brief career as stage magicians. Their first and last Continental tour climaxed with an engagement at a cabaret on the Champs-Élysées. Their act always ended with the classic routine in which Keats sawed Chapman in half, and after weeks of nightly performances Keats had grown bored with the same old thing. So he was looking for some new element to liven it up. He had the brainstorm that he could replace Chapman with a live animal, which would make it more convincing because the creature would obviously not be a party to the trick. And what animal could add more color to the show than the dazzling plumage of an exotic tropical bird?

Keats went to a pet store and brought back a stunning pair of Scarlet Macaws. Then he built a smaller version of the box in which he used to bisect Chapman. To test it he gently laid the birds in the two ends of the box, with the head of one and the tail of the other visible: The illusion that it contained a single bird was perfect. Now he could hardly wait to debut the act with his two new stars.

But that night's performance ended in chaos. The macaws were docile enough when he placed them in the box as before. But the second he began to cut it in two the harsh noise startled them and they started screeching as if in agony. Keats briefly hoped this would only make the effect more lifelike, but the audience began to boo in protest. Outraged by his perceived cruelty to animals, dozens of them stormed the stage. To escape the mob Keats and Chapman fled not just the club but the city, thus ending their tour and their short-lived dalliance with show business. "And that", Keats will say when importuned into telling the story, "is the last time I saw parrots." [?]

Chapman was in a black mood as he and Keats returned from a fishing trip. The fishing had actually been quite successful: each of them had caught his limit, including some exceptional specimens. A single incident, however, had kept him from perfect enjoyment. When they collected their gear as they made ready to leave, Chapman realized he was missing his favorite lure, a Royal Coachman Bucktail that he had treasured for years. He searched every compartment of his tackle box, and Keats's as well, but his exquisite hand-tied masterpiece, the bane of so many trout, had vanished. He was still fuming when he arrived home.

As he unpacked, he took from his tackle box a jar of insect-repellent cream. He was about to put this in his medicine cabinet when he noticed a vague dark shape through the clear glass. He unscrewed the lid, looked inside, and found his Royal Coachman lightly embedded in the surface of the lotion. He deduced that it must have fallen in just before he closed the jar after the last time he rubbed the stuff on. Thrilled, he called Keats with his good news. But Keats was still irked by what he considered Chapman's overreaction to a minor loss. His only response was, "So an otherwise delightful weekend was spoiled by one little fly in the ointment?" [?]

When seven crop circles appeared in wheat fields in Dorset over a period of as many weeks, UFOlogists were elated while skeptical investigators insisted there was a terrestrial explanation. Both parties interviewed dozens of locals, hoping to find an eyewitness to the creation of these spectacular and enigmatic designs. The former expected to hear of flying saucers and men from outer space, but the latter were certain that eventually one or more earthlings would admit that they were behind the mysterious phenomena.

In time the doubters were vindicated. Several area farmers confessed that they, in collusion with Dorset boosters, had made the circles in order to draw tourists to the area. No one could deny that they had succeeded, but Chapman was nonetheless miffed when he read the full story. If every county decided fraud was a fair means of supplementing its economy, where would it end? Keats agreed, and thought the parties responsible for defacing British farmlands on such a scale should do the right thing. Hesitantly Chapman asked what that might be. Keats replied coolly, "They should fall on their swards." [?]

Chapman was at a seafood shop, waiting his turn to pick some fresh fish to take home, when he observed that the work was oddly distributed between the two people behind the counter. One of them took the customer's request, retrieved the fish from the shelf where it lay in ice, wrapped it, and stuck on a label with the price per pound. He then handed the package to the second man, who merely lay the fish on a scale and ran the label over a scanner to calculate the price. He then returned the fish to the first man, who would ring up the sale and hand the customer his purchase. As far as Chapman could see, this second person was completely idle when he had nothing to do with his scanner and scale, which was almost all the time. It hardly seemed he was doing his share.

He later described this arrangement to Keats, who said it was not necessarily fair to disparage the second man. One might not look as busy as the other, but, he reminded Chapman, "They also serve who only scan and weigh it." [?]

Keats and Chapman browsed the dessert menu while they waited for the cart to arrive. Chapman's dietary conscience and his sweet tooth launched into a fierce internal dispute at the sight of such an array of rich dishes: zabaglione, chocolate soufflé, flan, blancmange, and more. The better angels of his nature seemed to be prevailing, for he exclaimed, "This is a nightmare. I've never seen such a concentration of sugar, cream, and eggs. I can't let myself eat any of these." Nevertheless he continued to ogle those temptations which he claimed he had dismissed.

Keats found Chapman's reaction incomprehensible. In his opinion those were the perfect ingredients for the sort of dessert one imagines in a culinary fantasy, and he planned to indulge in one now. He sighed blissfully, "It's the stuff that crèmes are made of." [?]

Keats and Chapman were hoping to enjoy a relaxing afternoon at the Shield and Shamrock, but a man at the other end of the bar was making that impossible. He was voicing, in ever louder tones, his opinion of an assortment of notable women, and in no case was his opinion favorable. "Margaret Thatcher? Only the worst prime minister in our lifetime." Then: "Margaret Rutherford's portrayal of Miss Marple turned a thoughtful character into a ludicrous clown." And a while later: "How could they ever give a Pulitzer Prize to that second-rate hack Margaret Mitchell of all people?"

Chapman was about to complain to the proprietor, but Keats said he would like to speak to the gentleman first. He walked over, and Chapman watched them having what seemed like an amicable conversation. They shook hands, and Keats returned. He reported that on the whole the fellow wasn't all that ill-natured. "Sometimes he just needs to knock down a Peg or two." [?]

It seemed to Chapman that he and Keats had been driving all night. Perhaps this was because they had been driving all night. They had left the pubs of St. Ives much later than they intended, and now they had to drive non-stop to reach Dover in time to catch their ferry in the morning. As the hours passed and the sky, if it changed at all, grew blacker, Chapman became more and more despondent, sure that they would arrive too late and miss their connections.

When he had nearly lost hope, the eastern sky began to lighten. From time to time Keats pointed out various landmarks to reassure Chapman that they were making progress. Mostly these were tall structures visible from a great distance: soaring radio masts, the spires of a cathedral, even a telegraph tower from the age of Napoleon. They passed a grimy old industrial chimney crusted in soot, and as it receded behind them Chapman noticed a change in the landscape. He recognized the chalk hills of the North Downs, and knew they were approaching Dover. Keats saw his change in mood and couldn't help observing that he had known all along they would make it. "Didn't I tell you the darkest tower is just before the Downs?" [?]

As he frequently did, Chapman stood up and walked away from his computer in disgust. Yet again he was appalled by the sort of English that most online writers apparently thought was perfectly normal. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, sentence structure—none of these things seemed to matter any more. Even the practice of using actual words was evidently obsolete, when so many sentences consisted of nothing but abbreviations and acronyms. He wondered sometimes if he was the only person who still appreciated the rich, diverse pedigree of the English language and the value of an extensive vocabulary.

Keats assured him that he wasn't alone after all. But he understood Chapman's pessimism about the future of articulate English. To Keats as well it appeared that those to whom the carefully chosen phrase mattered were losing the battle against those for whom any expression would do: "We're continually taking one step for words and two steps back." [?]

His extensive vocabulary notwithstanding, an agonized Chapman could find no words to respond.

When he heard that the local amateur theater company was preparing to stage The King and I, Chapman was positive he was the natural choice for the part of King Mongkut. As the date for auditions approached, he studied the libretto and practiced with a recording for hours every day, a fact with which he was careful to acquaint the director. But that day he woke with a cold, completely hoarse, and couldn't leave his bed, much less try out for a singing role. He asked Keats to go and report what took place at the theater.

When Keats returned, Chapman still hoped that no satisfactory male lead had been found, and that he would still have a chance after he recovered. But Keats brought only bad news. Faced with a tight production schedule, the director had already decided who would play the King of Siam: "It's too late to reconsider now. The Thai has been cast." [?]

Chapman was reading in the Times of a charming artifact found during the excavation of an ancient mound in what was once Mesopotamia. An exception to the familiar grim images of warriors, gods, and mayhem, it was a delicate carving of a rose. According to the archaeologists in charge of the dig, it was the first such piece ever found. Only a miracle had preserved it for over four thousand years, and it was highly unlikely that they would ever find another. It was a moving token of the fragility of beauty and the inexorable toll of time.

Keats surmised that indeed the ruins of Ur would sadly yield no more such treasures. He sighed, "'Tis the last rose of Sumer." Hearing which, Chapman suddenly felt very old and worn himself. [?]

In their days at Greyfriars, Chapman was not one to play ingenious and complicated practical jokes; these were more in Keats's line. Chapman was more likely to stick with familiar proven formulas. He once wrote "Please thump me on the head" on a piece of facial tissue, which he chose because ordinary paper was more likely to rustle and give the game away (an uncharacteristic moment of perspicuity on his part). He then taped it to Keats's back, which he covered up by saying he was just knocking off a bit of lint. A dozen or so fellow students, in that spirit of helpfulness that has always distinguished a Greyfriars man, swatted Keats's head without warning before he caught on. He said nothing to Chapman, but silently vowed that he would pay.

Weeks later the two were in the school dining hall for lunch. Chapman excused himself to visit the gentlemen's bog. When he returned, everyone at their table, and then neighboring tables, began tittering after Keats, with excessive glee, pointed out the flimsy paper that trailed from the sole of his shoe. Le jour de gloire had arrivé, his revenge was at hand. To complete Chapman's mortification Keats crowed, "Tissue is on the other foot now, isn't it?" [?]

Chapman's acquisitive impulses overthrew the constraints of his budget, and he brought home a singular piece of ancient Greek pottery. Decorated with an exquisite image of Helen of Troy, the urn immediately became not just the centerpiece of Chapman's collection but the thing most precious to him. Sometimes when he was alone with it he couldn't help gazing at her sublime features and muttering to himself, "Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!"

When Keats came around to see it, however, he found Chapman wailing in his study, and hundreds of tiny clay shards scattered in every direction across the floor. Staggered by the magnitude of Chapman's loss, he exclaimed, "Was this the vase that launched a thousand chips?" [?]

As dusk fell on the Lake District, Keats and Chapman trudged along an obscure country road, hoping to find lodging at the end of another day of their walking tour. Their hopes rose when they spied a house with a sign at the curb that read "Bed and Breakfast". But closer inspection showed the discouraging notice "No Vacancy".

The two weary travelers decided to try their luck at persuading the proprietor to make an exception for them. They knocked, poised to make their most persuasive case. But the man who opened the door greeted them with a stony glare and a single brusque word, "Yes?" This was enough to convince them that they would receive no sympathy here. Without bothering to inquire about a room they turned away and continued down the road. Chapman said he never expected this sort of bellicose reception. Keats described it in even starker terms: "No quarters asked or given." [?]

Chapman had had enough of the madness of civilization, and was in the mood for a solitary retreat. A week's isolation on some remote peak, at an altitude of a mile or preferably two, sounded like just the thing. He surprised Keats by saying that he had picked the Isle of Man for his sanctuary and was going to meditate in glorious seclusion in the thin, purifying atmosphere of the tallest mountain they had.

Keats told him he was making a twofold mistake. First, philosophers and poets had declared for centuries that there was no point in trying to separate oneself from the rest of mankind. Second, nowhere in the Manx countryside was the elevation more than about 2,000 feet, so he wasn't going to find his lofty eminence there. Chapman said he must be mistaken, but Keats confidently replied, "No, Man isn't high land." [?]

In the decisive cricket match against their nemesis Brookfield, Greyfriars led by a run as Brookfield batted their last innings. Greyfriars needed to dismiss just one more batsman to win, but the young man at the wicket was Brookfield's best.

The Greyfriars bowler ran up and hurled the ball at over 90 miles an hour, but the batsman judged it perfectly and sent it soaring. The only thing that could save Greyfriars would be a superhuman catch by their man at deep forward. He ran at reckless speed and caught the ball just at the boundary, ensuring a victory for Greyfriars. Unable to stop, however, he collided with a hedge of sweet bay shrubs just beyond the pitch. For some time he lay there tangled in the branches.

Watching from the stands, Chapman was afraid their hero had paid a high price for his exploit. But Keats doubted he was hurt, and imagined he was merely exhausted: "For the moment, he's content to rest on his laurels." [?]

Always one of the more conscientious students at Greyfriars, Chapman was sure he would make a good prefect, looking after younger pupils and helping to keep order. When he mentioned this to the Head of School, he was dismayed to hear that he would have to earn the position in two ways.

