invention--for the Rutherfords, of course--and now that _Martin_ has broken faith with his master, his offense serves an easy pretext for _Rutherford_ to break faith with _Martin_. He calls the old servant to his office and demands the receipt of _John's_ invention, entrusted to _Martin_. On the latter's refusal to betray _John_, the master plays on the man's loyalty to the Rutherfords.
_Rutherford._ Rutherfords' is going down--down. I got to pull her up, somehow. There's one way out...Mr. John's made this metal--a thing, I take your word for it, that's worth a fortune. And we're going to sit by and watch him fooling it away--selling it for a song to Miles or Jarvis, that we could break to-morrow if we had half a chance...You've got but to put your hand in your pocket to save the place and you don't do it. You're with them--you're with the money-grubbing little souls that can't see beyond the next shilling they put in their pockets...When men steal, Martin, they do it to gain something. If I steal this, what'll I gain by it? If I make money, what'll I buy with it? Pleasure, maybe? Children to come after me--glad o' what I done? Tell me anything in the wide world that'd bring me joy, and I'll swear to you never to touch it...If you give it to me what'll you gain by it? Not a farthing shall you ever have from me--no more than I get myself.
_Martin._ And what will Mr. John get for it?
_Rutherford._ Rutherfords'--when I'm gone. He'll thank you in ten years--he'll come to laugh at himself--him and his price. He'll see the Big Thing one day, mebbe, like what I've done. He'll see that it was no more his than 'twas yours to give nor mine to take...It's Rutherfords'...Will you give it to me?
_Martin._ I take shame to be doing it now...He worked it out along o' me. Every time it changed he come running to show me like a bairn wi' a new toy.
_Rutherford._ It's for Rutherfords'...Rutherfords' ruthlessly marches on. If the Rutherford purpose does not shrink from corrupting its most trusted servant, it surely will not bend before a daughter who has dared, even once in her life, to assert herself.
_Rutherford._ How far's it gone?
_Janet._ Right at first--I made up my mind that if you ever found out, I'd go right away, to put things straight. He wanted to tell you at the first. But I knew that it would be no use...It was _I_ said not to tell you.
_Rutherford._ Martin...that I trusted as I trust myself.
_Janet._ You haven't turned him away--you couldn't do that!
_Rutherford._ That's my business.
_Janet._ You couldn't do that...not Martin..._Rutherford._ Leave it--leave it...Martin's my servant, that I pay wages to. I made a name for my children--a name respected in all the countryside--and you go with a workingman...To-morrow you leave my house. D'ye understand? I'll have no light ways under my roof. No one shall say I winked at it. You can bide the night. To-morrow when I come in I'm to find ye gone...Your name shan't be spoken in my house...never again.
_Janet._ Oh, you've no pity...I was thirty-six. Gone sour.
Nobody'd ever come after me. Not even when I was young. You took care o' that. Half of my life was gone, well-nigh all of it that mattered...Martin loves me honest. Don't you come near! Don't you touch that!...You think that I'm sorry you've found out--you think you've done for me when you use shameful words on me and turn me out o' your house. You've let me out o' jail! Whatever happens to me now, I shan't go on living as I lived here. Whatever Martin's done, he's taken me from you. You've ruined my life, you with your getting on. I've loved in wretchedness, all the joy I ever had made wicked by the fear o' you...Who are you? Who are you? A man--a man that takes power to himself, power to gather people to him and use them as he wills--- a man that'd take the blood of life itself and put it into the Works--into Rutherfords'. And what ha' you got by it--what?
waiting for the time when he can sell what you've done--and you got me--me to take your boots off at night--to well-nigh wish you dead when I had to touch you...Now!...Now you know it!
But for the great love in her heart, _Janet_ could not have found courage to face her father as she did. But love gives strength; it instills hope and faith, and kindles anew the fires of life. Why, then, should it not be strong enough to break the fetters of even Rutherfords'? Such a love only those famished for affection and warmth can feel, and _Janet_ was famished for life.
