EXCITED BY THE prospect of Mr Russell’s costume party, Grace dressed as an Egyptian, wearing an off-white robe that was patterned with gold and fashioning a golden headband to go with it. She had borrowed a black silk cummerbund of her father’s, which she wrapped tightly around her middle, and used heavy black liner to define her eyes in the Egyptian style. Pleased with the rather striking result, she turned to help Muriel, who was wearing a green and pink floral-patterned silk gown which was meant to resemble some kind of Chinese robe. Grace braided her sister’s long red hair with a ribbon and showed her how to highlight her eyes. John chose a sweeping length of purple chiffon she had bought only a few weeks ago and wound it around her so that it vaguely resembled an Indian sari. Ernest had hunted through the house and was dressed like a Russian peasant, with boots, purple and green patterned waistcoat and a fur hat. Standing together, they created a rather bizarre-looking theatrical spectacle.
Mother was visiting some friends for the evening but Father stepped out into the hallway on hearing the commotion as they got ready to leave.
‘Where are you all off to?’ he asked, taking in their attire. ‘A fancy-dress party, is it?’
The evening was warm and dry and, as they walked to George Russell’s house on Rathgar Avenue, their strange attire attracted much attention from passers-by. When the large, bearded figure of Mr Russell opened the door, Grace could see immediately that their literary host was both amused and surprised at their appearance. Nora Dryhurst appeared and immediately ushered them inside the crowded drawing room to introduce them to the assembled company of artists and writers.
‘You all look divine,’ she gushed. She herself was attired in a deep-green gown with a billowing skirt and a wrapover tartan scarf. She announced the Giffords as if they were some type of famous heroic figures.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the wonderful spirits from a bygone age – Deirdre, Fionnuala, Grania and of course the Great Cuchulainn himself,’ she proclaimed with a flourish.
Looking around the book-filled room, Grace could see the other guests staring at them, torn between mirth and bewilderment at their clothing, for no one else was in costume as they had been told, but in conventional dresses and skirts, suits and jackets. Ernest was absolutely horrified at the position they were in. Grace, deeply embarrassed and humiliated by their appearance, just wanted to escape.
‘Don’t be so self-conscious and shy,’ urged an unrepentant Nora, pleading with them to enjoy the company and party, but the four of them fled to the safety of a smaller front room which was unoccupied except for a man sitting petting a dog.
‘Let’s go home,’ Muriel begged. ‘I don’t want to stay. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Nor do I,’ agreed Grace, disappointed that the salon she had so looked forward to attending was such a disaster. She pulled the golden band from her head.
Curious, the little dog came over to them to sniff at their brother’s boots and Russian costume.
‘Do you like dogs?’ the man interrupted, showing no reaction to the way they were dressed. For some reason he too had obviously sought sanctuary away from Mr Russell’s other guests.
‘We thought it was a costume party,’ explained Ernest apologetically. ‘That is why we are dressed up in these ridiculous costumes.’
‘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.