FOUR YEARS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (Excerpt)

FOUR YEARS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (Excerpt)

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 ared-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.

II

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.

III

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 of.

IV

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 someone 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.

V

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.'