Anima Mundi , the soul of the world. The pool of wisdom offered guidance toward resolving personal dilemmas, as well as bestowing a rich source of imagery for poets, writers and painters.
‘The spirits revealed an image to me,’ replied Yeats. ‘A man whipping his own shadow while a blood-dimmed tide advanced towards him.’
‘What does it signify?’
‘The imminent destruction of civilisation.’ Yeats’ words were hushed but they filled the tapestry-lined room.
The others fell silent.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the professor.
‘Isn’t it obvious what is happening to society? Last night, for instance, I was set upon by two vagabonds. Only the quick assistance of a passing policeman saved me from a violent attack. Further afield the situation is worse. Much worse. Europe is reeling from the effects of war, while in Russia the threat of Bolshevism is on the rise. War has broken out between the sexes. Not only are women doing the jobs of men, but millions will never have husbands. Ireland is on the brink of rebellion and the Protestant Ascendancy has lost its grip. Civilisation and the old order are dying.’
The five men remained silent. Yeats was a poet, respected for the intensity of his vision. Sometimes, however, the fervour of his words verged on intellectual intimidation. They studied the poet as he sat slumped in his chair. His face was still very white and his eyes had a look of dark desperation. Perhaps the initiation rite had taken its toll on his delicate sensibilities, they decided.
The professor changed the topic of conversation. ‘We have read your essay on the dissensions of the Greeks and Romans, and we have made our corrections and amplifications.’
‘Then you should understand the threat posed by the coming chaos,’ replied Yeats. ‘All civilisations come to an end when they have given their light like burned-out wicks.’
‘Forgive me,’ said the admiral. ‘But what does a poet know of the modern age and these threats to society.’
‘Poets can see things others can’t. Elements falling into place. A design. A shape in the chaos of the age.’
‘And what have you discerned?’
‘That after an age of truth, mechanism, science and peace comes an age of freedom, fiction, evil and war. Our age has burned itself to the wick.’
‘What do you propose we do?’ asked the judge.
‘That is a question I keep asking myself.’ Yeats’ eyes glazed over as his thoughts turned inward.
‘Perhaps Mr Yeats is correct,’ said the Ruling Chief. ‘Perhaps we should consider the terror that is to come.’
The doctor interrupted. ‘I fear that we are too timid at wielding our influence and embracing these unfolding events. Like a deferential husband reluctant to consummate his marriage.’ He glanced pointedly at Yeats. ‘What I see in society is not an end but a transformation. This is no accidental pattern. We are witnessing the growing pains of democracy and social conscience. The Order should support these changes, such as the cry for political reform, rather than oppose them. We must join the modern world rather than hark to a dim and glorious past.’
‘I’m afraid you are mistaken,’ replied Yeats.
‘Enlighten me – how?’ The doctor appraised him with troubled eyes.
‘England has become the victim of powerful forces. Accumulated over centuries.’ Yeats’ voice was strained, strident almost. ‘Civilisation does not progress from stage to stage, guided by reason and truth. First we had the outbreak of war with Germany, then the Easter Rising and the execution of its leaders. The whole of Ireland seethes with rebellion, threatening the very fabric of the British Empire. This is no orderly descent from level to level. No waterfall but a whirlpool. A gyre.’
A brooding silence settled on the gathering. The doctor found himself fixated by Yeats’ haunted-looking eyes. A light sheen of perspiration had formed on the poet’s brow, and his long, delicate fingers still
‘The spirits revealed an image to me,’ replied Yeats. ‘A man whipping his own shadow while a blood-dimmed tide advanced towards him.’
‘What does it signify?’
‘The imminent destruction of civilisation.’ Yeats’ words were hushed but they filled the tapestry-lined room.
The others fell silent.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the professor.
‘Isn’t it obvious what is happening to society? Last night, for instance, I was set upon by two vagabonds. Only the quick assistance of a passing policeman saved me from a violent attack. Further afield the situation is worse. Much worse. Europe is reeling from the effects of war, while in Russia the threat of Bolshevism is on the rise. War has broken out between the sexes. Not only are women doing the jobs of men, but millions will never have husbands. Ireland is on the brink of rebellion and the Protestant Ascendancy has lost its grip. Civilisation and the old order are dying.’
The five men remained silent. Yeats was a poet, respected for the intensity of his vision. Sometimes, however, the fervour of his words verged on intellectual intimidation. They studied the poet as he sat slumped in his chair. His face was still very white and his eyes had a look of dark desperation. Perhaps the initiation rite had taken its toll on his delicate sensibilities, they decided.
The professor changed the topic of conversation. ‘We have read your essay on the dissensions of the Greeks and Romans, and we have made our corrections and amplifications.’
‘Then you should understand the threat posed by the coming chaos,’ replied Yeats. ‘All civilisations come to an end when they have given their light like burned-out wicks.’
‘Forgive me,’ said the admiral. ‘But what does a poet know of the modern age and these threats to society.’
‘Poets can see things others can’t. Elements falling into place. A design. A shape in the chaos of the age.’
‘And what have you discerned?’
‘That after an age of truth, mechanism, science and peace comes an age of freedom, fiction, evil and war. Our age has burned itself to the wick.’
‘What do you propose we do?’ asked the judge.
‘That is a question I keep asking myself.’ Yeats’ eyes glazed over as his thoughts turned inward.
‘Perhaps Mr Yeats is correct,’ said the Ruling Chief. ‘Perhaps we should consider the terror that is to come.’
The doctor interrupted. ‘I fear that we are too timid at wielding our influence and embracing these unfolding events. Like a deferential husband reluctant to consummate his marriage.’ He glanced pointedly at Yeats. ‘What I see in society is not an end but a transformation. This is no accidental pattern. We are witnessing the growing pains of democracy and social conscience. The Order should support these changes, such as the cry for political reform, rather than oppose them. We must join the modern world rather than hark to a dim and glorious past.’
‘I’m afraid you are mistaken,’ replied Yeats.
‘Enlighten me – how?’ The doctor appraised him with troubled eyes.
‘England has become the victim of powerful forces. Accumulated over centuries.’ Yeats’ voice was strained, strident almost. ‘Civilisation does not progress from stage to stage, guided by reason and truth. First we had the outbreak of war with Germany, then the Easter Rising and the execution of its leaders. The whole of Ireland seethes with rebellion, threatening the very fabric of the British Empire. This is no orderly descent from level to level. No waterfall but a whirlpool. A gyre.’
A brooding silence settled on the gathering. The doctor found himself fixated by Yeats’ haunted-looking eyes. A light sheen of perspiration had formed on the poet’s brow, and his long, delicate fingers still
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