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´╗┐Title: Four Years
Author: Yeats, W. B. (William Butler), 1865-1939
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Four Years" ***

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FOUR YEARS 1887-1891.

At the end of the eighties my father and mother, my brother and
sisters and myself, all newly arrived from Dublin, were settled in
Bedford Park in a red-brick house with several wood mantlepieces
copied from marble mantlepieces by the brothers Adam, a balcony,
and a little garden shadowed by a great horse-chestnut tree. Years
before we had lived there, when the crooked, ostentatiously
picturesque streets, with great trees casting great shadows, had
been anew enthusiasm: the Pre-Raphaelite movement at last
affecting life. But now exaggerated criticism had taken the place
of enthusiasm; the tiled roofs, the first in modern London, were
said to leak, which they did not, & the drains to be bad, though
that was no longer true; and I imagine that houses were cheap. I
remember feeling disappointed because the co-operative stores,
with their little seventeenth century panes, were so like any
common shop; and because the public house, called 'The Tabard'
after Chaucer's Inn, was so plainly a common public house; and
because the great sign of a trumpeter designed by Rooke, the
Pre-Raphaelite artist, had been freshened by some inferior hand. The
big red-brick church had never pleased me, and I was accustomed,
when I saw the wooden balustrade that ran along the slanting edge
of the roof, where nobody ever walked or could walk, to remember
the opinion of some architect friend of my father's, that it had
been put there to keep the birds from falling off. Still, however,
it had some village characters and helped us to feel not wholly
lost in the metropolis. I no longer went to church as a regular
habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these
words painted on a board in the porch: 'The congregation are
requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to
be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose.' In front of every
seat hung a little cushion, and these cushions were called
'kneelers.' Presently the joke ran through the community, where
there were many artists, who considered religion at best an
unimportant accessory to good architecture and who disliked that
particular church.


I could not understand where the charm had gone that I had felt,
when as a school-boy of twelve or thirteen, I had played among the
unfinished houses, once leaving the marks of my two hands, blacked
by a fall among some paint, upon a white balustrade. Sometimes I
thought it was because these were real houses, while my play had
been among toy-houses some day to be inhabited by imaginary people
full of the happiness that one can see in picture books. I was in
all things Pre-Raphaelite. When I was fifteen or sixteen, my
father had told me about Rossetti and Blake and given me their
poetry to read; & once in Liverpool on my way to Sligo, "I had
seen 'Dante's Dream' in the gallery there--a picture painted when
Rossetti had lost his dramatic power, and to-day not very pleasing
to me--and its colour, its people, its romantic architecture had
blotted all other pictures away." It was a perpetual bewilderment
that my father, who had begun life as a Pre-Raphaelite painter,
now painted portraits of the first comer, children selling
newspapers, or a consumptive girl with a basket offish upon her
head, and that when, moved perhaps by memory of his youth, he
chose some theme from poetic tradition, he would soon weary and
leave it unfinished. I had seen the change coming bit by bit and
its defence elaborated by young men fresh from the Paris art-schools.
'We must paint what is in front of us,' or 'A man must be
of his own time,' they would say, and if I spoke of Blake or
Rossetti they would point out his bad drawing and tell me to
admire Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage. Then, too, they were very
ignorant men; they read nothing, for nothing mattered but 'Knowing
how to paint,' being in reaction against a generation that seemed
to have wasted its time upon so many things. I thought myself
alone in hating these young men, now indeed getting towards middle
life, their contempt for the past, their monopoly of the future,
but in a few months I was to discover others of my own age, who
thought as I did, for it is not true that youth looks before it
with the mechanical gaze of a well-drilled soldier. Its quarrel is
not with the past, but with the present, where its elders are so
obviously powerful, and no cause seems lost if it seem to threaten
that power. Does cultivated youth ever really love the future,
where the eye can discover no persecuted Royalty hidden among oak
leaves, though from it certainly does come so much proletarian
rhetoric? I was unlike others of my generation in one thing only.
I am very religious, and deprived by Huxley and Tyndall, whom I
detested, of the simple-minded religion of my childhood, I had
made a new religion, almost an infallible church, out of poetic
tradition: a fardel of stories, and of personages, and of
emotions, a bundle of images and of masks passed on from
generation to generation by poets & painters with some help from
philosophers and theologians. I wished for a world where I could
discover this tradition perpetually, and not in pictures and in
poems only, but in tiles round the chimney-piece and in the
hangings that kept out the draught. I had even created a dogma:
'Because those imaginary people are created out of the deepest
instinct of man, to be his measure and his norm, whatever I can
imagine those mouths speaking may be the nearest I can go to
truth.' When I listened they seemed always to speak of one thing
only: they, their loves, every incident of their lives, were
steeped in the supernatural. Could even Titian's 'Ariosto' that I
loved beyond other portraits, have its grave look, as if waiting
for some perfect final event, if the painters, before Titian, had
not learned portraiture, while painting into the corner of
compositions, full of saints and Madonnas, their kneeling patrons?
At seventeen years old I was already an old-fashioned brass cannon
full of shot, and nothing kept me from going off but a doubt as to
my capacity to shoot straight.


I was not an industrious student and knew only what I had found by
accident, and I had found "nothing I cared for after Titian--and
Titian I knew chiefly from a copy of 'the supper of Emmaus' in
Dublin--till Blake and the Pre-Raphaelites;" and among my father's
friends were no Pre-Raphaelites. Some indeed had come to Bedford
Park in the enthusiasm of the first building, and others to be
near those that had. There was Todhunter, a well-off man who had
bought my father's pictures while my father was still
Pre-Raphaelite. Once a Dublin doctor he was a poet and a writer of
poetical plays: a tall, sallow, lank, melancholy man, a good
scholar and a good intellect; and with him my father carried on a
warm exasperated friendship, fed I think by old memories and
wasted by quarrels over matters of opinion. Of all the survivors
he was the most dejected, and the least estranged, and I remember
encouraging him, with a sense of worship shared, to buy a very
expensive carpet designed by Morris. He displayed it without
strong liking and would have agreed had there been any to find
fault. If he had liked anything strongly he might have been a
famous man, for a few years later he was to write, under some
casual patriotic impulse, certain excellent verses now in all
Irish anthologies; but with him every book was a new planting and
not a new bud on an old bough. He had I think no peace in himself.
But my father's chief friend was York Powell, a famous Oxford
Professor of history, a broad-built, broad-headed, brown-bearded
man, clothed in heavy blue cloth and looking, but for his glasses
and the dim sight of a student, like some captain in the merchant
service. One often passed with pleasure from Todhunter's company
to that of one who was almost ostentatiously at peace. He cared
nothing for philosophy, nothing for economics, nothing for the
policy of nations, for history, as he saw it, was a memory of men
who were amusing or exciting to think about. He impressed all who
met him & seemed to some a man of genius, but he had not enough
ambition to shape his thought, or conviction to give rhythm to his
style, and remained always a poor writer. I was too full of
unfinished speculations and premature convictions to value rightly
his conversation, in-formed by a vast erudition, which would give
itself to every casual association of speech and company precisely
because he had neither cause nor design. My father, however, found
Powell's concrete narrative manner a necessary completion of his
own; and when I asked him, in a letter many years later, where he
got his philosophy, replied 'From York Powell' and thereon added,
no doubt remembering that Powell was without ideas, 'By looking at
him.' Then there was a good listener, a painter in whose hall hung
a big picture, painted in his student days, of Ulysses sailing
home from the Phaeacian court, an orange and a skin of wine at his
side, blue mountains towering behind; but who lived by drawing
domestic scenes and lovers' meetings for a weekly magazine that
had an immense circulation among the imperfectly educated. To
escape the boredom of work, which he never turned to but under
pressure of necessity, and usually late at night with the
publisher's messenger in the hall, he had half filled his studio
with mechanical toys of his own invention, and perpetually
increased their number. A model railway train at intervals puffed
its way along the walls, passing several railway stations and
signal boxes; and on the floor lay a camp with attacking and
defending soldiers and a fortification that blew up when the
attackers fired a pea through a certain window; while a large
model of a Thames barge hung from the ceiling. Opposite our house
lived an old artist who worked also for the illustrated papers for
a living, but painted landscapes for his pleasure, and of him I
remember nothing except that he had outlived ambition, was a good
listener, and that my father explained his gaunt appearance by his
descent from Pocahontas. If all these men were a little like
becalmed ships, there was certainly one man whose sails were full.
Three or four doors off, on our side of the road, lived a
decorative artist in all the naive confidence of popular ideals
and the public approval. He was our daily comedy. 'I myself and
Sir Frederick Leighton are the greatest decorative artists of the
age,' was among his sayings, & a great lych-gate, bought from some
country church-yard, reared its thatched roof, meant to shelter
bearers and coffin, above the entrance to his front garden, to
show that he at any rate knew nothing of discouragement. In this
fairly numerous company--there were others though no other face
rises before me--my father and York Powell found listeners for a
conversation that had no special loyalties, or antagonisms; while
I could only talk upon set topics, being in the heat of my youth,
and the topics that filled me with excitement were never spoken


Some quarter of an hour's walk from Bedford Park, out on the high
road to Richmond, lived W. E. Henley, and I, like many others,
began under him my education. His portrait, a lithograph by
Rothenstein, hangs over my mantlepiece among portraits of other
friends. He is drawn standing, but, because doubtless of his
crippled legs, he leans forward, resting his elbows upon some
slightly suggested object--a table or a window-sill. His heavy
figure and powerful head, the disordered hair standing upright,
his short irregular beard and moustache, his lined and wrinkled
face, his eyes steadily fixed upon some object, in complete
confidence and self-possession, and yet as in half-broken reverie,
all are exactly as I remember him. I have seen other portraits and
they too show him exactly as I remember him, as though he had but
one appearance and that seen fully at the first glance and by all
alike. He was most human--human, I used to say, like one of
Shakespeare's characters--and yet pressed and pummelled, as it
were, into a single attitude, almost into a gesture and a speech,
as by some overwhelming situation. I disagreed with him about
everything, but I admired him beyond words. With the exception of
some early poems founded upon old French models, I disliked his
poetry, mainly because he wrote _Vers Libre_, which I associated
with Tyndall and Huxley and Bastien-Lepage's clownish peasant
staring with vacant eyes at her great boots; and filled it
with unimpassioned description of an hospital ward where his leg
had been amputated. I wanted the strongest passions, passions that
had nothing to do with observation, and metrical forms that seemed
old enough to be sung by men half-asleep or riding upon a journey.
Furthermore, Pre-Raphaelitism affected him as some people are
affected by a cat in the room, and though he professed himself at
our first meeting without political interests or convictions, he
soon grew into a violent unionist and imperialist. I used to say
when I spoke of his poems: 'He is like a great actor with a bad
part; yet who would look at Hamlet in the grave scene if Salvini
played the grave-digger?' and I might so have explained much that
he said and did. I meant that he was like a great actor of
passion--character-acting meant nothing to me for many years--and
an actor of passion will display some one quality of soul,
personified again and again, just as a great poetical painter,
Titian, Botticelli, Rossetti may depend for his greatness upon a
type of beauty which presently we call by his name. Irving, the
last of the sort on the English stage, and in modern England and
France it is the rarest sort, never moved me but in the expression
of intellectual pride; and though I saw Salvini but once, I am
convinced that his genius was a kind of animal nobility. Henley,
half inarticulate--'I am very costive,' he would say--beset with
personal quarrels, built up an image of power and magnanimity till
it became, at moments, when seen as it were by lightning, his true
self. Half his opinions were the contrivance of a sub-consciousness
that sought always to bring life to the dramatic crisis, and
expression to that point of artifice where the true self could
find its tongue. Without opponents there had been no drama,
and in his youth Ruskinism and Pre-Raphaelitism, for he was
of my father's generation, were the only possible opponents. How
could one resent his prejudice when, that he himself might play a
worthy part, he must find beyond the common rout, whom he derided
and flouted daily, opponents he could imagine moulded like
himself? Once he said to me in the height of his imperial
propaganda, 'Tell those young men in Ireland that this great thing
must go on. They say Ireland is not fit for self-government but
that is nonsense. It is as fit as any other European country but
we cannot grant it.' And then he spoke of his desire to found and
edit a Dublin newspaper. It would have expounded the Gaelic
propaganda then beginning, though Dr. Hyde had as yet no league,
our old stories, our modern literature--everything that did not
demand any shred or patch of government. He dreamed of a tyranny
but it was that of Cosimo de Medici.


