Vesuvius

They go on to say all about the business they have with the spirit world, their psychographical experiments, or automatic writing, as they refer to it.  I had heard of this lark before through Patrick who had an uncle who was into all that.  You would do a séance or some similar ritual and once an absentee had been called back you would allow them to assist your hand in producing words which more often than not would only amount to a few maniac scribbles.  Patrick told me his uncle only ever mustered a meaningless scrawl or two in his time which resulted in great ontological consternation for him.  Patrick himself was sceptical but said on more than one occasion that there might be something to it.  For it was all the rage in the higher societies of Europe.   Although Mam and I prided ourselves in our rejection of all that malarkey, something lay in both our constitutions which shook us up; perhaps in the pair of us were superstitious vestiges from long ago.  Because I felt all at once uneasy about these two reaching out to the dead under our roof.  

Mr Yeats, says my mother, I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed to hear this.  That you’d give away your talent and reputation to revenants.  Are you even sure of who it is you’re lending your pen to?  It could be some miscreant for all you know.  And pardon me for saying but it also strikes me as not a little lazy.  You might be right, Mrs Leahy, says George.  Our recent communications have been contentious, to say the least.  One particular spirit has made it their prime objective to debase the sincerity and quality of his poetic writings.  This is true, says WB, I haven’t formed a verse worth reciting in some months.  Georgie has nothing but luck in this respect.  But I have yet to master what it is she has.  For all my attention to her beautiful soul.  Willy, says George, I am not your teacher.  And neither are you mine.  Let us call ourselves equals from here and after, yes.  Yes, of course, my dearest, I mention you in this light merely to highlight your own gifts in the area, and to advise on my own struggles with our other instructors.    

I believe WB is correct and his younger wife does have a beautiful soul for she comes over all concerned as he describes the artistic frustrations that have come about from their supernatural stumbling.  My dear Willy, you should not fret.  Vesuvius has been disruptive, yes, but I do not believe it will last.  He will tire of us one day.   How in fact has he been disruptive? I ask.  Well, says George, he has elicited from Willy some unpalatable stanzas, such as, recently, the one about the cock.  What is the one about the cock?  A rather loathsome rhyme, which as I recall went:

Cock o Cock you must bravely go

Our age has brought your greatest foe

Cock o Cock, you must gamely fight

And may find these lines a task to rewrite.

That does not sound like you at all, Mr Yeats, says Mam.  It is most certainly not me! he says, near yelling.  Though it came from the nib of my favourite fountain pen, it was not born in this mind.  ‘Tis the work of Edward Vesuvius.  Would I be right in saying this is the one you’ve contacted in this house?  No, that would be another.  Someone new.  Or someone old.  They haven’t said much.  Except to offer respite in my time of distress.  We attempted contact in other rooms but they seem attached to this building, hence why we have returned.  Ah, it’s always the way, isn’t it with these phantoms, says Mam.  They come with the house.  I scoff at her.  And she makes a face at me.  Subtly  so as not to offend our soulful guests.

When they mention the names of some of those they have contacted – such as: Thomas, James, Sutton, Ameritus, Rose, Victoria, Frankie – I feel myself somewhat losing patience with their novelties though I make sure not to appear too impolite in my questioning.  Why not give up on this automatic writing completely?  I ask.  Go back to the traditional way of doing it.  Let your own brain move the pen.  We have had some enlightening experiences, says WB.  There has been much progress in exploring the Earthly passage.  They come to us in symbols and metaphors.  I would very much like to know more about why these symbols are what they are.  Georgie has been infinitely more successful in her communications.  My own endeavours are met with disdain and childishness.  Oh, is Vesuvius a child?  The Yeatses are silent.  I am not sure if we even asked how old he is.  And you can never be sure with the incorporeal.  Old enough to put one up the wall, we can safely declare.