Authors: Marjorie Bowen
When the Irishman descended into the public restaurant he found it well filled with a crowd who formed a strange gathering to one used to the splendour and formality of Dublin society.
Paris, since the execution of the King and the establishment of the Republic a few months before, had become the meeting place of all bold and impetuous spirits, who believed that this great nation, in defying all the traditions of Europe, had advanced mankind nearer the Millennium, of all those adventurers who loved excitement and all those scoundrels who believed that in a state of chaos they might find more to their advantage than would be possible in ordered society.
Edward Fitzgerald, light-hearted, enthusiastic, and thoroughly imbued with those new ideas which had been steadily growing in strength since they had been inaugurated by Voltaire and Jean Jacques Rousseau, looked with interest at his strange companions.
The cheap tables and chairs and rough linen contrasted sharply with the splendid proportions of the room.
A few candles and oil lamps cast wavering shadows over the company, all men, with rough, curiously cut clothes, cropped hair and sashes of red, white and blue. All titles of courtesy or formality were abolished, every one was ‘brother,’ ‘comrade,’ ‘citizen.’
The atmosphere was full of excitement. There were English, American, and Irish present, and as far as possible all distinction of nationality was waived. Fitzgerald could not help a smile, which he felt instantly to be unworthy, at the thought that these odd creatures, who would have been laughed at in Dublin or London, represented the brotherhood of mankind. Though his own dress was as simple as possible it came from a good tailor, and though he wore no wig over his short, curly hair it was well dressed. His linen was immaculate and his shoes polished. He felt that all these details rather set him apart from the rest of the company and caused a good many glances, of by no means friendly curiosity, to be cast in his direction.
He had just begun his thin meat soup when a particularly dirty and disreputable-looking individual flung himself into the vacant chair the other side of the small table.
‘Do you not,’ he asked rudely, ‘find this poor accommodation? We are very rough here and that usually frightens away the sightseers.’
He spoke in a curious English with an accent that Fitzgerald did not know at all.
Not in the least affronted the Irishman replied pleasantly:
‘I am not a sightseer.’
‘Well, if you are not here out of curiosity what is your reason?’
‘And yours for asking me?’ said Fitzgerald, with an even more amiable smile.
‘Oh, one is expected to be open in this society, no airs and no mysteries,’ and then, without asking if his company was acceptable or not he ordered his supper to be brought.
There was something about the man — a force, a power, a candour — that attracted Fitzgerald though he was ugly and offensive in his manner.
‘This does not turn your stomach, you are not squeamish?’ he asked, turning his head in the direction of the other groups in the restaurant.
The air was now thick with coarse tobacco smoke, with the steam from the boiled meats that were being taken out of the soup and flung on to plates to be soused with vinegar, with stale fumes of cooking.
‘No,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘I have been through the American War, we did not live softly then. When it was over I travelled alone across the continent and lived with the Indians. I endured every kind of hardship and liked it.’
The Englishman glanced at him with a new respect.
‘I should not have thought that,’ he remarked grudgingly.
‘I have been all over Europe, too,’ continued Fitzgerald, ‘and not travelled in comfort. I have always been interested in the progress of mankind. Can you wonder that I am in Paris?’
‘You fought in America, eh?’ said the other, ignoring this. ‘A dirty business that. One of King George’s officers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, you fought on the wrong side.’
‘Sometimes I think so,’ agreed the Irishman, with a frankness that appeared to surprise his companion, who asked him suspiciously ‘if he was still in the English army?’
‘Yes, yes. But holding a commission does not quite destroy one’s wits or one’s power of reflection. Neither am I English, but Irish.’
‘You think that there is a difference?’
The Englishman gulped down the large cup of coffee and milk before him, wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand, and added vehemently:
‘Ireland is a cruelly misgoverned, maltreated country. Whoever you are, sir, and you seem to have money and position, you should, instead of running over to Paris out of curiosity, stay at home and do what you can for your miserable countrymen. An Irishman,’ he repeated; ‘well, I have not much respect for an Irishman who wears the uniform of King George.’
Fitzgerald flushed and sat silent. Not only the unaccustomed rudeness of the address, but the truth in the words stung him bitterly and he could not find an answer.
The Englishman considered him with a bold, not unfriendly interest. Fitzgerald was extremely elegant. He was of middle height and very slim. His dark, grey eyes were shaded by long, black lashes which gave him a look of great gentleness, but the expression of his face was open and amused.
‘Your name?’ the stranger rapped out.
‘Edward Fitzgerald.’
‘Ah, the Duke of Leinster’s brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I am Tom Paine, if that means anything to you.’
The Irishman flushed with excited pleasure.
‘The author of
The
Rights
of
Man
?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘Then I am very happy to make your acquaintance.’
‘Indeed! Then you are not of the party of your illustrious countryman, Edmund Burke, whose arguments I took the liberty of demolishing.’
‘I am of no man’s party or policy so far, sir,’ replied Fitzgerald. ‘One can understand Mr. Burke’s point of view. One would not have the Queen hurt, nor the King either. But the principle of the thing —’
‘Bah! The King or the Queen or the gentlewomen or the gentlemen!’ interrupted Paine derisively. ‘Are you going to make an omelette without breaking any eggs? This business is not for those who are chicken-hearted, sir.’
‘No, one understands. But it is difficult to avoid some compassion, perhaps, even,’ added Fitzgerald boldly, ‘remorse.’
‘That is because you belong to their caste. You are an aristocrat and can
not
understand. I, sir, am a working man, a stay maker, a tobacco dealer. I have a right to speak for the people, but you —’
‘Yes?’ the Irishman caught him up. ‘Who have I the right to speak for?’