_Janet._ I had a dream--a dream that I was in a place wi' flowers, in the summer-time, white and thick like they never grow on the moor--but it was the moor--a place near Martin's cottage. And I dreamt that he came to me with the look he had when I was a little lass, with his head up and the lie gone out of his eyes. All the time I knew I was on my bed in my room here--but it was as if sweetness poured into me, spreading and covering me like the water in the tarn when the rains are heavy in the fells...That's why I dreamt of him so last night. It was as if all that was best in me was in that dream--what I was as a bairn and what I'm going to be.
He couldn't help but love me. It was a message--I couldn't have thought of it by myself. It's something that's come to me--here (_putting her hands on her breast_). Part of me!
All that lay dormant in _Janet_ now turns into glowing fire at the touch of Spring. But in _Martin_ life has been marred, strangled by the iron hand of Rutherfords'.
_Martin._ Turned away I am, sure enough. Twenty-five years. And in a minute it's broke. Wi' two words.
_Janet._ You say that now because your heart's cold with the trouble. But it'll warm again--it'll warm again. I'll warm it out of my own heart, Martin--my heart that can't be made cold.
_Martin._ I'd rather ha' died than he turn me away. I'd ha' lost everything in the world to know that I was true to 'm, like I was till you looked at me wi' the love in your face. It was a great love ye gave me--you in your grand hoose wi' your delicate ways. But it's broke me.
_Janet._ But--it's just the same with us. Just the same as ever it was.
_Martin._ Aye. But there's no mending, wi' the likes o' him.
_Janet._ What's there to mend? What's there to mend except what's bound you like a slave all the years? You're free--free for the first time since you were a lad mebbe. We'll begin again. We'll be happy--happy. You and me, free in the world! All the time that's been 'll be just like a dream that's past, a waiting time afore we found each other--the long winter afore the flowers come out white and thick on the moors-- _Martin._ Twenty-five years ago he took me...It's too long to change...I'll never do his work no more; but it's like as if he'd be my master just the same--till I die-- _Janet._ Listen, Martin. Listen to me. You've worked all your life for him, ever since you were a little lad. Early and late you've been at the Works--working--working--for him.
_Martin._ Gladly!
_Janet._ Now and then he give you a kind word--when you were wearied out mebbe--and your thoughts might ha' turned to what other men's lives were, wi' time for rest and pleasure. You didn't see through him, you wi' your big heart, Martin. You were too near to see, like I was till Mary came. You worked gladly maybe--but all the time your life was going into Rutherfords'--your manhood into the place he's built. He's had you, Martin,--like he's had me, and all of us. We used to say he was hard and ill-tempered. Bad to do with in the house--we fell silent when he came in--we couldn't see for the little things,--we couldn't see the years passing because of the days. And all the time it was our lives he was taking bit by bit--our lives that we'll never get back...Now's our chance at last! He's turned us both away, me as well as you. We two he's sent out into the world together. Free. He's done it himself of his own will. It's ours to take, Martin--our happiness. We'll get it in spite of him. He'd kill it if he could.
The cruelty of it, that the Rutherfords never kill with one blow: never so merciful are they. In their ruthless march they strangle inch by inch, shed the blood of life drop by drop, until they have broken the very spirit of man and made him as helpless and pitiful as _Martin_,--a trembling leaf tossed about by the winds.
A picture of such stirring social and human importance that no one, except he who has reached the stage of _Martin_, can escape its effect.
Yet even more significant is the inevitability of the doom of the Rutherfords as embodied in the wisdom of _Mary_, _John's_ wife.
When her husband steals his father's money--a very small part indeed compared with what the father had stolen from him--he leaves the hateful place and _Mary_ remains to face the master. For the sake of her child she strikes a bargain with _Rutherford_.
_Mary._ A bargain is where one person has something to sell that another wants to buy. There's no love in it--only money--money that pays for life. I've got something to sell that you want to buy.
_Mary._ My son. You've lost everything you've had in the world.
alone now and getting old, with no one to come after you. When you die Rutherfords' will be sold--somebody'll buy it and give it a new name perhaps, and no one will even remember that you made it.
That'll be the end of all your work. Just--nothing. You've thought of that...It's for my boy. I want--a chance of life for him--his place in the world. John can't give him that, because he's made so.
