Someone New

Later I learn that George is a bona fide British lady, belonging to the Hyde-Lees name, and has only come to this bloody place to be with Yeats whom she encountered in London.  She may never have set foot here at all if it hadn’t been for his peculiar fancies.  Although the fact she’s a genuine Brit and not merely a West Brit does not bother me in the slightest, I consider withholding that knowledge from Mam to prevent the flowering of any prejudicial feelings.   But there is no need.  She already knows.  And she is quite fond of George as it turns out despite her unfortunate racial background.

They have a man with a car and I see him aiding WB himself in unloading their bags, two medium-sized suitcases and a few smaller cases, all made of leather, and plump with whatever they hold.  I am immediately struck by how tall Yeats is.  In my mind the famous poets are all runts and gnomes.  Pope.  Manley Hopkins.  Keats.  They are little in my knowledge because I remember a teacher telling me so, a teacher who also happened to be rather small in size and dimension but who took great pride in being taller than those particular geniuses.  Yeats was such a tower of a man he might have stepped on them all by accident if they’d been gathered in a room.  

He’s wearing his trademark pince nez glasses.  Just like in the pictures.  And his hair is very beautifully shaped and combed.  He is as we know much older than George but he doesn’t give away his age.  They say the artists are permanently trapped in the land of youth and he just might be its spryest resident.  Eithne?  Ah, Eithne.  Your mother has spoken of you.  I pray she spoke well.  She certainly did.  It is an honour to meet you too, Mr Yeats.  Let me offer my condolences, he says, for the loss of your good husband, Patrick Lawless, is it, was it?  A fine man, I hear.  A loyal countryman.  A good statesman.  These are not our mellowest times.  Thank you, Mr Yeats.  That is very kind of you to say.

He has a warm way about him which takes me by surprise.  I have met iconoclasts in Dublin who were in their nature condescending and moody and entirely disagreeable.  I do not think he is a stranger to such character because in certain moments the blinds come up and for an instant he reveals that other side of him.  The way he doesn’t move to cover a grimace when he catches a nasty smell in the place and allows his hosts to observe his revulsion.  Also, even those not acquainted with his poetic writings are aware of his various obsessions and I can see in his face that insecurity that hangs on many a man. 

Once we have them set up in the room, myself and Mam go to the kitchen and work to get supper ready.  The Yeatses stay in their room for an hour.  Then another.  Then another.  It is about nine p.m when they come down the stairs and by that time we have already eaten but say there’s stew in the pot if they want some.  They politely turn supper down but agree to join us for some tea and buns in the front parlour, which clearly excites my mother.  She tells me that on prior visits the Yeatses only sat with her once.  And only for half an hour.    

So very nice to see you once more, Mrs Leahy.  And you, Mr Yeats, Amn’t I delighted to see yourself returned and in good form.  And you, Mrs Yeats, you are looking lovely and in good health.  Thank you kindly.  George Yeats has a very pleasant way and manner.  I know next to nothing about her but I already like her.  She certainly has the airs of a wealthy Englishwoman but none of the hubris.  She appears thoughtful but not inaccessible or distant.

Bar me, all in the room are seasoned draggers.   WB has a tin box and inside he keeps these fancy white sticks with gold tips that he got in Paris or somewhere.  He offers me one and I accept and soon we are all relaxing in the clouds.  Collins the King Charles cuts through our wafting vapour to examine the guests and winds up at Georgie’s feet; she taps him away (gently, mind) and he sets up shop by her husband instead.  WB enjoys the warmth of the pooch against his black felt slippers and this reassures me because I believe if he didn’t, well then he couldn’t be much of a poet.  Yeats also demonstrates his capacity for romance during the first cup when he claims affectionately that he is a student of his wife’s soul.  She doesn’t react to the claim which leads me to believe she has either heard the line many times before or her soul’s authority is a necessary condition of their union. It is certainly a whimsical notion and some may even think it bizarre.  WB doesn’t strike me as melancholy or unsociable, as I figured he’d be from some of his poems, but it is atypical statements such as that one which make it understandable why people make fun of him up and down the country for the desperation he supposedly exudes in his efforts to find a woman.  Here he is now, woman got, and him friendly and serviceable.  Normal. 

