Études irlandaises

41-1 | 2016 Varia

Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/etudesirlandaises/4780 DOI : 10.4000/etudesirlandaises.4780 ISSN : 2259-8863

Éditeur Presses universitaires de Caen

Édition imprimée Date de publication : 15 juin 2016 ISBN : 978-2-7535-5091-9 ISSN : 0183-973X

Référence électronique Études irlandaises, 41-1 | 2016 [En ligne], mis en ligne le 15 juin 2018, consulté le 24 septembre 2020. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/etudesirlandaises/4780 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/ etudesirlandaises.4780

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 24 septembre 2020.

Études irlandaises est mise à disposition selon les termes de la Licence Creative Commons Attribution - Pas d’Utilisation Commerciale - Partage dans les Mêmes Conditions 4.0 International. 1

SOMMAIRE

Études d'histoire et de civilisation

Le Château de de 1880 à 1922 : repaire de traîtres ou d’agents doubles ? Émilie Berthillot

Ireland Among the Nations of the Earth: ’s Foreign Relations from 1923 to 1949 Francis M. Carroll

The subversion of marriage law in Brian Merriman's Cúirt an Mheain Oíche Anne-Marie O’Connell

A Revision of “the Irish Exception”: Seán Murphy, Irish Recognition Policy and the Republic of France, 1944 Mervyn O’Driscoll

Art et image

Reviewing the Aftermath Project (2013-2014) in the Light of Affect Theory Anne Goarzin

Études littéraires

From Yeats to Friel: Irish Mythology through Arts and Science in the 20th century Frédéric Armao

Gerard Donovan’s Young Irelanders : Looking for Home in the New Ireland Flore Coulouma

Rousseau, George Moore, and the Ethics of Confession Elizabeth Grubgeld

“Rubbing away their roughness by mutual contact”: Post-Confederation Irish writers and Canadian National Identity Raymond Jess

Voix de revenants dans les Pièces pour danseurs de W. B. Yeats L’exemple de Ce que rêvent les os Pierre Longuenesse

Comptes rendus de lecture

Yeats and Afterwords Thierry Dubost

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Yeats et la scène, l'acteur et sa voix à l'Abbey Theatre de Dublin Jacqueline Genet

The Irish Dramatic Revival Alexandra Poulain

Arthur Griffith Julien Guillaumond

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Études d'histoire et de civilisation Studies in History and Civilisation

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Le Château de Dublin de 1880 à 1922 : repaire de traîtres ou d’agents doubles ?

Émilie Berthillot

1 En août 1204, le roi Jean d’Angleterre ordonne la construction d’un Château entouré de murs épais et de douves profondes pour défendre la ville de Dublin, rendre la justice et mettre l’argent de la Couronne en sécurité1. Le Château remplit plusieurs fonctions au cours des siècles, mais il demeure le centre de l’administration coloniale et, jusqu’à l’indépendance de 1922, le rôle premier du Château de Dublin, reflet de la puissance du gouvernement central, est de faire appliquer les lois britanniques sur le sol irlandais. Résidence officielle des représentants royaux, il abrite aussi le parlement, les cours de Justice et des Finances, tout comme les baraquements de la police et de l’armée.

2 Les menaces représentées par les Fenians (1881-1885) puis l’IRB/IRA 2 (1919-1921), influent sur la fonction de la forteresse et la transforme en quartier général des services de renseignement. En effet, les agents travaillant au Château pour les forces de l’ordre ou encore pour les services secrets britanniques surveillent les groupes d’insurgés nationalistes et envoient des comptes rendus réguliers à Whitehall3. Toutefois, en tant que représentants de la Couronne, ces mêmes agents représentent des cibles de choix pour les mouvements républicains irlandais. Entre 1919 et 1922, pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, Michael Collins infiltre ses agents doubles dans les services du Château, procurant ainsi aux insurgés le bénéfice d’une connaissance anticipée des intentions des forces de police et de l’armée britannique. Ce jeu d’espionnage anglo-irlandais entre l’observateur et l’observé place la loyauté au cœur de la forteresse et donne aussi lieu à de nombreux actes de trahison dans les deux camps. En nous appuyant sur les définitions du traître et de l’espion données par Thomas Billis Bleach, alias Henri Le Caron4, lui-même agent double infiltré5, nous démontrerons que le rôle du Château et de ses occupants demeure énigmatique et ambigu sur la période étudiée, à l’image de l’agent double qui sert deux maîtres à la fois. Dans ce but, le premier point présente le Château comme le représentant de Londres en Irlande et donc comme une cible de choix pour les insurgés. Le deuxième

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analyse la réaction du gouvernement britannique face aux assassinats de Phoenix Park en 1882 et aux attaques à la bombe des Fenians avec la création de services secrets permanents au Château. La troisième partie dépeint le Château comme le centre névralgique des services d'espionnage et de contre-espionnage pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise (1919-1921). Enfin, cet article s’attarde sur l'analyse du serment, de la loyauté et du sort réservé aux traîtres afin de rapprocher les méthodes de contre- espionnage britanniques et irlandaises.

Le Château : représentant de Londres en Irlande et cible de choix

3 Après plusieurs réformes politiques6 instaurées par le gouvernement britannique pour institutionnaliser un service de sécurité efficace en Irlande, Dublin signe l’acte d’Union avec Londres, le 1er janvier 1801 : le Royaume-Uni de Grande-Bretagne et d’Irlande est créé et le drapeau de St Patrick, qui flotte au dessus de la tour Bedford, est incorporé dans celui de la Grande-Bretagne7. Mais, les relations entre Dublin et Londres restent ambigües car l’Irlande conserve son propre ministère des finances et est représentée par ses parlementaires à Londres, alors qu’à Dublin, le vice-roi et son Ministre des affaires irlandaises, membre du Cabinet britannique, symbolisent le pouvoir du gouvernement.

4 La confusion entre les deux instances de prises de décisions (le Château et Londres) joue un rôle clé dans les relations anglo-irlandaises puisque le fait que le plus haut représentant de la Couronne, qui gouverne l’Irlande depuis le Château, agisse à la manière d’un vice-roi contredit l’acte d’Union et caractérise l’unicité du statut de l’Irlande dans le Royaume-Uni :

The day-to-day political governance of Ireland reverted to the Castle and in many ways the Lord Lieutenant expanded his role into that of an Imperial Viceroy, the personal symbol of the British Empire, in a colony now almost more distant than before. […] Thus there was an ambiguity about the Act: in a legal constitutional sense Ireland had become an integrated part of the most powerful kingdom in the world, but in terms of symbols and national pride the Act seemed to involve a lessening of national prestige8.

5 La coexistence de deux instances de décision parfois en contradiction soulève de réelles difficultés dans la gouvernance du pays. De fait, à partir de la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle, le rôle décisionnaire du Château décline et le statut de vice-roi d’Irlande devient subsidiaire. Le gouvernement nomme de jeunes fonctionnaires inexpérimentés qui manquent de vigilance et de prévoyance ; le Château est alors dirigé par des fonctionnaires de la Couronne parfois plus intéressés par l’apparat et les soirées organisées à la résidence du vice-roi que par un réel souci de gouvernance9. De plus, la double gouvernance et le manque de fermeté des autorités locales rendent le pays difficile à contrôler. Eamonn T. Gardiner souligne cette ambivalence dans le choix d’un véritable commandement pour l’Irlande :

The inability of the government to allow the Castle to run its own affairs and in turn the inability of the Castle administration to work

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effectively with each next Chief Secretary and Lord Lieutenant ensured that there would never be a harmonious relationship between the two. It would always be a case of who guarded whom? Did Ireland for London, or did London hold Ireland in trust for Dublin, never really releasing enough power to the Castle administration to be able to prove itself capable10.

6 Cette dualité décisionnaire laisse la part belle aux soulèvements tout au long du XIXe siècle et le Château et ses représentants sont attaqués à trois reprises (1798, 1882, 1916). En effet, les manques de fermeté et de rigueur des dirigeants du Château (qui s’appuient sur la charte reconnaissant à Dublin le statut de ville autogouvernée signée en 1182 avec la Couronne anglo-normande11) entrent en totale contradiction avec la répression exercée par les forces de police qui épient la population et plus particulièrement les membres des groupes dissidents politiques. Dès l’instauration de la première force non armée à Dublin en 1795, les habitants considèrent cette dernière comme trop stricte et trop violente car elle va jusqu’à inspecter les débits de boisson, ce qui est considéré comme un abus de pouvoir et une attaque envers les « Good Dubliners12 ». Malgré sa rapide efficacité, cette nouvelle police fonctionne sur le modèle londonien et, dans l’esprit des Dublinois, semble inadaptée à la situation locale : « stealing the city’s traditions and customs13 ». Après la création de la police métropolitaine en 1838, les missions des agents tendent vers une surveillance individuelle et constante des dissidents, mais aussi de la population :

The 1837 Dublin Metropolitan Police Instruction Book, for instance, required that the Constable on the beat be perfectly acquainted with the streets and court-ways of his section, and to possess such knowledge of the inhabitants of each house, as will enable him to recognize their persons14.

7 Cette surveillance accrue, la mobilisation d’un grand nombre de policiers15 et les interdictions de rassemblements représentent, au XIXe siècle, le terreau des groupes nationalistes qui attisent le sentiment d’injustice pour recruter de nouveaux membres et justifier le recours à la révolte.

8 En 1881, les rebelles de l’Irish Republican Brotherhood tentent de galvaniser la population, de généraliser l’agitation agraire et de provoquer l’anarchie16. En Irlande, les méthodes utilisées (boycotts, brutalités ou agressions) par les insurgés contre les représentants du gouvernement central deviennent plus violentes que dans les années 1860, mais elles sont aussi plus meurtrières notamment sur le sol britannique, lorsqu’elles prennent la forme d’attaques à la bombe17. En 1882, le représentant officiel de la Couronne britannique en l’Irlande, Lord Frederick Cavendish et Thomas Henry Burke, son sous-secrétaire d’Etat, se rendent à la résidence du vice-roi d’Irlande à Phoenix Park, et sont assassinés par un groupe d’hommes, nommés Les Invincibles, appartenant au mouvement des Fenians18. Ces meurtres provoquent l'indignation à Londres, et défraient la chronique : les critiques et caricatures satiriques des Irlandais abondent comme le montre un dessin, intitulé « The Irish Frankenstein », issu du magazine Punch du 20 mai 1882. Sa légende, « the maneful and blood-stained monster… yet was it not my master to the very extent that it was my creature ?… Had I not breathed into it my own spirit I19 … », souligne la cruauté de la créature représentant les assaillants (figure 1).

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Figure 1

9 Cette caricature est représentative de la tendance de l’époque victorienne à dépeindre les Irlandais comme des sanguinaires. Le meurtrier représenté a des traits simiesques et de grandes dents pointues, il tient deux armes : un revolver et un couteau plein de sang. Selon L. Perry Curtis, Jr., auteur de Apes and Angels : the Irishman in Victorian Caricature, les caricatures d’Irlandais dans les journaux britanniques sont particulièrement virulentes entre 1840 et 1860 en réaction aux actions violentes des Fenians. Curtis soutient que ces caricatures dénotent le sentiment de supériorité britannique envers les Irlandais basé sur une idéologie racialiste véhiculée par les conceptions victoriennes de la physionomie, l'anthropomorphie et l’évolution darwinienne20. Enfin, cette caricature exploite aussi l’imaginaire collectif nourri par les fictions gothiques des écrivains anglo-irlandais comme, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Oscar Wilde, W. B. Yeats, John Millington Synge ou Elizabeth Bowen. Liés au pouvoir central, privilégiés et protestants, ces derniers effraient les lecteurs anglais par leurs représentations obscures et peu flatteuses des Irlandais catholiques :

Thus, a “colonial” history, Protestantism, and the fear of marginalisation – rather than marginalisation itself – are central features of the Irish Gothic tradition. The demonisation of both Catholics in general, and Catholicism as a theological and social system, is also central to the Irish Gothic: its monsters are invariably Catholic or crypto-Catholic, the clearest example of which is the anti- Catholic manual that is Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer in which the Catholic Church is depicted as a cornucopia of perverts, control freaks, Satanists, and power-hungry sadists21.

10 Ces meurtres sanguinaires démontrent les sentiments des Irlandais nationalistes extrémistes qui, entre 1880 et 1916, ciblent le Château, représentant de la Couronne jusqu'au soulèvement de Pâques, où il devient aussi le lieu d’affrontements directs entre les forces de l’ordre et les membres de l’IRB. Son rôle est prépondérant car lors des combats qui s’y déroulent, des pertes sont à déplorer dans les deux camps : l’agent de police O’Brien est tué alors qu’il ferme les grilles du Château et le capitaine insurgé,

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Séan Connolly, est abattu par un tireur d’élite depuis le toit de la tour Bedford en hissant le drapeau des insurgés sur City Hall. Ce jour-là, seules quelques jeunes recrues le défendent (deux cents soldats et vingt-quatre sentinelles et gardes rapprochés du vice-roi d’Irlande y sont habituellement postés en garnison) car la majorité des soldats assiste aux courses de chevaux de Fairy House22. Bien que les autorités n'anticipent pas cette attaque du Château, elles réagissent rapidement et parviennent à conserver sa fonction de miroir du pouvoir central en y enfermant pendant une semaine James Connolly, blessé pendant les combats, avant sa condamnation à mort et son exécution à la prison de Kilmainham avec d'autres meneurs de la rébellion23. De plus, à partir de 1920, dix mille hommes supplémentaires, entraînés au combat militaire, ainsi que leurs renforts paramilitaires (les Black and Tans et les Auxiliaries) sont postés en garnison dans une caserne d’entraînement pour jeunes recrues à Beggar’s Bush (quartier aujourd’hui situé près du Grand Canal, Dublin 4) pour pouvoir intervenir rapidement si nécessaire24.

11 Entre 1880 et 1916, le fait que le statut du Château n’ait que très peu évolué démontre que, malgré les différentes attaques contre le gouvernement central en Irlande, Londres reste ferme et n’entend pas négocier avec les insurgés irlandais. Pour cela, le gouvernement central se base sur le travail des forces de l’ordre qui s’adaptent aux types de menaces qu’elles doivent juguler.

La nécessité de créer un service de renseignement permanent au Château

12 L’exploitation du Château comme quartier général des forces de l’ordre perdure bien après la rébellion de la Jeune Irlande25 de 1848 car elle permet de regrouper les instances décisionnaires du gouvernement central avec celles qui font respecter la loi. Mais, malgré l’instauration de nouvelles forces de police en Irlande, le gouvernement central voit la situation lui échapper face à des groupes insurgés déterminés. Ainsi, afin de surveiller l’organisation des Fenians créée en 1858 26, devenue particulièrement dangereuse et puissante depuis les assassinats de Phoenix Park (1882), le gouvernement britannique adapte sa tactique et utilise alors les forces de l’ordre pour espionner les dissidents irlandais depuis le Château.

13 Depuis la création de la Dublin Metropolitan Police (DMP) en 1836, les forces de l’ordre se développent et installent leurs quartiers généraux au Château : les départements spécialisés se multiplient comme la branche spéciale de détectives de la DMP, appelée division G, dont la mission de surveillance est le contrôle de la capitale irlandaise et du crime politique en Irlande27. Cette force se professionnalise sans recourir aux armes :

This shift from high intensity policing to that of a lower intensity in the latter stages of the nineteenth century shows us that Ireland was beginning to move from a traditional historical wilderness to a more British ‘civilised’ social outlook. However, in spite of these changes, the RIC remained an armed coercive force, not following the example of the Dublin Metropolitan Police (in turn following the example set by the Police Force for the Metropolis of London) and providing an unarmed police service28.

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14 En outre, déployés sur le reste du pays, les agents de la Royal Irish Constabulary viennent en renfort et sont aussi logés au Château afin d’être au plus près des hommes qu’ils surveillent (les insurgés étant plus virulents dans la capitale)29. Ils sont lourdement armés, dirigés par le gouvernement central et soumis à la discipline militaire. Beaucoup d’informations sur la population et les dirigeants des mouvements nationalistes sont collectées et transférées au Château où elles sont décodées et analysées. A partir de 1867, aux lendemains de l’échec de la rébellion30, les officiers de police répertorient même les naissances, mariages, décès ou arrivées de nouveaux individus dans la communauté, en se renseignant sur leurs affiliations politiques31. En outre, au début du XXe siècle, la collecte d’informations du gouvernement britannique s’intensifie et évolue face à une situation de plus en plus explosive ; les forces de l’ordre sur le terrain pourvoient toujours les espions du gouvernement32.

15 Ainsi, à partir du soulèvement de 1848, le gouvernement central optimise l’utilisation conjointe de ces deux forces grâce à l’infiltration d’agents dans les plus hautes sphères des mouvements politiques séditieux. En effet, les espions infiltrent les organisations nationalistes (Sinn Féin, Gaelic League, ) qui sont, en outre, accessibles et transparentes puisque leurs activités sont publiées dans la presse, et constituent des registres détaillant le fonctionnement interne de chacune d’entre elles (congrès annuels, élections, discours des meneurs et lien avec les Etats-Unis)33. C’est le cas de Thomas Billis Bleach, alias Henri Le Caron, nom de code Informateur B34, qui accède à de hautes fonctions au sein du Sinn Féin et du Clan na Gael et envoie les informations compilées à Robert Anderson, son agent de liaison au Château en 186535. Or, aucun département de renseignement n’existe au Château de Dublin lorsque, pour la première fois, Robert Anderson et Henri Le Caron entrent en contact. Leur correspondance constitue donc la première trace officielle de surveillance et d’espionnage des mouvements nationalistes irlandais par le Château de Dublin. Toutes ces informations collectées permettent aux forces de l’ordre d’intervenir avant toute insurrection. En 1865 par exemple, un raid est lancé sur le quartier général des Fenians et les meneurs sont arrêtés et condamnés à la déportation. Bien que Peter Edwards classe Le Caron dans la catégorie des espions, le fait que l’accès aux sociétés secrètes soit libre, définit plutôt son rôle de surveillance comme celui d’un agent provocateur prêt à inciter des actions dans lesquelles les meneurs se dévoilent et sont arrêtés ou bien à déclencher des rébellions avant qu’elles n’aboutissent en cas de réel danger pour le gouvernement. Ainsi, les membres des mouvements dissidents sont placés sous le regard permanent de la Couronne britannique qui craint toutes les dérives remettant en cause son pouvoir et le Château gagne le surnom de : « the eyes and ears of regime36 » parmi les insurgés.

16 En avril 1881, afin de contrecarrer les Fenians, Gladstone, le Premier Ministre britannique, introduit au Parlement une série de lois pour juguler la violence en Irlande comme celle concernant la protection des personnes et des propriétés37, qui permet au Château d’incarcérer tout individu raisonnablement suspecté de crime ou de conspiration. De nombreux Irlandais comme Charles Parnell sont arrêtés, parfois uniquement en raison de leur appartenance à l’Irish National Land League38. Malgré une surveillance accrue, les mouvements dissidents irlandais continuent de lutter contre le gouvernement central : les Fenians lancent des attaques à la bombe sur Londres. Le 30 octobre 1883, deux bombes explosent dans le métro londonien ; le 27 février 1884, une autre explose à la gare Victoria et, le 7 juin 1884, les insurgés parviennent à en faire

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exploser une dans les urinoirs de la Special Irish Branch à Scotland Yard39. La représentation de cet attentat dans l’Illustrated Police News40 montre le chaos et la paranoïa dans lesquels la ville est plongée (figure 2). Ce journal déforme la réalité des faits en montrant le corps d’un policier soufflé par la déflagration de la bombe afin d’émouvoir et de susciter des sentiments de peur et de nationalisme parmi la classe politique, les forces de l’ordre et les hauts dignitaires britanniques. Ce sentiment de crainte justifie également le recours aux agents secrets depuis le Château afin d’infiltrer les groupes d’insurgés irlandais.

Figure 2

17 Toutefois, la confiance accordée au Château par le gouvernement central a des limites puisqu’en parallèle, Gladstone et son Ministre de l’Intérieur, Sir William Vernon Harcourt, décident de créer un département permanent de services secrets au Château de Dublin en juillet 1882 : le Crime Special Branch (qui deviendra le Special Irish Branch), dont la mission se concentre sur le renseignement, le terrorisme et l’espionnage :

The work of the Branch is concentrated in the field of assassination, terrorism, revolution, sabotage, subversion and espionage. Their brief is protection, surveillance, infiltration and intelligence- gathering. This might sound like the natural environment of a secret intelligence service, and so it is […]41.

18 Ce nouvel organisme de surveillance répond à la réémergence de la menace des Fenians des années 1880-85 et, selon Harcourt, son unicité repose sur le fait qu’il doit contrecarrer une organisation rebelle sans précédent : « Fenianism is a permanent conspiracy against English rule which will last far beyond the term of my life and must be met by a permanent organisation to detect and control it42 ». Depuis le Château de Dublin, les

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nouveaux services de renseignement se développent très rapidement : de 1882 à 1887, Edward George Jenkinson, ancien gouverneur d’Inde, est nommé « spy-master general », à la tête de la Special Branch ; il coopère avec les membres du Cabinet britannique et les généraux de l’armée et coordonne la collecte de renseignement des différentes forces de police. Jenkinson reçoit 35 693 livres sterling entre juillet 1882 et mars 1885 pour l’organisation de ses services secrets et pour l’arrestation des activistes de l’Irish Republican Brotherhood43. Le 15 janvier 1884, 2 725 livres sont offertes en récompense à des hommes qui venaient témoigner devant le procureur de la Couronne et 6 500 livres en échange d’informations générales44. Selon Paul McMahon, le département spécialisé du RIC, le Crime Special Branch, excelle dans la gestion des groupes politiques séditieux et gagne rapidement en notoriété mondiale45.

19 Entre juin et août 1883, la correspondance de Jenkinson révèle aussi la trace de sommes versées à des agents étrangers : « the cost of my agents in America and Paris46 » ainsi qu’à des agents provocateurs47. Les archives de Dublin en conservent des traces comme cet extrait de manuscrit qui dépeint des agents provocateurs fourbes et manipulateurs :

At the Meath Assizes, in 1842, Chief Justice Pennefather sentenced a spy, named Carroll, to four months’ imprisonment. He had endeavoured to incite James Caffry to kill three sheep, the property of Mr. Keating. A man named Moran, a printer in Cashel, was arrested on a charge of sedition, for printing a ballad. He was detained in gaol for seven months. […] It afterwards turned out that a policeman named Falvey had gone to Moran’s shop in plain clothes, and got him to print sixteen dozen of the ballads for a shilling, which Moran did unsuspectingly […]48.

20 De même, Stephen Wade relate l’histoire d’une femme travaillant pour Jenkinson, agissant comme agent provocateur en plein cœur de Dublin :

One of the most remarkable episodes in his work at the Home Office occurred in July 1884 when one of his agents – a woman named Tyler – during her stay at the Gresham Hotel in Dublin enquired about bombings and spoke of revolutions. After she had checked out of the hotel, detectives found letters/telegrams from the Home Office in her room. Such a discovery made it quite evident that she was a ‘spook’ in Jenkinson’s network. However, her true identity could not be discovered. What she clearly appeared to be was some kind of agent provocateur – something always frowned upon in open debate despite the fact that such a practice had been followed since Elizabethan times49.

21 Pour le gouvernement central, le recours aux agents provocateurs permet d’espionner l’ennemi depuis l’intérieur, mais aussi d’identifier les traîtres envers la Couronne en les poussant à l’action. Cette manipulation politique de désinformation est aussi utilisée contre les mouvements insurrectionnels écossais des années 1820 (fileurs de coton et tisseurs de Glasgow ou réformateurs de Strathaven50) infiltrés par des agents provocateurs diffamateurs comme l’espion Richmond51. De plus, les forces de l’ordre agissent à l’identique avec les anarchistes lors du complot de Walsall (1891-189252) où

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l’agent provocateur Auguste Coulon, à la solde de William Melville de la Special Branch, est infiltré dans le groupe suspecté de construire une bombe en vue d’un attentat53. En conclusion, ce procédé de désinformation n’est donc pas propre au cas irlandais et semble efficace puisque la tactique est employée depuis l’époque élisabéthaine.

22 Si la lutte contre les Fenians pousse le gouvernement central à instaurer des services secrets permanents au Château, le soulèvement de Pâques54 décuple l’utilisation de ce dernier en tant que base de surveillance. En effet, le gouvernement central doit identifier et arrêter les dissidents cachés parmi les habitants. Le colonel Ormonde Winter, nom de code O, s’installe alors au Château, à la tête d’un nouveau groupe d’agents du renseignement. Ses objectifs se définissent par la collecte d’informations secrètes sur les membres du Sinn Féin et de l’IRA, mais aussi le renforcement des échanges entre les sources extérieures et les informateurs vers le Château. Il crée donc en novembre 1920 le Central Raid Bureau qui compile tous les documents saisis par la police et l’armée lors d’opérations de fouilles ou de raids sur des maisons individuelles55.

23 Finalement, face à la violence des groupes dissidents, Gladstone décide de donner au Château de Dublin plus de pouvoirs de coercition en suspendant l’Habeas Corpus en Irlande et en limitant la possession d’armes par la population. En outre, si le lien entre Henri Le Caron et Robert Anderson constitue la première instance officielle de l’utilisation du Château comme département de renseignement, l’évolution du combat du gouvernement central contre les insurgés (Fenians et IRB/IRA) transforme le Château de quartier général des forces de police et agents provocateurs en base pour unités très secrètes, spécialisées dans la propagande et le contre-espionnage. Toutefois, si le Château conserve le contrôle sur les Fenians, il n'en exerce aucun sur les forces de Michael Collins. L’une des raisons se situe dans le fait que le chef du service de contre- espionnage irlandais exploite la faiblesse de la forteresse en y infiltrant un grand nombre d’agents doubles qui permettent de déjouer des attaques et de prendre le Château à son propre jeu.

Le Château : au centre du « Grand Jeu56 » des agents doubles

24 Entre 1880 et 1922, toutes les informations vitales sur le pays et ses activistes transitent par le Château de Dublin ; c’est pourquoi ce dernier représente une cible de choix et devient alors la première source de renseignement pour Michael Collins, directeur des services de renseignement de l’IRA à partir de septembre 191957.

25 Pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, les agents doubles jouent un rôle capital car ils accèdent à des informations ultra-secrètes :

Numerous other RIC officers, some within the Crime Special Branch, secretly worked for the IRA throughout this period. Collins also had priceless moles deep within the DMP and Dublin Castle. Ned Broy, a confidential typist at DMP headquarters, provided high quality information from 1917 until 1921, including the tip-off for the ‘German Plot’ arrests in 1918. was a detective within the DMP G division who met with Collins and pointed out officials for assassination. […] Two other detectives, Joe Kavanagh and Jim

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McNamara, also provided information. Perhaps, the most celebrated example of Collins’s achievement came in April 1919, when Broy smuggled him into the G division document room, where he spent the whole night examining police files on the ‑his own file made particularly fascinating reading! 58

26 Ned Broy est une figure clé du réseau de Collins. Dactylographe dans la division des détectives, il retranscrit les listes des membres du Sinn Féin, connus pour leurs activités républicaines, chez qui la police organise des descentes. Ainsi prévenus, les dirigeants de l’IRA échappent aux arrestations59. Broy met aussi en lumière le fonctionnement interne du Château de Dublin, son système et ses techniques d’entraînement ; Joseph Kavanagh et James MacNamara rejoignent les détectives du Château et accèdent à leurs informations60, pendant que David Neligan organise la guérilla depuis l’intérieur du Château et met l’accent sur le soutien de la population : « The sort of guerrilla struggle which went on in Ireland depends, of course, on the active support of the populace61 ». Maurice Walshe souligne la valeur des informations collectées par les agents doubles infiltrés au Château qui, grâce à la rapidité de transmission de ces dernières, offrent à Collins l’opportunité de mener une guérilla efficace basée sur l’effet de surprise :

By December 1919 Collins had practically paralyzed the British government’s political spy system in Dublin. Half a dozen detectives kept Collins informed of every move, to such an extent that the London Globe remarked: ‘Every step taken by the Castle is known an hour afterwards, it is almost enough to make men believe in spirits’. By this time also, attacks on RIC patrols had greatly increased in frequency, with the Volunteers now waging a form of guerrilla warfare62.

27 Michael Collins s’entoure aussi d’un petit groupe d’agents de contre-espionnage, appelé l’Inner Circle, qui infiltre les différentes administrations britanniques comme les prisons, les services postaux ainsi que le gouvernement, au Château de Dublin, mais aussi à Whitehall. Afin de compiler et d’analyser les différentes informations récoltées (communications avec les prisonniers politiques, copies des télégrammes officiels, listes des futures arrestations63), ces agents installent leur quartier général, le Brain Center, à deux cents mètres de la forteresse. Cette proximité rend le lieu dangereux, mais permet d’obtenir une multitude d’informations comme des dossiers sur les chefs militaires ou les officiels du gouvernement, des documents secrets dérobés, ainsi que tout un matériel de déchiffrage et de décodage64.

28 Cette surveillance minutieuse débouche sur une guérilla meurtrière entre les agents du gouvernement central et ceux de l’IRA. Fort de toutes ces informations, Michael Collins sélectionne le Squad, une unité de tueurs prêts à agir à tout moment sur ses ordres uniquement. Dans ses mémoires, William J. Stapleton, l’un de ses membres, explique que ces hommes opèrent par groupes de deux. Ils marchent dans les rues de Dublin à la recherche de leur cible et attendent la venue d’un troisième homme qui donne le signal. Les exécutions se font généralement en plein jour, au milieu de la foule. Une fois l’assassinat perpétré, les tueurs se mêlent à la population et s’enfuient en marchant calmement, sans jamais utiliser de voiture65.

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29 Face aux tueurs efficaces du Squad, le gouvernement britannique envoie au Château une unité d’agents en civil, le Special Gang, chargée de reconnaître les membres de l’unité et les Irish Volunteers66. De plus, pour capturer Michael Collins, cette unité infiltre à son tour un agent double, Burn alias Jameson, au sein de l’organisation qu’il dirige. Néanmoins, Michael Collins découvre sa présence et lui communique de fausses informations que Jameson transmet directement au Château, ce qui va le trahir67. Grâce à une surveillance accrue et aux agents infiltrés au Château, Michael Collins parvient à identifier les membres du gang et leurs adresses et, le 21 novembre 1920, il coordonne l’action simultanée de huit groupes de tueurs qui exécutent quinze agents britanniques68. Cette opération secrète surprend le système d’espionnage britannique ainsi que le Château et suscite la panique puisqu’elle s’attaque à des agents sous couverture très réputés. Le chaos qui règne est décrit de l’intérieur du Château par David Neligan :

Panic reigned. The gates were choked with incoming traffic - all the military, their wives and agents. […] Terror gripped the invisible spy system of England. An agent in the castle whose pals had been victims shot himself. […] The attack was so well-organised, so unexpected and so ruthlessly executed that the effect was paralyzing. […] The enemy never recovered from the blow. While some of the worst killers escaped, they were thoroughly frightened69.

30 Les officiers militaires sont rapatriés à l’intérieur de la forteresse70 ainsi qu’un nombre croissant de fonctionnaires britanniques et de personnels des services secrets. Le Château est bondé : les femmes des officiers ne peuvent plus y loger et le pouvoir est transféré de l’administration civile à la force militaire, qui installe des pièges devant la grille d’entrée avec des barbelés et des mitrailleuses. Le Château, symbole de la puissance militaire et du pouvoir politique britannique, se métamorphose alors en lieu de retraite et de refuge face à une armée d’insurgés qui prend l’avantage.

31 Pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, le combat politique opposant Lloyd George à Michael Collins place le Château de Dublin au cœur des manipulations militaires et politiques entre Londres et Dublin. Toutefois, certaines informations sont relayées, au prix de leur vie, par des traîtres qui seront réduits au silence s’ils sont repérés.

Le sort réservé aux traîtres

32 Du fait qu’ils trahissent leur cause et leur serment, les traîtres sont à la fois détestés et craints par la population, et du point de vue des dirigeants, ils représentent une source d’informations non négligeable sur l’ennemi, tout en symbolisant aussi la peur de voir sa propre organisation infiltrée. Ainsi, le pouvoir donné par la possession d’informations pousse aussi bien les troupes britanniques que l’IRA à torturer et tuer ceux qui manquent de loyauté comme si la mort mettait fin à l’acte de trahison.

33 Au Royaume-Uni, deux degrés de trahison se distinguent : la haute trahison touche la monarchie et la petite trahison concerne une autre personne71. L’Oxford English Dictionary (OED) maintient cette distinction et définit le traître soit comme « one who is false to his allegiance to his sovereign or to the government of his country ; one adjudged guilty of treason or any crime so regarded » soit comme « one who betrays any person that trusts

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him, or any duty entrusted to him ; a betrayer72 ». Néanmoins, dans le monde de l’espionnage, la mission première de l’agent est basée sur la ruse et la tromperie :

But the spy – for the culture of which Ireland is unfortunately pre- eminent began the work of deceit and destruction. Information was sent to the authorities, and the military immediately ordered out73.

34 L’acte de trahison fait donc partie du métier d’espion. En outre, Henri Le Caron, lui- même agent double infiltré, illustre la distinction entre traître et espion, et déjà la distinction entre la recherche de récompense du traître et la mission militaire de l’espion les oppose :

A traitor was the lowest of the low, someone who turned on his own people for a price. A spy was a military man on a lonely and dangerous, seemingly never-ending secret assignment74.

35 De même, pour Walter Burket (cité par Loch K. Johnson) la trahison est plus grave que la simple transmission d’informations militaires à un ennemi75. Dans sa définition de l’agent double, le caractère militaire et l’exécution d’une tâche sont aussi soulignés par l’OED: « a spy who works on behalf of mutually hostile country usually with actual allegiance only to one76 ». La difficulté de distinguer le traître de l’agent double réside dans le fait que tous les deux trahissent la cause à laquelle ils avaient juré fidélité. L’agent double peut donc lui aussi être lui aussi considéré comme un traître. Le terme « double », dont la définition « acting in a double manner i.e. in two ways at different times, openly and secretly, or in profession and practice, characterised by duplicity, false, deceitful77 », rapproche l’agent du fourbe, du manipulateur et du traître, le prouve.

36 Néanmoins, quelle que soit la catégorie à laquelle l’agent appartient, ce dernier bafoue le serment qu’il a prononcé. Or, le serment joue un rôle clé dans la gestion des services de renseignement et d’espionnage dans les deux périodes étudiées par cet article. En effet, à la fin des années 1880, le Clan na Gael (branche des Fenians aux Etats-Unis) se protège contre les espions de la Couronne grâce à l’élaboration d’un système de parrainage pour recruter de nouveaux membres et de serments de fidélité ponctués de mots codés :

I will foster a spirit of unity, nationality, and brotherly love among the people of “Jsfmboe” [Ireland]. I furthermore swear I do not now belong to any other Jsjti sfwpmvujpobsz [Irish Revolutionary] society antagonistic to this organization, and that I will not become a member of such society while connected with the v. c. [United Brotherhood, another term for the Clan na Gael], and, finally, I swear that I take this obligation without mental reservation, and that any violation hereof is infamous and merits the severest punishment. So, help me God78.

37 Mais cette protection contre les agents infiltrés est insuffisante comme le souligne Fitzpatrick qui décrit une organisation infestée d’espions :

Conspirators and informers will co-exist until the crack of doom, and the wider the conspiracy the greater the certainty of detection. Some of the seemingly staunchest hearts in Smith O’Brien’s movement of

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’48 were false to their chief and colleagues; and when the crisis came, suggested to the police magistrates, that in order to preserve consistency, and keep up the delusion they ought to be arrested and imprisoned. Even when we write, the ranks of the Fenian Brotherhood, although knotted as it seemed by binding oaths of secrecy, are broken and betrayed by internal spies nor are the informers confined to Ireland79.

38 Owen McGee, quant à lui, insiste sur l’omniprésence des agents doubles dans l’autre camp, parmi les insurgés irlandais, en mentionnant Robert Johnston de Belfast, et Mark Ryan de Londres, deux dirigeants de l’Irish Republican Brotherhood, agents doubles travaillant pour le compte de la Couronne, qui dévoilent à la Special Branch des informations sur les complots d’attaques à la dynamite et les rassemblements politiques jusqu’en 188280. Ainsi, au XIXe siècle, les deux camps sont corrompus. Pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, lorsque David Neligan rejoint les services secrets de la Couronne au Château, il est interrogé par le major Strokes et doit déclamer un serment très similaire à celui de Le Caron :

I-----do solemnly swear by Almighty God that I will faithfully perform the duties assigned to me as a member of His Majesty’s Secret Service; that I will implicitly obey those placed over me; that I will keep forever secret such membership and everything connected therewith, that I will never, in any circumstances betray such service or those connected with it even when I have left the Service. If I fail to keep this Oath in every particular I realize that vengeance will pursue me to the end of the earth, so help me God81.