If I went to London and worked my hardest I'd get twenty-five shillings a week. We've failed. From you I can get when I want for my boy. I want--all the good common things: a good house, good food, warmth. He's a delicate little thing now, but he'll grow strong like other children...Give me what I ask, and in return I'll give you--him. On one condition. I'm to stay on here. I won't trouble you--you needn't speak to me or see me unless you want to.
For ten years he's to be absolutely mine, to do what I like with.
You mustn't interfere--you mustn't tell him to do things or frighten him. He's mine for ten years more.
_Rutherford._ And after that?
_Mary._ He'll be yours.
_Rutherford._ To train up. For Rutherfords'?
_Mary._ Yes.
_Rutherford._ After all? After Dick, that I've bullied till he's a fool? John, that's wished me dead?
_Mary._ In ten years you'll be an old man; you won't be able to make people afraid of you any more.
When I saw the masterly presentation of the play on the stage, _Mary's_ bargain looked unreal and incongruous. It seemed impossible to me that a mother who really loves her child should want it to be in any way connected with the Rutherfords'. But after repeatedly rereading the play, I was convinced by _Mary's_ simple statement: "In ten years you'll be an old man; you won't be able to make people afraid of you any more."
Most deeply true. The Rutherfords are bound by time, by the eternal forces of change. Their influence on human life is indeed terrible.
Notwithstanding it all, however, they are fighting a losing game. They are growing old, already too old to make anyone afraid. Change and innovation are marching on, and the Rutherfords must make place for the young generation knocking at the gates.
THE IRISH DRAMA WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS Most Americans know about the Irish people only that they are not averse to drink, and that they make brutal policemen and corrupt politicians.
But those who are familiar with the revolutionary movements of the past are aware of the fortitude and courage, aye, of the heroism of the Irish, manifested during their uprisings, and especially in the Fenian movement--the people's revolt against political despotism and land robbery.
And though for years Ireland has contributed to the very worst features of American life, those interested in the fate of its people did not despair; they knew that the spirit of unrest in Ireland was not appeased, and that it would make itself felt again in no uncertain form.
The cultural and rebellious awakening in that country within the last twenty-five years once more proves that neither God nor King can for long suppress the manifestation of the latent possibilities of a people.
The possibilities of the Irish must indeed be great if they could inspire the rich humor of a Lady Gregory, the deep symbolism of a Yeats, the poetic fancy of a Synge, and the rebellion of a Robinson and Murray.
Only a people unspoiled by the dulling hand of civilization and free from artifice can retain such simplicity of faith and remain so imaginative, so full of fancy and dreams, wild and fiery, which have kindled the creative spark in the Irish dramatists of our time. It is true that the work of only the younger element among them is of social significance, yet all of them have rendered their people and the rest of the world a cultural service of no mean value. William Butler Yeats is among the latter, together with Synge and Lady Gregory; his art, though deep in human appeal, has no bearing on the pressing questions of our time. Mr. Yeats himself would repudiate any implication of a social character, as he considers such dramas too "topical" and therefore "half bad" plays. In view of this attitude, it is difficult to reconcile his standard of true art with the repertoire of the Abbey Theater, which consists mainly of social dramas. Still more difficult is it to account for his work, "Where There is Nothing," which is no less social in its philosophy and tendency than Ibsen's "Brand."
WHERE THERE IS NOTHING "Where There Is Nothing" is as true an interpretation of the philosophy of Anarchism as could be given by its best exponents. I say this not out of any wish to tag Mr. Yeats, but because the ideal of _Paul Ruttledge_, the hero of the play, is nothing less than Anarchism applied to everyday life.
_Paul Ruttledge_, a man of wealth, comes to the conclusion, after a long process of development and growth, that riches are wrong, and that the life of the propertied is artificial, useless and inane.
_Paul Ruttledge._ When I hear these people talking I always hear some organized or vested interest chirp or quack, as it does in the newspapers. I would like to have great iron claws, and to put them about the pillars, and to pull and pull till everything fell into pieces...Sometimes I dream I am pulling down my own house, and sometimes it is the whole world that I am pulling down...When everything was pulled down we would have more room to get drunk in, to drink contentedly out of the cup of life, out of the drunken cup of life.
