Britain did, it would distinguish her from Britain and thus give extra weight to her independent status. Besides, the Vatican still maintained diplomatic links with Spain, and Ireland did not wish to contravene the Pope.
The Irish language was used as a diplomatic code, as nervous British envoys attempted to read Irish correspondences, particularly in German contexts.
From 1937 onwards, Patrick continued to campaign for Franco’s recognition. He spent most of the days writing letters to interested parties. Every word he wrote contravened his own personal convictions:
If lies are repeated often enough they can take on the semblance of truth. There was a danger of succumbing, of being swept away by all the jargon, of losing one’s self.
***
De Valera refused to give early recognition to Franco. In a state of despondency, Patrick referred to himself as nothing more than a ‘marionette, whose strings are manipulated across oceans.’ The wiry politician played all his cards with other nations very carefully. ‘In the world of diplomacy,’ he maintained, ‘haste can prove fatal.’
In his mountain quarters, Patrick Foley had plenty of time for reflection. He related to my mother:
Spain is a country of extremes: snow-capped mountains, sunburnt earth; anarchist, fascist; chaperoned courtship, unbridled prostitution. In politics they all hold their opposing beliefs so passionately. They see no contradictions. No dark side. How does one rule people who are so passionate in diversity? The taking of an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.
She replied that there was ‘no hurry to have children in a world like this, even if God were to bless us’.
No hurry to have children! The phrase made him fret. His moroseness about mortality, now heightened by war, made him obsessive about having an offspring. ‘No hurry! No hurry!’ he repeated.
But can words reveal total truths about a person? Are they not shackled by their own rules, thus limiting what they can convey? He confided to his diary of the many routes to unfaithfulness, and the clearest one was ‘through the tunnel of loneliness’. Some Irish saint – Colmcille he thought – described exile as ‘a form of dismemberment, but the wound is unseen’.
November 1937:
A bitterly cold night. A snow storm outside my quarters. All sorts of strange howls and screeches – animal or human I don’t know – outside in the woods. A loud banging at my door. A terrified young girl appeared before me. She looked about twelve or thirteen. She pleaded with me to take her in, to give her refuge. Her uncle, she said, had fled over the mountains. The Guardia Civil were hot on her heels. Through the light of the oil lamp I saw her tremble. She had an old sack around her shoulders. I took her in. I stoked the fire. I put her to bed.
At about one a.m. I heard banging once more. It was the guardias civiles – two of them – looking for rameras and other creatures of ill repute.
I said that I had not seen anyone. I showed them my documents and claimed diplomatic immunity. They could not demand ingress. I had to shout. It affected my breathing. They looked at me suspiciously. A grin at my stoop. I told them that their positions could be in danger if they broke the laws of international diplomacy. I pointed out that they were in alien territory. They laughed, but when I demanded their identification numbers, they hesitated and eventually backed off. I heard shooting soon afterwards and wondered if it had been the girl’s uncle who had been shot.
The girl, L, sleeps. She is very pretty; her hair is so soft in my hands. Her little breasts rise and fall carrying each breath so precariously.
When she awoke, she stared at me for a moment with huge brown eyes. Then she wanted to thank me in a physical way for saving her. I thought of M. She said her uncle keeps her and other ‘nieces’ in an apartment in Barcelona. She repeated again and again that I was kind, and that she would have
The Irish language was used as a diplomatic code, as nervous British envoys attempted to read Irish correspondences, particularly in German contexts.
From 1937 onwards, Patrick continued to campaign for Franco’s recognition. He spent most of the days writing letters to interested parties. Every word he wrote contravened his own personal convictions:
If lies are repeated often enough they can take on the semblance of truth. There was a danger of succumbing, of being swept away by all the jargon, of losing one’s self.
***
De Valera refused to give early recognition to Franco. In a state of despondency, Patrick referred to himself as nothing more than a ‘marionette, whose strings are manipulated across oceans.’ The wiry politician played all his cards with other nations very carefully. ‘In the world of diplomacy,’ he maintained, ‘haste can prove fatal.’
In his mountain quarters, Patrick Foley had plenty of time for reflection. He related to my mother:
Spain is a country of extremes: snow-capped mountains, sunburnt earth; anarchist, fascist; chaperoned courtship, unbridled prostitution. In politics they all hold their opposing beliefs so passionately. They see no contradictions. No dark side. How does one rule people who are so passionate in diversity? The taking of an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.
She replied that there was ‘no hurry to have children in a world like this, even if God were to bless us’.
No hurry to have children! The phrase made him fret. His moroseness about mortality, now heightened by war, made him obsessive about having an offspring. ‘No hurry! No hurry!’ he repeated.
But can words reveal total truths about a person? Are they not shackled by their own rules, thus limiting what they can convey? He confided to his diary of the many routes to unfaithfulness, and the clearest one was ‘through the tunnel of loneliness’. Some Irish saint – Colmcille he thought – described exile as ‘a form of dismemberment, but the wound is unseen’.
November 1937:
A bitterly cold night. A snow storm outside my quarters. All sorts of strange howls and screeches – animal or human I don’t know – outside in the woods. A loud banging at my door. A terrified young girl appeared before me. She looked about twelve or thirteen. She pleaded with me to take her in, to give her refuge. Her uncle, she said, had fled over the mountains. The Guardia Civil were hot on her heels. Through the light of the oil lamp I saw her tremble. She had an old sack around her shoulders. I took her in. I stoked the fire. I put her to bed.
At about one a.m. I heard banging once more. It was the guardias civiles – two of them – looking for rameras and other creatures of ill repute.
I said that I had not seen anyone. I showed them my documents and claimed diplomatic immunity. They could not demand ingress. I had to shout. It affected my breathing. They looked at me suspiciously. A grin at my stoop. I told them that their positions could be in danger if they broke the laws of international diplomacy. I pointed out that they were in alien territory. They laughed, but when I demanded their identification numbers, they hesitated and eventually backed off. I heard shooting soon afterwards and wondered if it had been the girl’s uncle who had been shot.
The girl, L, sleeps. She is very pretty; her hair is so soft in my hands. Her little breasts rise and fall carrying each breath so precariously.
When she awoke, she stared at me for a moment with huge brown eyes. Then she wanted to thank me in a physical way for saving her. I thought of M. She said her uncle keeps her and other ‘nieces’ in an apartment in Barcelona. She repeated again and again that I was kind, and that she would have
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