We gathered on Sunday evenings in two rooms, with folding doors
between, & hung, I think, with photographs from Dutch masters, and
in one room there was always, I think, a table with cold meat. I
can recall but one elderly man--Dunn his name was--rather silent
and full of good sense, an old friend of Henley's. We were young
men, none as yet established in his own, or in the world's
opinion, and Henley was our leader and our confidant. One evening
I found him alone amused and exasperated.

He cried: 'Young A... has just been round to ask my advice. Would
I think it a wise thing if he bolted with Mrs. B...? "Have you
quite determined to do it?" I asked him. "Quite." "Well," I said,
"in that case I refuse to give you any advice."' Mrs. B... was a
beautiful talented woman, who, as the Welsh triad said of
Guinevere, 'was much given to being carried off.' I think we
listened to him, and often obeyed him, partly because he was quite
plainly not upon the side of our parents. We might have a
different ground of quarrel, but the result seemed more important
than the ground, and his confident manner and speech made us
believe, perhaps for the first time, in victory. And besides, if
he did denounce, and in my case he certainly did, what we held in
secret reverence, he never failed to associate it with things, or
persons, that did not move us to reverence. Once I found him just
returned from some art congress in Liverpool or in Manchester.
'The Salvation Armyism of art,' he called it, & gave a grotesque
description of some city councillor he had found admiring Turner.
Henley, who hated all that Ruskin praised, thereupon derided
Turner, and finding the city councillor the next day on the other
side of the gallery, admiring some Pre-Raphaelite there, derided
that Pre-Raphaelite. The third day Henley discovered the poor man
on a chair in the middle of the room, staring disconsolately upon
the floor. He terrified us also, and certainly I did not dare, and
I think none of us dared, to speak our admiration for book or
picture he condemned, but he made us feel always our importance,
and no man among us could do good work, or show the promise of it,
and lack his praise.

I can remember meeting of a Sunday night Charles Whibley, Kenneth
Grahame, author of 'The Golden Age,' Barry Pain, now a well known
novelist, R. A. M. Stevenson, art critic and a famous talker,
George Wyndham, later on a cabinet minister and Irish chief
secretary, and Oscar Wilde, who was some eight years or ten older
than the rest. But faces and names are vague to me and, while
faces that I met but once may rise clearly before me, a face met
on many a Sunday has perhaps vanished. Kipling came sometimes, I
think, but I never met him; and Stepniak, the nihilist, whom I
knew well elsewhere but not there, said 'I cannot go more than
once a year, it is too exhausting.' Henley got the best out of us
all, because he had made us accept him as our judge and we knew
that his judgment could neither sleep, nor be softened, nor
changed, nor turned aside. When I think of him, the antithesis
that is the foundation of human nature being ever in my sight, I
see his crippled legs as though he were some Vulcan perpetually
forging swords for other men to use; and certainly I always
thought of C..., a fine classical scholar, a pale and seemingly
gentle man, as our chief swordsman and bravo. When Henley founded
his weekly newspaper, first the 'Scots,' afterwards 'The National
Observer,' this young man wrote articles and reviews notorious for
savage wit; and years afterwards when 'The National Observer' was
dead, Henley dying & our cavern of outlaws empty, I met him in
Paris very sad and I think very poor. 'Nobody will employ me now,'
he said. 'Your master is gone,' I answered, 'and you are like the
spear in an old Irish story that had to be kept dipped in
poppy-juice that it might not go about killing people on its own
account.' I wrote my first good lyrics and tolerable essays for
'The National Observer' and as I always signed my work could go my
own road in some measure. Henley often revised my lyrics, crossing
out a line or a stanza and writing in one of his own, and I was
comforted by my belief that he also re-wrote Kipling then in the
first flood of popularity. At first, indeed, I was ashamed of
being re-written and thought that others were not, and only began
investigation when the editorial characteristics--epigrams,
archaisms and all--appeared in the article upon Paris fashions and
in that upon opium by an Egyptian Pasha. I was not compelled to
full conformity for verse is plainly stubborn; and in prose, that
I might avoid unacceptable opinions, I wrote nothing but ghost or
fairy stories, picked up from my mother, or some pilot at Rosses
Point, and Henley saw that I must needs mix a palette fitted to my
subject matter. But if he had changed every 'has' into 'hath' I
would have let him, for had not we sunned ourselves in his
generosity? 'My young men out-dome and they write better than I,'
he wrote in some letter praising Charles Whibley's work, and to
another friend with a copy of my 'Man who dreamed of Fairyland:'
'See what a fine thing has been written by one of my lads.'


My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was an astonishment. I never
before heard a man talking with perfect sentences, as if he had
written them all over night with labour and yet all spontaneous.
There was present that night at Henley's, by right of propinquity
or of accident, a man full of the secret spite of dullness, who
interrupted from time to time and always to check or disorder
thought; and I noticed with what mastery he was foiled and thrown.
I noticed, too, that the impression of artificiality that I think
all Wilde's listeners have recorded, came from the perfect
rounding of the sentences and from the deliberation that made it
possible. That very impression helped him as the effect of metre,
or of the antithetical prose of the seventeenth century, which is
itself a true metre, helps a writer, for he could pass without
incongruity from some unforeseen swift stroke of wit to elaborate
reverie. I heard him say a few nights later: 'Give me "The
Winter's Tale," "Daffodils that come before the swallow dare" but
not "King Lear." What is "King Lear" but poor life staggering in
the fog?' and the slow cadence, modulated with so great precision,
sounded natural to my ears. That first night he praised Walter
Pater's 'Essays on the Renaissance:' 'It is my golden book; I
never travel anywhere without it; but it is the very flower of
decadence. The last trumpet should have sounded the moment it was
written.' 'But,' said the dull man, 'would you not have given us
time to read it?' 'Oh no,' was the retort, 'there would have been
plenty of time afterwards--in either world.' I think he seemed to
us, baffled as we were by youth, or by infirmity, a triumphant
figure, and to some of us a figure from another age, an audacious
Italian fifteenth century figure. A few weeks before I had heard
one of my father's friends, an official in a publishing firm that
had employed both Wilde and Henley as editors, blaming Henley who
was 'no use except under control' and praising Wilde, 'so indolent
but such a genius;' and now the firm became the topic of our talk.
'How often do you go to the office?' said Henley. 'I used to go
three times a week,' said Wilde, 'for an hour a day but I have
since struck off one of the days.' 'My God,' said Henley, 'I went
five times a week for five hours a day and when I wanted to strike
off a day they had a special committee meeting.' 'Furthermore,'
was Wilde's answer, 'I never answered their letters. I have known
men come to London full of bright prospects and seen them complete
wrecks in a few months through a habit of answering letters.' He
too knew how to keep our elders in their place, and his method was
plainly the more successful for Henley had been dismissed. 'No he
is not an aesthete,' Henley commented later, being somewhat
embarrassed by Wilde's Pre-Raphaelite entanglement. 'One soon
finds that he is a scholar and a gentleman.' And when I dined with
Wilde a few days afterwards he began at once, 'I had to strain
every nerve to equal that man at all;' and I was too loyal to
speak my thought: 'You & not he' said all the brilliant things. He
like the rest of us had felt the strain of an intensity that
seemed to hold life at the point of drama. He had said, on that
first meeting, 'The basis of literary friendship is mixing the
poisoned bowl;' and for a few weeks Henley and he became close
friends till, the astonishment of their meeting over, diversity of
character and ambition pushed them apart, and, with half the
cavern helping, Henley began mixing the poisoned bowl for Wilde.
Yet Henley never wholly lost that first admiration, for after
Wilde's downfall he said to me: 'Why did he do it? I told my lads
to attack him and yet we might have fought under his banner.'


It became the custom, both at Henley's and at Bedford Park, to say
that R. A. M. Stevenson, who frequented both circles, was the
better talker. Wilde had been trussed up like a turkey by
undergraduates, dragged up and down a hill, his champagne emptied
into the ice tub, hooted in the streets of various towns and I
think stoned, and no newspaper named him but in scorn; his manner
had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see
an unpardonable insolence. His charm was acquired and systematised,
a mask which he wore only when it pleased him, while the charm
of Stevenson belonged to him like the colour of his hair. If
Stevenson's talk became monologue we did not know it, because
our one object was to show by our attention that he need never
leave off. If thought failed him we would not combat what he
had said, or start some new theme, but would encourage him with a
question; and one felt that it had been always so from childhood
up. His mind was full of phantasy for phantasy's sake and he gave
as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin Robert Louis in
poem or story. He was always 'supposing:' 'Suppose you had two
millions what would you do with it?' and 'Suppose you were in
Spain and in love how would you propose?' I recall him one
afternoon at our house at Bedford Park, surrounded by my brother
and sisters and a little group of my father's friends, describing
proposals in half a dozen countries. There your father did it,
dressed in such and such a way with such and such words, and there
a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door, sprinkle
her with holy water and say 'My friend Jones is dying for love of
you.' But when it was over, those quaint descriptions, so full of
laughter and sympathy, faded or remained in the memory as
something alien from one's own life like a dance I once saw in a
great house, where beautifully dressed children wound a long
ribbon in and out as they danced. I was not of Stevenson's party
and mainly I think because he had written a book in praise of
Velasquez, praise at that time universal wherever Pre-Raphaelitism
was accurst, and to my mind, that had to pick its symbols where
its ignorance permitted, Velasquez seemed the first bored
celebrant of boredom. I was convinced, from some obscure
meditation, that Stevenson's conversational method had joined him
to my elders and to the indifferent world, as though it were right
for old men, and unambitious men and all women, to be content with
charm and humour. It was the prerogative of youth to take sides
and when Wilde said: 'Mr. Bernard Shaw has no enemies but is
intensely disliked by all his friends,' I knew it to be a phrase I
should never forget, and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of
romance, whose generosity and courage I could not fathom.


I saw a good deal of Wilde at that time--was it 1887 or 1888?--I
have no way of fixing the date except that I had published my
first book 'The Wanderings of Usheen' and that Wilde had not yet
published his 'Decay of Lying.' He had, before our first meeting,
reviewed my book and despite its vagueness of intention, and the
inexactness of its speech, praised without qualification; and what
was worth more than any review had talked about it, and now he
asked me to eat my Xmas dinner with him, believing, I imagine,
that I was alone in London.

He had just renounced his velveteen, and even those cuffs turned
backward over the sleeves, and had begun to dress very carefully
in the fashion of the moment. He lived in a little house at
Chelsea that the architect Godwin had decorated with an elegance
that owed something to Whistler. There was nothing mediaeval, nor
Pre-Raphaelite, no cupboard door with figures upon flat gold, no
peacock blue, no dark background. I remember vaguely a white
drawing room with Whistler etchings, 'let in' to white panels, and
a dining room all white: chairs, walls, mantlepiece, carpet,
except for a diamond-shaped piece of red cloth in the middle of
the table under a terra cotta statuette, and I think a red shaded
lamp hanging from the ceiling to a little above the statuette. It
was perhaps too perfect in its unity, his past of a few years
before had gone too completely, and I remember thinking that the
perfect harmony of his life there, with his beautiful wife and his
two young children, suggested some deliberate artistic composition.

