‘I expected tonight that only two or three other writers would attend,’ the man confided. ‘George asked me to come along to read him some of the poems from my collection, but I certainly did not expect such a large and illustrious gathering.’
‘His salon is very famous,’ added John, ‘but we really did expect that everyone would be dressed up in costume too.’
They introduced themselves and discovered that they were talking to the writer James Stephens.
‘Are you intending to rejoin the rest of the guests?’ he asked.
Muriel, Ernest and Grace had no interest in any further humiliation, though John was tempted to swan in and join Nora Dryhurst.
‘Absolutely not, Mr Stephens, we intend leaving quietly,’ Grace said firmly. She had no intention of staying on at the party, no matter what her sister said or did.
‘Then let us all make our escape together,’ he suggested.
At the hall door George Russell came politely up to say goodbye.
‘I’m sorry that we did not get the opportunity to converse properly this evening, but do say that you will all come and visit me again,’ he entreated them.
‘Yes, we will,’ Grace promised. She knew well the importance of being accepted by Mr Russell and his coterie of artist and writer friends if she hoped to become part of the Dublin art scene.
Chapter 19
Muriel
‘MURIEL, DO SAY you want to come with Grace and me to see St Enda’s, the new school Mr Pearse has opened in Ranelagh,’ urged John. ‘Mrs Dryhurst has invited us to join her.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be involved in another escapade with your friend after all the embarrassment she caused us at Mr Russell’s house,’ Muriel replied tartly.
‘This time will be different,’ her sister promised. ‘Mr Pearse has some very revolutionary ideas about education, and Nora says that he may even agree to let me write a piece about his new school.’
‘Oh very well,’ she sighed. She had done a week of night duty at the hospital and was still tired, enjoying her well-earned day off before she was back on duty tomorrow.
Her youngest sister was enthralled by Mrs Dryhurst, who seemed always to get invited to openings and exhibitions and enjoyed bringing along a few female friends for company.
St Enda’s, the new school for boys, was in Ranelagh, close to their home in Rathmines. Mother considered it a nest of vipers, a school full of nationalists and Sinn Feiners and Gaelic Leaguers.
‘They speak Gaelic and have no business opening such a school in a good area like Ranelagh,’ she complained.
When they arrived at the school in Oakley Road, Mr Padraig Pearse, the headmaster, was outside, standing there with his mother to welcome guests. He was a serious young man, dressed in a tweed suit and dark tie, his hair short, and his grey-blue eyes were earnest as he greeted them.
‘I’m very much looking forward to seeing your school, Mr Pearse,’ said Nora Dryhurst enthusiastically. ‘I have heard great reports about St Enda’s and the Gaelic-based curriculum you offer the boys instead of the British system.’
Despite her reservations, Muriel had to admit that she was curious.
They were just about to take the steps when a young man with tousled, curly brown hair bounded towards them.
‘Mrs Dryhurst, how nice to meet you again,’ he said formally.
‘I am glad to see you, Mr MacDonagh,’ she beamed. ‘I have asked some friends to accompany me, as I do believe they too will be fascinated by your new school.’
Muriel studied him. He seemed pleasant and more at ease than Mr Pearse.
‘Oh, I am forgetting my manners,’ continued Nora. ‘This is Mr Thomas MacDonagh, the deputy principal, but also a gifted writer. His new play is being staged at the Abbey. Let me introduce you to my friends. These beautiful young women are the Gifford sisters, Muriel, Grace and John. Aren’t they wonderful? My advice to you, Thomas, is to fall in love with one of these girls and marry her!’
Muriel could feel the redness flush her cheeks. John was laughing and Grace had a sphinx-like smile on her face. Was she the only one to feel absolutely embarrassed and put out by Mrs Dryhurst’s very forward comments?
Thomas MacDonagh threw his head back and laughed aloud. ‘That would be easy, for they are all utterly charming. The difficulty would be to decide which one.’
Muriel prayed that the ground would open up and swallow her. She should never have listened to her sister; she should have stayed safely at home. Mr MacDonagh caught her eye and had the good grace to look at least momentarily contrite.
