MÁIRE agus an French Connection

Tallann a chuir Máire i gceann na Fraincise an chéad lá riamh i lár na bhfichidí, más fíor an rud a chan sé fán ábhar seo.1 Cáil agus cliú litríocht na Fraincise go háirithe sa ghearrscéalaíocht a bhroslaigh i dtreo na teanga sin é, go háirithe ó tharla go raibh spéis á cur aige sa réimse sin ag an am. Ach, mar fhear a raibh barúlacha láidre aige faoi shealbhú theanga na Gaeilge, Fraincis na Fraince ó bhéal na bhFrancach a shantaigh sé agus ní bheadh sé sásta le múinteoir ar bith ach Francach a raibh an Fhraincis ó dhúchas aige.

Chláraigh sé le múinteoir Fraincise a bhí ag obair faoin Berlitz School of Languages2 agus ola ar a chroí aige an manadh a bhí ag an mhúinteoir chéanna nárbh fhiú tráithnín an Fhraincis Oifigiúil a bhí á teagasc sna scoileanna agus sna coláistí. Chaith Máire bliain iomlán ag tarraingt ar a oide múinte, sé lá sa tseachtain, agus, ag deireadh an ama sin, bhí buneolas aige ar an teanga idir labhairt agus scríobh. Bhí oiread Fraincise aige is go bhféadfadh sé tabhairt faoi ghearrscéalta Alphonse Daudet agus Guy de Maupassant a léamh.

Nuair a bhí Máire i bpríosún i dtús na bhfichidí, bhuail an plúchadh é agus tháinig an galar céanna air ina dhiaidh sin le teacht dhúlaíocht agus thaisleacht an gheimhridh. Dúradh leis nach raibh de leigheas ar a ghalar ach Deisceart na Fraince a bhaint amach agus an geimhreadh agus an t-earrach a chaitheamh ansin, rud a rinne sé ag deireadh 1926 agus tús 1927 – sé mhí ar fad. Tharraing sé ar chladach na Mara Meáin. B’fhada ón Riviera Ceann Dubhrann na nDumhchann Bán.

D’aithin sé ar a bhealach ó cheann ceann na Fraince cad é an rud Fraincis nuair a chuala sé í á labhairt go nádúrtha ag na Francaigh agus, mar ba dhual dó, tharraing sé air ceist na Gaeilge.

Ach, arsa mise liom féin, mura bhfuil mo sháith Fraincise féin agam tá crothán céille agus tuigse agam. Ní abórainn choíche leis na Francaigh seo go raibh siad ag caint róghasta agus gur cheart dóibh na focla a scoitheadh ó chéile. Ní shamhólainn gur cheart domh a bheith i mo bhall den Académic Française. Ní iarrfainn post mar ollamh sa Sorbonne. Agus ar ór na cruinne ní labharfainn i bhFraincis ó Radio Paris.3

Ag tarraingt ar Menton atá suite idir Nice agus Monte Carlo a bhí sé. D’fhág sé an ceo agus an taisleach ina dhiaidh agus bhlais sé aer tirim, folláin Dheisceart na Fraince. Tá sé de cháil ar an cheantar chéanna ar imeall na farraige goirme go ndéanann sé a shláinte a aiseag don té atá ag éileamh, rud a mheall na slóite de lucht toice ionsar a chuid cladach leis na cianta. Gan amhras, bhí na Sasanaigh chomh fairsing le seangáin san áit, agus ba léir a dtóir ar na bailte ansin leis na Promenade des Anglais, Hôtel des Anglais, Rue des Anglais scaipthe ar fud an chósta sin. Cha raibh

1 Saol Corrach (Cló Mercier, 1981) 196-7. 2 Tá comhlacht Berlitz ag plé le múineadh teangacha le corradh is céad bliain agus cáil idirnáisiúnta orthu sa réimse sin. Is é an modh teagaisc a ndearna Berlitz ceannródaíocht air tosaíocht a thabhairt don teanga labhartha agus go dtiocfadh an ghramadach ar deireadh nuair a bheadh cumas labhartha agus tuigbheála ag an lucht foghlama. I rith a shaoil, thug Máire tús áit do labhairt na Gaeilge mar an t-aon bhealach éifeachtach leis an Ghaeilge a fhoghlaim agus a theagasc. Féach, mar shampla, ar a bhfuil le rá aige ar an téad seo i bhfianaise a thaithí féin ar an Fhraincis go gearr roimhe sin in ‘An Fáinne’ ar an Irish Independent (12/5/1927, 7). Féach, fosta, Nollaig Mac Congáil, Máire – Clár Saothair (Coiscéim, 1990) 17.3 Saol Corrach (Cló Mercier, 1981) 208.

Máire rógheal d’impireacht na Breataine am ar bith i rith a shaoil agus dar leis gur mheasa iad i lúb na gcoimhthíoch ná sa bhaile i Sasana féin. Bhain sé faoi san Hôtel des Anglais, rud a chuir míshásamh mór air ach cha raibh dlí ar an riachtanas. Thug an Prince of Wales cuairt ar an áit sin fosta nuair a bhí Máire ansin, rud a ghoill air, go háirid an fháilte a cuireadh roimhe.4 Bhain sé teach ósta Gearmánach Palais des Fleurs amach ansin in Garavan atá suite cóngarach do theorainn na hIodáile, áit nach raibh mórán Sasanach ar na gaobhair. Fuair sé lóistín le lánúin as an Fhrainc ansin agus d’fhan leo go dtí deireadh an earraigh. Bhisigh sé ina shláinte ach, ainneoin áilleacht na farraige agus na gcnoc taobh thiar de, bhuail cumhaidh é agus phill sé ar an bhaile.5

Caithfear an cheist a chur cad é mar a chuaigh an tréimhse a chaith sé sa Fhrainc chun tairbhe dó ag an am agus ar thoradh moille. Is léir go raibh sé i dtír ansin a bhí glanscartha ó achan rud a raibh cleachtadh aige air, ag bualadh le daoine nárbh ionann stair, teanga, cultúr, gléas beo ná nósanna dó féin. Luann sé áilleacht agus draíocht an tírdhreacha nárbh ionann agus rud ar bith a chonaic sé roimhe sin. Agus bhí sin le feiceáil aige – goirme na farraige atá dochreidte, sléibhte chóir a bheith ag éirí ó imeall na farraige agus brat sneachta ar a gcuid barr agus an sneachta sin dearg le luí na gréine. Ní hiontas go raibh agus go bhfuil an áit chéanna gortha as a háilleacht agus tarraingt na slóite uirthi. Cuireann Máire síos ar áilleacht sin na háite. Ní abrann sé mórán faoi na Francaigh féin, áfach, ná fán tsaol a bhí acu agus is iontach linn an tost sin.

Thug a thréimhse sa Fhrainc deis dó eolas a chur ar an Fhrainc, ar a stair, ar a teanga agus ar a litríocht,6 agus bhí sé le leas a bhaint as an eolas sna réimsí sin lá ab fhaide anonn ina chuid scríbhneoireachta agus sna barúlacha a nocht sé fá chúrsaí a bhain le foghlaim, teagasc agus aistriú teanga. Chruthaigh an Fhrainc dó go raibh sibhialtachtaí móra, tábhachtacha eile ar an tsaol agus nár ghá bheith i dtuilleamaí shibhialtacht na Breataine amháin.

