The pseudonymous author of a book published in Paris in 1921 wrote: "One must have lived in Ireland to understand the spell cast, in the long run, by the endless repetition of gratuitous statements."
The writer's nom de plume was Sylvain Briollay, but the man behind it was Roger Chauviré, Algeria-born son of a French army officer, and himself a veteran of the first World War. By the time the book appeared, he had indeed lived in Ireland, albeit only since 1919, when he became professor of French at UCD, a post he retained until retirement in 1947.
He was later better known in France, under his real name, for such novels as L'incantation (1929) and Mademoiselle de Boisdauphin (1932), which won him his country's second-best literary prize.
But a decade earlier, his immersion in Irish life during a period of great turbulence inspired one of the more stylishly written accounts of the War of Independence, “L’Irlande insurgée” (translated as Ireland in rebellion).
Briollet was generally in sympathy with the rebels, although his admiration was not unqualified. The exasperation hinted at in the opening quotation was provoked by the “spirit of illusion” he identified in much republican rhetoric, including repeated incantations that the power of Irish America would eventually force Britain to concede defeat.
He was enough of a cynic to agree with Clemenceau’s doctrine that you cannot expect a powerful enemy to release its stranglehold just because his victim is suffering. On the other hand, he accepted that without a talent for self-delusion, Ireland would long ago have given up the centuries-old struggle against English rule.
Among the reasons he thought they might win this time was that their political leaders had already come through the “ordeal of money” without weakening: Sinn Féin’s elected MPs were “almost all poor,” he wrote, and the £400 Westminster salary would have given them a comfortable living. But not one was tempted. Even Éamon de Valera, “who is poor and does not live in Dublin”, had long refused a car, Briollay added.
“Later on, if liberty comes, and power with its profits and advantages, we shall see the sharks emerge, we shall see politicians making successful deals and driving in their Rolls-Royce cars; but at present it is a very common to recognise an Irish ‘Minister’ in the cheerfully juvenile figure which flits past on a muddy bicycle, in a faded waterproof and a little cleft hat dripping under the pelting rain. No doubt that is a trifle, but it is odd and delightful.”
Writing primarily for a French readership, Briollay explained why the Royal Irish Constabulary was such a prime target in the war and why it should not be confused with "our good gendarmes [...] loved and esteemed by the peasant whom they protect".
The RIC “is armed to the teeth”, he wrote: “rifle, bayonet, revolver and of late, grenades and machine guns. Carefully recruited from men of exceptional physique who undergo […] several months’ physical and ‘moral’ training, and always at the orders of the military authorities, the force is as much occupied in the political surveillance of the country as in the repression of crimes and misdemeanours.”
The fact that its men were also overwhelmingly Catholic, familiar with the habits and character of the people but insulated against local loyalties by a policy of never stationing recruits in their own districts made the RIC “the most dangerous arm of the Empire in Ireland”. Without it, he wrote, “the English army would be . . . impotent.”
Hence the daily murders of policemen, Briollay went on, and the complex emotions they inspired. He described a conversation with an Irish woman “who would not harm a fly”, as she read of yet another shooting: “Poor boys,” she said, so that he thought she was thinking of the victims. Then she continued: “Such fine lads obliged to do such work.” Briollay summed up: “There you have Irish feeling on the subject.”
His book covered only the period up to July 1921, so the Treaty does not feature. And although he lived through the Civil War and beyond, his next published work on an Irish theme would be one of ancient mythology, “ou l’Iliade Irlandaise” (1928).
Novels aside, he later wrote two general studies of this country and filed occasional reports on the state of Ireland for the French secret service. His pseudonymous surname came from the town of Briollay, in the Loire valley, where he spent his summers and which has a street named after him. He died in Paris in 1957.