1909

She had been waiting for this visit today with great eagerness. He was delighted to see her so happy.

The brief December afternoon was already drawing in as Sheridan Smith and Caitlin walked across the Liffey. She was still only eleven, but today she had put up her long dark hair, like an adult, and linked her arm in his. He felt so proud. And he smiled to himself with amusement. Instead of foster-father and daughter, they were walking like a pair of lovers.

Her long legs had a wonderful, swinging motion. Part countess, three parts a mountain child: her mind also, he knew, moved with the same, grand freedom.

It was two years since her father had died. Both she and her mother had wished to remain in Ireland; so, while they kept the estate in the country, they had bought a house in Fitzwilliam Square. And as Sheridan was only ten years older than Caitlin’s mother, it had happened quite naturally that he had taken on the role of unofficial foster-father. Although technically he was the child’s great uncle, she simply called him Uncle Sherry.

The loss of her father had also had another effect upon the child. It had brought her into more contact with old Maureen.

Sheridan had to admire his old mother. She was fortunate, of course, that she had kept her strength and health to such a great age. Perhaps the hardships of her youth during the Famine had toughened her, or perhaps she had been unusually hardy before. Her sight was still good, her hearing almost as acute, and she insisted on walking upstairs. When the Count had died, it had been natural, he supposed, that the girl should have taken special pleasure in the company of the old woman who represented such long life and family continuity. A chance remark had brought the two of them even closer together.

“It’s a pity,” the old lady had said one day, “that you don’t speak the language of your ancestors—on your father’s side as well as mine, of course. They tell me the speaking of Irish has become quite the fashion nowadays.”

Indeed the combined efforts of Yeats and his friends, the GAA, and the Gaelic League had been so successful that the University of Ireland was even making Irish a compulsory subject for matriculation.

“I think I should like to learn,” Caitlin had answered. “Will you teach me?” Ever since, on three afternoons a week, the old lady and the child had sat together for an hour at tea time; and old Maureen had taught Caitlin to speak Gaelic. She was becoming quite proficient.

Their conversations had also made the girl more curious about history. Her great-grandmother would tell Caitlin all about her early life, the Famine, and her escape to Dublin. She spoke of her relations in America and of her bitter feelings towards England. “Your own O’Byrne ancestors were driven out of Ireland, Caitlin, remember,” she would point out. “The Wild Geese, they were. And look what they made of their lives. Titles and estates they fought for and earned, and good luck to them. The Maddens in America have prospered, too, thank God. It’s only the English who have chosen to despise the Irish. Wherever else they have gone in the world, they have risen to the top.”

Recently, Sheridan had been rather pleased when Caitlin had asked him some intelligent questions about the political situation. Was there really hope, she wanted to know, that Ireland would gain its freedom, at last, from England?

“As a matter of fact,” he told her, “things have just taken an interesting turn.” And he explained why.

The turn of events had originated in a dispute that had nothing to do, directly, with Ireland. This year of 1909, a change of great significance had taken place in the London Parliament. Up to now, the House of Lords, traditionally filled with conservative-minded hereditary peers, had always been able to block legislation. Finding its budget blocked in this way, the present Liberal government, with the aid of Redmond’s Irish MPs, had just forced through a constitutional change. From now on, the Lords would no longer be able to block legislation, but only delay it. As the price of their help, the Irish party had extracted a promise that a new Home Rule Bill would be prepared and introduced. “In the past,” Sheridan explained to Caitlin, “Home Rule Bills, giving Ireland her freedom, have been passed by the British House of Commons. The reason why Ireland isn’t free already is that those Bills have always been blocked in the Lords. But when the next Home Rule Bill passes the Commons, the Lords won’t be able to stop it any more. Those who want Ireland to be separate will get what they want, without any bloodshed. It’s only a question of time, now. Within the next few years, I’d say.”

“That is good, isn’t it, Uncle Sherry?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it is good,” she said.

Today’s visit was the result of a promise he’d made two weeks ago. He was taking her to a rehearsal at the Abbey Theatre.

It was new, this fascination of Caitlin’s with the theatre. She and her mother had liked to go to the usual Dublin round of pantomime and music hall. This somewhat precocious interest in drama, however, could also be attributed to the influence of old Maureen.