Mar chainteoir dúchais Gaeilge nach raibh sé d’ádh air (nó de mhí-ádh, dar leis leis) staidéar a dhéanamh ar an Fhraincis ar scoil nó ar ollscoil, is mór an chreidiúint dó an mháistreacht a fuair sé ar an Fhraincis agus an tairbhe phraiticiúil a bhain sé as a chumas sa teanga sin. Mar shampla, rinne sé deich ngearrscéalta le húdair éagsúla a aistriú go Gaeilge agus foilsíodh a mbunús. Seo a leanas liosta díobh:

Marie Thièry

I Measc na mBláthann (Fáinne an Lae (M. Fómh. 1927) 6-7).

4 Tá an méid seo a leanas ráite sa cholún ‘Social and Personal’ ar an Irish Independent (8/12/1926, 6): ‘Prince Henry arrived yesterday at Les Bruyeres, the Duke of Connaught’s residence at Cap Ferrat, where he will stay for some weeks to recuperate after his recent operation. The Duke of Connaught was unable to welcome Prince Henry at the railway station at Beaulieu as he is confined to the house with a cold. Early in the New Year the Duke’s sister, Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll will join him on the Riviera where they have a coterie of friends.5 Tá Máire ar ais i mbun a chúraim arís mar rúnaí ar An Fáinne agus i mbun pinn ar son na heagraíochta sin mar is léir ó alt leis ‘An Fáinne’ ar an Irish Independent (5/5/1927, 8). Is léir ó ábhar cainte na haiste sin aige go raibh sé ar ais i mBaile Átha Cliath ó bhí tús na Bealtaine sin ann ar a dheireanaí. Deir sé in Saol Corrach (Cló Mercier, 1981) 217: ‘Chaith mé an geimhreadh agus an t-earrach i Menton agus i dtús an tsamhraidh bhí biseach maith orm. Bhí rún agam cupla mí eile a chaitheamh ann, sa dóigh a mbeadh an aimsir mhaith ann nuair a thiocfainn chun an bhaile. Ach bhuail tallann tobann mé aon lá amháin agus rinne mé amach imeacht an lá arna mhárach.’6 ‘Thoisigh mé a chur spéise i litríocht na Fraince, go mórmhór na scéaltaí gearra. Agus chonacthas domh go mb’fhearr a thiocfadh liom scéaltaí gairide ná rudaí fada a scríobh. Agus scríobh mé Cith is Dealán.’ Castar na Daoine ar a Chéile: Scríbhinní Mháire 1, Nollaig Mac Congáil (eag.) (Coiscéim, 2002) 24.

Alphonse Daudet

An Lá Deireannach ar Scoil (Sraith na Craobhruaidhe VI, eagrán úr (Preas Dhún Dealgan, g.d.) 18-24).

[La Dernière Classe in Contes du Lundi.]

Minseach na Mí-Chomhairle (Sraith na Craobhruaidhe VI, eagrán úr (Preas Dhún Dealgan, g.d.) 91-99).

[La Chèvre de Monsieur Seguin in Lettres de Mon Moulin.]

Cosnamh Tarascon (An tUltach (Iúil/Lún. 1944) 1-2).

[La Défense de Tarascon in Contes du Lundi.]

An Droch-Zouave (Comhar (Lún. 1947), 7, 8).

[Le Mauvais Zouave in Contes du Lundi.]

Ionnsuidhe Bherlin (Cartlann RTÉ).

[Le Siège de Berlin in Contes du Lundi.]

An Spíodóir Óg (Cartlann RTÉ).

[L’Enfant Espion in Contes du Lundi.]

Guy de Maupassant

M’Uncal Jules (An tUltach (Már. 1946) 6, (Aibr. 1946) 7).

[Mon Oncle Jules in Miss Harriet.]

Grádh [Fíon Franncach]

[Amour in Gil Blas]

An Ornáid (Cartlann RTÉ)

[La Parure in Boule de Suif].

François Coppée

An Fear Ionaid (Cartlann RTÉ)

[Le Remplaçant in Une Idylle Pendant le Siège: Contes en Prose].

Anatole France

Cleasaidhe Mhuire (Cartlann RTÉ).7

Rinne sé alt Fraincise a bhain le hAthbheochan na Gaeilge agus a foilsíodh ar Echo de Paris a aistriú fosta go gearr i ndiaidh dó an Fhrainc a fhágáil, mar atá ‘Franncach i n-Éirinn’ ar Fáinne an Lae (M.Fómh. 1927) 5-6.

Chomh maith leis an tsaothar sin ar fad rinne Máire dhá úrscéal Fraincise a aistriú, mar atá: Faoi Chrann Smola (1934) [La Terre Qui Meurt le René Bazin] agus Iascaire Inse Tuile (1952)[Pêcheur d’Islande le Pierre Loti].8 Rinne sé leabhar Béarla ar stair na Fraince a aistriú fosta, mar atá, Éire agus Éireannaigh i Muirthéacht na Frainnce (1933) [Ireland and Irishmen in the French Revolution le Richard Hayes].

Táimid buíoch de Mháire as an oiread sin de litríocht na Fraince ó údair éagsúla a chur ar fáil do phobal léitheoireachta na Gaeilge i nGaeilge bhlasta, dhúchasach agus ábhar léitheoireacht Gaeilge a fhairsingiú lena linn sin.

Maidir le tuairisc a thabhairt ar a thréimhse sa Fhrainc, níl an oiread sin canta aige ar an drochuair fána chuairt amach ó chúpla caibidil in Saol Corrach9 agus cupla alt leis a cuireadh i gcló ar The Catholic Bulletin a foilsíodh tar éis dó pilleadh go hÉirinn.10

Is i gcomhthéacs na litríochta a luíos tábhacht na Fraince agus na Fraincise i gcás Mháire, go háirid ó thaobh ealaín na gearrscéalaíochta de.11

7 B’fhiú go mór na scéalta sin a fhoilsiú mar leabhar.8 Cuimhnigh gur chuidigh an leabhar deireanach seo le Tomás Ó Criomhthain a mhealladh le scéal a bheatha a scríobh.9 Caib. 22 agus 23.10 I gcló anseo arís.11 Féach, Nollaig Mac Congáil, ‘An Gearrscéal sa Ghaeilge’ in Seán Ó Mórdha (eag.), Scríobh 5 (1981) 100-13.

COS AR SHIÚL12

Tá sé canta gur minic a gheibh cos ar shiúl rud nach bhfaigheann cos ina cónaí mura bhfaigheadh sí ach dealg. Sin nathán amháin. Seo ceann eile: an rud a bíos annamh bidh sé iontach. Idir an dá chuid dar liom go bhfuil ábhar cainte agam.

Ba mhaith fadcheannach an dearcadh a bhí ag an tseanduine a dúirt an rud is annamh gurb iontach. Leis an fhírinne lom a chanstan ní chuireann rud ar bith iontas orainn ach an rud atá annamh. An

12 The Catholic Bulletin Vol. 17 No. 3 (March, 1927) 293-295.

chéad uair a shuíos duine chois na tineadh agus a chuireann sé gléasraí an chianéisteachta ar a chluasa bíonn iontas an domhain air. Níor smaoinigh sé riamh go raibh sé lán chomh hiontach aige an té a bhí ar an taoibh eile den tinidh a chluinstin. Níor smaoinigh sé gur de mhíorúiltí Dé an chluas agus go raibh sí chomh deacair a thuigbheáil leis na sreangáin agus na roithleáin a bhí idir lámha aige. Sin mar a bíos ar chuid mhóir dóigheann. Tá míorúiltí Dé inár dtimpeall agus ní chuireann siad lá iontais orainn as siocair iad a bheith coitianta. Éiríonn an ghrian agus luíonn sí. Nochtann na réalta chugainn go croíúil, drithleogach le clapsholas agus thig dath tláith orthu le teacht na maidine mar a thiocfadh ar dhuine a bheadh ina shuí ó oíche agus a mbeadh codladh air. Tógann blátha na mbántaí a gceann teacht an earraigh agus feonn siad arís i ndeireadh an fhómhair. Agus ní chuireann na neathanna seo lá iontais orainn, táimid chomh cleachtaithe sin leo.

