The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd
“Just observe,” Father MacGowan said, as if reading his thoughts. “Answer politely when spoken to. You’ll do very well. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. Well, here we are.”
Three minutes later, rather pale, he was silently observing for dear life. He’d never been faced with a Count before.
You could see that Count Birne was not entirely well. He was tall and he was thin; he was wearing one of the new, double-breasted jackets, and trousers with turn-ups—a fashionable elegance hardly seen yet, even in the Kildare Street Club, of which he was a member. His black hair, streaked with grey, was parted near the crown of his noble head. He wore a moustache, parted neatly in the middle and brushed along the lip. His nose was somewhat larger than one might have expected from such an exquisitely manicured figure. In his right hand, between his second and third fingers, he languidly held a Turkish cigarette. His eyes, brown and melancholic, gazed down with soft good manners at whomever he was talking to— which in this case was young Gogarty, who seemed to take such a personage entirely in his stride. In answer to Gogarty’s question, as to the provenance of his title, he answered quietly:
“I am a Count of the Holy Roman Empire.”
You could tell he was not well from the way, very discreetly, he leant against the ebony walking stick he held, at a slight angle to the back of his thigh, in his left hand. From his answer, however, Willy derived one piece of comfort. At least this daunting person was a Catholic.
His own companion was old Mrs. Maureen Smith, who asked him about himself, and was easy to talk to. By and by, while Father MacGowan spoke to the Count, Gogarty came over and chatted in a friendly way. Willy learned that he planned to become a doctor. Gogarty was only a little older than he was, but Willy could see at once how great the young man’s advantages were compared to his own. He’d never met someone of that age who had such social ease and graces. Various children appeared. The countess had disappeared upstairs with her own daughter who, it seemed, had chosen her arrival at the house as a moment to be sick. The countess came down in due course, without her daughter. She was elegant, but entirely friendly. Then they all sat down to eat.
The Sunday family meal at Sheridan Smith’s was a very relaxed affair. The children ate with the grown-ups, but at a certain point were excused. Only then did the conversation become more interesting.
And to his surprise, Willy quickly discovered that, rather than be questioned about his own exalted life, the Count was anxious to know the opinion of the company on a number of matters. “I have not spent enough time in Ireland during the last few years,” he explained, “and each time I return, I become more confused.” He smiled. “Some years ago, we heard much of Home Rule. For ten years now, we have heard less. But now I see that Mr. Redmond, who occupies the place that Parnell had, leads no less that eighty MPs in the British Parliament, and hopes for Home Rule once again.
“We used to hear of extremists, too, who were ready to use violence to turn the British out. What has happened to them? Have they disappeared? Meanwhile, the British government seems to do all it can to destroy the old Protestant interest. So what does it mean? Is the ghost of Parnell to rise from the grave? Are we supposed to be British or Irish, Protestant or Catholic?” He looked round the table. “Father MacGowan, tell me, where does the Church—my Church—stand?”
“I shall tell you exactly,” said the priest with a smile.
“Which means, since he has a Jesuitical streak,” said Sheridan Smith with a smile, “that he won’t tell you at all.”
The priest blandly ignored him.
“Many of the priests, and even some of the bishops, remembering the heady days of Daniel O’Connell, have been somewhat inclined to support the movements for Home Rule.”
“Though they destroyed Parnell,” his host reminded him.
“They could not ignore his adultery,” Father MacGowan said reasonably. “Not once it became so public.” He took a sip of wine. “But that is not the point. What really mattered, and what matters still, is that the view—I should say the indomitable personality—of Cardinal Cullen prevailed. He condemned the extremists, of course. That need not be discussed. But he refused to allow the Irish Church to become involved in politics whatsoever, on either side. Remember, when the British government offered to subsidise the Catholic Church along with the Church of Ireland and the Presbyterians, he would not take their money. And when you look at the spate of Catholic church building in the last three decades, we seem to have done very well without it. The Church will not stoop, therefore. If we are to keep our authority, we must be above such things. The fact that he spent so many years in Rome no doubt helped to give him a larger view than many of the local priests. And in the long run he will be proved right. Then the Church will take its proper place, as the higher authority, when Ireland becomes independent, which she will.”
