Fiction Extract for Patrons: WB Yeats's First Breach with Charley Johnston

The image above is of Charles Johnston (1867 – 1931), Irish schoolfriend of W.B. Yeats and one of the core founders of the Theosophist Movement. A Sanskrit scholar, he wrote numerous books on Theosophy, as well as many Sanskrit translations. His wife Vera Vladimirovna de Zhelihovsky was niece to the (in)famous Madame Blavatsky—who is also a real-life character in my Gonne-Yeats novel series, and soon to appear in these pages. *** Outside, the downpour was worse, if anything. Street puddles had swollen into small lakes, as gutters overspilled and little landslides of mud were running off the roads. It felt like even the air had turned to water, but heading back, they had full bellies, always a help, and a return journey always feels shorter than a setting-out. Charley caught his eye and said, “Iolanthe, eh?” But W.B. shot him a look that said, leave it be, not a word more on that. Charley was two years younger than his friend and always quick to back down in moments like this. So instead, he asked something he actually cared about, whether he might have first go at the Esoteric Buddhism book. Also a no-goer. “It was my aunt who gave it, Johnston,” W.B. said. “Nephew’s privilege, and all that.” “I just thought…” He spoke in that half-casual, half-eager way he had. “I just suggest… as I am the Hermetic Society’s foremost student of Theosophy that we might—” “But I am its founder. Naturally, I have first claim.” “I have been digging deeper into Theosophy,” Charley said, all a fidget as he always was when he put an idea to his older friend that he thought might meet opposition. “I believe… it might be the all-encompassing philosophy we’re after." This was bigger than anything he'd ever put to W.B. before, and Charley had intended to choose his moment for raising it. Blurting it out like this in the middle of a rainstorm was certainly not how he’d planned it, but there it was, tossed into the waters. He hoped he wouldn't drown in the splash. True to prediction, W.B. laughed his most superior laugh. “Theosophy covers some interesting thoughts, Johnston, but it’s no keystone to the universe.” “Is it not the unified vision we have been searching for?” W.B. surprised him then by stopping where he was, in the middle of Stephen’s Green among the rained-upon flowerbeds, and beginning to recite: “I’m an Esoterical swell / A boss of the Buddhists as well, A Theosophistico…” “Dash it all, Yeats, keep moving. I’m drowning here!” “No, wait. It’s actually quite amusing.” W.B. started up again, as though their collars weren’t being turned to sponges, and people weren’t looking at them like they were a pair of madmen. “I’m an Esoterical swell / A boss of the Buddhists…” “We can be amused and move at the same time.” “No. You can’t walk and actually listen. It needs your full attention. Listen. ‘I’m an Esoterical swell...’” “Yeats!” The sharp tone of Charley’s rebuke broke through. W.B. came out of his determination, looked up at the rain coming down, as if it were a new discovery, and across to his friend, with a grin of acknowledgement. Then with a shared look, they both broke into a run. Feet slapping, they darted out the little side-gate of the park and, ducking between carts and carriages, crossed the road. They ran past the coaches and the drivers hunched beneath their dripping hats. The line had grown longer outside the dressmaker, and they ran past them all, past the museum, then back under the arched library gate. Then it was up the two broad stone steps, into the dry haven of the portico, where the rain couldn’t touch them. Bent over, gasping for air, Charley spluttered, “This recitation of yours had better be worth that extra soaking,” trying to wipe the mud off his ankles with his handkerchief. Once WB steadied his heaving breath, he began again with gusto.

I’m an Esoterical swell,
A boss of the Buddhists as well,
A Theosophistico-
Occulto-Mystico-
Koot Hoomi Lal Singhi swell.

I can talk of Blavatsky’s sweet bell,
Of the ‘Brothers’ a lot I can tell,
For I’m an Electrico-
Psycho-Eclectico-
Koot Hoomi Lal Singhi swell.

