Fiction: Extract from A Life Before: Yearnings

This is extract is from A Life Before, a prequel to Her Secret Rose, which I published some years ago--and which has now morphed into a series of seven books, the first of which will publish in October 2023.

This extract introduces the poet as a young man.

It was an April evening in Dublin, in the year of our Lord 1886, and a breezy one it was too, with gusts that would lift the hat from your head. At the top window of one of those grand tall houses in York St turned to tenement, a young poet stood, still as a Celtic cross as he gazed out at the seagulls circling the wind. The birds were screaming their close of day screams at each other, and at the width of the world. At them he stared, but also through them at visions of his own.

A queer sort of vertigo it was giving him to be higher than the birds, to look down on them gliding the air beneath him. The freedom of their flight summoned up the soft seashore days he’d enjoyed with Laura, while looking into their cold eyes and hooked beaks so close up was unleashing great billows of grief for her loss. These surges of sorrow were ill-timed, given that he was just about to stand before his peers give a speech. And not just any old talk. He was about to strip his spirit bare, unfold his faith and his deepest desires for their shared endeavour to the other young men in the room behind him, young men he’d hitherto thought were his friends. He had to hurl himself into the unknown, not knowing whether they’d catch him and bear him up on the wings of comradeship, or see him plunge into the abyss, alone.

A queer sort of vertigo it may be giving you to see Mr W.B. Yeats framed in all his youthful uncertainty. Great writers come down through time weighted with grandeur, and none more than the lofty W.B., but greatness as yet was only a yearning in him. Back in 1886, he was as lost as any other lanky lad who had to go to battle with his friends, trailing a lost love and a disintegrating home life behind him. Haughty of head, but with anxious fingers twirling in sweaty hands, handsome of feature but with a squinting eye, costumed in dress with a billowing poet’s tie at his scrawny throat, but same clothes well-worn and patched.

He’d knotted that tie thinking of Laura and he was thinking of her still, as he gazed down on the gulls. All still remained a reminder, that was the truth of it. He'd cast a horoscope to see if she'd come, and the stars had given good omens, so where was she? Earth had completed a full circle round the sun since he'd last laid eyes on her, so she must surely know by now that she could never live the life of a solicitor’s wife. “The Accreditation of the Dublin Hermetic Society”, he'd titled the meeting, knowing that would intrigue her, certain that her curiosity wouldn't allow her to miss it. Yet here they were, five minutes to the hour, and the room still short of her presence.

And that of Miss Weekes and Miss Gyles, whose he’d also invited, to avert the criticism that their little society was male-bound and because, in truth, women were more easily drawn to the ancient knowledge that was the very subject of their society. The wisdom passed down by sages who sat under banyan trees a thousand years before the coming of Christ.

Behind the back he’d firmly turned to the room his old friend and new rival, Charles Johnston, was now whispering to Smeeth. Save for the soft tick of the ancient mantle clock, an occasional chair scrape, and such sentences passed in undertone, the room was encased in a hard silence. Each knew his action would mean the defeat of one friend or the other and none favored having to make such a public choice.

Instead of staring out the window, he should be doing as Johnston was behind him – working the room, eyeing his friends to exert feeling, whispering last-minute words of persuasion. Wright was certainly Johnston’s but Weekes might be swayed his way. Magee too. Russell, his new friend at the Art School, he believed he could count on. But had he a majority?

Were seagulls a good omen, or ill? Many thought them the most selfish of birds. The kitchen help back at their Howth house told an old Irish tale of how the oystercatchers lent the webs of their feet to the seagulls, who never returned them, which was why oystercatchers’ feet were so scant of web, and their call so forlorn. Tonight he felt the little birds’ betrayal as his own. Johnston thought he could take the Dublin Hermetic Society, his society if such belongs to founder and leader, in similar fashion. And that he would prove as ineffectual in his objection as the oystercatcher was to the seagull.

Maybe he was, standing here immobile, wedded to the window, to the slender white wings calling him away, away from agendas and verdicts, into the sky to follow the last rays of the sun fading behind Dublin's distant hills. Always this divide between wanting and doing. It was the same with his work. Between the thought (he must write) and the deed (doing some writing) lay a fearsome chasm filled with daydreams and a sickly guilt.

He needed Laura. When inviting her, he’d thought only of how she would bear witness to his triumph. Then triumph had seemed more certain. Now he saw that he needed her touch of half-insane genius to spark his fire. It was she who got him writing his first play. Without her wish to act, Vivien, Clarin and the other characters would not exist.

