The Rebels of Ireland (122 page)

“Father MacGowan's bringing a poor young student with him,” he told Gogarty. “If I'm occupied, would you be nice to him?”

When Willy Byrne approached the house, he felt some trepidation. It had been kind of Father MacGowan, who'd only come to know him because he came to give classes occasionally at the school, to have taken an interest in him. Apart from the priest, and the very limited resources of his own family, he had no one to sponsor him in the world. As he entered Wellington Road and saw the big, bland terraces staring down at him mistily, he realised suddenly that he had never been inside such a house before. Though the priest hadn't said so directly, it was obvious that he hoped their host might do something for Willy. But what if he made a bad impression? Would that make the priest lose interest in him? What should he say?

“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 pass round the table. Had he just destroyed himself? Certainly he'd just contradicted, and probably annoyed, the newspaperman who might, perhaps, have given him a job. He had failed before he had even started. He was doomed.

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 arte-facts 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.”