I chum with the Yankee Colonel,
In Sanskrit I read, write and spell,
For I’m a Buddhistico-
Yogi-o-Mystico-
Koot Hoomi Lal Singhi swell.

If W.B. really thought Charley was going to be amused with this anti-theosophist ditty, he was mistaken. Charley said nothing, just cast his eyes to heaven.

WB carried on smiling to himself. “It’s called ‘The Young Buds: T.C.D’. Who do you think wrote it?”

“Who cares who wrote it? Some ignoramous who turns the most sacred matters to laughter.”

“Do you think it was Oldham himself? It is to publish in the July issue of the DUR. The same issue my poems will appear.

“Ah!”

“Ah! What does ‘Ah’ mean?”

Charley shifted, uneasily.

“Should I resent your implication, Johnston?”

“I don’t think we care that we are laughed at, do we, by our editors or anyone else? Our band of brothers put this to bed when we considered when we considered the claim that Madame Blavatsky is but a common fraudster.”

The Society for Psychical Research had recently done an investigation, with many interviews and observations, and concluded that Madame Blavatsky “deserved remembrance as one of the most accomplished, ingenious, and interesting imposters of history.” Madame had airily dismissed the elaborate but misdirected inquiries that spent infinite patience over trifles but was blind to what was most important, and her followers, including Charley, held that the investigator, a Mr Hodgson, had selected evidence that suited his conclusion--picking only the sour apples from the tree, leaving what was sweetest to rot.

WB said: “I agree the fraud theory falls short but we do best to have no theories about Madame at all. We should see her as a note of interrogation. A living question.”

Charley took hold of his courage. “Men need more than questions, Yeats. They need answers.”

“They need mystery. They need beauty.”

“What is more beautiful than a sacred answer to a life question? Theosophy is not dogma, Yeats, it’s a gathering of truths. Mr. Sinnett’s book has already showed us how it pulls wisdom from every tradition, and finds the common thread. I don’t expect this new edition to differ on that fundamental.”

W.B. was not about to allow Theosophy to entwine itself, like ivy, around every crack in his mind. He was curious, to be sure, but his own mind was more like like a magpie’s nest than an opening to one philosophy. He was gathering together the most glittering thought from Theosophy, but also from the classics of Greece and Rome, the testaments of early Christians, certain gems of the medievals, and the fevered dreams of the English poets, especially the pre-Raphaelites and Romantics. From these soulful poets and alchemists, he wanted to build a new church. A faith of feeling, built--not like the Christians, on rock and hierarchy and not like the Theosphists on whispers from hidden masters--but on the poetry and symbol that had lasted through time.

He was coming to believe in the infallibility of his church of sign and song with all the fervour of a young man who had been locked out of heaven by Darwinism, and was recreating it in his own image.

He didn’t want to follow Madame Blavatsky, he wanted to emulate her success. He wanted to emulate Christ’s success. And he intended to be Esoteric Buddhism’s first reader, so he could guide their society’s thought about it.

“Is not the job of our society," Charley asked, "to bring forth what Madame calls the Higher Truths, wherever we find them?”

“Not to turn them into tenets.” W.B. waved his hand, airily. “No.”

“By whose say-so?”

WB didn’t reply, by my say-so as founder and chief organiser of the Dublin Hermetic Society. It was too obvious and he was too stung at being challenged in this way. Since they had met at The High School, Charley had soaked up his wisdoms, like a thirsty plant. Now he had the look of a young goat on a mountain ledge, legs planted and eyes defiant.

“You are afraid, Johnston, of what lies beyond the veil.”

“You are afraid, Yeats, that someone might know better than you.”

They stood eye to eye. The rhythm of the rain drumming down on granite filled the charged silence. Charley had more to say, but he decided to sit on his tongue for now, and perhaps they might have been alright if they’d left it there. But W.B. was his father’s son, and not one to leave a silence untouched.

In his most superior tone, he said, “Some seek a map, Johnston, but what will effect the change our Society wants, the change that is coming, is the men who seek the stars.”