The old lady’s interest in the Abbey Theatre had come about quite unexpectedly.

It had been back in January 1907 that Yeats and Lady Gregory had staged the production of a play by J. M. Synge that had caused a great stir. The Playboy of the Western World, with its haunting language and anarchic themes was unlike anything the Dublin audience had ever witnessed before. And they didn’t like it. “This is not Ireland,” they protested. “People do not speak like that,” they said of the language. As for the play’s strange action: “It’s the raving of a diseased imagination.” By the end of the performance there had almost been a riot. “I have heard such speech on the west coast,” the playwright answered, “and even amongst Dublin folk too.” So great was the public stir that Maureen had insisted Sheridan take her to see the play. “I come from the west,” she declared, “so I shall judge for myself.” There was so much noise from the audience, who by now had come to howl the play down, that it had not been easy to hear all of the play, but Maureen had announced that she liked it. More important, it seemed that she approved of the theatre’s efforts to promote Irish drama, and to his surprise, in her ninetieth year, she had suddenly started going to the theatre. She went almost every month. Earlier this year, she had decided that Caitlin should accompany her. Caitlin’s mother had been afraid that the girl might be bored. But not a bit of it. Quite the reverse, in fact. She’d recently announced that she wanted to go on the stage herself. “My dear Sherry,” her mother had complained, “my daughter’s completely stage-struck. What am I to do?”

“Nothing,” he told her with a smile. It was hardly so unusual for an eleven-year-old girl to be stage-struck. So when he had used his contacts at the Abbey to arrange for a private visit backstage during a rehearsal, Caitlin’s excitement had been great indeed.

They had crossed the Liffey. Ahead stretched the broad expanse of Sackville Street. On the left, the square mass of the General Post Office with its big six-column portico, looked like a barracks; in front of it, in the centre of the thoroughfare, Nelson’s high pillar gave the place an imperial air. Older than its tall sister in London’s Trafalgar Square, the pillar to England’s great naval commander had always rather pleased Sheridan. If you were going to have such an object in the middle of the street, it seemed to him, it should serve some useful purpose. You could mount the interior staircase in the pillar and emerge onto the platform near the top, from which there were splendid views of the city. They were just approaching the pillar when they saw Father Brendan MacGowan.

He greeted them warmly. Yes, they were well. Had they noticed the sharp wind from the east? They would feel it in their faces as they went into Abbey Street. He was going upon his rounds. He parted from them cheerfully and, with the wind behind him, went westwards, under full sail. They, meanwhile, turned into Abbey Street and approached the theatre.

“You’ve just missed Mr. Yeats,” the doorman told them. But Yeats could be seen almost any day in Dublin. You had only to go to St. Stephen’s Green to catch sight of his tall figure, his lock of dark hair falling down his brow, as he drifted round the railings, in a state of abstraction, like an angel on a cloud.

Once inside, Sheridan’s task was easy. Having delivered Caitlin into the hands of one of the company, he could walk about or sit in one of the empty seats while they showed her round backstage. The dressing rooms, the grease paint, the scenery with pulleys, the store where the props were kept—the everyday business of the theatre would seem like magic to her, no doubt. The stage manager appeared. There was a scene to rehearse. He could not see Caitlin, but knew that she would be standing there in the wings, watching every move, listening to every word. And for him, too, so long accustomed to such things, there was still the special feeling of a theatrical space, which, for those who love the theatre, partakes, even more than a religious space, of the eternal. He sat in the empty stalls and closed his eyes.

It was an hour and a half before she appeared. Her eyes were glowing. Sheridan smiled. Obviously the visit had been a success. A stage hand was accompanying her. He was smiling. “She enjoyed herself,” he told Sheridan. “We liked having her,” he added, in a way that suggested he felt Caitlin belonged there. Just then, from somewhere above, a door opened with a slight creak and then banged shut. The stage hand glanced up, then, with a parting smile to them both, went back behind the scenes. Sheridan and Caitlin started to move towards the exit. But they had just reached the hallway that led towards the stage door, when a commanding woman in a fur coat and a large, wide-brimmed felt hat swept down upon them.