39 Ces deux serments insistent sur le sentiment d’appartenance à un service que les membres ont le devoir de protéger, mais aussi sur la vengeance divine qui s’abattra sur eux en cas de trahison. D’ailleurs, Henri Le Caron dépeint le sentiment de peur éprouvé par les agents doubles dans ses mémoires82, car leur statut les positionne en tant que traîtres envers l’organisation à laquelle ils prêtent serment et les expose à des risques considérables. La peur de la damnation et la distinction entre trahison envers ses amis ou son pays restent omniprésente comme l’affirme E.M. Foster en 1938 (propos repris par Ben Macintyre) :

If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friends, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country. Such a choice may scandalize the modern reader, and he may stretch out his patriotic hand to telephone at once and ring up the police. It would not have shocked Dante, though? Dante places Brutus and Cassius in the lowest circle of Hell because they have chosen to betray their friend Julius Caesar rather than their country Rome83.

40 Cette citation insiste sur le fait que le traître ou l’agent double (ici Kim Philby, agent du MI6 et espion pour le KGB) signe un pacte avec l’Enfer et qu’il ne trouvera jamais le repos éternel. Les références à la trahison de Jules César semblent indiquer que rien n’a changé depuis lors et insiste sur le caractère inéluctable de la condamnation et de la damnation du traître qui trahit ses amis et doit en subir les conséquences. Ainsi,

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beaucoup de sentiments et d’expériences sont communs aux traîtres et aux agents doubles, mais la grande nuance réside dans la professionnalisation des méthodes de renseignement. En effet, comme cet article le démontre à travers l’exemple du Château de Dublin, les services de renseignement se développent, se modernisent et se professionnalisent entre 1880 et 1922. Ainsi, les traîtres, taupes et informateurs qui agissent pour leur compte personnel deviennent des professionnels de l'espionnage et du contre-espionnage avec toute la panoplie de spécialités : agents provocateurs, agents infiltrés, agents doubles, chacune correspondant à une mission particulière.

41 Parmi la population engagée dans la lutte contre le gouvernement central, la duplicité et la manipulation inhérentes à toute personne offrant des informations au camp adverse suscitent la peur : « “Informers” is a word that is detested and feared in Ireland, perhaps more than in any other country in the world84. » Ce sentiment est basé, selon Paul McMahon qui rapporte les paroles d’un officier de la Dublin Metropolitan Police, sur l’efficacité et le pouvoir des services britanniques de renseignement du Château :

Their web was spread wide and of a fine mesh: they kept a lynx eye on every Irish organization, big or small. It is well known that for centuries the Castle succeeded in penetrating Irish left wing circles with the aid of secret services, police, informers, and that crack regiment, St George’s cavalry (i.e. gold sovereigns)… In every age an Irish Judas was hidden in the undergrowth85.

42 Cette peur, mais aussi la réalité de trahisons douloureuses, notamment pendant les conflits opposants le gouvernement central aux insurgés irlandais, amènent une extrême violence quant au sort réservé aux traîtres, et ce dans les deux camps. Pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, le Château est le lieu d’arrestations violentes et de tortures. Sean Kavanagh, arrêté par les troupes d’Auxiliaires du Château en janvier 1921, décrit son expérience :

The letters were seized and I hustled away into the Intelligence Room near the front gate of the Castle where my interrogation began at once. It was conducted by Major King, officer commanding F Company of the Auxies. […] The questions punctuated by body blows, hair pulling and face slapping continued for a couple of hours without producing satisfactory results86.

43 Il est ensuite transféré à la prison de Kilmainham où il rencontre de nombreux insurgés, tous torturés au Château :

He put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket and took out seven or eight teeth, saying with a laugh, that’s how I got on. He introduced me to Christy Carberry who had been arrested a couple of weeks earlier; Christy’s face was still a mass of bruises and his eyes half-closed from his treatment in the Intelligence room87.

44 Le 20 novembre 1921, deux membres de l’IRA, Dick McKee et , s’évadent de leurs cellules et sont abattus dans la cour du Château par les Auxiliaires. Le lendemain, à l’hôpital King George V, Gearoid O’Sullivan, Frank Thornton et Sean Kavanagh réclament leurs corps : ils sont criblés de balles et couverts d’entailles faites

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par des baïonnettes88, ce qui prouve que des interrogatoires violents sont menés afin d’obtenir des renseignements89. De plus, David Neligan, infiltré au Château, dévoile les agissements des troupes et l’issue fatale de ce type d’arrestations : « He [Mr. Thornton] asked me where I thought they were and knowing that they had been arrested by the Castle Auxies, I answered ‘Probably dead’90 ». La sentence est sans appel et face à l'indignation, les relations anglo-irlandaises se détériorent toujours plus, les Irlandais s’isolent du Royaume-Uni : ils élèvent leurs victimes au statut de héros et considèrent les Britanniques comme des bourreaux.

45 Néanmoins, des traîtres sont aussi cachés du côté britannique. Thornton, un agent de Michael Collins, dont la mission est de recruter des agents issus de toutes les classes sociales et en particulier, des personnes haut placées mettant en avant leurs connexions britanniques, conclut qu’un grand nombre de personnes sont prêtes à espionner la Couronne :

It is amazing the number of this type of people, who when it was put to them, eventually agreed to work for us and did tremendous work for us afterwards, whilst at the same time keeping their connection with the British forces91.

46 La question sous-jacente est celle de connaître les motivations de ces partisans qui trahissent le gouvernement central. Sont-ils des adeptes de la cause irlandaise ou bien sont-ils minutieusement choisis par l’IRA comme étant des partisans très influençables et facilement manipulables ?

47 Enfin, pendant la guerre anglo-irlandaise, l’IRA réserve le même sort aux traîtres. Aucune attention n’est accordée à la présomption d’innocence ou encore aux circonstances atténuantes ; le couperet tombe tel une guillotine qui décapite sans laisser la moindre chance de survie à l’accusé :

Mick Murphy, later to captain Cork to All Ireland hurling glory, recalled the exceptional talkativeness of one fifteen-year-old, the son of an Englishman, caught while attempting to track the movements of a group of Volunteers. The child was imprisoned for a time while interrogated; then he was shot. Was age not considered a mitigating factor in Cork city, as it was during the considerable campaign in Ireland and Britain to secure clemency for Kevin Barry (‘Just a lad of eighteen summers’, and my grandmother’s brother) who did not even contest the charges of killing British soldiers for which he was condemned92?

48 Paul McMahon affirme que cette répression brutale terrifie la population et la dissuade de parler :

The third and bloodiest aspect of the IRA counter-intelligence involved the ruthless execution of suspected informants. When an individual was suspected of passing information to the authorities he was passed invented details about future IRA activity. If the Crown forces were seen to act on his information, his guilt was assumed, and retribution was swift and brutal – a bullet in the head, the corpse by the road, beside it a sign “Traitor Shot by the IRA’”. […] Yet the IRA

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counter-espionage was effective because of its sheer brutality. It terrified local communities and any possible informers anywhere, into silence93.

49 Dans leur manière de punir les traîtres (identifiés selon les critères de chaque camp), le gouvernement central et les insurgés irlandais se rejoignent et appliquent les pires sentences : la torture et la mort. Ceci démontre combien les deux camps se sentent vulnérables face aux fuites et aux diffusions d'informations sur leurs actions, comme si la torture symbolisait la vengeance de l'ami trahi, et la mort, le châtiment ultime, qui réduit le traître au silence.

50 Finalement, la trahison traverse les âges et évolue avec la professionnalisation des méthodes de renseignement. Elle définit l’action d’un individu qui va à l’encontre de son serment d’appartenance liant ainsi le traître et l'agent double qui risquent, tous deux, la mort et la damnation éternelle s’ils sont découverts car elle déclenche la colère et la peur de celui qui est trahi.

51 Pour conclure, cet article rapproche deux périodes très tendues entre le gouvernement central et les dissidents irlandais afin de montrer que la position et la fonction du Château de Dublin, représentant de la Couronne sur le sol irlandais, évolue face à la menace des insurgés irlandais. Ainsi, en 1880, le Château est le repaire de traîtres qui donnent (parfois sous la torture) des informations sur les mouvements nationalistes irlandais ; en 1919, il est infiltré par les agents doubles de Michael Collins qui remplissent des missions militaires risquées et qui, grâce à leurs renseignements tactiques, militaires et politiques, lui permettent de mener une véritable guerre d’espions. Le flux d’informations devient alors constant et régulier, mais le fait que les informations reçues par Michael Collins soient systématiquement décodées, analysées et amènent l’élaboration de contre-attaques par les services de contre-espionnage, professionnalisent le renseignement et donc transforment les traîtres en agents doubles. Si l’analyse des informations s’améliore, il n’en est rien du sort réservé à ceux qui trahissent leur cause. Bien que l’agent accomplisse sa mission, son sort est scellé s’il est découvert : il sera torturé et tué, ceci prouve combien sur la période étudiée les organisations secrètes ou gouvernementales craignent d’être infiltrées et trahies. Mais ces règlements de compte dévoilent aussi le caractère très personnel et sentimental de ces luttes fratricides.

52 De surcroît, cet article permet de démontrer la spécificité du système de surveillance du gouvernement central en Irlande basé sur les forces de police comme source première d’informations sur les dissidents politiques. Par ailleurs, c’est précisément cette distinction qui fait le renom mondial des forces de l’ordre irlandaises au XIXe siècle. En outre, au XXe siècle, la paralysie de ces forces du RIC, puis des agents secrets envoyés depuis Londres et basés au Château de Dublin, permet à M. Collins d’acculer le gouvernement central et de le pousser à négocier :

The final legacy of the nineteenth century tussle between Irish rebels and the British state was to reinforce the separateness of the Irish security system. The Irish police forces were very different from their British counterparts, and Dublin Castle handled political subversion in its own way. […] This was all very well so long as the Irish security system was effective and at the forefront of modern techniques. But by the start of the twentieth century this was no longer the case. The

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Irish police had become complacent and conservative. When outside British agencies were introduced, there was organizational confusion and clash of cultures. As violent revolution reshaped the country between 1916 and 1923, the British government struggled to fit the Irish anomaly into its developing intelligence system; it would continue to do so until the Second World War94.

53 Dans le grand jeu de surveillance de l’Irlande que le gouvernement central mène jusqu’à la Seconde Guerre mondiale, la ruse de l’infiltration d’agents doubles reste l’approche privilégiée, et ce malgré les systèmes de protection et de détection d’informateurs plus efficaces des mouvements dissidents. Après la séparation de l’Irlande en deux (1922), les traîtres et agents doubles s’éloignent du Château de Dublin pour espionner de part et d’autre de la frontière entre l’Etat libre d’Irlande et l’Irlande du Nord.

NOTES

1. Denis McCarthy, Dublin Castle at the Heart of Irish History, Dublin, Stationery Office Books, January 2004, [http://www.dublincastle.ie/HistoryEducation/History/Introduction- ABriefHistoryofDublinCastle/], consulté le 30 janvier 2012. 2. Their [Young Irelanders] romantic but unsuccessful agitations soon gave rise, seamlessly, to the Fenian Brotherhood, a covert revolutionary belief system. From the ashes of Fenianism arose the 20th-century Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB). In 1919, members of the IRB, styling themselves the (IRA) started and subsequently won the Irish War of Independence. Joe Ambrose, The Fenian Anthology, Cork, Mercier Press, 2008, p. 8. 3. Eamonn T. Gardiner, Dublin and the Anglo-Irish War: Counter-insurgency and Conflict, Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009, p. 8. 4. Le choix de Thomas Billis Bleach, comme exemple d’agent double infiltré, repose sur la précision rare et la valeur des informations qu’il fournit aux services britanniques au XIXe siècle, ce qui lui vaut le surnom de : « the champion spy of the century » (Peter Edwards, The Infiltrator- Henri Le Caron, the British Spy inside the Fenian Movement, Dunboyne, Maverick House Publishers, 2010, p. 285). De plus, la correspondance entre Henri Le Caron et Robert Anderson peut être considérée comme le tout premier lien officiel entre le Château de Dublin et un agent infiltré donc comme le début du service de renseignement basé au Château. Enfin, les deux définitions mentionnées ici sont extraites directement de ses mémoires ; les faits, le danger qui l’entoure, son expérience du métier d’espion ainsi que les sentiments qui le traversent y sont donc retranscrits sans intermédiaire offrant ainsi le point de vue interne d’un agent double infiltré. 5. Alan Sharp, « From Dublin Castle to Scotland Yard: Robert Anderson and the Secret Irish department », [http://www.casebook.org/dissertations/ws-dublincastle.html], consulté le 25 janvier 2012.

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6. En 1778, le parlement de Westminster vote une loi qui augmente considérablement le pouvoir des patrouilleurs de la ville de Dublin : ils peuvent alors saisir des objets, fouiller et entrer dans les maisons des personnes suspectées de vol. Brian Henry, Dublin Hanged ‑Crime, Law Enforcement and Punishment in late Eighteenth Century Dublin, Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1994, p. 137-153. Le 29 septembre 1786, George III instaure une police rurale qui vise une meilleure application de la loi en Irlande et un rétablissement de l’ordre : « A bill for the better execution of the law and preservation of the peace within the counties at large ». En 1795, les patrouilles de surveillance sont remplacées par la première force non armée en uniforme : « An act for more effectively preserving the peace within the city of Dublin and the district of the metropolis and establishing parochial watch in the said city ». Patrick Carroll-Burke, Colonial Discipline: the Making of the Irish Convict System, Dublin, Press, 2000, p. 80. 7. Nick Pelling, Anglo-Irish relations, 1798-1922, New York, Routledge: Taylor and Francis Group, 2003, p. 12. 8. Ibid., p. 13-14. 9. Eamonn T. Gardiner, op. cit., p. 41. 10. Ibid., p. 62. 11. Colm Lennon, The Lords of Dublin under the Age of Reformation, Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1989, p. 55-63. 12. Kevin P. O’Rorke, « Dublin Police », Dublin Historical Record, vol. XXIX, Dublin, Cahill and Co., Dec 1975-Sept 1976, p. 138-147. 13. Brian Henry, op. cit., p. 137-153 14. Patrick Carroll-Burke, op. cit., p. 83. 15. En 1870, l’Irlande compte 1 policier pour 425 habitants soit deux fois plus qu’en Angleterre ou au Pays-de-Galles et deux fois et demi plus qu’en Ecosse. Ibid., p. 84. 16. Owen McGee, « Dublin Castle and the First Home Rule Bill: the Jenkinson-Spencer Correspondence », 18th-19th Century History Features Home Rule, Issue 5, Vol. 15, Sept-Oct 2007, p. 1. [http://www.historyireland.com/home-rule/dublin-castle-and-the-first- home-rule-bill-the-jenkinson-spencer-correspondence], consulté le 25 janvier 2012. 17. Paul McMahon, British Spies and Irish Rebels: British Intelligence and Ireland 1916-1945, Woodbridge, Boydell Press, 2008, p. 6. 18. Ibid. 19. Tom Corfe, The Phoenix Park Murders: Conflict, Compromise and Tragedy in Ireland 1878-1882, London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1968, p. 147. 20. Il semble important de noter que l’analyse de L. Perry Curtis Jr. soulève des controverses. En effet, Sheridan Gilley (essay : « English attitudes to the Irish in England 1700-1900 ») affirme que l’image de Paddy vient certes des préjugés britanniques sur les Irlandais, mais aussi de la vision qu’ont les Irlandais d’eux-mêmes au XIXe siècle. Cette idée est soutenue par Roy Foster (Paddy and Mr. Punch : Connections in Irish and English History, 1993) qui défend, de plus, l’idée que l’attitude des Britanniques envers les Irlandais, fluctue en fonction des événements politiques. Pour lui, bien plus que la différence raciale, les caricatures reflètent la violence politique, la paysannerie et la religion catholique en Irlande. Enfin, pour Michael de Nie (The Eternal Paddy and the British Press, 1798-1882, 2004), la nature des opinions britanniques dépend des crises dans les relations anglo-irlandaises, bien que de Nie démontre aussi que le poids des

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stéréotypes dans un grand nombre de journaux victoriens est prépondérant. Simon Potter, Reviews in History, 2006, [http://www.history.ac.uk/reviews], consulté le 11 novembre 2015. 21. Jarlath Killeen, « Irish Gothic: a Theoretical Introduction », The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies, [http://irishgothichorrorjournal.homestead.com/jarlath.html], consulté le 3 décembre 2015. 22. Denis McCarthy, op. cit., chapter16/theEndofBritishRule 23. Ibid. 24. Owen McGee, op. cit., p. 4. 25. En 1848, en réaction à la Grande Famine qui décime la population irlandaise et la pousse à émigrer, les meneurs de la Jeune Irlande encouragent cette dernière à se soulever contre le gouvernement central qu’ils considèrent comme négligeant et indifférent à leur souffrance. Pour les insurgés, les années 1840 symbolisent en effet la désillusion après les promesses faites lors de la signature de l’Acte d’Union, par le gouvernement central qui prétendait traiter l’Irlande comme une entité à part entière du Royaume-Uni de Grande-Bretagne et d’Irlande. Suite à l’arrestation de John Mitchell en 1848, fondateur des Irlandais Unis prônant la rébellion, le mouvement est dirigé par William Smith O’Brien. Il préconise notamment le rapprochement des Irlandais catholiques et protestants dans un combat commun pour l’indépendance nationale du pays. Mais, le soulèvement n’a pas lieu et la révolte avorte. Joe Ambrose, op. cit., p. 15, 333-334. 26. Terme qui provient du gaélique irlandais féinne lui-même issu de Fiann qui désigne un héros populaire irlandais. English Dictionary and Thesaurus, 21st Century Edition, Aylesbury, Harper Collins and Times Books, 2000, p. 436. 27. « It was the job of the British intelligence system in Ireland to uncover and pre-empt this plot (1916). However, the security and intelligence apparatus in Ireland was less equipped to deal with this threat than at any time during the previous century […]. By 1914 there were only twelve plain-clothes detectives in the G division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. They spent most of their time attending public meetings and watching the movements of political activists; they did not attempt to place long-term secret agents inside revolutionary groups (though they had a string of casual informers or ‘touts’). » Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 14. 28. Eamonn T. Gardiner, op. cit., p. 13-14. 29. Sean Kavanagh, « The Irish Volunteers Intelligence Organisations », The Capuchin Annual, National Library of Ireland, 1969, p. 354-367. 30. Le soulèvement de 1867 vise directement le gouvernement central puisque les Fenians lancent leurs attaques sur le sol anglais : le Château de Chester et la prison de Clerkenwell (évasion de Richard Burke), pendant qu’en Irlande, les insurgés prennent d’assaut plusieurs baraquements de police et un poste de garde-côtes. Mais, le soulèvement échoue par manque de préparation et par des actions systématiquement contrecarrées et anticipées par les informateurs de la Couronne. Joe Ambrose, op. cit., p. 17. 31. Eamonn T. Gardiner, op. cit.,p. 27-28. 32. « What the British government needed in 1917 and 1918 was not tactical intelligence on the activists of the Irish Volunteers, but political intelligence on the momentous shifts in Irish

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opinion. This might indicate how British policy was going wrong. By and large, this was provided by the RIC and DMP, which made good reports to Dublin Castle on the deteriorating situation in the country. » Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 22-23. 33. Index to Correspondence Relating to Illegal Activities, Archives nationales de Londres, Kew, Dec 1898 to Sept 1905, CO 904/190. 34. Peter Edwards, op. cit., p. 23. 35. Ibid.,p. 39. 36. T. Ryle- Dwyer, The Squad and the Intelligence Operations of Michael Collins, Cork, the Mercier Press, 2005, préface. 37. « As a means of defeating the agitation of tenant farmers the British government on 1 January 1881 made clear its intention to introduce a Coercion Act to pacify Ireland, becoming law in March. It was exceptionally draconian, suspending habeas corpus, trial by jury and facilitating the proclamation of entire districts as ‘disturbed’. This act was endorsed by the British government most important administrator in Ireland, the Chief Secretary in Dublin Castle, William Forster MP. The Coercion Act allowed for internment without trial and the suspension of Habeas Corpus. Under it over 900 Land League members were imprisoned, including their leader, Parnell. » Shane Kenna, « The Invincibles and the Phoenix Park Killings », Trinity College Dublin, Irish History online, 31 juillet 2012, [ http:// www.theirishstory.com/2012/07/31/the-invincibles-and-the-phoenix-park-killings-2/ #.UmZIcHC-04s], consulté le 10 novembre 2013. 38. La Land League, un mouvement de désobéissance populaire qui exerce une forte pression sur le gouvernement et lutte contre le système des propriétaires, est créée à Mayo, en 1879, par Michael Davitt. En 1880, après avoir cherché à lever des fonds et à renforcer l’alliance entre les révolutionnaires et les alliés politiques aux États-Unis l’année précédente (Peter Edwards, op. cit., p. 127), Charles Stewart Parnell apparaît comme le nouveau meneur politique d’Irlande et transforme ces soulèvements paysans en cause nationale en faveur du Home Rule ou de l'indépendance irlandaise. Il négocie avec le gouvernement de Londres : la Land Act ou « the 3 F’s: fair rent, fixity of tenure, freedom for the tenant to sell his rights of occupancy at best market prices » (J. C. Beckett, The Making of Modern Ireland 1603-1923, Londres, Faber and Faber, 1966, p. 384-392) » qui doit résoudre les problèmes de bail et du prix du travail du paysan, mais qui divise et déchire le parti de Parnell. Les attaques verbales violentes de Parnell au parlement, ainsi que son lien avec le Clan na Gael et les Fenians, le rendent dangereux aux yeux du gouvernement qui le fait surveiller (Peter Edwards, op. cit., p. 124-128). Lorsqu’il réagit violemment à la proposition de loi de Gladstone, Parnell est enfermé à Kilmainham Gaol selon les nouvelles lois sur le crime ou Coercion Acts de mars 1881, mais la notoriété du prisonnier croît à Dublin, et Londres négocie un compromis avec lui : le Kilmainham Treaty. Parnell est relâché, et le Land Act est accepté en 1881. En fait, la protection souhaitée est accordée aux paysans, à la condition que Parnell utilise son influence pour calmer le pays et garantisse l’acceptation de la loi telle qu’elle est proposée par la majorité des Irlandais (F. S. L. Lyons, Ireland since the Famine, Dublin, Fontana Press, 1973, p. 392). Ce traité est signé à l’intérieur de la prison, il est destiné non seulement à calmer le pays, mais surtout à discréditer Charles Stewart Parnell au sein de ses partisans. En effet, malgré la création d’un nouveau parti politique, la National League, les Irlandais qui se battent pour l’indépendance sont déçus par un dirigeant politique qui pactise et négocie avec le camp adverse. De plus, son aventure avec Madame O’Shea, une anglaise mariée, anéantit la confiance que les Irlandais lui

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portent. En 1886, à la suite de mauvaises récoltes et un refus de réduire les baux, la Land League, menée par W. O’Brien et J. Dillion, organise une campagne qui propose aux locataires de payer ce bail dans un fonds destiné à aider les victimes d’expulsion (J. C. Beckett, op. cit., p. 400-401). Finalement, entre les années 1890 et 1900, l’opposition et la déchirure entre Parnellites (qui soutiennent Charles Parnell) et anti-Parnellites (J.C. Beckett, op. cit., p. 409-415) s’étend et permet à Londres de mieux gérer les Dublinois divisés grâce à la ratification du Land Act (F.S.L. Lyons, op. cit.,p. 400-405). 39. Rupert Allason, The Branch: A History of the Metropolitan Police Special Branch 1883-1983, Bungay, Chauster Press, 1983, p. 6. 40. Ibid.,p. 84-86. 41. Ibid., p. XI. 42. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 6. 43. Owen McGee, op. cit.,p. 1. 44. Ibid., p. 3. 45. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 5. 46. Owen McGee, op. cit., p. 1. 47. Ibid., p. 2. 48. Thomas Matthew Ray, « A Scrap book on Spies and Informers in Ireland apparently compiled by or on behalf of T. M. Ray of the Repeal Association 1842-45 », manuscrit 16 227, Archives nationales de Dublin. 49. Stephen Wade, Spies in the Empire: Victorian Military Intelligence, Wimbledon, Anthem Press, 2007, p. 135-136. 50. En 1813, quarante mille tisserands dénoncent leurs faibles revenus s’élevant à 8s 6d par semaine et débutent une grève générale en Ecosse. Mais le soulèvement ne mène à rien car le gouvernement central arrête rapidement les dirigeants. Deux années plus tard, à l’issue des guerres napoléoniennes, les soldats de retour des champs de bataille se retrouvent au chômage : le mécontentement des Ecossais atteint son paroxysme à Glasgow en 1816 où le montant total des multiples banqueroutes atteint deux millions de livres sterling (David Cramb Wilson, James ‘Perlie’ Wilson: the Scottish Radical Martyr, 2011, [http://www.dcwilson.tripod.com], consulté le 10 décembre 2012). Cette même année, quarante mille personnes se rassemblent à Thrushgrove, près de Glasgow, pour faire entendre leurs griefs. Les magistrats locaux ont tellement peur d’un soulèvement qu’ils préparent l’assaut du 42e régiment, ou Highland Watch, au baraquement de Gallowgate ainsi que les régiments de cavalerie des Dragons. Parallèlement à ces revendications sociales, une rébellion violente se répand sur les terres écossaises. En 1817, une conspiration cible le prince régent, à sa sortie du parlement et, en 1819, les actions d’anarchistes se généralisent et s’amplifient. À Glasgow, les fileurs de coton qui fomentent des insurrections sont célèbres, ils luttent pour un suffrage plus universel. Face au danger imminent, le gouvernement britannique envoie des agents britanniques qui infiltrent les mouvements extrémistes, afin de garder les agitateurs sous contrôle. Les agents secrets concentrent leurs actions sur la ville de Glasgow, considérée comme la plus révolutionnaire et active, puisque les ouvriers rebelles sont à la recherche d’emplois et attribuent la cause de leur désespoir aux décisions politiques. L’espion du gouvernement, Richmond, y séjourne et manipule les agitateurs en fabriquant de faux documents utilisés dans de faux procès : « Richmond, the government spy, resided in the city of Glasgow. He is credited with every appearance of justice, as the fabricator of

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many treasonable documents, to which under false representation, he obtained the adhesion of a number of reformers, whose simplicity enabled him to betray them (David Cramb Wilson, op. cit.) ». En 1820, le soulèvement des tisserands réclame une république écossaise (HARVIE, Christopher, Scotland and Nationalism – Scottish Society and Politics 1707-1977, Londres, George Allen & Unwin Publishing, 1977, p. 31). Le matin du dimanche 1er avril 1820, la lecture publique d’une loi, dans les rues de Glasgow, signe le début d’un soulèvement organisé et puissant, et le 3 avril, les autorités municipales informent le public de l’envoi de l’armée pour mater la rébellion. Le gouvernement cible les meneurs du mouvement et, le 8 avril, une proclamation royale est lue à Glasgow Cross, offrant une récompense de cinq cents livres sterling à qui voudra bien donner les noms des responsables de l’impression du document proclamé le 1er avril, symbole de trahison. Puisque les moyens pris par les autorités, considérés comme des actes de répression pour maintenir l’ordre et la paix, sont décriés par la population, les agents de la Couronne provoquent les meneurs et les poussent à la rébellion. Pendant ce temps, les espions du gouvernement œuvrent dans l’ombre, ils font croire aux révolutionnaires que des bataillons de l’armée britannique sont en route vers Falkirk, qu’ils ont pris possession de la manufacture de canons à Carron Iron Works et que les Français, au nom de la Liberté, envoient une armée de soldats pour soutenir les Ecossais à Cathkin Braes. Tous ces mensonges se propagent parmi les ouvriers affamés et sans travail, une vingtaine de réformateurs de Strathaven se retrouvent chez James Wilson et, bien que les éclaireurs n’aient aperçu aucun soldat aux alentours, les révolutionnaires, armés de neuf armes à feu, de pics et de fourches, marchent vers la ville, poussés par les espions du gouvernement central, afin de renverser le trône et prendre la tête du gouvernement écossais. Après avoir attendu une aide illusoire des Français, les réformateurs comprennent qu’ils ont été manipulés par les agents du gouvernement et qu’ils sont considérés comme des fugitifs ; ils rentrent chez eux, mais James Wilson, est arrêté à son domicile et condamné pour haute trahison tout comme vingt de ses compatriotes à Edimbourg. Il est pendu et décapité le 30 août 1820 devant la porte sud de la prison d’Edimbourg, alors que Hardie et Baird sont pendus le 8 septembre à Stirling et les autres conspirateurs sont déportés à vie. 51. Christopher Harvie, op. cit., p. 30. 52. En 1832, la ville de Walsall, au Royaume-Uni, se dote d’une force de police qui lui est propre, tout d’abord basée dans des bureaux à Church Hill puis Goodall Street. En 1889, un club de socialistes, soupçonnés d’avoir des liens avec les mouvements anarchistes, s’installe dans la même rue que le commissariat de police. Les forces de police de Walsall se doutent des intentions des extrémistes et préviennent Scotland Yard, tout en gardant les membres du club sous haute surveillance. A l’été 1891, Frederick Charles, un ami de Joseph Deakin, le secrétaire du club, arrive à Walsall depuis Sheffield, juste avant Victor Cailes, un Français qui connaît bien Auguste Coulon, lui-même ami de Frederick Charles. À la fin du mois d’octobre, Victor Cailes reçoit une lettre depuis Londres, de Jean Battola, qui lui envoie le schéma d’une bombe. De suite, Frederick Charles, Joseph Deakin et Victor Cailes construisent la bombe avec l’aide de John Wesley et de William Ditchfield eux-aussi membres du club. Ces deux derniers membres se chargent de la coulée de la bombe et le 5 décembre 1891, Jean Battola lui-même se rend à Walsall pour inspecter les progrès dans la construction de l’engin. Mais, il ne réalise pas qu’il est suivi par William Melville, l’inspecteur détective de Scotland Yard. Le 6 janvier, Joseph Deakin qui doit rencontrer Jean Battola à Londres, est intercepté et arrêté à la gare d’Euston par Melville. L’inspecteur se rend à Walsall le lendemain afin

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d’arrêter Frederick Charles, Victor Cailes et John Wesley, puis William Ditchfield et Jean Battola, le 13 janvier. Les anarchistes sont ensuite conduits dans les cellules de détention du quartier général des forces de police de Walsall, où Joseph Deakin, croyant qu’il a été trahi par Frederick Charles, passe aux aveux et déclare que la bombe visait le tsar de Russie. De mars à avril 1892, les procès de tous les anarchistes ont lieu aux assises de Stratford ; John Wesley et William Ditchfield sont relaxés, Frederick Charles, Victor Cailes et Jean Battola sont condamnés à dix ans de prison, et Joseph Deakin, à cinq. Or, pendant le déroulement des procès, il apparait qu’Auguste Coulon était un agent provocateur, un espion infiltré par Scotland Yard qui référait de l’avancement de la conspiration à l’inspecteur Melville. Cela n’est pas vraiment révélé aux procès, mais plutôt en 1895, où le sergent détective Patrick McIntyre de Scotland Yard confirme les allégations faites quant au rôle d’Auguste Coulon dans le complot. The Walsall Council, The Walsall Anarchist Bomb Plot, [http://cms.walsall.gov.uk/ the_walsall_anarchist_bomb_plot.pdf], consulté le 5 juin 2012. 53. Ibid. 54. Le soulèvement de Pâques fut planifié dans le plus grand secret par des révolutionnaires membres de longue date de l’Irish Republican Brotherhood et une nouvelle génération de républicains. Ils voulaient mettre à profit les 8 000 Irish Volunteers radicaux dirigés par Eoin MacNeill qui s’étaient séparés du groupe principal mené par John Redmond en 1914 et qui avaient refusé la conscription britannique. En 1916, ce groupe de comploteurs se rapproche de l’, un groupe de paramilitaires dirigés par le socialiste James Connolly, la conspiration devient alors internationale puisqu’elle recrute aussi des membres révolutionnaires américains du Clan na Gael. Le lundi de Pâques 1916, environ 2 000 insurgés occupent les bâtiments principaux du centre ville de Dublin. Les forces de l’ordre et l’armée britannique sont surprises malgré les nombreuses interceptions de messages secrets indiquant un passage à l’acte imminent des révolutionnaires irlandais. Selon Paul McMahon, les Britanniques manipulent déjà le Château de Dublin car les chefs de l’armée britannique avaient découvert que le soulèvement aurait lieu, mais ces derniers ne souhaitaient pas partager leurs informations avec le Château pour ne pas révéler leur département de décryptage, la Chambre 40. En fait, le manque de communication avec Dublin ainsi que la dissimulation d’informations importantes sur le soulèvement de Pâques sont la preuve, selon Paul McMahon, du souhait des chefs britanniques de voir la rébellion se produire. Le message de Londres au Château est simple : il faut laisser la révolte éclater. Mais, face à l’inaction et à la passivité des autorités irlandaises, plus de deux mille militants dublinois occupent des endroits centraux de la ville dès le matin de ce lundi de Pâques et le Château, dont la protection se résume à une seule garnison, est assiégé dès le lendemain matin. Le secrétaire d’État à l’Irlande et le commandant en chef des Armées, partis à Londres pour travailler, ne reviendront jamais, et le chaos s’installe dans la ville. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 13- 21. 55. John Ainsworth, « British Security Policy in Ireland, 1920-21: A Desperate Attempt by the Crown to Maintain Anglo-Irish Unity by Force », Australian Journal of Irish Studies, n° 1, 2001, p. 176-190. 56. Expression inventée par Arthur Conolly, agent des services de renseignement britanniques en Inde (British East India Company’ dans Stephen Twigge, Edward Hampshire et Graham Macklin, British Intelligence : Secrets, Spies and Sources, Kew, National Archives Publishing, 2009, p. 62. L’expression caractérise le jeu d’espionnage

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et de contre-espionnage entre la Russie et le Royaume-Uni en Asie centrale. En effet, dès 1829, Wellington, alors Premier Ministre, craint l’expansionnisme russe et plus particulièrement des attaques sur l’Inde. De plus, en 1838, le traité commercial signé avec la Turquie offre une place prépondérante à l’Empire Ottoman dans l’économie britannique, ce qui pousse Londres à asseoir son influence dans cette région. David Fromkin, The Great Game in Asia, 1980, [https://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/south-asia/ 1980-03-01/great-game-asia], consulté le 11 novembre 2015. L’expression est ensuite reprise par Rudyard Kipling, dans son œuvre Kim, nom du héro qui espionne les Russes au profit des Britanniques. 57. Martin C. Hartline et M. M. Kaulbach, « Michael Collins and », CIA Historical Review Program, Studies Intelligence Archives, Volume 13, Issue 1, 2 July 1996, p. 1. [https://www.cia.gov/library/center-for-the-study-of-intelligence/kentcsi/vol13no1/ v13i1ao6p0001.htm] consulté le 30 janvier 2012. 58. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 28. 59. « Tonight’s the night. Tell O’Hanrahan to tell the warned men not to stay not to stay in their usual place of abode and to keep their heads. » T. Ryle-Dwyer, op. cit., p. 10-11. 60. Meda Ryan, Michael Collins and the Women who Spies for Ireland, Cork, Mercier Press, 2006, p. 35. 61. David Neligan, The Spy in the Castle, London, Prendeville Publishing Limited, National Library of Ireland,1999, p. 104. 62. Maurice Walsh, G2 in Defence of Ireland: Irish Military Intelligence 1918-1945, Cork, the Collins Press, 2010, p. 41. 63. Peter Hart, « British Intelligence in Ireland: 1920-1921: the Final Reports », David Fitzpatrick (dir.), Irish Narratives, Cork, Cork University Press, 2002, p. 12. 64. Martin C. Hartline et M.M. Kaulbach, op. cit., p. 3. 65. William Stapleton, « Michael Collins’s Squad », the Capuchin Annual, Dublin, National Library of Ireland, 1969, p. 368-377. 66. Sean Kavanagh, op. cit., p. 354-367. 67. Ibid. 68. James Gleeson, Bloody Sunday: How Michael Collins’ Agents Assassinated Britain’s Secret Services in Dublin on November 21, 1920, Londres, Lyons Press, 2004, p. 141. 69. T. Ryle Dwyer, op. cit., p. 188. 70. Les officiers militaires évacuent les rues dublinoises pour rejoindre le Château, espace considéré comme faisant partie de la Grande-Bretagne. 71. Loch K. Johnson, The Oxford Handbook of National Security Intelligence, Oxford et New York, Oxford University Press, 2010, p. 520. 72. J.A. Simpson et E.S.C Weiner, The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edition, Vol. I, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1989, p. 374. 73. W. J. Fitzpatrick, The Sham Squire and the Informers of 1798; with Jottings about Ireland a Century ago, Dublin, M.H. Gillard and Son Ltd, 1869, Appendix “Informers everywhere”, p. 357. 74. Peter Edwards, op. cit., p. 226. 75. Loch K. Johnson, op. cit., p. 519. 76. J.A. Simpson, op. cit., Vol. IV, p. 972.

