Eviction Arguments: A New Extract for Fiction Patrons

In this exclusive extract for fiction patrons, join Maud Gonne on her return to Paris from the rugged wilds of Donegal, where she's been battling landlords and kindling the spirit of resistance. Why isn't her lover, Millevoye, more supportive? Sign up on Kickstarter to be notified about the launch of this book in July 2024, and our accompanying #StatueforMaudGonne campaign. Maud Gonne is heading back to Paris after months of gallivanting across Donegal, Dublin, and London. She's garnered a useful poet in the metropolis, found herself rubbing elbows with the illustrious men of The Contemporary Club in the provincial capital, and most importantly, discovered her knack for rallying people in the far-flung, wild northwest of Europe. Donegal wasn't exactly a jaunt in the park, mind you. She spent days trudging through the wilds, battling winds that nearly stole her breath away, and nights in smoky, cramped cabins with inhabitants who spoke no English, often fighting off suffocation and coughing up blood. And yet, she thrived on it. Beneath the looming bulk of Muckish Mountain, amidst driving rain and biting wind, she'd proven herself to Ireland's poorest. And in so doing, she'd proven herself to herself. Of course, none of this she breathes to Millevoye, not straight away. As they stroll from the station to her snug apartment, their chatter revolves around the Boulanger campaign. He's never seemed so fired up. They've been working like mad, he tells her, but it's paying off. Paris is even more smitten with the Général than when she left. Victory in their by-election seems a near certainty. Then they're at the apartment, fumbling with the key, hurrying towards the bedroom, but passion overtakes them before they get there. The Général Boulanger, the cat, bird cages, and everything else vanish in a whirlwind of fervent French kisses, unbuttoning boots and clothes, and the touch of long-missed hands. Absence, contrast—these are Maud's keys to sensual delight. What had begun to feel like a tiresome chore before she left for Ireland now feels quite enchanting. She revels in the touch of skin on skin after a long absence, in the adoration in his eyes and his growing need with each kiss and caress. She savors his subtle attentions, like lingering at the crook of her neck or the spaces between her toes. She even indulges some of his cruder approaches, finding pleasure in his pleasure. As always, there's one thing she will never allow, but today, in the joy of their reunion, it hardly matters. He tries, she refuses, he moves on, and all is well. It ends swiftly, and soon they're basking in the post-coital cigarette haze, the world seen through a delightful smoky filter. He tells her all about the Boulangists preparations for the by-election. , and when he's done, she shares her stories. She talks about the rooms she's taken in Dublin, above Morrow's bookshop on Nassau Street, near Trinity College. She's furnished it much like her Paris apartment, with colorful cushions, comfortable armchairs, and tall vases for green branches. It's conveniently close to the new National Library, a lovely spot for reading and writing. She's making friends who'll help their Irish cause, most notably Douglas Hyde, whom Lucien simply must meet. He is to visit Paris in spring. Hyde is teaching her Irish, a language still almost criminal to speak in Ireland. Children in Gaelic-speaking districts are beaten for it, and businesses are prosecuted for putting their names in Irish above their shops. She tells him about the poet. Most of her tales revolve around the people of Donegal and the injutices of the landlord, Col. Olpherts, as he geared up for mass evictions. The local curate, Fr. Stephens, had brought her along to court sessions where men and boys were tried for stealing turf from land owned by Olpherts. The same court had already sent men down for gathering seaweed on one of his deserted beaches. As on of the turf-cutters after the next was sentenced to fines or imprisonment, Father Stephens whispered to Maud, “There is nothing left free in Ireland, only the air.” She didn't know what to do but she knew she had to do something. So she set herself up in the local hotel in Falcarragh, where she cared for the sick in her little bedroom. And then she set about rallying support in just the way he, Millevoye, had taught her to do, penning fiery letters to newspapers, and enticing journalists to come to Donegal and report on the evictions. People were moved by her tales of howling mothers, helpless fathers, bewildered children. Of the elderly, some bedridden and carried out on mattresses, clutching statues of the Blessed Virgin or rosary beads, as their homes were dismantled. Of the pets who also had to be evicted before the law considered the eviction complete and the house ready to be battered to the ground. “If I could only walk,” one old woman had sobbed. “Don’t worry about walking,” Maud had said. “We’ll get you a cart." "But where will I go?” “Have you no friend or family who can take you? "Anyone who takes us in will be evicted themselves.” That was the great fear. So Maud and her allies persuaded Pat O’Brien—“Pat the Builder”—to return to Donegal and resume the hut-building he’d done during the Land League’s heyday. Ah, Pat was a marvel, a man with hands like shovels and a heart to match. He was a sight to see, muscles rippling under his shirt, a bit rough around the edges but with a spirit as sturdy as the stone huts he built. Back in the day, he’d been a legend, hammering and thatching like a man possessed, breathing life into the bleak landscapes with every strike of his tools. That was in the golden days of the Land League, when the women ran the show. Parnell’s sisters, Anna and Fanny, were the heart and soul of the movement while their brother, “The Chief,” and other male leaders languished in English prison cells. Those women had fire in their bellies and steel in their spines as they organized the soup kitchens, and oversaw the building of the Land League huts. Maud Gonne liked to imagine them at it, their skirts rustling like battle flags in the wind, out in the fields, boots caked with mud, directing the people. The huts they built weren’t just shelters; they were symbols of defiance, beacons of hope. She wanted to rekindle that spirit. When the women led, Pat agreed, the League was a stronger, more practical force. He didn't take much convincing to return to Donegal, and he set to work with his old fervor, and the huts began to rise again. The huts they built were humble enough, just mud and thatch, but they were far better than the cursed workhouses where children dropped like flies, and sometimes even a step up from the miserable cabins the evicted families had left behind. She liked how the huts raised their moral. Boys and girls helped in collecting stones, with tireless little hands. Strong farmers donated straw for thatch. Anyone able to do anything offered their sweat. Each one built felt like a fortress of hope against the tide of despair. She had encouraged others to stay put and not abandon their homes and gave them the strength to hold their ground. “But to what end?” Millevoye asked. "The best you can hope for is a delay. What's the point?” His question stung. She had hoped for the same encouragement and support she had showered on him when he spoke of his ventures. It was true, though, that a landlord like Olpherts was not for turning. "Delay is costly for Olpherts. He had to house and feed the police stationed around the doomed houses while the people resist." “So, it's revenge?” “Meanwhile, the curate and I, and those with the heart to resist, did everything we could to thwart the evictions.” “And how often did that succeed?” She was relieved she hadn’t had to endure his doubting voice while she was there. "Yes, sometimes it felt hopeless. But we must always do what we can, must we not?” Millevoye looked unconvinced. "What is killing the people most of all is fear. I feel the shock of witnessing so much fear and dependency will leave me." It was a recurring argument between them. Maud Gonne followed her impulses, trusting that if she did right, right would follow. Millevoye believes in focusing limited energy wisely, on doing what is most expedient. Neither can sway the other, but Maud Gonne lived in hope. She moved in closer for another kiss.