ne； who lived to bee the greatest english authority upon italian life in the fourteenth century and to write the one standard work on botticelli。 connoisseur in several arts； he had designed a little church in the manner of inigo jones for a burial ground near the marble arch。
though i now think his little church a masterpiece； its style was more than a century too late to hit my fancy at two or three and twenty； and i accused him of leaning towards that eighteenth century that taught a school of dolts to smooth； inlay； and clip； and fit till； like the certain wands of jacobs wit； their verses tallied。
another fanaticism delayed my friendship with two men； who are now my friends and in certain matters my chief instructors。 somebody； probably lionel johnson； brought me to the studio of charles ricketts and charles shannon； certainly heirs of the great generation； and the first thing i saw was a shannon picture of a lady and child arrayed in lace； silk and satin； suggesting that hated century。 my eyes were full of some more mythological mother and child and i would have none of it； and i told shannon that he had not painted amother and child but elegant people expecting visitors and i thought that a great reproach。 somebody writing in the germ had said that a picture of a pheasant and an apple was merely a picture of something to eat； and i was so angry with the indifference to subject； which was the monplace of all art criticism since bastien？lepage； that i could at times see nothing else but subject。 i thought that； though it might not matter to the man himself whether he loved a white woman or a black； a female pickpocket or a regular municant of the church of england； if only he loved strongly； it certainly did matter to his relations and even under some circumstances to his whole neighbourhood。 sometimes indeed； like some father in moliere； i ignored the lovers feelings altogether and even refused to admit that a trace of the devil； perhaps a trace of colour； may lend piquancy； especially if the connection be not permanent。
among these men； of whom so many of the greatest talents were to live such passionate lives and die such tragic deaths； one serene man； t。 w。 rolleston； seemed always out of place。 it was i brought him there； intending to set him to some work in ireland later on。 i have known young dublin working men slip out of their workshop to see the second thomas davis passing by； and even remember a conspiracy； by some three or four； to make him the leader of the irish race at home & abroad； and all because he had regular features； and when all is said； alexander the great & alcibiades were personable men； and the founder of the christian religion was the only man who was neither a little too tall nor a little too short but exactly six feet high。 we in ireland thought as do the plays and ballads； not understanding that； from the first moment wherein nature foresaw the birth of bastien？lepage； she has only granted great creative power to men whose faces are contorted with extravagance or curiosity or dulled with some protecting stupidity。
i had now met all those who were to make the nineties of the last century tragic in the history of literature； but as yet we were all seemingly equal； whether in talent or in luck； and scarce even personalities to one another。 i remember saying one night at the cheshire cheese； when more poets than usual had e； none of us can say who will succeed； or even who has or has not talent。 the only thing certain about us is that we are too many。
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Four YearsXVI
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i have described what image？？always opposite to the natural self or the natural world？？wilde； henley； morris copied or tried to copy； but i have not said if i found an image for myself。 i know very little about myself and much less of that anti？self： probably the woman who cooks my dinner or the woman who sweeps out my study knows more than i。 it is perhaps because nature made me a gregarious man； going hither and thither looking for conversation； and ready to deny from fear or favour his dearest conviction； that i love proud and lonely images。 when i was a child and went daily to the sextons daughter for writing lessons； i found one poem in her school reader that delighted me beyond all others： a fragment of some metrical translation from aristophanes wherein the birds sing scorn upon mankind。 in later years my mind gave itself to gregarious shelleys dream of a young man； his hair blanched with sorrow studying philosophy in some lonely tower； or of his old man； master of all human knowledge； hidden from human sight in some shell？strewn cavern on the mediterranean shore。 one passage above all ran perpetually in my ears？？
some feign that he is enoch： others dream he was pre？adamite； and has survived cycles of generation and of ruin。 the sage； in truth； by dreadful abstinence； and conquering penance of the mutinous flesh； deep contemplation and unwearied study； in years outstretched beyond the date of man； may have attained to sovereignty and science over those strong and secret things and thoughts which others fear and know not。
mahmud i would talk with this old jew。
hassan thy will is even now made known to him where he dwells in a sea？cavern mid the demonesi； less accessible than thou or god！ he who would question him must sail alone at sunset where the stream of ocean sleeps around those foamless isles； when the young moon is westering as now； and evening airs wander upon the wave； and； when the pines of that bee？pasturing isle； green erebinthus； quench the fieryshadow of his gilt prow within the sapphire water； then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud ahasuerus！ and the caverns round will answer ahasuerus！ if his prayer be granted； a faint meteor will arise； lighting him over marmora； and a wind will rush out of the sighing pine？forest； and with the wind a storm of harmony unutterably sweet； and pilot him through the soft twilight to the bosphorus： thence； at the hour and place and circumstance fit for the matter of their conference； the jew appears。 few dare； and few who dare win the desired munion。
already in dublin； i had been attracted to the theosophists because they had affirmed the real existence of the jew； or of his like； and； apart from whatever might have been imagined by huxley； tyndall； carolus duran and bastien？lepage； i saw nothing against his reality。 presently having heard that madame blavatsky had arrived from france； or from india； i thought it time to look the matter up。 certainly if wisdom existed anywhere in the world it must be in some such lonely mind admitting no duty to us； muning with god only； conceding nothing from fear or favour。 have not all peoples； while bound together in a single mind and taste； believed that such men existed and paid them that honour； or paid it to their mere shadow； which they have refused to philanthropists and to men of learning？
i found madame blavatsky in a little house at norwood； with but； as she said； three followers left？？the society of psychical research had just reported on her indian phenomena？？and as one of the three followers sat in an outer room to keep out undesirable visitors； i was kept a long time kicking my heels。 presently i was admitted and found an old woman in a plain loose dark dress： a sort of old irish peasant woman with an air of humour and audacious power。 i was still kept waiting； for she was deep in conversation with a woman visitor。
i strayed through folding doors into the next room and stood； in sheer idleness of mind； looking at a cuckoo clock。 it was certainly stopped； for the weights were off and lying upon the ground； and yet as i stood there the cuckoo came out and cuckooed at me。 i interrupted madame blavatsky to say。 your clock has hooted me。
it often hoots at a stranger； she replied。 is there a spirit in it？ i said。 i do not know； she said； i should have to be alone to know what is in it。 i went back to the clock and began examining it and heard her say do not break my clock。 i wondered if there was some hidden mechanism； and i should have been put out； i suppose； had i found any； though henley had said to me； of course she gets up fraudulent miracles； but a person of genius has to do something； sarah bernhardt sleeps in her coffin。 presently the visitor went away and madame blavatsky explained that she was a propagandist for womens rights who had called to find out why men were so bad。 what explanation did you give her？ i said。 that men were born bad but women made themselves so； and then she explained that i had been kept waiting because she had mistaken me for some man whose name resembled mine and who wanted to persuade her of the flatness of the earth。
when i next saw her she had moved into a house at holland park； and some time must have passed？？probably i had been in sligo where i returned constantly for long visits？？for she was surrounded by followers。 she sat nightly before a little table covered with green baize and on this green baize she scribbled constantly with a piece of white chalk。 she would scribble symbols； sometimes humorously applied； and sometimes unintelligible figures； but the chalk was intended to mark down her score when she played patience。 one saw in the next room a l