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77. Ibid. 78. Peter Edwards, op. cit., p. 104-106. 79. W. J. Fitzpatrick, op. cit., p. 375. 80. Owen McGee, op. cit.,p. 3. 81. T. Ryle Dwyer, op. cit., p. 221. 82. Henri Le Caron, 25 Years in the Secret Service, the Recollection of a Spy, Londres, Wakefield E. P. Publishing, 1974, p. 56. 83. Ben Macintyre, A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal, Londres, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2014, quatrième de couverture. 84. James Gleeson, op. cit., p. 15. 85. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 8. 86. Sean Kavanagh, op. cit., p. 354-367. 87. Ibid. 88. Ibid. 89. Denis McCarthy, op. cit, chp16TheEndofBritishRule 90. David Neligan, op. cit., p. 124. 91. Ryle Dwyer, op. cit., p. 14 92. John Borgonovo, Spies, Informers and the ‘Anti-Sinn Féin Society’- the Intelligence War in Cork City 1920-1921, Irish Academic Press, Dublin, 2007. 93. Paul McMahon, op. cit., p. 45. 94. Ibid., p. 8-9.

RÉSUMÉS

Entre 1880 et 1922, le Château de Dublin se transforme : le quartier général des deux forces de police de la ville (la Dublin Metropolitan Police et la Royal Irish Constabulary) devient celui d’un service de renseignement officiel. Cette évolution répond à celle de la menace à laquelle il doit faire face en tant que symbole concret de la Couronne. En effet, après les violentes attaques des Fenians, groupe surveillé de près par la police, le Château devient la cible des agents doubles de Michael Collins qui l’infiltrent. Le Château est ainsi le théâtre de nombreux actes de trahison dans le jeu engagé entre l’observateur et l’observé et joue un rôle clé dans les relations anglo- irlandaises. Cet article tente, à travers l’étude du Château de Dublin, de démontrer que la professionnalisation des méthodes d’espionnage transforme les traîtres d’alors en agents doubles, mais que le sort qui leur est réservé en cas d’interception reste le même : la mort.

From 1880 to 1922, Dublin Castle evolved from the HQs of the two police forces of the city (the Dublin Metropolitan Police and the Royal Irish Constabulary) to the house of the first official secret service department. In fact, this evolution corresponded to that of the Fenians (a group closely watched by the police forces) whose attacks became more and more violent. But was the change in the Castle function really answering the changes taking place in the republican

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movements? From 1916 onwards, the Castle was targeted and infiltrated by Michael Collins’s double agents. Thus, the Castle stood as a witness to many acts of treason in the game of espionage and played a key role in the Anglo-Irish relations. This article intends to demonstrate that, with the professionalization of the secret services in Dublin, traitors became double agents, yet the fate suffered by those who betrayed their cause (if caught red-handed) remained the same death.

INDEX

Keywords : Anglo-Irish relations, diplomacy - secret services, Collins Michael, law and order, spies, military intelligence, Irish nationalism, Irish republicanism Mots-clés : espionnage, Collins Michael, nationalisme irlandais, ordre public, relations anglo- irlandaises, diplomatie - service secrets, renseignement militaire, républicanisme irlandais

AUTEUR

ÉMILIE BERTHILLOT Université Toulouse 2-Jean-Jaurès

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Ireland Among the Nations of the Earth: Ireland’s Foreign Relations from 1923 to 1949

Francis M. Carroll

1 “When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not until then, let my epitaph be written.” These were the stirring words that concluded Robert Emmet’s famous speech from the dock in 1803, and they became a rallying cry for Irish nationalists for over a century. Historians, however, have had a complicated relationship with these sentiments. They have certainly quoted Emmet regularly, and the Irish history they have written, consciously or unconsciously, has been largely a nationalist narrative. Irish history has for the most part focused on the struggle for political, religious, and economic rights, and the emergence of an Irish nation – a nation in the sense of some kind of sovereign entity1. All of this has been important, showing the step-by-step process through which Ireland struggled to obtain self- government and independence and to assert its cultural identity. However, Emmet’s words ask that he be judged “when his country takes her place among the nations of the earth”, and that is literally a somewhat different narrative – Ireland within the international community. A sampling of the leading histories of Ireland illustrates the point. The general histories by F.S.L. Lyons, Roy Foster, Alvin Jackson, and Thomas Bartlett, and the twentieth-century histories by J.J. Lee and Diarmaid Ferriter devote anywhere from a few lines to only several pages to foreign affairs matters in their substantial books – the , Dominion affairs, diplomatic recognition, and bi-lateral relations. The exceptions to this generalization are the discussions of the land annuities-trade dispute with Britain in the 1930s, the issues surrounding the treaty ports, and Irish neutrality in the Second World War2. It is the thesis of this article that foreign affairs, although seriously studied only in the last thirty years and almost exclusively by diplomatic historians, have also been a major part of the emergence of the Irish state and should be integrated into the national narrative3.

2 It is surprising to be reminded that Dermot Keogh’s classic work, Ireland & Europe, 1919-1948, was published as recently as 1988, and Michael Kennedy’s Ireland and the

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League of Nations, 1919-1946 came out only in 1996. Happily, other historical monographs have followed4. Part of the credit for this has been the consolidation in the late 1980s and early 1990s of the old Public Record Office at the Four Courts and the State Paper Office at Dublin Castle into a new National Archives of Ireland on Bishop’s Street. This was major structural change in the management of Irish government records, and, together with the release of manuscript material from the Department of Foreign Affairs and the Department of the , it has opened the door to serious research on foreign relations5. Equally important has been the publication of a monumental series of Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, undertaken jointly by the Department of Foreign Affairs and the Royal Irish Academy. Volume one, 1919 to 1922, came out in 1998 and the series is now up to volume nine, 1948-1951. The original editors were Ronan Fanning, of University College Dublin; Michael Kennedy, from the Royal Irish Academy; Dermot Keogh, from ; and Eunan O’Halpin, from Trinity College; and they were guided by an Advisory Board that included representatives from the Department of Foreign Affairs and the National Archives. The publication of this series of Documents on Irish Foreign Policy places Ireland in line with many other nation states, led by the United States, in making available to the public printed copies of the most important documents shaping their countries’ foreign relations. Of course, historians demand more than official publications and government documents to write history according to contemporary standards, but together with the manuscript materials available in the National Library of Ireland and particularly the University College Dublin archives, containing the papers of several members of W.T. Cosgrave’s government and more recently the de Valera papers, the opportunity now exists for sophisticated research and writing about Ireland’s early diplomatic relations with the international community6.

3 Of course, it should be acknowledged that Ireland had something of an international presence while still an integral part of the British Empire. The history of the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is closely tied to the numerous Irish links to the European continent. The Catholic Church was a consistent link and every major power in Europe had in its service at least one Irish regiment made up of exiles and adventurers defying English claims to allegiance. The bicentennial of the Rising of 1798 generated extraordinary studies of the French connection during the Revolution, and of course the Fenians in the 1860s have been the subject of steady interest in the US and Canada as well as in Ireland. Jérôme aan de Wiel’s new book, The Irish Factor, 1899-1919: Ireland’s Strategic and Diplomatic Importance for Foreign Powers, has shed new light on how much Ireland was taken into account in international relations during the early years of the twentieth century7. Studies of the Home Rule Crisis of 1912-1914, the 1916 Rising, the Irish efforts at the Peace Conference of 1919, the Anglo-Irish War, and particularly Eamon de Valera’s trip to the United States in 1919 and 1920, have all contained an international component. Various Irish nationalist groups, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, for example, attempted to open contacts with foreign countries (Germany, primarily), and the First and Second Dáil Éireann governments set up a putative Ministry of Foreign Affairs (second in expenditures to military affairs)8. The centennials of the First World War and the 1916 Rising will unquestionably stimulate historians to consider these international questions with fresh documents and new insights.

4 It was the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921 that gave Ireland a crucial element of credibility for international purposes. The Anglo-Irish Treaty established the twenty-six counties

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of southern Ireland as a “Dominion,” which was to be called the and remain a member of the British Empire, soon to be referred to as the British Commonwealth of Nations. The King remained the head of state and an oath of allegiance to the sovereign was required. These concessions seriously divided those Irish who had fought for an . These divisions led to the outbreak of the Civil War in June of 1922, which was not put down until May of 1923, during which time the government of the new Irish Free State came into being. The divisions within Irish society colored Irish public life for several generations and determined the context within which the Irish foreign affairs were to be shaped during the next twenty-five years9.

5 Ignoring the shortcomings of the Anglo-Irish Treaty, what did “Dominion status” mean for the Irish Free State? Was Ireland still a colony or was it independent? This was a fair question. In 1921, 1922, and 1923 it was not entirely clear10. Canada was the first dominion, being given “Dominion status” in 1867. This had provided Canada with complete political independence, but then Canada had been comfortable with membership in the British Empire and the Commonwealth and to some extent looked to Britain for protection. However, during the First World War the now several dominions made substantial contributions to the war effort, as a result of which they, and even Canada, expected some input into the decision making process. This was facilitated through the creation of an Imperial War Cabinet – meetings of the British and dominion Prime Ministers on a near equal basis. Thus, although the Dominions had been brought into the war by the decision of the British government, it was highly significant that they individually signed the Versailles Treaty ending the war. The dominions also entered the new League of Nations separately with other sovereign nations, rather than merely as part of a British delegation. So by 1922 and 1923, despite the acknowledgement of the King as the head of state and affiliation with Great Britain, the dominions enjoyed the status and practice of nation states – international legal persons11.

6 When the Irish Free State came into being in December 1922 it already had the makings of both a diplomatic service and a foreign policy. The Dáil governments had sent substantial missions to Washington and Paris and envoys to Germany, Spain, Italy, and the Vatican. Joseph P. Walshe, Timothy Smiddy, Michael MacWhite, Sean Lester, John Chartres, and Charles Bewley succeeded to positions in the Free State diplomatic service, having started out representing the Dáil government12. Count Plunkett was the first Dáil Minister of Foreign Affairs, followed eventually by George Gavan Duffy, who in turn was succeeded in July 1922 by Desmond FitzGerald, who then became the first Free State Minister for External Affairs in December 1922. The thrust of the Dáil foreign policy had been primarily to obtain diplomatic recognition from the international community as a weapon to force Britain to concede Irish independence. In the aftermath of the Anglo-Irish Treaty and the Civil War, the Free State government had somewhat more complex needs. It still had to establish itself among the international community of nations, and it also had to demonstrate to both its domestic constituency and the overseas emigrant community that the Irish Free State was a sovereign state. To that end it was obliged to focus on “identity, legitimacy, symbolism, [and] status”, in the words of Conor Cruise O’Brien, an early commentator on foreign affairs. The Free State, under the government of William T. Cosgrave, as Michael Kennedy has pointed

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out, pursued three tracks to establish its international presence: League of Nations policy, Commonwealth policy, and bi-lateral relations13.

7 Membership in the League of Nations was the first track to yield results. Although warmly discussed by the Provisional government during the second half of 1922, a formal application was not submitted to the League secretariat until 17 April 1923. The Irish Free State was admitted to the Assembly of the League at the next meeting in Geneva on 10 September 1923. President of the Executive Council William T. Cosgrave personally led the Irish delegation and addressed the Assembly. Within ten days the Irish delegation began work to have the Anglo-Irish Treaty registered as an “international engagement”, with the intention of securing world recognition of the document as the basis for the Irish state. Furthermore, just below the surface was the thought that the Irish government could turn to the Permanent Court of International Justice for a resolution of the boundary question if the Boundary Commission authorized in the Treaty did not work out. The British government wrote to the League Secretary General that the document was a domestic agreement, but the Treaty was registered nonetheless.14 This action was the first of several steps taken at the League to distinguish the Irish Free State from Great Britain and to give the Irish delegation a high profile in Geneva. As well as serving on various committees, Ireland took an increasingly prominent role among the smaller nations in the League. Ireland distinguished itself in 1926 by standing for election by the Assembly to the League Council in opposition to the slate of candidates based on geographical representation; in 1927 Ireland strongly supported the election of Canada to the Council; and in 1930 Ireland successfully won election to a seat on the Council itself for the important three years of 1930 to 193315. These gestures were effective assertions of independence as both a small nation and a Dominion, prompting Patrick McGilligan, the Minister of External Affairs, to say, “we are recognized at Geneva as one of the main upholders of the complete independence of the smaller States16…” Historians such as John P. McCarthy have downplayed the importance of Irish participation in League affairs, which with the benefit of hindsight may be true, but at the time the League was the great hope for the future17. These activities were matters of great importance for Ireland’s standing in the international community.

8 The formation of a Fianna Fáil government in 1932 projected Eamon de Valera into prominence as both President of the Executive Council and Minister of External Affairs. De Valera pursued policies at the League similar to those of Cosgrave, but de Valera was presented with a far better platform when Ireland was given the rotating Presidency of the League Council and made Acting President of the Assembly. Although de Valera had been critical of the League in 1919, in his opening speech to the Assembly on 26 September 1932 he supported the League and wanted it to work to protect small nations through collective security, but he recognized that to be effective the League Covenant had to be enforced and member states had to fulfill their obligations. De Valera warned that world opinion was losing faith in the capacity of the League to protect peace and stability. “People are complaining that the League is devoting its activity to matters of secondary or very minor importance, while the vital international problems of the day… are being shelved or postponed or ignored”, de Valera told the Assembly18. His frank language went beyond the usual diplomatic platitudes and earned him stature as a statesman at home and enhanced Ireland’s reputation as an international force to be taken seriously. This was particularly important because de Valera still carried something of the stigma of an irresponsible rebel19. During the

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Manchurian crisis in 1932 and the Abyssinian crisis of 1934-1936, de Valera warned that the League must take action to enforce international law and preserve peace20. The League, of course, became increasingly side-tracked as a collective security organization as the international situation in Europe and the Far East deteriorated in the late 1930s. Ironically, de Valera was elected to the Presidency of the League Assembly in 1938, just as Adolph Hitler was threatening Czechoslovakia, although by that time he had concluded that Ireland must look to its own resources and to a policy of strict neutrality in the coming conflict in Europe. De Valera had to admit to the Dáil as early as 1936 that the League “does not command our confidence21”.

9 The second avenue for Irish Free State objectives in the 1920s was its Commonwealth policy. Of course for anti-Treaty nationalists, membership in the Commonwealth itself was proof positive that the Irish Free State was still a colony. Nevertheless, Cosgrave led a delegation to the Imperial Conference in London on 1 October 1923 and was warmly welcomed. He found a situation in which the delegations from South Africa and Canada were also determined to assert sovereignty and independence within the Commonwealth. During the 1926 Imperial Conference the Irish delegation worked closely with the South Africans and Canadians to produce a statement of what was by then the working relationship between Britain and the Dominions. These efforts emerged in the so-called Balfour Declaration, stating that Great Britain and the Dominions were “equal in status, in no way subordinate one to another in any of their domestic or external affairs22…” The conclusion was that these communities were united only by a common loyalty to the Crown. This was a remarkably clear statement of the functioning sovereignty and independence of the Dominions, giving rise to the famous quip by Kevin O’Higgins in response to the claim by the South African premier that the Dominions had brought home the bacon, yes, “Irish bacon23”. The possibility of legislative supremacy was also removed by the Statute of Westminster in 1931, which revoked nineteenth century legislation that gave Parliament the power to invalidate laws passed by colonial assemblies (similar to the Declaratory Acts of the 18th century) and acknowledged the claims in the Balfour Declaration that the Dominion legislatures were independent from any legislation passed by the British Parliament. Patrick McGilligan could tell the Dáil that “the system which it took centuries to build up had been brought to an end by four years of assiduous collaboration between the lawyers and the statement of the States of the Commonwealth24”. The Cosgrave government committed itself to making the Commonwealth work for Ireland’s advantage, and in a lawyerly manner the door was opened for a re-thinking of the relationship between the Irish Free State and Great Britain25. Once again de Valera was the beneficiary of the Cosgrave government’s accomplishments. When he came to power in 1932, de Valera could claim on the basis of the Balfour Declaration and the Statute of Westminster that the Irish legislature had the power to amend and change the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty and the constitution of the Irish Free State26.

10 Bi-lateral relations were still the third way the Irish Free State could pursue its independence. As mentioned before, the First and Second Dáil governments had worked very actively to devise a foreign policy that sought international recognition and had created the beginnings of a diplomatic service that was serving in several missions abroad when the Irish Free State came into existence. However, in 1922 and 1923 no Dominion had actual diplomatic relations with a foreign power. Was this possible? During the First World War the Canadian government felt the need for direct relations with the United States and subsequently worked out the protocols with both

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the British and the American governments, although no immediate appointment was made27. Acting on this Canadian initiative, the Free State government arranged for Timothy A. Smiddy to be received as Irish Minister to the United States on 7 October 1924. This was the first Dominion diplomat accredited in a foreign capital, and its realization was in the view of the acting secretary of the Department of External Affairs, “the main accomplishment of our foreign relations28”. The United States had established consular offices in Dublin, Cork, and Belfast, two of them since the 1790s, and on 27 July 1927 the career diplomat Frederick A. Sterling opened the US Legation. This was an elaborate ceremony in Dublin, as Sterling was met in Dún Laoghaire by President Cosgrave and taken in a cavalcade with military escort to present his credentials to the Governor-General, all of which was fully covered by the newspapers and the motion picture newsreels29.

11 Ireland had consulates and trade missions in Boston, New York, and San Francisco in the US and several European cities--legacies from the Dáil efforts to secure recognition during the Anglo-Irish War. In 1929 Count Gerald O’Kelly de Gallagh was appointed Minister to France, Charles A. Binchy Minister to Germany, and Charles Bewley Minister to the Vatican, and Legations were opened in the next decade in Belgium, Spain, Italy, Canada, Switzerland, and Portugal. The promotion of trade and tourism was a significant part of the duties of these diplomats, but even more important was the task of sending a message to the international community, as well as to the Irish communities at home and abroad, that Ireland had taken her place among the nations of the earth. Diplomatic relations were seen as the hallmark of sovereignty. As Desmond Fitzgerald, the Minister of External Affairs asserted on the eve of recognition by the United States, recognition “means we, as a sovereign State, speak directly to other sovereign States through our own fully-accredited Plenipotentiary30”. To drive home this message, Cosgrave undertook a very public visit to the United States and Canada in January 1928, in which he visited and spoke to Irish groups in Chicago, Philadelphia, New York, and Ottawa. The highlight of his trip was a luncheon with President Calvin Coolidge in Washington and ceremonies in both the Senate and the House of Representatives. Here was the head of an Irish government meeting with the President of the United States in the White House and with political leaders in Congress, all of which was reported in newspapers and motion picture newsreels in Ireland and abroad. Partially as a result of this visit, Cosgrave also went to Paris to sign the Kellogg-Briand Peace Pact on 27 August 1928, and he accompanied Secretary of State Frank B. Kellogg back to Dublin for a highly publicized official visit, the first visit to Ireland by a senior American statesman31. This was an extraordinary compliment to Ireland because Kellogg was only the third Secretary of State to visit Europe while in office.

12 The Irish Free State made tremendous strides in establishing itself as independent at the League of Nations, through the several Commonwealth meetings, and through international diplomacy. Even de Valera was obliged to acknowledge privately that, “They [the Cosgrave government] had done a magnificent job32”. When Eamon de Valera came into office in 1932 he took the External Affairs portfolio himself. He also retained Joseph P. Walshe as Secretary of External Affairs, thus maintaining continuity in shaping a professional foreign service, but Irish foreign affairs were given a new focus. Commonwealth participation, in which Ireland had been very active, was de- emphasized and overseas relations, such as with the United States, became less central. De Valera had more ambitious plans for changing Ireland’s bi-lateral relations with

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Britain, which became a central theme of de Valera’s foreign and domestic policies and which he could do legally on the strength of the Balfour Declaration and the Statute of Westminster33. Relations with Britain were initially strained by de Valera’s decision to retain the land annuities payments – effectively the repayment of the earlier loans to enable Irish farmers to purchase land from landlords. In retaliation the British government placed import duties on Irish cattle and dairy products, leading to a six- year trade dispute. Paralleling these matters, de Valera began work revising the constitution of the Irish Free State, abolishing the Oath of Allegiance to the King, diminishing the role of the Governor-General, and later dissolving the Senate. The abdication of King Edward VIII in December of 1936 also provided the opportunity to remove reference to the King and the Governor-General in the existing constitution. The king retained a role in the appointment of Irish diplomats and Ireland remained a member of the Commonwealth. Following talks between de Valera and Malcolm MacDonald, the Dominion Secretary, in London on 14 January 1937, the door was opened for a settlement of the land annuities and other issues. By spring of 1937 de Valera had put together a new constitution that, among other things, confirmed the changed relationship with Britain, provided for an elected President, and created a new Seanad. Ireland was effectively independent from Great Britain and with a tenuous connection to the Empire and the Commonwealth. De Valera’s statement in the Dáil in April of 1935 was becoming a fact: “Though we are in the British Commonwealth to-day we are not of it34.” Ireland was an independent republic in all but name, as many have said, albeit without the six counties of Northern Ireland.

13 Although the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s reputation is forever colored by his unsuccessful dealings with Adolph Hitler and his failure to get Britain in a state of readiness to meet the war crisis in the late 1930s, it must be said that his policy of “appeasement” toward the Irish was a success. In February 1938 agreement was reached resolving the annuities question through a single payment to Britain of £10,000,000 and the extension to Ireland of preferential trade access to British markets and the restoration of the bases at Cobh, Lough Swilly, and Berehaven, held by the Royal Navy under the Anglo-Irish Treaty. The settlement of these issues was a major accomplishment in terms of both normalizing Ireland’s bi-lateral relations with Britain and enhancing Ireland’s independence on the eve of the war35. The return of the naval bases particularly had two important consequences for Ireland. First, it allowed Ireland to be neutral and to stay out of the war in a way that would have been quite impossible if Royal Navy ships had been sailing from several ports in Éire. Second, it ensured a degree of domestic tranquility during the war by removing a series of targets that would have been irresistible to the IRA.

14 As the 1930s unfolded, the international situation darkened. The ominous shadow of war spread across Asia, Africa, and Europe, and international relations took on a more life-and-death urgency. Moreover, as the League of Nations declined, de Valera had to deal with more dangerous international problems36. Neutrality, one area of foreign policy that has been closely examined by historians, became the deliberate choice by the de Valera government and appears to have been widely supported throughout the country. “Neutrality has given the people more faith in what the Government has achieved for the independence of this country than any other act of theirs”, Joseph P. Walshe, Secretary of the Department of External Affairs37 wrote . Indeed, it has been argued that joining the Allies would have divided the country, revived the IRA, and brought civil war back to Ireland. Although de Valera seems to have had no misgivings

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about his decision to keep Ireland out of the war, he came under intense pressure to join the Allies from the two foreign powers that were most important to Ireland – Britain and the United States38. British Prime Minister ’s veiled assurance that if Ireland entered the war the partition would be ended was turned down by de Valera, and strong urgings by American Minister David Gray and other officials were also rebuffed. Indeed, the mission of , Minister of Defence, to the United States in April of 1941 to appeal directly to President Roosevelt for military aid met with a very frosty reception. When Aiken indicated that Ireland needed weapons to defend against an invasion by the British, Roosevelt said, “Nonsense… England is not going to invade you. It’s a preposterous suggestion39.” Bi-lateral relations between Ireland and the United States reached an all-time low in 1944 with Gray’s strongly worded note that the German and Japanese missions be closed40. In terms of practical politics, however, Ireland’s neutrality was practiced in ways that were highly beneficial to the Allies – more “non-belligerency” than impartial neutrality. Atlantic weather reports and the movement of ships in coastal waters were broadcast in English, anti-submarine flights were given permission to over-fly Irish territory, Allied prisoners were well treated and allowed to “escape” across the border, and thousands of Irish were free to join the British forces or work in British war industries41. More confidentially, Irish police and military intelligence and the Irish Ministry for External Affairs worked closely with British intelligence and the Dominions Office to insure that no clandestine German activity could take place and that no security breaches jeopardized Allied operations, such as the Normandy invasion. Early in the crisis extended plans were developed with the British about what joint operations could be mounted if the Germans did invade42. That said, de Valera maintained highly public relations with the German Legation, to the extent of paying his condolences on 2 May 1945 on the death of Adolph Hitler – what Dermot Keogh considers to have been “the worst decision of his sixteen-year term as Minister of External Affairs43”. This infuriated the Allies, led to Churchill’s public criticism of Ireland in the course of his victory speech, and served to isolate Ireland in the post-war era. It should be said that de Valera’s measured reply to Churchill in a radio speech won him great praise in Ireland, but probably less so in Britain and the United States. However, this gesture did highlight the degree to which Ireland had pursued a foreign policy distinctly independent from that of Great Britain and the United States. “Neutrality”, Patrick Keatinge concluded, was “the ultimate proof of sovereignty44…” No one could doubt Ireland’s sovereignty or independence.

15 The Second World War ended with Ireland’s independence well demonstrated, but with the avenues of its early foreign policy in disarray and destined to get worse. The League of Nations had been overtaken by the events of the war and rendered irrelevant. The closing meeting of the Assembly was held in April of 1946. In the meantime the had held its organizational meeting in San Francisco in May of 1945 and its first meeting of the General Assembly in November. The United Nations had looked like a victors’ club to many in the Irish Ministry of External Affairs and no effort had been made to be included in the early organization of the association45. When Ireland did apply for membership in the summer of 1946 (“without enthusiasm”, in the words of Conor Cruise O’Brien) the application was vetoed by the Soviets46.

16 Commonwealth relations might have offered a means of maintaining workable links with similar countries, but Ireland had distanced itself from the Commonwealth both before and during the war47. In the February 1948 general elections a coalition

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government headed by John A. Costello of the Fine Gael replaced that of Eamon de Valera after sixteen years. Sean MacBride, who had been IRA Chief of Staff in 1936, but who had formed his own constitutional party called Clann na Poblachta, was made Minister for External Affairs. In the following July both MacBride and Costello made public statements that Éire was not a member of the Commonwealth, McBride repeating three times in the Dáil that, “We are clearly not part of the British Commonwealth. We are clearly a sovereign and independent state48”. Nevertheless, Costello went off to a meeting of Commonwealth Prime Ministers in Ottawa in September 1948. Historians are still probing the subsequent sequence of events and the matters of cause and effect49. On 5 September the Dublin Sunday Independent reported that the External Relations Act – the link with the Crown – would be repealed. Two days later, on 7 September, while in Ottawa, Costello confirmed that the legislation would be “ditched”, and back in Dublin MacBride and colleagues began drafting legislation to repeal the External Relations Act. This became the Bill 1948 which broke the Commonwealth connection and changed the name of the country from Éire to the Republic of Ireland. MacBride and others had made no secret of their sentiments about a republic and about the Commonwealth, but had the Cabinet worked out a plan earlier in the summer? Or had Costello been so angered by the imperious manner of Lord Alexander of Tunis, the Governor-General of Canada and the host at the Ottawa meetings, that he impetuously went ahead and set in motion the termination of the Commonwealth link and finalized the republican status of Ireland? The British response to these announcements was to withdraw the invitation to Costello to participate in the next Commonwealth Prime Ministers conference and to pass the Northern Ireland Bill 1949, in which Parliament assured Northern Ireland that there would be no change in the status of the province without the consent of the Stormont legislature. This seemed a major blow to the aspirations of both Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael to bring the six counties back into the country50.

17 Bi-lateral relations with the United States, Britain, and even France were at a low point largely because of Ireland’s neutrality policy during the war. Close relations between the Irish legation and the Vichy government during the war proved to be a problem by 1944 and 1945, following the liberation of France51. The opportunity to rebuild ties to the United States was lost in February of 1949 when Ireland was invited to join the North Atlantic Treaty Organization as it was being formed. MacBride insisted that Ireland could join an alliance with Britain only on the condition that the six counties of Northern Ireland were united with the Republic, although by this time the idea of non- alignment, not to mention neutrality, was also a factor52.

18 Looking at the history of the first twenty-five years of independence, it is important to keep in mind that Ireland persistently pursued its own interests through a multi- dimensional foreign policy and met both with brilliant success and discouraging setbacks. From 1923 on Irish governments and their diplomatic service had invested great amounts of time and energy to making a success of international relations.

19 One may or may not agree with Conor Cruise O’Brien’s observation that in its first twenty-five years, “the Irish State played a more momentous and influential part in international affairs than it was ever to play again53”. Ireland had pursued an assertive foreign policy distinct from, if not actually in defiance of, the great powers. Ireland achieved and maintained its independence, but at a cost. Michael Kennedy has claimed that it would take Ireland over a decade “to recover the position she had lost during the

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war”, although of course eventually she did54. The country had an international presence and diplomatic relations with a number of countries, although relations were quite strained with the most important ones – the United States, Britain, and France. What must be kept in mind is that these international matters were an integral part of Ireland’s emergence as a nation state and not just a series of interesting anecdotes. The international history must become part of the national narrative. It has been the process through which Ireland has fulfilled the charge embodied in Robert Emmet’s speech from the dock for Ireland to take her place “among the nations of the earth”. Certainly with the current availability of both manuscript and published documents and a growing body of monographs and special studies, Ireland’s international history will become a central part of an understanding of the emergence of the modern Irish state.

NOTES

1. The title of Lawrence McCaffrey’s widely read textbook, Ireland: From Colony to Nation State, illustrates the point. Lawrence J. McCaffrey, Ireland: From Colony to Nation State (Englewood Cliffs, Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1979). Max Beloff uses the terminology somewhat differently. “It [Ireland] was not in its own view a colony that had achieved self-rule but a subject nation that had at last been recognized, though only in a truncated form.” Max Beloff, Dream of Commonwealth, 1921-42 (Basingstoke, Macmillan Press, Ltd., 1989), p. 77-78. 2. Three major general histories of Ireland are, F.S.L. Lyons, Ireland Since the Famine (London, Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1971); Roy Foster, Modern Ireland, 1600-1972 (London, Allen Lane, 1988); Alvin Jackson, Ireland, 1789-1998 (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 1999); and Thomas Bartlett, Ireland, A History (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2010). The standard works on twentieth century Ireland are, Joseph J. Lee, Ireland, 1912-1985: Politics and Society (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989); and Diarmaid Ferriter, The Transformation of Ireland (Woodstock, The Overlook Press, 2007). Shorter works include, John A. Murphy, Ireland in the Twentieth Century (Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, Ltd., 1975); Ronan Fanning, Independent Ireland (Dublin, Helicon Limited, 1983); and David Harkness, Ireland in the Twentieth Century: Divided Ireland (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, Ltd., 1996). 3. Michael Kennedy warns that it is a mistake to see Ireland exclusively “in insular national terms divorced from concurrent events in Europe and a wider world…” Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations 1919-1946: International Relations, Diplomacy and Politics (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1996), p. 251. 4. Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe, 1919-1948 (Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, 1988); and Michael Kennedy, op. cit.. Two more recent collections of essays are, Michael Kennedy and Joseph Morrison Skelly (eds.), Irish Foreign Policy, 1919-1966: From Independence to Internationalism (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2000); and Ben Tonra, Michael Kennedy, John Doyle and Noel Dorr (eds.), Irish Foreign Policy (Dublin, Gill & Macmillan, 2012).