He decides to give up his position and wealth and cast his lot in with the tinkers--an element we in America know as "hoboes," men who tramp the highways making their living as they go about, mending kettles and pots, earning an honest penny without obligation or responsibility to anyone. _Paul Ruttledge_ longs for the freedom of the road,--to sleep under the open sky, to count the stars, to be free. He throws off all artificial restraint and is received with open arms by the tinkers. To identify himself more closely with their life, he marries a tinker's daughter--not according to the rites of State or Church, but in true tinker fashion--in freedom--bound only by the promise to be faithful and "not hurt each other."
In honor of the occasion, _Paul_ tenders to his comrades and the people of the neighborhood a grand feast, full of the spirit of life's joy,--an outpouring of gladness that lasts a whole week.
_Paul's_ brother, his friends, and the authorities are incensed over the carousal. They demand that he terminate the "drunken orgy."
_Mr. Joyce._ This is a disgraceful business, Paul; the whole countryside is demoralized. There is not a man who has come to sensible years who is not drunk.
_Mr. Dowler._ This is a flagrant violation of all propriety. Society is shaken to its roots. My own servants have been led astray by the free drinks that are being given in the village. My butler, who has been with me for seven years, has not been seen for the last two days.
_Mr. Algie._ I endorse his sentiments completely. There has not been a stroke of work done for the last week. The hay is lying in ridges where it has been cut, there is not a man to be found to water the cattle. It is impossible to get as much as a horse shod in the village.
_Paul Ruttledge._ I think _you_ have something to say, Colonel Lawley?
_Colonel Lawley._ I have undoubtedly. I want to know when law and order are to be reëstablished. The police have been quite unable to cope with the disorder. Some of them have themselves got drunk. If my advice had been taken the military would have been called in.
_Mr. Green._ The military are not indispensable on occasions like the present. There are plenty of police coming now. We have wired to Dublin for them, they will be here by the four o'clock train.
_Paul Ruttledge._ But you have not told me what you have come here for. Is there anything I can do for you?
_Mr. Green._ We have come to request you to go to the public-houses, to stop the free drinks, to send the people back to their work. As for those tinkers, the law will deal with them when the police arrive.
_Paul Ruttledge._ I wanted to give a little pleasure to my fellow-creatures.
_Mr. Dowler._ This seems rather a low form of pleasure.
_Paul Ruttledge._ I daresay it seems to you a little violent. But the poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it. Have we not tried sobriety? Do you like it? I found it very dull...Think what it is to them to have their imagination like a blazing tar-barrel for a whole week. Work could never bring them such blessedness as that.
_Mr. Dowler._ Everyone knows there is no more valuable blessing than work.
_Paul Ruttledge_ decides to put his visitors "on trial," to let them see themselves as they are in all their hypocrisy, all their corruption.
He charges the military man, _Colonel Lawley_, with calling himself a Christian, yet following the business of man-killing. The Colonel is forced to admit that he had ordered his men to fight in a war, of the justice of which they knew nothing, or did not believe in, and yet it is "the doctrine of your Christian church, of your Catholic church, that he who fights in an unjust war, knowing it to be unjust, loses his own soul." Of the rich man _Dowler_, _Paul Ruttledge_ demands whether he could pass through the inside of a finger ring, and on _Paul's_ attention being called by one of the tinkers to the fine coat of _Mr.
Dowler_, he tells him to help himself to it. Threatened by _Mr. Green_, the spokesman of the law, with encouraging robbery, _Ruttledge_ admonishes him.
_Ruttledge._ Remember the commandment, "Give to him that asketh thee"; and the hard commandment goes even farther, "Him that taketh thy cloak forbid not to take thy coat also."
But the worst indictment _Ruttledge_ hurls against _Mr. Green_. The other professed Christians kill, murder, do not love their enemies, and do not give to any man that asks of them. But the Greens, _Rutledge_ says, are the worst of all. For the others break the law of Christ for their own pleasure, but "you take pay for breaking it; when their goods are taken away you condemn the taker; when they are smitten on one cheek you punish the smiter. You encourage them in their breaking of the Law of Christ."