“Stop,” she cried. “I wish to look at you.” She gave a nod. “Sheridan.”

“I thought,” he said, “that you were in Paris.”

“I am in Dublin for two days. Nobody knows I am here.” She gazed at Caitlin. “And who,” she demanded, “is this simply wonderful child?”

“Countess Caitlin Birne,” he said quietly. “This,” he said to the girl, “is Miss Gonne.” Then he drew back slightly, since he knew very well there was nothing to be done now, until the lady had finished.

“My dear child,” said the lady. “You have the most remarkable eyes. I take it you are going on the stage.”

How was it, Sheridan wondered, not for the first time, that Maud Gonne had achieved her curious position? Born in England, the daughter of an officer in the British army, she had reinvented herself entirely. Her father having left her with independent means, she lived in Paris, mostly. For years she’d been the mistress of a French journalist who’d given her two children. But none of that had stopped Yeats wanting to marry her or casting her in a play as an Irish heroine. Instead of Yeats, she’d since married an Irish patriot; but the marriage hadn’t lasted long. She ran a French Irish newspaper, these days, and made occasional visits to Dublin. But whenever she arrived, it seemed to Sheridan, she came in like a cavalry charge.

The fact that Caitlin was a countess, he knew very well, would intrigue her at once. With her large, staring eyes and her powerful chin, Maud Gonne was the very picture of a wilful society lady. This seemed to be a type that attracted Yeats, he mused. Questioning Caitlin now, it did not take her long to find out all she wanted. And she was enchanted.

“This is wonderful,” she declared. “Quite wonderful. A true Irish noblewoman, returned to her country. And she speaks the language of her ancestors as well. My dear child, you must join us. Inghinidhe na hEireann was made for you. It is your home.”

Inghinidhe na hEireann: the Daughters of Erin. It was Maud Gonne herself who had founded the movement when the nationalist groups wouldn’t have her because she was a woman. It was dedicated to combatting the malign influence of England upon Irish culture, and it went a good deal further than that. Not only did the Daughters of Erin give Irish language classes to the children of the poor, but they told Irish girls not to go out with English soldiers, and distributed leaflets warning them of the dangers of having illegitimate babies. To join, you had to be of Irish birth. “It is curious,” Sheridan had once observed, “that Maud Gonne dedicates her life to combating so many things she represents herself.” Some of the leading members had even taken new, Irish names by which they were known within the organisation. Maud Gonne herself was known as Maeve.

“Here.” She reached into the pocket of her fur coat and drew something out. It was a little circular brooch in the shape of an ancient Irish torc. “This is the badge the Daughters of Erin wear. It’s yours. A present. You shall wear it when you are older.” She smiled, but her eyes were looking deep into Caitlin’s. “You have not only a great role to play on the stage, my child. And with your hair and your eyes, you will create a sensation. But you have a great role ahead of you in the life of your country.” She paused, then gave her another tremendous stare. “Never forget that, Caitlin. It is what you were born to. It is your destiny.”

With that, she swept out, with Caitlin gazing, fascinated, after her. And Sheridan was left wondering whether, perhaps, this visit to the Abbey Theatre might have done more than he had intended.

As he grew older, Father Brendan MacGowan did not curtail his many kindly visits around the city. But he became a better navigator. As he came westwards along Mary Street, therefore, he kept his plump back turned at a slight angle to the east wind, so that it should gently propel him along without pushing him off balance. He was moving along nicely at a couple of knots or more when he caught sight of Willy O’Byrne coming towards him. Willy was accompanied by a young woman. At the sight of the young man, the priest frowned.

He wasn’t sure what he felt about Willy. He’d been glad, of course, to have started him upon his way. And Sheridan Smith seemed perfectly happy with him. Young Willy had his own territory now; he brought in advertising rather successfully. People seemed to like him. He’d got his own lodgings nowadays, up near Mountjoy Square, Father Brendan had heard. No harm in all that. Nor did the priest mind that Willy spent so much time in the bookshop of his anticlerical brother. Willy probably didn’t know that he knew all about these activities. He hoped it hadn’t turned the young man against his faith, but in his own experience, even when people did turn away from the Church, it only took some small crisis in their lives, often as not, to bring them back.

