to talk to one other; anyone with a newspaper was persuaded to share it. And in all those newspapers were photographs of Marilyn Monroe: she had killed herself (apparently) at her home in Los Angeles just hours previously.
Further excitement (as far as I was concerned) was occasioned by where we were seated. There was nothing special about our seats (except that they were good), and that made it all the more remarkable that seated two rows directly in front of us were Ike and Mamie Eisenhower. He had ended his term as president of the United States only the previous year and yet here he was – the former Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe, the man who had liberated France from the Nazis less than twenty years previously – quietly seated with his wife as members of the public at a very public spectacle, and without any entourage while the French audience, instead of applauding him or acknowledging him in any way, simply ignored him.
I have distant (very distant) French relations through my paternal great-great-grandfather. This was Sigismund Rentzsch (1776–1843), a German watchmaker who in about 1809 settled in London, where, based in St James’s, he became quite well known. He invented and patented a number of novel movements for clocks and watches and was patronised by the Court: a receipt (dated 1840) survives in the sum of nine pounds, four shillings and sixpence for repairs to the clocks and watches of Her Late Royal Highness Princess Augusta (daughter of George III). Sigismund Rentzsch had five children by his first (German) wife and eleven by his second, Mary Ransom, whom he married in London. One of these eleven, Rosina (1835–1909), somehow found her way to Ireland (possibly as a governess), where she met, in the area of Edenderry, an Edward Homan (1825–1909). They subsequently married, and their daughter, Charlotte (1866–1955) – my grandmother – married Thomas Potterton of Ardkill, Carbury in 1892. Rosina’s eldest sister, Augusta, married a Frenchman, Dr Scipion Gas of Lyon, and it is from this marriage that my French relations – at least the ones I have met – are descended. They are called ‘Allibert’.
When my Aunt Polly1 – Charlotte’s daughter – who was frantically keen on the family tree, heard that I was going to France, she became insistent that I would look up ‘the cousins’. She immediately wrote off to an elderly Nelly Allibert, who lived in a suburb of Paris, and said that I would be coming to stay. It would have been a great inconvenience I am sure for Nelly to have a strange sixteen-year-old boy in her house, but she was the soul of kindness and arranged, after a few days, that I would go to her daughter, Nane, who lived on the rue d’Amsterdam with her husband. It was from there that I had the experience of a lifetime. After a good Sunday lunch, when other cousins were invited, one of them – Odette de Lestanville – who was about thirty and had done a course at the Louvre, took me to the museum. Looking at the pictures, she explained the different periods, told me about the artists, uncovered the stories in the pictures, and pointed to comparisons with other paintings and sculptures. She was a gentle guide who made everything fascinating and nothing in any way forbidding. By the end of the visit, I was hooked and, since that day, whenever I enter the Louvre I think of that afternoon. Forty years on, a few years ago, I looked up Odette and wrote to her. I told her how magic her company had been for me all those decades ago. She wrote back, but seemed to have no clear recollection of me2; but I have never forgotten her.
During those few days in Paris, assiduously sightseeing on my own, I had further opportunities to extend my education. As I was taking in the wonderful view from the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot, a man came along and engaged me in conversation. After a few preliminaries, he offered to take me to the Folies Bergère and suggested a rendezvous the following day. But even though I was only sixteen, I had the sense to realise that he probably had ‘folies’ of an entirely different order in mind, and that the Louvre with Odette had been a much safer option. And so, intrigued though I was, I politely said, ‘Merci beaucoup, monsieur, mais non.’
I managed to stay with the Chassines for almost three months, from the day school broke up in June to when term started in early September. On my way back from France, I stopped in London where Aunt Polly had arranged for me to stay with another Rentzsch cousin, Laurie Rentzsch and his wife, Phyl, a very stylish (to me) couple who lived at Harrow-on-the-Hill. Their children Terry and Pamela were adults by this time and had left home. As a young man, Laurie had spent holidays in Ireland with his Irish cousins (my uncles and aunts) and he made me very welcome. Eventually, I got home, but although my French was fluent, it was very poor grammatically and my accent was atrociously anglophone. But my sensibilities had been opened to so much more than the French language during those three months and, within me, I was changed.
As a child, I had always felt ‘like a fish out of water’ at Rathcormick. Appropriately, on account of my name, I had inherited the Homan genes of my father and his mother, my grandmother, Charlotte Homan, whereas my five older brothers all took after our mother. As a result, although we all got on well together, I had little in common with them. But the experience of France, of seeing Blois, Chartres, Versailles and much more, led me to see that I had not been ‘out of water’ at all. I had merely been swimming in the wrong pond. And from that time on, as far as I was concerned, it was: County Meath . . . goodbye.
Endnotes
1.My father’s sister Polly (also Mary or Mollie) Campion.
2.However, following Odette’s death in December 2016, her son Henri wrote to me to say that his mother had remembered me.
CHAPTER 3
THE COLLEGE OF THE
HOLY AND UNDIVIDED
After another year at Mountjoy, and getting some sort of results in the Leaving Certificate, I went up to Trinity in October 1963. I was too young – I had been seventeen the previous May – and Mr Tate’s assessment that ‘He is unlikely to contribute anything to the university’ proved in time to be both justified and accurate. In the absence of any career guidance (I don’t think such a thing existed in those days), I made a mess of deciding what to read and ended up with an impossible workload and studying some subjects – among them the law – in which I had no interest at all. In addition, I was a solicitor’s apprentice, which involved working in a law office at the same time as studying. I am at a loss to explain how my choices came about, but I was doing a pass law degree, which involved in the first two years three separate subjects: contract, property and torts; I was simultaneously doing a pass arts degree, which also involved three separate subjects, in my case (in the first two years) economics, French and English. Had I fixed on doing an honours degree in legal science or English, my life would have been very much simpler. The first thing to go was the solicitor’s apprenticeship: I just stopped going in to Matheson, Ormsby and Prentice. (They didn’t seem to mind.) Next went the law studies: without owning up to the fact (either to my mother or to my brother Elliott, who was paying my fees), I just dropped out of the courses. At the end of my senior freshman year, I failed French: I could speak it, but too colloquially; I did not write it well; and I was felled by some of the literature. I liked Racine’s Phèdre (I felt sorry for Hippolyte) and I could handle Maupassant, but the poets, Lamartine, Baudelaire and Verlaine defeated me. Even in English, I am not poetic.
But then a glimmer of light appeared at the end of the tunnel.
It was 1965 and word spread that, in a temporary lecture theatre in the basement of the New Library (the Berkeley), the most engaging lectures were being delivered on Monday and Thursday afternoons at five o’clock. The subject was the history of art and the lecturer, recently enticed to the college from the Ulster Museum, was a formidable, elegant, entertaining, mildly eccentric, knowledgeable enthusiast, a lady approaching her fortieth year, with a voice (and the diction to go with it) that was quite simply electrifying. She was called Anne Crookshank.1 I sneaked into the back for one lecture. A slide of Titian’s great Assumption of the Virgin from the Church of the Frari in Venice was on the screen. ‘And here we have the Virgin Mary,’ intoned Miss Crookshank, speaking mainly through her nose, ‘making her way to heaven, clearly under her own steam’.
This is for me, I thought, as I sat there in the dark and I immediately decided to join her course.
It was her second year of teaching when I joined and I was, therefore among her earliest pupils. The course, which she taught single-handedly with only occasional