With apologies to Flann O’Brien

Keats suffered, periodically, intense but obscure fits of desire for Chapman. The poet’s inchoate attempts to communicate his sentiments, however, were invariably ignominious failures. Thus, during such interludes, Chapman would find his comrade irascible and moody, even contradictory. Evening constitutionals would descend to bitter feuding, quiet drinks to sodden recriminations. The pair’s once easy conviviality became an elusive quarry. Keats, in short, was rotten company. In turn, the dismayed Chapman would sullenly retreat to pore over dusty speculative tomes.

It was amidst an especially virulent flaring up of this temper that Chapman, fresh from reading Freud, flattered himself to have hit upon a solution. Perhaps, he reasoned, their mysterious arguments could simply be sublimated into harmless physical rivalry.

After some cajoling of the reticent Keats—who, characteristically, was that day disinclined to movement in general—the troubled duo resolved upon an afternoon of sporting pursuits. It appeared to Chapman that his stratagem was a success, for Keats’ reluctance gradually gave way under the glow of healthy competition. Smiles were broached, and the vigorous sporting talk of men cheered both their spirits.

As the afternoon grew late, however, Keats’ melancholy reasserted itself. To stave off the inevitable, Chapman proposed a last round of tennis. Keats’ longing glances at Chapman, through the gathering gloom, played havoc with his first service, which clipped the net. Chapman grew anxious as Keats paced the base line, muttering darkly and sending baleful looks across the court. Naïve words of encouragement, Chapman thought, might not improve Keats’ mood, but the lengthening embarrassed silence could but worsen it. Thus, when the poet’s next service, too, audibly thwacked the tip of the net and Keats threw down his racquet in despair, Chapman felt obliged to act.

“It’s only love,” Chapman called out, puzzled; Keats wept.