‘I do hope you will enjoy seeing the school and gain an understanding of what we are trying to do here. Our school is bilingual, the boys learning and speaking both Gaelic and English. Padraig’s work will not only change minds, I believe, but also I suspect the future of education here in Ireland,’ he said proudly.
‘Don’t let the Castle or Westminster hear you say that!’ Nora teased. ‘I hear they do not take well to change.’
‘Please excuse me, ladies – I have a few things to do. But I’m sure we will talk later. There will be refreshments served.’ A few boys were hovering around and Mr MacDonagh beckoned to one of them to come over.
‘Sean, please show these ladies around and bring them back to the halla afterwards.’
The classrooms along the corridor were large and bright with tall, long windows, the desks forming a semicircle around the teacher. There was the usual blackboard, but on one wall were pictures of Irish monuments, Celtic crosses, round towers, old castles and the burial mounds at Newgrange.
‘These are the important places in our land, our heritage,’ said young Sean proudly.
There was a large map of Ireland and its counties, showing its rivers, mountains and roads. As they had had only a map of Britain in her school, Muriel knew it’s rivers, counties and countryside far better than those of her own country, she was ashamed to say.
Along another wall hung prints and paintings of famous Irish men – Robert Emmet, Theobald Wolfe Tone, Charles Stewart Parnell, Daniel O’Connell and Irish chieftains of old. The next classroom had the alphabet in Gaelic and simple words written in Irish.
‘This is for the younger boys,’ explained Sean. ‘To help them learn the basics, they practise songs and rhymes and poems. Master Pearse believes that learning our native language is essential but should be made easier.’
He led them to the art room next, where vivid canvases almost covered one wall and a range of clay animal models stood on a long table. A tall young man was talking to two or three other visitors.
‘Art is an important part of our curriculum,’ he was saying. ‘We believe that even the youngest student is able to express his inner self through colour and form.’
A few minutes later, Grace introduced them to Willie Pearse. ‘We went to the Metropolitan School of Art together. Willie is a wonderful sculptor.’
‘How does a sculptor come to work here?’ asked Nora, curious.
‘Padraig is my older brother,’ he explained, ‘so it’s hard not to become involved in his endeavours. Besides, I enjoy teaching and it leaves me time for my own work too.’
‘That is good to hear,’ nodded Grace.
‘Some of my pieces are on display in the school if you want to see them, Grace?’ he offered.
Muriel could tell her sister was anxious to talk to Willie.
‘You run along, Grace dear,’ urged Nora. ‘We will catch up with you in a while, but for the moment we’ll continue our tour with young Sean.’
Grace threw them a glance of gratitude as she and Willie disappeared, talking together.
Muriel was impressed with the music room, noting that the instruments included fiddles, simple tin whistles and a drum that Sean told them was called a bodhran. The young lad picked up an unusual instrument that looked a bit like a small set of Scottish bagpipes and, sitting down, he began to play. The haunting sound of ancient Irish music filled the room.
‘These are called the Uilleann pipes,’ he explained. ‘Master Pearse said if I practise almost every day I will in time become a fine piper.’
As she walked around, Muriel could see that St Enda’s bore no resemblance to the schools she and her brothers and sisters had attended. The school emblem, which was displayed widely, was certainly different: it was a Gaelic warrior holding a sword with the words ‘Strength in our limbs, truth on our lips and purity in our hearts’. The school’s corridors, instead of the usual boring charts and maps, displayed art and sculpture, and each classroom was named after a legendary Irish figure – Cuchulainn, Oisin, Brian Boru. The boys at St Enda’s played Gaelic sports, hurling and football, and everyone was expected to train and be physically fit. Sean told them that, unlike in his old school, there was no corporal punishment for misbehaviour.
‘I really must find out more about Mr Pearse’s philosophy in setting up this school,’ Nora Dryhurst said, equally impressed. ‘Maybe I will see if I can find him.’
‘I should like to talk to him too,’ agreed John. ‘I want to write about this place.’