First, he would have to train for this new responsibility by completing exercises that mimicked typical situations that he would have to deal with. He complained to Keats that these lessons sounded contrived and pointless. But Keats reminded him, "Practice makes prefect."

Second, he was required to submit a four-page essay to demonstrate that he was motivated by a desire to serve the school and not just by the power that came with the job. This was hard enough to bear, but he nearly abandoned the whole idea when Keats said, under the pretense of encouraging him, "A prefecture is worth a thousand words." [?]

A weary Keats and Chapman faced an overnight journey by train from Penzance to London. If they had to ride in a coach they would get no sleep and arrive worse than dead, so they were desperate to get their hands on tickets for a sleeper. The good news: There was no line at the Penzance ticket counter. The bad news: Instead it was besieged by a rude, noisy mob whose operating principle was Sauve qui peut.

Chapman was too diffident to push his way to the front, but Keats set both elbows to full automatic and disappeared into the mass. Twenty minutes later he emerged, triumphantly clutching tickets for two berths. Even as Keats handed one ticket to him, Chapman was still unsure whether muscling ahead of others like that was the correct thing to do. But Keats said this was no time for delicacy: "A berth in the hand is worth doing the push." [?]

It was a brilliant Summer day, perfect for the Greyfriars alumni picnic. Guests were required to bring nothing but themselves and their tedious memories, for all the food and beverages were provided. These were served from a line of tables in an al fresco buffet with disposable tableware and utensils. The plates were the usual thing, conveniently divided into four compartments to keep all the items of fare from merging into an anonymous mess. As he and Keats made their way through the line, one dish caught Chapman's eye, but not in a desirable way. He couldn't decide whether it was failed stew, failed casserole, failed hash, or failed gruel; he only knew that he didn't want any. He pointed it out to Keats, and said it was lucky that each of them had already filled their four dividers with food and had an excuse to pass over the sinister concoction. Keats peered at it, recoiled, and said, "I wouldn't touch that with a ten-food bowl." [?]

Like other Greyfriars alumni, Keats and Chapman occasionally found themselves shanghaied into helping with school events. This time they were judges at the Spring track and field meet. In the course of the long jump competition, one youthful contestant disputed the way Chapman had spotted his landing. He claimed that the board that marked the foul line was out of position, and that therefore his distance should be adjusted in his favor. This unprecedented request momentarily disconcerted Chapman, but Keats was quick to step in and rule against the jumper. Though he did confirm Chapman's ruling, the reason he gave made Chapman wish he were somewhere else, for Keats merely stated, "A leaper cannot change his spots." [?]

Chapman was incensed to read in the Times that the Household Cavalry would no longer be mounted during the traditional ceremony of Trooping the Colour. Once again timid bureaucrats had caved to strident extremists, in this case some misguided defenders of animal rights. These had long insisted that the Horse Guards, with their armor, weapons, and elaborate uniforms, were a cruel burden for the horses. So now the cavalrymen would instead march on foot leading their mounts. Chapman fumed that this backward reasoning had gone too far in considering the welfare of the animals before that of their riders. But Keats suggested that parading in this new formation would actually have just the opposite effect: "They've put the guard before the horse." [?]

One Sunday afternoon a brash, modern noise echoed from the northern banks of the Firth of Forth as far as Edinburgh on the far side, reverberating along the Royal Mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse and the Castle, and even disrupting the peace of the spirits who watch from Arthur's Seat. Auto racing had come to the once quiet village of Crail, and Keats and Chapman were there to observe.

A pair of brightly painted, low-slung cars were poised at the starting line, their engines rumbling. As they waited for the light to release them for the sprint over the quarter mile, Chapman was overcome by the moment. The scent of heather, the dour determination of the drivers, the environs of the ancient kingdom of Alba—and the regional single-malt whiskey—together put him in mind of the fabled Thane of Fife and Shakespeare's tale of blood. But before Chapman could voice these feelings, Keats raised his arms in a theatrical gesture and said as if in a trance, "Is this a dragster which I see before me?" [?]

As he and Chapman browsed the offerings at an estate sale, Keats kept returning to a handsome gold watch ostensibly a hundred years old. But Chapman was not convinced that it was solid gold. To him it looked like mere plate, not the genuine article. He expressed his misgivings, but Keats ignored them. He bid on the watch and won it for a price that was either a bargain for a solid gold timepiece or a shameful imposition for a gold-plated one.

Chapman still feared that Keats had been cheated, so Keats took the watch to a jeweler, who quickly confirmed that he had in fact made a most discerning purchase. When Chapman heard of this, he congratulated Keats and said he was happy to find he was mistaken. Keats, however, thought that this outcome also demonstrated something far more important: It was a reminder of one of the essential principles of a civilized society. "What principle is that?", Chapman asked, knowing he would regret it. Grandly Keats replied, "Innocent until proven gilded." [?]

One of the oldest cities in Germany had just announced that it would soon host the inaugural of its annual film festival on the picturesque banks of the Rhine. The organizers hoped that in short order it would attain the stature of other longstanding cinematic events around the world, particularly its closest rival in neighboring France. Chapman was intrigued and began making plans to attend. Keats, on the other hand, saw no point in such a transparent imitation of another city's signature event. Furthermore, he thought it was folly to expect the public to care about yet another award ceremony on top of all those others. When this one inevitably failed, the backers and promoters would find themselves entangled in a morass of debts and disputes. In short, he said, "They're just opening a Cannes of Worms." [?]

As Keats and Chapman relaxed for the evening at the bar of the Shield and Shamrock, Chapman ordered a glass of a German beer that he had never tried before. It came from a small Bavarian firm that had just been started by an ambitious young brewer. He had sunk every Pfennig he had into the company, and he was known not just for his talent as a brewmaster but for working harder and longer than any of his employees.

Chapman held the glass up to the light and appreciated the amber glow, which promised a rich, malty flavor. One generous sip convinced him that the fledgling brewer's dedication had paid off. If his other beers were this good his new business was bound to be a big success. Keats was pleased to hear this, and thought it only just: "He is, after all, living by the sweat of his brau." [?]

Defer it as long as they might, it was inevitable that Keats and Chapman would visit the hot new restaurant Phlogiston to sample one of their trademark flambé dishes: Crêpes Suzette, Steak Diane, Bombe Alaska, and so on. Chapman was in fact enthusiastic about the prospect, but Keats was predictably skeptical. To him it sounded like yet another of those showy eateries that enjoy a few weeks of notoriety, then are abandoned by a fickle public and disappear.

Keats congratulated himself on his pessimism after the waiter brought the cart to prepare their Bananas Foster. He poured the liqueur over the fruit, then with a flourish struck a match and touched it to the saucepan. There was a momentary flare, but the seductive blue flames did not ensue. Repeated attempts to create fire also failed. The waiter wheeled the cart away in dejection while Keats and Chapman had to settle for bananas and ice cream in a sweet, luscious, but un-singed sauce. Said Keats, "It's just as I expected: nothing but a flash in the pan." [?]

Walking in the City one afternoon, Keats and Chapman chanced to pass a hair salon. What they saw through the window made it impossible to look away, and they stood there in silence for the next hour. The stylists within were creating bold, unique hair fashions that challenged every convention of shape, length, texture, and color. Their clientele seemed uniformly pleased with the results, for each newly transformed patron sauntered out the door with a swagger that registered disdain for ordinary people too timid to embrace such an unorthodox look.

At last Keats broke the spell with a muted whistle of admiration and asked, "Have you ever witnessed such deeds of daring do?" And as they walked away, Keats added speculatively, "Indeed, fiendishly talented as they are, they would be just the people to give the Devil his do." [?]

On the final morning of Keats's and Chapman's cruise from Southampton to New York, Chapman conscientiously filled in his customs forms whereas Keats enjoyed some last-minute liquid refreshments in one of the ship's many lounges. Chapman didn't want any delay when they passed through customs, so he tracked down Keats to remind him to complete his paperwork before it was too late. Keats had just made the exasperating discovery that, after paying his final tab at the bar, he had virtually no cash on his person. His total funds amounted to one pound decimal, five pence. This, combined with his annoyance at being pestered by Chapman, led him to reply with some asperity, "I have nothing to declare but my guinea, ass." [?]

As he walked off the field at the end of a friendly game of rugby, Keats looked at his uniform and grumbled, as he invariably did, about how much time and effort it would take to remove the grass stains. To make him feel better, Chapman pointed out that the players on the opposing team seemed to have even more green splotches on their shorts and jerseys, not to mention their knees and elbows. Keats was not consoled. He dismissed what he called a common illusion, and said, "The grass is always greener on the other's hide." [?]

Chapman also turned faintly green.

For the most part Chapman was enjoying his new smartphone. But one application that he had downloaded only frustrated him. He expected this genealogical tool to help him trace his ancestry, but it persisted in reporting that he was a descendant of Elizabeth I, Isaac Newton, Marie Antoinette, or Ludwig van Beethoven. In his annoyance he swore that even though the same source offered several other applications that looked interesting, he would never try any of them. A sympathetic Keats said, "It's true, one bad app'll spoil the bunch." [?]

Once again Keats and Chapman were dining at the home of a friend. Their host had induced the great Chef Jerome to exchange his famous restaurant for a household kitchen for the evening. One elegant course followed another, from the Tarte au Pistou and the Soupe au Potiron through the Olympian Civet de Cerf. But as the guests were polishing off the latter, a cloud of smoke issued from the kitchen, followed by sounds of lamentation. Evidently the Galette des Rois that was to have crowned the menu had been left in the oven too long and converted to cinders. All but one person at the table stopped eating and expressed sympathy for the chef, whose showcase meal had been ruined. Keats alone still worked his knife and fork unperturbed. When Chapman asked how he could be indifferent to the tragedy in the kitchen, Keats answered, "I'm not the first, you know, to go on victualling while Jerome burns." [?]

It had been a week since Chapman returned from an "adventure tour" of a remote corner of the Himalayas, but he still perspired visibly when he told of his hair-raising flight from Pokhara to Janakpur. He and a score of other passengers boarded a DC-3 that looked as if it hadn't known the tender touch of a mechanic since it left the Boeing plant in 1945. They took off without incident and reached Janakpur on schedule. But as they approached the airport and the pilot lowered the landing gear, Chapman looked out his window and saw that a tire was flat and the struts were dangling haphazardly. He was losing all hope until he noticed a fellow passenger, a monastic official of the Benedictine order, who sat across the aisle. With his eyes closed and his hands clasped, he was clearly invoking divine assistance. Whether his supplications were responsible or not, the plane did reach the ground safely. Chapman was inclined to attribute their survival to luck, but Keats thought there was a deeper explanation: "You landed on a wing and a prior." [?]

After living for years with chronic back pain, Chapman had finally found a massage therapist who could ease his aching spine. He had tried reflexology, acupressure, champissage, and shiatsu. He had experienced Swedish, Chinese, Balinese, and Thai massage. He had put himself in the hands of the acolytes of Trager, Bowen, Travell, and Rolf. None had delivered any lasting relief. But now he had found someone who used a new technique pioneered by a Doctor Avery, which involved a special form of deep muscle manipulation that made Chapman feel ten years younger. He couldn't keep himself from gushing to Keats about the difference it made in his life, and apologized for going on about what must be a tedious subject for anyone but himself. Keats assured him there was no need for excuses. He understood perfectly: "It must be wonderful to find someone who caters to your Avery knead." [?]

Long, long ago Chapman's American uncle Arthur virtually ruled the marketplace in fresh flowers. His signature product was his famous bouquets for a penny a bloom. But after a mutually destructive price war between him and his chief rival, his business empire collapsed and he himself disappeared. No one had heard from him in decades. Sometimes Chapman wondered what had happened to Arthur, and whether he would come back from wherever he had gone. Keats was confident that he would return, and that he would again reign his floral empire. He told Chapman, "You must always remember: He is the one-cent fuchsia king." [?]

Several '80s rock groups—A Flock of Seagulls, the Thompson Twins, the Go-go's, and Loverboy—were on a reunion tour, and Chapman had a ticket to see them at an outdoor concert. But with a cavalier disregard for the forecast the temperature had fallen into the 40s. Going to the show suddenly sounded a lot less exciting, even though these had been some of his favorite bands when he was a teenager. Maybe he was getting old after all. But when he considered the piercing winds outside and his warm, cozy fireplace inside, he found he was faced with an impossible choice. Which meant more to him—the cherished music of his youth or the comforts of home? Keats sympathized: "It isn't easy being caught between rock and a hearth blaze." [?]

Keats and Chapman were looking forward to a relaxing weekend of fishing. But when they arrived at the lake and began to unpack their gear, other fishermen told them not to waste their time. An unidentified nincompoop had released a large snakehead into the lake, and it was rapidly consuming all the game fish.

