WB Yeats Discovers Esoteric Buddhism: A New Extract for Patrons

In this patron-only extract from "A Life Before", we are invited into John B Yeats's artist studio on York St, and witness WB Yeats discovering the book Esoteric Buddhism, that introduces him to Madame Blavatsky and a branch of occult studies, theosophy, that will have a deep influence on his life and work. Sign up here on Kickstarter to be notified about the launch campaign for this book, which includes a statue for Maud Gonne. With the door barely having the chance to latch itself shut, a second set of footsteps was sounding on the stairs and the sound of voices travelled up. Another visitor? The studio today was as bustling as a market town with all the comings and goings. Charley went out to the landing, and leaned over the banister to see who it was. “I think it's your Aunt Isabella!” he reported, staring down into the shadowed stairwell. "It looks like her hat, though it's hard to tell from atop." Isabella Pollexfen was his favorite aunt, his mother's youngest sister. When they'd lived in London, they saw a lot of her and her husband John and when they came home to Sligo for the summer months, they always spent some weeks in Dublin. Through the open door, they could hear the two women's voices, though not what was being said, and then the sounds of goodbyes. More steps, then: "Coo-ee! Anyone at home?" The informal warmth of her call, like something a Cockney barrow-boy might utter, felt like the cozy glow of a lantern entering a cave to WB. And, as she came in, the light streaming from the skylight caught the fine silver threads of her shawl, draping her in a celestial glow, as though she'd wrapped herself in a cloak spun from stars. She held a large book-bag on one arm. His father’s face too had softened into his tenderest smile. He always had a soft spot for Aunt Isabella, as she as the only one in the Sligo family who understood the call of the canvas, and why he'd had to abandon the law. She was an artist herself, as was her husband, John Varley. An artist and more besides. What was known to WB, though not to his father, was that Aunt Isabella was a painter of the unseen and a clandestine mistress of the esoteric arts. When she visited from London, she always brought ideas to him, and Charley and his other mystically-inclined friends, from the latest talks she'd attended. His father knew was interested in the magical lore of Egypt and had influenced her husband the landscape painter John Varley (1850-1933). He called him “Egyptian Varley” WB had been to their London house with his father. It was a sanctuary of the secret, crammed with books that whispered ancient truths, but his father had given them no notice. She wasn't about to dim her light in her brother-in-law's reason-filled eyes, by admitting to what he saw as little better than superstition, all right for simple minded, full of old wisdoms, but not x for the educated artist. As she moved across the studio, she was just young Isabella, bearer of the fierce, familial bond that art, with its trials and triumphs, threads between those who dare to dream beyond the ordinary paths. Her sisterly kiss on John B’s cheek was full of affection but as she leaned in, her eyes flicked briefly to him and Charley, and behind her back, her fingers deftly formed their secret hand gesture, silent signal of the ancient knowledge they shared. Then, as she turned their way, she transferred her hands to her front and carried the secret sign of the initiated before her, with a broad smile on her face. She was enjoying the boys' discomfiture as she flirted with mild danger. As they huddled around the book, WB felt a pull. His father theorised about everything, and explained things that were hard to understand, and that delighted WB, for he took great delight in reason but he was also deeply religious. His father, his own father had been an Anglican clergyman, rejected his faith and saw god as a but a whimsical tale conjured by timorous hearts—dangerous to the artist or poet. Her perfume smelled of incense sticks as she leaned in for her kiss. Jasmine and frankincense. "How is my favorite nephew? And my favorite of his friends?" "We are well. Would you like tea, Aunt Isabella? Or cocoa?" “Tea please, dear," she said, as she returned to the easel to overview her brother-in-law's work. "I’ve just crossed paths with Miss Purser downstairs and she said...” That train of thought trailed off as she saw his father's street urchin. “This is good, John. You have a new style." "I think this one may be my masterpiece." Aunt Isabella again sent the boys a small smile. They'd all heard his father say such things before. John B, miffed, said: "You were saying?" "Ah yes. I was telling Miss Purser that I'd met Mrs. Humphries this morning." "Ah!" "And that she intends to drop by after lunch to see your progress on her portrait.” “God’s teeth!” said John B. "She said she hoped you were paying as much attention to your commission as your mission. " "I'm so sorry my dear. It is lovely, as always, to see you but I'm afraid I must ask you to leave." John B was lifting the large portrait of the urchin off the easel, keeping it at arm's length "Willie, Charley, help me here!" WB took one edge of the canvas, being careful not to smear himself with the wet paint or, worse, smear the work, and Charley took the other. They laid it down with all the care of a mother settling her firstborn amid a sea of canvas faces waiting to be known. From beneath that lively mess, they dug out Mrs Humphries's likeness, still rough around the edges, and pulled it out. "Oooh... I like her spectacles," Aunt Isabella said, as the half-finished face of Mrs. Humphries took the easel. “She reisted keeping them on, thought it made her look too old, and too severe, but I persuaded her,” John said. “How she gazes out over them, like a teacher in a classroom, tells us all we need to know about Mrs Charles Martin Humphries." "I'm sure Miss Purser would say it's your job, when working on commissions, to flatter the sitter." "I've no doubt she would. But you and I know better, m'dear." Aunt Isabella was one of the few his father allowed into his aristocracy of art, his sacred circle, a sort of court, where the royals were painters and dreamers. As his son, he automatically had a place at the table. They all coveted entry, even Miss Purser with her full pockets and high expectations. John B. said, "Thank you boys. Now away with you!" He hustled them towards the door, turning with a softer edge to his voice, to Aunt Isabella. "I'm sorry my dear, but duty calls, and she’s a harsh mistress." He put the palette of blues and reds with which he'd been creating the rogue grin of the urchin and started to squeeze out and mix some greys and browns. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you later. You and John are coming for dinner, are you not? Susan will be so pleased." WB knew the dinner would be made from whatever Isabella brought through their door. He looked forward it, while he also felt the shame of it. And he knew his aunt would be disturbed when she saw his mother, who was greatly reduced, since they'd moved from Howth to Harold's Cross, for economy's sake. His sisters were also stuck in soil too poor to promise them any sort of future, without a dowry, and they all wanted to take jobs but his father would not allow it. He lived each day draped in gay optimism, always believing that his moment of glory was just around the bend, but life cared little for his beliefs. The whispers of what would be were slowly being drained by the needs of the growing family. Yet they all admired Papa's resilience, and gaiety, and devotion to high art. WB felt rare sorry for him as he looked back at him now, facing into the judgemental gaze of Mrs. Humphries with a brush full of grey paint. *** Down the rickety staircase the three went. Charley and Aunt Isabella seemed amused, holding back a tumble of quiet laughs until they descended the three flights of stairs, and passed from the dimly lit hallway out into the street. There they gave vent. "What are you laughing at?" WB asked. "Come," Aunt Isabella said, with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. "Let me buy you that tea we never had. I have something to show you." She beckoned them closer, opened her voluminous bag. “Look here, boys.” Inside were books, the one on top with its title embossed in gold letters: Esoteric Buddhism. “All of fashionable London is whispering about this book, with its hidden truths and ancient wisdom. It's stirring quite the storm.” WB leaned in, Charley peering over his shoulder. Esoteric Buddhism. The title alone sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. Isabella took it out, to flip through the pages, showing them its mysterious symbols and diagrams. He looked back nervously at the door, as if he father could see through wood. “This book answers so many of the questions we discussed last time,” Isabella said, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Come, let us take tea and unravel the mysteries of the universe."