“You think it will?”
“Without a doubt. Redmond and his IPP have eighty seats. They will press the government until the British are sick of them. And sooner or later, just as happened with Parnell before, some future election will leave them with the balance of power. Home Rule will be the price. It may take time. We must be patient. But it will come.”
“I see,” the Count remarked with a gentle smile, “that you have not entirely abandoned politics yourself. But tell me, Sheridan, is that your view, too?”
“It is not. And I will make a quite different prediction.” Their host considered. “Firstly, there is a weakness in your political case, Father. Redmond may hold the balance of power in the House of Commons and get a bill passed. That has happened before, with Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill. It’s the British House of Lords who will throw the measure out, and I suspect they will do so until Doomsday.” He glanced round them all. “But it does not matter anyway. Because the present British policy towards Ireland is going to work.”
A few years ago, when the British took local government out of the hands of the Protestant gentry and effectively gave it to local, mostly Catholic men—merchants, tradesmen, solicitors—the landowners had effectively lost their power, he reminded them. This August, a new and improved Land Act had just been passed.
“And have you looked carefully at its terms? They are quite extraordinary. Effectively, the British government is buying out the Ascendancy. Ten years from now, the Protestant Ascendancy will be over. Completely. Ireland will be a land of Catholic farmers.
“I suppose that Redmond and his men will still try for Home Rule. But if they can’t get it, I doubt very much whether many people in Ireland are going to care enough to make a fuss.”
Sheridan Smith had done. He looked quite pleased with himself. The Count nodded thoughtfully. His eyes travelled round the table. They stopped at Willy.
“And what, I wonder, does this young man think?” he asked kindly.
Willy felt himself go pale.
They were all watching him. What was he supposed to say? Was he going to offend somebody and ruin his chances here? He glanced about. Gogarty was watching him, curious. Damn it. No doubt he’d have something clever to say. He looked at Father MacGowan and the priest smiled at him, encouragingly. Encouraging him to do what, for God’s sake? He took a deep breath.
“My father is a tenant. All he wants is to buy his land.” He paused. Everybody was nodding. That was all right, then. He could shut up. But even as he relaxed, the image of his father and Mrs. Budge came into his mind. Then he thought of his mother, and of her anger, too. He’d told them the truth—but not the whole truth. Did Father MacGowan know that? Was he, as he might have been in the confessional, waiting for something more, wanting the good stuff? As if sensing his hesitation, nobody had spoken yet. He looked down at the table, and then—fool, no doubt, that he was— he let his conscience lead him. “But the truth is that neither he nor my mother will really be happy until every Protestant Englishman is out of Ireland, and Ireland is free.”
Ah. It was said. A tiny intake of breath seemed to pa
The Count, knowing nothing of such mundane matters, seemed pleased. Gogarty, understanding better, cheerfully leaped in.
“He’s absolutely right, of course,” he cried. “I’d have said the same thing. But do you know what I fear most, when we have our independence?”
“I don’t,” said Sheridan Smith with a smile, appreciating what was done, “but I know you’re going to tell us.”
“That terrible Lady Gregory,” said Gogarty with feeling.
People laughed. “Unfair,” said Sheridan Smith. “Cruel, Gogarty.” But Willy did not laugh. He knew that Gogarty spoke half in jest, yet still the jest affronted him.
Lady Gregory, the widowed Galway landowner who, all alone, had set herself to learn the Irish language.
She was not alone. There was quite a movement, nowadays, to celebrate the rich Celtic heritage of Ireland. The image—the magnificence of the old illuminated books, the Celtic crosses and artefacts with their echoing designs—that was easy to admire. But the word: that was harder. The Irish language was not an easy thing to learn, unless you had it from birth. It had been prevalent in the west, but the great exodus and dislocation of the Famine had reduced the Gaelic tongue to the corners of Connacht and the wilder places nowadays. Many had thought that the language might be lost.