He commended, & dispraised himself, during dinner by attributing
characteristics like his own to his country: 'We Irish are too
poetical to be poets; we are a nation of brilliant failures, but
we are the greatest talkers since the Greeks.' When dinner was
over he read me from the proofs of 'The Decay of Lying' and when
he came to the sentence: 'Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism
that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet invented it. The
world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy,' I
said, 'Why do you change "sad" to "melancholy?"' He replied that
he wanted a full sound at the close of his sentence, and I thought
it no excuse and an example of the vague impressiveness that
spoilt his writing for me. Only when he spoke, or when his writing
was the mirror of his speech, or in some simple fairytale, had he
words exact enough to hold a subtle ear. He alarmed me, though not
as Henley did for I never left his house thinking myself fool or
dunce. He flattered the intellect of every man he liked; he made
me tell him long Irish stories and compared my art of story-telling
to Homer's; and once when he had described himself as writing in
the census paper 'age 19, profession genius, infirmity talent,'
the other guest, a young journalist fresh from Oxford or Cambridge,
said 'What should I have written?' and was told that it should
have been 'profession talent, infirmity genius.' When, however,
I called, wearing shoes a little too yellow--unblackened leather
had just become fashionable--I understood their extravagence when
I saw his eyes fixed upon them; an another day Wilde asked me to
tell his little boy a fairy story, and I had but got as far as
'Once upon a time there was a giant' when the little boy screamed
and ran out of the room. Wilde looked grave and I was plunged into
the shame of clumsiness that afflicts the young. When I asked for
some literary gossip for some provincial newspaper, that paid me
a few shillings a month, he explained very explicitly that writing
literary gossip was no job for a gentleman. Though to be compared
to Homer passed the time pleasantly, I had not been greatly
perturbed had he stopped me with 'Is it a long story?' as
Henley would certainly have done. I was abashed before him as wit
and man of the world alone. I remember that he deprecated the very
general belief in his success or his efficiency, and I think with
sincerity. One form of success had gone: he was no more the lion
of the season, and he had not discovered his gift for writing
comedy, yet I think I knew him at the happiest moment of his life.
No scandal had darkened his fame, his fame as a talker was growing
among his equals, & he seemed to live in the enjoyment of his own
spontaneity. One day he began: 'I have been inventing a Christian
heresy,' and he told a detailed story, in the style of some early
father, of how Christ recovered after the Crucifixion and,
escaping from the tomb, lived on for many years, the one man upon
earth who knew the falsehood of Christianity. Once St. Paul
visited his town and he alone in the carpenters' quarter did not
go to hear him preach. The other carpenters noticed that
henceforth, for some unknown reason, he kept his hands covered. A
few days afterwards I found Wilde, with smock frocks in various
colours spread out upon the floor in front of him, while a
missionary explained that he did not object to the heathen going
naked upon week days, but insisted upon clothes in church. He had
brought the smock frocks in a cab that the only art-critic whose
fame had reached Central Africa might select a colour; so Wilde
sat there weighing all with a conscious ecclesiastic solemnity.


Of late years I have often explained Wilde to myself by his family
history. His father, was a friend or acquaintance of my father's
father and among my family traditions there is an old Dublin
riddle: 'Why are Sir William Wilde's nails so black?' Answer,
'Because he has scratched himself.' And there is an old story
still current in Dublin of Lady Wilde saying to a servant. 'Why do
you put the plates on the coal-scuttle? What are the chairs meant
for?' They were famous people and there are many like stories, and
even a horrible folk story, the invention of some Connaught
peasant, that tells how Sir William Wilde took out the eyes of
some men, who had come to consult him as an oculist, and laid them
upon a plate, intending to replace them in a moment, and how the
eyes were eaten by a cat. As a certain friend of mine, who has
made a prolonged study of the nature of cats, said when he first
heard the tale, 'Catslove eyes.' The Wilde family was clearly of
the sort that fed the imagination of Charles Lever, dirty, untidy,
daring, and what Charles Lever, who loved more normal activities,
might not have valued so highly, very imaginative and learned.
Lady Wilde, who when I knew her received her friends with blinds
drawn and shutters closed that none might see her withered face,
longed always perhaps, though certainly amid much self mockery,
for some impossible splendour of character and circumstance. She
lived near her son in level Chelsea, but I have heard her say, 'I
want to live on some high place, Primrose Hill or Highgate,
because I was an eagle in my youth.' I think her son lived with no
self mockery at all an imaginary life; perpetually performed a
play which was in all things the opposite of all that he had known
in childhood and early youth; never put off completely his wonder
at opening his eyes every morning on his own beautiful house, and
in remembering that he had dined yesterday with a duchess and that
he delighted in Flaubert and Pater, read Homer in the original and
not as a school-master reads him for the grammar. I think, too,
that because of all that half-civilized blood in his veins, he
could not endure the sedentary toil of creative art and so
remained a man of action, exaggerating, for the sake of immediate
effect, every trick learned from his masters, turning their easel
painting into painted scenes. He was a parvenu, but a parvenu
whose whole bearing proved that if he did dedicate every story in
'The House of Pomegranates' to a lady of title, it was but to show
that he was Jack and the social ladder his pantomime beanstalk.
"Did you ever hear him say 'Marquess of Dimmesdale'?" a friend of
his once asked me. "He does not say 'the Duke of York' with any

He told me once that he had been offered a safe seat in Parliament
and, had he accepted, he might have had a career like that of
Beaconsfield, whose early style resembles his, being meant for
crowds, for excitement, for hurried decisions, for immediate
triumphs. Such men get their sincerity, if at all, from the
contact of events; the dinner table was Wilde's event and made him
the greatest talker of his time, and his plays and dialogues have
what merit they possess from being now an imitation, now a record,
of his talk. Even in those days I would often defend him by saying
that his very admiration for his predecessors in poetry, for
Browning, for Swinburne and Rossetti, in their first vogue while
he was a very young man, made any success seem impossible that
could satisfy his immense ambition: never but once before had the
artist seemed so great, never had the work of art seemed so
difficult. I would then compare him with Benvenuto Cellini who,
coming after Michael Angelo, found nothing left to do so
satisfactory as to turn bravo and assassinate the man who broke
Michael Angelo's nose.


I cannot remember who first brought me to the old stable beside
Kelmscott House, William Morris' house at Hammersmith, & to the
debates held there upon Sunday evenings by the socialist League. I
was soon of the little group who had supper with Morris
afterwards. I met at these suppers very constantly Walter Crane,
Emery Walker presently, in association with Cobden Sanderson, the
printer of many fine books, and less constantly Bernard Shaw and
Cockerell, now of the museum of Cambridge, and perhaps but once or
twice Hyndman the socialist and the anarchist Prince Krapotkin.
There too one always met certain more or less educated workmen,
rough of speech and manner, with a conviction to meet every turn.
I was told by one of them, on a night when I had done perhaps more
than my share of the talking, that I had talked more nonsense in
one evening than he had heard in the whole course of his past
life. I had merely preferred Parnell, then at the height of his
career, to Michael Davitt who had wrecked his Irish influence by
international politics. We sat round a long unpolished and
unpainted trestle table of new wood in a room where hung
Rossetti's 'Pomegranate,' a portrait of Mrs. Morris, and where one
wall and part of the ceiling were covered by a great Persian
carpet. Morris had said somewhere or other that carpets were meant
for people who took their shoes off when they entered a house, and
were most in place upon a tent floor. I was a little disappointed
in the house, for Morris was an old man content at last to gather
beautiful things rather than to arrange a beautiful house. I saw
the drawing-room once or twice and there alone all my sense of
decoration, founded upon the background of Rossetti's pictures,
was satisfied by a big cupboard painted with a scene from Chaucer
by Burne Jones, but even there were objects, perhaps a chair or a
little table, that seemed accidental, bought hurriedly perhaps,
and with little thought, to make wife or daughter comfortable. I
had read as a boy in books belonging to my father, the third
volume of 'The Earthly Paradise' and 'The Defence of Guinevere,'
which pleased me less, but had not opened either for a long time.
'The man who never laughed again' had seemed the most wonderful of
tales till my father had accused me of preferring Morris to Keats,
got angry about it and put me altogether out of countenance. He
had spoiled my pleasure, for now I questioned while I read and at
last ceased to read; nor had Morris written as yet those prose
romances that became, after his death, so great a joy that they
were the only books I was ever to read slowly that I might not
come too quickly to the end. It was now Morris himself that
stirred my interest, and I took to him first because of some
little tricks of speech and body that reminded me of my old
grandfather in Sligo, but soon discovered his spontaneity and joy
and made him my chief of men. To-day I do not set his poetry very
high, but for an odd altogether wonderful line, or thought; and
yet, if some angel offered me the choice, I would choose to live
his life, poetry and all, rather than my own or any other man's. A
reproduction of his portrait by Watts hangs over my mantlepiece
with Henley's, and those of other friends. Its grave wide-open
eyes, like the eyes of some dreaming beast, remind me of the open
eyes of Titian's' Ariosto,' while the broad vigorous body suggests
a mind that has no need of the intellect to remain sane, though it
give itself to every phantasy, the dreamer of the middle ages. It
is 'the fool of fairy ... wide and wild as a hill,' the resolute
European image that yet half remembers Buddha's motionless
meditation, and has no trait in common with the wavering, lean
image of hungry speculation, that cannot but fill the mind's eye
because of certain famous Hamlets of our stage. Shakespeare
himself foreshadowed a symbolic change, that shows a change in the
whole temperament of the world, for though he called his Hamlet
'fat, and scant of breath,' he thrust between his fingers agile
rapier and dagger.

The dream world of Morris was as much the antithesis of daily life
as with other men of genius, but he was never conscious of the
antithesis and so knew nothing of intellectual suffering. His
intellect, unexhausted by speculation or casuistry, was wholly at
the service of hand and eye, and whatever he pleased he did with
an unheard of ease and simplicity, and if style and vocabulary
were at times monotonous, he could not have made them otherwise
without ceasing to be himself. Instead of the language of Chaucer
and Shakespeare, its warp fresh from field and market, if the woof
were learned, his age offered him a speech, exhausted from
abstraction, that only returned to its full vitality when written
learnedly and slowly. The roots of his antithetical dream were
visible enough: a never idle man of great physical strength and
extremely irascible--did he not fling a badly baked plum pudding
through the window upon Xmas Day?--a man more joyous than any
intellectual man of our world, called himself 'the idle singer of
an empty day' created new forms of melancholy, and faint persons,
like the knights & ladies of Burne Jones, who are never, no, not
once in forty volumes, put out of temper. A blunderer, who had
said to the only unconverted man at a socialist picnic in Dublin,
to prove that equality came easy, 'I was brought up a gentleman
and now, as you can see, associate with all sorts,' and left
wounds thereby that rankled after twenty years, a man of whom I
have heard it said 'He is always afraid that he is doing something
wrong, and generally is,' wrote long stories with apparently no
other object than that his persons might show one another, through
situations of poignant difficulty, the most exquisite tact.

He did not project, like Henley or like Wilde, an image of
himself, because, having all his imagination set on making and
doing, he had little self-knowledge. He imagined instead new
conditions of making and doing; and, in the teeth of those
scientific generalisations that cowed my boyhood, I can see some
like imagining in every great change, believing that the first
flying fish leaped, not because it sought 'adaptation' to the air,
but out of horror of the sea.


Soon after I began to attend the lectures, a French class was
started in the old coach-house for certain young socialists who
planned a tour in France, and I joined it and was for a time a
model student constantly encouraged by the compliments of the old
French mistress. I told my father of the class, and he asked me to
get my sisters admitted. I made difficulties and put off speaking
of the matter, for I knew that the new and admirable self I was
making would turn, under family eyes, into plain rag doll. How
could I pretend to be industrious, and even carry dramatization to
the point of learning my lessons, when my sisters were there and
knew that I was nothing of the kind? But I had no argument I could
use and my sisters were admitted. They said nothing unkind, so far
as I can remember, but in a week or two I was my old procrastinating
idle self and had soon left the class altogether. My elder sister
stayed on and became an embroideress under Miss May Morris,
and the hangings round Morris's big bed at Kelmscott House,
Oxfordshire, with their verses about lying happily in bed when
'all birds sing in the town of the tree,' were from her needle
though not from her design. She worked for the first few months
at Kelmscott House, Hammersmith, and in my imagination I cannot
always separate what I saw and heard from her report, or indeed
from the report of that tribe or guild who looked up to Morris
as to some worshipped mediaeval king. He had no need for other
people. I doubt if their marriage or death made him sad or glad,
and yet no man I have known was so well loved; you saw him
producing everywhere organisation and beauty, seeming, almost in
the same instant, helpless and triumphant; and people loved him as
children are loved. People much in his neighbourhood became
gradually occupied with him, or about his affairs, and without any
wish on his part, as simple people become occupied with children.
I remember a man who was proud and pleased because he had
distracted Morris' thoughts from an attack of gout by leading the
conversation delicately to the hated name of Milton. He began at
Swinburne. 'Oh, Swinburne,' said Morris, 'is a rhetorician; my
masters have been Keats and Chaucer for they make pictures.' 'Does
not Milton make pictures?' asked my informant. 'No,' was the
answer, 'Dante makes pictures, but Milton, though he had a great
earnest mind, expressed himself as a rhetorician.' 'Great earnest
mind,' sounded strange to me and I doubt not that were his
questioner not a simple man, Morris had been more violent. Another
day the same man started by praising Chaucer, but the gout was
worse and Morris cursed Chaucer for destroying the English
language with foreign words.