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5. Gerard O’Brien, Irish Governments and the Guardianship of Historical Records, 1922-72 (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2004). The Royal Irish Academy also began publication of the journal, Irish Studies in International Affairs, in 1979, focused on both international relations and history. 6. Extensive new biographies of both Cosgrave and de Valera are needed, but several of the existing studies devote some attention to questions of international relations during their time as the head of government. See Michael Laffan, Judging W.T. Cosgrave: The Foundation of the Irish State (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2014); The Earl of Longford and Thomas P. O’Neill, Eamon De Valera: A Biography (Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1971); and Tim Pat Coogan, De Valera: Long Fellow, Long Shadow (London, Arrow Books, 1995). 7. Jérôme aan de Wiel, The Irish Factor, 1899-1919: Ireland’s Strategic and Diplomatic Importance for Foreign Powers (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 2008). For a good brief account of historic Irish links abroad, see Patrick Keatinge, A Place Among the Nations: Issues of Irish Foreign Policy (Dublin, Institute of Public Administration, 1978), p. 9-63. Also useful is Stephen Hartley, The Irish Question as a Problem in British Foreign Policy, 1914-18 (New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1987). 8. See Charles Callan Tansill, America and the Fight for Irish Freedom, 1866-1922 (New York, Devin-Adair Company, 1957); Alan J. Ward, Ireland and Anglo-American Relations, 1899-1921 (London, Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1969); and Francis M. Carroll, American Opinion and the Irish Question, 1910-23 (Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, 1978 and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1978). For Irish and Irish-American activity at the Paris Peace Conference, see Francis M. Carroll (ed.), The American Commission on Irish Independence, 1919: The Diary, Correspondence and Report (Dublin, Irish Manuscript Commission, 1985); and Pierre Ranger, “The World in Paris and Ireland too: The French Diplomacy of Sinn Féin, 1919-1921”, Études irlandaises, vol. 36, no. 2 (2011), pp. 39-57. For de Valera’s mission to the United States, see Patrick McCartan, With De Valera in America (Dublin, Fitzpatrick, Ltd., 1932); Katherine O’Doherty, Assignment America: De Valera’s Mission to the United States (New York, De Tanko Publishers, 1957); and Dave Hannigan, De Valera in America: The Rebel President’s 1919 Campaign (Dublin, O’Brien Press, 2008). 9. See F.S.L. Lyons, Ireland Since the Famine, J.J. Lee, Ireland, 1912-1985, and Diarmaid Ferriter, The Transformation of Ireland. 10. For discussions of what “Dominion status” meant in the 1920s see, A. Lawrence Lowell, “The Treaty-Making Power of Canada,” Foreign Affairs, vol. 2, no. 1 (1923/24), 12-22; Herbert A. Smith, “Diplomacy and International Status,” Canadian Bar Review, vol. 2, no. 4 (April, 1924), 231-41; and Ciphos .D. Allin, “Recent Developments in the Constitutional and International Status of British Dominions”, Minnesota Law Review, vol. 10, no. 100 (1925-26), p. 100-22. 11. Some of these same issues are raised by Nicholas Mansergh in “Ireland and the British Commonwealth of Nations: The Dominion Settlement”, in Desmond Williams (ed.), The Irish Struggle, 1916-1926 (London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966), p. 129-39; and Roy E. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, 1918-39 (London, Macmillan Press, 1981), p. 1-23. 12. Patrick Keatinge, “The Formative Years of the Irish Diplomatic Service,” Eire-Ireland, vol. 6, no. 1 (Fall, 1971), p. 57-71; Dermet Keogh, op. cit., p. 5-33. Short sketches of the early Irish diplomats now exist in the Dictionary of Irish Biography, but more extensive

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works are Aengus Nolan, Joseph Walshe: Irish Foreign Policy, 1922-1946 (Cork: Mercier Press, 2008); Dermot Keogh, “Profile of Joseph Walshe, Secretary, Department of Foreign Affairs, 1922-1946”, Irish Studies in International Affairs, vol. 3, no. 2 (1990), 59-80; Douglas Gageby, The Last Secretary General: Sean Lester and the League of Nations (Dublin, Town House, 2000); Paul McNamara, Sean Lester, Poland and the Nazi Takeover of Danzig (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 2008); Brian P. Murphy, John Chartres: Mystery Man of the Treaty (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1991); Charles Bewley, Memoirs of a Wild Goose (Dublin, Lilliput Press, 1989); and Andreas Roth, Mr. Bewley in : Aspects of the Career of an Irish Diplomat, 1933-1939 (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2000). 13. Conor Cruise O’Brien, “Ireland in International Affairs”, in Owen Dudley Edwards (ed.), Conor Cruise O’Brien Introduces Ireland (London, Andre Deutsch, 1969), p. 104; Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, op. cit., p. 13; and Gerard Keown, “Taking the World Stage: Creating an Irish Foreign Policy in the 1920s”, in Ben Tonra, Michael Kennedy, John Doyle and Noel Dorr (eds), op. cit., p. 25-43. 14. Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, op. cit., p. 27-72. Cosgrave is sometimes held to a statement made in June of 1922 while Minister of Local Government in the Provisional Government, that he regarded foreign affairs as important only as it related to commercial activity, although when he assumed the Presidency of the Executive Council of the Free State he took quite a large role in Ireland’s external affairs. George Gavan Duffy to W.T. Cosgrave, 20 June 1922, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume I, 1919 to 1922 (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 1998), p. 467. 15. Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, op. cit., p. 129-88. 16. Dáil Éireann deb., vol. 39, col. 1281; 1 July 1931. 17. For his less enthusiastic view of the League of Nations, see John P. McCarthy, Kevin O’Higgins: Builder of the Irish State (Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 2006), p. 233-34. 18. Norman MacQueen, “Éamon de Valera, the Irish Free State, and the League of Nations, 1919-46”, Eire-Ireland, vol. 17, no. 4 (Winter, 1982), p. 110-27. For the text of his speech to the League of Nations Assembly on 26 September 1932, see “League of Nations – The Testing Time”, in Maurice Moynihan (ed.), Speeches and Statements by Eamon De Valera, 1917-1973 (Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, 1980), p. 219-23. 19. Kennedy notes that de Valera “developed a high profile at the League and was soon renowned as a statesman of world repute”. Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, op. cit., p. 162 and 189-225. 20. De Valera was chairman of the Council session that accepted the Lytton Report on Manchuria and despite considerable support for Italy in Ireland voted for sanctions against Italy over that country’s invasion of Abyssinia. In a speech to the League, de Valera said, “Make no mistake, if on any pretext whatever we were to permit the sovereignty of even the weakest state among us to be unjustly taken away, the whole foundation of the League would crumble into dust.” Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe, op. cit., p. 57-61. For the text of de Valera’s speech to the Dáil on 18 June 1936 on the League’s failure to deal with the Abyssinian crisis, and for his the text of his speech to the League Assembly on 2 July 1936 on the same topic, see “Failure of the League of Nations”, and “Bitter Humiliation”, in Maurice Moynihan (ed.), Speeches and Statements by Eamon De Valera, op. cit., p. 273-77 and 282-85. 21. Patrick Keatinge, The Formulation of Irish Foreign Policy (Dublin: Institute for Public Administration, 1973), p. 24. Also see, Michael Kennedy, “The Irish Free State and the

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League of Nations, 1922-32: The Wider Implications”, Irish Studies in International Affairs, vol. 3, no. 4 (1992), 9-23; Stephen Barcroft, “Irish Foreign Policy at the League of Nations, 1929-1936”, Irish Studies in International Affairs, vol. 1, no. 1 (1979), 19-29; and Norman MacQueen, “Eamon de Valera, the Irish Free State, and the League of Nations, 1919-46”, op. cit., p. 110-27. For the text of de Valera’s radio message to the United States through the League broadcasting studio in Geneva on 25 September 1938 on the Sudeten crisis, see “Peace or War?” in Maurice Moynihan (ed.), Speeches and Statement of Eamon De Valera, op. cit., p. 355-58. 22. Memorandum of Joseph P. Walshe on External Affairs and the Imperial Conference, 1 June 1927, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume III, 1926-1932 (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2002), p. 129-31; and David Harkness, The Restless Dominion: The Irish Free State and the British Commonwealth of Nations, 1921-31 (New York, New York University Press, 1969), p. 87-134. 23. Terence de Vere White, Kevin O’Higgins (, Anvil Books, 1966), p. 223. For the constructive role of Kevin O’Higgins at the 1926 Imperial conference, see McCarthy, Kevin O’Higgins, pp. 234-37. John P. Deidre McMahon dismisses much of the Commonwealth discussion of Dominion status with the phrase “a lot of cloudy waffle about indivisible crowns and indissoluble unity”, but Donal Lowry makes a strong argument for the lasting importance of the Commonwealth connection for Ireland. See Deidre McMahon, “Ireland, the Empire, and the Commonwealth”, in Kevin Kenny (ed.), Ireland and the British Empire (New York, Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 221; and Donal Lowry, “The Captive Dominion: Imperial Realities Behind Irish Diplomacy, 1922-49”, Irish Historical Studies, vol. 36, no. 142 (November, 2008), p. 202-26. 24. Dáil Éireann deb., vol. 39, col. 2291, 16 July 1931. 25. Roy E. Holland commented that the early Irish Free State representatives were not “revolutionaries” so much as “good liberals implementing a program of efficient government”. Roy E. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, op. cit., p. 53-67 and 153. Deirdre McMahon observed about the Cosgrave government’s “achievements on the international stage, particularly in the shaping of the Commonwealth, were distinguished but fatally lacked public appeal”. Deirdre McMahon, Republicans and Imperialists: Anglo-Irish Relations in the 1930s (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1984), p. 2. Also see David Harkness, The Restless Dominion, op. cit., p. 173-248; and Nicholas Mansergh, “Ireland and the British Commonwealth of Nations: The Dominion Settlement”, op. cit., p. 129-39. For the Irish view of the Statute of Westminster, see Press Statement by Patrick McGilligan on the Statute of Westminster, 11 December 1931, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume III, 1926-1832, p. 883-84. 26. Ronan Fanning, Independent Ireland, op. cit., p. 111-20; and Roy F. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, op. cit., p. 152-66. 27. For Canadian negotiations to establish diplomatic relations with the United States see, H. Gordon Skilling, Canadian Representation Abroad: From Agency to Embassy (Toronto, Ryerson Press, 1945), p. 200-16; C.P. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict: The Mackenzie King Era, 1921-1948 (Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1981) vol. II, p. 89-97; and John Hilliker, Canada’s Department of External Affairs: The Early Years, 1909-1946 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990), vol. I, p. 81 and 111-13. 28. Joseph P. Walshe to the Private Secretary of the Minister of Justice, 21 October 1924, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume II, 1923-1924 (Dublin, Irish Royal Academy, 2000), p. 360.

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29. Bernadette Whelan, United States Foreign Policy and Ireland: From Empire to Independence, 1913-29 (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2006), pp. 346-526; and Troy D. Davis, “Diplomacy as Propaganda: The Appointment of T.A. Smiddy as Irish Free State Minister to the United States”, Eire-Ireland, vol. 31, nos. 3 & 4 (Winter, 1996), 117-29. The Secretary of the Department of External Affaires, Joseph P. Walshe, wrote to the Minister of Justice shortly after Smiddy had presented his credentials in Washington, pointing out that this appointment was “the main accomplishment in our external relations”… He further noted that “America is the only country with which our relations are entirely free and independent from any outside control”, and that these direct bi-lateral took foreign affairs out of the hands of the Foreign Office in London. Joseph P. Walshe to the Private Secretary to the Minister of Justice, 22 October 1924, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume II, 1923-1926, p. 360. 30. Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe, op. cit., p. 23-33; and Dáil Éireann deb., vol. 8, col. 803; 9 July 1924. 31. Bernadette, Whelan, United States Foreign Policy and Ireland, op. cit., p. 556-60; Francis M. Carroll, “The Irish Free State and Public Diplomacy: The First Official Visit of William T. Cosgrave to the United States”, New Hibernia Review, vol. 16, no. 2 (Summer, 2012), p. 77-97; and Francis M. Carroll, “Protocol and International Politics, 1928: The Secretary of State Goes to Ireland”, Eire-Ireland, vol. 26, no. 4 (Winter, 1991), 45-57. 32. From an interview with Vivion de Valera by Tim Pat Coogan, in Tim Pat Coogan, De Valera: Long fellow, Long Shadow, op. cit., p. 426. 33. Fanning says that de Valera wanted to “bend the machinery of government to his own purpose, not dismantle it”. However, the combination of international events and de Valera’s own objectives led to profound changes in Irish foreign policy. Ronan Fanning, Independent Ireland, op. cit., p. 109. Also see, Aengus Nolan, Joseph Walshe, op. cit., p. 58-59. 34. Dáil Éireann deb., vol. 55, col. 2276; 10 April 1935; and Alan J. Ward, The Irish Constitutional Tradition: Responsible Government and Modern Ireland, 1782-1992 (Washington, D.C., Catholic University of America Press, 1994), p. 212-95. 35. The first steps in easing the land annuities-trade dispute came in the 1934 coal- cattle agreements. See Paul Canning, British Policy Towards Ireland, 1921-1941 (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1985), p. 121-220; and McMahon, Republicans and Imperialists, p. 157-62 and p. 222-26. For a glimpse of these events from the perspective of de Valera’s role, see Longford and O’Neill, Eamon de Valera: A Biography, p. 273-326; T. Ryle Dwyer, De Valera’s Finest Hour, 1932-1959 (Cork, Mercier Press, 1982), p. 51-114; and Coogan, De Valera, p. 430-60. 36. Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, p. 189-257. De Valera strongly supported Chamberlain in the crisis. 37. Memorandum from Joseph P. Walshe to Eamon de Valera, 1 July 1940, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume VI, 1939-1941 (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2008), p. 271-72. Just a week and a half earlier Walshe had assured de Valera that “Britain’s defeat has been placed beyond all doubt”. Memorandum from Joseph P. Walshe, 21 June 1940, Ibid., p. 249-50. Also see Trevor C. Salmon, Unneutral Ireland: An Ambivalent and Unique Security Policy (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1989), p. 82-119. 38. T. Ryle Dwyer, Irish Neutrality and the USA 1939-47 (Dublin, Gill and Macmillan, 1977), p. 1-23 and 179-200; T. Ryle Dwyer, Guests of the Nation: The Story of Allied and Axis

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Servicemen Interned in Ireland During World War II (Dingle, Brandon Books, 1994), passim; Ian S. Wood, Britain, Ireland and the Second World War (Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 1-19; and John A. Murphy, “Irish Neutrality in Historical Perspective”, in Brian Girvin and Geoffrey Roberts, Ireland and the Second World War, op. cit., p. 7-23. 39. Letter from Robert Brennan to Joseph P. Walshe 10 April 1941, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume VII, 1941-1945 (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2010), p. 44-46; T. Ryle Dwyer, Strained Relations: Ireland at Peace and the USA at War, 1941-45 (Dublin, Gill & Macmillan, 1988), p. 118-54; Paul Bew (ed.), A Yankee in de Valera’s Ireland: The Memoir of David Gray (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2012), passim. Also see Joseph Rosenberg, “The 1941 Mission of Frank Aiken to the United States: An American Perspective”, Irish Historical Studies, vol. 22, no. 86 (September, 1980), p. 162-77; Raymond James Raymond, “David Gray, the Aiken Mission, and Irish Neutrality, 1940-41, Diplomatic History, vol. 9, no. 1 (Winter, 1985), p. 55-71; and Dwyer, Irish Neutrality, p. 107-21. Aiken was understood to have said in Portugal on his way to the United States that Ireland would have no objection to a German victory in the war, and his subsequent courting of Irish- American groups hostile to the Roosevelt administration did not help his mission either. 40. For the provocative request, see Letter from David Gray to Eamon de Valera, “The American Note”, 21 February 1944, Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, Volume VII, 1941-1945, p. 379-80. Also see Troy D. Davis, Dublin’s American Policy: Irish-American Diplomatic Relations, 1945-1952 (Washington, D.C., Catholic University of America Press, 1998), p. 1-28. 41. Thomas E. Hachey, The Rhetoric and Reality of Irish Neutrality”, New Hibernia Review, vol. 6, no. 4 (Winter, 2002), p. 26-43; Trevor C. Salmon, Unneutral Ireland, op. cit., p. 120-54; and Patrick Keatinge, A Singular Stance: Irish Neutrality in the 1980s (Dublin, Institute of Public Administration, 1984), p. 17-24. The exact figures of Irish citizens serving in the British forces seems impossible to determine, but at least 42,665 were identified by the British government, while 165,000 listed Irish addresses for next of kin. The number of Irish citizens who worked in British industries during the war is also difficult to calculate, but the figure may be something between 172,574 and 189,942. See Richard Doherty, “Irish Heroes of the Second World War,” and Tracey Connolly, “Irish Workers in Britain During World War Two”, in Brian Girvin and Geoffrey Roberts (eds.), Ireland and the Second World War (Dublin Four Courts Press, 2000), p. 91-95 and 121-32; and Eunan O’Halpin, Spying on Ireland: British Intelligence and Irish Neutrality During the Second World War (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2008). 42. O’Halpin, ibid.; and Carolle Carter, “Ireland: America’s Neutral Ally, 1939-1941”, Eire- Ireland, vol. 12, no. 1 (Spring, 1977), p. 5-13. For Irish relations with Germany, see, Niall Keogh, Con Cremin: Ireland’s Wartime Diplomat (Cork, Mercier Press, 2008), p. 18-93. For Irish relations with Germany see Michael Kennedy, “Our Men in Berlin: Some Thoughts on Irish Diplomats in Germany, 1929-39”, Irish Studies in International Affairs, vol. 10 (1999), p. 53-70; Mervyn O’Driscoll, Ireland, Germany and the Nazis: Politics and Diplomacy, 1919-1939 (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2004); and John P. Duggan, Neutral Ireland and the Third Reich (Dublin, Gill & Macmillan, 1989). 43. The visit was “was an egregious error in judgment”, Keogh concludes. Keogh, Ireland and Europe, p. 191; Clair Wills, That Neutral Ireland: A Cultural History of Ireland During the Second World War (London, Faber and Faber, 2007), p. 383-422; and Joseph T.

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Carroll, Ireland in the War Years, 1939-1945 (Newton Abbot, David & Charles, 1975), p. 160-79. 44. Patrick Keatinge, “Unequal Sovereigns: The Diplomatic Dimension of Anglo-Irish Relations”, in P.J. Drudy (ed.), Ireland and Britain Since 1922 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 142. In his radio broadcast to the Irish nation on 16 May 1945 de Valera asked why, in a war ostensibly fought to resist aggression and the violation of international law, Churchill, in the moment of victory, would raise the issue of the possible invasion of Éire on the basis of Britain’s national self interest. See “National Thanksgiving”, in Moynihan (ed.), Speeches and Statements of Eamon De Valera, p. 47-77. Although F.S.L. Lyon’s analogy of the watchers in Plato’s cave, observing the shadows of others on the wall, has been strongly criticized, Ireland’s successful neutrality did tend to leave the country outside the most cataclysmic and transformational events of the century. F.S.L. Lyons, Ireland Since the Famine, op. cit., p. 551. 45. Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, p. 247-50; and Troy D. Davis, Dublin’s American Policy, op. cit., p. 29-57. 46. Gerard O’Brien, “Ireland in International Affairs”, op. cit., p. 127. 47. Dermot Keogh shows that the Soviet attitude towards Irish membership in the United Nations was at least partially influenced by Ireland’s neutrality during the war, by the country’s alleged sympathy for the Axis Powers, and by the supposedly “fascist” nature of de Valera’s government. Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe, op. cit., p. 202-05. 48. Dáil Éireann deb., vol. 112, cols. 988, 1019, and 1020; 21 July 1948. 49. Ronan Fanning, Independent Ireland, op. cit., p. 177-80; and J.J. Lee, Ireland, 1910-1985, p. 300-402. 50. Ian McCabe, A Diplomatic History of Ireland, 1948-49: The Republic, the Commonwealth and NATO (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1991), p. 20-96; Ronan Fanning, “The Response of the London and Belfast Governments to the Declaration of the Republic of Ireland, 1948-49”, International Affairs, vol. 58, no. 1 (Winter, 1981-82), p. 95-114; and D.W. Dean, “Final Exit? Britain, Eire, the Commonwealth and the Repeal of the External Relations Act, 1945-1949”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 20, no. 3 (1992), p. 391-418. Lowry shows that de Valera would have kept Ireland in the Commonwealth and in fact consulted with India about membership in the Commonwealth as a republic. Lowry, “The Captive Dominion: Imperial Realities Behind Irish Diplomacy”, p. 223-28. 51. Dermot Keogh notes that by 1945 relations with both France and the United States were strained. However, he concludes that the public exchange between Churchill and de Valera when the war ended did not have any lasting consequences, in part because of a change of government in Britain in July. Keogh, Ireland and Europe, op. cit., p. 182-90 and 190-200; and Dermot Keogh, “Ireland, de Gaulle and World War II”, in Pierre Joannon (ed.), De Gaulle and Ireland (Dublin, Institute of Public Administration, 1991), p. 23-52; and Robert Patterson, “Ireland, Vichy and Post-Liberation France, 1938-50”, in Michael Kennedy and Joseph Morrison Skelly, Irish Foreign Policy, op. cit., p. 96-115. 52. James I. McCabe, A Diplomatic History of Ireland, op. cit., p. 97-148; Paula L. Wylie, Ireland and the cold War: Diplomacy and Recognition, 1949-63, Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 2006; and Davis, Dublin’s American Policy, p. 95-173; and Bernadette Whelan, Ireland and the Marshall Plan, 1947-1957 (Dublin, Four Courts Press, 2000). 53. Gerard O’Brien, “Ireland in International Affairs”, op. cit., p. 108-109. Perhaps a more generous explanation might be found in Lyon’s conclusion, “At the very moment when

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she [Ireland] had achieved stability and full independence, and was ready to take her place in the society of nations, that society dissolved and she was thrown back upon her own meagre resources”. F.S.L. Lyons, Ireland Since the Famine, op. cit., p. 551. 54. Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, op. cit., p. 250. Keogh argues that the view that Ireland was isolated by 1945 is “quite mistaken”, although he is quite critical of the “inexperience and impetuosity” of de Valera’s successors in 1948 and 1949. Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe, op. cit., p. 208 and 211-12. Also see, Thomas E. Hachey, “Nuanced Neutrality and Irish Identity: An Idiosyncratic Legacy”, in Thomas E. Hachey (ed.), Turning Points in Twentieth-Century Irish History (Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 2011), p. 77-102.

ABSTRACTS

Irish foreign relations shaped the process of Ireland’s emergence as a sovereign nation state. The channels through which this independent status were achieved and recognized were membership in the League of Nations, in which Ireland took an increasingly prominent part by the 1930s; Commonwealth affairs, wherein Ireland worked persistently to expand the independent role of the Dominions; and bi-lateral relations, whereby Ireland expeditiously established diplomatic relations with the United States, France, Germany and the Vatican. By the late 1930s Ireland was sufficiently autonomous to pursue a policy of neutrality during the Second World War, despite the involvement of Britain and the rest of the Commonwealth, and by 1949, now as the Republic of Ireland, to unilaterally exit the Commonwealth. Ireland’s foreign policy consolidated its independence.

Les relations internationales ont été au cœur du processus d’émergence de l’Irlande comme état- nation souverain. Les voies par lesquelles cette indépendance fut acquise et reconnue furent l’appartenance à la Société des Nations où l’Irlande a joué un rôle de premier plan dans les années 1930 ; les Affaires du Commonwealth, au sein desquelles l’Irlande oeuvra en permanence pour étendre le degré d’indépendance des Dominions ; et les relations bilatérales qui ont permis à l’Irlande d’établir très rapidement des relations diplomatiques avec les Etats-Unis, la France, l’Allemagne et le Vatican. Avant la fin des années 1930, l’Irlande était suffisamment autonome pour adopter une politique de neutralité pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale en dépit de la participation active de la Grande-Bretagne et du reste du Commonwealth, et pour sortir unilatéralement du Commonwealth en 1949 en tant que république d’Irlande. La politique étrangère irlandaise consolida son indépendance.

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INDEX

Keywords: League of Nations, Irish republicanism, Irish State (Free State), Irish State (Republic of Ireland), Irish neutrality, Ireland - international relations, sovereignty, British Empire Mots-clés: Société des Nations, État irlandais (État libre) , État irlandais (République d’Irlande), Empire britannique, neutralité irlandaise, Irlande - relations internationales, républicanisme irlandais, souveraineté

AUTHOR

FRANCIS M. CARROLL St. John’s College – University of Manitoba

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The subversion of marriage law in Brian Merriman's Cúirt an Mheain Oíche

Anne-Marie O’Connell

1 Ireland in the 18th century had been deprived of its political, religious, cultural and economic freedom. The Irish Earls had been forced into exile after 1692, land had been confiscated, Catholicism prohibited, access to education and public office denied to non-Anglicans. The court poets, who had lost the patronage of the Gaelic nobility, became hedge schoolmasters, but kept writing and circulating verse of haunting beauty lamenting the disappearance of the old Gaelic Order and urging for political action. In those poems called aislingí1, Ireland looked out for a foreign saviour to relieve her from her plight and lamented her state of utter destitution. In such a gloomy context, Brian Merriman, a poet, schoolmaster and mathematician from Clare, wrote a long satire in verse in the form of an aisling. Instead of meeting the personification of captive Ireland urging her sons to rebel against the English oppressor, the poet is dragged by a hideous female bailiff to the fairy court of Queen Aoibheall. There he witnesses a confrontation between a young woman and an old man about the rights of Irish women to sex and marriage.

2 Cúirt an Mheain Oíche has long been considered a social satire about the war of the sexes by allowing the women to have the upper hand in the dispute. This tradition goes back to Aristophanes's Lysistrata (411 BC) or, in Ireland, Domhnall Ó Colmáin's Párliament na mBan, written in1670 or 16972. Using the weakest members of society, namely women or fools, would tone down the severity of the political or social criticism and divert the heavy hand of moral censorship. As a hedge schoolmaster, Merriman belonged to a class whose existence had been marginalized. They were sometimes persecuted by the authorities for spreading knowledge among the peasantry, in the same way as Catholic priests were criminalised by the Penal Laws. However, schoolmasters were also prone to spreading political ideals questioning the authority of the Catholic Church; its hierarchy consistently opposed the teachings of itinerant scholars. Only poetry could grant its author enough leeway to promote freedom of conscience and of expression in

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politics and morals. The best forum for such tongue-in-cheek activism turns out to be a court of law because any expression of social or political discontent borrows from the language of justice, equity and rights.

3 The poet's political motivation is clear from its adopted form: using the aisling form is a sure sign that one should go beyond its bawdy and sexually-explicit statements. Cúirt an Mheain Oíche is primarily the indictment of the institution of marriage, supported by a legal system that Merriman calls into question. Its structure can be summarized as follows: The poet walks at morning in a beautiful countryside scenery (lines 1-30); He falls asleep and meets a supernatural woman (lines 31-60); She tells him of the evils afflicting Ireland, one of them being the growing number of unmarried women (lines 61-112); She reveals that a fairy court will be in session to deal with this plight and drags the poet there (lines 113-149); The court is in session: a young maid tells the assembly of the sorry fate of unmarried young women in Ireland (lines 150-356); An old man rebuts these accusations and defends old husbands duped by their younger wives (357-678); The maid accuses men, the law and the Church of terrible faults that affect the foundation of marriage (679-924); The fairy Queen decides that all unmarried men over the age of 21 should be punished by the women of Ireland; the poet is seized by a group of angry ladies because he is not married (lines 925-1090); He suddenly wakes up from his dream (last six lines).

4 This contribution will examine the various aspects of marriage that contributed to the injustice meted out by women in the poem. Part one will discuss the issues that make the legal subjection of women possible and, more specifically, the roles ascribed to the spouses, land ownership and inheritance, parenthood and the legal status of children as well the absence of sexual rights for women. The second part will consider the manner in which the poem denounces the negative impact of marriage law on Irish society. It contends that it is morally flawed and socially unfair since it contributes to the impoverishment of the women from the landless classes. Finally, we will see that such an indictment of matrimonial structures is conducted from within the Irish society and its old legal structures. This explains why the poem is set inside a court of law that follows the old Brehon3 proceedings. In that context, the analysis will focus on the procedure used in the mock trial described in the poem (a fairy court presided over by a fairy queen). It will then examine the role of the Irish language as both a poetic and a legal force against unfair laws; thirdly it will study the description of satire as a legal remedy against injustice. In that respect, giving a voice to women corresponds to the rehabilitation of female sexuality and of natural law.

Marriage as an unfair legal institution

5 Cúirt an Mheain Oíche was written in 1780 4, in a period of intense intellectual and political turmoil. And although Brian Merriman was not a star poet among the Anglo- Irish élite, he cannot have been unaware of the changes that were affecting Europe before and after the American Revolution. Indeed hedge schoolmasters would naturally be inclined to get information and propagate it among their students. Thus Merriman, who had never travelled far and wide, adopted liberal ideas when it came to the fate of

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women within marriage5. He reproached matrimonial law with depriving women of equal rights within marriage, especially consent, liberty and decision-making powers. Thus marriage, as it was understood and experienced, was a legally flawed contract due to women’s legal minority, embodied by the legal concepts of “coverture” and “consortium”.

Women and legal minority within marriage

6 The Common Law considers that unmarried individuals change their legal status upon marriage; women, in particular, lose their legal personhood and their rights are transferred to their husband. This doctrine, called “coverture”, dates back to medieval Anglo-Norman law and was defined by William Blackstone, a renowned English jurist of the 18th century, as follows: By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage, or at least is incorporated and consolidated into that of the husband: under whose wing, protection, and cover, she performs everything; and is therefore called in our law- French a feme-covert; is said to be covert-baron, or under the protection and influence of her husband, her baron, or lord; and her condition during her marriage is called her coverture. Upon this principle, of a union of person in husband and wife, depend almost all the legal rights, duties, and disabilities that either of them acquires by the marriage. I speak not at present of the rights of property, but of such as are merely personal. For this reason, a man cannot grant anything to his wife, or enter into covenant with her: for the grant would be to suppose her separate existence; and to covenant with her, would be only to covenant with himself: and therefore it is also generally true, that all compacts made between husband and wife, when single, are voided by the intermarriage6.

7 The legal paradox was that unmarried plebeian women were allowed to work in domestic or farm service, which helped them to constitute their future dowry7. Yet, once married, women ceased to be financially and legally independent, according to English marriage law, especially with the notion of coverture. However, the other consequence of the legal incapacity of wives meant that husbands were responsible for all the past, present and future debts incurred by their spouse. Thus, why would women give up the comfort of financial independence for the legal servitude of married life? Pressure to conform to social norms is one possible explanation that pervades the poem. This is emphasized in the maid's second speech, in which she makes no secret that her unfortunate friend, a maid that had no personal fortune, accepted the old man's offer out of necessity8. But the way the man presented matrimony to her was solely based on material comfort and social status9. The quest for matrimony is described as a race among women of marriable age, where appearances as well as family background play no small part in the process. Following an old poetic tradition where the beauty of women is extolled, the maid is reduced to advertising her own looks10 as well as her clothes 11. Besides, she has to contend with the scorn of those women who were lucky enough to lure a man into wedlock12. Indeed the status of unmarried women was not enviable, because they did not comply with the social norm embodied by matrimony. Marriage was the only option available and the poem emphasizes the plight of single women without the legal protection of men, even if literature had somehow exaggerated it13. The fate of these women was to be shunned by the community, which resulted in poverty, abuse and childlessness14 in old age. Marriage was, therefore, the perfect illustration of the economic law of supply and

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demand: with it, women secured an acceptable social status and material support in return for sexual intercourse, raising children and domestic service. This state of affairs was expressed in another legal doctrine called “consortium”.

8 According to Common Law, consortium encompasses services performed by a spouse. The Common Law did not recognize a wife's right to services on her husband's part. Because she was viewed as a social and legal inferior, she could not demand that he work for her and, therefore, she had no remedy for loss of sexual relations, affection, or services. The wrongdoer was liable only to the husband directly. A husband was considered to have suffered tangible damages for injury to his wife and, initially, had the sole right to bring an action for loss of consortium. The loss of services that had to be asserted included his wife's general usefulness, household services such as cooking and cleaning, industry, and frugality. Eventually, the assumption evolved that a man suffered these impairments upon injury to his wife, and damages were recoverable by him for any period in which he was divested of sex, fellowship, and affection, in spite of the fact that his wife might not be responsible for housekeeping15.

9 In the poem, the old man deplores his young wife’s deceitful attitude and adultery because she was already pregnant when she married him, a claim that could have been vindicated by a court of law. However, the young woman who complains that she had been deprived of sexual pleasure by her ageing husband’s impotence would not have had any legal ground to complain at Common Law. The fact that she never experienced sexual pleasure, as she claimed was her right16, could not grant her any legal relief.

10 Men were thus in a stronger position than women: they could select their future partner on stricter criteria, family background, wealth and reputation being the most important of all, as the old man's speech clearly shows17. Another reason, put forward by the old husband, for postponing marriage had a lot to do with the cost of the ceremony and of supporting a family18 when no reward could be gained. Besides, one consequence of the legal incapacity of wives meant that husbands were responsible for all the past, present and future debts incurred by their spouse. But financial incentive for the less wealthy party to marry into money was not the sole prerogative of women: the maid complains of young men marrying much older women for their wealth19. Thus as a contract, marriage was too one-sided to be endorsed by any rational party. Besides, the issue of consent, which is still a legal requirement for the celebration of either civil or church marriage, is largely exposed as a legal fiction. The poem describes at length how women are led to agree to unattractive conjugal ties. In a very Rousseauistic way, the poem criticizes the power of money that corrupts the institution of marriage by dissociating material comfort from natural instincts like sex and maternity20. For the maid, marriage should celebrate nature's triumph and fulfil women's natural individual rights. This is evidenced by the resort to words like “ceart” (right) and “dual” (natural, proper), which merge the lexical fields of law and nature and give precedence to the latter. But inequality within marriage is not limited to the status of spouses; it also affects notions like parenthood and the differential treatment of legitimate children and those born out-of-wedlock.

The status of children within marriage law

11 Another thorny issue in marriage concerned the legitimacy of children. The old man does not only vilify women's promiscuous nature, but the manner in which they manage to dupe an older, richer man into becoming the legal father of their offsprings

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conceived out of wedlock21. The law turns against husbands as their status obliges them to act as fathers to other men's children under the doctrine of legal parenthood. Women collectively contribute to bringing about this situation by inventing all sorts of lies to make the husband believe he is the real father. The purpose of matrimony, which was meant to create a family and beget children who would perpetuate the genetic lineage of a man and the transmission of his property, is contradicted by the real-life experience of adultery. One cannot doubt who the mother of a child is, but fathers are always putative. Paternity is a legal construct that is belied by the tricks of nature: indeed, many stories were propagated in order to deter women and men from having adulterous intercourse. One of them maintained that children born in such circumstances would be unhealthy, handicapped and would not live long. However, the old man's speech testifies to the robustness and health of love-children22. Common Law had no other means of dealing with adulterine children other than ignoring their existence, unlike the old Brehon Law which gave a status to all children: according to it, no child was barred from inheritance and child maintenance23. Besides, monogamy was not an obligation, and early Irish law tracts provided for every kind of person, who would find their place within the social structure. But the legal importance of legitimate children in the eye of the Common Law had important consequences regarding the inheritance of land and support rights for mother and child.

Marriage and land ownership issues

12 The ownership of land had always been a crucial and sensitive issue in England, and the passing of the Penal Laws in Ireland contributed to its legal importance. The entire system of inheritance privileged the eldest son (male primogeniture) and prevented land from passing into the hands of a woman. This privileged status of certain male heirs was strengthened by the legal concept of “entailment”. It meant that the landowner could will his real estate to one of his sons; the aim was to bar daughters or children from a subsequent marriage from inheritance24. The underlining idea was to maintain the land within the family, which was symbolically the owner of a land that could grant titles and privileges. In Ireland, there were further restrictions on land succession that stemmed from the Penal Laws: Catholics could neither teach their children nor send them abroad; persons of property could not enter into mixed marriages; Catholic property was inherited equally among the sons unless one was a Protestant, in which case he received all; a Catholic could not inherit property if there was any Protestant heir; a Catholic could not possess arms or a horse worth more than £5; Catholics could not hold leases for more than 31 years, and they could not make a profit greater than a third of their rent. The hierarchy of the Catholic Church was banished or suppressed, and Catholics could not hold seats in the Irish Parliament (1692), hold public office, vote (1727), or practice law. Cases against Catholics were tried without juries, and bounties were given to informers against them25.

13 Although the poem does not directly raise this issue, it alludes to the unequal treatment of persons of different denominations sanctioned by the law. Protestantism is associated with Anglicanism; the Church of Ireland has shaped the institution of marriage and the old man proposes to abolish matrimony altogether and let nature take its course. This would remove social barriers that confined marriage matches within the limits of social classes and contribute to the breeding of strong children that would give new vigour to the Irish race, while removing the burden of child support

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from ageing legal fathers26. One consequence would be to do away with the current hypocrisy of the law, whose purpose turned out not to promote anyone's happiness. The old man’s grudge against marriage and women is not only based on the latter's propensity to squander money, but also on their natural tendency to cheat on their husbands and get pregnant as a result. He sees a contradiction between the law of the Church that prohibits adultery and divorce at the same time. This had always been the policy of the Catholic Church, but, strangely enough, this point of view had been adopted by the Anglican Church as well. Contrary to other Protestant denominations that allowed divorce, the Churches of England and Ireland considered marriage as indissoluble, even if a legal separation or annulment could be pronounced in certain cases, like insanity or impotence27. This also translated into law as the Anglican Church was at the head of ecclesiastical courts that heard cases of separation, adultery and the validity of marriages. The sacramental and public quality of marriage that became the law in 1753 with the Marriage Act28 is in sharp contrast with the subsequent misery that befalls cuckolds29 who cannot repudiate their unfaithful wives. This explains why the old man calls for the abolition of marriage all the more so as divorce had already been advocated by Milton in his tracts on the subject published in 1643-4530. But marriage is neither limited to a sacrament nor to a legal concept. It is also a social construct that had long-lasting effects on the fabric of Irish society in the 18th century.

Marriage law as social hypocrisy and a source of immorality

14 What characterizes the attitudes of the old man and the maid at the Midnight Court is their discontent about the state of affairs brought by matrimonial laws. The old man complains of women’s frivolous conduct; according to him their only objective is to lure weak old men into marriage; this leads to unjustified paternity as well as to disproportionate expenditures. As to the maid, she deplores that the present state of the law only encourages immoral conduct. She maintains that her impotent old husband has forced her to commit the sin of adultery31, which sharply contrasts the words of the Apostle Paul who chastises adultery but extols marriage32. She contends that the plight of unmarried women made them easy preys for men without scruples. In her quest for a husband, the maid tries hard to charm the men she meets, in the hope that one may respond to her beauty and good manners. She tells of her heart- breaking experiences33 simply because she had been promised marriage by men who only thought of using her.

The ambiguous role of the Anglican institution

15 But one institution was at the origin of the confusion, and this was the Church of Ireland. There was clearly a conflict between law and everyday practice that could turn marriage to a dishonest man's advantage. Indeed English law accepted two sorts of valid marriages, depending on which jurisdiction heard the case. For ecclesiastical courts under the authority of the Anglican Church, a marriage was valid if both betrothed had publicly exchanged vows to take each other as spouses before an Anglican minister34 (de praesenti). This could sometimes be done without the consent of parents or even in the absence of witnesses35. Thereafter the marriage was deemed

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indissoluble according to the law of the Church. Daniel Defoe36, among others, strongly opposed the toleration of secret marriages, which were celebrated between eloping lovers and poor people. He compared such a practice to legalised prostitution until it was abolished by the Marriage Act in 1753, but the practice itself may well have survived for a while. At least it may have encouraged sex before marriage, which was sometimes considered the quickest path to a hasty ceremony. On the other hand, Common Law courts imposed the publicity of marriage for it to be valid and enforceable, especially when property, widows' rights and inheritance were at stake. This necessitated the publication of banns and a solemn ceremony in open church where the banns were proclaimed three Sundays in a row. Such a path was preferred by wealthy middle-class families and the landed gentry. In Ireland, due to the strict control of land ownership and the legal limitations put on Catholics to own land and transfer real property to their heirs, legislation37 made the publication of banns and the obtaining of a licence by an Anglican minister or bishop compulsory38. Legislation likewise prohibited inter- religious marriage, at least in theory. But there were many ways to circumvent the law. Secret marriages were valid in the eyes of the Anglican Church until 1753 only insofar as both betrothed gave their full and enlightened consent to their marriage vows when the ceremony was performed. If one of the spouses later admitted that he did not fully comprehend what those vows entailed, any Ecclesiastical Court would invalidate the marriage, a process that was relatively frequent and called into question the solidity of matrimony. In Britain, secret marriages following the granting of a license by an Anglican minister or bishop enabled those who did not conform to social or legal criteria to get married39. This could include pregnant brides, soldiers on leave from the Army or Navy, when the parties greatly differed in age or social standing, those who did not secure permission from their parents or guardians or those who differed in faith. The maid deplores the practice of marrying into money, which sometimes meant that the spouses were of a different denomination. This included the marriage of Catholics and Protestants40 in Ireland, a practice known as hypergamy, or “marrying up”. Although it was not widespread, this custom usually involved a Church of Ireland man marrying a Catholic woman of lower social extraction: Hypergamy is the observed effect whereby for evolutionary reasons and social pressure women tend to marry men of a higher status and rarely lower. This custom existed in a society where class division was largely drawn along ethnic and religious boundaries. The Church of Ireland Anglo-Irish Protestants were the elite and Irish Catholics were largely landless peasants. From 1559 the Penal Laws were an evolving series of statutes that in various periods barred Catholics from voting, serving in Parliament or the legal profession, possession of firearms or a decent horse and banned mixed marriages. The Penal Laws sought to disinherit the Catholic population of land and encourage conversion to the Church of Ireland. Religion was both the marker and maker of class. As the Penal Laws favoured Protestant landownership, a family unit consisting of Protestant men and Catholic women ensured the land would stay in the family, whilst the reverse would certainly result in the loss of land and access to elite institutions41.