Chapman asked if anyone had attempted to catch the snakehead. A chorus of voices wailed that they had tried everything: worms, minnows, flies, spinners, twisters, spoons, plugs, even a bare hook, all without a nibble. Unfortunately nothing caught its attention except the native piscine population, which was becoming sparser every day. Keats, indignant at the news that the intruder was immune to every sort of bait, declared, "Really, there ought to be a lure against that sort of thing." [?]

The crew with whom Chapman sailed dominated their class from the start of the season, winning virtually every race. But that ended ignominiously when another crew protested that their keel seemed to be lighter than the regulations allowed. Sure enough, when the racing committee examined their boat, she was missing several hundred pounds of lead. Their victories were erased from the record and they were disqualified for the rest of the season. Chapman himself had no part in the deceit, which was purely the work of the owner. But that didn't stop Keats from saying in a tone of mock reproach, "You have been weighed in the ballast and found wanting." [?]

As Keats and Chapman meandered through the exhibition of abstract paintings by Karl Wurzbacher, what especially struck Chapman was their emotional depth. Each image was an enigmatic yet moving meditation on the universal dilemmas of human existence. The biographical sketch in the program noted that at the time Wurzbacher painted these works he was suffering a painful inflammation in his brain caused by a head injury. The accompanying fever brought on bizarre dreams in which he conceived the paintings now on display. Nothing he produced after he recovered ever matched their power and originality.

Keats wasn't surprised when he read this. He explained, "Abscess makes the art profounder." At that moment Chapman sensed that his own brain had just been injured a little. [?]

It was a spectacular day on the slopes, with cloudless skies and a foot of fresh powder. That was probably why Chapman lost his head and decided to take on one of the black diamond trails when he had never before ventured beyond the blue squares, and with good reason. He didn't get more than ten feet before his skis malfunctioned, or so he claimed later. After that a succession of somersaults, skids, and gyrations eventually brought him to the base of the trail. There Keats was waiting, having taken in his entire precipitous career. In his dazed condition Chapman couldn't be certain, but he thought he heard Keats say, "It appears you've bitten off more than you can schuss." [?]

In Edinburgh for the International Festival, Keats and Chapman attended a performance of (what else?) Macbeth. Chapman was enthralled by the portrayal of Lady Macbeth by a rising actress named Lorna Buchanan, and he left the theater unable to think of anything but her lovely face. The night was clear, the stars glittered, and before he knew what he was doing he had fixed his eye on one of the brightest and wished that he could see Lorna again.

He and Keats roamed Edinburgh aimlessly until they passed a pub where the light and the music seemed to invite them in. At the bar sat Lorna Buchanan, and miraculously there was an empty stool on either side of hers. Chapman rushed to sit down before this mirage could evaporate, while Keats was more deliberate though no less astonished. Chapman introduced himself, Lorna seemed pleased to make his acquaintance, and the two talked like old friends until she reluctantly left hours later.

Afterwards Chapman couldn't believe his luck. Keats, however, wondered if more than luck was involved. He mused aloud, "When you wish a bonnie star your dreams come true." [?]

One day Chapman showed Keats a ceramic piece he had recently bought. Although his purchase pleased him, he was at a loss to identify the subject. It was a pot in the shape of the head of a boy perhaps eight years old. He looked like any other little boy except for one distinctive facial feature. Keats recognized Pinocchio at once, and was puzzled that Chapman hadn't yet caught on. But instead of bluntly pointing out the answer, he merely hinted, "It's as plain as the nose on your vase." [?]

It wasn't unusual to see a variety of buskers in the park. Any day one could expect to see indigents with different degrees of talent performing for what they could collect by passing the hat. But Keats and Chapman were particularly struck by one street artist on account of both his dramatic skill and his athleticism. He was remarkably adept at silently conveying situations and emotions purely by his gestures and his facial expression, without ever saying a word. His innate physical ability further contributed to the effect. Every movement seemed natural and never distracted the audience from his intent. Chapman wondered how he could carry off such convincing impressions. Keats thought the answer lay in an ancient principle: "A sound mime in a sound body". [?]

Keats and Chapman had just driven onto the thirteenth green. They were wasting no time because a sky full of black clouds augured a dangerous storm any minute. Chapman was away, so he reached for his putter. Just at that moment there was a stupendous flash as a bolt of lightning struck the pin. The massive electrical current melted it at the base and fused it to the cup. Chapman tried to pull out the pin, without success, but Keats left it alone. He believed what had just occurred was a divine gesture, so he said they should go ahead and hole out with the pin still in place. "What God has joined together let no man putt asunder."

Chapman could easily be forgiven for seeming surprised, perhaps less so for seeming disappointed, when no second lightning bolt struck where Keats stood. [?]

A terrible cold had imprisoned Keats in his sickbed, so Chapman volunteered to pick up some medicine for him. Keats was very particular about his cold remedies. The brand of lozenges he preferred was available in mild, medium, or super strength, and anything but mild was far too concentrated for his taste. So he gave Chapman clear instructions to get the right one or nothing: Close was not good enough. Unfortunately Chapman found that the pharmacist had only the medium and super strength lozenges. But there was another alternative, an atomizer, which was supposed to be equally easy for sensitive patients to tolerate. He called Keats and asked if that would be an acceptable substitute. To his relief the answer was yes: "A mist is as good as a mild." [?]

Keats and Chapman were enjoying a Christmas get-together at a friend's home. One cheery element was the bright blaze in the fireplace, a cozy contrast to the frosty conditions outdoors . The fire was composed principally of hardwoods like oak and ash, but it also included limbs from an evergreen their host had felled. To Chapman this wood seemed to produce a great deal more heat than the rest, to the point where he thought the room was uncomfortably warm. He wondered aloud, "Does anyone else think the fire is hotter than it should be?" Keats replied, "No, it's just yew." [?]

When a friend invited Keats and Chapman to enjoy an afternoon on his schooner, they accepted with gusto. They appeared punctually at the dock, dressed in blazers, khaki pants, and deck shoes, the image of smart yachtsmen. Their high spirits matched their attire: They were eager to set sail and brave the ocean swell. One of the crew, however, hunched under the bulky sailbag he was carrying to the foredeck, rolled his eyes and grumbled that the landlubbers should go below and keep out of his way. Chapman, taken aback, wondered if they should come again some other time, but Keats told him to ignore that grouchy sailor: "He just has a jib on his shoulder." [?]

Keats and Chapman were enjoying a quiet lunch in a fish-and-chips shop when a man eating a plate of fried eels at a nearby table began to gasp and moan in ecstasy. Intermittently he murmured that eels were delicious, that eels were wonderful, that he loved eels, loved them more than anything else in the world. Seeing Chapman's disconcerted look, Keats told him not to worry: He knew the man, whose name was Edward. It might look as if he were having some sort of fit, but he always reacted this way to his favorite dish. "It's just him being Ed over eels." [?]

Strolling in the city, Keats and Chapman saw Rose Halliday approaching— that is, Rose, or Rosie, or Roseanne, or Rosemary, or Rosalyn, or Rosetta, for she affected different names among different circles of friends. Keats and Chapman didn't belong to any one of these, so they merely exchanged greetings and continued on their respective ways.

To Chapman's surprise, Keats kept glancing back at her until she disappeared. When he asked why, Keats said surely he must have noticed the exquisite fragrance she was wearing. Chapman admitted he hadn't, and anyway he didn't care because he considered her a bit of a poseur. What was wrong with sticking to one name, after all? "Nothing, perhaps", Keats replied, "but Rose by any of her names would smell as sweet." [?]

Browsing the catalog for an upcoming auction, Chapman wasn't tempted to bid on anything. But Keats had his eye on a large pewter jug, supposed to date from the reign of Charles II. He couldn't wait to see it in person, although why was more than Chapman could fathom.

The day of the auction, Keats dragged Chapman behind him as he prowled the aisles looking for his prize. When he found it, he eyed it from all angles with a loving gleam in his eye, though Chapman still saw nothing remarkable about it. When its turn came, several other people also wanted it badly, and Keats was obliged to bid far in excess of what seemed reasonable to Chapman. In the end, however, the jug was his. Chapman chided him for wasting his money, whereupon Keats patiently explained that this jug had existed for hundreds of years, all that time giving pleasure to a succession of owners, of whom he was merely the latest. He was in a sense only a custodian of a timeless artifact. "After all, didn't someone once say a thing of pewter is a joy forever?" [?]

Keats and Chapman, on hand to hear Angus Dixon's campaign speech, were literally stunned. Not only was he bellowing as loud as he could, but the public address system was cranked up to the limit. Chapman's ears were ringing, and Keats wondered if the bones of his inner ear were on the verge of shattering.

That wasn't the only reason they were stupefied. With his charismatic style, Dixon mesmerized his audience. They responded to every cue—clapping, cheering, or booing on command. Their submissiveness, which reminded Chapman of nothing so much as sheep, made him uneasy: He didn't want to find himself absorbed into this docile flock. For this reason, and to preserve his hearing, he appealed to Keats to leave early.

Once outside, Chapman expressed his relief at being free of Dixon's deafening voice and of his spell. The latter didn't worry Keats, but he acknowledged that he couldn't be sure his cochlea was still intact. Still he vowed defiantly, "Dixon's tones may break my bones, but words will never herd me." [?]

As Chapman drove away from the car wash he was thrilled with the way his car gleamed. This especially pleased him because so often when he handed it over to be cleaned he was dissatisfied with the outcome: he could tell that the men were exerting the least effort they could get away with, and when they were done his paint still looked just a little dull. But this time he noticed that the man who scrubbed his car worked with zeal, and actually seemed to enjoy it if his pleasant, easy-going expression was any indication.

A week later Chapman was still raving about his sparkling automobile. It continued to look as sharp as when it left the car wash, and he positively believed this was because such an amiable person had washed it. Keats thought so, too, and said, "A nice guy's finish lasts." [?]

As the North Sea ferry approached Rotterdam, Keats and Chapman surveyed the coast of Holland with the keen interest of passengers with nothing else to look at. Keats noticed a small island to starboard that looked strangely desolate. Chapman said he'd read about the island and how it came to be that way. The Dutch government had built a concrete barrier on the seaward side to protect it from the ravages of severe storms. But the crooked contractor had scrimped on the steel rods meant to reinforce the concrete, and this left it too weak to withstand the largest waves. The first major storm had demolished the wall and leveled the island, leaving it as they saw it today. Keats nodded knowingly and said, "Spare the rods, spoil Dutch isle." [?]

In the era of the disposable lighter, matches might seem like irrelevant technology. But Chapman had discovered a new compound for match tips: one could strike them forcefully against any hard surface and they would ignite. He was sure his new idea could be a gold mine, but he had one problem. He understood that people think of matches as mundane, unexciting objects. So he tried as hard as he could to think of a memorable slogan that would make his matches stand out from the others.

After months of pondering he was still unable to come up with anything, and he concluded it was hopeless. In disgust he began to shred every copy of his formula, and only one remained when Keats chanced to stop by and asked what he was doing. Chapman explained that without a vivid catchphrase his invention was worthless. Keats thought for a moment, then suggested "Where they're smote, there's fire." [?]

Chapman shredded the last sheet of paper.

Wherever they went, Keats and Chapman could scarcely avoid hearing the gossip about young Lord Keighcester, whose life of indolence and debauchery continually put him on the front page of the scandal sheets. Among those who followed his career for amusement the big question now was how much longer he could afford the gambling, womanizing, and gallivanting. His income squandered, now he had to resort to pawning jewelry and other heirlooms from his once-splendid inheritance. Yet he continued to frolic without restraint, apparently unconcerned that it was only a matter of time before he ran out of valuables he could convert to quick cash. Chapman predicted he would regret it, and sooner than later. Keats agreed, but added, "For now, at least, he's living high on the hock." [?]

After Sunday morning services at the cathedral, Keats and Chapman happened to meet the bishop. Seeing his troubled countenance, they asked what was wrong. Oh, well, he replied, according to scripture he was supposed to be a fisher of men. But, as they must have noticed, attendance was down. Even though the population of his diocese had increased, the number of faithful was dropping when it was his life's mission to ensure that it grew.

Chapman saw that Keats was about to offer his advice, and valiantly tried to lead the innocent old man by the arm out of danger. But Keats persevered and told the bishop not to worry—in time he would see his pews filled again. "After all, there are plenty more fish in the see." [?]