He had few detachable phrases and I can remember little of his
speech, which many thought the best of all good talk, except that
it matched his burly body and seemed within definite boundaries
inexhaustible in fact and expression. He alone of all the men I
have known seemed guided by some beast-like instinct and never ate
strange meat. 'Balzac! Balzac!' he said to me once, 'Oh, that was
the man the French bourgeoisie read so much a few years ago.' I
can remember him at supper praising wine: 'Why do people say it is
prosaic to be inspired by wine? Has it not been made by the
sunlight and the sap?' and his dispraising houses decorated by
himself: 'Do you suppose I like that kind of house? I would like a
house like a big barn, where one ate in one corner, cooked in
another corner, slept in the third corner & in the fourth received
one's friends'; and his complaining of Ruskin's objection to the
underground railway: 'If you must have a railway the best thing
you can do with it is to put it in a tube with a cork at each
end.' I remember too that when I asked what led up to his
movement, he replied, 'Oh, Ruskin and Carlyle, but somebody should
have been beside Carlyle and punched his head every five minutes.'
Though I remember little, I do not doubt that, had I continued
going there on Sunday evenings, I should have caught fire from his
words and turned my hand to some mediaeval work or other. Just
before I had ceased to go there I had sent my 'Wanderings of
Usheen' to his daughter, hoping of course that it might meet his
eyes, & soon after sending it I came upon him by chance in
Holborn. 'You write my sort of poetry,' he said and began to
praise me and to promise to send his praise to 'The Commonwealth,'
the League organ, and he would have said more of a certainty had
he not caught sight of a new ornamental cast-iron lamp-post and
got very heated upon that subject.

I did not read economics, having turned socialist because of
Morris's lectures and pamphlets, and I think it unlikely that Morris
himself could read economics. That old dogma of mine seemed germane
to the matter. If the men and women imagined by the poets were the
norm, and if Morris had, in, let us say, 'News from Nowhere,' then
running through 'The Commonwealth,' described such men and women
living under their natural conditions or as they would desire to
live, then those conditions themselves must be the norm, and could
we but get rid of certain institutions the world would turn from
eccentricity. Perhaps Morris himself justified himself in his own
heart by as simple an argument, and was, as the socialist D... said
to me one night walking home after some lecture, 'an anarchist
without knowing it.' Certainly I and all about me, including D...
himself, were for chopping up the old king for Medea's pot. Morris
had told us to have nothing to do with the parliamentary socialists,
represented for men in general by the Fabian Society and Hyndman's
Socialist Democratic Federation and for us in particular by D...
During the period of transition mistakes must be made, and the
discredit of these mistakes must be left to 'the bourgeoisie;' and
besides, when you begin to talk of this measure or that other you
lose sight of the goal and see, to reverse Swinburne's description
of Tiresias, 'light on the way but darkness on the goal.' By
mistakes Morris meant vexatious restrictions and compromises--'If
any man puts me into a labour squad, I will lie on my back and
kick.' That phrase very much expresses our idea of revolutionary
tactics: we all intended to lie upon our back and kick. D..., pale
and sedentary, did not dislike labour squads and we all hated him
with the left side of our heads, while admiring him immensely with
the right. He alone was invited to entertain Mrs. Morris, having
many tales of his Irish uncles, more especially of one particular
uncle who had tried to commit suicide by shutting his head into a
carpet bag. At that time he was an obscure man, known only for a
witty speaker at street corners and in Park demonstrations. He had,
with an assumed truculence and fury, cold logic, an universal
gentleness, an unruffled courtesy, and yet could never close a
speech without being denounced by a journeyman hatter with an
Italian name.  Converted to socialism by D..., and to anarchism by
himself, with swinging arm and uplifted voice this man perhaps
exaggerated our scruple about parliament. 'I lack,' said D..., 'the
bump of reverence;' whereon the wild man shouted 'You 'ave a 'ole.'
There are moments when looking back I somewhat confuse my own figure
with that of the hatter, image of our hysteria, for I too became
violent with the violent solemnity of a religious devotee. I can
even remember sitting behind D... and saying some rude thing or
other over his shoulder. I don't remember why I gave it up but I did
quite suddenly; and I think the push may have come from a young
workman who was educating himself between Morris and Karl Marx. He
had planned a history of the navy and when I had spoken of the
battleship of Nelson's day, had said: 'Oh, that was the decadence of
the battleship,' but if his naval interests were mediaeval, his
ideas about religion were pure Karl Marx, and we were soon in
perpetual argument. Then gradually the attitude towards religion of
almost everybody but Morris, who avoided the subject altogether, got
upon my nerves, for I broke out after some lecture or other with all
the arrogance of raging youth. They attacked religion, I said, or
some such words, and yet there must be a change of heart and only
religion could make it. What was the use of talking about some near
revolution putting all things right, when the change must come, if
come it did, with astronomical slowness, like the cooling of the sun
or, it may have been, like the drying of the moon? Morris rang his
chairman's bell, but I was too angry to listen, and he had to ring
it a second time before I sat down. He said that night at supper:
'Of course I know there must be a change of heart, but it will not
come as slowly as all that. I rang my bell because you were not
being understood.' He did not show any vexation, but I never
returned after that night; and yet I did not always believe what I
had said and only gradually gave up thinking of and planning for
some near sudden change for the better.


I spent my days at the British Museum and must, I think, have been
delicate, for I remember often putting off hour after hour
consulting some necessary book because I shrank from lifting the
heavy volumes of the catalogue; and yet to save money for my
afternoon coffee and roll I often walked the whole way home to
Bedford Park. I was compiling, for a series of shilling books, an
anthology of Irish fairy stories and, for an American publisher, a
two volume selection from the Irish novelists that would be
somewhat dearer. I was not well paid, for each book cost me more
than three months' reading; and I was paid for the first some
twelve pounds, ('O Mr. E...' said publisher to editor, 'you must
never again pay so much') and for the second, twenty; but I did
not think myself badly paid, for I had chosen the work for my own

Though I went to Sligo every summer, I was compelled to live out of
Ireland the greater part of every year and was but keeping my mind
upon what I knew must be the subject matter of my poetry. I believed
that if Morris had set his stories amid the scenery of his own Wales
(for I knew him to be of Welsh extraction and supposed wrongly that
he had spent his childhood there) that if Shelley had nailed his
Prometheus or some equal symbol upon some Welsh or Scottish rock,
their art had entered more intimately, more microscopically, as it
were, into our thought, and had given perhaps to modern poetry a
breadth and stability like that of ancient poetry. The statues of
Mausolus and Artemisia at the British Museum, private, half animal,
half divine figures, all unlike the Grecian athletes and Egyptian
kings in their near neighbourhood, that stand in the middle of the
crowd's applause or sit above measuring it out unpersuadable
justice, became to me, now or later, images of an unpremeditated
joyous energy, that neither I nor any other man, racked by doubt and
enquiry, can achieve; and that yet, if once achieved, might seem to
men and women of Connemara or of Galway their very soul. In our
study of that ruined tomb, raised by a queen to her dead lover, and
finished by the unpaid labour of great sculptors after her death
from grief, or so runs the tale, we cannot distinguish the
handiworks of Scopas and Praxiteles; and I wanted to create once
more an art, where the artist's handiwork would hide as under those
half anonymous chisels, or as we find it in some old Scots ballads
or in some twelfth or thirteenth century Arthurian romance. That
handiwork assured, I had martyred no man for modelling his own image
upon Pallas Athena's buckler; for I took great pleasure in certain
allusions to the singer's life one finds in old romances and
ballads, and thought his presence there all the more poignant
because we discover it half lost, like portly Chaucer riding behind
his Maunciple and his Pardoner. Wolfram von Eschenbach, singing his
German Parsival, broke off some description of a famished city to
remember that in his own house at home the very mice lacked food,
and what old ballad singer was it who claimed to have fought by day
in the very battle he sang by night? So masterful indeed was that
instinct that when the minstrel knew not who his poet was he must
needs make up a man: 'When any stranger asks who is the sweetest of
singers, answer with one voice: "A blind man; he dwells upon rocky
Chios; his songs shall be the most beautiful for ever."' Elaborate
modern psychology sounds egotistical, I thought, when it speaks in
the first person, but not those simple emotions which resemble the
more, the more powerful they are, everybody's emotion, and I was
soon to write many poems where an always personal emotion was woven
into a general pattern of myth and symbol. When the Fenian poet says
that his heart has grown cold and callous, 'For thy hapless fate,
dear Ireland, and sorrows of my own,' he but follows tradition, and
if he does not move us deeply, it is because he has no sensuous
musical vocabulary that comes at need, without compelling him to
sedentary toil and so driving him out from his fellows. I thought to
create that sensuous, musical vocabulary, and not for myself only
but that I might leave it to later Irish poets, much as a mediaeval
Japanese painter left his style as an inheritance to his family, and
was careful to use a traditional manner and matter; yet did
something altogether different, changed by that toil, impelled by my
share in Cain's curse, by all that sterile modern complication, by
my 'originality' as the newspapers call it. Morris set out to make a
revolution that the persons of his 'Well at the World's End' or his
'Waters of the Wondrous Isles,' always, to my mind, in the likeness
of Artemisia and her man, might walk his native scenery; and I, that
my native scenery might find imaginary inhabitants, half planned a
new method and a new culture. My mind began drifting vaguely towards
that doctrine of 'the mask' which has convinced me that every
passionate man (I have nothing to do with mechanist, or
philanthropist, or man whose eyes have no preference) is, as it
were, linked with another age, historical or imaginary, where alone
he finds images that rouse his energy. Napoleon was never of his own
time, as the naturalistic writers and painters bid all men be, but
had some Roman Emperor's image in his head and some condottiere's
blood in his heart; and when he crowned that head at Rome with his
own hands, he had covered, as may be seen from David's painting, his
hesitation with that Emperor's old suit.


I had various women friends on whom I would call towards five
o'clock, mainly to discuss my thoughts that I could not bring to a
man without meeting some competing thought, but partly because their
tea & toast saved my pennies for the 'bus ride home; but with women,
apart from their intimate exchanges of thought, I was timid and
abashed. I was sitting on a seat in front of the British Museum
feeding pigeons, when a couple of girls sat near and began enticing
my pigeons away, laughing and whispering to one another, and I
looked straight in front of me, very indignant, and presently went
into the Museum without turning my head towards them. Since then I
have often wondered if they were pretty or merely very young.
Sometimes I told myself very adventurous love stories with myself
for hero, and at other times I planned out a life of lonely
austerity, and at other times mixed the ideals and planned a life of
lonely austerity mitigated by periodical lapses.  I had still the
ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of
Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when
walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle
of water and saw a fountain in a shop window which balanced a little
ball upon its jet and began to remember lake water. From the sudden
remembrance came my poem 'Innisfree,' my first lyric with anything
in its rhythm of my own music. I had begun to loosen rhythm as an
escape from rhetoric, and from that emotion of the crowd that
rhetoric brings, but I only understood vaguely and occasionally that
I must, for my special purpose, use nothing but the common syntax. A
couple of years later I would not have written that first line with
its conventional archaism--'Arise and go'--nor the inversion in the
last stanza. Passing another day by the new Law Courts, a building
that I admired because it was Gothic,--'It is not very good,' Morris
had said, 'but it is better than any thing else they have got and so
they hate it.'--I grew suddenly oppressed by the great weight of
stone, and thought, 'There are miles and miles of stone and brick
all round me,' and presently added, 'If John the Baptist, or his
like, were to come again and had his mind set upon it, he could make
all these people go out into some wilderness leaving their buildings
empty,' and that thought, which does not seem very valuable now, so
enlightened the day that it is still vivid in the memory. I spent a
few days at Oxford copying out a seventeenth century translation of
_Poggio's Liber Facetiarum_ or the _Hypneroto-machia_ of _Poliphili_
for a publisher; I forget which, for I copied both; and returned
very pale to my troubled family. I had lived upon bread and tea
because I thought that if antiquity found locust and wild honey
nutritive, my soul was strong enough to need no better. I was always
planning some great gesture, putting the whole world into one scale
of the balance and my soul into the other, and imagining that the
whole world somehow kicked the beam. More than thirty years have
passed and I have seen no forcible young man of letters brave the
metropolis without some like stimulant; and all, after two or three,
or twelve or fifteen years, according to obstinacy, have understood
that we achieve, if we do achieve, in little diligent sedentary
stitches as though we were making lace. I had one unmeasured
advantage from my stimulant: I could ink my socks, that they might
not show through my shoes, with a most haughty mind, imagining
myself, and my torn tackle, somewhere else, in some far place 'under
the canopy ... i' the city of kites and crows.'