Yet dedicated men had rescued it. Yeats, the poet, had caught its inspiration and mined its lore. Hyde, a Protestant son of the manse with a German wife, had founded the Gaelic League—Conradh na Gaeilge, to save the old language from extinction, and now it was promoted widely. He’d even scandalised Trinity College when he’d announced his mission “to de-Anglicise the Irish Nation.”
Yet it was Lady Gregory, only a woman, and outside the charmed circle, who’d performed, it seemed to Willy, the most important task of all. Delving not only into the spoken language, but into the often obscure and complex forms to be found in medieval manuscripts, she had collected all manner of ancient texts and from them culled ancient Irish tales that had first been written down, quite likely, not long after the time of Saint Patrick. Then she had translated them into English. The first collection, concerning the great warrior Cuchulainn, had been published a year ago. He had been lent it by a friend, and read it avidly. Another collection was due shortly.
“She has given us back our ancient heroes,” he said quietly.
“I don’t deny that,” said Gogarty. He smiled slyly. “Have you noticed, by the way, that the greatest enthusiasts for the Irish language all seem to have English names: Yeats, Gregory, Hyde? But I will tell you my objections to Lady Gregory, for I have two.
“The first objection is to her idiom. She says it is the idiom of the local people of Kiltartan. It may be so. But when you take the syntax of Irish and translate it directly into English, the effect is unnatural. I do not say: ‘There would be great grief on me indeed’ if some disaster occurred. Nor can I feel much for a hero who declares: ‘It is not trusting to a woman’s protection I am in this work I have in my hands.’ It is stilted. Page after page, it becomes cloying. I have the right to make this complaint, for my own name, Gogarty, is certainly Celtic. And I do not want my ancestors to be Kiltartanised. Now Yeats, who is quite as well versed in ancient Irish as Lady Gregory, never plays such games. He writes in modern English. But he is a great poet.”
Willy was silent. He did not know what to say to this. But Father MacGowan had the authority.
“Fair, up to a point,” he said. “But I take note from your own excellent verses, Gogarty, that you abhor the usual, dull pentameters of English as spoken by the English. The English spoken by Irish people has a special richness, and a rhythmic beauty that have yet to find a champion. Nonetheless, Lady Gregory, whatever her limitations, has performed a remarkable service to Ireland, and is to be applauded, not mocked.”
“I accept what you say. Hear my second objection, then. I fear this Gaelic revival, that she is part of, because it is not Ireland.” He waited a moment, for effect.
Willy frowned. The Gaelic revival went far beyond things literary. For most people, indeed, it meant the promotion of Gaelic sports, like the ancient and noble game of hurling. The Gaelic Athletic Association had attracted a large following in the last twenty years.
“You dislike the GAA?” he asked.
“Not as such. But why is that, if a member of the GAA is seen, even once, playing a game like cricket, he is expelled?”
“You must allow some natural reaction against the domination of England,” said Father MacGowan.
“I am Irish,” replied Gogarty. “I couldn’t be more so. But I do not care to be so circumscribed. What is it to be Irish anyway? Is it to be Celtic, whatever that is? I should think half the blood of the Irish was Viking anyway, before the English came. Do you know that one in six Irish names is Norman? But what really concerns me is the desire, in turning away from England, to look inward into this small island, instead of outward. Through all our history, we have been involved with wider shores, with the great culture, the religion, and the trade of Catholic Europe. I fear that this Gaelic fixation demands that, as an Irishman, I become something less than an Irishman is.”
And now a most remarkable thing occurred. The Count rapped his hand on the table.
“Ah,” he cried. “Aha!” Even Sheridan Smith started in surprise. Nobody knew the high-born personage could become so animated. “That is right, young man. Do not forget us, the Wild Geese, the great Irish community of Europe.”
