FROM THE ARCHIVES:A year after WB Yeats' death someone with the initials ERW penned these reminiscences about the poet.
Sometime in the autumn of 1907 I met Mr. Yeats at an afternoon gathering, where I was introduced to him as a young person interested in literature. This was a sure passport to his favour, and he concluded a short conversation by informing me that when in Dublin he was at home to his friends on Sunday evenings, and that he hoped I would join them if I liked. From then on, for several years, I spent many memorable evenings at the hotel in South Frederick Street where he and Lady Gregory lived.
I was generally the first to arrive, and was greeted with a reassuring courtesy which removed a great deal of the diffidence I felt at first in expressing my opinions. Lady Gregory usually retired early, and until she left the conversation centred round Abbey Theatre affairs, Hugh Lane’s modern gallery, current literary matters, or French literature, with which she was deeply acquainted.
After she retired talk became less formal, and Yeats took a larger part in it. John Synge, a frequent visitor, spoke least, but there was a reserved power about him which impressed me, and I noticed a shade of deference in Yeatss manner when he asked for Synge’s opinion. When he became really interested in a topic Yeats would walk about the room, with head thrown back, and pour forth in his usual beautiful voice powerful, imaginative comment or interesting reminiscences.
He loved to talk of the Rhymers Club; for he knew Beardsley, Dowson and Lionel Johnson well, and the early brilliance and subsequent tragic failure of their lives had touched him deeply. Once, after he had recited Dowsons “Cynara”, I asked how it was that these men had dissipated their lives away. He shrugged his shoulders, and suggested the explanation that, having early reached their best where others had touched perfection, they felt there was nothing more in life for them to do!
Of Wilde he always spoke highly, except once when I mentioned what I thought was Wildes desire to appear to be a great gentleman, he said: “Wilde was never quite a gentleman; Wilde was insolent, a gentleman is never insolent.”
He was profoundly conscious of his Irish nationality, and seemed more truly Irish than many of the fiery patriots I have met. Unlike most of the Anglo-Irish he always spoke of the English as a foreign race. Of a newly-arisen English statesman, he commented: “Yes! They always find the man for a purpose, and put him aside when it is done.” He dwelt on their curious instinctive sagacity, which others regarded as cunning.
On this side of his character I think he resembled Parnell, but his interest in politics arose chiefly from a desire to see the Irish question settled, so that our young men of talent might direct their intellect towards the Arts. He dreamed then that Dublin might become a modern Athens.