‘Your own class. Better stay in it, eh? What good can you do? Not at least while you are half and half. In King George’s army and running over to Paris to meddle with us! You know, sir, perhaps, that I am deputy for the
Pas
de
Calais
.’
Half amused, Fitzgerald nodded.
‘A Duke’s brother,’ continued Paine. ‘A pity! I like you. What are you doing with a finger in this pie?’
‘I am very much a younger son,’ replied Fitzgerald seriously. ‘I’ve always had these ideas. I do not, when I can avoid it, use any courtesy title that may be mine. I have never leant on my brother’s influence. What position I have in the army is due to my own merit and the usual luck of war.’
‘Ah, very well,’ said Paine, with a grin, ‘but I suppose you don’t sit for a rotten borough in that farcical parliament of yours in Dublin?’
Fitzgerald flushed again, this time deeply.
‘I did not want to take it,’ he exclaimed in chagrin, ‘but it’s difficult to go against the head of one’s family.’
He spoke with real vexation and Paine laughed.
‘There, you see, I put my finger on the spot! You belong to them. Member of your brother’s pocket borough. First of Athy then of Kildare.’
‘I tried to do some good in the parliament. Even if I got my seat corruptly that doesn’t prevent me from speaking out.’
‘It’s no use speaking out in the Irish parliament,’ said Paine brutally. ‘I doubt if it’s any use speaking out in Ireland at all.’
‘There are bold, intelligent men amongst us,’ replied the Irishman warmly, ‘who have for years been demanding our liberties.’
‘In what terms do they demand them?’ asked Paine, leaning across the soiled cloth.
‘In what terms should they demand them?’ asked Fitzgerald.
‘In terms of war,’ said Paine, suddenly. Leaning back in his chair he shouted for another cup of coffee.
‘Rebellion,’ breathed Fitzgerald, half to himself. ‘Well, I and others have thought of it.’
‘But a risk, eh?’ Paine turned his ugly face on him briskly. ‘For men like you, possible ruin. You’ve a great deal to lose. It’s hard, I know. Well, let it all go by, Mr. Fitzgerald. Stay among your own class. That’s my advice.’
‘There are other Englishmen and other Irishmen in Paris?’ asked Fitzgerald, quietly ignoring this.
‘There are several. Some of them, I dare say, known to you. They are none of them aristocrats. You know it is rather perilous for an aristocrat to be in Paris now. You, Mr. Fitzgerald, might any moment be arrested as a suspect.’
‘I suppose I am protected by my commission in the English army.’
‘Well, if you like to take that sort of protection it doesn’t show you very strongly in sympathy with those republican ideas you affect to assume.’
Very patiently, still ignoring these sneers and the abrupt ill manner, Edward Fitzgerald asked:
‘Who are some of these Irishmen?’
‘Well, there is Mr. Wolfe Tone, he is a friend of General Hoche and of Carnot, my fellow deputy. Tone is an extraordinary man,’ Paine said. ‘He has no end of energy and enthusiasm, he works day and night —’
‘For what cause?’
‘For the liberty of Ireland. That is not my concern, but perhaps it should be yours.’
Without waiting for a reply, Paine jerked a dirty thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s another Irishman at that table in the corner if you can see him through the smoke — the fellow in the green coat.’
Fitzgerald, glancing across the room, saw a very stout, athletic young man, better dressed than most of the company. His red hair was cut in a heavy fringe which came to his eyebrows and gave his thick-set features a slightly ferocious expression.
He was talking in a very voluble, self-assertive manner but there was something about his personality that seemed very vaguely familiar to Fitzgerald.
‘Who is he?’
‘I cannot tell you.’ Paine shrugged bluntly. ‘He may be, for all I know, an English spy. Many of these fellows are here incognito. They lead a quite successful life in Dublin and no one knows where they go when they run over to Paris. Calls himself, I believe, Mr. Smith — that is a very convenient name usually adopted by those who do not wish their identity known.’
‘If you knew me better,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘you would find it really amusing to suppose that I might be a spy. On the contrary, I, too, risk something in being here. No doubt it is extremely imprudent of me, but I am not used to count the cost.’
He rose as he spoke, suddenly dispirited, for the blunt words of Thomas Paine had cast a certain uneasiness over his rather light-hearted and unthinking enthusiasm. He was Irish and doing nothing for Ireland — that was true. It was true also that his principles, of which he had been so proud, and in whose support he had been so ardent, had not meant very much to him in a practical manner. He had fought in the long war in which England had tried, against all justice and reason, to subdue the colonists of North America. He still held a commission in the English army, sat in parliament, was a member for his brother’s pocket borough, had used, not to any great extent, but still used, the influence of his uncle, the Duke of Richmond, in procuring his company. He had lived pleasantly, enjoying all the advantages that belonged to his almost princely birth, while these men were working for a definite cause, enduring every degradation, deprivation and danger. It was true that he was compromising himself by being in Paris, but he was not there in the service of any definite cause, but merely, he was forced to confess to himself, out of an excited interest, an enthusiastic curiosity.
He turned away abruptly. Paine gave him no salutation and made no effort to follow him. Dragging a packet of dirty, dog-eared papers out of his pocket, the Englishman began to read them, muttering over the sentences as he did so.
Fitzgerald passed down the room mastering his nausea at the foul, enclosed air, the loud, raucous talk. It was not the first time that he had found his principles clash with his prejudices as a gentleman. Of all whom he could observe through the thick, bluish smoke he approved most the young Irishman in the green coat. He was more and more certain that somewhere he had seen that man though this was not curious, seeing how many hundreds of people he had met during his campaigns and travels.
As he looked, the Irishman suddenly raised his head and returned his glance. Instant recognition sprang into his eyes. He hastily left his companions and crossing to the door where Fitzgerald hesitated, said in a low whisper: ‘You are here, my Lord, incognito?’