Ach is air a tharraing mé an scéal, an rud a bíos annamh bidh sé iontach, agus is iomaí rud a chuir iontas orm ó tháinig mé go deisceart na Fraince. Ceann acu sin an sneachta dearg. ‘Níorbh iontaí liom an sneachta dearg ná é,’ deir an Gael. Sin ráite nach mbeadh áit ar bith aici i gcanúint na ndaoine atá ina gcónaí fá bhun na nAlp. Tá an sneachta dearg le feiceáil anseo go minic.

Is deas an radharc atá le feiceáil ar chladach na Mara Meánaí le luí na gréine. Thig loinnir bhuí ar shneachta na gcnoc ar tús. Fá cheann tamaill bhig éiríonn sé éadrom, dearg. Ansin chomh craorac le braon fola. Ina dhiaidh sin éiríonn sé corcair. Sa deireadh imíonn an ghrian agus thig dath bán ar an tsneachta ar ais. Ach chan é gile na gile é a bhí ann ar uair an mheán lae. Ach dath tláith mar a bheadh aghaidh seanmhná ann a bheadh caite ag an aois. Bheir sé an saol i gceann duine. An loinnir luascánta sin a chuireas dealramh an tsaoil inár n-aghaidh le linn ár n-óige, agus a imíos arís tráthnóna.

Bíonn na slóite síoraí fá na cóstaí seo sa gheimhreadh. Muintir gach tíre agus a dteangaidh féin á labhairt acu, uilig ach lucht tíre amháin. Cén tír í? Cá bhfuil sí? Nó an fiú trácht uirthi? Tá sí ina luí thiar udaí – taobh thiar de luí na gréine. Bhí teangaidh agus ealaín agus léann agus laochraí agus litríocht aici nuair a bhí cuid mhór de na tíortha atá ceannard, callánach anois, nuair a bhí siad sa chliabhán. Bhí, agus na céadtaí bliain sular rugadh cuid acu. Cuireann sé cumhaidh ort nuair a smaoiníos tú ar na slóite scoláir ag teacht go Cluain Mhic Nóis. Nuair a smaoiníos tú ar do chuid Naomh agus Bard. Nuair a smaoiníos tú gur scaoil muid an Eoraip as an chliabhán gur fhoghlaim muid di an dóigh le í féin a choisreacadh agus a haghaidh a ní, go dtug muid chun léinn agus chun creidimh í agus gur iomchair muid a cuid bratach san áit ar throime buillí agus ar threise namhaid… Agus anois tiocfaidh Francach thart agus nuair a chluinfidh sé Éireannach ag caint Béarla, is é an chéad rud a déarfaidh sé, vous êtes Anglais? Agus an tÉireannach bocht, níl focal aige le rá. Caithfidh sé a cheann a chromadh agus a bheith ina thost.

Anois nuair nach maireann siad

Bris mo sheancheann liath, a bhean.

Uaigneas! Cén áit is uaigní a raibh tú riamh? I measc an tslóigh is uaigní mise ach an slua sin a bheith coimhthíoch agam. Tá slua coimhthíoch mar a bheadh taibhsí ann ‘i bhfad uait agus a dheas díot.’ Tráthnóna an lá fá dheireadh tháinig uaigneas orm i measc an tslóigh agus d’imigh mé suas taobh

cnoic. B’éigean domh mo choiscéim a thoghadh nó bhí an bealach corrach, cnapánach. Sa deireadh tháinig mé fhad le laftán beag glas agus shuigh mé. Ní raibh a dhath beo ar mo ghaobhair ach gabhar a bhí ag ingilt ar laftán eile os mo chionn. Nuair a chonaic sé mé, d’amharc sé orm go huallach ar feadh bomaite agus chrom sé arís ar a chuid mar a dhéanfadh sé amach nach raibh lá dochair ionam.

Bhí an fharraige amuigh thíos fúm, chomh gorm le smál. Bhí soithí amuigh idir mé agus bun na spéire. Agus níorbh iad na soithí féin a bhí le feiceáil agam ach a gcuid toite. Balscóidí beaga dubha, go díreach mar a bheadh brat gorm ann a dtiocfadh deora súiche air.

Ní raibh mé i bhfad ‘mo shuí liom féin nó go dtáinig scaifte de mo chairde chugam idir bheo agus marbh. D’airdigh siad leo mé fríd an tsaol. Mar a déarfá, d’airdigh siad leo m’intinn: d’fhág siad an cholann ansin gan mhothú ag coinneáil cuideachta leis an ghabhar. Níor stad muid go raibh muid ar chladach Cheann Dubhrann. Maidin shamhraidh a bhí ann. Chuaigh muid amach sa lán mhara go dtí ár nglúine. Lean muid na féileacáin fríd na páirceanna glasa. Tamall ag cuartú neadrach, tamall ag iomáin, tamall ag déanamh cleas na slise… Oíche fhómhair ina dhiaidh sin agus sinn ag airneál tigh Mhicheáil Ruaidh. Micheál ag cóiriú eangach agus ag scéalaíocht san am chéanna. Tá gach rud le feiceáil agus le cluinstin go soiléir againn. Cú Chulainn ag gabháil chun sleanntrach ar Mhaigh Mhuirtheimhne. Deirdre ag imeacht le Naoise. ‘Tonn Rudhraighe ag buain re tráigh.’13 Bran agus Sceolann, Cú Cruaidh agus Cnead sa tóir ar an eilit… Tamall ina dhiaidh sin bhí mé ag baint an fhómhair. Bhí fidleoir againn i scioból Pheadair Mhóir. Ansin bhí mé ar bhainis Chonaill Sheáin Thuathail agus an Píobaire Ruadh ag seinm dúinn. Casadh Séamas catach orm ar an urlár agus is leis a thiocfadh an cúrsa damhsa a dhéanamh. Dar liom nach raibh aon fhear bocht ar a chineadh… Ba ghairid go bhfaca mé Séamas ag gabháil ar bord loinge agus ag imeacht go Meiriceá. Chuir sin cumhaidh orm. Mhothaigh mé mé féin cineál fuar. D’amharc mé thar mo ghualainn. Bhí an gabhar á shoipriú féin isteach ag bun na binne, ag brath codladh go maidin. Dar liomsa go raibh an t-am agamsa mo leabaidh féin a bhaint amach, agus d’imigh mé.

