EARLY MEMORIES; SOME CHAPTERS OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY JOHN BUTLER YEATS. THE CUALA PRESS CHURCHTOWN DUNDRUM MCMXXIII PREFACE My father died in New York on February 2nd, 1922, at the end of his eighty second year. He died after a few hours illness brought on, as it seemed, by a long walk in the cold of a New York winter. He awoke in the middle of the night to find his friends Mrs Foster and Mr John Quinn sitting beside his bed and after a few words of pleasure at the sight said to Mrs Foster 'Remember you have promised me a sitting in the morning.' These were his last words for he dropped off to sleep and died in his sleep. He had gone to America some ten or twelve years before to be near my eldest sister who had an exhibition of embroidery there, and though she left after a few months he stayed on. 'At last' he said 'I have found a place where people do not eat too much at dinner to talk afterwards'. As he grew infirm his family & his friends constantly begged him to return, but, though he promised as constantly and would even fix the day of sailing, he would always ask for a few weeks more. He lived in a little French hotel in 29th Street where there is a café and night after night sat there, sketch book in hand, surrounded by his friends, painters and writers for the most part, who came to hear his conversation. He seemed to work as hard as in his early days, and drew with pen or pencil innumerable portraits with vigour, and subtlety. He painted a certain number in oils, & worked for several years at a large portrait of himself, commissioned by Mr John Quinn. I have not seen this portrait, but expect to find that he had worked too long upon it and, as often happened in his middle life when, in a vacillation prolonged through many months it may be, he would scrape out every morning what he had painted the day before, that the form is blurred, the composition confused, and the colour muddy. Yet in his letters he constantly spoke of this picture as his masterpiece, insisted again and again, as I had heard him insist when I was a boy, that he had found what he had been seeking all his life. This growing skill had been his chief argument against return to Ireland, for the portrait that displayed it must not be endangered by a change of light. The most natural among the fine minds that I have known he had been preoccupied all his life with the immediate present and what he thought his growing skill, but began towards its end, as I suppose we all do, to compare the present to the remote past. When I noticed how often his letters referred to long dead relations and friends, 'those lost people' as he called them in one letter, I persuaded him to begin his autobiography. He wrote, though with difficulty and a little against the grain, the biographical fragment in this book. When his account of friends and relations had come to an end the difficulty increased, and finding it more amusing to