No, his objection to Willy was altogether more practical and down to earth. It seemed to the kindly priest that he detected signs that Willy was becoming callous.

It had been a single event that had put him on his guard: a story that he had heard from another source. Not long after Willy had moved to his own lodgings, his uncle had died. There had been friction between them while he was still living in his uncle’s house, it seemed. Willy had said some things, of a political nature, that his uncle did not like. It may have been this disagreement which encouraged Willy to leave. But there had not been a major split in the family, as far as Father Brendan was aware. Yet when his uncle had died, Willy had not bothered to go to the wake or the funeral. He had not gone to see the family at all. And by all accounts, his aunt had been very hurt.

Some weeks afterwards, meeting Willy one day, he had tackled him about it. Surely, he had suggested, it had not been a very kind thing to do. Willy had not been annoyed, but had appeared puzzled.

“I never really liked him,” he said.

“That may be. But should you not have considered the feelings of your aunt and your cousins?”

“The girls didn’t mind. I couldn’t see the point of being dishonest, I suppose.” He had shrugged. “He wasn’t a very nice man.”

“That is not for you to judge. Can you not see that your action was cruel?”

It had seemed to Father Brendan that, if he did see, and it was inconceivable that he did not, Willy did not greatly care.

He was glad to observe that the young woman accompanying Willy now was one of his aunt’s three daughters. Perhaps the young man was making amends. In answer to his greeting, and his general enquiry as to what they were doing that afternoon, Willy informed him that he had just taken his cousin to see the moving pictures at the little theatre that had recently opened for the purpose.

“It’s called the Volta, Father, just behind us. Have you been in there?”

“I haven’t,” the priest said. “Was it well attended?”

“Only a few people, besides ourselves. I tried to sell Joyce some advertising, but he couldn’t afford it. The business isn’t prospering, I’m afraid.”

Father Brendan had heard about the venture. Joyce: Gogarty’s protégé. Whatever Oliver St. John Gogarty liked to say, from all the priest had heard, young Joyce had not turned out too well at all. For a start, he’d run off with a servant girl and never married her, so far as he had heard. That was both an immoral and a foolish thing to do. He might have tried for a profession of some kind, perhaps, or at least sought regular employment; but he hadn’t the application of Gogarty, who was already well on the way to becoming a surgeon of repute. But Joyce wasn’t solid enough. He’d never make his mark. Father Brendan corrected himself. One mustn’t judge, of course. God’s grace might be bestowed in unseen ways. The fellow had gone off to the continent anyway; been living in Trieste, for reasons unknown. And now he’d come back to Dublin to open a movie theatre in Mary Street. Backed by some investors from Trieste, apparently. Though what the men from Trieste would know about the appetite of Dubliners for moving pictures, the priest couldn’t guess. He’d noticed the young man’s tall, slim figure lounging by the entrance of the place, looking disconsolate, but had not chosen to speak with him.

“They say it’s catching on everywhere,” Willy said. “But not in Dublin. Not yet, anyway. I think Joyce is too early with it myself.”

“No doubt,” said Father MacGowan. “Well, I’ve a lady to see in the Rotunda Hospital, so I must be going along.”

“He thinks me cruel,” said Willy, after the priest had gone.

“You are not always kind,” his cousin Rita replied.

Willy shrugged.

“Besides,” said Rita, “you did not answer the question I asked you before Father MacGowan came along. I don’t believe,” she added, “that you care.”

Willy considered. He didn’t care, in fact. But he would not say that to Rita. She was the one member of her family with whom he had always got on rather well. And he could see her point.

Why was it, she had asked, that working at Jacobs Biscuit factory, the older men could earn over a pound a week, while she earned less than a third of that? They have families to support, he had answered. It had always been so. Nobody had ever complained before. “We are complaining now,” she had said. Some of the young men—who did better than the women, of course, but still got far less than their seniors for the same work—had been complaining, too. “There’s a union now, at least,” Rita had pointed out.