Chapman read Keats his latest letter to the Times. He proposed that the government offer a prize to the inventors of a more efficient method of preserving food. He reasoned that most of the energy consumed in canning foodstuffs went into raising them to a temperature sufficient to destroy harmful bacteria and thus make it safe to store them for years. If someone could find a way to do this while burning significantly less fossil fuel, the benefit to the environment and public health would be enormous. The moment Chapman finished reading he was sorry he had done so, as Keats commented, "You're always looking for greener Pasteurs." [?]

When the town Literary Festival opened, Keats and Chapman were, not surprisingly, most interested in the poetry readings. Odes, villanelles, and triolets were plentiful, and haiku and even the odd limerick were heard now and then. But Keats was a devotee of the sonnet, and made a special effort to listen to those poets who specialized in that form. The dozens of sonnets on the program delighted his soul. But his euphoria was momentarily demolished by one reading. The poet announced that this was to be a sonnet on "Spring", and Keats sat back in contented anticipation. The first line, however, began not with an iambus but with an anapest. After the shock of this metric blunder the remainder of the poem meant nothing to him.

From his agitated manner Chapman could see he was incensed by this lapse. But after a while Keats recovered his equanimity and could speak of the poet in more charitable terms. For him it was enough to say, "He just got off on the wrong foot." [?]

Chapman should have known better than to answer the door on a weekday afternoon. There stood the inevitable salesman, with the inevitable vacuum cleaner, and he launched straight into the inevitable pitch. As soon as he could interrupt without being rude, Chapman politely told the man he wasn't interested. So far the interview had been unremarkable. That changed when he packed up his materials and left. As Chapman watched him go down the street, he didn't set off with the expected trudge of a huckster with fifty doors behind him and fifty more ahead before day's end. Instead he walked with a jaunty, rhythmic, almost dancing step unlike anything Chapman had seen before.

Bemused, he returned to the dining room, where he and Keats were finishing lunch, and described the salesman's unique gait. Keats offered this explanation: "Evidently he keeps pace with a different drummer." [?]

Though ordinarily as dissolute as the next student, Chapman went through a phase at Greyfriars in which he uncharacteristically studied for hours every evening. His new zeal for scholarship went beyond his own affairs, however; he presumed to harangue his friends, including Keats, about all the time they spent fooling around when they had papers and exams to work on. He even went so far as to campaign for an edict to forbid any drinking, carousing, or other disturbances in students' rooms.

But the first day of spring was traditionally a time of revelry at Greyfriars. Keats arranged the delivery of a keg of locally brewed ale, and a dozen classmates met in his room to toast the new season. They started out quietly enough, but by eleven bedlam reigned. Chapman, able to neither sleep nor study because of the uproar down the hall, stepped in to complain. In conciliation Keats offered him a glass. Chapman reluctantly agreed to stay just until it was empty; then he stayed for another, and another, by which time his voice was part of the chorus. He lingered until the keg was dry, and after that evening he was no longer a crusader in the cause of bookishness. Keats assured Chapman he had merely acceded to reality: "You can't have your keg and edict too." [?]

Chapman had invested heavily in a biotech startup that promised to revolutionize the practice of physical therapy. Their researchers claimed they had synthesized a form of the muscle protein myosin that, when injected into a damaged or weakened limb, would accelerate the growth of replacement muscle tissue. Patients could miraculously cut their time of rehabilitation from months to days. When the company went public the men who had made the key discovery in the lab held a news conference in which they expressed their confidence that myosin therapy would change the future of medicine. Though Chapman urged him to get in on a good thing early, Keats declined.

Keats was wise to hang onto his money. In practice the treatment failed to deliver the promised results. Sales soon dropped to zero, and within months the company was bankrupt. Chapman lost every penny of his investment. Keats tried to console him by pointing out, "You know what they say about the best laid plans of myosin men." [?]

Keats and Chapman thought that by far the most exciting event at the Renaissance Fayre was the jousting tournament. The knights used real lances and shields, so the action was quite authentic. They even had colorfully dressed squires to help them get into their armor and mount their steeds. One knight, however, appeared to be having a labor relations problem with his squire, a young man hight Juan. The two were yelling and gesticulating and, though Chapman couldn't make out their words, they both looked exceeding wroth. At last Juan stormed off, and the knight was left to either find another squire or somehow struggle into his armor unassisted. Several Fayre visitors volunteered to fill in, but none of them knew much about medieval armor. Each one was more useless than the last. At the end of thirty minutes the knight was only partially ironclad, and that was attached all wrong.

Juan, who had been watching his predicament, walked back over to him. A few minutes conversation seemed to patch up their quarrel. He helped the knight out of the ill-sorted armor, then they began putting it back on properly. Chapman said it was a shame the knight had wasted so much time just to start all over. Keats added, "Yes, he's had to go back to squire Juan." [?]

A new book about the last days of the war in Europe examined certain secret communications between the Allies and the Third Reich. One message from Washington to Berlin was particularly intriguing, so to speak. It was unclear who had sent it or to whom, but it discussed the terms of a possible early German surrender. The likely American senders of the message included diplomat Allen Dulles, Secretary of War Henry Stimson, and Secretary of State Edward Stettinius, while SS chief Heinrich Himmler or Admiral Karl Dönitz might have been its intended recipient. The author of the book concluded that the identity of the parties might never be settled, and Chapman could only agree. But Keats was confident that he knew—so confident that he was willing to put a small wager on it: "I'll bet you Dulles to Dönitz." [?]

When Chapman announced his unforeseen engagement to a young lady named Deirdre Kaye, or Dee as he called her, Keats was sure he recognized the name but couldn't immediately say how. While Chapman and Miss Kaye blithely made plans for their nuptials, Keats made inquiries, and was disturbed by what he found. Deirdre Kaye had inveigled several other unlucky fellows into marriage and rapidly divorced each one, always with a handsome settlement. Between husbands, she consorted with blackguards and vagabonds.

Keats had no doubt that she had selected Chapman for her next victim, but didn't know how to break the news to him. So he tried at first to persuade him to simply push back the wedding date. No reason he offered had any effect, however. Chapman, anxious to get on with the wedded bliss, would just reply, "I don't understand. Why should we wait? Why delay?" Keats had no choice but to reveal all he had learned about Chapman's prospective bride, including her sordid history and her sordid companions. Finally he put it as bluntly as he could: "That's why delay: Dee is a tramp." [?]

When Olympic weightlifter Graham Pound announced that he was retiring from competition, he expressed just one regret. Throughout his career all his televised matches had been reported by the same announcer, Wade Little, and Pound had always felt that Little consistently understated his abilities instead of giving him the credit he deserved. Consequently, in interviews Pound had often disparaged Little in return, saying he shouldn't try to cover a sport for a worldwide audience if he couldn't appreciate it himself. Because of this antagonism the pair had never met face-to-face.

Now, no longer caught up in the pressure of competition, Pound had a more peaceable outlook, so he wanted to meet Little and clear up any hard feelings. The two men were finally introduced at a news conference. They shook hands and smiled, and afterwards Pound admitted he had misjudged Little all those years. Chapman thought this reconciliation was quite heartwarming. Keats also thought it was a good thing: "I'm glad he's finally seen the airer of his weighs." [?]

Chapman was reading with fascination about the latest excavations by archaeologists in Rome. These revealed new evidence that lead pots used to boil grape juice and to preserve wine contributed to the downfall of the empire. Widespread lead poisoning among the members of the ruling classes left them confused and disoriented and unfit to deal with the many crises that threatened them, whether internal economic upheaval or incursions by barbaric tribes. Thus both Roman society and its magnificent physical structures inexorably fell to pieces. Keats would only comment, "I've often said Rome was unbuilt in a daze." [?]

On a visit to the islands where first were bred Jersey, Guernsey, and Alderney cows, Keats and Chapman were intrigued by the technique of the men who tended the cattle. To move them from one field to another, the herdsmen roped them together loosely in a string; this way they had only to lead the first animal and the rest would follow. Though they were docile beasts, the herd didn't appreciate being linked together, however gently. They expressed their displeasure with a chorus of resounding moans from the depths of their massive diaphragms, and the collective noise was overwhelming. Chapman asked one of the herdsmen if the endless din affected their hearing, but the man assured him that they could work for decades before they noticed any impairment. Keats said he had expected as much: "Cowherds tie many times before they're deaf." [?]

Keats and Chapman were relaxing over a few pints with an old chum from Greyfriars who had become a surgeon. He told alarming stories of the political maneuvering he had witnessed during his internship. Toadying to doctors, spreading rumors about colleagues, lying on a résumé: it seemed no tactic was beneath some interns as long as it gave them an advantage over the others. Chapman supposed this sort of mischief was inevitable in an environment where many candidates were competing for a few openings. "Still", Keats responded, "it certainly is distasteful to see this jockeying for physician." [?]

When Keats and Chapman attended a gem show in search of an afternoon's diversion, Chapman was dazzled by the array of precious stones and colorful minerals. Keats was more blasé, one might even say jaded, about the affair. Nothing less than the Koh-i-Noor or the Eye of Brahma was going to make an impression on him. As they strolled the aisles, with Chapman gushing on about the glittering baubles on either side, Keats tried to temper his rapture by pointing out how ordinary they really were. Yes, the emeralds, aquamarines, and heliodors glittered from a distance, but one had only to examine them more closely to see their flaws. At last he said in disgust, "The truth is, this exhibit has scraped the bottom of the beryl." [?]

Keats and Chapman knew a student at Greyfriars named Will. He never struck either of them as being that bright, honestly, and this impression wasn't enhanced by his way of speaking—a quavering, tremulous delivery that made him seem like a tottering septuagenarian instead of a young man. Paradoxically this frail voice was paired with a strident, demanding personality. When he wanted something Will would harass, in his distinctive whinging tone, whoever he thought could help him obtain it. Invariably he wore them down and got his way while a more deserving but less outspoken person was overlooked.

In large part through this persistent nagging, Will went on to receive his Bachelor's and Master's diplomas despite his indifferent academic record. This baffled Chapman, but to Keats it was an old, familiar story. "It may not be fair, but this quaky Will gets degrees." [?]

Keats was preparing a festive Christmas dinner—turkey, parsnips, plum pudding, the works. But he wasn't always happy with Chapman's efforts to "help" in the kitchen. He left the giblets in the turkey, he didn't peel the parsnips, and he forgot to put the coins in the pudding. These mishaps Keats was able to correct before any damage was done. But just when it was time for his guests to arrive and it was too late to do anything about it, he gave the gravy a last-minute taste and found that it was missing a critical herb. Then he looked into the dining room and discovered that Chapman had set the table with the everyday dishes instead of his best bone china. As amicably as he could Keats pointed out these oversights, but told Chapman there was no point in discussing them then and there: "This is not the thyme or the plates." [?]

One afternoon when Keats dropped by, Chapman was grumbling about the lady who came in to clean for him once a week. For the most part she did a terrific job, but there was one place she always missed. After her visits he could count on finding his grandfather clock completely untouched, under a conspicuous layer of dust, although the furniture on either side of it was always immaculate. The case was quite ornate, with plenty of ornamental details, so Chapman concluded that she was simply being lazy. But Keats, after inspecting the scene of the crime, spoke up in her defense. He said that in fact the reverse was true: "Can't you see that she's working around the clock?" [?]

The veterinarian who had cared for Chapman's cat Percy all his life had retired after a long career, and now Chapman had to find another. He wouldn't entirely miss the previous vet, because in the last few years he had been increasingly hard of hearing and it was annoyingly difficult to make oneself understood. But Chapman didn't have much confidence in the man he had recommended as his replacement. He could still hear well enough, but his hands trembled and he could barely see through glasses as thick as ice cubes. If Percy ever needed surgery, he was not likely to emerge alive. Chapman just wished he could go back to his former veterinarian, troublesome though he had been.

In response Keats merely noted, "True, there is such a thing as a vet worse than deaf." [?]

Keats and Chapman were among the victims of a transitory but very unattractive epidemic. The sufferer would first break out in a rash; this progressed to revolting sores, blisters, and carbuncles. Fortunately after a few days these healed, leaving no lasting damage except to one's psyche and perhaps to one's social life.

Epidemiologists were scrambling to control the spread of the disease. Judging by the fact that it had radiated from a central point on the coast, they suspected it had been transmitted by a single person entering from abroad, and they were doing all they could to identify and quarantine that individual. Chapman, whose skin had finally cleared up, just hoped that this wasn't one of those cases in which the carrier didn't suffer the symptoms; he at least wanted the consolation of knowing that the person who spread this affliction had to endure the same mortification as everyone else. Keats, who was still at the most loathsome stage, agreed wholeheartedly, exclaiming "To the vector go these boils!" [?]

When Chapman sent the two armchairs and four side chairs from his dining room to be refinished, Keats told him he would be sorry. All that manual labor would be more expensive than buying six new chairs, and in the hands of clumsy workmen they might end up looking worse than they did now.

