MARRIAGE WAS BLISS. She and MacDonagh living together, sharing everything, heart, soul and spirit – Muriel had never known such happiness. The tread of his footstep on the stairs was enough to make her smile. She loved their small flat, with the fire blazing in the grate and their large settee and cushions; it felt as if they were two birds in a cosy nest. MacDonagh had immense energy and, though busy at the university, still found time to edit the Irish Review and to write his own plays and poetry. He wrote a poem for her called ‘A Song for Muriel’.
She knew that he valued her opinion of his work and was immensely proud of his writing and the fact that often she was his first reader.
Nellie had given her a cookery book and insisted on showing her how to cook some basic tasty dishes, as she had never cooked at home.
‘You won’t have a cook or a maid,’ her practical sister warned, ‘so you have to learn to cook, Muriel!’ She even gave her a special leather notebook to write recipes down in. ‘I always find that helps and before you know it you will have a collection.’
They were near to Findlaters, Grocers and Providers, and over the weeks she tested out cooking on their temperamental stove, managing to destroy an expensive roast of beef and burn a rice pudding, one of MacDonagh’s favourite desserts.
‘I will learn,’ she promised him, determined to be a good wife and hostess.
Grace had given them a set of serving dishes and two of her paintings, while Claude and his wife had given them a set of pretty crystal glasses and Mother had provided a glorious dinner service which Muriel fully intended to use.
MacDonagh gave her a housekeeping allowance and one day, shopping on Grafton Street with Grace, she saw the most divine hat in a shop window and could not resist trying it on.
‘You must buy it!’ urged her sister, who was purchasing a new lace blouse herself.
Muriel studied herself in the mirror and had to agree the wide-brimmed hat was exquisite. Impulsively, she found herself purchasing it.
Three days later she realized that she had no money in her purse to buy milk or butter or meat, and had instead made scrambled eggs for their dinner. MacDonagh looked puzzled when he saw his plate.
‘I’m so sorry, but I have no money left to buy food,’ she apologized. ‘I spent it all.’
‘Spent it all?’
‘I bought a beautiful new hat,’ she confessed, waiting for him to get angry and shout at her.
Their finances were scanty to say the least, and MacDonagh’s own plans to purchase a new bicycle a few weeks ago had been cancelled as he could not afford it.
‘Walking will do me no harm,’ he’d said with a smile, even though he had lost his deposit. And now here she was, frittering away his precious income on an unnecessary frivolous item. What kind of wife was she?
‘Go and put on your hat,’ he urged gently.
She returned nervously, wearing her new millinery creation, and he swept her up in his arms and kissed her, telling her that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and that her hat was magnificent.
‘You must have a portrait done wearing your new hat,’ he insisted and the next day they went to photographer Roe McMahon’s studio in Harcourt Street where he paid for her to have a photograph taken wearing it.
Muriel was overcome by the fact that she had the kindest, most romantic and generous of husbands.
Their small upstairs flat soon became a place filled with friends, many dropping in after the theatre or a concert, a ceili or a lecture. Sundays became their evenings at home. MacDonagh welcomed everyone with open arms and James Stephens, George Russell, Padraic Colum, Mary Maguire, Padraig Pearse and a host of other friends, as well as her sisters and his brothers, all regularly called in.
Discussions and arguments raged, with opinions on everything: plays, poetry, politics. The new Home Rule Bill – would it be passed or not passed; the shortcomings and inadequacy of the Bill and unionist opposition; how the glory days of the Abbey Theatre were gone, its programme now mostly peasant plays … MacDonagh sat in his armchair, in his element in the midst of it all, his friend Joe Plunkett – returned after months away in Algiers – by his side voicing his own strongly held opinions.
Muriel made cakes and scones and stews, and provided cheese and homemade bread for their visitors. As she and MacDonagh looked after their guests there was often music, songs and stories, and she sat and listened as new poems, plays and prose were read and debated in their small literary salon. She was entranced as she listened to their friend James Stephens read from his remarkable new novel The Crock of Gold.
The April newspapers were filled with the tragic story of the Titanic. The great passenger liner built in Belfast had sunk following a collision with a giant iceberg as she crossed the Atlantic on her maiden voyage. Muriel could not put it from her mind. MacDonagh held her and comforted her in the middle of the night as she dreamed of hundreds of men, women and children drowning in the icy Atlantic seas with no one to hear their cries or to rescue them.
‘Hush, my love. You are safe here with me,’ he soothed.
MacDonagh was not only busy with lecturing and with his work on the Irish Review, but was also excited as he watched rehearsals of his new play, Metempsychosis, which was being staged by the Theatre of Ireland. All their friends came to see it and support him, but Muriel knew that he was disappointed when it garnered mixed reviews, with some of the audience unable to understand its complex theme and dialogue.
‘You must continue writing for the stage,’ she encouraged him. ‘You are a wonderful playwright and even the critics say your work shows great promise.’
Their happiness was complete when she discovered that she was going to have a child. MacDonagh lifted her off her feet, swinging her around with excitement at the thought of being a father. She knew that he would be a wonderful father and prayed that she would be a good mother too.
‘I want us to have lots of children,’ he teased, ‘like in your family.’
‘Twelve children!’ she protested. ‘I cannot imagine it. All of us here, cramped together in our little flat.’
‘Then five or six – that is a good number.’
‘Let us wish for a child that is well and healthy and strong,’ she said seriously. ‘That is all I ask.’
‘Already you are a beautiful mother,’ he said, softly reassuring her.