The previous day’s rain had continued through the night, but now autumnal sunlight bathed the scene. The air was heavy with moisture, as cool and sweet as fruit juice on the tongue.
A mile beyond Rathfarnham the coachman gestured toward a pair of large gates set close to the road. “Here we are.”
Thanks to Father Hagerty, Ned knew that Saint Enda’s had been established four years earlier at Cullenswood House, in the suburb of Ranelagh. The school had already outgrown its first home. It now occupied the Hermitage, a leased country estate at the foot of the Dublin mountains.
Father Hagerty had not prepared Ned for its beauty.
The sidecar passed between a pair of granite pillars pierced by arched gateways. “The Hermitage” was carved on the pillars, but the open gates themselves bore the proud blazon “Scoil Eanna.” Beyond them a graveled drive canopied with ancient trees curved gently to the left. The horse trotted up the drive between borders of flowering shrubs and dense green laurel. Birdsong competed with the crunch of wheels on gravel. From somewhere nearby came the sound of boys shouting and laughing at some game on the grassy lawns.
Ned caught his breath at the sight of the house. It stood three stories high, a square, perfectly proportioned eighteenth-century country mansion built of granite, with a classical portico supported by massive Grecian columns. Low curving walls extended from either side like embracing arms to define the graveled forecourt. The overall impression was of solemn elegance gilded by the autumn sun.
“I’m to live here?” the boy whispered in disbelief.
The horse had barely halted when the tall double doors opened and a slight young man with flowing hair came hurrying down the steps. “Welcome to Saint Enda’s! You must be our new lad from Clare.”
Ned felt suddenly shy. “I am from Clare,” he said through dry lips. “My name is—”
“Edward Halloran, of course you are. And I am William; the boys call me Willie. Willie Pearse, resident art and drawing master.”
“I was told to present myself to Mr. Patrick Pearse.”
“Pawd-rig?” He gave the name its Irish pronunciation, a fact not lost on Ned. “He’s inside. Is that your luggage? Let’s have it then, and come on.”
Willie Pearse waved the coachman aside and lifted Ned’s case out of the sidecar himself, talking all the while. “We have fifty boys here now, more or less. All boarders; we lost our day pupils when we moved out of the city. But it was worth it for the air and the views, would you not agree? You’ll be in the Senior School, of course. There’s Junior and Infants as well, and we used to have a girls’ school, Saint Ita’s, but unfortunately the economics—” He interrupted himself to dismiss the coachman with a few courteous words, then led Ned up the broad steps.
A comfortable-bosomed woman with gray hair was standing just inside the fanlighted doorway. “I’m Mrs. Pearse,” she said with a smile so warm Ned forgot his shyness and smiled back. “I’m the headmaster’s mother. Come in; he’s waiting for you in his study. You can leave your case with me and I’ll have it carried up to your dormitory.”
Ned stepped into a square, bright entrance hall. There was no furniture aside from a table and a coatrack. Facing the front doorway was a tiled fireplace with a large painting hanging above, depicting a radiant child with arms extended to either side.
Willie knocked at a right-hand door, then beckoned Ned to enter.
The study was a handsome, high-ceilinged room lit by casement windows framing views of the forecourt and surrounding gardens. Books were everywhere, overflowing bookcases, stacked to a precarious height on tables, heaped on windowsills. The air smelled of leather and ink. As Ned came through the doorway Pádraic Pearse, Headmaster of Saint Enda’s, rose from behind a desk piled high with more books. Removing the pince-nez he used for reading, he came forward to greet his new pupil.1
Pearse was taller than average and well built, though beginning to develop the softness around the middle common to men in sedentary occupations. He wore a black academic’s gown over a black broadcloth suit, which made him seem older than his thirty-three years. He had a broad forehead, a rounded jaw, and deep, profound eyes with a slight cast in one.
Ned hardly noticed the blemish. The eyes themselves held him transfixed.
“Failte romhat go Scoil Eanna,” said the headmaster, holding out his hand.
Ned’s face burned crimson. “My Irish isn’t very good, sir.”