16 One way of attenuating the social stigma of such marriages was to diversify the religious education of children born from such unions: generally boys would follow their father’s religion while the daughters would take their mother’s. One well-known example is that of philosopher Edmund Burke42, but it also shows that, out of necessity, laws could be circumvented, sometimes with the blessing of the Anglican Church. The issue of marriage is not solely confined to the province of the law, but it is clearly political, economic and social. The maid argues that social constraints and poverty

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force young men and women to look for a wealthier spouse so as to secure a better material lifestyle. This is all the more striking as early marriages were favoured by the Irish peasantry before the Famine43. In her opinion, this is evidence that the true purpose of religious marriage has been diverted. Her argument is that this state of affairs runs counter to the law of God proclaiming that marriage was the sanctification of family and children44. Church law, whether Catholic or Anglican, is based on the doctrine of natural law (jus naturalis), according to which “certain rights or values are inherent by virtue of human nature, and universally cognizable through human reason. Historically, natural law refers to the use of reason to analyze both social and personal human nature to deduce binding rules of moral behaviour”45. Evidently for the maid, marrying for financial reasons a much older man or woman violates natural law because it will exclude sexual pleasure and children. The maid’s speech exposes the paradox of a law that does not take morality and human nature into consideration while diverging from its stated purposes of strengthening law and morality. This leads us to the second target of the maid's fierce criticism, the position of the Catholic Church on the celibacy of priests and its attitude to women for the same reasons.

The Catholic Church and the celibacy of priests

17 Women have long been considered with mixed feeling by the Early Church. They were the source of Man's Fall from Paradise, as shown by some misogynist quotes from the Church Fathers46. In Ireland, Brehon Law never treated women and men as equals47, but it is safe to say that women were not completely absent from the public sphere in terms of access to law, professions and property ownership48. But, from the onset, the Church had sought to keep women away from spiritual debates, unless they were strictly controlled by its hierarchy. This was largely due to the creation of a wholly negative “female nature”, whose purpose was to distract men from their spiritual goals; the depreciation of female values was largely based on the concept of folly (“baoise”) attributed to women to deny them intelligence, spirituality and a sense of responsibility49. In the poem, the maid highlights the long tradition of clerical distrust of women, while lamenting the persecution of the Catholic clergy by the authorities under the Penal Laws50. But she also stresses that the actions of priests were not always in keeping with the official instructions from Rome. She attributes clerical misogyny to the frigidity of some51, and not to a theological argument. She also denounces the hypocrisy of others who use their social status to help themselves to earthly pleasures52, which cannot fool women53. The maid draws a parallel between the priests' sexual prowess and their generosity and altruism: these priests embody the love for a God-given life, as opposed to those who turn to death and desolation. The Church's imposition of celibacy has a twofold, negative consequence: first, priests are confronted with a contradiction in terms if they promote abstinence and chastity while enjoying secret trysts with married women. Secondly, by doing so, they doubly violate the sanctity of marriage by enticing women to commit adultery and inpregnating them54.The maid's last argument is more concerned with theological references: the Bible enjoins man and woman to procreate, Saint Paul reaffirms the sanctity of marriage and condemns adultery. Moreover, Jesus was born of Mary, who was also a married woman55. Nature and biblical law converge in making marriage the best achievement for humanity, and so, any attempt to revile women is to defy the law of God, according to the maid's final syllogism. But this would only contribute to the

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social, economic and political demise of Ireland should clerical celibacy and hypergamy continue to prosper. They are against nature and subvert of the principles of marriage and matrimonial law, and the poem proceeds to formulare their judicial indictment by an all-Irish, all-female court of law.

The judicial redress brought by the fairy court

18 The fairy court described in the poem is a response to the plaintiffs’ discontent with a marriage law that had been gradually subverted from inside the institutions of the Church and by the Common Law. Merriman borrows many of its features from the Brehon courts and laws that were operating in Ireland prior to the English conquest. These courts survived until the end of the 17th century in competition with the British court system. Records show that their influence was still great in 1612 and their records were read notably in matters of land boundaries56. Such an antiquated court system nevertheless inspired the Dáil courts of the Irish Republic during the War of Independence57. Even though Merriman was no lawyer, he may have retained some knowledge of the proceedings, the layout of the courtroom and key legal concepts, like many other hedge schoolmasters58. The poem is thus loosely inspired by Brehon law and it may be that Merriman used it as a pretext to satirize a social situation he wished to reform. Comic relief plays no small part in conveying those ideas to the largely rural audience that would learn the verses and propagate them across Munster. One essential feature of the poem is that it describes a secret court session and a rather unusual one. Proceedings do not follow the habitual legal course of action, they are held at night by an all-female court personnel. The language of the court is Irish and, while it was banned from official life in Ireland, it turns out to be an essential ingredient to satire, the legal remedy granted by the court.

Time, place and proceedings

19 The supernatural court hearing takes place at night somewhere in a hidden mound in the Clare countryside59. This is how most medieval texts describe the encounter between a human and creatures from the Otherworld: the court is presided over by Aoibheall, a Fairy Queen. As such, she renders supernatural justice to all those that believe in her existence. Besides, the nature of the legal dispute seems unrealistic and typical of the topsey-turveydom of dreams where women win their case against men and the law. Midnight is rife with otherworldly stories in which normal values are completely reversed. Aoibheall acts as a travelling judge, setting up her court in various locations whenever a serious offence against justice has been committed. She also recalls the royal figure of Ireland as depicted in the aislingi but, contrary to the pitiful image she gives in those poems, she is featured as a warrior-queen and a dreaded judge. She is praised as a royal commander and a seer60 but this is not in line with the old Brehon tradition, since women could not be professional judges. This indicates that the court is not a real one, along with the secrecy surrounding its proceedings. The courtroom is situated in an unchartered territory or another dimension as the poet and the bailiff enter a large room. This is reminiscent of Irish myths in which the story takes place in the Otherworld of the Síd located underground near a mountain, a river or a stream61. The room is not described in detail but it seems aristocratic and richly

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decorated. The only areas that are mentioned are the bench with the throne on which the fairy judge sits62 and the witnesses stand63. Unlike a real Brethon courtroom64, very little is said about the layout, as though only the most essential elements suffice to give the whole fairy court a slightly legal appearance. But this is not the only characteristic of the Midnight Court that differs from the Brehon court proceedings. Both plaintiffs, the old man and the maid, expose their complaints and grievances themselves, whereas Brehon law required litigants to choose a skilled advocate to represent them and bring their witnesses and sureties65. And while strict adherence to procedure was considered the key to a successful case, the self-represented plaintiffs mention the opinions of friends and acquaintances but this is only hearsay66. Nevertheless, the hearing follows a well-established pattern among Brehons. Each case began with the tacrae, or exposition of the facts; this corresponds to the maid’s first speech67. This was followed by the freacrae, or counter-pleading, during which each party rebuts each other’s arguments, something that would encompass the old man’s speech68 and the maid’s second intervention69. Then comes breth, or the judgment with its promulgation, called forus, as well as the sentencing70. Yet if the judicial pattern is more or less respected, there is a paradox between the civil nature of the case and the punishment. Brehon courts did rarely hand down sentences involving death, corporal punishment or even imprisonment; their rulings dealt with the payment of damages to the aggrieved party, and these were calculated according to the social rank of the parties symbolized by their “honour price”71. Obviously the maid does not seem to be on equal footing with the old man, so it becomes clear that the aim of the poem is to satirize a social phenomenon and put it to rights.

The judicial role of satire, language and female symbolism

20 The poem openly criticizes the corruption of the law and of the lawyers.The old man in the poem is wealthy and owns land72, and he has easy access to the court thanks to his acquaintances in the legal spheres73. For most people, dealing with the law was an indirect process, mostly because they could not speak English and were not educated enough to understand its arcanes. Many initial pleas were drawn up by hedge schoolmasters who received fees for drafting legal documents74. But the poem reproaches the lawyers for being disingenuous and inclined to receive bribes75. By contrast, the fairy court seems more democratic because it does not distinguish between rich and poor, aristocrats or commoners76, and each is given the opportunity to voice their concerns. The poem insists on what presides over the good workings of justice: absence of disagreement, rightful ownership of land, social order and the control of law77. This may well describe the political landscape of 18th century Ireland, where politics was discussed among the landed gentry, and women were not simply passive observers but actively engaged, behind the scene, sin the debates of the day78. However, truthful testimonies were of paramount importance to the fairy court. This may refer to the disaster brought to society and to the land when false oaths were taken in early Irish texts, where war and desolation were caused by the breaking of a pledge or a prohibition79. In the poem, the old man seems to have acted legally but against the laws of nature because he has deceived a young maid into marrying for money while depriving her of her right to have sex and children. In a way, the old man and the maid epitomize the unenviable situation of Irish peasants in the 18th century, whose fertility represented a great potential for economic wealth. But their poverty

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and the absence of adequate policies from the landed gentry or from the British government could only cause Ireland to remain politically and economically marginal80. The only way to restore the truth about the perversion of the natural order brought about by social, economic and misogynist constraints was for the poet to adopt a frank and colourful language in the guise of satire.

21 Satire was not simply a literary amusement in a society that was attached to its folk tradition. Apart from retaining a strong belief in the fairy world, have attributed special powers to poets since pre-Christian times. Although medieval texts distinguish poets (fili) from jurists (brithem), other sources show that their competences overlapped81. Moreover, ancient poets shared with druids the capacity to use magic as a protection and a weapon against enemies: fili were also seers and had access to spells enabling them to foresee the future82. One very efficient way of defeating an enemy was to satirize him, a practice that survived well into Irish poetry of the 17th to the 19th century83. Poets had the power to “rhyme someone to death”, so formidable was their speech, or to cause blemishes to appear on their victims’ face or body. Under the Penal Laws, poets were still feared for the venom they could put in their satires, which could bring mockery, dishonour and ostracism on their targets. The reasons for these satires to be composed are a mixture of personal rancour, religious or political arguments. The most common instances concerned turncoat priests, Protestant ministers, lewd wives, arrogant or miserly priests, English landlords, bailiffs and lawyers84. From a more political perspective, the performative nature of poetic language enables it to challenge the dominant status of English in public life.

22 In Cúirt an Mheain Oíche, satire operates at two levels in the narrative: in the story itself, where the bailiff and the maid launch the most violent diatribes against the injustice imposed on Ireland and her women; likewise, the whole poem is a satire composed by Merriman, who uses his characters to voice his criticism against both men and women. Most of all, resorting to laughter and ridicule facilitates the expression of frustrations that would otherwise have been hushed up85. More importantly, it describes the way in which female characters could bring about such havoc without being perceived as a threat. In the poem, the narrator nearly gets lynched by a mob of irate women who reproach him for not being married, and Aoibheall clearly gives them the power to destroy all male offenders, something that may be perceived as extra-judicial retribution, like its modern version of “naming and shaming”. These women are mad, angry and bawdy in their vindication of the law of nature; women are, in a comic way, presented as the champions of Ireland, those who will save her from despair and desolation because they embody fertility86.

23 This leads us now to consider the importance of sexually explicit language in the poem. If satire has a legal role to play, sexuality pervades the poem, sometimes in very crude terms. Women are associated with nature, as the maid clearly states that only death and pregnancy could quell women’s sexual drive87. This suggests that it should be given a lot of consideration from a legal point of view. Ancient Irish law did not give much credit to female testimonies except in sexual matters; one cause for the invalidation of marriage was the incapacity for a man to consummate it due to age or physical defects88. The graphic description of the maid’s sexual frustration and attempts at reviving her old husband’s vigour can thus be considered as a valid witness statement, and not only as a comic element89. It proves that nature should be the measuring rod when it comes to marriage and the law. By not taking this into account, men have

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brought sin into the world by enacting laws that purport to control women’s sexuality. When fertility is attacked by the law, it means that the world order is turned upside down. Yet, can the poem be considered as a proto-feminist pamphlet?

24 Aoibheall's verdict is the fairy court’s legal response to the chaos that reigns across Munster due to a dearth in marriages90. The decision is both a ruling and a statute91 , solemnized by the presence of the bailiff and of the court recorder who officializes the date by which the decision becomes law. Aoibheal finds for the maid and debars the old man from getting any legal remedy. Her decree makes marriage a legal obligation for any man reaching the age of twenty-one, except for priests. Those who would not comply with the decision would be severely punished by the women. The latter may even decide what kind of corporal punishment they would inflict on old rakes, adulterers, boastful men or effeminate ones. This certainly rings like a revenge for the women of Ireland, but the judgement is so extreme that it tones down the overall defence of women’s rights. That is why Cúirt an Mhean-Oíche can also be seen as a political pamphlet in disguise, and references to Brehon Law contribute to the discredit of Common Law as it operates in Ireland.

25 To conclude, one may say that Cúirt an Mheain Oíche is a perfect blend of literary tradition, social and political satire. It represents the revenge of the “hidden Ireland” that Corkery spoke of, which encompasses a people, a language and a culture that had been stripped of its pedestal and despised as Ireland lost its sovereignty. The workings of the court are the perfect expression of anger and frustration at a desperate state of affairs coupled with bleak prospects for the future. Women's bodies, desires and social conditions contribute to the seriousness of the criticism while toning down its edge. Indeed female symbolism is omnipresent in Irish poetry and is used for all sorts of reasons. It may idealise womanhood or revile women so as to justify their subjection. It may also expose problems that would normally be kept secret or underline the gravity of the political, economic and moral situation of the country. This might explain why women, who have no real role to play, take it upon themselves to redress an otherwise desperate state of affairs. But, more importantly, the court that gathers at midnight, when reasonable people are asleep, the court that summons wild characters to its hearing is a court of poetry. It is a late survival of a once-flourishing tradition, a meeting where the best poets would recite their latest verse and compete fiercely against each other for the title of ollamh, or “chief poet”. It may also be seen as the model for the Dáil courts of the early 20th century. Where law and poetry converge is not only in the way poets and lawyers use speech to bring about the emergence of truth, but rather in their adversarial nature. And Brian Merriman, of whom very little is actually known, may well have won his case against legal injustice and the poetic contest of the period.

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NOTES

1. The word literally means “vision”. It refers to a long tradition in Irish poetry and, in the 18th century, describes a dream in which the poet has the vision of a supernatural woman symbolizing Ireland, who tells him about her woes under English rule and predicts the coming of a royal saviour to relieve her from her subjection. 2. Ó Cuiv, Brian (ed.). Párliament na mBan. Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1977. 3. The word comes from the Irish “breitheamh”, which means “judge”. For more legal definitions, see http://www.duhaime.org/LegalDictionary/B/Brehon.aspx (Accessed 21/01/16). 4. The present contribution will refer to the translation by Patrick C. Power, The Midnight Court, Cork, The Mercier Press, 3rd edition 1986. 5. Daniel Corkery, The Hidden Ireland, M. H. Gill & Son, Dublin, 1924, p. 62. 6. Blackstone, Sir William (1769). http://www.lonang.com/exlibris/blackstone/ bla-115.htm. Commentaries on the Laws of England (1765–1769). Lonang Institute, 2014. Available online at http://lonang.com/library/reference/blackstone-commentaries- law-england (Accessed 23/01/16). 7. Mary O’Dowd, A History of Women in Ireland 1500-1800, Harlow: Pearson Education Ltd, 2005, p. 12. 8. Line 695: “Ach easnamh an tsaoil 'is ba dhéirc léi an tsastacht” (“But worldly want; 'twas an alms to have comfort!”) 9. Lines 701-708. 10. Lines 229-240. 11. Lines 255-268. 12. Lines 323-330. 13. Anne Laurence, “Women and the Transmission of Property: Inheritance in the British Isles in the 17th Century”. Dix-septième siècle, 244(3), 2009, pp.435-450. Available at www.oro.open.ac.uk (Accessed 28/11/2011). 14. Lines 312-319. 15. http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/consortium (Accessed 24/01/16) 16. Line 726: “Ar nós ba dhual dhá uair san oíche?” (“Twice in the night as was her right”). 17. Lines 371-415. 18. Lines 501-510. 19. Lines 199-222. 20. “Je voudrais une chose bonne dans sa qualité ; avec mon argent je suis sûr de l'avoir mauvaise. J'achète cher un œuf frais, il est vieux, un beau fruit, il est vert; une fille, elle est gâtée”. Rousseau, J.J. Les Confessions, Livre I, Paris, Garnier Flammarion, p. 73. 21. Lines 471-472 and most of the old man’s speech. 22. Lines 609-618 and 639-652.

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23. Fergus Kelly, A Guide to Ancient Irish Law, Dublin: DIAS School of Celtic Studies, 1988, p. 85. 24. See http://www.math.grinnell.edu/~simpsone/Teaching/Romantics/josh.html (Accessed 24/01/16). 25. See http://www.encyclopedia.com/topic/Penal_Laws.aspx (Accessed 24/01/16). 26. Lines 663-670. 27. “Thomas Cranmer, first Archbishop of Canterbury following Henry's break with Rome (and martyred by Mary Tudor in 1556), played a key role in the formulation of Anglican views on divorce and remarriage. His attitudes reflected an affinity for Roman Catholic theology. He was a major figure in the council of prelates, which wrote The Institution of a Christian Man in 1537, and was chairman of the commission which produced A Necessary Doctrine and Erudition of Any Christian Man in 1543, both of which were authorized by the King. Both books were similar in their emphasis that any marriage to which there was an impediment according to the laws of either church or realm must be declared null (and it was under this provision that Henry had his marriage to Catherine of Aragon declared null), but if a marriage was lawfully made according to the ordinance of God, it could not be dissolved during the lives of the spouses” http://theologicalstudies.org.uk/article_divorce_snuth.html (Accessed 23/01/16). 28. Lines 469-470: “Ó léadh ar bord os comhair na ndaoine, An t-Ego Vos so a ordaigh Íosa” (“From when publicly read before the people/ The I join you ordained by Jesus”). 29. Lines 511-514. 30. A complete electronic version of those tracts can be found at https://muse.jhu.edu/ books/9780820705286 (Accessed 20/10/12). 31. Lines 693-694. 32. Lines 887-890. 33. Line 282: “Dhalladar riamh é 'is mo thurrainn, mo ghrá dóibh” (“They always fooled me; my heart they crushed”). 34. This form of marriage was called “contract” or de praesenti marriage. 35. Melissa J. Ganz, 'Moll Flanders and English Marriage Law'. Eighteenth Century Fiction: Vol.17: Iss.2, Article 2, 2005. Available at http://digitalcommons.mcmaster.ca/ecf/ vol17iss2/2, p.4 (Accessed 26/11/2014). 36. Conjugal Lewdness, 1731; Janvier, Meredith, 1872-1936, bookseller, 1731. Availbale online at https://archive.org/details/treatiseconcerni00defo (Accessed 28/01/16). 37. Act 9 Geo.II, c.11. Available online at http://library.law.umn.edu/irishlaw/ intro.html (Accessed 24/01/16). 38. W. Harris. Faloon, The Marriage Law of Ireland: With Introduction and Notes. Dublin: Hodges Figgis, 1881, p. 39. 39. A license was not made public and shortened the delay between the granting and the marriage ceremony. See https://familysearch.org/learn/wiki/en/ Marriage_Allegations,_Bonds_and_Licences_in_England_and_Wales (Accessed 25/01/16) 40. This situation is alluded to in traditional songs in the Irish language. For example, a Connemara song like ‘Sí do Mheamó í” mentions a rich old woman marrying a much

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younger man. One verse says that the old woman “eats meat on Friday and Saturday” (Is d’iosfaith sí feoil on Friday and Saturday”). This means that she is Protestant as she does not fast on those two days, contrary to what the Roman Catholic rite demands. 41. Buck, J. “The Role of Ne Temere in the Decline of a Custom in Ireland for the Religious Affiliation of Children in Mixed Marriages” (no date): p. 1. http:// www.academia.edu/2118997/The_role_of_ne_temere_in_the_decline_of_an_ Irish_custom_regarding_the_religious_affiliation_of_the_children_of_mixed_marriages (Accessed 26/01/16). 42. “Born in Dublin to a Church of Ireland father and a Catholic mother in 1729, surrounded by Catholic sisters and Protestant brothers, he represents the most oft- cited example of this custom. Perhaps the role of his mother in his religious and cultural instruction influenced Edmund Burke's decision to marry a Catholic. In his biography of Burke, O'Brien proffers the evidence of Conformity Rolls to suggest that his father converted from Catholicism to the Church of Ireland in order to continue practising as a lawyer. He argues that Burke's father belonged to the established Catholic gentry and his nominal conversion allowed him and his sons to avoid the Penal Laws. Whether Burke's father converted does not undermine the centrality of the contention, that the custom existed and was a pragmatic compromise that allowed couples and families to co-exist whilst having different religious beliefs.” Ibid., p. 2. 43. H.K. Connell. “Marriage in Ireland after the Famine : The Diffusion of the Match” Read before the Society in Dublin on 10th December 1955, and in Belfast on 20th January, 1956, p. 83. Available online at http://www.tara.tcd.ie/bitstream/handle/ 2262/4266/jssisivolxvixpart4_82103.pdf?sequence=1 (Accessed 20/01/16). 44. The Catechism of the Catholic Church stipulates that "The matrimonial covenant, by which a man and a woman establish between themselves a partnership of the whole of life, is by its nature ordered toward the good of the spouses and the procreation and education of offspring; this covenant between baptized persons has been raised by Christ the Lord to the dignity of a sacrament." http://www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/ courses/264/ccc-matri.htm (Accessed 29/01/16). 45. Strauss, Leo. "Natural Law". International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences. Macmillan 1968. 46. “In pain shall you bring forth children, woman, and you shall turn to your husband and he shall rule over you. And do you not know that you are Eve? God’s sentence hangs still over all your sex and His punishment weighs down upon you. You are the devil’s gateway; you are she who first violated the forbidden tree and broke the law of God. It was you who coaxed your way around him whom the devil had not the force to attack. With what ease you shattered that image of God: Man! Because of the death you merited, even the Son of God had to die… Woman, you are the gate to hell.” Tertullian (c160-225): On the Apparel of Women, chapter 1. 47. Roisin McLaughlin, Early Irish Satire, Dublin: DIAS, 2008, p. 31. 48. Loretta Wilson, 1989, http://www.irish-society.org/home/hedgemaster-archives-2/ history-events/the-brehon-laws (Accessed 20/01/14). 49. Máirín Nic Eoin, B'Ait Leo Bean, Gnéithe den Idé-eolaíocht Inscne i dTraidisiún Litheartha na Gaeilge. Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar Tta, 1998, p.11-13. 50. The celebration of a mass could lead a priest to gaol or the gallows (Line 857-862). Traditional songs also depict this situation, notably in An Raibh Tú ar an gCarraig?, a song popular in Co. Kerry.

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51. Line 862. 52. Lines 843-846. The priest who must either turn away from his beloved to comply with canon law or become a Protestant minister and get married is a very common theme in Irish traditional sean nós singing (with songs like An Sagairtín or Fill, Fill Á Rún in the Connemara tradition). 53. Line 847: “'Is tá a fhios againn gur fuil 'is feoil iad!” (“It's well we know they're flesh and blood!”). 54. Lines 871-872. The maid goes as far as accusing them of going against the biblical promotion of procreation by choosing their partners among middle-aged women, who can no longer bear children lLines 873-876). 55. Lines 883-899. 56. Daniel Flynn, ', The Heart of Ireland's Heritage- Brehon Law, 2009. Available at http://www.redwoodcastleireland.com/brehon-law-page.html (Accessed 26/11/2015). 57. Mary Kotsonouris, Retreat from revolution: the Dáil courts, 1920-24, Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 1994. 58. Antonia McManus, The Irish Hedge School and Its Books (1695-1831). Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2004, p.96. 59. The poem mention the church’s gable at Knockmanwee (line 138), the Queen’s palace at Lough Greaney (72) and the village of Feakle (131). 60. Lines 168 and 171. 61. Particularly in Lebor Gabála Érenn, from the Book of Leinster, ed. htpp:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Irvine_Best, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Osborn_Bergin, M.A. O'Brien and Anne O'Sullivan (1954–83). The Book of Leinster, formerly Lebar na Núachongbála. 6 vols. Dublin, Dias. 62. “binse an tsaorchirt” (line 144). 63. “clár na míonn” (line 152). 64. For the description of a Brehon court, see Fergus Kelly, A Guide to Early Irish Law, Dublin, Dias, 1988, p. 194. 65. Ibid., p. 195. 66. Lines 349 and 431. 67. Lines 167-356. 68. Lines 363-430. 69. Part 3, lines 683-826. 70. Part 4 of the poem, lines 927-1090. 71. “The measure of a person’s status was known as his ‘honour price’ /lóg n-enech, the literal translation of which is ‘the price of his face’. Brehon law prohibited a person from entering into a legal contract for an amount which exceeded his honour price and he could not go surely for a greater amount either. The honour price was also important in ascertaining the punishment attached to major crimes; a serious offence which was committed against a person of high rank demanded a greater punishment than the same offence committed against a person of lower rank. Rank was also hugely important when it came to the law of evidence, with the oath of a high ranking person automatically outweighing that of a lower ranking person”. Noelle Higgins, “The Lost

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Legal System: Pre-Common Law Ireland and the Brehon Law” 2014. Published online at http://www.academia.edu/2405281/_The_Lost_Legal_System_Pre- Common_Law_Ireland_and_Brehon_Law_ (Accessed 28/01/16). 72. Lines 477-485. 73. “Cairde i gcúirt agus cúnamh dlí agam”, lit. “I had friends in court and legal seccour” (line 481). 74. Dowling, P.J. The Hedge Schools of Ireland. Cork & Dublin:Mercier Press, 1968, p. 87. 75. Lines 66, 89-93. 76. Lines 64-72. 77. Lines 70-81. 78. Mary O'Dowd, A History of Women in Ireland (1500-1800), Harlow, Pearson Education Ltd, 2005, p. 53-54. 79. A narrative like Togail Bruidne Da Derga explicitly refers to that practice: when Conare, son of Nemglan and Mess Buachalla is chosen as king, the druids said that his “bird-reign” (énfhlaith”) would be happy if he refrained from interfering in disputes and visiting some forbidden places. The fact that he didn't, caused the eruption of armed raids against his kingdom, the treason of his foster-brothers and his violent death at the Hostel of Da Derga at Brú na Bóinne in Co. Meath (Eleanor Knott [ed.], Togail Bruidne Da Derga, Dublin, Dias Mediaeval and Modern Irish Series, vol. VIII, 1975). 80. At the end of the mythical Battle of Moytura (Cath Mag Tuired) describing the victory of the Tuatha Dé against the Fomoire, Morrigan (lit. “the Great Queen”) prohesizes the end of the world in the following terms: “I shall not see a world/Which will be dear to me:/ Summer without blossoms,/Cattle will be without milk,/Women without modesty,/Men without valour./Conquests without a king […] Woods without mast./Sea without produce […] False judgements of old men./False precedents of lawyers,/Every man a betrayer./Every son a reaver./The son will go to the bed of his father,/The father will go to the bed of his son./ Each his brother's brother-in-law./He will not seek any woman outside his house […] An evil time,/Son will deceive his father, /Daughter will deceive…” translated by Elizabeth A. Gray, Cath Maige Tuired: The Second Battle of Mag Tuired, http://www.ucc.ie/celt/online/T300010.html, 2003, p. 73 (Accessed 10/10/14). 81. Fergus Kelly, op. cit., p. 48. 82. Ibid., p. 44-45. 83. Dáithí Ó hÓgáin, An File, Staidéar ar Osnádúrthacht na Filíochta sa Traidisiún Gaelach. Baile Átha Cliath, Oifig an tSoláthair, 1982, p. 310-311. 84. Ibid., p. 315. 85. Máirín Nic Eoin, B'Ait Leo Bean, Gnéithe den Idé-eolaíocht Inscne i dTraidisiún Litheartha na Gaeilge. Baile Átha Cliath: An Clóchomhar Tta, 1998, p. 171. 86. This may be a graphic reference to the Sile na Gigs (or Síle na Gigh), these obscene stone carvings of grimacing women exposing their genitals above the doors of churches, castles or rocks. If little is known of their origin, interpretations also vary when it comes to their function. They may be anything from protection against the evil eye, a fertility symbol, a warning against female lust. See http://www.sheelanagig.org/ wordpress/theories/ (Accessed 20/01/16). 87. Lines 733-736.

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88. Fergus Kelly, op. cit., p. 207. 89. Lines 721-730, the maid specifies that women are entitled to have sex twice per night. This seemingly ravenous sexual appetite appears to represent a natural desire that will beget children that should be accepted by law. Patrick C. Power writes that “The dilemma of a man with regards to the paternity of a child is well and enigmatically expressed by some old Gaelic poet and is quoted by the Brehon laws: Saer brú beiris breith do thabairt clí – the fertile womb is free to bear a body! No matter what rule or law may decree, it can happen that the woman may have a child for anyone who takes her fancy. Laws and decrees cannot rule her fertility”. Sex and Marriage in Ancient Ireland, Dufour Editions, Pennsylvania, 1997, p. 45. 90. Lines 925-1016. 91. « dlí » (line 941) and « reacht » (line 1085).

ABSTRACTS

18th-century Ireland under the Penal Laws produced many poems deploring the country’s fate under British rule. Brian Merriman, a hedge schoolmaster from Clare, published in 1780 a long, satirical poem called Cúirt an Mheain Oíche satirizing men’s subjection of women within marriage. This contribution will examine what marriage law said about the situation of women and how the poem criticizes its negative consequences on the women of Ireland as judged by a bawdy fairy court of law.

Au XVIIIe, siècle, l’Irlande des Lois Pénales a produit de nombreux poèmes déplorant la servitude du pays sous la férule anglaise. Brian Merriman, maître d’école itinérant originaire du comté de Clare, a composé en 1780 un long poème satirique, Cúirt an Mheain Oíche, critiquant la domination des femmes au sein du mariage. Le présent article met en regard les lois matrimoniales et leurs conséquences négatives sur les femmes d’Irlande selon une cour de justice grivoise présidée par la reine des fées.

INDEX

Keywords: Brehon law, sexuality, women - literary representations, marriage, poetry Mots-clés: droit Brehon, femmes - représentations littéraires, mariage, sexualité, poésie

AUTHOR

ANNE-MARIE O’CONNELL Université Toulouse 1 Capitole

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A Revision of “the Irish Exception”: Seán Murphy, Irish Recognition Policy and the Republic of France, 1944

Mervyn O’Driscoll

Introduction

1 Ireland holds an intriguing but ambiguous privilege: it was the only neutral state permitted to retain its diplomatic representative to France into the post-liberation period by Charles de Gaulle’s Provisional Government (Gouvernement provisoire de la République française or GPRF). His Irish counterpart was Eamon de Valera and parallels are sometimes drawn between the two, not least in their self-ascribed roles as national conservatives, statebuilders and as interpreters of the national will2. Eamon de Valera held the portfolio of Taoiseach, in addition to that of Minister for External Affairs, which granted authority to the Department of External Affairs domestically and internationally. The department was based in Iveagh House, Dublin, and during the period of August, September and October 1944 it struggled for the recognition of Seán Murphy as the Irish Minister to the Republic of France by the new French government. Murphy had served as the Irish Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary to the Republic of France since 1938. Dublin viewed the GPRF’s acquiescence to Murphy’s continuation in post as an incontestable right and a validation of Ireland’s entitlement to pursue neutrality.

2 Previous Irish diplomacy vis-à-vis Vichy was indistinguishable from that of the other European neutrals, in particular that of the traditional neutrals Switzerland and which were viewed in Irish diplomatic circles as setting the benchmark for neutrality. The ‘Irish exception’ has fascinated authors such as Dermot Keogh, Robert Patterson, Phyllis Gaffney, Christophe Gillissen and Joe Carroll, who have endeavoured to account for the consideration shown to Ireland3. The challenge is that the

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documentary record is fragmentary and confused. This reflects the chaotic conditions in France in late 1944 during and immediately after liberation leading to delays in the Provisional Government’s installation and the Quai d’Orsay’s re-establishment in Paris. Communications were disrupted as the Allies prioritised the prosecution of the war against Nazi Germany.

3 This article contends it was not the tentative “Irish back channel”, suggested by Dermot Keogh and Robert Patterson4, which ensured de Gaulle’s dramatic intercession to retain Seán Murphy. Keogh calculated that the close relationship between Frederick Boland and Hervé Alphand contributed to the accomplishment of the Irish opt-out5. Hervé was the son of Charles Alphand, the first French Minister to Ireland (appointed 1930). He adhered to the CFLN and advised de Gaulle on economic affairs, becoming Director General of Economic Affairs in the Quai d’Orsay in September 19446. By 1944 Boland was the Assistant Secretary of the Department of External Affairs and he knew Hervé Alphand well from the early 1930s. A sister of Hervé Alphand was married to an Irishman, Michael FitzGerald. Keogh and Patterson speculated that the Boland-Alphand personal associations secured the Irish a hearing with de Gaulle for their right to retain Murphy. They pointed out that in early October 1944 de Gaulle requested that the Quai d’Orsay explain why Murphy had been “badly received” and demanded an explanation from the French foreign minister, Georges Bidault, accounting for the state of the bilateral relationship. He argued that France “should attach care and importance” to the relationship7. But Keogh supplied no documentary or oral evidence for the Alphand “back channel” that he claimed was responsible for de Gaulle’s dramatic intervention. This suggestion of an Alphand “back channel” has influenced subsequent authors’ interpretations.

4 Phyllis Gaffney has presented “a slightly different – though perhaps complementary – perspective on the affair8”. Her findings emerged from her research on the establishment of an Irish Red Cross hospital in Normandy. This initiative, heavily supported by the Irish government, was designed to alleviate the suffering of the inhabitants of Saint-Lô in late 1944 and 19459. Saint-Lô was one of the settlements ravaged by vicious town-to-town fighting between Allied and German forces in Normandy after D-Day. Gaffney reasoned France’s desperate need for medical philanthropy was one component of a multifactorial calculation at the heart of de Gaulle’s exceptional treatment of Murphy. She contends that le médecin-général, Adolphe Sicé, a follower of de Gaulle since 1940, was a strong supporter of the Irish humanitarian initiative. He had responsibility for the medical relief of Normandy following D-Day. Through his strong links with the French Red Cross, Gaffney contends, he encouraged the Irish Red Cross to implement its offer of relief. Medical supplies and trained medical personnel were scarce in France in late 194410. But Gaffney adduced no evidence that Sicé petitioned de Gaulle to seek a dispensation for Murphy in order to smooth the Irish decision to proceed with setting up of the Saint-Lô Hospital. Sicé does not appear in the Quai d’Orsay or Charles de Gaulle papers associated with the Murphy accreditation crisis. Gaffney’s thinking is certainly appealing, but if Saint-Lô was a factor motivating the French reversal on Murphy’s status, it was a marginal or intangible consideration. It was not the primary cause.

5 Gaffney has also reasoned that either the Quai or de Gaulle, or both, calculated that Éire’s distant and anomalous membership of the British Commonwealth could be exploited to expand French influence. She highlighted the prospect of improved air and

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sea links between France and Ireland, and the opportunity of introducing the French language as a subject in secondary schools. This would flatter French national pride at a psychic level following the humiliations of World War Two11. However, French ambitions to expand its influence were less than acute in early October 1944, especially in such a marginal region as Ireland; the GPRF struggled with the more immediate concern of instituting effective control over the French ship of state.