In London I saw nothing good, and constantly remembered that
Ruskin had said to some friend of my father's--'As I go to my work
at the British Museum I see the faces of the people become daily
more corrupt.' I convinced myself for a time, that on the same
journey I saw but what he saw. Certain old women's faces filled me
with horror, faces that are no longer there, or if they are, pass
before me unnoticed: the fat blotched faces, rising above double
chins, of women who have drunk too much beer and eaten too much
meat. In Dublin I had often seen old women walking with erect
heads and gaunt bodies, talking to themselves in loud voices, mad
with drink and poverty, but they were different, they belonged to
romance: Da Vinci has drawn women who looked so and so carried
their bodies.


I attempted to restore one old friend of my father's to the
practice of his youth, but failed though he, unlike my father, had
not changed his belief. My father brought me to dine with Jack
Nettleship at Wigmore Street, once inventor of imaginative designs
and now a painter of melodramatic lions. At dinner I had talked a
great deal--too much, I imagine, for so young a man, or may be for
any man--and on the way home my father, who had been plainly
anxious that I should make a good impression, was very angry. He
said I had talked for effect and that talking for effect was
precisely what one must never do; he had always hated rhetoric and
emphasis and had made me hate it; and his anger plunged me into
great dejection. I called at Nettleship's studio the next day to
apologise and Nettleship opened the door himself and received me
with enthusiasm. He had explained to some woman guest that I would
probably talk well, being an Irishman, but the reality had
surpassed, etc., etc. I was not flattered, though relieved at not
having to apologise, for I soon discovered that what he really
admired was my volubility, for he himself was very silent. He
seemed about sixty, had a bald head, a grey beard, and a nose, as
one of my father's friends used to say, like an opera glass, and
sipped cocoa all the afternoon and evening from an enormous tea
cup that must have been designed for him alone, not caring how
cold the cocoa grew. Years before he had been thrown from his
horse while hunting and broken his arm and, because it had been
badly set, suffered great pain for along time. A little whiskey
would always stop the pain, and soon a little became a great deal
and he found himself a drunkard, but having signed his liberty
away for certain months he was completely cured. He had acquired,
however, the need of some liquid which he could sip constantly. I
brought him an admiration settled in early boyhood, for my father
had always said, 'George Wilson was our born painter but
Nettleship our genius,' and even had he shown me nothing I could
care for, I had admired him still because my admiration was in my
bones. He showed me his early designs and they, though often badly
drawn, fulfilled my hopes. Something of Blake they certainly did
show, but had in place of Blake's joyous intellectual energy a
Saturnian passion and melancholy. 'God creating evil' the death-like
head with a woman and a tiger coming from the forehead, which
Rossetti--or was it Browning?--had described 'as the most sublime
design of ancient or modern art' had been lost, but there was
another version of the same thought and other designs never
published or exhibited. They rise before me even now in
meditation, especially a blind Titan-like ghost floating with
groping hands above the treetops. I wrote a criticism, and
arranged for reproductions with the editor of an art magazine, but
after it was written and accepted the proprietor, lifting what I
considered an obsequious caw in the Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus
Duran, Bastien-Lepage rookery, insisted upon its rejection.
Nettleship did not mind its rejection, saying, 'Who cares for such
things now? Not ten people,' but he did mind my refusal to show
him what I had written. Though what I had written was all eulogy,
I dreaded his judgment for it was my first art criticism. I hated
his big lion pictures, where he attempted an art too much
concerned with the sense of touch, with the softness or roughness,
the minutely observed irregularity of surfaces, for his genius;
and I think he knew it. 'Rossetti used to call my pictures
'pot-boilers,' he said, 'but they are all--all,' and he waved his arms
to the canvases, 'symbols.' When I wanted him to design gods and
angels and lost spirits once more, he always came back to the
point, 'Nobody would be pleased.' 'Everybody should have a
_raison d'etre_' was one of his phrases. 'Mrs ----'s articles
are not good but they are her _raison d'etre_.' I had but
little knowledge of art, for there was little scholarship in the
Dublin Art School, so I overrated the quality of anything that
could be connected with my general beliefs about the world. If I
had been able to give angelical, or diabolical names to his lions
I might have liked them also and I think that Nettleship himself
would have liked them better, and liking them better have become a
better painter. We had the same kind of religious feeling, but I
could give a crude philosophical expression to mine while he could
only express his in action or with brush and pencil. He often told
me of certain ascetic ambitions, very much like my own, for he had
kept all the moral ambition of youth with a moral courage peculiar
to himself, as for instance--'Yeats, the other night I was
arrested by a policeman--was walking round Regent's Park
barefooted to keep the flesh under--good sort of thing to do--I
was carrying my boots in my hand and he thought I was a burglar;
and even when I explained and gave him half a crown, he would not
let me go till I had promised to put on my boots before I met the
next policeman.'

He was very proud and shy, and I could not imagine anybody asking
him questions, and so I was content to take these stories as they
came, confirmations of stories I had heard in boyhood. One story
in particular had stirred my imagination, for, ashamed all my
boyhood of my lack of physical courage, I admired what was beyond
my imitation. He thought that any weakness, even a weakness of
body, had the character of sin, and while at breakfast with his
brother, with whom he shared a room on the third floor of a corner
house, he said that his nerves were out of order. Presently he
left the table, and got out through the window and on to a stone
ledge that ran along the wall under the windowsills. He sidled
along the ledge, and turning the corner with it, got in at a
different window and returned to the table. 'My nerves,' he said,
'are better than I thought.'


Nettleship said to me: 'Has Edwin Ellis ever said anything about
the effect of drink upon my genius?' 'No,' I answered. 'I ask,' he
said, 'because I have always thought that Ellis has some strange
medical insight.' Though I had answered 'no,' Ellis had only a few
days before used these words: 'Nettleship drank his genius away.'
Ellis, but lately returned from Perugia, where he had lived many
years, was another old friend of my father's but some years
younger than Nettleship or my father. Nettleship had found his
simplifying image, but in his painting had turned away from it,
while Ellis, the son of Alexander Ellis, a once famous man of
science, who was perhaps the last man in England to run the circle
of the sciences without superficiality, had never found that image
at all. He was a painter and poet, but his painting, which did not
interest me, showed no influence but that of Leighton. He had
started perhaps a couple of years too late for Pre-Raphaelite
influence, for no great Pre-Raphaelite picture was painted after
1870, and left England too soon for that of the French painters.
He was, however, sometimes moving as a poet and still more often
an astonishment. I have known him cast something just said into a
dozen lines of musical verse, without apparently ceasing to talk;
but the work once done he could not or would not amend it, and my
father thought he lacked all ambition. Yet he had at times
nobility of rhythm--an instinct for grandeur--and after thirty
years I still repeat to myself his address to Mother Earth:

  O mother of the hills, forgive our towers;
  O mother of the clouds, forgive our dreams

and there are certain whole poems that I read from time to time or
try to make others read. There is that poem where the manner is
unworthy of the matter, being loose and facile, describing Adam
and Eve fleeing from Paradise. Adam asks Eve what she carries so
carefully and Eve replies that it is a little of the apple core
kept for their children. There is that vision of 'Christ the
Less,' a too hurriedly written ballad, where the half of Christ,
sacrificed to the divine half 'that fled to seek felicity,'
wanders wailing through Golgotha; and there is 'The Saint and the
Youth' in which I can discover no fault at all. He loved
complexities--'seven silences like candles round her face' is a
line of his--and whether he wrote well or ill had always a manner,
which I would have known from that of any other poet. He would say
to me, 'I am a mathematician with the mathematics left out'--his
father was a great mathematician--or 'A woman once said to me,
"Mr. Ellis why are your poems like sums?"' and certainly he loved
symbols and abstractions. He said once, when I had asked him not
to mention something or other, 'Surely you have discovered by this
time that I know of no means whereby I can mention a fact in

He had a passion for Blake, picked up in Pre-Raphaelite studios,
and early in our acquaintance put into my hands a scrap of note
paper on which he had written some years before an interpretation
of the poem that begins

  The fields from Islington to Marylebone
  To Primrose Hill and St. John's Wood
  Were builded over with pillars of gold
  And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

The four quarters of London represented Blake's four great
mythological personages, the Zoas, and also the four elements.
These few sentences were the foundation of all study of the
philosophy of William Blake, that requires an exact knowledge for
its pursuit and that traces the connection between his system and
that of Swedenborg or of Boehme. I recognised certain attributions,
from what is sometimes called the Christian Cabala, of which Ellis
had never heard, and with this proof that his interpretation was
more than phantasy, he and I began our four years' work upon the
Prophetic Books of William Blake. We took it as almost a sign of
Blake's personal help when we discovered that the spring of 1889,
when we first joined our knowledge, was one hundred years from the
publication of 'The Book of Thel,' the first published of the
Prophetic Books, as though it were firmly established that the dead
delight in anniversaries. After months of discussion and reading, we
made a concordance of all Blake's mystical terms, and there was much
copying to be done in the Museum & at Red Hill, where the
descendants of Blake's friend and patron, the landscape painter,
John Linnell, had many manuscripts.  The Linnellswere narrow in
their religious ideas & doubtful of Blake's orthodoxy, whom they
held, however, in great honour, and I remember a timid old lady who
had known Blake when a child saying: 'He had very wrong ideas, he
did not believe in the historical Jesus.' One old man sat always
beside us ostensibly to sharpen our pencils, but perhaps really to
see that we did not steal the manuscripts, and they gave us very old
port at lunch and I have upon my dining room walls their present of
Blake's Dante engravings. Going thither and returning Ellis would
entertain me by philosophical discussion, varied with improvised
stories, at first folk tales which he professed to have picked up in
Scotland; and though I had read and collected many folk tales, I did
not see through the deceit. I have a partial memory of two more
elaborate tales, one of an Italian conspirator flying barefoot from
I forget what adventure through I forget what Italian city, in the
early morning. Fearing to be recognised by his bare feet, he slipped
past the sleepy porter at an hotel calling out 'number so and so' as
if he were some belated guest. Then passing from bedroom door to
door he tried on the boots, and just as he got a pair to fit a voice
cried from the room 'Who is that?' 'Merely me, sir,' he called back,
'taking your boots.' The other was of a Martyr's Bible round which
the cardinal virtues had taken personal form--this a fragment of
Blake's philosophy. It was in the possession of an old clergyman
when a certain jockey called upon him, and the cardinal virtues,
confused between jockey and clergyman, devoted themselves to the
jockey. As whenever he sinned a cardinal virtue interfered and
turned him back to virtue, he lived in great credit and made, but
for one sentence, a very holy death. As his wife and family knelt
round in admiration and grief, he suddenly said 'Damn.' 'O my dear,'
said his wife, 'what a dreadful expression.' He answered, 'I am
going to heaven' and straightway died. It was a long tale, for there
were all the jockey's vain attempts to sin, as well as all the
adventures of the clergyman, who became very sinful indeed, but it
ended happily, for when the jockey died the cardinal virtues
returned to the clergyman. I think he would talk to any audience
that offered, one audience being the same as another in his eyes,
and it may have been for this reason that my father called him
unambitious. When he was a young man he had befriended a reformed
thief and had asked the grateful thief to take him round the
thieves' quarters of London. The thief, however, hurried him away
from the worst saying, 'Another minute and they would have found you
out. If they were not the stupidest men in London, they had done so
already.' Ellis had gone through a no doubt romantic and witty
account of all the houses he had robbed, and all the throats he had
cut in one short life.