Willy gazed at him. He’d always heard of the Wild Geese, those gallant men who had flown away out of Ireland two centuries ago, rather than live under English rule. But he had never thought to see one. So this strange, aristocratic figure was a Wild Goose. Somehow, it wasn’t what he’d expected.
The Count, however was waxing eloquent by now.
“There’s not a Catholic country, not a city where you won’t find us. Military men and counsellors, priests and lawyers, merchants and traders, too, no doubt, but always men of honour, held in respect. And we never forget. We are still Irishmen. You will find us at the Irish colleges in the capitals. It was émigrés who founded the Irish Franciscan College of Prague, you know. And, if I may say it, no nation has garnered greater honours. Numerous Irishmen have worn the Order of the Golden Fleece—that which there is no higher. Two hundred knights of the Spanish Order of Santiago. As for titles . . .” His eyes assumed an almost dreamy, mystical expression: “Burkes and Butlers, Leslies and Taafes, Kavanaghs, Walshes— the Counts von Wallis, you know, are the Walshes of Carrickmines. There are so many. As for my own family, there are numerous barons Byrne. We ourselves, the counts Birne, as we spell it now, were O’Byrnes originally, before we left.”
“And which of the many O’Byrnes would that be?” asked Father MacGowan.
“We had quite modest lands,” the Count replied. “You probably won’t know of the place. It is called Rathconan, up in the Wicklow Mountains. A family called Budge has it now,” he remarked with an aristocratic shrug. “I know nothing about them.”
O’Byrne of Rathconan? Willy stared in amazement. It had never occurred to him to connect this fastidious nobleman with his home. And then another realisation hit him. Damn it. And we thought that the place was ours.
So awesome and exotic was this aristocratic catalogue that, even here in the not-to-be-sneezed-at surroundings of Wellington Road, it reduced the table to silence.
Until, Willy could have sworn, there emanated from old Mrs. Smith, who so far hadn’t said a word, a distinct sniff. But now that she did speak, she spoke quietly.
“It’s strange to me,” she said, “that no one has mentioned the most important place of all. For there are two Irelands, not one.” She was an old lady, in comfortable circumstances, but it seemed to Willy that under her pale old face
“I didn’t actually.”
“My brother William’s son. He is quite prosperous now, I believe. He collects money. And it will be collected and given as long as there are people in Ireland who want to be free of England. The English may try to kill the Irish in Ireland with kindness, but they will never appease the Irish in America.”
“Or those in Australia,” added Father MacGowan, softly, “but they are too far away.”
“To whom does Martin Madden give money, might I ask?” said Sheridan Smith.
“To those who need it,” his mother answered, with a grim finality.
“Oh.” He looked embarrassed.
The Count glanced at the old lady curiously.
“I’d better go and see to my daughter,” said the Countess.
“We’re all done, I think,” said Sheridan’s wife.
“Perhaps,” said Father MacGowan, “I’ll stretch my legs. Gogarty, have you a moment?” He gave Sheridan Smith a meaningful look as he and Gogarty went out, and indicated Willy.
“Oh yes,” said the newspaperman, glad to change the subject. And a moment later he drew Willy aside.
He didn’t need to know much about him, he told the young man, to set him at ease. A recommendation from Father MacGowan was quite enough. Did he know what he wanted to do with his life? Well, nor had he at that age. “How can you possibly tell,” he asked obligingly, “until you’ve tried a thing or two?” There were some small jobs at the newspaper where a young fellow could get a look at things, so to speak. Not much pay, of course. Could he continue to live with his uncle and aunt? Good. Hmm. He’d never sold anything of course. “But you might find a talent for it. I’ve a good man who sells advertising space for the paper. To tradesmen, mostly, and that sort of thing. Advertising is very important to a newspaper, you know. You might go round with him for a bit. Learn the ropes.” There would be other things to do about the place, as well. Would that suit him?