6 One argument proposed by Gaffney, however, has a more direct bearing on French calculations. The Quai d’Orsay appreciated Iveagh House’s arguments that a French request for new letters of credence for either Murphy or for a replacement for Murphy would open “a can of worms”: King George VI, as head of the British Commonwealth, had to confirm all new letters of credence including Éire’s12. Gaffney was correct in observing that Anglo-Irish relations were strained – the British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was a harsh and unrelenting critic of both Irish neutrality and independence. Neutrality was anomalous in the British Commonwealth: all the other white Dominions supported the British war effort. Iveagh House avoided requesting that King George VI sign new letters of credence after neutrality was declared. Gaffney suggested that GPRF preferred to avoid entanglement in this delicate matter13. There is value in this line and the article supports the contention that such calculations contributed to France’s flexibility towards Seán Murphy. However, they were secondary rather than primary considerations.

7 This article argues for a revision of existing views. It explores Christophe Gillissen’s recent argument that the Quai d’Orsay forwarded the recommendation of the French Ambassador in London, René Massigli, to de Gaulle, and that this was what initiated the reversal of French policy. Gillissen does not explain who in the Quai took the unusual step of forwarding Massigli’s advice to the President14. Gillissen’s proposal deserves deeper investigation. This article supports the contention: it was René Massigli who secured the Quai’s turnaround in Ireland’s favour. He interceded with the Quai not once, but twice, and both times he secured a sympathetic hearing for Ireland’s case defusing the diplomatic crisis. He was the catalyst who ensured Iveagh House’s case in favour of Seán Murphy was heeded in Paris. It was not just Charles de Gaulle who transformed the intransigence of the officers of the Quai; Georges Bidault, the Foreign Minister, also played a noteworthy role in adopting an accommodating approach to Seán Murphy and Charles de Gaulle’s intervention simply reinforced the Bidault revision. Bidault’s role has been completely ignored by all previous authors. This article finds, however, Keogh’s explanation for the resolution of the crisis is not invalid – an older Irish-French diplomatic link assisted in the resolution of the crisis, though it was by accident not design and Hervé Alphand was not involved.

8 One might be forgiven for claiming all of this scholarly argument surrounding Murphy’s retention as the Irish Minister is arcane, but it is not. From de Valera and Joe Walshe’s perspectives, neutrality depended on external perception and adherence to diplomatic protocol. When Murphy gained permission to remain as Irish Minister, it was an “implicit concession15” signifying French respect for neutrality and the probity of Irish arguments. Dermot Keogh was correct: French acquiescence on the matter was a significant “diplomatic achievement” from the de Valera’s and Walshe’s perspectives16; it was perceived as an endorsement of the integrity of Irish neutrality.

9 This article has two parts. First, the article frames Irish recognition policy within the setting of Irish neutral diplomacy toward the French republic after the Fall of France in

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May 1940. It illustrates how Irish policymakers, in particular Joseph Walshe, mediated between the competing claims of French factions for recognition. De Gaulle and his Free French movement became the focal point for resistance against Vichy. De Gaulle represented the Comité française de la Libération nationale (CFLN) as the “alternative France17”, deserving de jure recognition as the legitimate government of the Republic of France. Following the liberation of France in late summer 1944, he declared the CFLN was the Provisional Government of France (GPRF). This article does not follow the intricate twists and turns of the Vichy and anti-Vichy forces, or the Irish interpretation thereof, for reasons of complexity and space; these are adequately outlined elsewhere18. Instead, it evaluates Irish diplomacy towards France in a comparative and legal light. Unlike previous work, it contextualises Irish diplomacy towards the French state after May 1940 within the milieu of the recognition policy practiced by other states at the time, particularly the neutrals and Allies. The initial sections of this article propose that Ireland’s policy towards Vichy conformed to prevailing legal practice to a degree that is not normally appreciated.

10 The second portion of the article scrutinises Irish-French diplomacy after D-Day when the crisis relating to Murphy’s reception by de Gaulle’s forces gradually came to light. The primary attentions of this part are devoted to reconstructing the events that led to the Provisional Government’s retreat from its demand to replace Murphy.

11 The methodology adopted by this article is a blend of a comparative framework and the empirical archival approach. It consists of a reading of international legal history and the recognition policies of other states, in combination with a close reading of primary sources (mainly diplomatic records) from the Archives of the Quai d’Orsay and the Irish National Archives during the crucial period of late September and early October 1944, when the fate of Seán Murphy hung in the balance. These archives house the historical records of the French Foreign Office and the Department of Foreign Affairs of Ireland19. In addition, the de Gaulle papers in the Archives nationales in Paris were consulted. The article will now examine Irish recognition policy and its attitude towards Vichy, in comparison to other states.

Recognition Policies

12 Paula Wylie led the way with the systematic examination of Irish recognition policy from 1949 to 196320, but nothing similar exists for the pre-1949 period of Irish diplomacy. In line with the Estrada Doctrine (1930) and the Montevideo Convention (1933), Eamon de Valera unyieldingly adhered to the view that “recognition of a state is irrevocable and anterior to a government” and “recognition [of a state] should be unconditional [i.e. not dependent on the government of that state]21”. Wylie identified de Valera’s policy during the Spanish Civil War as the first example of such an Irish policy of recognition22.

13 However, there were several other examples of this practice before 1949, including the notorious incident involving de Valera’s offer of condolences to the German Ambassador in the latter’s private residence in May 1945 on the death of the German head of state, Adolf Hitler23. The legal argument was that de Valera was recognising the German state and not the Nazi Government or the person of Hitler. As early as September 1934, de Valera adopted similar legal thinking to argue for the Soviet Union’s admission into the League of Nations, despite major domestic Irish objections24.

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By so doing, Ireland recognised the Soviet Union as a de jure state and the Communist government as its de jure or legitimate government.

14 Identical Irish and international practice is observable in relation to Italy in October 1943. Then following the overthrow of Benito Mussolini and King Victor Emmanuel III’s conferring of the post of Prime Minister on General Pietro Badoglio, Ireland continued to recognise the pre-existing Italian Minister to Ireland, Vincenzo Berardis: he had served the French state and not a particular government25. Likewise on his assumption of the Italian Premiership Badoglio automatically “notified the Diplomatic Corps [in Rome] that there was no constitutional change and that relations with Foreign States would continue as heretofore26”.

15 There is greater continuity in Irish recognition policy under de Valera’s direction before 1948 than is acknowledged in the pioneering work of Wylie or in empirical narratives of Irish foreign policy. In the case of , Dublin observed the conventional interpretation of recognition that prevailed. It recognised the Republic of France and upheld diplomatic relations with the Vichy Government, but this did not imply approval of that state’s system of government (authoritarian) or its policies (collaboration with the Nazis) even if such a powerful official as Joseph Walshe, the Secretary of External Affairs, was initially attracted by the religious, social and educational policies of Philippe Pétain27. Personal predilections were not considerations – international law demanded the maintenance of diplomatic relations. Conventional legal practice was upheld by the Irish state.

16 As can be detected, recognition is a complex concept in international law28. In recent times, the maintenance of full diplomatic relations has been portrayed popularly as a sign of approval of a government. But this is not a correct reading of traditional diplomatic practice and convention. It is a popular misconception that arose during the Cold War when on several occasions ideology overrode diplomatic convention and international law in the East-West conflict: the withdrawal of diplomats was employed as a device to signal disapproval of the policies or actions of governments on the other side of the divide29. This was a diplomatic innovation and was legally contentious. The departure from convention was largely a product of the acute bipolar tensions.

17 The removal of diplomats as a sign of censure was not normally considered advisable before World War Two. It contravened the traditional interpretations. Full diplomatic relations was required once diplomats were exchanged between recognised de jure states; diplomatic relations were essential to maintain communications between states for the benefit of their citizens and the smooth functioning of international politics30. According to this perspective, governments and governance systems changed but the state persisted and it was the state, not the government, which was recognised. Individual governments were epiphenomena or transitory guardians of the state. The reciprocal exchange of diplomats and normal diplomatic relations were necessary to sustain unbroken exchanges and dialogue between two states when peace reigned between them. Diplomacy had a function to perform regardless of which government or what form of government ruled. Following the exchange of diplomats, bilateral diplomatic relations had to be maintained in the absence of hostilities, even if later governments were considered odious. Bearing this in mind, how did Irish diplomatic relations with Vichy compare to that of other states, both belligerent and neutral, after May 1940?

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Recognition of Vichy

18 “In normal times” before the Fall of France in May 1940, approximately 61 diplomatic missions were present in France31. Two dynamic factors led to the decline in that tally after June 1940. First, the number was reduced as the Allied nations gradually withdrew their diplomats – it took time for them to determine if Vichy was a puppet of Germany. At the beginning, as Jean Lacouture perorates, Vichy’s “international standing […] was high enough for all the great powers with the exception of Britain […] but including the USA, the USSR, the Third Reich, Italy, Japan, Spain and Canada (although a British dominion) to look upon it as the legitimate authority in France and to maintain their diplomatic relations with its government” after the summer of 194032. Following the breaking off of relations, the Allies still regarded Vichy as the lawful custodian of the French state. Ireland, as a neutral, resisted Allied pressure to withdraw its diplomatic representatives from Vichy after 1942 on the grounds it would contravene neutrality33.

19 The second reason for the decline in diplomatic missions in France was that the conquered states under German or Soviet rule (Czechoslovakia, Poland, Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania, Norway, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg) no longer existed as independent states. By January 1941, the foreign envoys (Nuncio, Ambassadors, Ministers, Chargé d’Affaires) of 36 countries remained accredited to Vichy34.

20 Britain was the first state to sever diplomatic relations with Vichy in July 1940. It did so in the aftermath of the Royal Navy’s shelling the French Navy at Mers-el-Kébir on 3 July. This operation arose from British fears that the French Navy would fall into the possession of Germany following the signing of the Franco-German armistice. Britain did not declare war with France; however, it had no alternative but to withdraw its ambassador after its unprovoked attack. It still recognised Vichy as the de jure government of the Republic of France until the liberation in 1944. Britain sustained consular relations with the regime and Vichy’s consuls remained in post in major British cities35. In July 1940 London recognised de Gaulle as the leader of all Free Frenchmen who rallied to the Allied cause outside of Vichy France. Thereafter, de facto recognition was expanded to include the French overseas territories that fell to de Gaulle’s Free French36. It was not until Charles de Gaulle’s CFLN possessed Metropolitan France in late 1944 that Britain recognised it as the legal government of the Republic of France37.

21 Initially, the United States’ recognition policy towards Vichy and the Gaullist challenge paralleled Ireland’s. Until the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, Washington maintained diplomatic relations with Vichy. On entering the war, it reassessed its stance towards Vichy in view of the growing evidence of the regime’s collaboration with Nazi Germany. It finally had no alternative but to break relations with Vichy in November 1942, with the Anglo-American invasion of French North Africa (Operation Torch). This preparatory step for the invasion of southern Europe was a direct assault against the authority of Vichy. Nonetheless, it only withdrew de jure recognition from the Pétain government when it no longer controlled the territory of France38. Until that point, Washington resisted granting de Gaulle and the CFLN legitimacy as claimants to the French state39. Washington finally recognised the GPRF as the de jure government of France in October 194440. The relations between de Gaulle and America were notoriously embittered for the duration of the period from 1941 to 1944. Milton Viorst has described them as ‘hostile allies41’, while Robert Dallek has memorably written:

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“The only thing worse than having allies is not having them, Churchill once said. When it came to each other Franklin Roosevelt and Charles de Gaulle were not so sure42.”

22 Until 1944, Dublin maintained the externalities of neutrality in common with fellow neutrals and nonaligned states. It was important to fall into step with the precedents set by the traditional neutral states, Switzerland and Sweden, as well as the Vatican. The latter retained a potent influence on the Irish mind for religious reasons, but this was especially the case with the Irish foreign policy mandarin, Joseph Walshe. In common with practically all states possessing a diplomatic relationship with the Republic of France before May 1940, Dublin recognised Vichy as the lawful government of France thereafter. As a neutral it preserved full diplomatic relations with it until 1944; a premature withdrawal of Irish diplomats from Vichy could be construed as a sign of censure. In August 1944 German forces compelled Pétain to leave France, the Allied invasion of France was succeeding and Adolf Hitler did not want Pétain falling into Allied hands43. Thus far, Ireland had consistently conformed to the standard practices of neutral states by rejecting Allied pressure to withdraw its diplomatic mission from Vichy. To do otherwise would signify political disapproval; this would contradict both neutrality and the traditional interpretation of international law.

23 Regardless, the Irish government prepared for the diplomatic repercussions of the fall of Vichy and the Gaullist ascendancy. At this point close attention must be devoted to the Irish thinking underlying the decision to recognise de Gaulle’s diplomats as the agents of the effective government of France in August 1944. The transition commenced in mid-1943.

Recognition of the CFLN/GPRF

24 On 3 June 1943, following the establishment of Allied control of French North Africa, Generals Giraud and de Gaulle founded the CFLN (encompassing the Free French) with Allied backing in Algiers. Within months de Gaulle outmanoeuvred Giraud and took sole leadership of the CFLN. The CFLN had jurisdiction over all the overseas territories liberated from Vichy and all French armed forces fighting Vichy. Recognising the oscillation in power politics, Dublin extended de facto recognition to the CFLN in November 1943 and the committee’s representative in Dublin. This acknowledged its factual existence (territorial jurisdiction and capacity to enter relations in late 1943) in non-Metropolitan France and it led to the extension of consular relations to the CFLN’s representatives44.

25 The Department of External Affairs intended to phase out the Vichy mission as the de jure mission of the Republic of France to reflect military and political realities when appropriate (it was widely known that preparations for an Allied invasion of Western Europe were proceeding). The Vichy mission in Dublin was headed by M. Cauvet- Duhamel, who was known as a covert adherent to the CFLN (a form of double agent) by the Irish authorities. From late 1943 Ireland planned to replace the Vichy mission, with the full agreement of Cauvet-Duhamel, with a CFLN one as the de jure mission when Vichy was no longer an effective entity in France. Joseph Walshe’s concern was that the transition from Vichy to CFLN should not be publicised. Walshe and Iveagh House wished to avoid a public controversy and that diplomatic representation could smoothly transition45.

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26 The CFLN, led by de Gaulle, claimed the title of GPRF or Provisional Government on 2 June 194446. De Gaulle did not inform his allies, the US and UK, in advance. The Allies landed on the beaches of Normandy on 6 June 1944. Six days later the GPRF sent M. Lalouette to Dublin without providing advance notice to the Irish authorities. The GPRF instructed Lalouette to take up the post of secretary to the GPRF representative in Dublin, M. de Laforcade. On his arrival, Walshe personally informed him and de Laforcade that Ireland would assist French reunification as it had no quarrel with any French faction. He also granted permission to Cauvet-Duhamel to go to the headquarters of the GPRF in Algiers to end his “equivocal situation” in late June 1944, whereby he acted as Chargé d’Affaires of Vichy in Dublin but secretly obeyed the CFLN47.

27 However, until Pétain had actually fallen, External Affairs was only prepared to extend de facto recognition to the CFLN and de Gaulle. On 21 August, the department’s attitude was “to deal with the de facto authorities as they arise [in France] and to postpone defining [the Irish] position until authority becomes properly established [in France]48”. Following Pétain’s declaration (23/34 August 1944) that he no longer effectively controlled the French state, the way was clear for Ireland to transfer diplomatic relations49. De Gaulle and the CFLN/GPRF marched victoriously down the Champs- Élysées on 26 August. A prompt decision was arrived at in Iveagh House that the GPRF controlled France de jure. On 29 August de Laforcade was informed Ireland accepted him “in the fullest sense as Minister of France”. Walshe outlined the position: Our country did not want to play politics with France. Our sole interest was to remain on friendly terms with his country, and we did not feel called upon to make a special declaration of recognition, our assumption being that it was exclusively the business of the French people. We preferred to regard ourselves as having been in continuing relations with France [the state], and we hoped for that and other reasons that it would not be necessary for Mr. Murphy to present new credentials. His credentials had been presented in 1938 to the Head of the French Republic, and the new Government, in so far as we were concerned, did not constitute any change in France’s governmental regime50. [Author’s italics]

28 Remarkably, this Irish acknowledgement of the GPRF as the Government of the Republic of France predated comparable action on the part of the US and Britain by a comparable margin; as de Gaulle’s allies they should have acted expeditiously to formalise recognition of the new government. The UK and the US only granted GPRF representatives “the use” of the former French Embassies in their countries on 14 September51. It was not until 22 October 1944 that the Supreme Allied Commander formally transferred administrative control of France and Paris to the GPRF52. The British and American governments officially recognised the CFLN as the Provisional Government of France on 23 October 1944, two months after the Irish53. This Allied delay hinted at misgivings, particularly in the US, about sanctifying the accession of their vexing ally, Charles de Gaulle. If the Irish estimated their early recognition of the GPRF would purchase enhanced Irish-French relations, they were swiftly disabused.

“No such persons are accredited to the French Republic”

29 The GPRF refused to recognise diplomats who had represented neutral governments at Vichy as heads of mission. Walshe received the first hints of its intentions in June 1944,

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but he discounted the possibility – it questioned the basis of a state to maintain neutrality under international law54. In late August, de Laforcade reminded Walshe of the GPRF’s demand for a new Irish Minister to replace Murphy. Murphy was no longer acceptable as a diplomat representing Ireland to the Republic of France owing to “his long relations with the Vichy Government55”.

30 The chaotic liberation and immediate post-liberation phases confounded Walshe’s efforts to regularise the situation. Communications were utterly disrupted between Walshe and Murphy from at least early August until the end of September 1944. Walshe conducted talks with Laforcade regarding the recognition question and demanded Murphy’s retention “almost exclusively” through the French Legation in Dublin during this blackout56. The GPRF’s treatment of Murphy perplexed Walshe in light of his interpretation of international law as it related to neutrality, diplomatic accreditation and relations between states. Walshe assumed his conversations with Laforcade would have the desired effect, and Laforcade’s reports to French Foreign Office in September revealed his sympathy for Walshe’s argumentation which he fatefully reproduced for his superiors. The French Minister’s report of 19 September informed the Quai of Walshe’s threat to remove recognition from the GPRF delegation as the de jure representatives of the Republic of France, if the Quai failed to grant reciprocity to Seán Murphy. Laforcade’s report was conspicuously sympathetic to the Irish position for several reasons (the Irish Red Cross hospital, the letters of credence complications, French international influence, the pro-French sentiments of Ireland)57.

31 Highlighting Iveagh House’s grave concerns about Murphy’s safety and whereabouts in the chaotic warzone, Iveagh House vainly despatched repeated messages to Murphy as Vichy tumbled and the GPRF claimed control. For instance, in mid-August, Dublin telegrammed Murphy: “take no risks”, keep in “close touch with neutral colleagues especially the Papal Nuncio” and be guided by their general attitudes as the situation developed58. It is unclear if Murphy received this or other instructions emitting from Iveagh House in August, but he made his way from Vichy to Paris with a convoy of the fellow neutral diplomats to establish relations with the new Provisional Government59. He arrived in Paris on Monday, 25 September 194460.

32 In the absence of contact Walshe was unaware of Murphy’s arrival in Paris. A few days later in late September or early October he read the disturbing report of Reuter’s special correspondent in Paris with the dateline of 27 September. Harold King recounted that ten diplomats formerly accredited to Vichy had recently arrived in Paris headed by the Papal Nuncio. An unbending Quai d’Orsay, now under the control of the GPRF, upheld the policy conveyed to Walshe by Laforcade: it regarded Murphy and his neutral colleagues as “private persons”. An official stated: “We do not know any of these people […] No such persons are accredited to the French Republic61.” Walshe was astonished.

33 Laforcade’s efforts to represent Irish interests to his superiors in the Quai had conspicuously failed. In addition, Laforcade experienced pronounced difficulty in communicating with Paris during the period of August and September, which aggravated the situation. Iveagh House’s imperative was to search for alternative lines of negotiation. Murphy was unreachable, but he was in Paris according to Reuters. Walshe urgently needed to instruct him to engage directly in negotiations with the Quai. It was imperative to brief Murphy to empower him to plead his case accurately with the Quai. In these exceptional circumstances, Walshe directed the Irish High

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Commissioner to London, John Dulanty, to approach René Massigli, the newly appointed French ambassador in London62. This turned out to be a masterstroke: Massigli became the key to overcoming the Quai’s resistance.

The Massigli Connection

34 As it transpired Massigli was a distinguished Gaullist and his advice commanded attention in the Quai. A senior French professional diplomat with international connections before 1940, he was a ‘faithful’ devotee of de Gaulle63. The General held him in high esteem64 and invited him to London in 1942 to take up the post of Commissioner of Foreign Affairs of the CFLN. He occupied this until August 1944 when, following the GPRF’s assertion of authority, de Gaulle appointed him as the Ambassador of France to Britain. St James Court was a key posting65.

35 In carrying out his instructions and speaking directly to Massigli, the Irish High Commissioner was assured of a high level hearing in Paris. On 29 September Dulanty met with Massigli and familiarised the Frenchman with the controversy and the communications breakdown for ‘the past ten weeks’. Massigli volunteered to use his diplomatic bag to forward Walshe’s instructions to Murphy66. Massigli, a veteran diplomat, recognised the grave situation: Walshe was unshakeable in his determination to retain Murphy as minister perceiving that the Quai had affronted Ireland’s neutrality.

36 To prevent escalation, Massigli extracted a promise that Iveagh House would not revoke Laforcade’s recognition until he received clarification from the Quai. Then he telegrammed the Quai :

Si l’attitude de M. Murphy à Vichy n’a pas donné lieu à des remarques particulièrement défavorables, il semble que le Gouvernement Provisoire peut – s’il le juge opportun – retenir cet argument pour admettre M. Murphy à continuer à exercer ses fonctions au moins à titre temporaire. Cette attitude conciliante ne nous empêcherait pas de marquer au Gouvernement irlandais notre désir de voir se prolonger le moins possible la situation ainsi créée67.

37 The Quai d’Orsay file contains a translation of Walshe’s letter for Murphy68. Whether the Irish made this available or the Quai opened it before transmitting it to Murphy is unclear. Regardless, the Quai was in no doubt about Walshe’s intentions to retaliate in kind. In his instructions to Murphy, Walshe informed his subordinate that Ireland was “still somewhat mystified by some aspects of our relations with the French Government”. He directed Murphy to approach the Quai again to explain the position of Ireland, which he outlined in detail in his three page letter. Walshe informed Murphy that the GPRF’s suggestion that he should be replaced “could only be regarded as a somewhat unfriendly gesture directed against the Government rather than the representative of the neutral country concerned”. In the “disagreeable eventuality” that the Foreign Office persisted in its refusal to recognise Murphy as head of the Irish mission to France, Walshe commanded Murphy to apprise the Quai: “We shall feel obliged to our very great regret to withdraw our recognition from M. de Laforcade, a

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recognition which was granted on the hypothesis that there would be no question about recognition of your position on the other side69.”

38 Georges Bidault read and responded to Massigli’s telegram on 4 October:

En réponse à votre télégramme no. 4880, je suis heureux de pouvoir vous faire savoir que le Gouvernement provisoire de la République donne volontiers son agrément en maintien de M. Murphy en qualité de Ministre de l’Irlande à Paris. Il y aurait lieu de prévoir pour lui la présentation de nouvelles lettres de créance70.

39 Matters were approaching a resolution. Bidault, lacking full knowledge of the Irish case, was willing to keep Murphy but new letters of accreditation were requested. As detected, the latter condition was unpalatable to Ireland, but Bidault conceded that Murphy was acceptable in principle, which was substantive progress. However, on 5 October Walshe received a telegram from Murphy providing a disheartening account of his failed effort to convince the Quai. As instructed, Murphy had met the Secretary General of the Foreign Office, Raymond Brugère. He reported: “I was very coldly received and rudely received by the Secretary General.” Brugère had bristled at the repetition of the argument that for Ireland “the Government de facto was the Government de jure, and the moment the Pétain Government had disappeared”, Ireland automatically entered into relations with the new government71. Brugère “became irritable at the mention of the word ‘de facto’”. Murphy was rejected again and he was provided with no resources to communicate to Iveagh House72. Murphy’s Legation colleague, Mr MacDonald, had to physically travel to the Irish Legation in Switzerland to despatch the telegram outlining the Quai’s second rebuff73. This underscored the lack of consideration shown to Murphy. The Irish representative reported gloomily on conditions as he saw them: “The general impression of the Foreign Office was excitable [sic] truculent. The Administration generally is chaotic74.”

40 Why had the Secretary-General rejected Murphy so severely in view of the French Foreign Minister’s alteration of attitude? Poor timing was at play. Bidault responded to Massigli’s telegram on 4 October. No date is provided for the second rebuke the Secretary-General delivered to Murphy, but it probably predated 4 October. It was unlikely that MacDonald travelled from Paris to Berne within 24 hours to have Murphy’s telegram transmitted to Dublin, particularly in the conditions prevailing in France in early October 1944. There was no mention in Murphy’s telegram that new letters of credence were required to remain in post, which indicated Brugère had not been updated on Bidault’s recent decision.

41 Since Massigli had expedited communication with Murphy on 30 September and evinced sensitivity, Walshe pursued that link. This had the advantage of snubbing Laforcade and signalled the intention to withdraw recognition. Walshe phoned the Irish High Commissioner in London, John Dulanty, on the morning of 6 October to request the lodging of a protest with the French Embassy against the Quai’s unsatisfactory reception of Murphy, its failure to accept Murphy as minister and its implied derision of Irish neutrality. The High Commission immediately sent its Counsellor, John Belton, to the embassy to deliver the protest and to request that it forward a letter to Murphy. Massigli agreed to transmit Walshe’s formal protest to the Quai, which included the following:

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Rudeness to our representative was rudeness to Government […] We expected [an] immediate apology and complete acceptance of our representative […] Failing that we should be obliged to withdraw our recognition from the French Legation here. […] [W]e had no alternative as [our] Government could not without sacrificing its sovereign right, allow its representative to be so treated or its right to neutrality so impugned75.

42 Walshe’s instructions to Murphy were: as a small country Ireland did not “play politics” with recognition matters and a solution had to be negotiated with France “to put things right”. He admitted that the Quai’s treatment of Murphy was probably “due to frayed temper and inevitable annoyance with Vichy”. But Murphy was told to make contact with Paris again, “Another talk with Secretary General might put everything right”. Walshe had not retreated from his elementary position: it was paramount that Murphy was recognised as the Irish minister to enable “full relations” between the two countries76.

43 At this point Massigli interceded again. He transmitted an extensive telegram to the Quai on 6 October. Believing that his previous suggestions had fallen on deaf ears, he reiterated that Murphy’s mission should be extended on the basis that his accreditation to France occurred in 1938 prior to the Vichy interlude. His extension could be subject to an assessment of his activities under the Vichy regime to determine whether he had revealed pro-Vichy tendencies between 1940 and 1944. Massigli deduced that France had “little reason to be angry at Ireland’s neutrality”, unlike London and Washington (“ nous n’avons guère de raison de tenir rigueur à l’Irlande de sa neutralité plus que ne le font Londres et Washington”)77. France’s material interests had not been deleteriously affected by Ireland. Massigli’s judgement could not be dismissed easily.

44 Particularly instructive are the lines of the telegram which were marked by a Quai official in the margin: “M. Murphy se plaindrait d’avoir été très mal reçu. Il se plaindrait, notamment, d’allusions qui auraient été faites en sa présence à la neutralité irlandaise. Enfin, on lui aurait indiqué très clairement que le Gouvernement Provisoire ne pouvait admettre le principe de son maintien à Paris en qualité de Ministre d’Irlande.” “Position révisée” is written in the margin opposite this final sentence. A further sentence of Massigli’s telegram had a vertical line drawn in the margin next to it: “Le Gouvernement Irlandais, ayant ipso facto reconnu le Gouvernement Provisoire, compte que son représentant en France bénéficiera du même traitement que M. de Laforcade à Dublin.” The vertical pencil line is accompanied by a handwritten “Oui”, signifying agreement on the part of the official reading the document78. The marginalia highlight the points considered salient by the Quai official. The assertion that Irish neutrality was affronted by the Quai in the presence of Murphy was identified as fateful; Walshe was not prepared to compromise. France’s unyielding application of the policy of not accepting foreign heads of missions who had served in Vichy imperilled cordial Irish-French relations.

45 The Quai official who annotated Massigli’s telegram wrote a brief note on it for Roger Gaucheron. This has proved challenging to decipher, but it appears to read: “La situation est disposée – les éléments d’une mise un point79.” In subsequent correspondence on 17 November 1944 Murphy informed Iveagh House that Roger Gaucheron was “our friend” and “the person in the political section who deals with Ireland amongst other counties80”. Serendipity played a part in the official forwarding Massigli’s telegram for Gaucheron’s attention; Gaucheron was the appointed Secretary of the French Legation in Dublin in 1930 when the legation first opened in Dublin81. As a result of this posting in the early 1930s, Gaucheron comprehended the Irish national position to some

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degree. It is probable, therefore, that Gaucheron was responsible for transmitting the Massigli telegram to President de Gaulle. De Gaulle was correctly concerned and he wrote a note to a member of his staff, Etienne Burin des Roziers, responsible for relations with the Quai d’Orsay:

1. Pourquoi a-t-on mal reçu M. Murphy, ministre d'Irlande ? 2. Je voudrais connaître le point de vue de M. Bidault sur la question de nos relations avec l'Irlande à laquelle je pense que nous devons attacher du soin et de l'importance82.

46 Keogh, Patterson and Gillissen all argue that this intervention by de Gaulle reversed the Quai’s attitude. De Gaulle’s terse question and comment suggested care should be taken in France’s relations with Ireland. Massigli’s emphasis on relaying the bad reception Murphy had received and the objectionable implications transmitted regarding Irish neutrality had an effect. Perhaps de Gaulle, following his long struggle for the “soul of France” in Winston Churchill’s words, appreciated that Irish neutrality and its diplomatic requirements were vital in Irish endeavours to fortify political and foreign policy independence, in the same way that the Free French had depended on appeals to legitimacy, legalism and the performative83? Numbered among de Gaulle’s ancestors were the McCartans of County Down who rebelled against English Law. He was knowledgeable of Irish history and held Daniel O’Connell in high estimation84.

47 Ironically, de Gaulle’s arresting interposition was in all likelihood unnecessary. But it underwrote Bidault’s softened line of 4 October and subsequently eased flexibility on the letters of credence. Bidault, Massigli, Gaucheron and de Gaulle were all of a common view now to accommodate Murphy’s retention. Walshe’s unbending perseverance since August had succeeded. Eamon de Valera as the Minister for External Affairs was responsible for sanctioning Walshe’s rigid defence of neutrality in the closing months of World War Two, and the resolute Irish demand for keeping Murphy in France after the fall of Vichy conforms to this pattern.

An Audience with de Gaulle

48 The matter was not completely resolved as Phyllis Gaffney has revealed after the Quai relented on its demands for new letter of credence to be granted. Murphy still had to visit the new Head of Government in line with diplomatic custom. However, if Murphy was granted an official audience this would publicise the “Irish exception”. Iveagh House and the Quai negotiated a compromise. Murphy had been due to return home to Ireland for debriefing and long overdue leave. He had been trapped with his family in France by the war since 1940. Murphy’s taking of extended leave provided the Quai with a solution. It would allow the thorny issue of neutrals’ representation to recede from the public eye, and purchase time to engineer a low-key way to satisfy the need for an audience with de Gaulle85.

49 On his return to Paris, Murphy visited de Gaulle on Saturday, March 24, 1945, “in what was described as ‘a private audience’” as opposed to a formal state audience. This proved to be a “cordial” affair. Murphy transmitted de Valera’s best wishes for de Gaulle’s personal wellbeing and his desire “to see France very soon retake her place amongst the great nations of the world”. A “very touched” de Gaulle responded in a telling fashion: “Ireland and France had always been friendly. There was no reason to

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quarrel […] He hoped, that after the war, the economic and cultural relations between the two countries would become closer. We shall all need our friends after the war. He expressed his great admiration for the Taoiseach and the manner in which he had kept his country neutral [author’s italics]86.” De Gaulle’s words suggest sentimental factors played a role in solving the Franco-Irish diplomatic crisis. De Gaulle understood that in de Valera’s situation he would have adopted a similar neutrality policy during World War Two. De Gaulle, as a French nationalist and an exponent of the primacy of the nation- state in international politics, was sensitive to respecting other states' national interests and Ireland was a friend of France. He respected the Irish government’s perspective.

Conclusion

50 In sum, the resolution of the Seán Murphy enigma does not reside in an Alphand- Boland “back channel” or the possible “complementary” factors identified by Gaffney. Complementary factors may have assisted, but there is no direct evidence that they did and they were not the primary actors or causes initiating the special consideration in any case. The primary considerations were mutual respect of national interests and their accommodation. Keogh was correct: a French diplomat who had served in the French Legation in Dublin in the early 1930s played a central part in resolving the case. But it was Roger Gaucheron rather than Hervé Alphand, and it was not an Irish “back channel”. Secondly, Keogh and other authors are correct in underlining de Gaulle’s role in the resolution of the accreditation crisis, but only to a degree. Georges Bidault’s line had softened significantly. De Gaulle’s intrusion in Quai matters made subsequent relaxation on the letters of credence easier. Principally, it was the experienced French diplomat, René Massigli, who played the role as the initiator in the granting of the Irish exception. Massigli and serendipity had avoided a major crisis in Franco-Irish relations.

NOTES

1. Minute by J. P. Walshe, 22 June 1944 (National Archives of Ireland, Dublin [hereafter NAI], Department of Foreign Affairs [hereafter DFA], Secretary’s Office Files [hereafter SOF], A. 2). 2. Diarmaid Ferriter, Judging Dev, Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, 2007, p. 4, 5. Cf. J.J. Lee, Ireland 1912-1985: Politics and Society, Cambridge, Cambridge U.P., 1989, p. 342. 3. Dermot Keogh, Ireland and Europe 1919-1989: A Diplomatic and Political History, Cork and Dublin, Hibernian, 1989, p. 138-41, 156-60, 182-9; Joe Carroll, “A French View of Irish Neutrality”, Études Irlandaises, XIV: 2 (Dec. 1991), p. 159-164; Dermot Keogh, “Ireland, de Gaulle and World War II”, in Pierre Joannon, De Gaulle and Ireland, Dublin, Institute of Public Administration, 1991, p. 23-52; Phyllis Gaffney, “Why was Ireland given Special Treatment? The Awkward State of Franco-Irish Diplomatic Relations, August 1944- March 1945”, Études Irlandaises, XXIV, no. 1 (Spring 1999), p. 151-62; Robert Patterson,

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‘Ireland, Vichy and Post-Liberation France, 1938-50’, in Michael Kennedy and J. M. Skelly (eds), Irish Foreign Policy 1919-1966: From Independence to Internationalism (Dublin, 2000), p. 96-115; Christophe Gillissen, “France”, in Mervyn O’Driscoll, Dermot Keogh and Jérôme aan de Wiel (eds.), Ireland through European Eyes: Western Europe, the EEC and Ireland, 1945-1973, Cork, Cork University Press, 2013, p. 78-80. These empirical studies were invaluable, and Keogh’s work was pioneering. 4. Keogh, ‘Ireland, de Gaulle and World War II’, p. 23-52; Patterson, “Ireland, Vichy and Post-Liberation France, 1938-50”, p. 96-115. 5. Keogh, Ireland and Europe, p. 187; Keogh, “Ireland, de Gaulle and World War II”, p. 24; Patterson, “Ireland, Vichy and Post-liberation France”, p. 111. 6. “Ex-French Ambassador Hervé Alphand Dies”, Washington Post, 19 January 1994, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/local/1994/01/19/ex-french-ambassador- herve-alphand-dies/6652ccde-eab6-4b12-8918-bd38bd0f4d57/ (accessed 14 February 2016); “Deaths Elsewhere: Hervé Alphand, 86 an aide to Charles de Gaulle during…”, Baltimore Sun, 19 January 1994. http://articles.baltimoresun.com/1994-01-19/news/ 1994019076_1_gaulle-ambassador-prime-minister (accessed 14 February 2016). 7. Charles de Gaulle, Lettres, Notes et Carnets, Juin 1943-Mai 1945 (Paris, 1983), p. 327-328. 8. Gaffney, “Why was Ireland given Special Treatment?”, p. 153. 9. Phyllis Gaffney, Healing Amid the Ruins: The Irish Hospital at Saint-Lô (1945-46), Dublin, A & A Farmar, 1999. 10. Gaffney, “Why Was Ireland given Special Treatment?”, p. 158. 11. Ibid., passim. 12. Gaffney, “Why was Ireland given Special Treatment?”, p. 155; Laforcade to Affaires Étrangères, Télégramme, 19 September 1944 (Affaires étrangères – Archives Diplomatiques [hereafter AEAD], série Europe 1944-1970, sous-série Irlande, vol. 219, no. 3) 13. Gaffney, “Why was Ireland given Special Treatment?”, p. 154. 14. Gillissen, “France”, p. 78-80. 15. Gaffney, “Why was Ireland given Special Treatment”, p. 153. 16. Keogh, Ireland and Europe, p. 191. 17. Peter Davies, France and the Second World War: Occupation, Collaboration, and Resistance, London, Routledge, 2001, p. 56. 18. A substantial literature evaluates the internal politics of Vichy, but comparatively limited scholarship has been published on its foreign dimensions. For Vichy diplomacy see: Jean-Baptiste Duroselle, Politique étrangère de la France: L’Abîme, 1939-1944, Paris, Imprimerie nationale, 1982; Special issue: “Les politiques extérieures de la France pendant la deuxième Guerre Mondiale”, Relations Internationales, 107 (2001); Peter Jackson and Smith Kitson, “The Paradoxes of Vichy Foreign Policy, 1940-42”, in J. R. Adelman (ed), Hitler and his Allies in World War II, Oxford, Oxford U.P., 2007, pp 79-115. For Vichy’s domestic aspects see for exemplary purposes: Julian Jackson, France: The Dark Years, 1940-44, Oxford, Oxford U.P., 2001; Robert Paxton, Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, London, Barrie & Jenkins, 1972; François-Georges Dreyfus, Histoire de Vichy, Paris, Perrin, 1990; Robert Gildea, Marianne in Chains: In Search of the German Occupation, 1940-1945, London, Macmillan, 2002. 19. The title of the department was Department of External Affairs until 1971.