An rud is mó a thug an baile in mo cheann Aifreann an Domhnaigh. Cuid mhór dá bhfeicim agus dá gcluinim sé lá na seachtaine tá sé éagosúil leis na rudaí a raibh mé cleachtaithe leo. Ach nuair a thig an Domhnach agus théim go teach an phobail sílim gur thall i Rosa Thír Chonaill atá mé. An altóir agus na coinnle, an sagart fána chulaith aifrinn, na cléirigh ag friothálamh, na ráití beaga Laidine ansiúd is anseo a fhoghlamas duine le linn a bheith ag éisteacht leo go minic. Nuair a bhím i dteach an phobail sílim gur in Anagaire atá mé. Nuair a thigim amach amharcaim thart féacháil an bhfeicfinn na buachaillí agus na cailíní a raibh aithne agam orthu. Bheir sin chugam féin mé.

An rud a bíos annamh bidh sé iontach. Ach nach ina iontas atá an saol dá mbeadh ciall againn dearcadh air. An réalta bheag udaí a nochtas chugat as cúl an Earagail agus a bíos ag caochadh ort agus ag gealgháirí leat le clapsholas tráthnóna samhraidh, cad é rud í? C’as a dtáinig sí? Cá bhfuil a triall? Níl a fhios againn mórán fán chaisleán álainn sin a bhfuil na mílte agus na mílte dá chuid solas le feiceáil againn. Níl ar ár n-amharc ach coirnéal beag bídeach den chaisleán sin, ach tá go leor ann le tabhairt orainn a rá:

Molaim an té a ní caora dhubh agus bhán,

13 As Measgra Dánta.

Molaim an té a ní oíche dhorcha den lá,

Molaim an té a ní pearsa fir agus mná,

Is cá hiontaí é ná éaló mara agus trá.

IDIR DHÁ DTÍR14

Seo cupla giobóg bheag de na nótaí a scríobhaim ó am go ham de réir mar a bhuaileas an tallann mé.

15/12/1926

Oíche ann chomh ciúin agus nach mbogfadh ribe ar do cheann. Gealach iomlán i ndiaidh éirí chugainn as cúl chuid cnoc na hIodáilte. Stáid gheal mar airgead leite sínte trasna ar ucht na mara agus drithleoga geala ag léimnigh ó bhriseadh na toinne i mbéal na trá.

Tá an ghealach chéanna cosúil agus éagosúil leis an ghealaigh a bhíodh ag amharc anuas go haoibhiúil oíche fhómhair ar mhéilte Cheann Dubhrann nuair a bhí mé óg. Tá an mhéid chéanna inti, an déanamh céanna uirthi, agus an cúrsa céanna fúithi. Agus c’ann a bhfuil sí éagosúil le gealach na Rosann? An raibh tú riamh ‘do sheasamh ag colbha leapa ar a raibh cailín óg sínte i ndiaidh bás a fháil? Tá an aghaidh chumtha agus an muineál geal agus an béal coimir céanna le feiceáil agat mar a bhí nuair a bhí sí beo. Ach an tsúil! An rosc sin a bhíodh meadhrach nó gruama nó meallacach nó feargach le linn a beatha, de réir mar a bhíodh a hintinn, tá sé anois mar a bheadh murlán beag gloine ann. Súil marbhánaigh! Sin a dtig liom de shamhailt a thabhairt do ghealach na tíre seo. An ghealach s’againne, is iomaí oíche a chaith sí ag gealgháirí liom agus ag inse scéaltaí sí domh. Agus is minic, nuair a bhínn ag gabháil thar chomhairle, a bhagair sí mo thógáil isteach ina hothras idir chorp is chleiteacha mar a rinne sí le Dónall Mhac na Baintrí nuair a dhiúltaigh sé stópa uisce a thabhairt as an tobar ar chomhairle a mháthara.

15/12/1926

I lár an lae inniu chaith mé tamall ag amharc ar ghirsigh bhig a bhí thíos ar an tráigh agus í ag déanamh caisleáin ins an ghainimh. Chluinfeá céad slat ar shiúl í, agus í ag caint léi féin mar a bheadh an saol mór idir lámha aici. Ach, ar ndóigh, sin a bhfuil de shaol ag duine ar bith – an méid a shíleas sé a bheith aige, an méid a shamhailtear dó.

Smaoinigh mé gur dhúirt file inteacht go mbíonn Ríocht Neamha timpeall ar an óige. Níl a fhios agam an mbíonn? A leanbh, níl ciall agat. Ní thuigeann tú cad is mórtas farraige ann mar a thuigimse é. Anocht, nuair a bheas tú ‘do chodladh agus tú ag gealgháirí leis na haingle a thig chugat in do chuid aislingí, tiocfaidh tonn ghrusach amach aníos ó chladach na hAfraice agus scuabfaidh sí léi do chaisleán… Ach b’fhéidir gur mise atá gan chéill. B’fhéidir gur daille na haoise atá ag cur as domh, agus nach léar domh ach moll beag gainimh. B’fhéidir go bhfeiceann an leanbh na míle míle seomra agus go gcluin sí ceol na n-aingeal.

17/12/1926

14 The Catholic Bulletin Vol. 17 No. 5 (May, 1927) 519-521.

Bhí mé seal tamaill istigh sa reilig anseo inniu. An rud is mó ar chuir mé sonrú ann, na focla Ici Repose ar achan tuamba. An dóigh a bhfeicthear do gach duine in gach tír agus gach réagún go bhfuil scíste le fáil san uaigh. ‘After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.’15 Ina chodladh go sámh i ndiaidh fiabhras tallannach an tsaoil seo a chur de.

18/12/1926

Léim stialltracha móra ó am go ham. Seo an rud is mó ar chuir mé sonrú ann: chomh cosúil le chéile atá litríocht na dtíorthann nuair a théid an chúis go cnámh na huilleanna. Mo dhuine bocht ag criongán agus ag rámhailligh san fhiabhras. Bíonn duine amháin ag rámhailligh i nGaeilig, duine eile i mBéarla, duine i bhFraincis, agus duine i nGearmáinis, Ach an éagaoin chéanna uilig acu.

‘Screadaidh gach éan fána nead,’ arsa mo Shéamas dea-bhriathrach Mac Cuarta. Is iomaí cineál éanach ann. Agus ní gach ceann acu a nead ar a dhóigh féin. Bíonn a ionad cónaithe ag an ghealbhan i mbinn an sciobóil. Ní an riabhóg a nead i dtom na ndreasóg. Bíonn fáras ag an chlochrán faoi bhéinleic. Bíonn an fháinleog faoi uirlinn an tí16 agus bíonn an fhuiseog ar an léana lom. Ní hionann a ní siad a gcuid neadrach ach oiread. Bíonn soipíní féir ag cuid acu agus olann mar línín iontu. Bíonn tithe lábáin ag cuid eile agus canach agus cluimhreach taobh istigh iontu. Ach taradh cat bradach ar cheann ar bith de na neadracha seo agus itheadh sé na scolamáin, agus nuair a thiocfas an t-athair agus an mháthair chun an bhaile le coim na hoíche i ndiaidh a bheith ag cuartú bídh dá gclainn, ná bíodh fána gcoinne ach moll beag cnámh agus gasracha beaga cluimhrí agus fuil sioctha orthu, agus cluinfidh tú an uaill bhrónach léanmhar chéanna is cuma cé acu atá an nead faoin bhéinleic nó i dtóin na ndreasóg, nó ar an léana lom, nó i mbinn an sciobóil. B’agat a bhí deise do labhartha, a Dhaill Mhic Cuarta. ‘Screadaidh gach éan fána nead.’ Tá dhá chineál neadrach ann: rudaí a níthear de lábán agus rudaí eile a níthear de ghorm na spéire agus an ga gréine mar bhrat urláir iontu. Agus goiltear lán chomh goirt os cionn an dara cuid:

Kerner’s tears are wept for withered flowers,

Mine for withered hopes…17

19/12/1926

I lár an lae inniu bhí mé ‘mo shuí ar an chladach an áit a raibh buíon cheoil ag seinm. Tháinig gasúr thart ag cruinniú pingineach ar shon na gcathaoireach. Thug mé freagar air in mo theangaidh dhúchais. D’imigh sé agus níorbh fhada go bhfaca mé chugam é agus fear teanga leis. Fear fada, dubh, lom, cnámhach. Dar liom féin, a ógánaigh, níl a fhios agam an bhfuil Gaeilig agat. Thoisigh eadrainn.

