"live to-day—the past is registered—the future is unguessed—the instant ours."—mortimer collins.
forster's coercion bill was introduced on january 24th, 1881, and on the 25th mr. gladstone moved that it should have precedence of all other business before the house. mr. parnell fiercely opposed this motion, and kept his followers hard at work in opposition—thus forcing the house to sit from 4 p.m. on tuesday until 2 p.m. of the next day. the details of these sittings have been recounted ad nauseam, and i need not repeat them here, but only record parnell's fierce joy in these political fights, and my pride in him as i watched him from the ladies' gallery. sometimes willie would wish to give the seats he secured in the ladies' gallery to friends of his, and on such occasions i always knew that mr. parnell would ballot one for me. of course, later on i could always secure a seat without ballot, if one was vacant, as i had to wait to receive messages from mr. parnell and mr. gladstone, and it was made known to the attendants that on any important occasion i held priority of place.
as a rule, after an all-night sitting he used to drive down to eltham in order not to become well known on the eltham railway, and come through the conservatory into my sitting-room, where i would have supper ready for him before the fire, with his smoking-jacket and slippers ready to put on. he seldom spoke after his first {92} greeting. he would take off his frock-coat and boots, and, when i slipped on the others for him, he would eat his supper quite silently, thinking over the events of the night. i never worried him to talk. supper finished, he would light a cigar and sit down in his own arm-chair, saying, "well, queenie, the old man spoke to-night," or "so-and-so spoke," and then slowly tell me of all that had passed during the sitting, and his opinion of the present and future, so far as politics were concerned.
sometimes when he had spoken himself he would say: "i did not speak well to-night," and sometimes it was: "i lost that quotation you gave me and brought it out sideways, and there it was all the time crushed up in my hand! then i forgot the fellow's name and called him 'the poet.'"
"well, shakespeare can be called 'the poet,'" i would return soothingly.
"yes? is that so? it seemed to worry some of the reporters; one came and asked me what i meant! you must make me learn it better next time."
once he began to talk he confided all his thoughts to me unreservedly, and the more freely that he had not been worried to talk when he came in cold or tired. he used to say that it was such a relief to get right away from the house when a sitting was over, and he enjoyed the drive down to eltham in a hansom cab every night or early morning. it was only an eight-miles drive, but part of it was then very pleasant, through country lanes and over a common. now london has swallowed up most of these pretty bits.
after relieving his mind of all political affairs of the day he would talk of things that were of home interest to us—of his stone quarries at arklow, his saw-mills, etc., {93} of what kerr, his irish agent, was doing at avondale; or of some of his hobbies at home. so we would talk till daylight sent pale gleams of light under the window curtains, and he would say: "i am really sleepy, queenie; i'll go to bed," and as a rule he would sleep soundly until about four o'clock in the afternoon, when he would come down to breakfast in my sitting-room.
parnell was always generous in letting any members of his party speak when they had a chance of distinguishing themselves, and he would at once give way when he thought any member could speak better on any subject than himself. this most of his party, if not all, acknowledged at one time. i mention the characteristic because i have noticed in more than one of the so-called "lives" written by those strangely ignorant of the man's real character, that considerable stress is laid upon parnell's jealousy. he was jealous, abnormally so where his affections were concerned, but not in political life.
gladstone once said that "parnell always knew what he wanted to say, and said it," but he was not a ready speaker, and his constitutional nervousness, hidden though it was under the iron mask of reserve he always wore in public, rendered public speaking very painful work to him. he was extremely modest about his own speeches, and frequently would say to me that so-and-so "would have put that much better to the house, but i could not have trusted him to say it and leave it." he considered that most irishmen spoilt things by over-elaboration. here also i may record a protest at the tales of gross discourtesies, spoken utterly without motive, recorded in some of these "lives."
the parnell i knew—and i may claim to have known him more intimately than anyone else on earth, both in {94} public and private life—was incapable of such motiveless brusqueries. that parnell could crush utterly and without remorse i know; that he could deal harshly, even brutally, with anyone or anything that stood against him in the path he meant to tread, i admit; but that he would ever go out of his way to say a grossly rude thing or make an unprovoked attack, whether upon the personal appearance, morals, or character of another man, i absolutely deny. parnell was ruthless in all his dealings with those who thwarted his will, but—he was never petty.