‘I can bring you back to the master,’ offered the boy.
‘You two go. I’ll just ramble around a bit more,’ said Muriel, not wanting to intrude.
‘Very well, my dear, we will see you back in the big hall,’ said Nora with a smile as she and John followed the boy.
Muriel was intrigued by a small plot of vegetables planted at the back of the school. Potatoes, cabbage and beans were growing there.
‘Padraig believes the boys should be able to learn how to grow food and support themselves if needed,’ interrupted a voice.
She turned to find Mr MacDonagh watching her. ‘He wants our pupils to not only be academic but practical too.’
‘It’s all wonderful, truly it is,’ she said sincerely. ‘If I were a boy it is a school I would love to attend.’
‘That is what Padraig is hoping, that this break with years of old-fashioned tradition and methods will encourage students, and of course their parents.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
‘Where is Mrs Dryhurst?’
‘She and my sister have gone to meet Mr Pearse to discuss the school and his principles.’
‘They could be a while then,’ he grinned. ‘Would you like to continue the tour?’
As he showed her around the rest of the school she discovered that his mother and father had both been teachers too.
‘My mother is a wonderful teacher – she even teaches the piano.’
Muriel could tell that Thomas MacDonagh was equally well regarded by his own students, as boys kept coming up to greet him. He knew all their names and chatted easily with them.
‘What about you, Miss Gifford, what are your interests? What does a young lady in your position enjoy?’
She sensed a slight cynicism in his voice and felt annoyed at his presumption of her being idle and wealthy.
‘I don’t get as much time as I want to pursue the things I like because I always seem to be working.’
‘Work?’ She could tell that he was surprised. ‘I’m training as a nurse in Sir Patrick Dun’s,’ she explained. ‘It’s my day off, but my sister insisted on dragging me along here.’
‘I’m glad that she did,’ he said, his eyes resting on her face.
Muriel felt embarrassed by his attention.
He laughed, sensing her discomfort. ‘It must be time for us to go to the Halla Mor. Padraig will be ready to give his address.’
They walked together back towards the large room, where Muriel was relieved to sit down and rejoin her sisters and Nora. They listened for about twenty minutes as Padraig Pearse outlined the ethos of his school and his aim – to teach and educate young Irish men who would be able to make a valid contribution to Irish society and life and their nation. St Enda’s education principles were rooted in the Gaelic language, literature, poetry and history, a love of the countryside and traditional Irish games, culture and music.
‘Stirring stuff,’ agreed Nora as everyone applauded.
Mr Pearse was a born orator and swept everyone along with him. Following his speech, a number of boys got up and sang in the choir, the notes of a traditional song filling the hall. It was so beautiful that Muriel couldn’t help being captivated by their voices. For an instant her eyes met those of Mr MacDonagh, who was standing at the side of the stage listening. She glanced away quickly.
Afterwards there was tea, sandwiches and cakes made by Mr Pearse’s sister. Muriel stayed in the group, noticing that the curly-haired teacher was busy, engrossed in talking to some prospective parents. Instead, Willie Pearse joined them. Strange, but Muriel felt slightly disappointed.
As they were leaving, Thomas MacDonagh came over to say goodbye to them.
‘I do hope that we will see each other again soon,’ he said. ‘Young ladies are always welcome along to the Gaelic League and our ceili evenings.’
‘I’m sure we would all love to go,’ replied John, smiling.
Walking home, Muriel had to admit that the thought of meeting up with Mr MacDonagh again was rather appealing.
Chapter 20
Muriel
MUSIC FILLED THE still evening air as Muriel and her sisters joined the crowd gathering outside on Harcourt Street. They had decided to take Mr MacDonagh up on his suggestion and attend a Gaelic League ceili. They couldn’t wait to join the dancers inside.
Muriel noticed that Mr MacDonagh was deep in conversation with a few friends on the other side of the big, high-ceilinged room. A few people were up dancing already, girls and young men of all ages hand in hand in a large circle as a group of musicians played their fiddles, whistles and bodhran.
