the 32-year-old Coleridge had embarked on an affair with the enticing Cecilia. One might even hope that he did, if only to release him from the ghost of Asra. During a violent autumnal thunderstorm at the Villa Timoleon, which broke like “an explosion of artillery” and set the dogs barking throughout Syracuse, Coleridge suddenly recalled another femme fatale he had created: “Vivid flashes in mid day, the terror without the beauty. A ghost by day time: Geraldine.”86
But the evidence of the Notebooks is very thin at the time, and Cecilia herself remains a mystery. She was evidently young, probably in her early twenties, for her first recorded performances were at Rome in 1798–9.87 She was also talented, because she became the prima donna at Palermo by 1809. Coleridge’s later recollections also suggest that she was beautiful, naive and vivacious, and fully prepared to take him to bed. In these recollections of 1808 Coleridge admitted how much he longed for Cecilia during those dreamy weeks: “the outworks of my nature [were] already carried by the sweetness of her Temper, the child-like Simplicity of her Smiles, and the very great relief to my Depression and deathly Weighing-down of my heart (and the Bladder) from her Singing & Playing, so that I began to crave after her society.” There was sexual attraction, he felt, on her side too. “Neither her Beauty, with all her power of employing it, neither her heavenly Song, were as dangerous as her sincere vehemence of attachment to me…it was not mere Passion, & yet Heaven forbid that I should call it Love.”
But paradoxically it was the directness of Cecilia’s feelings, her sunny Italian spontaneity, that seemed to frighten him. It was too simple, too sexual, for Coleridge’s anxious sense of self and religious conscience to accept. He craved, but he could not give way. When it actually came to the point, he could not deliver himself up into the arms of the warm South. “Remorse and the total loss of Self-Esteem would have been among the Knots of the Cords by which I should have been held.” What was offered to him as a joyful release, came to seem like a terrible trap, a bondage. That is why, it seems, Coleridge finally refused Cecilia.
Coleridge explained this to himself as Asra’s triumph, a triumph of his better nature. He was saved by a vision of Asra which came to him even in Cecilia’s bedroom. “When I call to mind the heavenly Vision of her Face, which came to me as the guardian Angel of my Innocence and Peace of Mind, at Syracuse, at the bedside of the too fascinating Siren, against whose witcheries Ulysses’ Wax would have proved but a Half-protection, poor Cecilia Bertozzi…I was saved by that vision, wholly & exclusively by it, and sure I am, that nothing on earth but it could at that time have saved me.”88
But was he saved? Or had he delivered himself up into a far more subtle bondage, the cords of his old English dreams which he had hoped to break? There is no mention of more conventional loyalties, his marriage vows, his feelings for his children. It was almost as if Asra had prevented him from discovering something vital about his own sexual nature, had saved him not from sin but from self-knowledge. She had preserved his “Innocence and Peace of Mind”, not his purity.
Perhaps Coleridge no longer wanted real women at all, or only in his opium dreams, singing like Abyssinian maids of Mount Abora. Were these his “cruelly unlike Thoughts” on the way to visit Cecilia? He wrote gloomily: “I tremble to think what I was at that moment on the very brink of being surprised into – by the prejudices of the shame of sex, as much as by the force of its ordinary Impulses.”89 Perhaps those ordinary impulses were being destroyed.
Whatever really happened between Coleridge and Cecilia Bertozzi, the end of October 1804 marked a turning point in Sicily. His birthday entry of 21 October was miserable, lamenting his “habit of bedrugging the feelings, & bodily movements, & habit of dreaming”. He had “fled like a cowed Dog” from the thought of his age, “so completely has a whole year passed, with scarcely the fruits of a month…I am not worthy to live…I have done nothing! Not even layed up any material, any inward stores – of after action!”90
In fact he had just sent off the large packet of work to Wordsworth and Sir George Beaumont (including now a Sicilian journal) in the care of Major Adye, who was returning to England via Gibraltar. And he was planning a trip to Messina and Naples. Daniel Stuart was beginning to use his Malta papers for leaders in the Courier in London, while Wordsworth was tracing his journeys in imagination in Book X of The Prelude, re-dedicating the poem to Coleridge the wanderer.
Oh! Wrap him in your Shades, ye Giant Woods,
On Etna’s side, and thou, O flowery Vale
Of Enna! Is there not some nook of thine,
From the first playtime of the infant earth
Kept sacred to restorative delights?
Wordsworth was blissfully imagining Coleridge, “a Visitant on Etna’s top”, a “lonely wanderer” with “a heart more ripe” for pleasure, drawing inspiration from Aresthusa’s fountain (on the quayside at Syracuse) and “divine” nourishment from Theocritus’s bees who fed the exiled Comates.91 He hoped he would linger there as a happy votary, “and not a Captive, pining for his home”. Nonetheless, Wordsworth also expected Coleridge to return as promised by the following spring, and sort out his marriage and his domestic arrangements.
Coleridge clambered over the ruins of the Greek amphitheatre above Leckie’s villa, but was most drawn to the area of caves and limestone quarries with its famous “Ear of Dionysus” and the “Quarry of the Capuchins”, which with its groves and flowering cliffs appeared a sort of miniature garden of Eden. (Yet it was here that 7,000 captive Athenian soldiers died in a kind of concentration camp in 413 BC.)92 Serious archaeology did not begin until a generation later, but in this autumn of 1804 the most beautiful of all Sicilian statues, the headless Landolina Venus with her shining marble breasts and large voluptuous limbs, was dug out of the earth like a spirit returning from the underworld.
Coleridge described the ruins and the caves in detail, with Etna’s cone hovering above the Epipoli ridge in its “floating mantle of white smoke”; and he took a boat to Tremiglia where Neptune was buried under a bay tree, “with vines wreathing about it: Sleep, Shade, & Quiet!”93 Standing high above the bay of Syracuse, surrounded by these buried antiquities and strange portents, he watched the sun go down into the sea, and wrote one of his most haunting Mediterranean fragments, “A Sunset”. Its thirteen lines end with a shiver of Delphic prophesy, as if the classically haunted landscape would soon release its violent gods and heroes once again as the sun disappears.
Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk!
A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood. The boughs, the sprays have stood
As motionless as stands the ancient trunk!
But every leaf through all the forest flutters,
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.94
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Despite the affair with Cecilia Bertozzi, or perhaps because of it, Coleridge was now anxious to press on to Naples. He was restless in Syracuse, decayed and baroque, with its corruption and gossip, and the oppressive omnipresence of its Catholic priests. “I found no one native