‘Cinquante centimes, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Ní thuigim thú, a ghiolla seo.’

‘Fifty centimes, please.’

‘Ní thuigim sin ach lán chomh beag. Níl agam ach Gaeilig.’

15 As Macbeth le Shakespeare.16 na toigheadh sa bhuntéacs.17 ‘Twenty Golden Years Ago’ le James Clarence Mangan.

An rud céanna i nGearmáinis.

‘Nár inis mé duit gur Gaeilig atá agam agus nach dtuigim teangaidh ar bith eile.’

I Spáinnis.

‘Níl gar duit a bheith ag caitheamh do theanga ag caint liom mura labhraidh tú liom i nGaeilig.’

I dteangaidh inteacht eile.

‘D’anam ‘on diabhal.’

‘Ah, vous êtes irlandais,’ ar seisean, ag toiseacht is ag inse domh nach raibh gléas riamh air an Ghaeilig a fhoghlaim, gur mhaith leis aige í, gur minic a chuala sé gur teangaidh dheas, bheacht í, nach gcuala sé riamh ach na cupla focal sin agus gur choinnigh sé cuimhne orthu.

Thug mé féin do Chaesar an ní ba le Caesar agus thoisigh mé a mheabhrú. Tháinig tocht orm nuair a smaoinigh mé nach raibh fágtha ar mhórthír na hEorpa ach na cupla focal sin. Ó sin go tráthnóna chuir mé céad ceist orm féin fán ráite chéanna. Cad é a thug air mairstin go fóill i mbéal na ndaoine? Cén ócáid éifeachtach ar cuireadh in úsáid é? An saighdiúir de chuid Eoghain Ruaidh a chuir scairt as féin agus é i mbearna an bhaoil in Arras? Nó taoiseach ag bagar ar fhear a d’fhan lena bhríste a chuartú an oíche úd i gCremona? Nó an ceannfort a bhí ar na ‘Géacha Fiáine,’ ag broslú an iargharda ar léana Fontenoy?

IDIR DHÁ DTÍR18

Mise nach bhfaca an ghrian ag éirí riamh ach as cúl na gcnoc, dar liom go mb’fhiú domh a feiceáil ag éirí aníos as an fharraige. Maidin dheas earraigh a bhí ann agus, mar a deir an duine aosta, b’aoibhinn teach féir agus fonn agus crónán na dtonn i mbéal na trá. D’éirigh mé uair roimh an lá agus theann orm. Ar a ghabháil taobh amach de dhoras domh fuair mé feochán fionnuar gaoithe ag siosarnaigh fríd na cranna pailme a bhí ag fás ar na sráideanna, seanghealach chaite ag éaló síos in aice na mara, agus réalt dheallrach mar a bheadh sí ina suí ar bharr cnoic ar chúl Mhonte Carlo.

Shiúil liom suas bealach corrach, clochach nó go dtáinig mé go barr gearrchnoic a bhí ann. Ins an am sin bhí spéarthaí an lae ag nochtadh chugam. Anseo in Éirinn bíonn seal fada idir breacadh na maidine agus éirí na gréine. Agus ar feadh an ama sin cuireann na réalta dathanna díobh féin fiche uair. Ach amuigh ar bhruach na Mara Meánaí ní mó ná go gcuireann an ghrian teachtaire ar bith a dh’inse duit go bhfuil sí ag teacht. Ina áit sin preabann sí chugat de rúchladh amháin mar a bheadh uathphéist inteacht ag iarraidh a coinneáil thíos faoin fharraige agus réabfadh sí amach as a cuid greamann.

Níorbh fhada domh ar bharr an chnoic nó gur nocht an ghrian chugam aníos agus í féadaim a rá chomh dearg le meadar fola. Bhí an spéir iontach glan agus an fharraige chomh gorm le smál.

18 The Catholic Bulletin Vol. 17 No. 7 (July, 1927) 746-748. I gcló arís faoin teideal ‘Corsica’ in Sraith na Craobhruaidhe VI, eagrán úr (Preas Dhún Dealgan, g.d.) 46-51.

Amuigh ag bun na spéire bhí mar a bheadh brat dorcha crochta ar bhalla. Ba é sin an tsamhailt a thug mé dó. Bhí mé ag cur iontais cad é ba chiall dó nuair a labhair an duine taobh thiar díom.

‘Corsica,’ ar seisean, ‘a bhfuil tú ag amharc air?’

‘An sin Corsica?’ arsa mise.

‘Sin ansin é,’ ar seisean, ag toiseacht is ag inse domh gur thíos ansin a tógadh Napoleon. Gur ann a chaith sé tús a óige nó go dtáinig ann dó a ghabháil i ndeabhaidh lainne.

D’amharc mé féin ar mo sheanduine. Fear beag, críon, creapalta a bhí ann, bearád cruinn, dubh air, soc géar d’fhéasóig a bhí chomh geal le canach an tsléibhe, cóta mór druidte go dtí úll a sceadamáin air agus é ag titim ar a bhata. An rud ba mhó a chuir iontas orm cad é mar a tháinig leis barr an chnoic a bhaint amach.

Thoisigh sé a chaint ar Napoleon. D’inis sé domh ar tús go raibh sé féin ina chónaí i dTuaisceart na Fraince agus go dtáinig sé anuas go Menton a dh’iarraidh na sláinte. ‘Agus leoga,’ ar seisean, ‘creidim gur fhéad mé fanacht sa bhaile nó go bhfuil laetha na sláinte thart agam.’

B’fhada an lá ó chonaic sé Corsica. ‘B’éigean domh,’ ar seisean, ‘mo bheatha a shaothrú as allas mo mhalacha ó tháinig ann domh, agus ní raibh gléas orm riamh seal tamaill a chaitheamh anseo mar a bíos ag lucht an airgid.’ Agus thoisigh sé ansin a dh’inse domh cérbh iad na daoine ar díobh é. Go raibh lán na lámh acu ach gur chaill siad a gcuid den tsaol nuair a cuireadh deireadh leis na ríte. ‘Murab é an fear beag a tógadh ar an oileán udaí thíos,’ ar seisean, ‘is dóiche go mbeinnse thall ansin i Monte Carlo ag imirt sa Chasino.’

‘Agus i ndiaidh an iomláin,’ arsa mise, ‘tháinig tú aníos go barr an chnoic seo go bhfeictheá Corsica le héirí na gréine.