Immediately on seeing them Thomas MacDonagh came over to welcome them, just as a lively jig began to play.
‘Congratulations on your play, Mr MacDonagh.’ Muriel, Grace and John had all attended When the Dawn Is Come, his play about a rebellion which had been staged by the Abbey Theatre only a few weeks earlier.
‘I’m afraid there were quite a few faults with the production,’ he admitted rather humbly. ‘Costumes and the set, unfortunately, left a lot to be desired.’
‘To have a play staged at the Abbey with Miss Sara Allgood is surely the thing,’ said John enthusiastically, ‘and it was very well received by the audience.’
‘You are most kind, Miss Gifford.’
‘We very much look forward to your next production,’ Muriel encouraged him, conscious that he must have been wounded by the poor reviews his play had received.
Mr MacDonagh invited them all up on to the dance floor, gesturing for his friends to join them. Muriel was suddenly aware of his strong, muscular arms holding her as he almost spun her around the floor, grasping her elbow firmly.
‘I’ll get dizzy!’ she laughed.
‘Then look at me,’ he ordered.
The music was fast and furious and Muriel had never enjoyed anything like it. Grace was dancing with Willie Pearse, while John was swung around the room by one of his friends.
‘These are all teachers from St Enda’s,’ Thomas MacDonagh said formally when the dance was finished, introducing them to his brother Joseph and his friend Con Colbert.
‘Is Mr Pearse here this evening?’ Muriel enquired.
‘Yes, but Padraig is not much of a dancer.’ He shrugged. The other men laughed aloud at the suggestion.
Next they danced ‘The Walls of Limerick’, a rousing jig, followed by a slower set. After that they sat for a time listening to the band as they sipped some lemonade. Muriel listened intently as Eamonn Ceannt, a friend of MacDonagh’s, played the Uilleann pipes. The music was so beautiful and haunting – a real contrast to the piano and violins of the usual bands and orchestras that entertained them.
Padraig Pearse appeared then and the room hushed as he stepped up to recite two poems that he had written in Gaelic. Muriel didn’t understand them, but those around her clapped loudly.
The ceili band
started up again and they danced until they were out of breath, their hearts racing. She couldn’t believe it when the fiddles finally ceased and it was time to go home.
‘I do hope you all enjoyed the night, Miss Gifford,’ Mr MacDonagh said, smiling at her as they prepared to leave. ‘Perhaps you and your sisters will return another time?’
‘Thank you, Mr MacDonagh, I’m sure we will.’
‘MacDonagh,’ he corrected her. ‘My friends always call me MacDonagh!’
Riding home in the carriage, they were all agreed that the young men and women of the Gaelic League were certainly an interesting crowd. Thomas MacDonagh and his friends were part of the movement to revive not only the Gaelic language but also Gaelic music and culture, which certainly had an attraction.
‘Thank heaven for a night with no boring, polite drawing-room conversation or dance cards and dreadful waltzes,’ pronounced Grace.
‘Mother would hate us being involved with such people,’ teased John. ‘So I do think we should definitely come again.’
Chapter 21
Muriel
MURIEL FELT GIDDY as she climbed the stairs to the ward. It had happened to her a few times over the past two days, but somehow she had steadied herself.
Dr Rutledge passed her and glanced over, mildly curious, as Muriel took a few slow, deep breaths before she continued up the stairs.
By mid-afternoon her head was reeling and her throat was sore. She was on duty in the sluice room washing bedpans and jars, a job she detested. By teatime she was hot and flushed and running a temperature. The ward sister was annoyed at her as she was not fit to continue to work.
Muriel had to stay at home for weeks as she had rheumatic fever and all her bones and joints ached and she felt as weak as a kitten. Her summer exams were only a few weeks away and she urgently needed to study, but even lifting her head off the pillow seemed to leave her sweating and exhausted.
‘Are you sure you are fit to return to work?’ Mother worried on the day she finally felt able to get up and was preparing to take the tram into town. ‘Heaven knows what other disease or illness you may pick up from those people you have to look after.’
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