For several years _Ruttledge_ lives the life of the tinkers. But of weak physique, he finds himself unable to withstand the rigors of the road.
His health breaks down, and his faithful comrades carry him to his native town and bring him to a monastery where _Paul_ is cared for by the priests. While there he begins to preach a wonderful gospel, a gospel strange to the friars and the superior,--so rebellious and terrible that he is declared a dissenter, a heathen and a dangerous character.
_Paul Ruttledge._ Now I can give you the message that has come to me...Lay down your palm branches before this altar; you have brought them as a sign that the walls are beginning to be broken up, that we are going back to the joy of the green earth...For a long time after their making men and women wandered here and there, half blind from the drunkenness of Eternity; they had not yet forgotten that the green Earth was the Love of God, and that all Life was the Will of God, and so they wept and laughed and hated according to the impulse of their hearts. They gathered the great Earth to their breasts and their lips,...in what they believed would be an eternal kiss. It was then that the temptation began. The men and women listened to them, and because when they had lived...in mother wit and natural kindness, they sometimes did one another an injury, they thought that it would be better to be safe than to be blessed, they made the Laws. The Laws were the first sin. They were the first mouthful of the apple; the moment man had made them he began to die; we must put out the Laws as I put out this candle. And when they had lived amidst the green Earth that is the Love of God, they were sometimes wetted by the rain, and sometimes cold and hungry, and sometimes alone from one another; they thought it would be better to be comfortable than to be blessed. They began to build big houses and big towns. They grew wealthy and they sat chattering at their doors; and the embrace that was to have been eternal ended...We must put out the towns as I put out this candle. But that is not all, for man created a worse thing...Man built up the Church. We must destroy the Church, we must put it out as I put out this candle...We must destroy everything that has Law and Number.
The rebel is driven from the monastery. He is followed by only two faithful friars, his disciples, who go among the people to disseminate the new gospel. But the people fail to understand them. Immersed in darkness and superstition, they look upon these strange men as evildoers. They accuse them of casting an evil spell on their cattle and disturbing the people's peace. The path of the crusader is thorny, and _Colman_, the friar disciple of _Paul_, though faithful for a time, become discouraged in the face of opposition and persecution. He weakens.
_Colman._ It's no use stopping waiting for the wind; if we have anything to say that's worth the people listening to, we must bring them to hear it one way or another. Now, it is what I was saying to Aloysius, we must begin teaching them to make things, they never had the chance of any instruction of this sort here. Those and other things, we got a good training in the old days. And we'll get a grant from the Technical Board. The Board pays up to four hundred pounds to some of its instructors.
_Paul Ruttledge._ Oh, I understand; you will sell them. And what about the dividing of the money? You will need to make laws about that. Oh, we will grow quite rich in time.
_Colman._ We'll build workshops and houses for those who come to work from a distance, good houses, slated, not thatched...They will think so much more of our teaching when we have got them under our influence by other things. Of course we will teach them their meditations, and give them a regular religious life. We must settle out some little place for them to pray in--there's a high gable over there where we could hang a bell-- _Paul Ruttledge._ Oh, yes, I understand. You would weave them together like this, you would add one thing to another, laws and money and church and bells, till you had got everything back again that you have escaped from. But it is my business to tear things asunder.
_Aloysius._ Brother Paul, it is what I am thinking; now the tinkers have come back to you, you could begin to gather a sort of an army; you can't fight your battle without an army. They would call to the other tinkers, and the tramps and the beggars, and the sieve-makers and all the wandering people. It would be a great army.
_Paul Ruttledge._ Yes, that would be a great army, a great wandering army.
_Aloysius._ The people would be afraid to refuse us then; we would march on-- _Paul Ruttledge._ We could march on. We could march on the towns, and we could break up all settled order; we could bring back the old joyful, dangerous, individual life. We would have banners. We will have one great banner that will go in front, it will take two men to carry it, and on it we will have Laughter-- _Aloysius._ That will be the banner for the front. We will have different troops, we will have captains to organize them, to give them orders.