‘Tháinig,’ ar seisean. ‘Tá bród orm as an oileán bheag sin. Agus tá bród ar gach mac máthara as ar fiú Francach a thabhairt air. Is cuma cén Francach a rachas go dtína thuamba i bPáras – bainfidh sé de a hata nuair a thiocfaidh sé fhad leis an áit a bhfuil Napoleon ina luí. Nuair a bhí mise ‘mo ghasúr bheag,’ ar seisean, ‘bhí sé curtha i gcéill domh gurbh é Napoleon an chreach ba mhó a tháinig trasna ar an Fhrainc riamh. Níor lú ar m’athair an diabhal as ifreann ná a ainm a chluinstin luaite… Níor lú sin.’

‘Agus i ndiaidh an iomláin, tá bród ortsa as,’ arsa mise.

‘Tá,’ ar seisean, ‘m’athair mór a chonaic mé ag gol lá amháin a d’athraigh m’intinn.’

‘D’athair mór ag gol!’

‘Sea, agus ag gol go cráite,’ ar seisean. ‘Bhí muid i gcogadh leis an Ghearmáin san am, agus bhí m’athair mór ina sheanduine. Bhí an cogadh chóir a bheith thart. MacMahon ag teicheadh agus na Prúisíonnaigh ag geaftaí Phárais. An lá a tháinig an scéala deireanach go raibh an Fhrainc buailte, ní dhéanfaidh mé dearmad choíche de. Chaoin m’athair mór mar a bheadh leanbh ann. Ní raibh ciall le cur ann ar feadh tamaill ach é ag osnaíl agus ag smeacharnaigh. Agus nuair a fuair sé an anál leis ba é an chéad rud a dúirt sé: ‘Dá mbeadh Napoleon inniu againn ní bheadh seo mar seo.’

‘Ón lá sin go dteachaigh sé i dtalamh níor dhúirt m’athair aon fhocal searbh fán Impire. Agus i dtaca liomsa de, phógfainn an talamh faoina chosa dá maireadh sé.’

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Seal tamaill ina dhiaidh sin agus mé i bPáras chuaigh mé go dtí Les Invalides agus chaith mé páirt mhór de thráthnóna ann. Bhí na slóite síoraí ag teacht is ag imeacht agus ag breathnú. Bhí stair na tíre inléite as pioctúirí agus na cuimhneacháin a bhí ins na hallaí sin. Agus, a Mhuire, an méid den áit a bhí faoin Impire. Bhí an Fhrainc le feiceáil agat ansin mar a bhí sí le linn Jeanne d’Arc, le linn na Laoiseach agus dá réir sin. Ach níor dhadadh an t-iomlán le taoibh na hImpireachta.

Is furast a aithne go bhfuil meas agus urraim ag muintir na Fraince de Napoleon. An cúram atá acu le gach rud beag, dá laghad, dá mbaineann leis! An leabaidh ar chodail sé uirthi an oíche roimh Austerlitz. An cóta fionnaidh a bhí air ar a bhealach go Moscó. Agus gan fiú na giotaí beaga de pháipéir a bhfuil lorg a láimhe orthu nach bhfuil i dtaiscidh i gcásaí gloine agus iad ag meilt leis an aois. Agus ansin an áit a bhfuil sé curtha. Corradh le caoga brat thart ar an tuamba. Bratacha a bhain sé amach san áit ar thréine teangmháil agus ar thibhe buillí. Cuid acu feoite agus cuid dóite. Agus ansin an méid dealbh atá thart air. A chuid taoiseach a bhí sa ghleo ina chuideachta. Ney ag a thaoibh mar a bhíodh tráth a mhair. Dar leat gurb é rud a bhí sé ar garda mar Ney go bhfaigheadh Napoleon néal a chodladh, agus go raibh an tImpire ag déanamh a scíste gan bhuaireamh mar bheadh a fhios aige nárbh eagal don Fhrainc go mbainfeadh taisme ar bith di fhad is a bhí Ney ar garda.

Smaoinigh mé ar an rud a dúirt file dár gcuid féin nuair a tháinig sé go dtí uaigh a charad:

Is é do chodladh an codladh a chloígh d’éifeacht.

Agus smaoinigh mé ar rud a dúirt file eile:19

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Tá aithne agam ar sheanduine as an bhaile s’againne a fuair bás tá cupla bliain ó shin. Fuair sé bás den ocras. Ní raibh aon duine maíte air a chuirfeadh cónair air. Rinneadh bosca de chláraí seanbháid agus cuireadh a chorp inti. Tá sé curtha i ‘gcoirnéal na mbocht’ i reilig Cheann Dubhrann. Ach níl sé ach marbh agus tá Napoleon marbh fosta.

Short Story. French. Berlitz. Going to France.20

19 ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ le Thomas Gray.20 Seo cuid den ábhar atá i dtaisce i gCnuasach Shéamuis Uí Ghrianna i Leabharlann Uí Argadáin, Ollscoil na hÉireann, Gaillimh. Is cosúil gur scríobh Máire an t-ábhar sa chnuasach sin sna seascaidí.

One day I remembered that I was neglecting to do the work that Professor Carolan21 had enjoined on me when I was leaving the Training College. He asked me that day to put on record for posterity every word, phrase, idiom, proverb, song and story that I knew. I had written one book, but that book did not contain one twentieth of all the Irish I knew. I wrote a second book. Then it occurred to me to study the art of the short story. For, after all, I thought words, phrases, idioms are not enough. There must be some attempt at embodying them in a story to sustain the interest of the reader.

I got the best of O. Henry and I read and re-read them with great interest. I was particularly attracted to the way he carried the reader along and sprang a surprise at him in the last line. Then I read the story again and saw that the dénouement was plain in every paragraph from the beginning. He would not play the same trick on me a second time! But he would and a hundred times.

At last I got my hands on a book of French short stories in translation. There were stories in it from Daudet, Maupassant, Mérimée and many others. After having read them several times I concluded that in the art of the short story the French had no peer. (I think so yet.)

Then one day I happened to read the translator’s introduction. He said he had done his best to give the English reader an idea of the art of the French short story. But that in every case the translation was only a pale image of the original and that he would consider his labour not lost if it would be the means of inducing English-speaking readers to take up the study of French.

This made a deep impression on me. If these stories, which I considered beautiful, were only a pale image of the original what must the original itself be? I decided to make a beginning, and I went to the Berlitz school of Languages which was then in Grafton Street. The principal of the School was one M. Caperon, a Parisian. He asked me what I wanted – class or private tuition. I told him private tuition, every day of the week. He told me the terms and I paid for three months in advance.

‘You can begin on Monday at 4 o’clock,’ he said. ‘And now, tell me this much: have you learned Secondary School French?’

‘I told him I had not,’

‘That is good,’ said he. ‘Nothing annoys me more than students who learn French as it is taught in the schools of this country. And when I get a gold medallist, he breaks my heart.’

Then he asked me what had induced me to take up the study of French and I told him.

‘That is a most interesting coincidence,’ he said. ‘When I was a boy at school in Paris I hated English. I could make no fist of it. In fact I often asked myself how did it happen that that monstrous language made its way over half the world. When I grew up I began reading translations of Shakespeare’s plays. I thought they were marvellous, even in translation. So I decided on learning English with the sole aim of being able to read Shakespeare in the original. When I had finished at the university I came to London and got a post as a teacher in one of the Berlitz Schools. That is twenty-five years ago. Ever since I always try to find out what my pupils are interested in.’

I went to the Berlitz School six times a week for a year. Then I decided to go to the South of France for a few months, more for health reasons than for anything else at the time. At first I thought I

21 A Professor at St. Patrick’s Training College who was shot during a raid on his house in 1920.

could only spend three months there, but I made enough from teaching English to enable me to remain for nearly a year.

