THE TABLES OF THE LAW; &THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI
Five hundred and ten copies printed;type distributed. No. 311
THE TABLES OF THE LAW; &THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
THE SHAKESPEARE HEAD PRESSSTRATFORD-UPON-AVON MCMXIV
THE TABLES OF THE LAW
THE TABLES OF THE LAW
I
'Will you permit me, Aherne,' I said, 'to ask youa question, which I have wanted to ask you foryears, and have not asked because we have grownnearly strangers? Why did you refuse the berretta,and almost at the last moment? When youand I lived together, you cared neither for wine,women, nor money, and had thoughts for nothingbut theology and mysticism.' I had watched throughdinner for a moment to put my question, and venturednow, because he had thrown off a little of thereserve and indifference which, ever since his lastreturn from Italy, had taken the place of our onceclose friendship. He had just questioned me, too,about certain private and almost sacred things, andmy frankness had earned, I thought, a like franknessfrom him.
When I began to speak he was lifting to his lipsa glass of that old wine which he could choose sowell and valued so little; and while I spoke, he set[Pg 2]it slowly and meditatively upon the table and heldit there, its deep red light dyeing his long delicatefingers. The impression of his face and form, asthey were then, is still vivid with me, and is inseparablefrom another and fanciful impression: theimpression of a man holding a flame in his nakedhand. He was to me, at that moment, the supremetype of our race, which, when it has risen above,or is sunken below, the formalisms of half-educationand the rationalisms of conventional affirmationand denial, turns away, unless my hopes for theworld and for the Church have made me blind,from practicable desires and intuitions towardsdesires so unbounded that no human vessel cancontain them, intuitions so immaterial that theirsudden and far-off fire leaves heavy darkness abouthand and foot. He had the nature, which is halfmonk, half soldier of fortune, and must needs turnaction into dreaming, and dreaming into action;and for such there is no order, no finality, no contentmentin this world. When he and I had beenstudents in Paris, we had belonged to a little groupwhich devoted itself to speculations about alchemyand mysticism. More orthodox in most of hisbeliefs than Michael Robartes, he had surpassed[Pg 3]him in a fanciful hatred of all life, and this hatredhad found expression in the curious paradox—halfborrowed from some fanatical monk, half inventedby himself—that the beautiful arts were sent intothe world to overthro