Fanning the flames of revolution – An Irishman’s Diary about Beatrice Elvery

Among the paintings in the former St Enda's School, now the Pearse Museum, is one by Beatrice Elvery of the famous sports shop family. Entitled Íosagán, it is prominently displayed in the entrance hall. And it so it should be, because its concept of a "holy boy warrior" was central to Patrick Pearse's philosophy, and that of his school for young revolutionaries.

Íosagán was commissioned for St Enda's, in fact. Another Elvery painting, Éire, was bought for it by Maud Gonne. It too mixes nationalism and religion, with Cathleen Ní Houlihan and Erin portrayed as Madonna and Child, surrounded by saints.

Both pictures date from 1907. And according to a footnote, the artist was shocked years later when a former pupil of St Enda's told her that Éire had made him want to "die for Ireland".

It had not occurred to her until then that her paintings might, “like Helen’s face, launch ships and burn towers”.

We’ll come back to the question of burning later. But for all that her art was in tune with the romantic nationalism of the years before 1916, Elvery was no revolutionary herself.

A child of the ascendancy, she married another, Charles “Gordon” Campbell, the second Baron Glenavy in 1912, thereby becoming Lady Glenavy.

And insofar as she’s remembered today, it’s mainly for being the mother of the third baron, Patrick Campbell, who grew up to become a well-known journalist and unlikely TV star.

One of the less glorious episodes of the latter's career was a period spent writing the Irishman's Diary in The Irish Times. It was only for two years, towards the end of the war. But as with many Irishman's Diarists before and since, he found it a great strain, leaving in 1946 for an easier life in London.

There he turned a mild disability – his stammer – into a trademark. It helped make him a fixture on the TV show Call My Bluff, and also explains the title of one his published collections, The P-P-Penguin Patrick Campbell (1965).

Half a century earlier, back in Dublin, Campbell had been only a toddler when the revolution happened. The period barely merits mention in his autobiography. But the Troubles did leave at least one indelible memory.

It dated from 1922, when he was nine. By then, Campbell’s father was secretary of the new Department of Industry and Commerce, while his grandfather chaired the Senate. For both these reasons, with civil war now raging, the Campbells were targets for anti-treaty violence, arson included.

The burning party arrived on Christmas Eve, as the future journalist was counting the hours to possession of his first train set. Recalling the event later in life, Campbell mined it for humour. And although it can’t have been so funny at the time, there is a ring of truth about his description of the way, resigned to her home’s destruction, his mother took charge of the operation.

At first, the fear was assassination – Campbell snr had returned from work recently with bullet holes in his car. But once the raiders assured her only arson was planned, the lady of the house began to negotiate terms.

The burners agreed she could save her “lovely books”, including first editions by Katherine Mansfield (a friend). Then her pictures, including an Orpen and some of her children’s work, were also spared. After that, growing exasperated, the IRA leader told her she could take anything she wanted “but for God’s love hurry up about it”.

As petrol was poured in the hallway, Campbell snr intervened to suggest that now might be a good time to withdraw. But Mrs Campbell was growing militant: “And leave all the children’s Christmas toys behind? Certainly not!”

She ordered the IRA men upstairs to get the toys, including the train: “And leave your silly guns on the table. Nobody’ll touch them”.

In the end, by her son’s account, she had five of the raiding party at her command, so emotionally invested they were making their own suggestions (“Is the bit of a picture in the passage any good, mam? Is there ere a chance of gettin the legs offa the pianna, the way we could dhrag it out...?”).

The house was burned finally. But as Campbell jnr remembered it, the raiders had met their match. “When they disappeared into the night they left my mother, bathed in the light of the flames, standing guard over a great heap of treasures in the middle of the lawn, with Orpen’s picture under one arm and the little drawings by John under the other – the winner on points.”

@FrankmcnallyIT