Sure enough, when they came back from the repair shop, the result was not what Chapman had in mind. One chair wobbled precariously because the end of a leg had been snapped off, and another was missing an armrest. Chapman fumed as he looked at his ruined furniture and then at the scandalous bill, but Keats reminded him that he had advised against this all along. "I knew it would cost you an arm and a leg." [?]

As he and Keats checked in at the airport, Chapman was glad he had taken the time to put his bag on the scale before he left home. It was close to the limit, but the lady behind the ticket counter accepted it without objection, and they were free to proceed to the gate. As they walked away, Chapman noticed another passenger anxiously sifting the contents of his suitcase, apparently looking for something he could transfer to his carry-on to lighten the bag by a few pounds. Keats too must have seen the man's predicament, because he reminded Chapman, "Didn't I tell you? Good things come to those who weighed." [?]

When Keats and Chapman arrived at the country home of a friend for the weekend, he welcomed them at the front door and invited them in. They were all taken by surprise when his ten-year-old son chose that moment to show off for the guests by sliding down the banister of the great staircase. The post at the end of the rail was ornamented on top with a large, sturdy wooden carving in the shape of stylized oak foliage, which made it impossible for the boy to dismount gracefully. Instead, when he slammed into it the impact spun him topsy-turvy. He landed on his backside, fortunately cushioned by a thick rug. Somewhat dazed, he could only listen in chastened silence as his father told him precisely what he thought of this clever little caper. Under duress he promised not to do it again, and was sent to his room to meditate on what he'd learned.

Chapman expressed the hope that it would be some time before the lad did anything else so reckless. Keats was confident this was the case, and that after this experience he would be a changed young man. "After all, he has just turned over a newel leaf." [?]

For decades Fortnum & Mason had been the official caterer to England's contenders for the America's Cup, providing everything from square meals for the crew to the company's famous hampers for the skipper and sponsors. They had proudly heralded this fact in their advertisements, and the prestige of the world's oldest yachting event had unquestionably given them an edge in a highly competitive retail marketplace. But now, as a dumbfounded Chapman read to Keats from the Times, the English syndicate preparing for the next America's Cup Challenge had dismissed them and contracted with Harrods instead. Keats spoke bluntly about the likely effect on Fortnum & Mason's revenues: "That will take the win out of their sales." [?]

Chapman was becoming more and more frustrated about his pest control service. He had repeatedly sighted busy lines of pismires tracking to and from his kitchen, and each time he had called the exterminators to come out and do something. Every visit ended with a different evasion on their part: he needed to be more careful about cleaning crumbs off the floor, or it was a seasonal behavior and it would end soon, or damp in the walls could attract insects, or they should try a new (and more expensive) insecticide. And of course every visit meant another bill.

Chapman didn't like to accuse someone unfairly. Still he couldn't help but suspect they were giving him the runaround. Keats agreed: "You're just getting the same old song and ants." [?]

A new play opened in the West End with great fanfare. The story was set in the days of the Restoration, and promotion of the show emphasized its thorough reconstruction of the era, including the furniture and decor of the sets, the ornate costumes, and the period dialog. The centerpiece, and what the producers hoped would be the greatest draw, was a climactic duel in the third act staged with authentic 17th-century rapiers.

All this effort notwithstanding, the play flopped. Perhaps it had no chance, given the blistering reviews that appeared the morning after it opened. All the critics in London agreed that it was a pointless spectacle, and this unanimous opinion was all the theater-going public needed to hear. After a few nights of empty seats, the play closed. Chapman was disturbed by the power of a handful of journalists to make or break a playwright's career, but Keats replied that it was nothing new. "It just proves once again that the pan is mightier than the sword." [?]

The amateur thespian group to which Keats and Chapman belonged was staging a trilogy of one-act dramas by a promising but yet-to-be-recognized playwright as part of their summer season. Normally they performed indoors, but this master of dramaturgy insisted on an open-air setting as the best way to ensure that his work was noticed as it deserved. Chapman thought that for an unknown he was being quite a prima donna, but Keats said he understood why he was so demanding. "He just wants his plays in the sun." [?]

Gaining confidence in his watercolor skills, Chapman chose the ambitious subject of a self-portrait. He would depict himself at his desk, in his study, surrounded by his books, all very distinguished-looking. With great enthusiasm he started on the background and filled in the desk, bookshelves, artwork, and other details that would set the scene with just the right tone. He seemed to breeze through it, and as the paper filled he was more and more pleased with his progress. Not until the only white space remaining was a small patch in the lower right did he realize that he had forgotten to leave an opening for himself behind the desk. Of course, as he was using watercolor, he couldn't just paint over what was there. All he could do now was to lamely squeeze a cramped glimpse of himself into this little area, and he had just begun this final task when Keats dropped by. Before Chapman could hide his embarrassing oversight, Keats looked over his shoulder and commented, "You do seem to have painted yourself into a corner." [?]

When Sir Reginald, the aged patriarch of the March family, passed on, his wife and his siblings had all predeceased him. Thus the substantial estate was apportioned among his children. This was all normal enough, but what caught the attention of the press was the documented fact that all of Sir Reginald's offspring were as utterly brainless as their father. No one doubted that, incapable of lucid thought as they were, they would swiftly dissipate their inheritance; the only question open to debate was how long it would take them.

Walter March, the eldest son, set an impressive standard for his brothers and sisters to match. It took him but a single season of buying horses, racing them, staking huge sums on them, and losing without fail to run through his million pounds. Chapman was astonished that anyone could be that dimwitted. Keats merely reminded him of Walter's lineage and observed, "Obviously he is as mad as a March heir." [?]

For weeks the headlines had blazoned the exploits of a daring bank robber who had gotten away with several large holdups. In every case he had struck an institution that was notorious for handing its executives outlandish bonuses while it trampled the rights of powerless individuals. He had then announced that he was redistributing the money to help those whose lives the banks had ruined. This new Robin Hood was quickly becoming a cult hero. People couldn't resist speculating which predatory bank he would ransack next.

Chapman thought this banditry was irresponsible, even anarchistic. But Keats admired the anonymous outlaw for selflessly acting on behalf of people who couldn't redress these wrongs for themselves. "After all", he said, "someone has to stick-up for the little guy". [?]

Chapman took his four-year-old nephew Arthur to the park one afternoon. Keats, knowing that his friend had virtually no experience with little people, went along to observe the inevitable débâcle. Chapman meant well, but his principal shortcoming as an uncle was that he was unfamiliar with the way children's interests change as they grow. Thus he often invited Arthur to get on a swing or seesaw or similar apparatus that was designed for much younger children. Each time this happened, a mortified Arthur protested strenuously that this was beneath a person of his maturity. Chapman's final offense was to invite him to go down a slide that took only two steps to reach the top. Arthur sat on the ground in a resolute pout and refused to move until Chapman took him home, where he could count on ample toys suited to his advanced age.

After they deposited Arthur with his parents, Keats enumerated Chapman's gaffes, culminating in the slide. "I hope this will teach you", he admonished, "that two rungs don't make a ride." [?]

Keats and Chapman met a friend from school after many years, and were shocked to hear what a shrew he had married. Between profound sighs he described the way she managed every detail of their lives: what they ate, where they went, where he worked, how he dressed. Aside from his job he did virtually nothing unless she accompanied him. She had especially strict ideas about health care; she rejected mainstream medicine and insisted that they stick to centuries-old practices. She even demanded that in lieu of modern medications they treat any illness by attaching little blood-sucking worms to their arms or legs. They even did this periodically when they were well—she said it balanced the humors.

After they had parted, Chapman remarked what a pity it was that their friend faced such a circumscribed existence. "Yes", said Keats, "she certainly keeps him on a short leech." [?]

The Times carried a story about a mathematician who had recently solved a long-intractable problem and thereby won great acclaim. The curious part of the tale was that he came upon the answer while he was practically delirious with fever. Much as Kekule discovered the benzene ring when he envisioned a chain of dancing monkeys in his sleep, the proof which this man had sought for years was revealed in a confused dream just as he reached the crisis in a case of influenza. When he woke the next morning not only had his fever broken but the dream was still in his head and he hurriedly jotted it down.

Chapman thought it was extraordinary that someone could have a mind so powerful that it could concentrate on a mathematical puzzle even in the midst of a serious illness. Keats was less easily impressed; he thought it was just lucky that the solution fell into his lap that way. "After all, it just came to him like a bolt out of the flu." [?]

When one of their favorite old professors from Greyfriars passed away, Keats and Chapman were among the six alumni chosen to bear his coffin. The march from the chapel to the hearse went without incident. But as they were sliding the casket out of the vehicle at the gravesite Chapman's attention was distracted by memories of the departed. His corner of the coffin briefly slipped out of his grasp and struck the side of the hearse, making an unseemly thud. The six of them recovered quickly, and the ceremony continued with the appropriate solemnity. But Keats glared at Chapman and whispered sharply, "Try to keep your eye on the pall!" [?]

Chapman had been in Harrod's recently when a salesperson asked him to try a cologne just introduced by Armani. The advertisements made much of the fact that this new fragrance, simply named Amore, combined the most striking elements of other famous Armani scents: a trace of Code, a hint of Mania, overtones of Acqua di Gio, and plenty of Attitude. Chapman thought it quite manly, but to Keats it sounded like nothing but a mélange of incompatible odors. "So", he sniffed dismissively, "what they're telling us is Love is Armani's blended thing." [?]

Chapman was driving home from dinner with some friends when he saw the flashing lights in the mirror and pulled over. To his surprise the flashing lights also pulled over behind him. He and the others had polished off a few bottles of wine, but he didn't feel tipsy. Nevertheless the policeman asked him to step out of the car for a few tests. When he was told to walk in a straight line, he paused for just a second to get his bearings. The next thing he knew he was sitting in the back seat being driven to the station, where he spent the night before Keats came to collect him.

Keats wasn't surprised to hear how Chapman had wound up there. He had been stopped a few times himself after an evening of pub crawling, and was very familiar with the drill, including the straight-line walk. Experience had taught him that it was vital to begin walking as soon as the police gave the word. Otherwise they assumed either you knew you were too inebriated to do it or you were too inebriated to pay attention, and either suspicion would land you in the jug. Their simple principle, he told Chapman, was "He who hesitates is sloshed". [?]

Keats and Chapman drove to Ascot on a rare day in June to watch the running of the Gold Cup. Chapman was too cautious to bet, but Keats ventured a flutter on Testudo. His horse was ranked near the bottom by those who ought to know, but Keats saw something in him that made him expect great things. The touts all said he was too slow to have a chance against such an elite field, especially Lepus, the odds-on winner. Keats only muttered slyly, "Slow, eh? We shall see."

Sure enough, Testudo fell behind at the start. But he gamely caught up and ultimately crossed the finish line ahead of all the favorites. Keats collected a sizeable return on his little wager, and to Chapman's chagrin he proclaimed his triumph without a break on the ride home. "They said he was too slow!", he chortled. "Slow! Instead he wins the race." [?]

Chapman was saddened to read that his favorite fish and chips shop was going out of business. The news wasn't entirely bad, however. The owner was closing his doors not because sales were slow but because after a lifetime spent frying food he was looking forward to retirement. He was going to celebrate with a special offer on his last day: all one could eat for one flat price. People in the neighborhood were looking forward to what promised to be quite a festive occasion.

Keats and Chapman were both in the crowd that day, as keen to make the most of a bargain as everyone else. Masses of flounder, turbot, and sole were rapidly disappearing, accompanied by abundant chips and equally abundant beer, and the consensus was that the proprietor was a splendid chap who deserved nothing but the best. Chapman was eating in contented silence, but the battered delicacy turned to ashes in his mouth when Keats washed down another bite of flatfish and declared, "Our good host is certainly going out in a plaice of glory." [?]

As a young man Chapman was an ardent admirer of David Hume, the Scottish empiricist and skeptic. For years he fatigued all of his acquaintance with statements like "Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions" and "No testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle unless the testimony be of such a kind that its falsehood would be more miraculous than the fact which it endeavors to establish." But in time he grew suspicious of Hume's ambivalence toward the argument from design and his acceptance of an ultimate cause, which in Chapman's view were needless concessions to 18th-century orthodoxy.

He moved on to Kant, then Bentham, then the logical positivists. But he never lost his sentimental fondness for the old atheist, his first philosophical love. He once wondered aloud to Keats whether he would eventually revisit the philosopher who had meant so much to him in his youth. Keats said he doubted it: "As much as you might wish to, you can't go Hume again." [?]