An Irish trade union had been set up recently by James Larkin. The membership was growing rapidly. But whether they would do much for women remained to be seen. “They say that the union favours equality for women. But I should guess,” Willy told her truthfully, “that most of the union men won’t be anxious to see women paid the same, any more than the employers would be. You’d need a women’s union for that.”

“There isn’t one.”

“I know.” He considered. “Are you just complaining, or do you want to do something about these things yourself?”

“I might.”

“It’s dangerous.” Employers usually dismissed troublemakers. He waited for her to respond, but as she didn’t, he went on. “You know, there are women on the executive of Sinn Fein.”

It had been Arthur Griffith, after starting The United Irishman newspaper, who had started the Sinn Fein movement. “Ourselves Alone” the name meant, and his idea was to boycott English goods wherever it was possible to produce the same in Ireland. “We need economic self-sufficiency,” his supporters declared, “to show Ireland how to stand up for herself as a free and independent nation.” Since then, Sinn Fein had grown into an amalgam of groups dedicated to a general, but nonviolent resistance to England’s rule.

“You’re in Sinn Fein, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“What made you join?”

“Many reasons. I suppose it was MacGowan the bookseller—he’s Father MacGowan’s brother, you know—who encouraged me in that direction. It was natural, really. I wanted the English out of Ireland.”

“Well, I might consider it.” She nodded. “Do they also want votes for women?”

“You’re turning into a suffragist as well? I didn’t know you were such a radical.”

“I never was. But when I started thinking about the wages, then I wondered why women shouldn’t vote, as well. The movement is well-developed in England.”

“Leave it alone, Rita. For the present.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, it’s better to do one thing at a time. Secondly, we don’t want votes for women in Ireland yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t want them coming from the British. That’s something that should come from Ireland.”

She considered this.

“I’m not sure you really care about for votes for women, Willy,” she said after a while.

“So you say.”

“But I’ll think about Sinn Fein, all the same. Thank you for taking me to the movies.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not much. But it was interesting.”

“Well, at least you’ve seen them while they’re here. I don’t think Joyce can keep the Volta going much longer. I’ll walk you home.”

“Will you come in when we get there?”

“No.”

It was getting late when Father Brendan MacGowan set out from the Rotunda Hospital. His visit had been a success. But as he considered what course to set, he frowned. His best way would be along Parnell Street. It was a busy street. It ran across this part of the city, cutting at an angle, from north-east to south-west across the top of Sackville Street where it met the Rotunda. It was, for Father MacGowan, rather a convenient street. Yet for the last two years, Parnell Street had no longer found favour with the priest, and he had tended to avoid it. He had done so ever since Tom Clarke had opened a tobacconist’s shop there.

Father MacGowan didn’t like Tom Clarke.

His brother the bookseller had known Clarke, been quite friendly with him, even, years ago in America. That was before Tom Clarke went over to plant bombs in England and got himself thrown in jail. He’d come back to Ireland now.

The long years in an English jail had transformed him physically. Gaunt, with thinning hair, he looked twenty years older than he was. Deceptive. It made him all the more dangerous. Behind his metal-rimmed spectacles there was a cold passion and intensity that the priest did not like at all. The bookseller didn’t care for Clarke, either. Their friendship had ended. And his tobacconist’s shop had become a meeting place for the Fenians. The IRB: the Irish Republican Brotherhood. God knows what those fellows were plotting. You never knew because they were so secretive you didn’t even know who they were. You could probably identify quite a few of them if you watched to see who was hanging around with Tom Clarke in his shop. But Father MacGowan didn’t care to know; and he preferred not to pass by the tobacconist’s at all. He normally set a different course.

But this evening the wind had veered, and his quickest journey would take him past that dangerous and infernal establishment. And so, like a sailor strapped to the mast to protect himself from the sirens, he prepared to slip past as quick as he could. He drew close, sailed by, and glanced in, just for an instant. The store was small but brightly lit. In the window, also brightly illuminated, was a cardboard figure of a Round Tower, advertising Banba Irish Tobacco. Through the glass of the door, he could see several figures standing in the narrow space in front of the counter, behind which Clarke presided. And as he looked, Father MacGowan uttered a groan.

One of the men standing there was a figure he had seen only a couple of hours before. It was Willy O’Byrne.