last night of the very hot weather. I’d been home from Cross and Passion about ten days. I heard them call my name, and when I went out to look, the garden was full of lights. They led me into the wood. I’d never imagined there were so many of them, or that they were so beautiful.
Rooke: And can you remember what the state of the moon was that night?
Emily: I remember it was very bright—just past full. But oh so bright!
Rooke: July the sixth. I would estimate about thirty minutes past full. Hmm. And the dates of the subsequent manifestations, Emily?
Emily: The eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth.
Rooke: Thank you, Emily. Back to you, Mr. Yeats. I have no further questions.
(The second interview: 9:50 P.M. , July 28. In attendance: as above. Weather wind gusting from the west, with showers.)
Yeats: This encounter you mentioned yesterday (consulting notes) on the night of the sixth of July—was this your first experience of this nature?
Emily: No.
Yeats: There have been— forgive me— have there been others?
Emily: Yes. One other.
Yeats: Would you tell us about it?
Emily: It was at school, up in Rathfarnham Woods. I’d always felt that they were there, up in the woods. At night I could hear them hunting. I could hear their dogs hunting, I could hear the jingle of bells from their horse bridles and falcon jesses— hunting. It was up in the dell.
Yeats: The dell?
Emily: (seeming to grow impatient) Yes, the dell. My dell, my place, my private place where I could be alone with myself, where I could shut away Cross and Passion and the Teaching Sisters and be still enough to feel the magic.
Yeats: Please, continue.
Emily: There was danger there, from the one who had sent me letters, the one who said he loved me. They came and they drove him away before he could hurt me.
Yeats: What—the faeries? I don’t understand. Emily?
Emily: One was the archer woman, the one I took a photograph of. She was as close to me as you are. Her bow was taller than she was. She isn’t very big, you see, even smaller than I am, and I remember she had an arrow nocked. She fired it at him—not to hurt him, but to scare him—and he ran away. The other was the harper. The blind harper. It is as if he was born without any eyes. There is only blank skin where the eyes should be. He’s very tall and thin, and he has little rags and ribbons tied all over him—to his fingers, his beard, his hair, the strings of his harp, everywhere. I used to wonder why he had those little rags tied all over him, but now I see! They’re to help him see where he’s going. They’re like a cat’s whiskers—; they’re moved by the wind and the leaves and the branches and can feel the different movements and know where he is. (Murmurs of amazement in the room. Here several persons began to speak at once but were hushed by Mr. H. Rooke.)
Rooke: And could you possibly tell me upon what date this— ah— event occurred?
Emily: It was the second of April.
Rooke: I see. That’s most interesting. Excuse me, Mrs. Desmond, but I presume that your husband, being in the line of investigation that he is, would be in the possession of such a thing as an astronomical almanac or calendar? Could I possibly ask the loan of it for a minute or two? (Here Mrs. C. Desmond retired to the library to fetch said almanac.) Thank you. Let me see, the second of April, 1913— damnation, what’s happening?
C. Desmond: I’m so sorry—it’s another of those pestilential electrical failures I mentioned to you yesterday. Mrs. O’Carolan— Mrs. O’Carolan, lamps, please. If you wish, we may continue by lamplight.
Rooke: Thank you, Mrs. Desmond, but before I can further pursue my inquiries, I have a little research I need to do, and, unless Mr. Yeats has anything further he wants to ask, I rather think we have put poor Emily through quite enough for one evening.
(The third interview: 3:30 P.M., July 29, 1913. Present: as above, with the addition of Dr. E. G.
Rooke: And can you remember what the state of the moon was that night?
Emily: I remember it was very bright—just past full. But oh so bright!
Rooke: July the sixth. I would estimate about thirty minutes past full. Hmm. And the dates of the subsequent manifestations, Emily?
Emily: The eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth.
Rooke: Thank you, Emily. Back to you, Mr. Yeats. I have no further questions.
(The second interview: 9:50 P.M. , July 28. In attendance: as above. Weather wind gusting from the west, with showers.)
Yeats: This encounter you mentioned yesterday (consulting notes) on the night of the sixth of July—was this your first experience of this nature?
Emily: No.
Yeats: There have been— forgive me— have there been others?
Emily: Yes. One other.
Yeats: Would you tell us about it?
Emily: It was at school, up in Rathfarnham Woods. I’d always felt that they were there, up in the woods. At night I could hear them hunting. I could hear their dogs hunting, I could hear the jingle of bells from their horse bridles and falcon jesses— hunting. It was up in the dell.
Yeats: The dell?
Emily: (seeming to grow impatient) Yes, the dell. My dell, my place, my private place where I could be alone with myself, where I could shut away Cross and Passion and the Teaching Sisters and be still enough to feel the magic.
Yeats: Please, continue.
Emily: There was danger there, from the one who had sent me letters, the one who said he loved me. They came and they drove him away before he could hurt me.
Yeats: What—the faeries? I don’t understand. Emily?
Emily: One was the archer woman, the one I took a photograph of. She was as close to me as you are. Her bow was taller than she was. She isn’t very big, you see, even smaller than I am, and I remember she had an arrow nocked. She fired it at him—not to hurt him, but to scare him—and he ran away. The other was the harper. The blind harper. It is as if he was born without any eyes. There is only blank skin where the eyes should be. He’s very tall and thin, and he has little rags and ribbons tied all over him—to his fingers, his beard, his hair, the strings of his harp, everywhere. I used to wonder why he had those little rags tied all over him, but now I see! They’re to help him see where he’s going. They’re like a cat’s whiskers—; they’re moved by the wind and the leaves and the branches and can feel the different movements and know where he is. (Murmurs of amazement in the room. Here several persons began to speak at once but were hushed by Mr. H. Rooke.)
Rooke: And could you possibly tell me upon what date this— ah— event occurred?
Emily: It was the second of April.
Rooke: I see. That’s most interesting. Excuse me, Mrs. Desmond, but I presume that your husband, being in the line of investigation that he is, would be in the possession of such a thing as an astronomical almanac or calendar? Could I possibly ask the loan of it for a minute or two? (Here Mrs. C. Desmond retired to the library to fetch said almanac.) Thank you. Let me see, the second of April, 1913— damnation, what’s happening?
C. Desmond: I’m so sorry—it’s another of those pestilential electrical failures I mentioned to you yesterday. Mrs. O’Carolan— Mrs. O’Carolan, lamps, please. If you wish, we may continue by lamplight.
Rooke: Thank you, Mrs. Desmond, but before I can further pursue my inquiries, I have a little research I need to do, and, unless Mr. Yeats has anything further he wants to ask, I rather think we have put poor Emily through quite enough for one evening.
(The third interview: 3:30 P.M., July 29, 1913. Present: as above, with the addition of Dr. E. G.
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