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.’