parnell had a most beautiful and harmonious voice when speaking in public. very clear it was, even in moments of passion against his own and his country's foes—passion modulated and suppressed until i have seen, from the ladies' gallery, his hand clenched until the "orders of the day" which he held were crushed into pulp, and only that prevented his nails piercing his hand. often i have taken the "orders" out of his pocket, twisted into shreds—a fate that also overtook the slips of notes and the occasional quotations he had got me to look out for him.
sometimes when he was going to speak i could not leave my aunt long enough to be sure of getting to the ladies' gallery in time to hear him; or we might think it inexpedient that i should be seen to arrive so soon after him at the house. on these occasions, when i was able, i would arrive perhaps in the middle of his speech and look down upon him, saying in my heart, "i have come!"; and invariably i would see the answering signal—the lift of the head and lingering touch of the white rose in his coat, which told me, "i know, my queen!"
this telepathy of the soul, intuition, or what you will, was so strong between us that, whatever the business {95} before the house, whether parnell was speaking or not, in spite of the absolute impossibility of distinguishing any face or form behind the grille of the ladies' gallery, parnell was aware of my presence, even though often he did not expect me, as soon as i came in, and answered my wordless message by the signal that i knew.
sometimes he would wish to speak to me before i went home, and would signal by certain manipulations of his handkerchief to me to go and await him at charing cross, or another of our meeting-places, and there he would come to me to tell me how things were going, or to chat for a few minutes, or get from me the replies to messages sent through me to mr. gladstone.
* * * * * *
dover,
wednesday, february 23, 1881.
my dear mrs. o'shea,—am just starting for calais.
kindly send on my portmanteau with my letters and other things in my room or in the wardrobe to me at hotel brighton, rue de rivoli, paris.—yours always, c. s. p.
february 25, 1881.
my dearest katie,—i have just received your three letters, and am so delighted to read them hurriedly before sending you this line in time for post.
i never had the slightest doubt of my darling, and cannot imagine why she should think so.
did not know i was going when leaving here, but was induced to leave by private information, the nature of which i will send you in my next.
am not yet sure whether i shall return, but shall manage to see you in any case.—yours, c.
hotel brighton, 218 rue de rivoli, paris,
sunday evening, february 27, 1881.
my dear mrs. o'shea,—i cannot understand your {96} telegram received to-day at all, although i have been thinking it over all the evening. i wired back as you appeared to request in it, "all right."
there was no letter for me from you at the usual address, so i enclose another, as i fear something may have gone wrong. you can write me freely in my own name under cover to this address: thomas adams and co., limited, 33 rue d'hauteville, paris, and they will forward the letters safely to me.
i have been warned from dublin that there is some plot on foot against us which has been originated by information received from cork, and you will guess the original source.
i am expecting further information to-morrow in reference to it. i have received five letters in all from you since my arrival in paris. best not post your letters at eltham.
i did not know when leaving you that i was going my departure was influenced by information of reliable kind that my arrest was intended for passage in clare speech, and that bail would be refused, and i should be left in jail until habeas corpus was suspended, when i could have been again arrested. i think, however, they have now abandoned this intention, but will make sure before i return.
this is my third letter to you since my arrival here.—yours, c. s. p.
hotel brighton, 218 rue de rivoli, paris,
tuesday, march 1, 1881.
my dearest love,—to-day i have received your four letters, the earliest of which was written on saturday. you do not seem to have written on friday, as there was nothing for me on saturday or sunday.
i propose returning to london on thursday morning, leaving here wednesday evening, but it is just possible i may not leave till thursday morning, in which case i shall not be able to see my katie until friday.
if i return thursday morning, my queen may expect to see me about one o'clock.
your letters make me both happy and sad, happy to hear from my own, but sad when i see how troubled you are.—always yours, charles.
{97}
glasgow,
tuesday, april 19, 1881.
dearest katie,—i send you authority for letters. they are in two forms, one authorising delivery to you, and the other to' bearer.
to-night i leave by boat for dublin, arriving to-morrow morning. i trust my own wifie has not permitted herself to be too unhappy, and that she has not been worried. i am writing with her own beautiful face before me, and have just kissed it.—always your husband.
please write me to morrison's.