_Paul Ruttledge._ To organize? That is to bring in law and number.
Organize--organize--that is how all the mischief has been done. I was forgetting,--we cannot destroy the world with armies; it is inside our minds that it must be destroyed.
Deserted, _Paul Ruttledge_ stands alone in his crusade, like most iconoclasts. Misunderstood and persecuted, he finally meets his death at the hands of the infuriated mob.
"Where There Is Nothing" is of great social significance, deeply revolutionary in the sense that it carries the message of the destruction of every institution--State, Property, and Church--that enslaves humanity. _For where there is nothing, there man begins._ A certain critic characterized this play as a "statement of revolt against the despotism of facts." Is there a despotism more compelling and destructive than that of the facts of property, of the State and Church? But "Where There Is Nothing" is not merely a "statement" of revolt. It embodies the spirit of revolt itself, of that most constructive revolt which begins with the destruction of every obstacle in the path of the new life that is to grow on the débris of the old, when the paralyzing yoke of institutionalism shall have been broken, and man left free to enjoy Life and Laughter.
LENOX ROBINSON HARVEST _Timothy Hurley_, an old farmer, slaves all his life and mortgages his farm in order to enable his children to lead an idle, parasitic life.
Started on this road toward so-called culture by the school-master, _William Lordan_, _Hurley's_ children leave their father's farm and in due time establish themselves in society as priest, lawyer, secretary and chemist, respectively.
The secretary son is ashamed of his lowly origin and denies it. The lawyer son is much more concerned with his motor car than with the condition of the farm that has helped him on his feet. The priest has departed for America, there to collect funds for Church work. Only _Maurice_, the youngest son of _Timothy Hurley_, remains at home as the farm drudge, the typical man with the hoe.
_Jack Hurley_, the chemist, and _Timothy's_ only daughter _Mary_, retain some loyalty to the old place, but when they return after an absence of years, they find themselves out of touch with farm life, and they too turn their back on their native heath. _Jack Hurley's_ notion of the country is that of most city people: nature is beautiful, the scenery lovely, so long as it is someone else who has to labor in the scorching sun, to plow and toil in the sweat of his brow.
_Jack_ and his wife _Mildred_ are both extremely romantic about the farm.
_Jack._ It stands to reason farming must pay enormously. Take a field of oats, for instance; every grain that's sown gives a huge percentage in return...I don't know exactly how many grains a stalk carries, but several hundred I'm sure...why, there's no investment in the world would give you a return like that.
But soon they discover that every grain of corn does not yield hundreds of dollars.
_Maurice._ You can't have a solicitor, and a priest, and a chemist in a family without spending money, and for the last ten years you've been all drawing money out of the farm...there's no more to drain now...Oh, I suppose you think I'm a bloody fool not to be able to make it pay; but sure what chance have I and I never taught how to farm? There was money and education wanted to make priests and doctors and gentlemen of you all, and wasn't there money and education wanted to make a farmer of me? No; nothing taught me only what I picked up from my father and the men, and never a bit of fresh money to put into the farm only it all kept to make a solicitor of Bob and a chemist of you.
During _Jack's_ visit to the farm a fire breaks out and several buildings on the place are destroyed. Much to the horror of the well-bred _Jack_, he learns that his father himself had lit the match in order to get "compensation." He sternly upbraids the old farmer.
_Jack._ Didn't you see yourself how dishonest it was?
_Timothy._ Maybe I did, but I saw something more, and that was that I was on the way to being put out of the farm.
_Jack_ is outraged; he threatens to inform on his own people and offers to stay on the farm to help with the work. But two weeks' experience in the field beneath the burning sun is more than delicate _Jack_ can stand. He suffers fainting spells, and is in the end prevailed upon by his wife to leave.
_Mary_, old _Hurley's_ daughter, also returns to the farm for rest and quiet. But she finds no peace there, for the city is too much in her blood. There is, moreover, another lure she cannot escape.