In the early days of December I set out on my journey to France. I arrived at Dunleary and went on board the mail boat. There weren’t many travelling that morning. I went into the deck cabin, as the air outside was raw and the fog was affecting my bronchial tubes. A man and a woman were sitting there, one on each side of an electric fire. The man looked round, then drew aside his chair to make room for me. It was George McClatchie and his bride going off on their honeymoon. He shook hands with me and introduced me to his wife, a slightly-built blonde with a rather pretty face.

‘Going to England?’ he inquired.

‘And the rest of the journey,’ I replied. ‘I am going to the South of France.’

‘The same as ourselves. I hope there is nothing wrong with your health.’

‘Not too much, I suffer from bronchitis and the doctors tell me that a few months in the South of France is the only possible cure for me.’

‘That is true. The French Riviera has the best climate in the world for anyone having bronchial trouble. What part are you going to?’

‘Menton.’

‘We are going to Cap Martin. According to my guide-book it is half-way between Menton and Monte Carlo. There is an excellent hotel there.’

‘I suppose you have often been to France?’

‘Strange as it may seem, I have never been to France. The force of circumstances, you know. When I had finished my education the war was on. For the next few years I was kept at home by domestic cares. Then I joined the army to help to keep you fellows from wrecking the State,’ he added with a smile. ‘Is this your first visit?’

‘My first visit.’

‘Do you know much French?’

‘Indeed I don’t. And I suppose I’ll find it hard enough to make my way.’

‘Don’t let it worry you in the least. We’ll be with you to the very end of your journey.

‘I suppose you know French very well,’ I ventured.

‘I got first place in all Ireland in the Intermediate. And I have kept up my reading ever since. French has a fine literature, the finest modern literature in the world. I can never understand what made our government give to Irish the place that should be given to French. Can they be so ignorant as not to understand that it is a sin to shut out from the youth of Ireland our great European culture for the sake of a patois that is spoken only by a handful of semi-savage tribes along the Western seaboard.’

I felt like telling him that the government were not the least concerned over the ‘semi-savage tribes’ and their patois. But I didn’t. I knew he was going to be lowered a peg or two when he arrived in France.

‘I suppose,’ he resumed, ‘that in a way the government could be excused. Your crowd was accusing them of having betrayed the nation, and they felt that a good answer to that accusation was to try to revive Irish. But, to continue, it is worth anyone’s while to learn French for the sake of its literature.’

‘So I am told,’ I agreed. ‘I was present at a debate between university students some years ago. They were discussing the French poets, André Cheair, Béranger and others.’

‘I am afraid their knowledge is rather limited. You must go back to Racine to get the cream of French poetry.’

‘I did not hear any mention of Racine.’

‘I should be surprised if it were otherwise. Racine is beyond them. As a famous French critic has said: ‘Racine is the poet of an artistic élite. What few words he needs to render an almost inexpressible sentiment! Just as in Bach’s music the grace or the majesty of the whole soars above the simple means which produce it, so Racine’s words, chosen by a divine artist, project their picture into a world far beyond the domain of ordinary art, and it is this beauty ‘beyond,’ discernible only to the naked eye, that makes him unique and so unapproachable to most.’

‘Pardon me,’ I said. ‘That electric fire is giving me a headache. I’ll walk round on deck for a while.’

On the evening of that day we reached London. There was no delay there. We took the train for Newhaven and got there about eleven o’clock. It was midnight when we went on board the boat for France, and about four in the morning we landed at Dieppe.

‘Keep close to me and I’ll bring you through the Customs,’ said McClatchie. Afterwards I’ll inquire when the Paris train is leaving.’

‘Your hour of deflation is at hand,’ said I in my own mind.

McClatchie with his wife walking beside him went to the Customs barrier and put two cases down on the table. I was close behind them. In a few minutes a Customs officer came along and took up his position behind the table.

‘Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer, monsieur?’

‘Jay vous demongd pardon,’ said McClatchie.

‘Vous n’avez rien à déclarer?’ said the officer who seemed to be in a desperate hurry to get through his work.

Poor McClatchie was so flabbergasted that he could not say a word.

‘Rien?’ repeated the officer. ‘Pas de tabac? Pas d’allumettes? Et vous, madame, avez vous du parfum?’

‘Jay ong petty-ong petty – jay ong petty bot day – day – ‘ said McClatchie as if the last question had been addressed to himself.

‘Du diable si je comprends ce qu’il dit,’ said the Frenchman, as if he were talking to himself.

The hour had struck. Poor McClatchie. The lofty edifice that he had built with gold medals and first places and adorned with Racine crumbled about his ears like a house of cards.

‘He wants to know if you have anything to declare?’ I intervened, and I brought himself and his bride through the Customs.

‘Merci, monsieur,’ said the officer to me. Then he spoke to McClatchie. ‘But one must remember him that we understand not the English language here.’

‘Je vous démande pardon,’ said I to the officer, ‘mais il vous a parlé en bon Français.’

‘Oui, comme un vache espagnole,’ replied the officer as he hurried to attend to the next passenger.

I might have said to McClatchie jokingly that the French Customs officer did not seem to have any appreciation of Racine, but his wife said something that filled me with pity for the poor devil. It was to me that she said that something. ‘Will you please find out where the Railway Station is and when the Paris train leaves.’

McClatchie was as silent as a rock and as gloomy as a --- all the way to Paris.

‘What time do we get to the capital?’ Mrs. McClatchie asked me.

‘About seven,’ I replied. ‘The Marseille Express doesn’t leave till nine. That will leave us two hours to have some rest and refreshments.’

‘I couldn’t continue the journey without a break. I have a bad headache… We will see you in Cap Martin. And thanks very much.’

But I did not see them at Cap Martin. Whether they went there or not I cannot tell.

I have never met McClatchie since. But I saw his name in the papers from time to time. He was an ardent follower of Cumann na nGaedheal until that party was put out of office in 1932. Then he transferred his allegiance to Fianna Fáil and became a strenuous supporter of compulsory Irish.

But let me continue the story of my experience in France. When I had said goodbye to my travelling companions at St. Lazare I engaged a taxi to take me across the city to the Gare de Lyons. Having arrived there I washed the dust off my face and the sleep out of my eyes. Then I got my breakfast in the station café, after which I went on to the platform. The morning was cold and the air dry. I felt my breathing easier already. After a while a railway porter came up to me and asked me if I was travelling by the Rapide de Marseille. I told him I was. ‘In that case,’ said he, ‘you had better go in and take your seat. The train will be crowded out this morning – the Riviera season begins in real earnest.’

I nodded assent. He took up my case and I followed him to an empty carriage. He asked me if I wanted a corner seat. With my back to the engine or facing it. Then he put my case on the rack and

he touched his cap. I gave him the expected tip. He thanked me and went off to proffer his fatherly advice to anyone else whom he might find in need of it.

I sat down and filled my pipe. I was only delighted with myself. I was making my way through Paris. I could understand everybody. Everybody could understand me. I have even argued with the taxi driver about the mileage recorded on his meter and about the ‘petit pourboire.’ Little did I dream that my hour of deflation was at hand.

About a quarter to nine I heard the tramp of a thousand feet coming towards the station. The next minute through a dozen doors or more the crowd came rushing on to the platform, running like schoolchildren getting out of school. My carriage was soon crowded. Cases were being stowed away everywhere, on the racks, under the seats, in the passage. All the time everybody was talking and gesticulating. And not one word could I understand. I might as well have been in the heart of China.