Keats and Chapman were watching the Summer Olympics on the BBC, and the day's big event was the 400-meter dash. Several of the runners held their national titles, and any one of them could be expected to set a new Olympic mark. When the race was over, the winner had indeed beaten the old time by a good half-second. A BBC announcer interviewed him shortly after, and he kept shouting over and over, "I am the fastest man in the world. I am the fastest man in the world. I am the fastest man in the world." Keats could only put up with a minute of this before he switched off the set and grumbled, "He sounds just like a broken record." [?]

As Keats and Chapman drove through the Irish countryside near the border with Northern Ireland, they noticed an increasing number of references to Spike Milligan in the roadside advertisements. There were signs that enthusiastically recommended Milligan Ale, or Milligan Bread, or Milligan Preserves, with many others, all of which seemed to be produced in the immediate area. Eventually they realized that they were near the hypothetical site of Milligan's fictitious village Puckoon. Whether these product names were a sign of local pride in an adopted son of Erin or merely cynical attempts to capitalize on his notoriety was impossible to say. But certainly the populace was prepared to cater to every possible taste for visiting fans of Spike. "For a truly faithful admirer", said Keats, "this must be the land of Milligan Honey." [?]

As Keats and Chapman sat at the bar of the Shield and Shamrock enjoying a welcome pint, Chapman was admiring the seemingly limitless energy of the proprietor, Michael O'Day. He trotted from one end of the bar to the other with four beer mugs in either hand, he lugged fresh cases up from the cellar one under each arm, he made sandwiches by the score and chips by the bushel, and he still kept up cheerful conversations with a dozen familiar patrons.

Keats denied that there was anything remarkable in this performance, which he considered no more than routine for the owner of a pub. Said he, "It's all in O'Day's work." [?]

The priest of Chapman's parish, Father Tom Guinness, was a progressive young man who liked to stay up to date with trends in the church, so he spent a summer in Rome studying the latest in theological conjectures. When he returned from his sabbatical it was hard not to notice that he had brought with him a faint Italian accent. This affectation, along with his elevated air as of one who had acquired his spiritual knowledge at the source, led some of his parishioners to refer to him as Fra Tomaso Guinness, though not in his presence.

One Sunday morning he had a difficult time delivering his sermon because a cold had left his vocal chords raw and swollen. His usual cultivated diction was gone, and the best he could manage was a hoarse croak. He pressed on to the end of his text, but the effect was still a bit ludicrous. When Chapman mentioned the episode, Keats sympathized with the priest. "The poor man couldn't help it. He had a Fra Guinness throat." [?]

Chapman came back from his painting class in a foul mood, so Keats asked what had gone wrong. The instructor had led the group to the country to paint en plein air, something Chapman had been looking forward to. When they arrived in the morning the sky was clear and the air was pleasantly warm. The pastures were partly mowed and the hay was piled in great heaps. In short, conditions were perfect for painting a bucolic landscape. Keats set himself up on a rise with an excellent prospect, in a spot where the grass happened to be still uncut, and happily got to work. But by early afternoon dark clouds had materialized, and looming thunder made it clear that they needed to find shelter. Everyone rushed to gather their equipment, and they drove to a nearby pub to wait out the storm.

When the clouds had passed and he was driving back to the farm with the others, Chapman realized that in his haste he had forgotten his easel. But he figured it would still be where he had left it. Sadly, when they arrived, the place where he had been was now mowed, and new piles of grass stood there. He briefly looked around but with no success, and drove away in great annoyance. Keats could only say that he had been right not to waste more time trying to find his missing stand. "You would have been looking for an easel in a haystack." [?]

Chapman found Keats morosely lingering at home. This wasn't all that unusual, nor was the fact that Keats was in his robe, as this was his regular uniform on days when he didn't plan to leave the house. What was surprising was the fact that the object of his sulking was the very robe. It had been his most comfortable and cherished garment for over twenty years, but it had long ago lost its youth. The elbows, the hems, the collar—anywhere you looked it was frayed and faded. It was overdue for retirement, and that was what had Keats in such a mournful state. He knew the robe made him look ridiculous. But he had shopped for a replacement in every store he knew, and he couldn't find anything he liked. His robe wasn't just old, it was out of style, and now no one made anything like it. He dreaded switching to something more contemporary but less congenial. To Chapman it seemed a minor inconvenience, but he couldn't help but acknowledge the distress it plainly inflicted on Keats. "Chapman", he groaned, "I just don't know what to do. I'm at the end of my robe." [?]

Chapman had just returned from another trip to the continent, and once again he had faced a struggle to get back. He was at the gate, ready to board his flight from Paris to London, when it was announced that bad weather had forced the cancellation of all air travel. Conditions were such that even private aircraft would not be cleared to take off. Chapman had pressing reasons to hurry home, and he didn't intend to let a detail like an official interdiction stop him. He wandered over to the hangars where small planes were housed and, after some inquiries, found a pilot who was willing to flout the authorities. They took off in blinding rain and a severe crosswind, and landed in England after the most harrowing hour he had ever spent in the air.

Keats did not approve of Chapman's decision. "Of course, it's good that you arrived safely. But, if I may say so, that was a foolish gamble on your part and you were very lucky to land in one piece. Didn't you realize you were out of the flying ban and into a defier?" [?]

Keats and Chapman attended a symphony concert and enjoyed most of the program. But the finale of the last work failed to please Chapman. As the last measure approached, almost all of the instruments became silent, and the conclusion was no more than a tinny, reverberating crash of percussion.

Later Chapman remarked that he didn't care for such stark effects. Keats held a different view. "Where you hear austerity, I hear restraint. After all, music doesn't always need to be complex. Deciding how to end a piece is always a challenge for the composer, and sometimes the cymbal solution is the best." [?]

Chapman was expressing his annoyance at the distracting visual style adopted by the day's financial journals. All he wanted was straightforward information about the marketplace, but to get to that he had to slog through a maddening clutter of sidebars, insets, and all manner of graphical embellishments. Most of all he objected to their obsessive use of alternative fonts to highlight significant phrases; this consistently intruded on the natural flow of the text. He couldn't say who started this trend, but now it seemed all his favorite business magazines were imitating each other. He wished just one editor could be brave enough to break from the pack.

Chapman handed several offending issues to Keats. He took a moment to thumb through each of them, then observed, "Yes, I see what you mean about the typefaces. But they don't all look the same. Forbes and The Economist are partial to italics, but Fortune favors the bold." [?]

Several years had passed since Chapman's archaeologist friend had been able to organize another expedition to Yucatán. Grants were difficult to obtain, graduate students were drawn to more recent discoveries, and a flurry of hurricanes had made the region he wished to explore virtually impassable. There was no telling how long he would have to wait to resume his all-important work.

Chapman worried that if his friend was kept too long away from the field, through disuse he would begin to lose the specialized knowledge he had been years acquiring. Most troubling of all, his skill as a translator would decline, and he would struggle to decipher the ancient inscriptions that he had once unscrambled with ease. If he stayed away from his dig much longer it would be difficult for him to retain his special intimacy with that lost culture. Keats felt Chapman's concern was justified. As he put it, "Out of site, out of Mayan." [?]

Another of the unsuccessful ventures by Chapman and Keats into competitive sports during their days at Greyfriars was their brief flirtation with target shooting. To qualify for the team they had to enroll in a course in marksmanship. As utter beginners they first had to learn their way around a firearm, which included disassembling and then reassembling the weapon. Keats picked up this skill pretty quickly, but it was a challenge for most of the class, Chapman among them. Many was the time the instructor would tell them to try again to take apart their guns, and Keats would be heard exhorting them not to give up: "Once more undo the breech, dear friends." [?]

Chapman's latest enthusiasm was Transcendentalism, that philosophy exported from Concord, Massachusetts in the mid-19th century. He admired the Transcendentalists' idealism, their search for a better way of life, and their determination to escape the tyranny of the senses and find intuitive answers within themselves.

Keats knew this phase would pass like all the others, and in any case he could not entirely agree with Chapman's assessment. Specifically, he didn't think all the Transcendentalists deserved equal praise. "'Self-Reliance' is relevant to every generation, whereas Walden seems more quaint and outdated with each passing decade. Emerson's work represents the flowering of an eternally great mind, but the bloom is off Thoreau's." [?]

Chapman heard that an old friend had recently returned from one of his many archaeological expeditions to the Yucatán Peninsula. His specialty was studying and preserving ancient water jugs and pitchers, which to an expert like him could reveal much about the culture, technology, and living conditions of a vanished civilization.

Chapman was looking forward to renewing their acquaintance, and wanted to invite Keats to join them for dinner. Keats, however, had never expressed much interest in archaeology. Chapman was afraid he would be bored when the conversation inevitably turned to the subject of piecing together the shards of long-shattered carafes and flagons. But to his relief, Keats accepted his invitation with enthusiasm, saying "Any friend of ewers is a friend of Mayan." [?]

Chapman had been invited to a grand old house in the country for a traditional week of killing wild animals, be they terrestrial, aquatic, or airborne. He had never been a hunter or an angler, and his complete lack of experience was compounded by his complete lack of suitable clothing. He spent hours shopping at stores that specialized in that sort of thing but came home empty-handed, bewildered by the variety of boots, jackets, pants, and hats, as well as other articles whose function he didn't even understand.

Keats, who had never in his life taken to the field in search of game, nonetheless mocked Chapman's inability to outfit himself. Affecting the manner of an upper-class sportsman, he said, "Compared to aimin' a gun or castin' a fly, findin' the right clothes is simple. What could be easier than shootin'-fishin' apparel?" [?]

Chapman's friend Jerry worked for one of those firms that survey public opinion on the important political and economic issues of the day. The results of his latest poll were surprising, to say the least. Despite unemployment, inflation, government scandals, international tensions, and a host of other troubling signs, the majority of respondents indicated that they were highly optimistic about their future. They seemed to think that all these problems were sure to solve themselves very soon, and the world was on the verge of another golden age. Everyone everywhere could look forward to a long and happy life.

Chapman was encouraged by Jerry's findings, but Keats dismissed the survey with contempt. "It's obvious to me that its methodology is flawed, and that it presents an incomplete picture of the state of the world. Its rosy conclusions notwithstanding, there is more to consider than the thoughts of a random sample of people asked to complete a questionnaire. Whether we like it or not, life is not just a poll of Jerry's." [?]

Chapman was pleased to report to Keats that his sister, after attracting and dismissing a dozen suitors in her time, was at last engaged. She and her fiancé seemed to be compatible in every way. Every way but one. The single bone of contention between them was the guest list for the wedding. He wanted to invite two former girlfriends, Eve and Ann. He offered his bride-to-be effusive assurances that since he met her there had been nothing irregular in his relationship with them, which was now no more than friendship. You could say he now thought of them not as romantic partners but more as chums or buddies. Still he wished to acknowledge his regard for them both by asking them to be present at this important moment in his life. But she was not having any of it. She had no desire to invite any of the men with whom she had ever been involved, and she was determined that his past was no more to be represented than hers at their wedding.

When Chapman described this one minor contretemps, it was yet ongoing and seemed unlikely to be settled quickly. But Keats confidently predicted that in the end she would have her way. "He may as well face it: they won't be there and that's final. No Eves, Anns, or buds." [?]

Keats and Chapman never tired of visiting castles, and this day they had chosen the fortress of Lewes, in the old county town of East Sussex. They were joined by a friend of Chapman's who lived nearby, and he in turn brought along his son, a rambunctious teen who continually slipped away without warning and wanted to handle every forbidden object. As is common at old military sites, a variety of warlike apparatus from all eras was on display, including a venerable muzzle-loading howitzer on a wheeled carriage situated in the courtyard. This fascinated the young man. He could not be dissuaded from fiddling with it, and eventually he managed to detach it from its tether. Unfortunately it was standing on a slope and, now freed, it careered out of control while Keats, Chapman, and other visitors desperately jumped aside to avoid destruction. Eventually it came to rest against a stone wall without damage to gun, castle, or people. Nevertheless all four were politely but firmly requested to leave Lewes Castle.

On the train home, Chapman had nothing good to say about his friend's offspring who had brought him such embarrassment. He considered the boy a juvenile delinquent and a public menace. Keats wasn't as irate as that. "But", he conceded, "his father certainly needs to instill more discipline in his son. Otherwise his unpredictable behavior will continue to cause trouble. This time it was simply a matter of good luck that more damage wasn't caused by such a Lewes cannon." [?]

Chapman was telling Keats that of late he rarely saw their old classmate Charles or, as they had known him at Greyfriars, Chip. In the years after they left school, Chip would regularly stop by or meet them in a pub to reminisce about their youthful shenanigans. But now Chapman hadn't seen him in many months.

