Irish Treasures that Dispelled the Darkness

When waves of barbarians swept across Europe after the fall of Rome, the lights of civilization dimmed everywhere on the continent — with one exception.

Ireland had slipped beneath the marauders’ radar, for the imperial legions had never ventured there. So it was that Irish monasteries shone beacons of hope and enlightenment on the Dark Ages and, reversing the tide of history, sent missionaries across Europe to rekindle the fires of faith and learning. At home, and on the Scottish island of Iona, Irish scribes preserved the great works of literature. And they copied and illustrated sacred manuscripts.

Most magnificent of these was the Book of Kells, a sublime illumination of the Four Gospels. Today, still radiant after more than 12 centuries, this gem of a golden age draws multitudes to its place of pride at Trinity College in the heart of Dublin. “It was worth the wait,” I overheard a fellow visitor exclaim on a recent visit. This was after we had queued for more than an hour for a look. So glorious is the artistry that it was once believed to have been the work of angels.

Arabesques, spirals and a fantasy of representations — human, zoomorphic and phyllomorphic (plantlike) — embellish the book's exquisite calligraphy, penned in Latin with quills of swans. Some initial letters span the length of the vellum. Smaller capitals jewel the folios with rich pigments and minerals — turquoise, malachite, lapis lazuli — and even beetles’ wings. In some places the gorgeous palette gleams like enamel. Evidently cats were constant companions of the scribes’ long, solitary labors, for a number found their way into the volume.

The Book of Kells survived the pillaging of Vikings and Danes. Theft and later rampages by Cromwell's armies prompted its safekeeping at Trinity College Library in 1661, where today's invading tourists will find Ireland's greatest artistic triumph. It makes an inspiring introduction to the capital's highlights.

From College Green I followed Nassau Street to The National Gallery of Art at the corner of Merrion Square. I had come especially to view The Taking of Christ, a masterful work by Caravaggio.

Caravaggio's Christ

Moonlight only partially reveals the resigned face and entwined hands of Jesus; John the Apostle's head and outstretched hand as he flees in terror, the furrowed brow of Judas, the menacing glint of armor worn by Roman soldiers. The artist portrayed himself holding a lantern, its glimmer ineffectual in the deep gloom of Gethsemane. A compelling close-up of the figures involves the viewer in the intense moment when light and darkness deepen the abyss between trust and betrayal, resignation and flight, good and evil.

For some 60 years, the unsuspected masterpiece hung in benign neglect over the fireplace in the Jesuits’ dining room on nearby Leeson Street. In 1990 it was sent for cleaning to the National Gallery. When Sergio Benedetti saw it, the Italian curator had a hunch he was looking at a rare Caravaggio and not, as was supposed, at one of three imitations. Three years of careful examination entailing travels to three cities —Edinburgh, Rome and Odessa — confirmed that Dublin possessed the priceless original.

“It's the biggest attraction in the gallery, a gift for the world and his wife to see,” Eugene McKiernan, an attendant, told me in a proud brogue. The painting is now on indefinite loan from the Jesuits.

Retracing my steps to College Green, I turned into Dame Street to reach Dublin Castle, once a symbol of tyranny and torture and now a guardian of national treasures. In the castle courtyard, the elegantly restored clock tower, with its contemporary wing, houses an extraordinary collection of art amassed by an American mining magnate. Beginning with Sumerian clay tablets inscribed in 2700 B.C., The Alfred Chester Beatty Library displays the greatest acquisition by a private individual of artifacts and manuscripts from Oriental, Middle Eastern and Western cultures.

It was a quirk of good fortune for the Irish that denied Beatty health insurance in the United States; he suffered from silicosis of the lungs. For that reason, he emigrated to England where he was later knighted by the Queen for his contributions to the Allied cause in World War II. Fortunately, too, he became disenchanted with post-war England and moved to Dublin taking with him his world-renowned collection. Ireland made Sir Alfred its first honorary citizen and gave him a state funeral in 1968. He bequeathed an unprecedented legacy to the nation.

On the library's second floor, the ambient light is reverential and deliberately dim to protect fragile manuscripts and icons of the world's great religions and to heighten the effect of spotlights on works of exceptional beauty and antiquity. The dazzling exhibits include Buddhist and Hindu statues, Japanese scrolls, Chinese books of jade, an array of wondrous Korans inscribed in gold leaf and some of the earliest papyri of the Gospels and The Book of Revelation. Reportedly when a group of Amish visitors beheld the tattered fragment of the oldest surviving Gospel text — St. John's, written in 150 A.D. — they burst into spontaneous song at the words “Woman, behold thy son.”

In 2002 The Chester Beatty Library won the European Museum of the Year Award for both an astonishment of riches and architectural design.

Great Sacrifice

Crossing Dame Street to reach the quays, I took a short bus ride to the Irish National War Memorial Gardens. Though I knew it was considered the most beautiful of the genre in Europe, I had ambivalent feelings about taking in so somber a display. Yet I was deeply moved when I finally visited one morning in springtime. Save for the gardener who was mowing the oval lawn, I had the eloquent memorial all to myself. I thought of the supreme sacrifice of soldiers and the futility of the “Great War,” the war intended to end all wars, as sporadic sunshine lanced clouds of pewter shrouding the peaceful place.

From a domed temple on the banks of the Liffey, avenues of stately trees radiate to an elevation enclosed by a high, semi-circular limestone wall engraved “To the memory of the 49,400 Irishmen who gave their lives in the Great War, 1914-18.”

Originally eight holly trees (now there are bay laurels) stood for the generals surveying the arboretum that represents the rank and file. At each end, two sunken amphitheatres bloom with 4,000 roses — around the central lily ponds they are crimson recalling the blood of martyrs shed in the Colosseum. Four granite bookrooms represent Ireland's provinces. One houses 12 volumes honoring the fallen in hand-written names; pergolas draped with wisteria suggest resting places for the wounded. Yew trees signify the crown of thorns, while two obelisks in brimming basins replicate candles and flank a simple altar bearing the inscription: Their Name Liveth Forevermore. A great stone cross, its arms truncated, towers over all. Notably absent are any military emblems.

The symbolism of death and resurrection suffices. A fitting symbol for Ireland, the land that rose from the ashes of the Dark Ages to lead all Europe to that springtime of faith, hope and love that would culminate in the Renaissance — whose rejuvenating effects resonate to this day.

Marie Whitla O'Reilly is based in Darien, Connecticut.