“We shall remedy that,” Pearse promised with a kindly smile. “I just said, ‘Welcome to Saint Enda’s.’ In a few weeks you too will be able to converse in your native tongue. You need not worry about understanding what is said to you in the meantime, however; we don’t use Irish exclusively. We are a bilingual school because Ireland has two vernacular languages.2 We believe Irish should be central to the education of an Irish person, however, so most lessons are given through that medium. We share with the Gaelic League the conviction that language defines a people. Are you familiar with the Gaelic League, Ned?”
Thanks to Father Hagerty, he was able to answer, “The league was founded around the turn of the century to preserve the Irish language. The Christian Brothers teach some Irish in their schools, but I went to a National School.”
“Where your native language was never mentioned,” Pearse rightly concluded. “Did you know that your parish priest wrote me your letter of reference in Irish?”
Ned stared down at his shoes. “I didn’t know that, sir.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Pearse said brusquely. “Look up. Be proud. The Irish are a separate and distinct race with a right to their own language and customs. Both have developed over two thousand years and reflect the Celtic, rather than the Saxon, character.”
Pearse’s formal phraseology was that of an educated man who demanded precision of himself. He spoke slowly and with a measured cadence that made his voice unusually compelling. Only later would Ned learn that these speech habits were the results of a lifelong effort to repress a stutter.
“In addition to teaching Irish,” Pearse went on, “at this school we promote an active reverence for the virtues of decency, honesty, fortitude, and kindness. Our philosophy is to encourage gentleness towards the weak and courtesy and charity to all. The only boy ever expelled from Scoil Eanna was guilty of cruelty to a cat. Our goal is the development of decent Irish men who will possess self-reliance and a sense of social duty.”
Willie whistled. “Don’t give him all that at once, Pat! It’s too much for the lad to take in; he’ll have mental indigestion. He can read it later in the prospectus if he likes.”3
Ned turned from one to the other. There was a marked family resemblance, though Willie’s face was longer and narrower, with a sweet, rather melancholy expression.
But it was not Willie who drew Ned like a magnet. All his attention focused on the man with the glowing eyes of a visionary.
Chapter Nine
KATHLEEN looked up as Alexander entered the parlor of their brownstone house off Madison Square, and waved a sheaf of closely written pages at him. “This is from Ned at last!”
“So I see.” But Alexander was not looking; he was gazing into the bowl of his pipe with an expression on his face as if he smelled something unpleasant. “It’s about time the boy wrote you to apologize for not coming to our wedding.”
“He has nothing to apologize for, and I won’t hear you say a word against him. He couldn’t take so much time from his schooling.”
“I was prepared to arrange his passage,” Alexander Campbell grumbled. “He simply chose not to come. He doesn’t approve of me any more than your parents would have approved of me.”
Her eyes flashed. “That’s not true, Alexander. Once they got to know you, they would have loved you as I do.”
But though they had been married for only two months, already he had some doubts about the nature of her love. Even making allowances for her virginity, the ardor Alexander had expected to awaken in his Irish bride was curiously lacki
ng. He refused to believe Kathleen was cold. Her Irish temper betokened a passionate nature. Yet in his arms in the marriage bed she was docile, obedient—and dull.
Alexander Campbell was a robust man. He wanted more from a woman than mere acquiescence.
Their first real argument since the wedding had not been about sex, however, but about servants. With every good intention, he had engaged an Irish girl, Bridie Lynch, to be his new wife’s housemaid. He could hardly have anticipated Kathleen’s response.
“I won’t have one of my own on her knees in my house, scrubbing my floors.”
Alexander had been nonplussed. “But Kate, did you not tell me your mother had an Irish servant girl in her house?”
“That’s different. She and her brother are tenants on our farm and pay their rent in labor. In Ireland there’s no one to do menial work but the Irish. In America, however…surely we can find someone else.”
“You’re being irrational. Everyone we know employs Irish domestics. Immigrant Paddys are honest and hardworking.”