Your late husband was a grand lad, a noble figure, so I hear, says the poet.  I’ve heard talk of him in Dublin.  Thank you again, I say.  But that’s all I say.  I don’t feel in the mood to talk about it.  Then George Yeats says, You have our deepest sympathies.  Thank you.  They murdered the poor chap, says Mam, with no mind for delicacy.  Appalling! says George.  Yes, yes, I say.  Recent events, says WB, such as with your late husband, have done much to demoralise the people and unfortunately preoccupied my own blasted pen.  Please NO! I object.  I would not like that at all.  Come on, love, says my mother, what better tribute could one have than to be remembered in a poem by such a man as this.  It is quite alright, says Yeats.  I understand perfectly.  I would not presume to exploit your husband’s slaying, Eithne.  You are not the first to reject the idea, even lightly suggested.  My apologies.  The poet is nothing more than an emotional hog when all is said and done.  Now that the matter has been raised however, I choose to make some of my inner feelings known and say, I never cared much for his cause when he was alive.  Eithne! cries Mam, in shock.  How can you say such a thing?  What I mean is I was indifferent regarding politics when we first courted.  Not ignorant, just not especially interested.  There were other girls around then who were after him for his reputation only.  They lusted after the name, not the man. I was after his man part.  His body part.  Sorry, Mam.  But you must know what I mean?  He was a superlative ride, Patrick was, even if that fizzled out in the end.  Shocking . . . just shocking, Mam whimpers.  I absolutely understand your feelings, Eithne, says George.  WB nods and smokes from his cigarette. 

Willy here is on the lookout for some barley meal and crowfoot leaves, which apparently someone sells in the area, says George.  What would you be wanting those things for? asks Mam.  If you stew them up together they are apparently good for a certain gentleman’s problem.  It is not only a gentleman’s problem, interrupts WB.  All the sexes are prone.  And to be frank with you, Mrs Leahy, it is a matter relating to the bowels which our respectful Georgie here wishes to convey.  Ah, well, I can’t say much about the country cures, says Mam, but I know of a woman who lives over the bridge who deals in such things.  Mrs Leahy.  Leahy?  Like yourselves?    Leahy is such a common name in this area.  In fact, I add, everyone around here is called Leahy.  Though barely any of us are related.  Every Leahy exists here by sheer coincidence, and all in our own separated coops.  Of the same naturalised species, but not of the same tree.  Very peculiar, he says.

The talk of country cures invites a discussion about folk beliefs and when I inform them about how my mother has been dusting the place regularly the Yeatses react with predictable outrage.  Oh, no, you mustn’t be doing that! says WB.  Don’t you want a clean place to be sitting in? argues Mam. It’s a thousand times cleaner when there’s dust lying, says the poet.  And, please, would you explain why, sir?  By sweeping it away, you risk upsetting the unseen.  You mean the fairies?  Yes.  They are very prideful.  They have much in common with the French.  In terms of how they carry themselves in general.  There’s great style and swish about them.  You’d want to be careful.  I never paid much heed, but my husband, Eithne’s father, rest his soul, believed in them, says Mam.  For a while when he was a boy we used to dress up our Desmond as a wee cailín in the hope it might scare them off.  Ah, yes, says WB, they would go after the young boys, wouldn’t they?  I’d heard that alright. 

It occurs to me there is something curious about the Yeatses when they get onto this topic.  At first, I think their interest in these superstitions is somewhat condescending.  They appear to be clever enough to see through it all themselves.  So I wonder if they are mocking the faith some have in these absurd ideas.  At the same time, they appear strongly invested, if not sincerely convinced.  The uncanny is what brings us to this place now, says WB.  What I mean by that is our interest in the unseen, and the spirit world, is the principal reason we asked to room with you again, Mrs Leahy.  Georgie nods and smiles at both Mam and myself.  And why is that? Mam asks, a little tremble in her voice.  Well, says Yeats, when last we were here, we made contact with someone.  Contact, you say?  Yes, contact.  Contact with who?  Well, with someone new.