Charles Stewart Parnell: His Love Story and Political Life

by Kitty O'Shea

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 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., 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 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.