THE RESIDENTS OF Rathmines and Ranelagh breathed a great sigh of relief when Padraig Pearse announced his decision to move his Gaelic boys’ school, St Enda’s, from Cullenswood House in Ranelagh to The Hermitage, a much larger property in Rathfarnham on the outskirts of Dublin.
‘We will all certainly feel safer without those young rebels in our midst,’ declared Mother, who was certainly no fan of Mr Pearse’s school and its nationalist educational system. Muriel did not have the heart to tell her that she had heard rumours that the Pearses were now considering opening a Gaelic school for girls in its place.
She and her sisters were delighted to accept an official invitation from Padraig Pearse to the opening of the new St Enda’s in September. They were curious about the greatly enlarged school and, turning up the long, tree-lined driveway, they could not help but be impressed. The Hermitage was a rather grand, rambling granite house with a large portico, tall columns and steps, set in acres of land and with a magnificent view of the Dublin Mountains. The fresh air and country setting would be better for the boys, and they certainly would have more space for classrooms and dormitories to fit more pupils, as well as fields for sports and training.
Many of their acquaintances came along to support Padraig Pearse and his family in this new endeavour, and Padraig and Willie were both proud to show off the school’s facilities. Countess Markievicz walked around declaring that this was an ideal place for her Irish boy scouts group, Na Fianna. Many of the boys from St Enda’s had enrolled in it and here they would have no shortage of fields for outdoor training, drilling and activities.
As Muriel strolled around the grounds, MacDonagh fell into step with her, pointing out a tree carved with the initials of the 1803 Irish Rebellion leader Robert Emmet and his sweetheart Sarah Curran.
‘Sarah’s family lived nearby and they used to meet here secretly.’
‘That’s so romantic,’ Muriel said, touching the indentations in the bark.
‘Unfortunately Emmet was hanged before they could marry.’
‘How sad,’ she murmured. ‘But this is such a beautiful place, no wonder Padraig wanted to move his school here.’
‘The boys will be able to enjoy the countryside and fresh air, especially the boarders, but I’m not sure if the day-boys and their families may find the school is too far from the city.’
She was surprised to hear from MacDonagh that he had not rejoined the full-time staff of the school but would perhaps teach there only part-time.
‘I am undertaking a Masters degree in English in the university,’ he explained, ‘so I need time to research my thesis on Thomas Campion, the English poet and composer. I also hope to concentrate on my own writing.’
She congratulated him warmly on the publication of his new collection of poetry, Songs of Myself, which she considered very personal and suspected were based on his youth.
‘You will know me better than myself,’ he said quietly and Muriel flushed.
MacDonagh had been away in Paris for most of the summer and had recently moved into a small gate lodge in Rathfarnham which he was renting from Professor David Houston, a lecturer friend.
‘The rent is thankfully affordable and I am happy to mostly keep my own company there.’
Muriel was puzzled, as he was usually the most sociable and outgoing of men, surrounded by friends.
‘But perhaps some time I will invite you and you will come?’ he suggested.
‘I would like that,’ she answered, meeting his eyes, both of them aware that something had somehow changed between them.
Weeks went by and Muriel had no word of him. Then, in January, MacDonagh wrote to invite her and her sisters to visit him at Grange Lodge House. She was glad to see that his time of being a recluse was over.
MacDonagh’s cottage in Rathfarnham was small and rather isolated, surrounded by frost-covered fields, a fire blazing warmly in the chilly drawing room. The house soon filled with visitors – his good friends Padraic Colum and Mary Maguire, writer James Stephens and poet Francis Ledwidge. Muriel and Grace offered to make pots of tea, while John perched herself on a cushion on the floor and engaged in a lively discussion of poetry.
‘I think you are creating a new literary salon here in the cottage,’ teased James Stephens.
MacDonagh, Padraic Colum and Stephens were full of setting up a new literary monthly magazine, the Irish Review, which they would run from this cottage and which would provide a much-needed journal of political and literary discussion for the intelligent reader. David Houston would help to finance it and Padraic offered to serve as its editor, with MacDonagh as sub-editor.
‘You will be inundated with books and poems to review,’ warned John, ‘and with contributors.’
‘And perhaps I will illustrate for you,’ laughed Grace.
‘All I can do is to buy the Irish Review and read it,’ Muriel promised.
A few days later Muriel met MacDonagh again, this time at the United Arts Club exhibition of post-impressionist painters. It was the talk of Dublin, and Count and Countess Markievicz, the founders of the club, were proud to have such a fine collection of work by Paul Gauguin, Henri Matisse, Vincent van Gogh, Henri Manguin, Pablo Picasso, Paul Signac and Paul Cézanne on display in their gallery near St Stephen’s Green.
‘Muriel! Come and see the Van Goghs!’ urged Grace. ‘And look how Paul Signac manages to paint with such colour and light.’
Muriel had to admit that she too had never seen such a wonderful collection of paintings. If this was modern art, then she certainly was a fan. She was especially captivated by Van Gogh’s painting of an orchard in Provence.
‘Good evening, Miss Gifford.’
Muriel smiled as MacDonagh came over to greet her. Grace had disappeared to join Jack Morrow and his group, who had just arrived. As always, MacDonagh was charming and friendly to her, telling her how impressed he was with the paintings, and the two of them chatted as they moved around to view the work together.
He introduced her briefly to his friend, Joseph Plunkett, a tall, thin, bespectacled, rather serious young man who politely shook her hand.
‘Joe is learning Gaelic,’ said MacDonagh with a grin. ‘He is a fine writer and poet and keeps me on my toes.’
‘What do you think of the exhibition, Mr Plunkett?’ asked Muriel politely. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘People think so,’ he said rather cryptically, before moving away to talk to someone else.
‘Some people are such heathens as far as art is concerned,’ Grace complained angrily when she joined them later. ‘Why would they even bother to come to the exhibition?’
‘Art, like literature, should be controversial,’ MacDonagh joked.
‘See that stupid fellow there with the glasses? I saw him scribbling on his programme as he was standing near me. He wrote that Picasso is an idiot and Van Gogh should be shot. Honestly, I was tempted to punch him or shoot him myself.’
Muriel laughed, conscious suddenly of Joe Plunkett’s return clutching the offending exhibition programme in his hand as Grace threw her eyes to heaven and deliberately moved away.
‘Muriel, I’m not sure if I told you that Mr Plunkett has a keen interest in theatre,’ interjected MacDonagh, diplomatically avoiding any discussion of the art on show. ‘He is due to act in the Theatre of Ireland’s new Russian play, The Storm.’
‘I’m sure it will be a success for you,’ Muriel told him with an encouraging smile.
As they were driving home in a cab, she told Grace about the play that MacDonagh’s friend Joe Plunkett was due to appear in. Grace was always keen to hear of new productions.
‘Joe’s father is Count Plunkett, the art historian and director of the National Museum.’
‘Well, thank heaven that it’s the museum he’s in charge of, not the National Gallery,’ quipped Grace wryly.