Further to the fame of Yeats’s line “the centre cannot hold”, Seamus McKenna from Maynooth writes to inform me of its origins in another kind of line: the front one in battle.
“You probably know this already,” he says (I didn’t), “in which case apologies, but indulge me while I explain it again. It refers to an infantry manoeuvre invented by that brilliant strategist, Napoleon Bonaparte. At any battle involving roughly equal numbers of opposing troops he would direct his army to attack the enemy smack in the centre, to split it into two halves.
“Then, two-thirds of the French would use their superior numbers to overcome one enemy half, while one third would be tasked simply with keeping the separated half at bay. When the first half of the attacked army had been overcome, the entirety of Napoleon’s army would go at the half that remained. Success for Napoleon depended on being able to split the opposing force. If ‘the centre held’, then all bets were off.
“That worked very well in earlier battles, like Austerlitz (according to many historians, his greatest victory), but gradually strategists from other countries began to see what was happening. Of course, they developed techniques to combat the move, and of course they copied it themselves. And so well-known did it become that even armchair generals, like a certain William Butler Yeats, became familiar with it.”
Hitler’s Irish volunteers – John Mulqueen on two Irish POWs who volunteered for the Waffen-SS
Sharpened pens – Alison Healy on the cattier side of writers
“I remember” – Tim Fanning on the power of cinema to unlock the secrets of memory and nostalgia
Prince of the church – Brian Maye on Cardinal Michael Logue
***
The French ambassador’s Bastille Day party, deferred until the 15th this year, did not last quite as long quite as the Battles of Austerlitz or Waterloo. But as diplomatic soirées go, it was an epic, starting at 5pm on Monday and continuing until well after nightfall.
The event was distinguished by, among other things, an extraordinarily exuberant choral version of Amhrán na bhFiann, played on the PA in between the French and European anthems. It was like the Soldiers’ Song meets the Ride of the Valkyries. Alas, attempts to identify the version (including posting it on Twitter/X), are so far unsuccessful.
Anyway, suffice for now to say it achieved the feat, unprecedented in my experience, of making La Marseillaise sound understated.
***
Speaking of which, outfits worn at the party ranged from light summer frocks to full French Foreign Legion uniform.
But as usual, the most highly prized accessories were the tiny lapel ribbons revealing the owner to be a recipient of one of France’s orders of merit. The smaller these were, while remaining fully visible, the better.
Former government minister Rory O’Hanlon, for example, sported the red ribbon of the Légion d’honneur, just as thin but shorter than the lapel button-hole to which it was attached. (As a life-long teetotaller, he also had a pioneer pin, something now rare in Irish life and possibly unique at Monday’s party.)
An ex-Irish Times colleague, Gerard Cavanagh, had a purple ribbon of similar size, indicating that his award was in the academic sphere.
But for a combination of petiteness and perceptibility, the ostentatiously discreet green ribbonette – for “Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres” – on the lapel of Sean MacCarthaigh, a former journalist now with the Ireland-US Council, was the ideal.
Barely a centimetre long, it had been stitched onto the edge of the lapel by his Parisian tailor, who happens also to be the tailor of Emmanuel Macron.
This sounds extravagant, but au contraire. When Macron first ran for the French presidency, he was up against François Fillon, a man noted for his expensive suits and corruption allegations. The canny Macron let it be known that his suits, though made by a venerable Parisian tailoring firm Jonas & Cie, cost a mere €400.
Being popular with the political and bureaucratic classes, Jonas & Cie will add the correctly coloured ribbonette of honour on request.
But as MacCarthaigh reminded me, a hazard of this sartorial understatement is that, outside France, the ribbons are often mistaken for old laundry tags and removed.
Of course there are medals to go with the colours. But etiquette decrees that you may wear those only twice: at (1) the conferral ceremony and (2) your funeral.
***
The catering marquees at the Ambassador’s garden were more of a circle than a front line. But the centre – ie the champagne tent – somehow held until 10pm, despite severe pounding all day.
I know this because, along with some seasoned 1798 re-enactors from Mayo, I was standing next to it when it finally closed, at which time I still had a full glass on the table beside me. Then I was distracted for a moment and when I reached for glass, it was gone.
Generous as the bar hours had been, the closing had caught some party-goers unawares. And even as I helped hold the centre, a social Napoleon had sneaked in on my undefended flank and swiped the drink. I turned to see her sashaying away, while witnesses to the theft laughed at its sheer brazenness.
Oh well, this may have been nature’s way of telling me it was time to go home. Still, on the way out, I identified the culprit. Expressing the hope that she was enjoying the champagne, or words to that effect, I told her: “You obviously needed it more than me.”