His conversation would often pass out of my comprehension, or
indeed I think of any man's, into a labyrinth of abstraction and
subtilty, and then suddenly return with some verbal conceit or
turn of wit. The mind is known to attain, in certain conditions of
trance, a quickness so extraordinary that we are compelled at
times to imagine a condition of unendurable intellectual
intensity, from which we are saved by the merciful stupidity of
the body; & I think that the mind of Edwin Ellis was constantly
upon the edge of trance. Once we were discussing the symbolism of
sex, in the philosophy of Blake, and had been in disagreement all
the afternoon. I began talking with a new sense of conviction, and
after a moment Ellis, who was at his easel, threw down his brush
and said that he had just seen the same explanation in a series of
symbolic visions. 'In another moment,' he said, 'I should have
been off.' We went into the open air and walked up and down to get
rid of that feeling, but presently we came in again and I began
again my explanation, Ellis lying upon the sofa. I had been
talking some time when Mrs. Ellis came into the room and said:
'Why are you sitting in the dark?' Ellis answered, 'But we are
not,' and then added in a voice of wonder, 'I thought the lamp was
lit and that I was sitting up, and I find I am in the dark and
lying down.' I had seen a flicker of light over the ceiling, but
had thought it a reflection from some light outside the house,
which may have been the case.


I had already met most of the poets of my generation. I had said,
soon after the publication of 'The Wanderings of Usheen,' to the
editor of a series of shilling reprints, who had set me to compile
tales of the Irish fairies, 'I am growing jealous of other poets,
and we will all grow jealous of each other unless we know each
other and so feel a share in each other's triumph.' He was a
Welshman, lately a mining engineer, Ernest Rhys, a writer of Welsh
translations and original poems that have often moved me greatly
though I can think of no one else who has read them. He was seven
or eight years older than myself and through his work as editor
knew everybody who would compile a book for seven or eight pounds.
Between us we founded 'The Rhymers' Club' which for some years was
to meet every night in an upper room with a sanded floor in an
ancient eating house in the Strand called 'The Cheshire Cheese.'
Lionel Johnson, Ernest Dowson, Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, John
Davidson, Richard le Gallienne, T. W. Rolleston, Selwyn Image and
two men of an older generation, Edwin Ellis and John Todhunter,
came constantly for a time, Arthur Symons and Herbert Home less
constantly, while William Watson joined but never came and Francis
Thompson came once but never joined; and sometimes, if we met in a
private house, which we did occasionally, Oscar Wilde came. It had
been useless to invite him to the 'Cheshire Cheese' for he hated
Bohemia. 'Olive Schreiner,' he said once to me, 'is staying in the
East End because that is the only place where people do not wear
masks upon their faces, but I have told her that I live in the
West End because nothing in life interests me but the mask.'

We read our poems to one another and talked criticism and drank a
little wine. I sometimes say when I speak of the club, 'We had
such and such ideas, such and such a quarrel with the great
Victorians, we set before us such and such aims,' as though we had
many philosophical ideas. I say this because I am ashamed to admit
that I had these ideas and that whenever I began to talk of them a
gloomy silence fell upon the room. A young Irish poet, who wrote
excellently but had the worst manners, was to say a few years
later, 'You do not talk like a poet, you talk like a man of
letters;' and if all the rhymers had not been polite, if most of
them had not been to Oxford or Cambridge, they would have said the
same thing. I was full of thought, often very abstract thought,
longing all the while to be full of images, because I had gone to
the art school instead of a university. Yet even if I had gone to
a university, and learned all the classical foundations of English
literature and English culture, all that great erudition which,
once accepted, frees the mind from restlessness, I should have had
to give up my Irish subject matter, or attempt to found a new
tradition. Lacking sufficient recognised precedent I must needs
find out some reason for all I did. I knew almost from the start
that to overflow with reasons was to be not quite well-born, and
when I could I hid them, as men hide a disagreeable ancestry; and
that there was no help for it, seeing that my country was not born
at all. I was of those doomed to imperfect achievement, and under
a curse, as it were, like some race of birds compelled to spend
the time, needed for the making of the nest, in argument as to the
convenience of moss and twig and lichen. Le Gallienne and
Davidson, and even Symons, were provincial at their setting out,
but their provincialism was curable, mine incurable; while the one
conviction shared by all the younger men, but principally by
Johnson and Horne, who imposed their personalities upon us, was an
opposition to all ideas, all generalisations that can be explained
and debated. E... fresh from Paris would sometimes say--'We are
concerned with nothing but impressions,' but that itself was a
generalisation and met but stony silence. Conversation constantly
dwindled into 'Do you like so and so's last book?' 'No, I prefer
the book before it,' and I think that but for its Irish members,
who said whatever came into their heads, the club would not have
survived its first difficult months. I knew--now ashamed that I
thought 'like a man of letters,' now exasperated at their
indifference to the fashion of their own river bed--that Swinburne
in one way, Browning in another, and Tennyson in a third, had
filled their work with what I called 'impurities,' curiosities
about politics, about science, about history, about religion; and
that we must create once more the pure work.

Our clothes were for the most part unadventurous like our
conversation, though I indeed wore a brown velveteen coat, a loose
tie and a very old Inverness cape, discarded by my father twenty
years before and preserved by my Sligo-born mother whose actions
were unreasoning and habitual like the seasons. But no other
member of the club, except Le Gallienne, who wore a loose tie, and
Symons, who had an Inverness cape that was quite new & almost
fashionable, would have shown himself for the world in any costume
but 'that of an English gentleman.' 'One should be quite
unnoticeable,' Johnson explained to me. Those who conformed most
carefully to the fashion in their clothes generally departed
furthest from it in their hand-writing, which was small, neat and
studied, one poet--which I forget--having founded his upon the
handwriting of George Herbert. Dowson and Symons I was to know
better in later years when Symons became a very dear friend, and I
never got behind John Davidson's Scottish roughness and
exasperation, though I saw much of him, but from the first I
devoted myself to Lionel Johnson. He and Horne and Image and one
or two others shared a man-servant and an old house in Charlotte
Street, Fitzroy Square, typical figures of transition, doing as an
achievement of learning and of exquisite taste what their
predecessors did in careless abundance. All were Pre-Raphaelite,
and sometimes one might meet in the rooms of one or other a ragged
figure, as of some fallen dynasty, Simeon Solomon, the Pre-Raphaelite
painter, once the friend of Rossetti and of Swinburne,
but fresh now from some low public house. Condemned to a long term
of imprisonment for a criminal offence, he had sunk into
drunkenness and misery. Introduced one night, however, to some man
who mistook him, in the dim candle light, for another Solomon, a
successful academic painter and R. A., he started to his feet in a
rage with 'Sir, do you dare to mistake me for that mountebank?'
Though not one had harkened to the feeblest caw, or been spattered
by the smallest dropping from any Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran,
Bastien-Lepage bundle of old twigs, I began by suspecting them of
lukewarmness, and even backsliding, and I owe it to that suspicion
that I never became intimate with Horne, who lived to become the
greatest English authority upon Italian life in the fourteenth
century and to write the one standard work on Botticelli.
Connoisseur in several arts, he had designed a little church in
the manner of Inigo Jones for a burial ground near the Marble
Arch. Though I now think his little church a masterpiece, its
style was more than a century too late to hit my fancy at two or
three and twenty; and I accused him of leaning towards that
eighteenth century

  That taught a school
  Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit
  Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
  Their verses tallied.

Another fanaticism delayed my friendship with two men, who are now
my friends and in certain matters my chief instructors. Somebody,
probably Lionel Johnson, brought me to the studio of Charles
Ricketts and Charles Shannon, certainly heirs of the great
generation, and the first thing I saw was a Shannon picture of a
lady and child arrayed in lace, silk and satin, suggesting that
hated century. My eyes were full of some more mythological mother
and child and I would have none of it, and I told Shannon that he
had not painted a mother and child but elegant people expecting
visitors and I thought that a great reproach. Somebody writing in
'The Germ' had said that a picture of a pheasant and an apple was
merely a picture of something to eat, and I was so angry with the
indifference to subject, which was the commonplace of all art
criticism since Bastien-Lepage, that I could at times see nothing
else but subject. I thought that, though it might not matter to
the man himself whether he loved a white woman or a black, a
female pickpocket or a regular communicant of the Church of
England, if only he loved strongly, it certainly did matter to his
relations and even under some circumstances to his whole
neighbourhood. Sometimes indeed, like some father in Moliere, I
ignored the lover's feelings altogether and even refused to admit
that a trace of the devil, perhaps a trace of colour, may lend
piquancy, especially if the connection be not permanent.

Among these men, of whom so many of the greatest talents were to
live such passionate lives and die such tragic deaths, one serene
man, T. W. Rolleston, seemed always out of place. It was I brought
him there, intending to set him to some work in Ireland later on.
I have known young Dublin working men slip out of their workshop
to see 'the second Thomas Davis' passing by, and even remember a
conspiracy, by some three or four, to make him 'the leader of the
Irish race at home & abroad,' and all because he had regular
features; and when all is said, Alexander the Great & Alcibiades
were personable men, and the Founder of the Christian religion was
the only man who was neither a little too tall nor a little too
short but exactly six feet high. We in Ireland thought as do the
plays and ballads, not understanding that, from the first moment
wherein nature foresaw the birth of Bastien-Lepage, she has only
granted great creative power to men whose faces are contorted with
extravagance or curiosity or dulled with some protecting

I had now met all those who were to make the nineties of the last
century tragic in the history of literature, but as yet we were
all seemingly equal, whether in talent or in luck, and scarce even
personalities to one another. I remember saying one night at the
Cheshire Cheese, when more poets than usual had come, 'None of us
can say who will succeed, or even who has or has not talent. The
only thing certain about us is that we are too many.'


I have described what image--always opposite to the natural self
or the natural world--Wilde, Henley, Morris copied or tried to
copy, but I have not said if I found an image for myself. I know
very little about myself and much less of that anti-self: probably
the woman who cooks my dinner or the woman who sweeps out my study
knows more than I. It is perhaps because nature made me a
gregarious man, going hither and thither looking for conversation,
and ready to deny from fear or favour his dearest conviction, that
I love proud and lonely images. When I was a child and went daily
to the sexton's daughter for writing lessons, I found one poem in
her School Reader that delighted me beyond all others: a fragment
of some metrical translation from Aristophanes wherein the birds
sing scorn upon mankind. In later years my mind gave itself to
gregarious Shelley's dream of a young man, his hair blanched with
sorrow studying philosophy in some lonely tower, or of his old
man, master of all human knowledge, hidden from human sight in
some shell-strewn cavern on the Mediterranean shore. One passage
above all ran perpetually in my ears--

  Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream
  He was pre-Adamite, and has survived
  Cycles of generation and of ruin.
  The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence,
  And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh,
  Deep contemplation and unwearied study,
  In years outstretched beyond the date of man,
  May have attained to sovereignty and science
  Over those strong and secret things and thoughts
  Which others fear and know not.

  I would talk
  With this old Jew.

  Thy will is even now
  Made known to him where he dwells in a sea-cavern
  'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible
  Than thou or God! He who would question him
  Must sail alone at sunset where the stream
  Of ocean sleeps around those foamless isles,
  When the young moon is westering as now,
  And evening airs wander upon the wave;
  And, when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle,
  Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow
  Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water,
  Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud
  'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round
  Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer
  Be granted, a faint meteor will arise,
  Lighting him over Marmora; and a wind
  Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest,
  And with the wind a storm of harmony
  Unutterably sweet, and pilot him
  Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus:
  Thence, at the hour and place and circumstance
  Fit for the matter of their conference,
  The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare
  Win the desired communion.