“Don’t call them that! Am I not an immigrant Paddy, too? You must find someone else, Alexander. Tell Miss Lynch I’m sorry and help her find employment elsewhere.”
She could fight, could Kathleen; for a cause. It was only in bed that he found her passive. From the set of her chin he could tell she was prepared to fight now, though Ned was not the issue. Something deeper was involved.
In the sixteen months since the deaths of her parents, Ireland had loomed ever larger in Kathleen’s thoughts. She who originally had loved America with the passion of the newly converted was now dreaming of the land she had left behind. She equated it with her own lost innocence, the not-altogether-pleasant change in her life formally marked by her wedding night.
While Alexander watched she bent over her letter again. Her hungry eyes devoured the words as she spread out the pages on a golden oak table in front of the settee. He had furnished the house himself before their wedding. What little Alexander knew about interior design had been acquired through association with transatlantic steamships and leaned toward the ostentatious.
Brown velvet draperies with ball fringe hung at the windows, where the light was further obscured by thick lace curtains. The new electrified chandelier of which Alexander was so proud could barely dispel the gloom. Most of the available floor space was crowded with brocaded settees, upholstered chairs, footstools, tables of various sizes, and a velvet-covered divan with satin pillows, so that a path must be carefully chosen to get from one side of the room to the other. Sentimental paintings of florid children set in heavy gilded frames lined the walls, alternating with equally sentimental lithographs of Newfoundland dogs. The oak table gave pride of place to one of Alexander’s favorite ornaments, a large glass dome containing a pair of stuffed mallard ducks that he had shot himself. They stood rigidly amid a spray of lacquered cattails, their lifeless shoe button eyes ignoring the pages of Ned Halloran’s letter, spread out beside them.
Kathleen was poring eagerly over her brother’s letter. Frank, busy with the farm, was not much of a correspondent, but Ned’s words brought Ireland into the room.
Dear Caitlín,
I have now spent almost a full school year at Saint Enda’s. I apologize for not writing you a long letter sooner. We are encouraged to write frequent letters home, but the time has flown by since last autumn. At first it was not easy to get back in the habit of school, and I have had to work as hard as I ever worked at plowing or threshing.
Saint Enda’s is in a beautiful setting. Lord Inchiquin himself does not have a lovelier one. It’s hard to believe all this is for Irish boys. There are almost fifty acres of parkland, with formal gardens, orchards, bridges, grottoes, a dolmen, a miniature stone fort, several meadows, and a wooded glen with a little rushing stream. We go on nature walks in the nearby Dublin mountains, and nature studies such as botany and geology are very much a part of our curriculum. Mr. Pearse says God’s creation is our best teacher.
In everyday conversation I speak Irish; we all do. Our main subject is the Irish language as taught through a modern, rather than classical, literary program. We study the English language as well, and read the great writers to improve our vocabulary and usage. My other courses include algebra, Latin, Greek, mathematics, geography, Christian doctrine, both world and Irish history, nature studies, and Irish dancing.
The headmaster’s widowed mother is both matron and cook at Saint Enda’s. She is a jolly woman who enters into our pranks with good spirit, even when she’s not quite certain what we’re up to. In many ways she reminds me of Mama. Mrs. Pearse is careful to leave by the door she enters, and I’ve seen her put out a bowl of milk for the “Good People” when she thought no one was looking.
The headmaster’s brother, Willie, is a talented sculptor who has exhibited at the Hibernian Academy, and has also been an actor and stage manager at the Dublin School of Art and the Abbey Theatre. In manner he is rather nervous, but he is as staunch as the Cliffs of Moher. He is good at handball, too, and coaches us in a wooden handball court beyond the house.
The physical drill here is very challenging. We concentrate on Gaelic games. I am good at hurling, though not so good as Frank Burke, who is already a national champion. Even in the middle of a hard-fought match, however, we halt at noon and kneel to observe the Angelus. We also have morning and evening prayers in the school chapel, and are never allowed to miss Mass. Mama would be relieved to know my spiritual needs are being taken care of.