Tonight was a different sort of donnybrook. A man serves a quest like his by wrapping his mind in armour and taking sword in hand. He was armed and shielded, ready for the fray. Still he longed for his fair lady to hoist his banner for the joust.

The bell rang. The time was come to take their seats.

As he turned to make his way to the top table he found Johnston heading the same way, facing him. Their gazes collided and as swiftly parted, kindling three incidents in W.B.’s memory.

The time they'd run into old Wilkins, their headmaster, on Grafton Street and he'd given W.B. a scolding for leading Charley into the occult. Such tomfoolery might be acceptable at The Art College but Johnston was still a schoolboy, and in danger of failing his exams, on account of neglecting his studies for spirits and sorcery.

The time the pair of them had rowed out to Ireland’s Eye, and the outgoing tide marooned their boat in the sand. Hungry and cold, without food or topcoats, they were forced to wait for the tide’s slow turn. Talking philosophical theory had kept them content, as they walked and climbed the cliffs for warmth, until long past midnight when they were eventually rescued. Afterwards, they’d both deemed it a perfect day.

The time after reading Baron Von Reichenbach's work on magnetism when they'd each told their fathers they were spending the night with the other, so they could be locked in into the National Museum, come closing time. They’d set their hearts on seeing the big crystals displayed there by night, for the good Baron said crystals contain a powerful level of Odic force, which at dead of night manifested an aura visible to those sensitive enough to see. Nothing doing for either of them but it had made for a great adventure.

Together as one in all, he and Charley had been, until the day W.B. lent him the book given him by his aunt, the book all Dublin and all London were talking about: Esoteric Buddhism by A.P. Sinnett. They'd both gone into that book with equal enthusiasm, but Johnston came out an esoteric Buddhist. It was goodbye to his plan of becoming a South Seas missionary and hello to offering himself as a chela to Mme Blavatsky. While in London doing his examination for the East Indian Civil Service he searched out Mr Sinnett, and met Madame Blavatsky's niece, and placed himself under their spell.

Now all he and WB shared was a sliding away of the eyes from the chasm of difference between them. They took their places at the top table, on each side of Smeeth, who rose and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, we have before us a matter of grave importance,” he began, in his Trinity College accent and sober tones, as if he was addressing a room of dignitaries, and not a pack of youths barely out of school. “As president, Mr Yeats would normally chair but given the nature of the decision before us, it falls to me to guide us through the evening’s proceedings, and I will endeavour to do them justice.”

Smeeth nudged his pince-nez spectacles up the bridge of his nose and let them fall back down again. The matter he put before them was a simple one-way vote, Yea or Nay, as to whether their society should remain independent as The Dublin Hermetic Society, or reorganize as a lodge of the London Theosophical Society. The motion was first proposed by Mr Johnston last June, in the wake of his visit to London to meet with members of that esteemed society, but at that time, Mr Yeats refused the suggestion of a new affilation. In view of continued disagreement, it was agreed that the matter must be put to a member vote. Ergo, he now invited the two men to speak in favour and against, in a speech no longer than three minutes each. At Mr Yeats’s request, Mr Johnston would make his addresses first.

Charley shot up into his standing, quicker than a startled hare, and began to speak, without notes. “Gentlemen, may I begin by saying that it is largely due to the foresight and energy of our esteemed president, Mr W.B. Yeats, that this group meets monthly in this room to explore the philosophies of such keen interest to us all. For his knowledge of the occult traditions, and his notable gift for encouraging us in our studies and explorations, I,”—here he touched himself on the heart—“and I know everyone in this room,”—here he threw out his hands as if to embrace them all—“will be eternally grateful.”

But….” Now, he raised an admonishing index finger. “The question in hand is not related to the competency of our president or any man's admiration for him. If it were, I would not be standing before you this evening for my personal esteem for that distinguished gentleman is limitless. No. What I have had to consider—what we all have to consider—is the state of today’s world bereft of Spirit and Truth.”

His voice put a capital letter on those two words and he allowed a significant silence to follow, and fall around them. His audience gazed up at him, captivated. W.B. stared down at the floor.

“I do not plead lightly on behalf of these great values, and I do not speak alone. As you all know, I am lately returned from London where I had the honour to meet Mr Alfred Percy Sinnett, author of texts which we have all studied and favourably reviewed. These publications—The Occult World, Esoteric Buddhism and most recently, the novel Karma—declare how the Theosophical movement is the returning tide of Spirit and Truth, long ebbed from the organised religions like our own Church of Ireland. My visit has cemented my own accordance with that view.”

