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Celtic Twilight
by
William Butler Yeats
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A Visionary
A YOUNG Man Came to see me at my lodgings the other night, and
began to talk of the making of the earth and the heavens and much else. I
questioned him about his life and his doings. He had written many poems and
painted many mystical designs since we met last, but latterly had neither
written nor painted, for his whole heart was set upon making his mind strong,
vigorous, and calm, and the emotional life of the artist was bad for him, he
feared. He recited his poems readily, however. He had them all in his memory.
Some indeed had never been written down. They, with their wild music as of winds
blowing in the reeds,' seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and
of Celtic longing for infinite things the world has never seen. Suddenly it
seemed to me that he was peering about him a little eagerly. "Do you see
anything, X-----?' I said. "A shining, winged woman, covered by her long
hair, is standing near the doorway," he answered, or some such words.
"Is it the influence of some living person who thinks of us, and whose
thoughts appear to us in that symbolic form?" I said; for I am well
instructed in the ways of the visionaries and in the fashion of their speech.
"No," he replied; "for if it were the thoughts of a person who is
alive I should feel the living influence in my living body, and my heart would
beat and my breath would fail. It is a spirit. It is some one who is dead or who
has never lived."
I asked what he was doing, and found he was clerk in a large
shop. His pleasure, however, was to wander about upon the hills, talking to
half-mad and visionary peasants, or to persuade queer and conscience-stricken
persons to deliver up the keeping of their troubles into his care. Another
night, when I was with him in his own lodging, more than one turned up to talk
over their beliefs and disbeliefs, and sun them as it were in the subtle light
of his mind, Sometimes visions come to him as he talks with them, and he is
rumoured to have told divers people true matters of their past days and distant
friends, and left them hushed with dread of their strange teacher, who seems
scarce more than a boy, and is so much more subtle than the oldest among them.
The poetry he recited me was full of his nature and his
visions. Sometimes it told of other lives he believes himself
[1. I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to
me a part of all peoples who preserve the moods of the ancient peoples of the
world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to be, but
leave this sentence and other sentences like it unchanged. We once believed
them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser.]
to have lived in other centuries, sometimes of people he had
talked to, revealing them to their own minds. I told him I would write an
article upon him and it, and was told in turn that I might do so if I did not
mention his name, for he wished to be always "unknown, obscure,
impersonal." Next day a bundle of his poems arrived, and with them a note
in these words: "Here are copies of verses you said you liked. I do not
think I could ever write or paint any more. I prepare myself for a cycle of
other activities in some other life. I will make rigid my roots and branches. It
is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers."
The poems were all endeavours to capture some high, impalpable
mood in a net of obscure images. There were fine passages in all, but these were
often embedded in thoughts which have evidently a special value to his mind, but
are to other men the counters of an unknown coinage. To them they seem merely so
much brass or copper or tarnished silver at the best. At other times the beauty
of the thought was obscured by careless writing as though he had suddenly
doubted if writing was not a foolish labour. He had frequently illustrated his
verses with drawings, in which an unperfect anatomy did not altogether hide
extreme beauty of feeling. The faeries in whom he believes have given him many
subjects, notably Thomas of Ercildoune sitting motionless in the twilight while
a young and beautiful creature leans softly out of the shadow and whispers in
his ear. He had delighted above all in strong effects of colour: spirits who
have upon their heads instead of hair the feathers of peacocks; a phantom
reaching from a swirl of flame towards a star; a spirit passing with a globe of
iridescent crystal-symbol of the soul-half shut within his hand. But always
under this largess of colour lay some tender homily addressed to man's fragile
hopes. This spiritual eagerness draws to him all those who, like himself, seek
for illumination or else mourn for a joy that has gone. One of these especially
comes to mind. A winter or two ago he spent much of the night walking up and
down upon the mountain talking to an old peasant who, dumb to most men, poured
out his cares for him. Both were unhappy: X----- because he had then first
decided that art and poetry were not for him, and the old peasant because his
life was ebbing out with no achievement remaining and no hope left him. Both how
Celtic! how full of striving after a something never to be completely expressed
in word or deed. The peasant was wandering in his mind with prolonged sorrow.
Once he burst out with "God possesses the heavens --God possesses the
heavens--but He covets the world"; and once he lamented that his old
neighbours were gone, and that all had forgotten him: they used to draw a chair
to the fire for him in every cabin, and now they said, "Who is that old
fellow there?" "The fret [Irish for doom] is over me," he
repeated, and then went on to talk once more of God and heaven. More than once
also he said, waving his arm towards the mountain, "Only myself knows what
happened under the thorn-tree forty years ago"; and as he said it the tears
upon his face glistened in the moonlight.
This old man always rises before me when I think of X-----.
Both seek--one in wandering sentences, the other in symbolic pictures and subtle
allegoric poetry-to express a something that lies beyond the range of
expression; and both, if X----- will forgive me, have within them the vast and
vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The peasant
visionaries that are, the landlord duelists that were, and the whole hurly-burly
of legends-Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days until the waves pass over him
and he dies, Caolte storming the palace of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for
three hundred years to appease his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of
faeryland, these two mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the
central dreams of their souls in no less dream-laden sentences, and this mind
that finds them so interesting--all are a portion of that great Celtic
phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel revealed.
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