In addition to hurling and football, we are taught to fence, box, wrestle, shoot, and swim. In fact, the Saint Enda’s pupils have won any number of athletic awards, so you know I am not becoming too bookish! I have grown at least two inches this term, I believe, and gained a stone in weight. When I look in the mirror I hardly know myself.
“Caitlín?” queried Alexander, reading over his wife’s shoulder.
“It’s the Irish for Kathleen,” she said absently. “He’s studying Irish now.”
Her husband cleared his throat in a way she had learned indicated disapproval. “Ned is a subject of the British Empire; he has no need for another language.”
Her eyes flashed again but she said nothing, merely resumed reading her letter:
I’m saving the best till last. The headmaster is a remarkable man. Mr. Pearse took Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Law degrees at university and was called to the Bar,1 though he now professes contempt for lawyers. He writes poetry and plays and short stories, his articles on education are very well received, and he edits both Gaelic and literary journals. Added to that, he is surely the gentlest, most patient man I have ever met. His family simply dotes upon him.
At first I thought him austere, but much of that is shyness and the fact that he is always so busy. He is forever seeking ways to enrich our minds. Many of the subjects we study are not part of ordinary schooling at all. For example, we are learning to grow fruit and vegetables, and to make tools, and how a house is built—we’re constructing small scale models and even weaving fabric for the drapes and carpet.2 Most of all, we are learning to think and to have confidence in ourselves. Mr. Pearse says instilling his pupils with moral courage and personal integrity is the best way to prepare them for life.
We boys admire him tremendously. “Live up to your finest self,” he tells us, and takes for granted that we will. So we make our best effort for his sake. He is very fair and shows no favoritism, yet manages to make each of us feel that he is special. I have never known a teacher to be so well-liked by all his students.
Well, not quite all. There are a couple of “bold boys” here who do not like him. (And isn’t it odd that when we say “bold” in Ireland we mean “naughty,” but when Americans say “bold” they mean “brave”? I wonder why that is.) Anyway, they are the sort of lads who do not like anyone who makes them work hard. They only want to show off and cause mischief. I used to be a bit like that myself, but not anymore, I think.
In reply Kathleen wrote:<
br />
Thank you, my darling boy, for your good letter. Already your education shows! I have taken so long to answer because every thought of Ireland fills me with longing. If I had known I would be so homesick, I might never have come here.
It was safe to write such sentiments to Ned. He was three thousand miles away.
Of course, I love America. [She hastened to assure her brother:] This is a splendid country, full of opportunity. An Irish man who lives just next door to us has recently become an alderman, which carries much responsibility in New York City. Anything is possible for us here.
Yet I miss Ireland in the most desperate way, Ned. Ever since Mama and Papa died my thoughts have been full of home, and of the family and friends I left behind.
Last night I dreamed of dancing. Not the formal Irish dancing you are learning at Saint Enda’s, but the way we used to dance at the crossroads, the lads coming with fresh-scrubbed faces to meet the girls and everyone shy and laughing at the same time. I can almost hear the fiddle once more, and taste the sweet dust of the road in my throat. How the priests disapproved! They called it a sin, those dry old men. But it was no sin, Ned. It was joyous, innocent fun, and there is little enough of that in the world.
Do write again soon and let me know what you are doing, and that you are happy.
Ned answered her letter with more descriptions of his life at Saint Enda’s:
There is a wonderful big study hall almost like a theater, with a fireplace set at the back of an elevated stage where we perform plays. At one end are the doors to the school’s own oratory, which has leaded windows set with stained glass. One or another of the staff and students can often be found praying there. The atmosphere is so peaceful.
Six classrooms and the refectory are in a separate building, which is connected to the house by a covered veranda. The dormitories are in the house itself and are named for Irish saints. I am in Saint Brendan’s, which is encouraging me to study all about him and his voyage to America. My bed is narrow and quite hard, and the room is cold. Mr. Pearse says we need to be hardy. Some of the Dublin boys complain a lot, but I don’t. Down the country we are used to unheated bedrooms.
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