Keats believed he could explain. As middle-age approached, Charles had come to prefer the comfort and security of his own neighborhood. Everything he needed was close by, and nowadays he rarely ventured far from home, which was in fact the same home in which he had grown up. In this respect, as in many others, Chip closely resembled his father: In his latter years the old fellow also had found few occasions to leave the familiar surroundings of his own house and nearby streets. "So you see, with the passage of time Charles has grown more and more like his father, and thus less and less inclined to visit other parts of the city. These days you scarcely ever see Chip off the old block." [?]

Chapman was almost excessively proud of the Scottish side of his ancestry. On occasion, in transports of ancestral reverence, he would even broaden his loyalty to include all Scots in all ages. He might, for instance, proceed to name the famous generals on both sides of the American Civil War who were descended from Scottish immigrants—Grant, Lee, Jackson, McClellan, McPherson, Stuart, and more—or point out how many Scots, clad in blue or grey, distinguished themselves at Gettysburg.

He also collected articles of traditional highland dress such as kilts, plaids, trews, and ghillies. One day, when he had yet again been droning on about just how much he had amassed, Keats, who if he wished could brag of his own Scottish roots, felt the need to suppress him for his own good. When Chapman mentioned that his trove included two of the characteristic Scottish purses made of leather and horsehair, Keats retorted, "I've been ahead of you for ages. I had four sporrans seven years ago." [?]

Chapman's peaceful afternoon was interrupted by a fracas next door, so he stepped out back to investigate. In their garden his neighbors, a middle-aged couple, were arguing loudly with their son and daughter, both in their teens. Everyone was shouting at once, and it was some time before Chapman could make out what had them all so exercised. It transpired that the younger members of the household were determined to get rid of the garden gnome, which they thought was an idiotic relic of an extinct fad, while the adults were equally adamant that it should remain where it was.

The deliberations showed no sign of ending soon, so Chapman decided to abandon his home and drop in on Keats. When he explained the reason for his impromptu visit, Keats looked deeply troubled. He feared that this discord, trivial though it might seem now, would ultimately cause an irreparable breach in the family: "A house divided against its elf cannot stand." [?]

It was Halloween, and Keats and Chapman joined their fellow Greyfriars alumni at a Halloween party hosted by their alma mater. The climax of the evening was to be the presentation of the awards for best costume, a competition taken seriously because first prize was an engraved sterling platter worth £250. Keats and Chapman had procrastinated in picking their costumes until the selection of rentals was reduced to the dregs, and each ended up dressed as a lackluster Pierrot. Thus neither one deluded himself that he was in the running. But there were some impressive contenders—a music-box ballerina in a jeweled tutu and shoes covertly braced to let her spend the entire evening en pointe; an angel with silk robes, wings of white ostrich feathers, and a platinum halo; and Richard III complete with hump, squint, crown, and a suit of genuine armor that Laurence Olivier would have traded a kingdom for.

Came the moment to end the suspense, and Richard took first place. He was plainly overjoyed, and spent the rest of the evening avidly quoting Shakespeare until the other guests began to avoid him. He paid no attention to this, and when the soirée ended he departed in perfect bliss, clasping his silver platter. Chapman wasn't sorry to see him leave, but Keats was more tolerant. "I enjoy seeing someone so pleased by what is, after all, a trifle. It won't last forever, but now is the winner of our dish content." [?]

Chapman was reading in the Times of the impending wedding of two vastly wealthy, or at least wealthy-to-be, young people. He was the heir apparent of the president of a gold mining conglomerate, while her father's firm extracted more diamonds from the ground than any other in the world. Chapman cynically suspected that this was a union based on business interests and had nothing to do with love. Keats didn't deny the possibility, yet he expressed his approval of the arrangement. "I expect them to be quite happy together. After all, they make a perfect pair. It's the marriage of two mines." [?]

As Keats and Chapman traveled by British Rail, they were making their way along the corridor in search of the dining car. The passage was already narrow enough to make a snug fit for two average people trying to pass in opposite directions. But coming toward them was an Amazon: Six feet or more in height, with the broad shoulders and torso of a rugby professional and the belligerent demeanor to go with them. Far from cooperating in their efforts to make room, she just muscled her way past, muttering irritably. They watched as one passenger after another tried to stay out of her path.

At dinner, Chapman wondered whether she, like them, would be spending the night in a sleeper car. He rather hoped not, as he preferred not to run into her again. Keats agreed that would be for the best. But if she was riding overnight, he felt sympathy for the conductors. With her massive build and her ugly disposition, she wouldn't be happy with just any accommodations. "If they're smart they'll give her a wide berth." [?]

Keats and Chapman fancied sharing a second home where they could trade their hectic city lives for the tranquility of the Lake District, so they bought a remote, undeveloped lot that fronted on Windermere. Instead of beginning with a house, they first built a dock and bought a sailboat, to which they gave the swashbuckling name of Peril. For a while they were content to visit on weekends, which they spent sailing. In keeping with the rustic setting, they decided on log construction for the house, and in time the site was graded and next to it lay a great heap of timber.

But here progress ceased. They were both beginning to tire of days spent without the urban amenities, such as pubs, and shops, and pubs. They dithered for several weeks, but finally capitulated and put the lot up for sale, together with Peril, the dock, and the raw materials for the log home. Keats convinced Chapman that for the sake of simplicity they should sell everything together, and they spent an anxious time waiting for the right buyer to come along. But one day their realtor called Chapman with news: they had received an offer and the entire package would be off their hands soon. When Chapman told Keats, he responded in triumph, "I told you we could sell the whole thing: logs, dock, and Peril." [?]

Chapman told Keats of a marvelous new Italian restaurant he'd discovered. He gushed at length about tantalizing appetizers, delectable entrées, sinful desserts, and a magnificent wine list. When at last he had exhausted his stock of superlatives, he suggested that the two of them visit the place at the first opportunity so that Keats could experience it himself.

To Chapman's surprise, Keats was in no hurry to do so. After some prodding he finally revealed why. "Every time I eat Italian cuisine, I put on weight. The worst temptation is pasta. Put a plate of it in front of me —any shape, any sauce—and I'm doomed, with no will to stop before I've finished it off. And with every bite I seem to gain another ounce. I simply don't dare even enter such an establishment, because with me it's in for penne, in for a pound." [?]

Chapman was surprised when a friend telephoned from jail to ask if he could post bail; it seemed he had been arrested in a protest on the waterfront. The owners of the tramp steamer S.S. Willy Ley had callously ignored union guidelines about living conditions for her crew, so he and other sympathizers staged a sit-in. They defiantly pushed through the barriers at the gangway, boarded the ship, and refused to come ashore until authorities promised to investigate. When they finally left the Ley they were taken into custody for trespassing.

Later, Chapman offered Keats some insight into his friend's behavior. In his youth he was profoundly moved by Walden and Civil Disobedience. He admired the spirit of independent thought and the search for a just life, and he had marched to a different drummer ever since. Furthermore, his extensive reading of Kipling had instilled in him a thirst for action. The demonstration on the docks was just the sort of cause that would stir his love of fair play as well as the daring side of his nature. "I understand", said Keats. "Your friend had been Thoreau'd to man the Ley." [?]

In the house next door to Chapman lived a physicist who had a reputation in the neighborhood as a "mad scientist". After dark, weird light would blaze through the windows of his laboratory as he experimented with Van de Graaff generators, Tesla coils, and other contraptions that produced startling electrical effects. At times it looked as though he had brought the very lightning down from the skies and made it his plaything.

Many people on the block avoided this scientist's house in fear that they would be shocked by some runaway bolts of electricity. He sensed that he was shunned, and his understandable resentment often made him seem cranky and bitter. Keats, however, knew him from their days in college. He assured Chapman that, far from a curmudgeon, he was actually a charming fellow when you got to know him. "Don't let those unnerving electrical arcs put you off. His spark is worse than his spite." [?]

Keats was doing his best to look sympathetic as Chapman described the uproar that had occurred when he tried to pick up a tuxedo for a friend's wedding. All the ushers were to rent from the same firm, so Chapman dutifully went there on the understanding that the groom had made the specifications clear. This was scarcely the case. Chapman had to correct every detail: the cut of the jacket, the style of the shirt, the color of the cummerbund, the tie, the shoes, the cufflinks, the staff had gotten it all wrong. He admitted that, in his frustration, he had made quite a scene and exchanged heated language with the manager. When he finally left, still with no tuxedo, the other customers in the shop were staring in uncomfortable silence.

Said Keats, "My boy, you know I've told you for years that you need to be more organized, and to think through any important task in advance. But my advice has never seemed to have any effect. So, honestly, it doesn't surprise me when you fail to get your tux in a row." [?]

One fall Keats and Chapman were judges of the baking competition at St. Giles Fair. Among the pies, cakes, and turnovers, the closest-run event was the tarts. Fruit, savory, custard, cheese—the two epicureans were obliged to sample them all by the dozen. They persevered, however, and at last were ready to present the ribbons for the first three places. The first and third place winners were elated, but second place, a young lady named May Belle Donne, was so disappointed at not winning that she wondered aloud whether she should ever try again. Hoping to console her, Chapman reassured May that her entry had indeed been delicious, but the raspberry flavor had been just a bit too understated to be the champion. He encouraged her not to give up, but to adjust her recipe and enter next year's contest. He looked to his fellow judge for confirmation, and got it in a fashion when Keats counseled, "Faint tart never won fair, May Donne." [?]

The closest Keats and Chapman ever came to an athletic activity was the time they contemplated rowing for Greyfriars. They were utterly unfamiliar with the sport, but they went to the school boathouse and gamely lugged a double scull to the river. With a great deal of flailing and splashing they managed to get aboard without swamping it, then tentatively headed out into midstream. But as soon as they began to row in earnest Chapman caught a colossal crab. This threw him off balance and he tumbled into the water. As he did so he frantically clung to the gunwale of the shell, tipping it and launching Keats into the drink alongside him.

When they had struggled back to shore, Chapman was all for returning the fickle craft to the boathouse and forgetting he had ever yielded to such a daft impulse. Keats wasn't ready to give up so easily. He tried to convince Chapman that the manly thing would be to head back out and show that boat who was master. But he fatally undermined his own cause when he exhorted Chapman, "You have to get back on the oars that threw you." [?]

Keats and Chapman were contemplating a vacation in the coming Spring, and as usual the destination was a contentious subject. Chapman longed for the seaside; having never been to Wales, he suggested the historic fishing village of Nevin, drawn by the grandeur of the coastline and the waves breaking on the shore. Keats preferred the countryside in the East Riding of Yorkshire, for instance the valley of the Hull River.

They debated for an hour or more, Chapman touting the majestic sea views and Keats the pastoral vistas. But Chapman capitulated to spare himself further torment after Keats said, "Better terrain in Hull than surf in Nevin." [?]

The director of the amateur theater company to which Keats and Chapman belonged had had enough of staging one tired Shakespeare play after another. He was desperate to do something different, something innovative, to explore new possibilities in the dramatic arts. But when he devoted one season to premieres of avant-garde works by unknown playwrights, the result was disaster. The public was not interested in strange, unorthodox plays, and ticket sales plummeted. It was clear that the old familiar repertoire from the Swan of Avon was the only thing that would entice the audience in again.

Chapman said he respected their director for trying, but it was time to return to productions that would attract ordinary theatergoers. Keats nodded and sighed, "I'm afraid it's back to the drawing bard." [?]

As Keats and Chapman rambled through the neighborhood of the Tower of London, the sound of a commotion on the Thames drew them to the river's edge. Several ships were circling in a slow parade on either side of Tower Bridge, plainly waiting for it to open so that they could proceed upstream or down. Every few seconds one of them would sound its steam whistle, evincing the mounting impatience of its captain. This continued for some thirty minutes before the drawbridge finally rose and the vessels began to take turns passing through.

The next day the Times carried an explanation. Ignoring regulations, the bridge operator had invited a lady friend to tour the control room. She was so dazzled by his demonstration that the two became carried away in a romantic interlude that completely distracted his attention from the oncoming river traffic. Chapman predicted that he would be sacked for his lack of vigilance while on duty. Said Keats, "Yes, he was undeniably caught with his spans down." [?]

Keats and Chapman were attending graduation ceremonies at their alma mater, Greyfriars. Of course the faculty wore the robes and assorted regalia that the ceremony called for, and the gaudiest costume in the procession marked the headmaster. In their school days long ago, he had struggled mightily but in vain to teach them Latin, and had many occasions to discipline them with some severity. As he passed by at a slow, solemn pace, the man who in their boyhood had been such a forbidding figure now appeared in their mature eyes to have shrunk to an ordinary middle-aged man. In contrast with his bold, colorful trappings, with the velvet mantle and glittering livery collar, he looked pallid and timorous. Chapman observed that, outshone by all this finery, the man was less imposing than he remembered. Keats agreed, "It is true that he pales in caparison." [?]

