His reputation as arrogant, stern and remote endures, but a close look at Éamon de Valera's personal archive reveals a different character, writes Diarmaid Ferriter
During the Civil War, Éamon de Valera wrote to Mary MacSwiney, who was trenchantly opposed to the Anglo-Irish Treaty, to explain why, despite his own opposition to the treaty, he did not share her uncompromising republicanism: "Reason rather than faith has been my master . . . I have felt for some time that this doctrine of mine ill fitted me to be leader of the republican party . . . nature never fashioned me to be a partisan leader in any case. For the sake of the cause I allowed myself to be put into a position which it is impossible for one of my outlook and personal bias to fill with effect for the party . . . every instinct of mine would indicate that I was meant to be a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, or even a bishop, rather than the leader of a revolution."
It was an extraordinary letter - raw and honest - that revealed much about his vulnerability and hopelessness during the Civil War, when he was unable to control the momentum of events, having made the mistake of not travelling to London for the treaty negotiations. It is one of many letters contained in de Valera's personal archive, which has become available to researchers in recent years at UCD. The archive provides a window to the public and private worlds of the man who dominated 20th-century Irish politics, and who was born 125 years ago this weekend.
From 1923-4, he was imprisoned in Arbour Hill, much of his time spent in solitary confinement. Incarceration afforded an opportunity for him to analyse what had gone wrong, to mourn the loss of colleagues and friends killed, and to perhaps question his own arrogance.
He had to reflect on his political future and formed, it is fair to assume, a determination not to make the same mistakes again in terms of political management and strategy. His isolation at this stage of his career was arguably of crucial importance in making him the astute politician he became on his release, though throughout his career he remained stubborn about his version of the events of 1921-2.
His conclusion to a letter to Frank Pakenham, his future biographer, in 1963, was self-righteous: "The reasons for the decision that I should not go to London were overwhelming . . . it was the signing of the articles of agreement without reference to the cabinet in Dublin that alone threw everything out of joint."
The situation was never as simple as that. De Valera should have gone to London, and he knew it. The preoccupation with the events of this era was shared by many and explains why he remained so divisive a figure, but he learned from his mistakes in a way that benefited the country.
During the 1930s he remained focused on two things above all else: presiding over a united Fianna Fáil party that he had established in 1926, and maximising the sovereignty of the 26 counties. A few days after he came to power in 1932, he had talks with the secretary of the department of external affairs, Joseph Walshe, who subsequently wrote him a letter which summarised what de Valera desired: " 'Ireland' will be our name and our international position will let the world and the people at home know that we are independent."
Reading his political correspondence and listening to his recorded voice, as preserved in the RTÉ Archive, is a reminder of how the focus on sovereignty dominated his time in power. It is a voice that presented the case for the sovereignty of small countries in an international context, justified the abolition of the land annuities and oath of allegiance in the early 1930s, addressed the League of Nations, explained the significance of the new constitution in 1937, and reflected on the effects of international war on a neutral state.
The declaration of neutrality in 1939 was about survival and self-interest, which seemed to some at a later stage to be morally dubious, but for a country that had won significant concessions in Anglo-Irish relations and was still raw from the Civil War, de Valera's decision was the right one.
THERE ARE MANY other aspects to de Valera's character and career that emerge from the archives. His intimate letters to his wife Sinéad in the early years reveal his loneliness. He wrote to her in 1910: "Can you sleep without those long limbs wrapped around you? Those same limbs are longing to be wrapped around you again - two weeks - 14 days - how can I endure it? You do not know how sorrowful I am . . ."
Later, he developed warm relationships with senior members of the British establishment, including dominions secretary Malcolm MacDonald, who wrote in 1938: "I cherish especially the memory of our friendly and fruitful talks together." He resisted the bullying of the Archbishop of Dublin, John Charles McQuaid, and he stood his ground in relation to his passion for rugby and opposition to the GAA ban on foreign games, insisting in 1957 in a letter to the general secretary of the GAA: "The one thing that is wrong, in my opinion, is that the GAA should continue to maintain the ban."
He worried about his health and his family, and in old age, that he did not have enough money to care for his wife; in 1973 his doctor, Bryan D'Alton, informed Jack Lynch: "Mentally, he is tending to develop a depression. The main basis for the matter appears to be financial."
In terms of his political legacy, Fine Gael senator Alexis FitzGerald was generous in his obituary after de Valera's death in 1975, his tribute taking on an added significance given his political allegiance. Any portrait of de Valera, he suggested, "involves regard for the Irish political achievement since self-government. It has been real and substantial. It has been the achievement of politicians and the legitimation of Irish democratic institutions."
In the years since then, his contribution to state building has been eclipsed because of the modern tendency to disregard its significance and take it for granted.
DECONSTRUCTION OF MUCH of the negative symbolism associated with de Valera is long overdue. In the modern era he has too often been equated with backwardness, stagnation, and isolationism. Such negative conclusions do not involve a realistic assessment of what was and was not possible between the 1930s and the 1950s, and ignore his unique electoral success.
Prosperous modern Ireland often asks why prosperity did not come sooner and analyses the 1930s and 1940s from that perspective, as opposed to looking at the real and lasting achievements of an exceptionally talented statesman. After the Civil War, de Valera was careful about many things: language; aims; limits; authority; the winning and the exercise of power; and acting with dignity. In 1939, the writer Seán O'Faoláin, though he had become disillusioned with de Valera, identified this as central to his appeal: "Nobody will deny that one of his greatest qualities - and it contributes greatly to his influence - is dignity."
His ambitions could not be fulfilled without compromise and difficulties, and sometimes mistakes. He shared many of the failures of his contemporaries, particularly when it came to understanding the impact of emigration, and he displayed a lack of emotional intelligence about partition and Ulster Unionists.
But his career invoked pride and a strong sense of nationhood, while at the same time ensuring an exceptionally stable democracy. He was also fortunate to be surrounded by talented and independent-minded ministers, and he was able to reap the benefits of the significant achievements of the Cumann na nGaedheal governments of the 1920s in establishing the foundations of a stable state.
Political longevity inevitably led to a degree of arrogance, but the caricature of him as stern, remote and technocratic is a myth, as revealed by his personal correspondence and the affection and loyalty he inspired in so many. In a letter to de Valera's secretary, a few days after de Valera's death in 1975, a grieving Seán MacEntee, who had worked closely with him for many years as a government minister, suggested "He set a standard in public conduct and private behaviour that those around him were led by his example to emulate. And with it, he was so simple, so human, so merry and full of fun . . . a human being who was infinitely lovable."
Where he stood out was in his leadership, his astuteness and sense of timing and, most crucially, his ability to communicate his ideas effectively by articulating a coherent vision and set of principles, a style of politics that subsequently and sadly went out of fashion.
• Judging Dev: A Reassessment of the Life and Legacy of Eamon de Valeraby Diarmaid Ferriter is published by Royal Irish Academy (€35). A nine-part Judging Dev radio series begins at 10.30am on Sunday, Oct 28 on RTÉ Radio 1. The Judging Dev radio series and book is complemented by a permanent online exhibition of archive clips and stills, live from tomorrow, at www.rte.ie/libraries.
RTÉ Television will broadcast Face Off: A Hidden History documentary on de Valera's relationship with Winston Churchill at 10.15pm next Tuesday on RTÉ1