Already in Dublin, I had been attracted to the Theosophists
because they had affirmed the real existence of the Jew, or of his
like; and, apart from whatever might have been imagined by Huxley,
Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage, I saw nothing against
his reality. Presently having heard that Madame Blavatsky had
arrived from France, or from India, I thought it time to look the
matter up. Certainly if wisdom existed anywhere in the world it
must be in some such lonely mind admitting no duty to us,
communing with God only, conceding nothing from fear or favour.
Have not all peoples, while bound together in a single mind and
taste, believed that such men existed and paid them that honour,
or paid it to their mere shadow, which they have refused to
philanthropists and to men of learning?

I found Madame Blavatsky in a little house at Norwood, with but,
as she said, three followers left--the Society of Psychical
Research had just reported on her Indian phenomena--and as one of
the three followers sat in an outer room to keep out undesirable
visitors, I was kept a long time kicking my heels. Presently I was
admitted and found an old woman in a plain loose dark dress: a
sort of old Irish peasant woman with an air of humour and
audacious power. I was still kept waiting, for she was deep in
conversation with a woman visitor. I strayed through folding doors
into the next room and stood, in sheer idleness of mind, looking
at a cuckoo clock. It was certainly stopped, for the weights were
off and lying upon the ground, and yet as I stood there the cuckoo
came out and cuckooed at me. I interrupted Madame Blavatsky to
say. 'Your clock has hooted me.' 'It often hoots at a stranger,'
she replied. 'Is there a spirit in it?' I said. 'I do not know,'
she said, 'I should have to be alone to know what is in it.' I
went back to the clock and began examining it and heard her say
'Do not break my clock.' I wondered if there was some hidden
mechanism, and I should have been put out, I suppose, had I found
any, though Henley had said to me, 'Of course she gets up
fraudulent miracles, but a person of genius has to do something;
Sarah Bernhardt sleeps in her coffin.' Presently the visitor went
away and Madame Blavatsky explained that she was a propagandist
for women's rights who had called to find out 'why men were so
bad.' 'What explanation did you give her?' I said. 'That men were
born bad but women made themselves so,' and then she explained
that I had been kept waiting because she had mistaken me for some
man whose name resembled mine and who wanted to persuade her of
the flatness of the earth.

When I next saw her she had moved into a house at Holland Park,
and some time must have passed--probably I had been in Sligo where
I returned constantly for long visits--for she was surrounded by
followers. She sat nightly before a little table covered with
green baize and on this green baize she scribbled constantly with
a piece of white chalk. She would scribble symbols, sometimes
humorously applied, and sometimes unintelligible figures, but the
chalk was intended to mark down her score when she played
patience. One saw in the next room a large table where every night
her followers and guests, often a great number, sat down to their
vegetarian meal, while she encouraged or mocked through the
folding doors. A great passionate nature, a sort of female Dr.
Johnson, impressive, I think, to every man or woman who had
themselves any richness, she seemed impatient of the formalism, of
the shrill abstract idealism of those about her, and this
impatience broke out in railing & many nicknames: 'O you are a
flapdoodle, but then you are a theosophist and a brother. 'The
most devout and learned of all her followers said to me, 'H.P.B.
has just told me that there is another globe stuck on to this at
the north pole, so that the earth has really a shape something
like a dumb-bell.' I said, for I knew that her imagination
contained all the folklore of the world, 'That must be some piece
of Eastern mythology.' 'O no it is not,' he said, 'of that I am
certain, and there must be something in it or she would not have
said it.' Her mockery was not kept for her followers alone, and
her voice would become harsh, and her mockery lose phantasy and
humour, when she spoke of what seemed to her scientific
materialism. Once I saw this antagonism, guided by some kind of
telepathic divination, take a form of brutal phantasy. I brought a
very able Dublin woman to see her and this woman had a brother, a
physiologist whose reputation, though known to specialists alone,
was European; and, because of this brother, a family pride in
everything scientific and modern. The Dublin woman scarcely opened
her mouth the whole evening and her name was certainly unknown to
Madame Blavatsky, yet I saw at once in that wrinkled old face bent
over the cards, and the only time I ever saw it there, a personal
hostility, the dislike of one woman for another. Madame Blavatsky
seemed to bundle herself up, becoming all primeval peasant, and
began complaining of her ailments, more especially of her bad leg.
But of late her master--her 'old Jew,' her 'Ahasuerus,' cured it,
or set it on the way to be cured. 'I was sitting here in my
chair,' she said, 'when the master came in and brought something
with him which he put over my knee, something warm which enclosed
my knee--it was a live dog which he had cut open.' I recognised a
cure used sometimes in mediaeval medicine. She had two masters,
and their portraits, ideal Indian heads, painted by some most
incompetent artist, stood upon either side of the folding doors.
One night, when talk was impersonal and general, I sat gazing
through the folding doors into the dimly lighted dining-room
beyond. I noticed a curious red light shining upon a picture and
got up to see where the red light came from. It was the picture of
an Indian and as I came near it slowly vanished. When I returned
to my seat, Madame Blavatsky said, 'What did you see?' 'A
picture,' I said. 'Tell it to go away.' 'It is already gone.' 'So
much the better,' she said, 'I was afraid it was medium ship but
it is only clairvoyance.' 'What is the difference?' 'If it had
been medium ship, it would have stayed in spite of you. Beware of
medium ship; it is a kind of madness; I know, for I have been
through it.'

I found her almost always full of gaiety that, unlike the
occasional joking of those about her, was illogical and
incalculable and yet always kindly and tolerant. I had called one
evening to find her absent, but expected every moment. She had
been somewhere at the seaside for her health and arrived with a
little suite of followers. She sat down at once in her big chair,
and began unfolding a brown paper parcel, while all looked on full
of curiosity. It contained a large family Bible. 'This is a
present for my maid,' she said. 'What! A Bible and not even
anointed!' said some shocked voice. 'Well my children,' was the
answer, 'what is the good of giving lemons to those who want
oranges?' When I first began to frequent her house, as I soon did
very constantly, I noticed a handsome clever woman of the world
there, who seemed certainly very much out of place, penitent
though she thought herself. Presently there was much scandal and
gossip, for the penitent was plainly entangled with two young men,
who were expected to grow into ascetic sages. The scandal was so
great that Madame Blavatsky had to call the penitent before her
and to speak after this fashion, 'We think that it is necessary to
crush the animal nature; you should live in chastity in act and
thought. Initiation is granted only to those who are entirely
chaste,' and so to run on for some time. However, after some
minutes in that vehement style, the penitent standing crushed and
shamed before her, she had wound up, 'I cannot permit you more
than one.' She was quite sincere, but thought that nothing
mattered but what happened in the mind, and that if we could not
master the mind, our actions were of little importance. One young
man filled her with exasperation; for she thought that his settled
gloom came from his chastity. I had known him in Dublin, where he
had been accustomed to interrupt long periods of asceticism, in
which he would eat vegetables and drink water, with brief
outbreaks of what he considered the devil. After an outbreak he
would for a few hours dazzle the imagination of the members of the
local theosophical society with poetical rhapsodies about harlots
and street lamps, and then sink into weeks of melancholy. A fellow
theosophist once found him hanging from the window pole, but cut
him down in the nick of time. I said to the man who cut him down,
'What did you say to one another?' He said, 'We spent the night
telling comic stories and laughing a great deal.' This man, torn
between sensuality and visionary ambition, was now the most devout
of all, and told me that in the middle of the night he could often
hear the ringing of the little 'astral bell' whereby Madame
Blavatsky's master called her attention, and that, although it was
a low silvery sound it made the whole house shake. Another night I
found him waiting in the hall to show in those who had the right
of entrance on some night when the discussion was private, and as
I passed he whispered into my ear, 'Madame Blavatsky is perhaps
not a real woman at all. They say that her dead body was found
many years ago upon some Russian battlefield.' She had two
dominant moods, both of extreme activity, but one calm and
philosophic, and this was the mood always on that night in the
week, when she answered questions upon her system; and as I look
back after thirty years I often ask myself 'Was her speech
automatic? Was she for one night, in every week, a trance medium,
or in some similar state?' In the other mood she was full of
phantasy and inconsequent raillery. 'That is the Greek church, a
triangle like all true religion,' I recall her saying, as she
chalked out a triangle on the green baize, and then, as she made
it disappear in meaningless scribbles 'it spread out and became a
bramble-bush like the Church of Rome.' Then rubbing it all out
except one straight line, 'Now they have lopped off the branches
and turned it into a broomstick arid that is Protestantism.' And
so it was, night after night, always varied and unforseen. I have
observed a like sudden extreme change in others, half whose
thought was supernatural, and Laurence Oliphant records some where
or other like observations. I can remember only once finding her
in a mood of reverie; something had happened to damp her spirits,
some attack upon her movement, or upon herself. She spoke of
Balzac, whom she had seen but once, of Alfred de Musset, whom she
had known well enough to dislike for his morbidity, and of George
Sand whom she had known so well that they had dabbled in magic
together of which 'neither knew anything at all' in those days;
and she ran on, as if there was nobody there to overhear her, 'I
used to wonder at and pity the people who sell their souls to the
devil, but now I only pity them. They do it to have somebody on
their sides,' and added to that, after some words I have
forgotten, 'I write, write, write as the Wandering Jew walks,
walks, walks.' Besides the devotees, who came to listen and to
turn every doctrine into a new sanction for the puritanical
convictions of their Victorian childhood, cranks came from half
Europe and from all America, and they came that they might talk.
One American said to me, 'She has become the most famous woman in
the world by sitting in a big chair and permitting us to talk.'
They talked and she played patience, and totted up her score on
the green baize, and generally seemed to listen, but sometimes she
would listen no more. There was a woman who talked perpetually of
'the divine spark' within her, until Madame Blavatsky stopped her
with--'Yes, my dear, you have a divine spark within you, and if
you are not very careful you will hear it snore.' A certain
Salvation Army captain probably pleased her, for, if vociferous
and loud of voice, he had much animation. He had known hardship
and spoke of his visions while starving in the streets and he was
still perhaps a little light in the head. I wondered what he could
preach to ignorant men, his head ablaze with wild mysticism, till
I met a man who had heard him talking near Covent Garden to some
crowd in the street. 'My friends,' he was saying, 'you have the
kingdom of heaven within you and it would take a pretty big pill
to get that out.'


Meanwhile I had not got any nearer to proving that 'Ahasuerus
dwells in a sea-cavern 'mid the Demonesi,' but one conclusion I
certainly did come to, which I find written out in an old diary
and dated 1887. Madame Blavatsky's 'masters' were 'trance'
personalities, but by 'trance personalities' I meant something
almost as exciting as 'Ahasuerus' himself. Years before I had
found, on a table in the Royal Irish Academy, a pamphlet on
Japanese art, and read there of an animal painter so remarkable
that horses he had painted upon a temple wall had stepped down
after and trampled the neighbouring fields of rice. Somebody had
come to the temple in the early morning, been startled by a shower
of water drops, looked up and seen a painted horse, still wet from
the dew-covered fields, but now 'trembling into stillness.' I
thought that her masters were imaginary forms created by
suggestion, but whether that suggestion came from Madame
Blavatsky's own mind or from some mind, perhaps at a great
distance, I did not know; and I believed that these forms could
pass from Madame Blavatsky's mind to the minds of others, and even
acquire external reality, and that it was even possible that they
talked and wrote. They were born in the imagination, where Blake
had declared that all men live after death, and where 'every man
is king or priest in his own house.' Certainly the house at
Holland Park was a romantic place, where one heard of constant
apparitions and exchanged speculations like those of the middle
ages, and I did not separate myself from it by my own will. The
Secretary, an intelligent and friendly man, asked me to come and
see him, and when I did, complained that I was causing discussion
and disturbance, a certain fanatical hungry face had been noticed
red and tearful, & it was quite plain that I was not in full
agreement with their method or their philosophy. 'I know,' he
said, 'that all these people become dogmatic and fanatical because
they believe what they can never prove; that their withdrawal from
family life is to them a great misfortune; but what are we to do?
We have been told that all spiritual influx into the society will
come to an end in 1897 for exactly one hundred years. Before that
date our fundamental ideas must be spread through the world.' I
knew the doctrine and it had made me wonder why that old woman, or
rather 'the trance personalities' who directed her and were her
genius, insisted upon it, for influx of some kind there must
always be. Did they dread heresy after the death of Madame
Blavatsky, or had they no purpose but the greatest possible
immediate effort?