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20. P. L. Wylie, Ireland and the Cold War: Diplomacy and Recognition, 1949-63, Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 2006. 21. Ibid., p. 3, 5. 22. Ibid., p. 2-3. 23. Dermot Keogh, ‘Eamon de Valera and Hitler: An Analysis of International Reaction to the Visit to the German Minister, May 1945’, in Irish Studies in International Affairs, III, no. 1 (1989), p. 69-92. 24. Michael Kennedy, Ireland and the League of Nations, 1919-1946: International Relations, Diplomacy and Politics, Dublin, Irish Academic Press, 1996, p. 199. 25. Memorandum by Rynne for Walshe, 15 October 1943, Doc. 335 in Documents on Irish Foreign Policy, vol VII, p. 347-349. 26. MacWhite to Walshe, 24 February 1944 (NAI, DFA SOF P 30). 27. Walshe’s attraction to the politically conservatism, authoritarianism and national regeneration policies of Pétain are fully covered in Keogh, “Ireland, de Gaulle and World War II”. Seán Murphy’s efforts to correct Walshe’s misconceptions are explored by Keogh. 28. See: G. R. Berridge, Diplomacy: Theory and Practice, Basingstoke, Macmillan, 2005, 3rd edition, chapter 8; M. J. Peterson, Recognition of Governments: Legal Doctrine and State Practice, Basingstoke, Macmillan, 1997; T. D. Grant, The Recognition of States: Law and Practice in Debate and EvolutionWestport , Praeger,, CT, 1999; J. W. Young, Twentieth- Century Diplomacy: A Case Study of British Practice, Cambridge, Cambridge U.P., 2008, p. 199, n. 2. 29. Peter Malanczuk, Akehurst's Modern Introduction to International Law, London, Routledge, 1997, 7th revised edition, p. 87. Previously the norm was to withdraw diplomatic relations on declaration of war. 30. The exchange and preservation of full diplomatic or even consular relations was not necessary for a state to recognise another as de jure; only Great Powers could afford the expense of global diplomatic and consular networks, small ones could not. 31. Murphy to Walshe, 2 January 1941 (NAI, DFA 219/1D). 32. Jean Lacouture, De Gaulle: The Rebel, 1890-1914, London, Norton, 1990, p. 283. 33. See Lyn Gorman, “Australia and Vichy: The Impact of Divided France, 1940-1944”, The Australian Journal of Politics and History, XXXXIII, no. 2 (1997). 34. Murphy to Walshe, 2 Jan. 1941 (NAI, DFA 219/1D). 35. Nicholas Atkin, Forgotten French: Exiles in the British Isles, 1940-1944, Manchester, Manchester U.P., 2003, p. 141-84. 36. Benjamin R. Payn, “French legislation in exile”, Journal of Comparative Legislation and International Law, Third Series, XXVIII, no. 3/4 (1946), p. 47-48. 37. Lacouture, Rebel, p. 353-54. 38. Stefan Talmon, Recognition of Governments in International Law: With Particular Reference to Governments in Exile, Oxford, Clarendon, 1998, pp 107, 297. 39. Stefan Talmon, ‘Who is a Legitimate Government in Exile? Towards Normative Criteria for Governmental Legitimacy in International Law’, in Guy S. Goodwin-Gill and Stefan Talmon (eds),The Reality of International Law: Essays in Honour of Ian Brownlie, Oxford, Clarendon, 1999, p. 510.

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40. See the useful overview: Denis Peschanski, “Legitimacy/Legitimation/ Delegitimation: France in the Dark Years, a Textbook Case”, Contemporary European History, XIII, no. 4 (2004), p. 409-23. 41. Milton Viorst, Hostile Allies, New York, Macmillan, 1965. 42. Robert Dallek, Franklin D. Roosevelt and American Foreign Policy, 1932-1945, New York, Oxford UP, 1995, p. 406. Vast historical evidence reiterates this incontrovertible conclusion and there remains much heated debate in French and American literature: was the United States correct in seeking to displace de Gaulle as leader of the Free French or not? The long-running dispute is central in all scholarly work on de Gaulle’s relationship with the US during World War Two. Two overviews of the situation are: Robert Dallek, “Roosevelt and de Gaulle”, in Robert O. Paxton and Nicholas Wahl (eds.), De Gaulle and the United States: A Centennial Reappraisal, Oxford, Berg, 1994, pp 49-60; Kim Muholland, “The United States and the Free French”, in Paxton et al., De Gaulle and the United States, p. 61-94. But see also: Julian G. Hurstfield, America and the French Nation, 1939-1945, Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1986. Evidence of FDR’s hostility towards de Gaulle is widespread throughout Winston Churchill and Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s correspondence. See Francis L. Loewenheim, Harold D. Langley and Manfred Jonas (eds.), Roosevelt and Churchill: Their Secret Wartime Correspondence, London, Barrie & Jenkins, 1975, pp 63, 251 n. 3, 335 n. 2, 338, 344, 345, 484 n. 2, 541. Churchill and the British authorities used their diplomatic and rhetorical powers on numerous occasions to avoid Washington DC’s abandonment of de Gaulle. For example, see: Thomas R. Christofferson and Michael S. Christofferson, France during World War II: From Defeat to Liberation, New York, Fordham University Press, 2006, p. 135-136; François Kersaudy, Churchill and de Gaulle, London, Fontana, 1990. 43. Talmon, Recognition of Governments, p. 107. 44. Patterson, “Ireland, Vichy and Post-Liberation France”, p. 109. 45. Walshe memorandum, 22 June 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, A 2). 46. Talmon, Recognition of Governments, p. 79. 47. Walshe memorandum, 22 June 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, A 2). 48. Estero to Hibernia , Personal Code Telegram, 21 August 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 49. Talmon, Recognition of Governments, p. 297. 50. Walshe memo, “Recognition of Monsieur de Laforcade as Minister of the new French Government in Dublin”, 29 August 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 51. Talmon, Recognition of Governments, p. 193, no. 422. 52. Ibid., p. 79-80. 53. Ibid., p. 212 ; Jean-Claude Allain, Pierre Guillen, Georges-Henri Soutou, Laurent Theis & Maurice Vaïsse, Histoire de la Diplomatie Française, Paris, Perrin, 2007, vol. II, p. 359. 54. Walshe to Murphy, 30 September 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 55. Walshe Memo, “Recognition of Monsieur de Laforcade as Minister of the New French Government in Dublin”, 29 August 1944, ibid.

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56. For Walshe’s summation of the communication problems see: Walshe memorandum, “Recognition of New French Government”, n.d. (c. late October or early November 1944), ibid. 57. Laforcade to Affaires Étrangères, 19 September 1944 (AEAD, Europe, Irlande 1944-1949, vol. 219, no. 3). 58. Estero (Dublin) to Hibernia (Vichy), Telegram, 16 August 1944, ibid. 59. Murphy to Walshe, 28 September 1944, ibid. This minute was not received in External Affairs until 18 October 1944. 60. Murphy to Walshe, 28 September 1944 (NAI, DFA SOF P 97). Received on Tuesday 18 October 1944. 61. Report of Harold King, Reuter’s Special Correspondent, Paris, 27 September 1944, ibid. 62. Walshe to Murphy, 30 September 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 63. Lacouture, Rebel, p. 445. 64. In his memoirs de Gaulle refers to him as a man “of quality” and one of the “notables”. Charles de Gaulle, The Complete War Memoirs of Charles de Gaulle, Forge Village, Mass., Clarion/Simon & Schuster, 1972, p. 318, 403. 65. Claire Andrieu, Philippe Braud et Guillaume Piketty, Dictionnaire de Gaulle, Paris, Robert Laffont, 1996, p. 734. This was a demotion according to some authors who claim that Massigli was too anglophile for de Gaulle’s tastes. See Martin Thomas, “Free France, the British Government and the Future of French Indochina 1940-45”, in Paul H. Kratoska (ed.). Independence through Revolutionary War, London, Routledge, p. 223-251. 66. Walshe to Murphy, 30 September 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 67. Massigli to Paris, Diplo 4880, 30 September 1944 (AEAD, Europe, Irlande 1944-1949, vol. 214, no. 2). 68. Traduction, Lettre de Joseph Walshe à Sean Murphy, 30 Sept. 1944 (AEAD, Europe, Irlande 1944-1949, vol. 214, no. 2). 69. Walshe to Murphy, 30 September 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 70. Bidault to London, No. 122, 4 October 1944, (AEAD, Europe, Irlande 1944-1949, vol. 214, no. 2). 71. Walshe to Murphy, 30 September 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 72. Ibid. 73. Hibernia to Estero Dublin, Telegram from Berne, 4 October 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 74. Ibid. 75. Estero to Hibernia (Berne), For Murphy, Telegram No. 103 Dearg, 9 October 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 76. London to Quai, Tel. No. 4,947 (AEAD, Europe, Irlande 1944-1949, vol. 214, no. 2). 77. Ibid. 78. Ibid. 79. Ibid. 80. Murphy to Walshe, 17 November 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97).

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81. Gaucheron is identified as the inaugural Secretary of the Legation at: The Residence of France and its History, http://www.ambafrance-ie.org/La-Residence-de-France-et- son (accessed 12 February 2016). 82. De Gaulle to Burin des Roziers, note, “after 6 October” (Archives Nationales, Paris, Archives de la Président de la République : Charles de Gaulle, 3 AG 4/14). I am very grateful to Professor Christophe Gillissen for drawing my attention to this. 83. Regarding the contingency and utility of legitimacy as practiced by de Gaulle see: Denis Peschanki, “Legitimacy/Legitimation/Delegitimation: France in the Dark Years, a Textbook Case”, Contemporary European History, 13, 4 (November 2004), p. 409-423. 84. Pierre Joannon, “Charles de Gaulle and Ireland: A return to the sources”, in Joannon, De Gaulle and Ireland, p. 5-7; Lacouture, De Gaulle: The Ruler, 1945-1970, London, Harvill, 1992, p. 579-80. 85. Murphy to Walshe, 17 November 1944 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97). 86. Murphy to Walshe, 26 March 1945 (NAI, DFA, SOF, P 97).

ABSTRACTS

The article reframes Irish wartime neutrality. It posits that Ireland’s policy towards Vichy France conformed to the prevailing legal interpretations in the field of diplomatic recognition. This was consistent with the practice of Ireland’s longstanding recognition policy from the 1930s until the 1960s. An enigma, however, envelops Ireland’s retention of the Irish Minister to the Republic of France, Seán Murphy, after the fall of Marshall Philippe Pétain in August 1944. Charles de Gaulle’s Provisional Government demanded the replacement of all heads of missions who had served in France during the Vichy interlude. This violated the traditional practice of recognition law as understood by Ireland and other neutrals. But the neutrals, with the exception of Ireland, reluctantly complied with the demand. How did the Irish Department of External Affairs succeed in circumventing this? No evidence of an illusive “back channel”, that some authors speculate ended the accreditation crisis, has been found. There is limited evidence that secondary factors, such as the proposed establishment of an Irish Red Cross Hospital in Normandy, played a direct or significant role in senior French decision makers’ calculations to reverse their policy in the case of Murphy. This article offers a fresh explanation for France’s extension of a dispensation to Ireland: on petition from the Irish government, René Massigli, the new French Ambassador in London, made two decisive interventions which altered the climate of opinion in Paris and enabled Seán Murphy to remain. “We had no quarrel with any group of Frenchmen and our one desire with regard to France was to see her whole people united under one Government… We did not want quarrels between Frenchmen in Ireland1.”

L’article apporte une nouvelle perspective sur la neutralité irlandaise en temps de guerre. Le postulat de départ est que la stratégie irlandaise envers le gouvernement français de Vichy était conforme aux interprétations légales de l’époque dans le domaine des relations diplomatiques. Ceci correspondait avec la politique de relations internationales irlandaise depuis les années 1930 et jusque dans les années 1960. Le fait que l’ambassadeur irlandais de la République française,

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Seán Murphy, soit resté en poste après la chute du maréchal Pétain en aout 1944 reste cependant une énigme. Le gouvernement provisoire de Charles de Gaulle a en effet exigé le replacement de tous les chargés de missions ayant officié en France durant l’interlude de Vichy, ce qui allait à l’encontre des habitudes de l’Irlande et des autres pays neutres en matière de relations diplomatiques. Les pays neutres, à l’exception de l’Irlande, furent quand même forcés de se soumettre à cette volonté. Comment le ministère des Affaires Extérieures irlandais a-t-il réussi à contourner cet écueil ? Aucune preuve de l’existence d’un illusoire « canal alternatif », auquel certains auteurs attribuent la fin de la crise des habilitations, n’a jamais été révélée. Il n’existe que peu d’éléments confirmant l’influence directe ou significative de facteurs secondaires, comme la proposition de construction d’un hôpital de la Croix Rouge irlandaise en Normandie, sur le changement de politique des décisionnaires français en ce qui concerne Murphy. Cet article offre une nouvelle explication à la dispense accordée à l’Irlande par la France : René Massigli, le nouvel ambassadeur français à Londres, est intervenu deux fois de façon décisive, grâce à une pétition du gouvernement irlandais, et a influencé les courants d’opinion à Paris, permettant à Sean Murphy de rester à son poste. « Nous n’avions pas de différends avec aucune faction française, et notre plus cher désir concernant la France était de voir son peuple uni sous un seul et même gouvernement… Nous ne voulions pas créer de tensions à l’intérieur de la communauté française en Irlande. »

INDEX

Mots-clés: Seconde Guerre mondiale, neutralité irlandaise, relations franco-irlandaises, Irlande - relations internationales Keywords: Irish neutrality, Second World War, Franco-Irish relations, Ireland - international relations

AUTHOR

MERVYN O’DRISCOLL University College Cork

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Art et image Economic and Social Issues

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Reviewing the Aftermath Project (2013-2014) in the Light of Affect Theory

Anne Goarzin

1 The Aftermath project was launched in 2013 by director and former Republican prisoner Laurence McKeown. McKeown took part in the Blanket and Dirty Protests in the late 1980s and he was on hunger strike for 67 days. He subsequently co-wrote the movie H3, which was released in 20011. With the Aftermath project, he took another step as a creative artist and a partner in several creative projects, especially through the Corners of Europe online platform2, which offers artistic insights into conflict zones in Europe. Aftermath may be summed up as an intermedial endeavour that aims at “uncov[ering] the experiences and emotions of those who lived through flight and trauma3”. It resorts to several art forms and uses several media formats in order to discuss and exchange through “creative, artistic approaches to story-telling and life stories to highlight the issues and needs of the participants drawn from the target groups4.”

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Figure 1 : Screenshot of the Aftermath project

(http://aftermath-ireland.com/). Tinu Achioya and Tosin Omiyale. Photographs by Anthony Haughey.

2 The project was supported by a two-year funding scheme through the EU Programme for Peace and Reconciliation coordinated by Will Glendinning5. Aftermath thus merges two initiatives: one which focuses on recording the narratives of victims and survivors who were displaced from Northern Ireland to the border county of Louth during the Irish Troubles; and another, part of the “Diversity Challenges / Displaced People Programme”, which centers on former or recent migrants to Ireland6. The connection between both projects is based on the realization that the individuals who migrated to Ireland in the mid-1990s often experienced the same fears and anxieties as their counterparts who moved south of the border into Co. Louth a generation earlier: In 1969 the largest evacuation of refugees since World War II took place in Ireland as thousands of people fled across the border to escape the unfolding conflict in Northern Ireland. In subsequent years the border counties continued to be heavily impacted; many people were injured or killed in bombings and shootings whilst others were imprisoned or displaced7.

3 Aftermath was launched at the Louth County Museum, Dundalk, in September 2013 and went on to be shown in Dublin (Temple Bar Gallery of Photography), in Newry (Sean Hollywood Arts Centre), and in Belfast (Belfast Exposed Gallery of Photography)8. The output of the project goes beyond the various exhibitions and carries on a life of its own via its website. I argue that the project hinges on two propositions. First, it offers a new perspective on a much-commented political situation by taking into account changing perceptions of the political, the economic and the cultural in the Irish context. It thus goes against the grain of geopolitics in that it does not propose the habitual analysis of the relations of power in the conflict. Rather, it focuses on “capturing the changing cofunctioning of the political, the economic, and the cultural,

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rendering it affectively as change in the deployment of affective capacity9” and chooses to treat the specific question of conflict in Northern Ireland by recontextualising it against the backdrop of displaced populations on a global level. Aftermath is therefore far from being a mere account of the displacement of populations from the North of Ireland to the South : instead, the new space it creates entails a redefinition of the relationship between individuals across communities10. Second, the project addresses the effects of a given political situation through the complexity of affects, as expressed by individuals whose stories are recorded, and as experienced by the viewer. As such, it also offers an opportunity to reconsider the method used to address both the political situations and their individual consequences. Indeed, Aftermath exceeds conventional modes of perception in many ways. It does so by tracing previously unrecorded stories : in showing and naming the speakers, it breaks away from the traditional rule of anonymity as well as from the implicit rule of silence enforced within the communities for political reasons (“Whatever you say, say nothing”). Furthermore, one should point out that the virtual dialogue initiated in this way has also led to the emergence of actual discussion groups who have shared their experiences of the Troubles through the physical medium of voice and presence. The project undeniably offers an extended reflection on individual trauma, but the correlation between trauma theory and affect theory requires further clarification in order to understand why the latter might make for a more relevant critical prism here. Patricia T. Clough has referred to trauma as a forgetting without memory, so that traumatic effects are a symptomology substituting for what was never experienced as such. It cannot be said that there is repression of what is experienced…. There is no repression and therefore no possibility of projection or displacement onto the other. Instead, trauma is drawn back into the ego. The ego is overrun by the object or event, fixating the ego11.

4 While she acknowledges the importance of Ruth Leys’ work (as well as indirectly, that of Cathy Caruth and Dominick LaCapra’s landmark essays on trauma12), in The Affective Turn Clough proposes to take an extra step in interrogating how trauma is passed on “in a transgenerational body trance”, or “a haunted materiality13”. She thus wishes to rethink “the subject of trauma as something more like an assemblage of body memories and pre-individual affective capacities14”.

5 The men, women and children speaking in the Aftermath videos reflect on individual experiences of conflict, violence or displacement which may differ in nature and do not engender identical degrees of repression, hauntings or recurring symptoms. Interestingly, it is Anthony Haughey’s photographic triptychs which most evidently point to what may not be stated in the stories : these are individuals who are “ghosted” by the place they originate from, whether it be Ireland, symbolized by boulders, rocks or peacelines, or more remote lands symbolized by the desolation of burnt-out forests or sterile land. (see Figure 1, and Figures 2 and 3). I will therefore argue that the project goes beyond the telling or recollecting of traumatic individual experiences. Rather, it forms what Lisa Blackman has defined an “embodied hauntology… in the profound sense that there is something more to say, one should look for something more than now15”. It thus prompts the researcher to expand the scope of her analysis by taking into consideration “a distributed or mediated form of perception, which is simultaneously somatic, psychic, technical, and historical, and which can animate, stage and, importantly, allow one to ‘see’ what might actually exceed conventional modes of perception16”. Following Blackman’s lead, I will consider the bodily

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implications of these perceptions for the traumatized ego as well as for the viewer and critic engaging with these bodies through intermediality.

Methodology: Acknowledging Mundane Catastrophes

6 Method is thus essential here and it appears to us that recent so-called “affective” methodologies – an offspring of cultural studies – offer a relevant approach in proposing to address what might be considered as the “blind spots” of trauma theory, notably by taking into consideration what Gregory Forter has called the obliterated “mundanely catastrophic17” nature of traumas that are chronic and cumulative. Aftermath records individual stories in which traumatic events are woven into the fabric of ordinary lives rather than registered as massive-scale “shock.” Let us take one example : in her interview, Karren (born in 1969) highlights the banality of violence for her Protestant family who moved to Newry. She tells of the family’s alarm on hearing a shooting at a neighbour’s house, or recalls sleeping undisturbed through the banging of bin lids during Internment protests, much to her relatives’ astonishment. She also remembers her frustration about the aborted friendship with a fellow girl Scout, because she was a Catholic. The way she recalls what was for her a happy childhood only accentuates the physical assimilation of constant threat : “Maybe looking back now it wasn’t that normal, you know, mortar bombs, and hiding in the hall afraid and saving the dog… but it was all I knew18…”

7 Moving from the “felt sense articulated as an emotional stance or attitude19”, the researcher’s aim in “cultivating methodological sensitivities” is to allow a movement “through [felt sense] into a particular archive of connected statements, practices, objects, subjects that give form and transform one’s embodied responses20”. The Aftermath project offers an opportunity to implement a new methodology which may be loosely defined as an experiment with a variety of related media including photography, visual sculpture, storytelling and music, which proximity induces “affect transformation”. How to interpret this variety of experiences and what is at work when engaging with “immaterial and affective processes of social life21” is what recent academic criticism has been attempting to circumscribe. “Developing affective methodologies is, of course, a huge challenge”, Knudsen and Stage admit : “How do you identify affective processes and discuss their social consequences through qualitative research strategies if affect is bodily, fleeting and immaterial and always in between entities or nods22?” Cultural theorist Lisa Blackman has the following response : Method does not reveal or disclose a pre-existent object or even a process, but rather the analytics of experimentation that I develop attempts to construct a material-semiotic-affective apparatus that reorients the perception towards new ways of seeing hearing, listening, and feeling. The methodological apparatus helps to ‘give form’ to processes that are dispersed, distributed across space and time23…

8 In other words, the visual, verbal and auditory dimension of the project show how bodies are modulated by affect (how they react or express themselves) while the critic aims at deploying her “material-semiotic-affective apparatus” to engage with them.

9 From the perspective of those telling their stories, asserting one’s presence appears to be empowering. Telling of their experience and questioning power structures or social rules enables the speakers to reassess how communities, whether they are older Irish exiles or more recent migrants envisage their experiences and their future. For

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instance, two Serbian girls24 speak of how they have been in “direct provision for nine years”, living in hostels and struggling to adapt to new schools as they move from one accommodation to the next (“very confusing and very hard”). One of them hopes to become a lawyer to help other asylum seekers with communal law, the other wants to be an actress in order to become wealthy enough to “come back and help children” such as themselves. Both value the sense of community provided by their being part of a youth club that takes them places in Dublin and both are able to enunciate a future which is conditioned by their ongoing, present experience of displacement.

10 Aftermath thus embodies personal experiences of trauma, displacement and political violence by resorting to the digital medium, as well as redirecting them through the flux and flow of the network. It also facilitates a dialogue between the “mundane” yet traumatizing experience of a displaced Northern Irish community which escaped to the border counties to flee the violence of the conflict in the late 1960s and that of non- White, non-Western migrant subjects who have come from Serbia, Pakistan or Africa25. What is restored in the process is what some critics claim has been omitted in trauma theory, namely the ability to listen to the other26. Here, the intensity of the subjects’ experiences is shared through the dedicated website and it is circulated through alternative, and participative networks such as YouTube or Soundcloud. The musical pieces created27 or the sound sculpture28 both support the force of the narratives and divert it towards other, possibly more universal forms. The artistic and cultural assemblages of Aftermath enable us to theorize affect, in Patricia Clough’s words, in relation to the technologies that are allowing us both to “see” affect and to produce affective bodily capacities beyond the body’s organic-physiological constraints. The technoscientific experimentation with affect not only traverses the opposition of the organic and the non-organic; it also inserts the technical into felt vitality…the affective turn, therefore, expresses a new configuration of bodies, technology, and matter instigating a shift in thought in critical theory29.

11 In so doing, the Aftermath project challenges conventional interpretations : it moves beyond simply relaying “the equilibrium-seeking closed systems” developed by individuals to cope with trauma, and towards “the complexity of open systems under far-from-equilibrium conditions of metastability30” which value circulation. The first looks back to the past, while the other “sends thought to the future – to the bodily matter and biotechnologies of technoscientific experimentation31”.

12 It invites a method which P. T. Clough describes as “a transdiciplinary approach to theory and method that necessarily invites experimentation32”. I would agree with theorists such as Brian Massumi, Gregory J. Seigworth and Patricia T. Clough that while war and cultural transformations are crucial as such, the turn to affect registers a change in the co-functioning of the political, the economic, and the cultural, or what Massumi elsewhere dubs “the social”33. Aftermath may thus not be envisioned as a strictly Irish story, as one would almost expect it to be due to long-standing methodological assumptions — that storytelling is an Irish phenomenon ; or that displacement may only be read through the prism of the Irish diaspora. Rather, it points to the possibility of considering the impact of world conflicts and cultural and economic imperialisms, as well as common human, affective responses to contemporary changes, from the Troubles to the recent, if painful awareness of Ireland’s place in a global environment during the economic boom, and after the collapse of the Celtic Tiger economy.

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13 Instead of offering one single interpretation, Aftermath seems to shoot off in various directions and to provide multiple temporalities : that of the subject represented, that of the group or of the community of viewers, and that of the researcher. Depending on which featured medium the viewer chooses to focus on, and whether it is one that affects the viewer’s body more directly, or one that relies on language to express affects, Aftermath elicits both approaches, either connecting emotions with bodily sensations or with cognitive reception. According to Knudsen and Stage, this determines a split between what first “hits us” on the one hand, and, on the other, intellect or cognitive apparatus where affect is considered “beyond language categorization, and therefore, any analytical strategy must focus on semantics and semiotics as distorted traces of affect, not a medium for it34”. This involves reflecting on the condition of the social and a conscious experience, and demands that one question the “situational specificity” of the project in order to understand its context and historical entanglements, and to take in the affects and make meaning35.

Changing Perceptions : Questioning Spaces and Temporalities

14 Aftermath incorporates individuals as bodies in a virtual space which is no longer limited to the politically contested and geographically elusive borders of nation, but as an assemblage of artistic works and witnesses’ accounts (be it victims of the Troubles or victims of other, sometimes more global conflicts) that reaches beyond what may be seen as its “starting point”, or as its situational context. It also places itself against the determinism of material conditions and the normativizing discourse on the Troubles by exceeding the boundaries of the norm exemplified in binary social or historical discourses – North, South, victim, perpetrator, Republican, Loyalist. On the contrary the project refutes spatial utopias and the definition of a national space by allowing the subject to come into being as itself (as an Albanian emigrant child from Serbia, as a Nigerian woman, as the son of a Catholic displaced family from Stranmillis in Belfast whose father was killed in a pub bombing in 1975).

15 As far as the Troubles are concerned, Aftermath opts for a different approach to these predetermined socio-spatial conditions, notably by addressing issues of police collusion with paramilitary groups in the case of the Brecknell murder36, and by pointing to the tragic irony of being brutally killed after having assumed his family would be safe in Dundalk. As such, the project also queries what sociologist Allen Feldman dubs the “imagined community of utopian completion” that is based on a continuum: “In Northern Ireland the formation of the political subject takes place within a continuum of spaces consisting of the body, the confessional community, the state, and the imagined community of utopian completion: United Ireland or the British Ulster37.”

16 Being located in the virtual space of the Internet allows Aftermath to challenge these definitions and to liberate itself from what Peggy Phelan has exposed as “critical theories of cultural reproduction … increasingly dedicated to consideration of the ‘material conditions’ that influence, if not completely determine, social, racial, sexual and psychic identities38”. Here, the people telling their stories are allowed to disentangle themselves from the geopolitical space and to define their own individual perception of space (the farm, the field, the home, the street). They become inscribed in a new time and space through the format of the storytelling sequence (about 10

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minutes in length), which makes for a mental exploration of the places of the past recalled in the present and not erased. Strikingly, while many of these Irish stories recall traumatizing events (the kidnapping and killing of a mother, the disappearance of an uncle, the explosion and deaths in a pub, etc.), the hyperbolic eruption of political violence is put in perspective with the continuity of daily life, affective connections within the communities and outside of them. The new space that is being created is that of “life itself”39. The Aftermath project therefore chooses to risk human encounters and to reconfigure the relationship with the other (sometimes the former adversary), as much as with the other as viewer / Internet user, who is also collecting and reflecting on these individual stories.

Choices : The Editorial Process

17 How this “affect transformation” occurs makes for the second aspect of our analysis. Much like photographic artist Anthony Haughey’s commissioned portraits40 evince a deliberate choice of the subject, framing and setting (see figure 2), the project edits and selects its texts and productions.

Figure 2 : Aftermath Project.

Emanuela and Englentina Doda. Photographs by Anthony Haughey41

18 The strength of Aftermath lies in its ability to convey affects which are offered the unlimited virtual space of the web, and of virtually unlimited audience. Not only does it open up the scope of the conflict as global and no longer in terms of strictly Irish geography or politics, but in terms of how other people might experience it in a physical way, through affects.

19 The 10-minute videos also reveal an ongoing interaction, and sometimes a renewed dialogism between the speaker and the producer Laurence McKeown, whose voice is heard at times and whose face is framed by the camera. Sometimes there is also added archive footage to illustrate the story. What emerges out of this is the possibility of a recreated community between the viewer and the subject, as the reality of the latter’s affect-laden experiences (of fear, anxiety, loss) are likely to be shared in a very real, bodily way, through tears, or as one searches for a physical expression of these emotions on the speaker’s face. As performance critic Peggy Phelan argues: “Memory. Sight. Love. All require a witness, imagined or real42.” Sometimes, they reveal the

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connection between the interviewee and Laurence McKeown, the project director and allow for interlocution (as is the case with RUC interviewee Roger McCallum). A glimpse behind the scenes suggests this is no solitary moment or confession, but a rather an on- going conversation with oneself and with the community, post-conflict.

20 The use of various, complementary media reinforces the dialogical strength of the project: the individual stories are also taken into Haughey’s photographs, which has unrelated people feature on the same triptych, and also connects them to a place or to a specific object which determines the discontinued space that the speakers have been confronted with by being moved forcibly to another city or country. As far as the conflict is concerned, the discontinuity and violence of space is symbolized by concrete blocks on the border; by a bullet hole in a window, by walls or peace lines : semiotics make for the lack of a verbal language and stand for what Knudsen and Stage call “distorted traces of affect43”.

Figure 3 : Aftermath Project

Tony Martin and Mark O’Connor. Photographs by Anthony Haughey.

21 What makes the project particularly stimulating is the proliferation of its practices: it offers access to fixed or moving images, to music, to combined music and image in the sound sculpture, thus stressing the possibility of an ontological order different from that of purely linguistic representation. Browsing through the different media literally triggers “mixed feelings” on the viewer’s part, ranging from empathy to anguish and sadness – and most of all, it arouses non-intentional emotions. While the sound sculpture’s entangled voices may initially seem to convey a certain confusion, it also posits as acceptable an unstable, uncertain or fleeting understanding of the situation on part of the non-Irish viewer, or of the researcher. More interestingly, the multiple voices dematerialize expression and disconnect language from the bodies that speak it. The environment created here is an assemblage of disconnected corridors, veiled partitions, light and darkness, haunting violin music associated with murmuring or pleading voices – male, female, foreign-sounding or Irish voices–, and claiming “This is my story… I want to tell you my story”.

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Figure 4 : “Aftermath”: Sound sculpture (screen shot).

Photographic artist Anthony Haughey, music composer Elaine Agnew.

22 More so than the homeostatic form of the interviews, this “sound sculpture”, proposes to assemble two seemingly incompatible techniques (auditory and material), thus generating a new hybrid “embodied” object. It also suggests the possibility that the subject might be co-constructed with the environment and it defines a new relationship between bodies (as voices) outside the limits of individual often traumatic bodily experience. In other words, it points to the fact that from this “cell-like” system (or nucleus, in the scientific sense), a new form arises which challenges linearity. For P. Clough, this is a crucial intellectual turn, because “this move away from privileging homeostasis to thinking evolution in terms of information, complexity and open systems under far-from-equilibrium conditions of metastability undoes the opposition between the organism and the environment, as well as the opposition between the organic and the nonorganic44”. The fact that various networks (such as SoundCloud recently, YouTube or Twitter to a lesser extent) also give access to the sound sculpture and the interviews is similarly interesting, because they further circulate the media, thereby disentangling it from the context of the 2013-14 project. Far from a compulsive repetition of trauma, what is taking shape here is a new non-organic object. The Aftermath project thus veers to the future and fosters a life drive rather than a death drive by creating a lively, self-organized network that reconfigures “bodies, technology, and matter45”.

Conclusion

23 Listening to the interviews, some recurring terms stand out, such as “normality, “abnormality”, “disclosure”, or “knowledge” and “truth”. Issues of belief and trust are at stake here. Something happens, whereby a new definition of the speaker’s identity as feeling subject rather than as authorial presence is provided, as well as a renewed definition of the interlocutor, as someone who is affected by the other’s bodily presence and thus himself experiencing a form of discontinuity. Here, telling one’s story is a way for the “I” to avoid fading and to summon memory and love while displaying it for others to hear or see makes sure the “eye” of the spectator is requested. Unique stories are being told here, the performance of which seeks to

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establish the truth and to settle the facts (what happened to Dominic McGinley’s parents or to Seamus Dollan, who was found dead in a ditch ; or how Emmanuel Marley’s father was killed by Loyalists). Aftermath offers a virtual place for these narratives which, A. Feldman might say, have “overburd[ened] experience with surplus meaning46”. Traditionally, Phelan argues, “visibility politics are additive rather than transformational… They lead to the stultifying ‘me-ism’ to which realistic representation is always vulnerable. Unable to see oneself reflected in a corresponding image of the same, the spectator can reject the representation as ‘not about me’. Or worse, the spectator can valorize the representation which fails to reflect her likeness, as one with ‘universal appeal’ or ‘transcendent power’47” What is central in Aftermath is no longer identity or difference, the matching image of “me as the same” or the comforting image of “me as different”, but the co-construction of a new identity through autonomous artistic creations.

24 Aftermath succeeds in defining a new identity which no longer comes as an excess but as a transformation through the use of intermedial forms. One can appropriate it, or circulate it in a variety of contexts48. In this sense, Aftermath goes beyond the representational logics of dissension between the “self” and “other” understood in terms of politics: instead, it “assembles” experiences by enhancing what is not immediately visible. I have shown that Aftermath assembles practices and is therefore not a singular object, but a networked project. Because it selects the data collected, it does not make a bid for universality and does not claim to provide clear-cut “answers” or fixed perspectives – and as such it may be said to remain partial. There is an autoethnographic dimension to it, because it “engages multiple participants in participatory art practices49”. However as C. Reestorff has pointed out, “the ethnographic turn has been accompanied by another turn, namely an ethical turn in which an art-work is evaluated ‘on the degree to which artists supply a good or bad model of collaboration50”… meaning that the efficacy of art is often perceived in terms of its ability to improve human behavior. I suggest that Aftermath cannot be studied merely as an autoethnographic or an ethical object : while it is both these things, it also engages the viewer to address its shifting artistic borders and the dissemination of its online narratives through the networks, prompting a reflection on the circulation of data and on what C. Reestorf has called the “shift from art-work to net-work51”. “Affective methodologies” thus appear as a relevant tool to analyse the reality of experience and to challenge fixed epistemological frames. They also allow to study creativity and the coming together of phenomena in the ever-expanding network (rather than field, perhaps), of Irish studies.

