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290 cute that man" and I saw Symons waving Rolleston's letter just out of reach. Then Symons folded it up and put it in his pocket, and began to read out A. E.'s and the publisher was silent, and I saw Beardsley listening. Presently Beardsley came to me, and said, "Yeats I am going to surprise you very much, but I think your friend is right. All my life I have been fascinated by the spiritual life—when a child I saw a vision of the Bleeding Christ over the mantelpiece—but after all to do one's work when there are other things one wants to do so much more, is a kind of a religion."

Something, I forget what, delayed me a few minutes after the supper was over, and when I arrived at our publisher's I found Beardsley propped up on a chair in the middle of the room, grey and exhausted, and as I came in he left the chair and went into another room to spit blood, but returned immediately. Our publisher, perspiration pouring from his face, was turning the handle of a hurdy-gurdy piano—it worked by electricity, I was told, when the company did not cut off the supply—and very plainly had had enough of it, but Beardsley pressed him to labour on, "The tone is so beautiful," "It gives me such deep pleasure" et cetera, et cetera. It was his method of keeping our publisher at a distance.

Another image competes with that image in my memory. Beardsley has arrived at Fountain Court a little after breakfast with a young woman who belongs to our publisher's circle and certainly not to ours, and is called "two pence coloured" or is it "penny plain"? He is a little drunk and his mind has been running upon his dismissal from the Yellow Book, for he puts his hand upon the wall and stares into a mirror. He mutters "Yes, yes, I look like a sodomite" which he certainly did not, "But no, I am not that" and then begins railing against his ancestors, accusing them of that and this, back to and including the great Pitt from whom he declares himself descended.

I can no more justify my convictions in these brief chapters where I touch on fundamental things, than Shakespeare could justify within the limits of a sonnet, his conviction that the soul of the wide world dreams of things to come; and yet as I have set out to describe nature as I see it, I must not only describe events but those