At the British Museum reading-room I often saw a man of thirty-six
or thirty-seven, in a brown velveteen coat, with a gaunt resolute
face, and an athletic body, who seemed before I heard his name, or
knew the nature of his studies, a figure of romance. Presently I
was introduced, where or by what man or woman I do not remember.
He was Macgregor Mathers, the author of the 'Kabbalas Unveiled,' &
his studies were two only--magic and the theory of war, for he
believed himself a born commander and all but equal in wisdom and
in power to that old Jew. He had copied many manuscripts on magic
ceremonial and doctrine in the British Museum, and was to copy
many more in continental libraries, and it was through him mainly
that I began certain studies and experiences that were to convince
me that images well up before the mind's eye from a deeper source
than conscious or subconscious memory. I believe that his mind in
those early days did not belie his face and body, though in later
years it became unhinged, for he kept a proud head amid great
poverty. One that boxed with him nightly has told me that for many
weeks he could knock him down, though Macgregor was the stronger
man, and only knew long after that during those weeks Macgregor
starved. With him I met an old white-haired Oxfordshire clergyman,
the most panic-stricken person I have ever known, though
Macgregor's introduction had been 'He unites us to the great
adepts of antiquity.' This old man took me aside that he might
say--'I hope you never invoke spirits--that is a very dangerous
thing to do. I am told that even the planetary spirits turn upon
us in the end.' I said, 'Have you ever seen an apparition?' 'O
yes, once,' he said. 'I have my alchemical laboratory in a cellar
under my house where the Bishop cannot see it. One day I was
walking up & down there when I heard another footstep walking up
and down beside me. I turned and saw a girl I had been in love
with when I was a young man, but she died long ago. She wanted me
to kiss her. Oh no, I would not do that.' 'Why not?' I said. 'Oh,
she might have got power over me.' 'Has your alchemical research
had any success?' I said. 'Yes, I once made the elixir of life. A
French alchemist said it had the right smell and the right
colour,' (The alchemist may have been Elephas Levi, who visited
England in the sixties, & would have said anything) 'but the first
effect of the elixir is that your nails fall out and your hair
falls off. I was afraid that I might have made a mistake and that
nothing else might happen, so I put it away on a shelf. I meant to
drink it when I was an old man, but when I got it down the other
day it had all dried up.'


I generalized a great deal and was ashamed of it. I thought that
it was my business in life to bean artist and a poet, and that
there could be no business comparable to that. I refused to read
books, and even to meet people who excited me to generalization,
but all to no purpose. I said my prayers much as in childhood,
though without the old regularity of hour and place, and I began
to pray that my imagination might somehow be rescued from
abstraction, and become as pre-occupied with life as had been the
imagination of Chaucer. For ten or twelve years more I suffered
continual remorse, and only became content when my abstractions
had composed themselves into picture and dramatization. My very
remorse helped to spoil my early poetry, giving it an element of
sentimentality through my refusal to permit it any share of an
intellect which I considered impure. Even in practical life I only
very gradually began to use generalizations, that have since
become the foundation of all I have done, or shall do, in Ireland.
For all I know, all men may have been as timid; for I am persuaded
that our intellects at twenty contain all the truths we shall ever
find, but as yet we do not know truths that belong to us from
opinions caught up in casual irritation or momentary phantasy. As
life goes on we discover that certain thoughts sustain us in
defeat, or give us victory, whether over ourselves or others, & it
is these thoughts, tested by passion, that we call convictions.
Among subjective men (in all those, that is, who must spin a web
out of their own bowels) the victory is an intellectual daily
recreation of all that exterior fate snatches away, and so that
fate's antithesis; while what I have called 'The mask' is an
emotional antithesis to all that comes out of their internal
nature. We begin to live when we have conceived life as a tragedy.


A conviction that the world was now but a bundle of fragments
possessed me without ceasing. I had tried this conviction on 'The
Rhymers,' thereby plunging into greater silence an already too
silent evening. 'Johnson,' I was accustomed to say, 'you are the
only man I know whose silence has beak & claw.' I had lectured on
it to some London Irish society, and I was to lecture upon it
later on in Dublin, but I never found but one interested man, an
official of the Primrose League, who was also an active member of
the Fenian Brotherhood. 'I am an extreme conservative apart from
Ireland,' I have heard him explain; and I have no doubt that
personal experience made him share the sight of any eye that saw
the world in fragments. I had been put into a rage by the
followers of Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage,
who not only asserted the unimportance of subject, whether in art
or literature, but the independence of the arts from one another.
Upon the other hand I delighted in every age where poet and artist
confined themselves gladly to some inherited subject matter known
to the whole people, for I thought that in man and race alike
there is something called 'unity of being,' using that term as
Dante used it when he compared beauty in the _Convito_ to a
perfectly proportioned human body. My father, from whom I had
learned the term, preferred a comparison to a musical instrument
so strong that if we touch a string all the strings murmur
faintly. There is not more desire, he had said, in lust than in
true love; but in true love desire awakens pity, hope, affection,
admiration, and, given appropriate circumstance, every emotion
possible to man. When I began, however, to apply this thought to
the State and to argue for a law-made balance among trades and
occupations, my father displayed at once the violent free-trader
and propagandist of liberty. I thought that the enemy of this
unity was abstraction, meaning by abstraction not the distinction
but the isolation of occupation, or class or faculty--

  'Call down the hawk from the air
  Let him be hooded, or caged,
  Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
  For larder and spit are bare,
  The old cook enraged,
  The scullion gone wild.'

I knew no mediaeval cathedral, and Westminster, being a part of
abhorred London, did not interest me; but I thought constantly of
Homer and Dante and the tombs of Mausolus and Artemisa, the great
figures of King and Queen and the lesser figures of Greek and
Amazon, Centaur and Greek. I thought that all art should be a
Centaur finding in the popular lore its back and its strong legs.
I got great pleasure too from remembering that Homer was sung, and
from that tale of Dante hearing a common man sing some stanza from
'The Divine Comedy,' and from Don Quixote's meeting with some
common man that sang Ariosto. Morris had never seemed to care for
any poet later than Chaucer; and though I preferred Shakespeare to
Chaucer I begrudged my own preference. Had not Europe shared one
mind and heart, until both mind and heart began to break into
fragments a little before Shakespeare's birth? Music and verse
began to fall apart when Chaucer robbed verse of its speed that he
might give it greater meditation, though for another generation or
so minstrels were to sing his long elaborated 'Troilus and
Cressida;' painting parted from religion in the later Renaissance
that it might study effects of tangibility undisturbed; while,
that it might characterise, where it had once personified, it
renounced, in our own age, all that inherited subject matter which
we have named poetry. Presently I was indeed to number character
itself among the abstractions, encouraged by Congreve's saying
that 'passions are too powerful in the fair sex to let humour,' or
as we say character, 'have its course.' Nor have we fared better
under the common daylight, for pure reason has notoriously made
but light of practical reason, and has been made but light of in
its turn, from that morning when Descartes discovered that he
could think better in his bed than out of it; nor needed I
original thought to discover, being so late of the school of
Morris, that machinery had not separated from handicraft wholly
for the world's good; nor to notice that the distinction of
classes had become their isolation. If the London merchants of our
day competed together in writing lyrics they would not, like the
Tudor merchants, dance in the open street before the house of the
victor; nor do the great ladies of London finish their balls on
the pavement before their doors as did the great Venetian ladies
even in the eighteenth century, conscious of an all enfolding
sympathy. Doubtless because fragments broke into even smaller
fragments we saw one another in a light of bitter comedy, and in
the arts, where now one technical element reigned and now another,
generation hated generation, and accomplished beauty was snatched
away when it had most engaged our affections. One thing I did not
foresee, not having the courage of my own thought--the growing
murderousness of the world.

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre
  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
  The best lack all conviction, while the worst
  Are full of passionate intensity.


The Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage coven asserted
that an artist or a poet must paint or write in the style of his
own day, and this with 'The Fairy Queen,' and 'Lyrical Ballads,'
and Blake's early poems in its ears, and plain to the eyes, in
book or gallery, those great masterpieces of later Egypt, founded
upon that work of the Ancient Kingdom already further in time from
later Egypt than later Egypt is from us. I knew that I could
choose my style where I pleased, that no man can deny to the human
mind any power, that power once achieved; and yet I did not wish
to recover the first simplicity. If I must be but a shepherd
building his hut among the ruins of some fallen city, I might take
porphyry or shaped marble, if it lay ready to my hand, instead of
the baked clay of the first builders. If Chaucer's personages had
disengaged themselves from Chaucer's crowd, forgotten their common
goal and shrine, and after sundry magnifications become, each in
his turn, the centre of some Elizabethan play, and a few years
later split into their elements, and so given birth to romantic
poetry, I need not reverse the cinematograph. I could take those
separated elements, all that abstract love and melancholy, and
give them a symbolical or mythological coherence. Not Chaucer's
rough-tongued riders, but some procession of the Gods! a
pilgrimage no more but perhaps a shrine! Might I not, with health
and good luck to aid me, create some new 'Prometheus Unbound,'
Patrick or Columbcille, Oisin or Fion, in Prometheus's stead, and,
instead of Caucasus, Croagh-Patrick or Ben Bulben? Have not all
races had their first unity from a polytheism that marries them to
rock and hill? We had in Ireland imaginative stories, which the
uneducated classes knew and even sang, and might we not make those
stories current among the educated classes, re-discovering for the
work's sake what I have called 'the applied arts of literature,'
the association of literature, that is, with music, speech and
dance; and at last, it might be, so deepen the political passion
of the nation that all, artist and poet, craftsman and day
labourer would accept a common design? Perhaps even these images,
once created and associated with river and mountain, might move of
themselves, and with some powerful even turbulent life, like those
painted horses that trampled the rice fields of Japan.


I used to tell the few friends to whom I could speak these secret
thoughts that I would make the attempt in Ireland but fail, for
our civilisation, its elements multiplying by divisions like
certain low forms of life, was all powerful; but in reality I had
the wildest hopes. To-day I add to that first conviction, to that
first desire for unity, this other conviction, long a mere opinion
vaguely or intermittently apprehended: Nations, races and
individual men are unified by an image, or bundle of related
images, symbolical or evocative of the state of mind, which is of
all states of mind not impossible, the most difficult to that man,
race or nation; because only the greatest obstacle that can be
contemplated without despair rouses the will to full intensity. A
powerful class by terror, rhetoric, and organised sentimentality,
may drive their people to war, but the day draws near when they
cannot keep them there; and how shall they face the pure nations
of the East when the day comes to do it with but equal arms? I had
seen Ireland in my own time turn from the bragging rhetoric and
gregarious humour of O'Connell's generation and school, and offer
herself to the solitary and proud Parnell as to her anti-self,
buskin following hard on sock; and I had begun to hope, or to
half-hope, that we might be the first in Europe to seek unity as
deliberately as it had been sought by theologian, poet, sculptor,
architect from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. Doubtless
we must seek it differently, no longer considering it convenient
to epitomise all human knowledge, but find it we well might, could
we first find philosophy and a little passion.


It was the death of Parnell that convinced me that the moment had
come for work in Ireland, for I knew that for a time the
imagination of young men would turn from politics. There was a
little Irish patriotic society of young people, clerks, shop-boys,
shop-girls, and the like, called the Southwark Irish Literary
Society. It had ceased to meet because each member of the
committee had lectured so many times that the girls got the
giggles whenever he stood up. I invited the committee to my
father's house at Bedford Park and there proposed a new
organisation. After a few months spent in founding, with the help
of T. W. Rolleston, who came to that first meeting and had a
knowledge of committee work I lacked, the Irish Literary Society,
which soon included every London Irish author and journalist, I
went to Dublin and founded there a similar society.

W. B. Yeats.

  Here ends 'Four Years,' written by
  William Butler Yeats. Four hundred
  copies of this book have been
  printed and published by Elizabeth
  C. Yeats on paper made in Ireland,
  at the Cuala Press, Churchtown,
  Dundrum, in the County of Dublin,
  Ireland. Finished on All Hallows'
  Eve, in the year nineteen hundred
  and twenty one.

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