The first thought that occurred to me that there were many people in Ireland who would be glad to hear of my predicament, that I richly deserved it – I who, according to them, never had any sympathy with those who were trying hard to learn Irish. But almost immediately it occurred to me that I was in a category totally different from the Gaelic racketeers. I had over-estimated – wildly over-estimated – my knowledge of spoken French. But that was all. I would never try to become a member of the French Academy, or to become a professor of French in the Sorbonne. I would not attempt to write a novel or a play or a book of short stories in French. Nor would I advocate teaching through the medium of French the children of German-speaking homes in the recently recovered province of Alsace-Lorraine.

When I was a few weeks on the Riviera, I happened to be taking a cup of tea one evening in the ‘Scotch Tea Shop’ in Cap Martin – the only place where one could get a cup of tea. The place was crowded, but there was one vacant seat at the table where I was at. While I was waiting to be served a girl who was wearing a Fáinne came and sat opposite me. She was a good-looking girl, she was obviously Irish and I was glad to see her. For one can get lonely at times in a foreign country.

I spoke to her in Irish. She told me in English that she didn’t understand me. It was Ulster Irish she had – Gillick Whiggy Ulla, she added.

‘Where did you learn it?’ I asked.

‘First at school with the nuns, then at Gaelic League classes.’

‘But did you never go to the Gaeltacht?’

‘You may be sure I did. I put the finishing touch on my Irish in the Gaeltacht. I spent two summers at an Irish College in a place called Ranafarsta. Have you ever heard of it?’

‘I believe I have.’

‘You are from Mayo?’ she asked.

‘From Mayo,’ I lied.

‘It is a great pity that there is such a wide difference between the dialects,’ she commented.

Why didn’t I tell her that the first Mayo people I ever met spoke exactly the same kind of Irish as I spoke myself, with only a difference in accent, and that not half as pronounced as it was in English? She would not believe me. She might argue the contrary. But if I were to tell her a thing or two about this ‘Ranafarsta’ where she had put the finishing touches on her Irish? If I were to tell her that I had been born and brought up there?

Why didn’t I? Well, the age of chivalry was not quite gone. And, another thing: she was good-looking.

She remained there for only four or five days. I met her every day and we went for long walks. When she left I was lonely. At times I was sorry that I hadn’t told her the truth. I felt myself getting fond of her. ‘But no,’ I said to myself at last, ‘I could not live my life with a woman who spoke Gillick Whiggy Ully.’

The following year, a few weeks before I left for home, I met another Fáinneach – a man this time.

He wore a suit of homespun and a quilted hat of the same material and, to crown all, an Aran crios. The first time I saw him I was sitting on the rocks of the sea shore. He came up to me holding his pipe in his hand. He wanted a match.

‘Avie-voo, avie-voo – un, un…’

‘Une allumette,’ I said, handing him my box of matches. He lit his pipe and handed me back the box. ‘Mercy, mussier, mercy bokoo.’

I answered him speaking at a rapid pace. I recited a verse or two of Ronsard, followed by the Apostles’ Creed – no irreverence meant. Just something I could rattle off quickly.

‘We, we, mussier, mercy bokoo,’ he replied and he went away. I saw him several times after that but he did not venture to speak to me. Needless to say I did not speak to him.

The day I left for Ireland I was seated in the train at the station when I heard a voice behind me.

‘Anne veel aineh nsoh go veel an yayling eggeh?’ I looked round. It was the Fáinneach. He passed up the passage, repeating his phrase until it died away in the distance.

Shortly afterwards I heard a second call. ‘Anyone here speaks English?’ This time it was a girl, and a girl of real beauty, auburn hair etc. But she spoke with a pronounced English accent. Now I have nothing in the way of rancour against the English. But I always felt we were different races and could not understand each other’s outlook. This English girl was certainly good-looking. But to me, she would be a dull travelling companion. And I should entertain her all the way to Paris, to Calais, across on the boat to Dover, and thence to London.

I could hear her calling as she went along the passage: ‘Anyone here speaks English?’

After a time I began to repent of my decision and so much so that I went along the passage to see where she had settled or if she had found an English-speaking companion. At last I saw my nut-brown maiden sitting beside the Fáinneach chatting to him.

‘Ah, there you are,’ I said to myself. ‘There you are with your Fáinne and your homespun suit and your Aran crios and all the other symbols of our old Gaelic nation. You probably spend most of your time cursing perfidious Albion. And there you are now disgracing the motherland that you profess to love.’

One would think I was angry, which I was. But it was with myself. Angry because I had lost such a charming travelling companion when one word would have secured her company for me. Several times during the journey I went along the corridor and threw sidelong glances at them. After midnight my beauty was asleep with her head of auburn tresses resting on the Fáinneach’s shoulder.

Shortly after nine o’clock in the morning the train arrived in Paris. After having washed myself and taken some breakfast I got a taxi and went to the Gare du Nord. The Fáinneach and the beautiful English nut-brown maiden were there before me. And the maiden was more beautiful than ever. What curse had come on me at all to let so fine a prize slip from my hands?

They were together, of course, until we came to Calais, on the boat across to Dover, and on the train to London. I lost track of them there and when I came to Euston the Fáinneach was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to me that he was not going to Ireland at all, that his home was in London or perhaps the fair lady had invited him to spend a day or two with her people. Maybe the upset of it all would be a marriage. And if she marries that manikin it will forever be said of her that she ‘was sold for less than her value.’22

I slept for a few hours on the train. And about three o’clock in the morning I was amazed when I saw the Fáinneach and the nut-brown maiden going on board the mail boat. It was then that my remorse became really bitter. Perhaps she wasn’t English at all but Irish. She had an English accent, or had she? I had heard only one sentence of her speech, the question she asked the day before as she was passing down through the train at Nice.

It was a beautiful morning when we arrived at Dunleary. When the ship had berthed and we were waiting for the gangway to be let down, I happened to look at the groups of people standing on the quay. Among them was a middle-aged woman scanning the passengers on deck as if she were trying to pick out someone she had come to meet. As soon as I looked at her face I knew she was the nut-brown maiden’s mother. Her hair was streaked with grey and, of course, the bloom of her youth had faded. But at the same time she bore a close resemblance to her daughter and it was obvious that in her youth she was very handsome.

The gangway was lowered and the passengers began to disembark. The Fáinneach kept back as if he thought that he should not be present at the first meeting of the mother and her daughter. But I was under no obligation to keep in the background: neither of them knew me. I was just another stranger passing by. The mother advanced to meet her daughter and clasped her to her bosom.

‘My own dear, darling child,’ she said in the best Gaeltacht Irish. ‘Thank God that you are back.’

22 Díoladh faoina luach í.

Then she stepped back and looked at her daughter as if she were examining her face. ‘You look as strong and as healthy as you ever were. You are a complete cure. Are you tired?’

‘Dead tired, mother,’ replied the daughter in the same grand Irish.

‘I suppose you are,’ said the mother. ‘It was a long journey.’

‘It is not the length of the journey that tired me, mother, ’said the daughter, ‘but a little sciorrachán from Dublin that I had the devil’s own misfortune to meet. He has only a few dozen words of broken Irish. My heart is nearly broken from listening to him and trying to talk to him since I left Nice on Monday morning.’

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