As Keats and Chapman strolled through the West End, one of the many street dwellers held out his hat and inquired whether either of them would care to donate any surplus change to his general fund. Chapman reached into his pocket, but Keats knowingly shook his head. As they walked on, Keats explained that this seemingly selfish refusal was in truth meant for the fellow's own good. A scholarly American friar named Kenneth Hughes had published a study in which he concluded, after long experience working with the impoverished of his country, that the fewer contributions they received, the better motivated they were to support themselves. Keats said, "I think it would be fitting to refer to this economic principle by the name of its originator." "You don't mean…?", gulped Chapman. "Certainly", said Keats: "The Brother Ken Hughes Paradigm." [?]

Keats and Chapman were tramping the countryside south of Stirling, where Chapman's ancestors from the Hyde branch of the family had fought for good King Robert at Bannockburn. Chapman grew animated at the thought that he was walking in their footsteps on their path to a glorious victory, but Keats didn't share his enthusiasm. Five days yet remained before the vernal equinox, and he warned Chapman that the weather at this time of year was extremely changeable. Some looming dark clouds looked inauspicious to him. "Still, I understand what the occasion means to you. So today you should be where the Hydes have marched." [?]

Chapman was telling Keats that he had recently heard of a family-run bakery on the Isle of Man, operated by assorted brothers, sisters, and cousins totaling twelve in all. This by itself wasn't remarkable, but the place differed from the typical bakery in one respect: it sold nothing but a few basic, honest breads. It seemed that Manx tastes in baked goods were confined to the extremely simple. The inhabitants of Mann were not tempted, as the rest of us are, by fancy pastries or sweet, gooey desserts. Hence the bakery's short list of offerings. Because it so well suited local preferences, business was brisk and the family enjoyed a comfortable living.

Keats was gratified to hear Chapman's story, and thought it deserved wider coverage in the press. "Imagine what an uplifting headline it could make." Unthinkingly Chapman asked what he meant, then instantly bit his lip as Keats explained, "Mann dozen live by bread alone." [?]

Keats and Chapman had been dragooned into acting in the town Christmas pageant. Female volunteers were thin on the ground, and the two found themselves in the costumes of Mary and Elizabeth respectively. Nevertheless they soldiered on manfully, as it were, and would have seen it through without complaint if not for the director, a disciple of von Stroheim by the name of Dawn. Dawn found it lamentable that these two pivotal characters had to be entrusted to men. In particular, she was never satisfied that they had put on their costumes correctly, and constantly critiqued one detail or another. Keats, on the contrary, believed their attire was beyond reproach. He and Chapman had long taken part in local amateur productions and had ample experience in wearing women's clothing for "campy" roles. Eventually he could tolerate no more. He silenced the nitpicking director with a gesture and imperiously declared, "Dawn, we know our gay apparel." [?]

Chapman was recounting for Keats his recent air odyssey, which had been both torturous and tortuous. His flight from Athens to London should have lasted but an afternoon, but weather, breakdowns, and incompetent staff combined to prolong the trip to 48 wretched hours. One mishap after another forced him to catch a crowded overnight flight to Berlin, followed by a day-long layover surrounded by hundreds of similarly disgruntled and noisy travelers, then another sleepless leg to Heathrow that landed at dawn. As he collapsed into a cab, he was so stupefied he could barely give the driver directions to his home. Chapman's expectations of sympathy were bluntly dispelled when Keats observed, "That was a long, dazed journey in two nights." [?]

Chapman described to Keats a letter in the Times which deplored the licentiousness portrayed in films, on stage, and in paintings and sculpture. The writer was shocked at the open depiction of what he considered wicked activities that should be kept private, if they were permitted at all. Chapman thought that although this view was widespread it was an exaggeration, for works of that nature weren't nearly as common as the writer made it sound. Keats nodded in agreement: "Many are galled, but few arts show sin." [?]

As they contemplated a driving tour in the north of England, Keats and Chapman sat and browsed a stack of brochures that touted the attractions of this hotel and that B&B. One distinctive form of lodging was a secluded preserve of meadows and trails whose guests slept in a once derelict but now restored medieval fortress. Closer reading made clear why the place was secluded: It was reserved for nudists, and clothing was forbidden for the duration of one's stay. Chapman pointed out that it was strange to house a flock of naturists in a structure that, modernized though it might be, must still be inherently frosty and subject to drafts. Guests were likely to catch a chill if not pneumonia. Keats agreed; furthermore, he was already feeling the onset of some sort of bug. He could see no sense in visiting a place calculated to make him sick when he already was: "What would be the point of people bringing colds to a nude castle." [?]

Chapman could only reply that now he didn't feel well either.

Keats and Chapman stood on the shore one morning and watched the fishing boats as they made their daily sojourn to the North Sea. To Chapman's surprise, Keats remarked that he envied the adventurous life of a fisherman. "In other circumstances I too might have made my living on the water. However, I could never have tolerated the continual reek of thousands of fish, least of all concentrated as it is when they are packed in bulk for shipment. Thanks to that one impediment I shall never spend my days at sea." He paused, and the two friends silently gazed at the receding boats and pondered the vagaries of destiny. Then Keats spoke again: "Indeed, there but for the crates of cod go I." [?]

Keats and Chapman were among the less illustrious members of the Greyfriars cricket team. About the most either of them could be expected to get right was to set up the wickets, with the three vertical stumps and the two bails resting on them. But at the outset of one match, Chapman was dismayed to discover that the canvas sack in which he expected to find these components was empty: no stumps, no bails, nothing. "Do you mean to say…?", began Keats, whereupon Chapman, who knew what was coming, put his hands over his ears. Undeterred, Keats inquired, "Do you mean to say there is no piece for the wicket?" [?]

During their Greyfriars days Keats and Chapman underwent a course in philosophy taught by a martinet who was infuriated by any interruption of his lecture. Chapman had the bad luck to drop his pen, which made a distinct rap as it hit the floor. In an instant the curmudgeon turned from the blackboard and glared at the class, searching for the offender. Every boy in the room foresaw from past experience that Chapman's pen was about to be permanently confiscated. But another pupil named Brendan, who sat next to Chapman, had reached down and retrieved it so swiftly that it was impossible to detect the source of the noise, and the grumpy old scholar could only scowl and resume the lesson.

When the hour was up and the students filed out, Chapman followed Brendan and asked for the return of his pen. Brendan, however, insisted that as he had been the one to prevent its seizure he was entitled to keep it. Chapman later grumbled to Keats about the episode, but Keats took Brendan's part. In his judgment, "A pen he saved is a pen he earned." In any case, the boy was said to be the sort who knew what he wanted and would act without hesitation to get it. As Keats put it, "A Brendan need is a Brendan deed." [?]

Keats and Chapman were among the lesser lights at a posh reception for most of the greats of the British acting community. Among the notables present were dozens of Sirs and Dames: Richard Attenborough, Helen Mirren, Diana Rigg, Ben Kingsley, and on and on. Naturally in a room filled with performers and their egos there were many spirited conversations, and the noisiest concerned the recent announcement by Barbra Streisand that, encouraged by the success of "Cats", she planned to produce a musical based on the poetry of Dylan Thomas. Anthony Hopkins expressed the hope that she would reconsider, but Sean Connery declared that he would like to do all he could to encourage Streisand in her daft scheme, just for the satisfaction of seeing it fail as embarrassingly as it deserved. When Keats heard this, his devotion to the great Welsh poet overcame his diffidence in such distinguished company. With a reluctant Chapman in tow, he discretely approached Connery and, at a pause in the discussion, pleaded, "Do not goad Yentl into that, good knight." [?]

Keats's and Chapman's friend Thomas invited them to dinner at his home in a picturesque rural setting on the banks of the upper Thames. It was a balmy summer evening, so dinner was served behind the house at the water's edge. The feast of reason and flow of soul was facilitated by the generous flow of Jameson, and Thomas in particular became more animated as the evening progressed. Unfortunately this led him to knock over a sundial with its pedestal, which had been placed perilously near the river, into which it plunged. It was a valuable antique and, desperate to recover it, he too entered the water, which, though only waist deep, was somewhat murky. Thomas soon found the pedestal and the face of the sundial, but he searched in vain for the rod whose shadow indicated the hour. Dusk was gathering as he continued to splash about, anxious to find the precious artifact before darkness made that impossible. Chapman, unaware that a piece of the sundial was still missing, asked Keats why their host was still dawdling in the river. Keats explained, "Tom wades for a gnomon." [?]

It was in the days when the first of the Harry Potter novels was a new sensation. Keats and Chapman, visiting their neighborhood book dealer, were surprised to see a line of people that extended out the door and down the sidewalk. They entered the shop and learned that the author herself was present to autograph her book, hence the long queue of devoted fans. Chapman was most struck by the behavior of the crowd, who stood patiently in perfect quiet, not causing any disturbance despite their large numbers and their obvious excitement. He remarked on this to Keats, who replied, "It's true what they say: Rowling's tome gathers no mobs." [?]

Chapman knew that Keats was partial to dining on fish, and that he was particularly fond of eels. One evening he invited his friend to join him for a veritable smorgasbord of fish battered and fried in the Japanese manner, the centerpiece of which was not the usual freshwater eels but the much larger saltwater variety that inhabits coral reefs. But regrettably Chapman was unaware that Keats had recently been instructed by his doctor to forgo such fattening fare and confine himself to grilled fish. So when Keats beheld the elaborate spread of food, and then that special dish that Chapman had chosen in his honor, he exclaimed in disgust, "O tempura! O morays!" [?]

At one time the manufacturers of writing instruments found themselves facing an unforeseen shortage of the pigment necessary to make ink. Chapman, with an extensive writing task to complete and his supply of ordinary ink exhausted, was compelled to try the substitute that one of these firms had in desperation put on the market, which was simply cut-rate Irish whiskey that had been condensed in order to intensify its characteristic amber color. As this was only a temporary expedient, they had packaged this ersatz product in a cheap, lightweight bottle instead of the customary stout, sturdy one. Chapman scribbled a few lines and handed the result to Keats to get his opinion of its legibility. In doing so he knocked the bottle off his desk; a rug cushioned the impact, nevertheless the flimsy container smashed to pieces. Keats looked at the paper, then at the spilled liquor on the floor, and declared, "The spirit is swell ink, but the flask is weak." [?]

Chapman hastily gulped a swig of ink to dull the pain.

Keats and Chapman sallied to the park with a basket of food and wine one sunny spring day, looking forward to a refreshing repast al fresco. But no sooner had they spread their blanket, opened a tin of pâté, and popped a cork then they were assailed by a relentless cloud of bumblebees. Most maddening was the fact that swatting them had no apparent effect. A sharp blow that would have crushed any ordinary insect left these completely unfazed, and they continued to buzz and sting with undiminished energy. Exasperated and bewildered, Keats, all the while flapping his arms uselessly, turned to Chapman and cried, "Lord, what fuels these immortal bees?" [?]

Chapman later insisted that Keats, and not numerous stings, had brought tears to his eyes that day.

Keats and Chapman were visiting their friend Beatrice Dunne at her home in Somerset, just by the border with Devonshire, when Chapman noticed some excavation in progress. Their hostess explained that she was having a new well dug, and in fact it was nearly complete; the digging was finished and it remained merely to build the customary enclosure around the rim. She proudly led her guests to the site to allow them a closer look. Keats, who claimed to be uncommonly familiar with the geography of the area, opined that in his estimation Miss Dunne's new well was in fact on the far side of the county line. To sum up his argument he gestured at the fresh hole in the ground and proclaimed, "Thy well, Bea Dunne, unearthed as it is, in Devon." [?]

Only Miss Dunne's utmost efforts prevented the agonized Chapman from ending it all at the bottom of the well.

The lifelong friendship between Keats and Chapman had at last ended, as the latter passed on to a world where he would no longer have to endure the verbal atrocities of the former. Keats found that he missed the company of his long-suffering confidant, and framed a favorite portrait of him in black crepe. Months later their mutual friend Maurice, to whom they had always casually referred as Maury, found Keats in his study gazing on the portrait wistfully, and mildly reproached him for still hanging on to what Maurice considered a morbid keepsake of someone so long deceased. Keats replied in a wounded tone, "It's only a memento, Maury." [?]

For years after, people tried to tell Maurice that it was merely his imagination, but he always maintained that at that moment the image of Chapman winced.