“There are those who denounce the founder of Theosophical Society, Madame Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, as fraud but—“

“The Society for Psychical Research, no less!” came a cry from the audience, making WB look up. It was Magee. Sooo…. He could count on Magee.

“Mr Hodgson of that Society yes,” Johnston admitted, calmly. “And a disgruntled housekeeper in India, I believe…” He gave a tinkling little laugh. “Gentlemen, the fraud theory is wholly unable to cover the facts. Always there are those who met the Spirit with mockery and scepticism. Always those who know the Truth must be vigilant and act for its furtherance. Though Madame herself was in India, I did have the chance to meet her niece, Miss Vera Vladimirovna de Zhelihovsky—"

“Oooh,” Magee said, with a snigger that set off a muted amusement around the room, for everyone there knew Johnston had taken a fancy to Madame’s niece, the lovely Vera. W.B. made sure not to join in the laughter. The question at hand was too serious and he wanted to answer it with principles, not tactics.

Undeterred by the interruption, Johnston earnestly continued. "—Miss Vera Vladimirovna de Zhelihovsky who demonstrated a deep understanding of her aunt's teachings. I was also greatly impressed by Mr Sinnett and the other members I met. The seeds of Theosophy have been sown widely and are already yielding fruit. If this movement is to gain true power, if it is not to vanish unnoticed as a phenomenon born before its time, it needs those of us who sincerely appreciate its achievements and our occult duties to help it stand on its feet."

He paused to let his call to duty sink in. The room was silent. No one was laughing now.

“As to the benefits to our own little society here in Dublin: reorganizing as a lodge within The Theosophical Society of London would offer us a more inclusive and regulated platform to explore the philosophical ideas of such interest to all here present in a more orderly setting, and to draw more members into the fold. I therefore, in conclusion, urge each man here to vote for the bigger choice.”

With that, he sat down as as speedily as he had stood as the room broke into a hearty applause. A fine performance. It made W.B.feel like voting against himself. By the looks of the eyes skirting away from his, others felt the same.

The fear he'd been holding down inside reared to the surface, making him quail before the expectant faces. “Mr Yeats,” Smeeth said, as the applause died away, but he found he couldn’t move. He’d thought only of winning, the unbridled authority it would afford him, and he'd already compiled a list in his mind of talking topics for their next six meetings, but he'd given no consideration to what he should do if Johnston were to triumph. Should he resign? Or would it be more noble to stay, and keep an independent circle within the wider group? The applause was well stopped by now. He should stand and speak. He couldn't stand, he couldn't speak.

The silence intensified. The dilapidated tenement room, with its weathered wallpaper and timeworn furniture, thrummed with unease. The weak candlelight threw wavering shadows, heightening the atmosphere of discomfort. He could feel Johnston's scrutiny.

“Mr Yeats,” Smeeth said again.

His heart was pounding in his ears, a rapid staccato. He fancied he heard all the others' breaths too, as quick and shallow as his, as they waited for him to speak, smelling his self-doubt. He envied Johnston’s knack for speaking extemporaneously, a skill he could not imagine that he would ever master. He lifted his paper with a shaking hand, grateful now that Laura had not come.

He began: "In my capacity as President of the Dublin Hermetic Society, I have viewed my role as guiding the Society towards metaphysical, rather than ethical, concerns. Already, in our small assembly, we have shared papers on the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Neoplatonists, modern mystics, and spiritualists. We have discussed great problems ardently, simply, and unconventionally, as men might have done in the medieval Universities.

But now our little society has come to its moment of peril,” he read. “The predicament before us is not solely the strain between those of us keen to explore Western esoteric traditions such as alchemy and astrology and those preferring the Eastern path dictated by Madame Blavatsky's and Mr. Sinnett's Mahatmas.

"I do not wish to delve into this discussion tonight. Nor will I touch on the means by which the most ardent theosophists”—here, a quick glance at Charley—“seek to transform a sound philosophy into a poor religion. Instead, this evening I wish to convince you that the freedom to investigate and question, the core of our smaller but more inclusive Dublin Hermetic Society, is a freedom too precious to relinquish.

He was warming up now, reclaiming the fire he'd felt when practicing in front of the mirror over these past days, dreaming of how he'd spin the symbols of his speech into a spell that would reach deep into their souls. It was a shame that Laura had not come.