_Mary._ I was too well educated to be a servant, and I was never happy as one, so to better myself I learned typing...It's a hard life, Jack, and I soon found out how hard it was, and I was as dissatisfied as ever. Then there only seemed one way out of it...and he...my employer, I mean...I went into it deliberately with my eyes open. You see, a woman I knew chucked typing and went in for this...and I saw what a splendid time she had, and how happy she was--and I was so miserably unhappy--and how she had everything she wanted and I had nothing, and...and...But this life made me unhappy, too, and so in desperation I came home; but I've grown too far away from it all, and now I'm going back. Don't you see, Jack, I'm not happy here. I thought if I could get home to the farm and the old simple life it would be all right, but it isn't. Everything jars on me, the roughness and the hard living and the coarse food--oh, it seems ridiculous--but they make me physically ill. I always thought, if I could get away home to Knockmalgloss I could start fair again...So I came home, and everything is the same, and everyone thinks that I'm as pure and innocent as when I went away, but...but...But, Jack, the dreadful thing is I want to go back...I'm longing for that life, and its excitement and splendor and color.
In her misery and struggle a great faith sustains _Mary_ and keeps her from ruin. It is the thought of her father, in whom she believes implicitly as her ideal of honesty, strength and incorruptibility. The shock is terrible when she learns that her father, even her father, has fallen a victim to the cruel struggle of life,--that her father himself set fire to the buildings.
_Mary._ And I thought he was so simple, so innocent, so unspoiled!...Father, the simple, honest peasant, the only decent one of us. I cried all last night at the contrast! His unselfishness, his simplicity...Why, we're all equally bad now--he and I--we both sell ourselves, he for the price of those old houses and I for a few years of splendor and happiness...The only one whom life seems to teach nothing is _Schoolmaster Lordan_.
Oblivious of the stress and storm of reality, he continues to be enraptured with education, with culture, with the opportunities offered by the large cities. He is particularly proud of the Hurley children.
_Lordan._ The way you've all got on! I tell you what, if every boy and girl I ever taught had turned out a failure I'd feel content and satisfied when I looked at all of you and saw what I've made of you.
_Mary._ What you've made of us? I wonder do you really know what you've made of us?
_Lordan._ Isn't it easily seen? One with a motor car, no less...It was good, sound seed I sowed long ago in the little schoolhouse and it's to-day you're all reaping the harvest.
"Harvest" is a grim picture of civilization in its especially demoralizing effects upon the people who spring from the soil. The mock culture and shallow education which inspire peasant folk with awe, which lure the children away from home, only to crush the vitality out of them or to turn them into cowards and compromisers. The tragedy of a civilization that dooms the tillers of the soil to a dreary monotony of hard toil with little return, or charms them to destruction with the false glow of city culture and ease! Greater still this tragedy in a country like Ireland, its people taxed to the very marrow and exploited to the verge of starvation, leaving the young generation no opening, no opportunity in life.
It is inevitable that the sons and daughters of Ireland, robust in body and spirit, yearning for things better and bigger, should desert her.
For as _Mary_ says, "When the sun sets here, it's all so dark and cold and dreary." But the young need light and warmth--and these are not in the valley of ever-present misery and want.
"Harvest" is an expressive picture of the social background of the Irish people, a background somber and unpromising but for the streak of dawn that pierces that country's dark horizon in the form of the inherent and irrepressible fighting spirit of the true Irishman, the spirit of the Fenian revolt whose fires often slumber but are never put out, all the ravages of our false civilization notwithstanding.
T. G. MURRAY MAURICE HARTE "Maurice Harte" portrays the most sinister force which holds the Irish people in awe--that heaviest of all bondage, priestcraft.
_Michael Harte_, his wife _Ellen_, and their son _Owen_ are bent on one purpose; to make a priest of their youngest child _Maurice_. The mother especially has no other ambition in life than to see her son "priested."
No higher ideal to most Catholic mothers than to consecrate their favorite son to the glory of God.
What it has cost the Hartes to attain their ambition and hope is revealed by _Ellen Harte_ in the conversation with her sister and later with her husband, when he informs her that he cannot borrow any more