NOTES

1. Written by Brian Campbell and Lawrence McKeown, directed by Les Blair (2001). 2. “CORNERS is a platform for artists and audiences, designed and driven by cultural organisations at the edges of Europe. A number of cultural institutions from the edges

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of Europe build a partnership designed to last, and based on shared responsibility. CORNERS was initiated in 2010 by six cultural institutions: Intercult (), Exodos (Ljubljana), POGON (Zagreb), Drugo more (Rijeka), City Culture Institute (Gdansk), and Umeå 2014 – European Capital of Culture. The project is then further developed together with several institutions, new core partners and associates: Donostia / San Sebastian 2016 – European Capital of Culture, Arts Council of Northern Ireland (Belfast), ISIS Arts (Newcastle), REX (Belgrade), DokuFest (Prizren) and Teatro Pubblico Pugliese (Bari). The list of other collaborating organizations throughout Europe is long, changing and intensely local.” [http://www.cornersofeurope.org/ about/]. 3. [http://aftermath-ireland.com/] 4. [ http://aftermath-ireland.com/] 5. “Will Glendinning is a former CEO of the Community Relations Council and someone with considerable experience in community relations and community development. Will has worked extensively storytelling as a means of dealing with past conflict. He is trained in the ethical use of storytelling as a healing and reconciling process. Will has participated in European conferences and seminars on conflict. He is a member of Healing Through Remembering, and Bridging Ages. He is assisted by Associate Consultants who are selected on the basis of their skills for particular tasks.” [http:// www.diversity-challenges.com/about/] 6. “County Louth was very much impacted by the conflict in and about Northern Ireland. Bomb and gun attacks left many dead or injured; others were imprisoned, both North and South. Louth also became a refuge for many who fled the conflict. In more recent times the county has received refugees from further afield, those displaced by conflicts in their own lands. They often experience the same fears, anxieties, hopes, and dreams as their counterparts from the north did; similarly, they also often encounter the same suspicions and prejudices from the host community. Both the victims of conflict and those displaced are now dealing with the legacy of conflict and its impact upon them personally. Diversity Challenges in partnership with, The Integration Centre, the County Museum Dundalk, and the Rural Community Network has received funding from Co Louth Peace and Reconciliation Partnership for support under the EU Programme for Peace and Reconciliation 2007-2013 to deliver two programmes in conjunction with one another.” 7. [http://aftermath-ireland.com/aftermath-newry-opening/]. 8. County Museum, Dundalk, Sept 2013 ; Gallery of Photography, Dublin, 30 Oct-10 Nov; Sean Hollywood Arts Centre, Newry 14 Nov-30 Nov: Belfast Exposed 5 Dec-21 Dec 2013. 9. Patricia Tincineto Clough with Jean Halley (eds.), The Affective Turn: Theorizing the Social, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2007, p. 3. 10. The approach takes into account other traumatic situations, other countries, other experiences of immigration and of migration. This is doubly the case as far as place is concerned : first because the participants have had to move south of the border for safety (from Belfast to Dundalk, or in the surrounding area) : “In an idea originating along the border counties of Northern Ireland, a region which bore the overflow of those fleeing violence in the North, the exhibition takes on a multimedia format in uncovering the experiences and emotions of those who lived through flight and trauma.” [http://aftermath-ireland.com/journalist-art-aftermath-exhibition/].

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11. P. T. (qting Ruth Leys), op. cit., p. 6. 12. See Ruth Leys, Trauma: a Genealogy, Chicago, Chicago of University Press, 2000; Caruth, Cathy. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History, Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996 ; Dominick LaCapra, History and Memory after Auschwitz, Ithaca, Cornell UP, 1998. 13. P. T. Clough, op. cit., p.7. 14. Ibid. 15. Lisa Blackman, “Researching Affect and Embodied Hauntologies: Exploring and Analytics of Experimentation”, in Britta Timm Knudsen and Carsten Stage, Affective Methodologies: Developing Cultural Research Strategies for the Study of Affect, NY, New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2015, p. 26-27. 16. Ibid., p. 26 17. Like persecution or genocide: “I am speaking here of the trauma induced by patriarchal identity formation rather, say, that the trauma of rape, the violence not of lynching but of everyday racism.”, p. 260 in Greg Forter, “Freud, Faulkner, Caruth: Trauma and the politics of the Literary Form”, Narrative 5: 3, October 2007, p. 259-85. Quoted by Anne Goarzin, « Articulating Trauma », Études Irlandaises, Perspectives on Trauma in Irish History, Literature and Culture, 36 :1, Rennes, PUR, 2011, p. 18. 18. “Karren interview” [ http://soundcloud.com/joebloggshttps://soundcloud.com/ joe-bloggs] retrieved 18 March 2016. 19. Lisa Blackman, “Researching Affect and Embodied Hauntologies: Exploring and Analytics of Experimentation”, art. cit., p. 28. 20. Ibid. 21. Britta Timm Knudsen and Carsten Stage, Affective Methodologies: Developing Cultural Research Strategies for the Study of Affect, NY, New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2015, p. 1. 22. Ibid., p. 2. 23. Lisa Blackman, “Researching Affect and Embodied Hauntologies: Exploring and Analytics of Experimentation”, art. cit., p. 26. 24. “Serbian girls audio”[ https://soundcloud.com/joe-ebloggs] retrieved 18 March 2016. 25. See “Toisin interview” [https://soundcloud.com/joe-ebloggs] retrieved 18 March 2016. 26. See for example Stef Craps and Gert Buelens, “Introduction: Postcolonial Trauma Novels”, Studies in the Novel, vol 40, no. 1 & 2, Spring and Summer 2008, p. 1-12; or Victoria Burrows, “The Heterotopic Spaces of Postcolonial Trauma in Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost, Studies in the Novel, vol. 40, nos. 1 & 2, Spring and Summer 2008, p. 161-177. 27. “Song for Michael” by David Holmes/Keefus Cianca, and “Aftermath” piece by Elaine Agnew. 28. An audio installation by Anthony Haughey, produced by Recordit studios, 2013. 29. Patricia Tincineto Clough with Jean Halley (eds.), The Affective Turn, p. 2. 30. P.T. Clough, op. cit., p. 2. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid.

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33. Ibid., p. 3. 34. Britta Timm Knudsen and Carsten Stage, Affective Methodologies, op. cit., p. 4. For example, “The affective turn” is also one which, as Seigworth and Gregg state, attempts to “turn away from the much-heralded “linguistic turn” of the latter half of the 20th century, – from cultural anthropology to geography to communication and cultural studies to performance-based art practices to literary theory ….” (The Affect Theory Reader, 2010, p. 14). To them, the turn to the affect consists of “understanding how the “outside” realms of the pre/extra-/ para-linguistic intersect with the “lower” or proximal senses (such as touch, taste, smell, rhythm, and motion-sense or, alternately/ ultimately, the autonomic nervous system) while also arguing for a much wider definition for the social or the cultural.” (ibid., p. 7-8). 35. See Knudsen and Stage : “ This interest in ‘the situational’ is… directed by our wish to not only get close enough to the actual affectivity of social life to sense and detect it, but also by our interest in knowledge production that transcends solely subjective accounts of affect.” (p. 5) 36. “On December 19, 1975 a car bomb exploded outside Kay’s Tavern in Dundalk, Co Louth. Two people died and dozens were injured. On the same evening gunmen opened fire both outside and then inside Donnelly’s Bar, Silverbridge Co Armagh. A bomb was thrown into the bar. Three people died and again dozens were injured.” “Alan (Brecknell) interview”. Brecknell went on to work at the Pat Finucane center, [http:// www.patfinucanecentre.org/collusion/opb_fami.html]. The Center’s activities comprise; “Justice for the Forgotten — JFF, a project of the PFC, provides support and advocacy to victims and survivors in the Republic including those bereaved and injured in the Dublin and Monaghan bombings ; Networking with human rights NGOs and parliamentarians in Ireland and abroad ; Long-term involvement on a wide range of issues surrounding policing and the criminal justice system ; Facilitating dialogue between the two communities in the North through private contacts, workshops and public meetings on potential truth processes etc. ; Individual casework with families who have lost loved ones and creating support structures for families.” 37. Allen Feldman, Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland (revised second printing, 1994, third printing, 1997) Chicago, The University of Chicago Press, p. 9. 38. Peggy Phelan, Unmarked : The Politics of Performance, London, Routledge, 1996, p. 5. 39. P. T. Clough, The Affective Turn, op. cit., p. 3. 40. See also the complete series of portraits online [ https://issuu.com/ anthonyhaughey/docs/ah_aftermath_issuu/1]. 41. [http://aftermath-ireland.com/aftermath-series-by-anthony-haughey/]. 42. P. T. Clough, The Affective Turn, op. cit., p. 3. 43. Britta Timm Knudsen and Carsten Stage, Affective Methodologies, op. cit., p. 4. 44. P. T. Clough, The Affective Turn, op. cit., p. 12. 45. Ibid. 46. A. Feldman, Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland, op. cit., p. 15. 47. Peggy Phelan, Unmarked : The Politics of Performance, op. cit., p. 11.

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48. See Camilla M. Reestorff, “From Artwork to Net-work : Affective Effects of Political Art”, in Britta Timm Knudsen and Carsten Stage, Affective Methodologies, op. cit., p. 203. 49. Ibid. 50. Ibid. 51. Camilla M. Reestorff, “From Artwork to Net-work : Affective Effects of Political Art”, art. cit., p. 204.

ABSTRACTS

The Aftermath Project (2013-14) aims at offering insights into comparable experiences of displacement and trauma in times of conflict through an assemblage of online media as well as exhibits throughout Ireland. This contribution suggests that the project goes beyond asserting the sole prism of the Irish Troubles by considering other, more recent experiences of migration to Ireland. As a complex object that is more than what it looks like, I argue that it addresses the interaction between the auto-ethnographic subject, the camera’s eye and the critic’s, and the role of the network in the circulation and perception of other people’s affects and of one’s own. To do so, I propose to implement Lisa Blackman’s methodology in order to “construct a material- semiotic-affective apparatus that reorients the perception towards new ways of seeing hearing, listening, and feeling”.

Aftermath.ie (2013-14) est un projet qui met en parallèle des expériences comparables de migration contraintes et de traumatismes : y sont assemblés des médias accessibles en ligne et des œuvres qui ont été exposées dans plusieurs lieux en Irlande. Cet article montre comment le projet dépasse le simple prisme des Troubles afin de relayer des expériences plus récentes de migration en Irlande. C’est un objet complexe, qui participe de l’entreprise auto-ethnographique mais interroge aussi la représentation du sujet parlant, son interaction avec l’œil de la camera ou celui du critique, ainsi que le rôle du réseau dans la circulation des affects des sujets présentés et de celui qui en est le récepteur. Je propose de mettre ici en œuvre la méthodologie « des affects » énoncée par Lisa Blackman afin d’élaborer un appareil critique qui prenne en compte la matérialité physique du projet, la sémiotique et la dimension affective de sa transmission et de sa réception.

INDEX

Mots-clés: intermédialité, Irlande du Nord - conflit, Irlande du Nord - post-conflit, Irlande du Nord - processus de paix, réconciliation, migration, rôle social de l'artiste, trauma Keywords: Northern Ireland - conflict, Northern Ireland - peace process, intermediality, Northern Ireland - post-conflict, reconciliation, social role of the artist, migration, trauma

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AUTHOR

ANNE GOARZIN Université Rennes-2 UBL

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Études littéraires Literary Studies

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From Yeats to Friel: Irish Mythology through Arts and Science in the 20th century

Frédéric Armao

1 There is not one single way to practice one’s religion or faith, even within a group of people sharing the same beliefs: if anything, spirituality is protean. When practiced freely, spirituality is a personal endeavor and, despite the fact that it is rooted in the history of a people and regulated by a precise – and sometimes strictly official – creed, the spirituality felt and exercised by a being is unique, peculiar, specific and profoundly connected to their own personal history. Conversely, spirituality corresponds to the discovery of an inner path which cannot exist without a surrounding environment: the more complex and troublesome the environment, the more peculiar the inner path.

2 Modern Irish history is obviously a troubled one. Even without taking into consideration the recent world economic crisis, the various tragic events that stood out in the making of the young Republic in the 20th century considerably influenced its population1. The difficult relationship with its British neighbors throughout the centuries and the rivalry on Irish soil between two major branches of Christianity, Protestantism and Catholicism, led to the creation of a specific Irish culture – or sometimes several Irish cultures2 – which has been studied by a large number of scholars in the past decades3.

3 Even if Irish history has been tremendously influenced by Catholicism and obviously Protestantism, another factor should not be neglected and had a real impact upon the construction of Irish identity: what is referred to as the Celtic past of the island. Throughout recent history and still today this Celtic past has been, without a doubt, used, exploited by a portion of the Irish population, i.e. artists, politicians and thinkers. Whether the intention to manipulate the past and therefore infuse a new sense of ‘Celticism’ in Ireland is deliberate or not is yet to be determined: there is obviously not one single answer and each occurrence ought to be analyzed and understood separately.

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4 The example of the so-called “Celtic Festivals” is truly interesting as regards the importance of spirituality and the regulation of both the sacred and secular Irish year. Those festivals were, up to the second part of the 20th century, a really important feature of Irish folk-life, especially, but not exclusively, in the countryside and some of the most remote regions of the island.

5 In this article we will look at two specific examples of the use, or rather “reinventing”, of those ancient festivals in the 20th century: first, we will see how William Butler Yeats managed to incorporate the Celtic system of beliefs in a specific part of his body of work; the second example will unite mythology and science: the play Dancing at Lughnasa, which was written in 1990 by Brian Friel, will provide a most interesting instance of the evolution of old myths and their adaptation to a modern world.

6 These two symptomatic examples taken together will hopefully shed a new light on the use made of spirituality and its adaptation to the arts (in the Yeats example) or its assimilation with science (in the Friel example) through one single set of beliefs: the Celtic Festivals. Moreover, it will enable us to tackle the issue of identity and will therefore raise a rather singular question: to what extent and under what conditions may a (reconstructed?) spirituality influence the (re-)creation of identity in this modern Irish context?

The Irish Festivals: a Reminder

7 There used to be (and still are, to a certain extent) four major festivals which punctuated the Irish year and divided it into four quarters. Each quarter began with a specific festival: [This] is one of the great facts of the Celtic past and the strength with which it was rooted in consciousness and has survived to this day is remarkable. The four feasts were identified (when and how we cannot tell) with November first, February first, May first, and August first of the Julian calendar4.

8 Those four feasts took the name of Samhain, Imbolc, Beltaine and Lughnasa respectively. Samhain was probably the most important festival of all as it apparently marked the beginning of the New Year and of the winter season. Without going into too much detail, it was also associated with a large number of traditions, most of those being linked to the rural activities of farmers and agricultural workers. For instance, fairs were organized throughout the country, the transhumance ended and all the crops were supposed to have been harvested at Samhain: failing to do so meant bad luck for the rest of the year5. Incidentally, the November festival6 was a period where the gates between the world of the living and the “Other World” were thought to open: for this reason, a number of superstitions were linked with apparitions, strange deaths or abductions, witchcraft and spells as well as mischiefs performed by fairies, which were in fact feared in Ireland as they were often associated with the people of the Other World, i.e. with death7.

9 Six months later, the other major Irish festival, Beltaine, marked the beginning of summer: it was also the time farmers chose to send their cattle to the pastures (the same cattle that would come back at Samhain) and agricultural workers stopped sowing their seeds. The first days of May were the second time of the year when the world of the living and the dead were traditionally connected: the same apparitions and spells were feared by the rural population. Summer began with Beltaine and this festival was

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both a time for fear (fear of witchcraft, fairies, bad crops, poor weather…) and hope (hope for a plentiful year, good luck and good crops, hope of finding love or avoiding ageing, as many spells were aimed at stopping the effects of time passing). The most famous tradition was the passing of cattle between two fires on the Eve of the 1st of May: those fires were supposed to purify and protect the animals from any harm or diseases for the next six or twelve months8.

10 Imbolc is a specific case as little is known about it, except for the fact that it marked the beginning of spring and was also connected with rural activities. As the feast is sometimes referred to as Saint Brigid’s Day, the connection with the Christian saint, and/or a Christianized Celtic counterpart of the saint, is accepted by most researchers9.

11 In contrast, the festival of Lughnasa has been exceptionally well documented since the seminal work of Máire MacNeill thoroughly analyzed both its folklore and mythology. As we only mean here to remind our reader of the importance of those four feasts, we will simply mention the fact that Lughnasa marked the beginning of harvest and that the celebration of fall was associated in Ireland with a huge number of rural traditions and superstitions, fairs, festive assemblies and pilgrimages10.

12 All four festivals have been heavily Christianized throughout the centuries. Beltaine and Lughnasa were, for instance, associated with the Virgin Mary (the month of May has been dedicated to the mother of Jesus for at least seven centuries and the month of August is linked with the Christian Feast of the Assumption). The offerings that were originally made to the ancient pagan gods – the name Lughnasa derives from the Celtic god Lugh – were later dedicated to the Christian God and/or Mary. Furthermore, instead of forbidding or fighting pagan traditions, the Irish clergy often blessed the crops and the cattle on the date of the ancient festivals so that the feasts slowly became a syncretic form of celebrations borrowing from both the Celtic and Christian traditions11: to that extent, they became essentially Irish, that is to say unique in content and form, taking from both the Celtic past of the island and the belief and practices of the “new religion”. The fact that the Christianized Celtic festivals had gradually become a part of the identity of the Irish (rural) people paved the way for a rather singular use and exploitation of those celebrations: the artistic (and to some extent political) one.

Yeats and the example of Beltaine

13 William Butler Yeats was extremely interested in Irish folklore and mythology; this is particularly true and visible in his early work. This early interest and his involvement part in the “Celtic revival”, that is to say a renewed awareness of ancient Celtic belief and traditions which occurred in the late 19th century and the early 20 th century, undoubtedly defines a large part of his work and explains his motivation for preserving and hence redeeming Irish customs12. The political use he made of those ancient traditions and customs has often been studied13: a true revivalist, Yeats was not only nostalgic for the old ways and what he believed to be an “authentic” peasantry; he believed in the inherent superior quality of those old ways, as they were supposed to reflect the ancient wisdom of the Irish people in all its alleged purity and assumed originality: His interest in the purity and preeminence of a folk culture can be credited in large measure to a belief in the innate spiritualism and mysticism of the Irish peasantry14.

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14 This rather romantic and primitivist view of folklore prevents us from considering Yeats as a perfectly reliable folklorist: the Nobel Prize winner was probably too intimately involved to prove a scientific and dependable ethnographer – even if his compilations are still worth studying, as long as one bears in mind his probable bias. The use he has made of old Irish traditions seems even more interesting and worth commenting upon as its clear political undertone sheds a new light on the writer’s activism and raison d’être at the turn of the century. We will here focus on one specific example: the very peculiar use Yeats has made of Beltaine, the Irish festival that was held in early May.

15 Even though Yeats believed that the Irish rural and lower classes were the keepers of ancient traditions, he believed that the upper class was probably the only one to be refined enough to truly understand the deep meaning of ancient customs and be the worthy heirs of these old beliefs15. This led the “poet of Irishness” to create the Irish Literary Theatre in 1899 – which is the precursor to the Amharclann Náisiúnta na hÉireann, or National Theatre of Ireland in Dublin. The idea was to present Irish plays that would focus on the roots of Irish folklore and myths and present them to an enlightened audience. The Protestant Yeats certainly fought imperialism and colonialism and believed that one of the ways to consolidate the culture of the Irish people was to spread it through all means possible – and Irish plays were surely one of those means.

16 The opening of the Irish Literary Theatre on 8-9 May 1899 was accompanied by the first issue of a theatrical pamphlet which was sold to the audience. This pamphlet, which was described as “The Organ of the Irish Literary Theatre” and which included the programme of the theatre, took the name of Beltaine. This specific name was chosen by Yeats to stress the Irishness of the venture as well as confound his English critics, who would be able neither to translate nor to pronounce it16. 17 In other words, the very name of Beltaine – which is indeed pronounced /bɔ:lt∫ənə/ by most Gaelic speakers and /beltein/ by English natives – was chosen by Yeats to represent Irishness as a whole. In the first edition of Beltaine (the pamphlet) the poet explained the purpose of his newly created venue: The Irish Literary Theatre will attempt to do in Dublin something of what has been done in London and Paris; it will produce, somewhere about the old festival of Beltaine, at the beginning of every spring, a play founded upon an Irish subject17.

18 The fact that he chose the beginning of May to present old traditions to the audience of the theatre may therefore be understood as a way to prolong and respect ancient customs; plays dealing with Ireland and her past were to be shown at a fit time – and Beltaine being an major ancient festival of Ireland, the date definitely matched that definition.

19 For the reasons mentioned earlier, we will forgive the error of Yeats, who associated the festival of May the beginning of spring when most (if not all) primary and secondary sources attest that it corresponded to the beginning of summer. We will remember the political and intellectual significance acknowledged by the poet: Beltaine and the Irish Literary Theatre were actually attempts to preserve Irishness. He continues:

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The plays will differ from those produced […] in London and in Paris, because times have changed, and because the intellect of Ireland is romantic and spiritual rather than scientific and analytical18.

20 This vision, which seems to abruptly oppose “spirituality” to “science”, seems to reflect the romantic state of mind of the author. Yeats had clearly modern(ist) views when it came to politics – his fight against imperialism and colonialism being a rather telling example – or art: his theatrical work has often been described as avant-garde19. However, his relationship with science and the agriculture/industry dichotomy seems rather conservative to our contemporary perspective; it is in fact simply profoundly romantic, that is to say, in this case, linked with an inalienable and self-confessed primitivism.

21 Two years later, on May 21st 1901, Yeats wrote to Lady Gregory that the next issue of Beltaine “ought to come quite early this year” and that it “should be a Gaelic propaganda paper this time and might sell really well20”. They also both agreed that any profits would be given to the Gaelic League – a major association promoting the Irish language and culture that was closely linked with nationalism. In other words, Beltaine had become in a couple of years not only an instrument for Irishness but also, to some extent, a Nationalist tool. The pamphlet Beltaine was renamed Samhain in October 1901, because our plays this year are in October, and because our Theatre is coming to an end in its present shape21.

22 Samhain (the Irish festival opening winter celebrated in early November) was to be published until 1906. The name change did not alter the content – that is, supporting and fostering Irishness – and the profits of the pamphlet were actually given to the Gaelic League22.

23 Beltaine (and Samhain), as they were used by Yeats, mirrored his belief in the celebrated past of Ireland. Far from the accuracy of the folklorist, his work mainly aimed at glorifying Irish traditions and Irishness as a whole; the pure and “authentic” spiritual past of the island became a tool of propaganda. Indeed, Yeats was not only a primitivist romantic; in his view, the Celtic revival was a means and not an end, a powerful political device rather than a mere subject of study. The upper class was to be educated and had to understand the rural past of Ireland but only because more knowledge, more spirituality meant more “identity” and, to some extent, more intellectual independence from the imperialist and colonialist British world.

Dancing at Lughnasa with Friel

24 Far from being purely political or steeped in partisan ideals, our second example nonetheless remains quite remarkable because of its uniqueness and the way it is handled by the author. Dancing at Lughnasa is a play written by Brian Friel in 1990, a date which roughly corresponds to a second Celtic revival, even though the existence of such a second revival as a coordinated movement is quite debatable.

25 This semi-autobiographical play unfolding in the summer of 1936 in the rural County of Donegal, more specifically in the fictional village of Ballybeg, was originally presented in the aforementioned National Theatre of Ireland and was adapted as a film, eight years later, under the direction of Pat O’Connor and starring Meryl Streep.

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26 The storyline is about five sisters and a child living on their family farm and battling against poverty in a country gradually evolving from its rural traditional past to a changing present embracing industrialization and science – modernity. As a matter of fact, one of the main threads of the play involves the apparition of science in the Irish country life – a form of science which changed and disrupted the old ways of the peasantry. Friel mentions this several times in the play and the theme was largely taken up in the O’Connor adaptation: as far as the film is concerned, we could mention the different shots of various harvesting machines which seem to replace the human workforce in the field; this is also underlined by the fact that the story takes place in summer and evolves around the time of Lughnasa which was traditionally closely connected to harvest. Moreover, the family is directly affected by industrialization as Agnes and Rose, two of the sisters, lose a part of their revenue to a brand new glove factory close to their homes: Vera McLaughlin arrived and explained to Agnes and Rose why she couldn’t buy their hand-knitted gloves any more. Most of her home knitters were already working in the new factory and she advised Agnes and Rose to apply immediately. The Industrial Revolution had finally caught up with Ballybeg23.

27 But the best example of the new science profoundly changing the ways of the old Irish protagonists is to be found at the beginning of both the play and the feature film: the family has bought their first wireless radio set. We got our first wireless set that summer – well, a sort of a set; and it obsessed us. We called it "Lugh" after the old pagan god of the Harvest and his festival was Lughnasa, a time of music and dance24. We got our first wireless set that summer – well, a sort of a set; and it obsessed us. And because it arrived as August was about to begin, my Aunt Maggie – she was the joker of the family – she suggested we give it a name. She wanted to call it Lugh after the old Celtic God of the Harvest. Because in the old days August the First was Lá Lughnasa, the feast day of the pagan god, Lugh; and the days and weeks of harvesting that followed were called the Festival of Lughnasa25.

28 Even though the association of the radio set with an “old Celtic God” is presented as a joke, the family seems obsessed with the new device: it is often compared to a magic appliance (“the sheer magic of the radio26”) and the word “voodoo” is in fact mentioned a number of times throughout the play in connection with Lugh; furthermore, the radio set stands as a proof that “things [are] changing too quickly before [the protagonist’s] eyes27.”

29 The word “voodoo” is in itself quite interesting for at least two reasons. First of all, it looks as if the magic of ancient rituals and traditions is replaced by the magic of science; hence the naming of the radio Lugh seems, to that extent, a little more than a simple joke. Second, one of the characters of the play is an Irish priest who, after some years spent in Africa, comes back to the family farm kept by his five sisters, his head filled with strange visions of African magic and spells. The character of Father Jack is a link not only between Irish and African paganism but also between pagan ways and the Catholic faith. Finally, the main character, Michael (a projection of the author) establishes a clear connection between Father Jack and science, more specifically their wireless radio set: When I cast my mind back to that summer of 1936, these two memories –of our first wireless and of Father Jack’s return– are always linked28.

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30 In other words, the coming of this priest, steeped in both Catholicism and Paganism, is unambiguously connected to the arrival of Lugh, the “scientific” radio device with a traditional “spiritual” name.

31 Those three concepts –Paganism, Catholicism and science – are actually at the heart of both the play and the film. To that extent, a discussion between Father Jack and two of the sisters is quite telling. The three characters are trying to fix Lugh, which keeps malfunctioning. After some time, the radio works again and plays music: Jack — A miracle! Kate — It’s no miracle, Jack. It is science! Magie — It’s not science Kate, it’s the god of Lughnasa. Kate — Pagan nonsense celebrating the feast of Lughnasa. This is the month of August, the feast of Our Lady’s Assumption into Heaven!29

32 This direct confrontation between Paganism (the miracle of Lugh finally playing music), science (supported by Kate who, surprisingly, is also a faithful Christian believer) and Catholicism (the Catholic priest and the character of Kate who provides a reminder that the Assumption is the be-all and end-all of the month of August) is not only unexpected and amusing: it is most of all revealing of the fact that the characters are torn between their old Irish traditions, the prevailing Catholic religion – both crucial in defining Irish identity – and science, the newcomer.

33 All the characters will eventually “dance at Lughnasa”, therefore symbolically liberating themselves from their difficult lives and accepting, for a brief moment, their new and changing existence. O’Connor even made it the climax of his film: towards the end of the movie, Lugh is repaired and the device is playing traditional Irish music; one after the other, the characters surrender to the rhythmic and joyful tune and they all dance a most traditional group dance. Even the very Catholic Kate, who clutches her Bible under her arm for some time, gives in and joins the dance: she forgets about her strict views of religion and returns to her traditional Irish roots. Yet, she does so through science, as music is played by a modern device with an old mythological name: Lugh. In other words, science is federative – and magic – enough to unite the whole family; it is the vector of popular customs (in this case, Irish dance and music) and, indirectly, of pagan ways – a fact which is obviously underlined by the name given to the appliance.

•

34 The use of old Celtic festivals, and more generally both folklore and mythology, in connection with arts and science in Ireland appears to be quite peculiar. Paganism is supposed to be the old “original” Irish way; Christianity (especially but not exclusively Catholicism) the more conventional one. And science, the newcomer of the early 20th century, could not be accepted if it did not include or at least embrace its two predecessors, giving birth in a way to a remarkable form of Irish syncretism. For this reason, Yeats thought the intellect (or better yet the spirit?) of Ireland was not “scientific and analytical30”. For that reason also Friel made his characters name the new radio set (and perhaps science as a whole) after an old Pagan god and assimilate it with traditional Irish music and dance.

35 It would be tempting to continue the metaphor so as to consider Paganism, Christianity and science as a form of spiritual and societal Trinity of modern Ireland, even though such comparisons are necessarily not comprehensive and sufficient to define and

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determine the nature of a whole people or country in a given period of time. They turn out to be however the main three forces of the island or, to be more specific, the three principal pillars of its identity: science may represent Ireland’s early 20th century future – i.e. a part of her mid/late 20th and 21st century present; Paganism her vibrant, inspirational and occasionally controversial past; Christianity, the main focus of her identity since the first plantations of the 17th century. The three complemented, and still complement, each other. Out of the tensions uniting or opposing those forces, something precious is born: the singularity of Ireland. Those emerging tensions are vectors of identity creation and, in a word, of Irishness – a syncretic and renewed Irishness, in the end accepting modernity as a complement to tradition(s), even if it meant that those traditions were to be renewed or reinvented. Perhaps the two examples studied in this paper will stand as yet another proof that Irishness, this prominent cultural singularity, is not only an artistic or spiritual fact: it is also a political one and, all things considered, the sheer offspring of the complex history of an island which is itself interwoven in the complex history of the world.

NOTES

1. The term “modern” will be used throughout this paper to refer to the period that saw the rise of “modernity” (progress and technology in the broader sense possible and their impact on culture, philosophy, politics and society as a whole) in the Western world and more specifically in Ireland and/or will be used in contrast to what is believed to be “the old ways”, i.e. ancient traditions. 2. André Guillaume, L’Irlande, une ou deux nations ?, Paris, P.U.F., 1987. 3. See for instance Terence Brown, Ireland, a Social and Cultural History, 1922-1985, London, Fontana, 1981 or Gregory Castle, Modernism and the Celtic Revival, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2001. 4. Máire MacNeill, The Festival of Lughnasa, 1962, Dublin, Comhairle Bhéaloideas Eireann, 1982, p.1. 5. Françoise Le Roux and Christian Guyonvarc’h, Les Fêtes Celtiques, Rennes, Editions Ouest-France, 1995, chap. 1. 6. Obviously, the original Celtic system was not connected with the Julian calendar. The festivals were most likely originally held around the midpoint between equinoxes and solstices (maybe taking into account the phases of the moon in the process). See Donatien Laurent “Le Juste milieu. Réflexion sur un rituel de circumambulation millénaire : la troménie de Locronan” in Marie Louise Tenèze (ed.). Tradition et Histoire dans la culture populaire. Rencontres autour de l’œuvre de Jean-Michel Guilcher. Grenoble : Centre Alpin et Rhodanien d’Ethnologie, 1990. See also Frédéric Armao, “La Charnière de mai: Beltaine, fête celtique ou fête irlandaise ?”, Ollodagos, vol. XXVIII, Brussels, Actes de la Société Belge d’Etudes Celtiques, 2013, pp. 61-128.

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7. See for instance Walter Yeeling Evans-Wentz, The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries, 1911, Mineola, New York, Dover Publications, 2002, pp. 332-57. 8. Patricia Lysaght, « Bealtaine: Irish Maytime Customs and the Reaffirmation of Boundaries », Boundaries and Thresholds, Woodchester, Thimble Press, 1993, pp. 28-43 and Frédéric Armao, op. cit. or “The Women of Bealtaine: from the Maiden to the Witch”, Cosmos 25, Ritual Year 4, 2009, pp. 71-82. 9. Seamas O’ Cathain, The Festival of Brigit. Blackrock, D.B.A. Publications, 1995. 10. Máire MacNeill, op. cit.. 11. Ibid. Chap. 4 for example. See also Françoise Le Roux and Christian Guyonvarc’h, op. cit.. 12. Gregory Castle, op. cit.., p. 41. 13. Ibid., p. 40-97. 14. Ibid., p. 41. 15. See for instance Seán O Tuama. Repossessions: Selected essays in the Irish Literary Heritage, Cork, Cork UP, 1995, p. 220 and G.J. Watson, Irish Identity and the Literary Revival: Synge, Yeats, Joyce and O’Casey, Washington D.C., Catholic U of America P, 1979, p. 98. 16. John Kelly and Ronald Schachard (Ed.), The Collected Letters of W.B. Yeats: Volume Three, 1901-1924, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1997, p.250. 17. Mary Fitzgerald and Richard Finneran, (Ed.), The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats, Volume VIII, The Irish Dramatic Movement, New York, Scribner, 2003, p. 143. 18. Ibid., p. 144. 19. Jacqueline Genet, Le Théâtre de W.B. Yeats, Paris, Septentrion, 1995, p. 15. 20. Mary Fitzgerald and Richard Finneran, op. cit., p. xviii. 21. Ibid., p. 167. 22. Ibid.. 23. Brian Friel, Dancing at Lughnasa, London, Faber and Faber, 1990, Act II, p. 59. 24. From the introduction sequence of the O’Connor adaptation, distributed by Sony Pictures Classics, 1998. 25. Brian Friel, op. cit., Act I., p. 1. 26. Ibid., p. 2. 27. Ibid.. 28. Ibid.. 29. O’Connor, op. cit.. 30. See supra.

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ABSTRACTS

The present article aims analyzes the use of Irish mythology (and more specifically of “Celtic” festivals) in the course of the 20th century by two Irish authors, William Butler Yeats and Brian Friel. This use, which one may at first think dictated solely by artistic considerations, turns out to be more profound and symptomatic of Irish culture – this Irishness which is so often connected to political and/or religious values. The study of the notion of “science” and its impact on the culture and customs of modern Ireland will prove helpful since the issue was tackled directly by both authors, be it as a complement or a potential rival to the Irish way(s).

Le présent article analyse l’utilisation faite au cours du XXe siècle de la mythologie irlandaise et plus particulièrement du cas des fêtes dites « celtiques » par deux auteurs irlandais, William Butler Yeats et Brian Friel. Cette utilisation, que l’on pourrait imaginer au premier abord dictée par des raisons purement artistiques, se révèle plus profonde et symptomatique de la culture irlandaise, cette Irishness, souvent étroitement liée à des valeurs politiques et/ou religieuses. La thématique de la « science » et son impact sur la culture et les mœurs de l’Irlande moderne sera un élément qui permettra d’enrichir notre étude, la problématique ayant été abordée directement par les deux auteurs en complément, et parfois en opposition, à la « tradition » irlandaise.

INDEX

Keywords: celtic festivals, folklore, mythology, science, Friel Brian, tales and legends, Yeats W. B. Mots-clés: fêtes celtiques, folklore, mythologie, science, Friel Brian, Yeats W. B., contes et légendes

AUTHOR

FRÉDÉRIC ARMAO Maître de Conférences à l’Université de Toulon

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Gerard Donovan’s Young Irelanders : Looking for Home in the New Ireland

Flore Coulouma

1 Gerard Donovan’s Young Irelanders (Country of the Grand in the British edition) paints a melancholy picture of the Ireland of success, fast cars, consumption and “money in the bank1”. His collection of short stories was published in the summer of 2008, on the eve of the country’s first fall into recession since the 1980s, and two short years before the 2010 IMF bailout plan. Today, the book’s nostalgic tone might be regarded as a perceptive foreboding of what was to come, but Donovan’s stories are not about the last days of the Celtic Tiger. They look beyond the dizzying rollercoaster ride of booming confidence and exhilarating wealth that repositioned Ireland on the global map, to reveal the loneliness of the ride. Young Irelanders unfolds the changing landscape of Ireland through the blurred perception of characters both lost in space and time, as the shock of the new gradually obliterates an increasingly elusive sense of the past. Donovan’s characters long for an authenticity that they feel has been lost in the global language of economic wealth, and cannot be regained. The collection’s American title significantly echoes the aborted 1848 rebellion of the Young Irelanders, thus providing an ironical counterpoint to the recurring theme of disenchantment and resignation throughout the stories. In “How Long Until”, Peter cannot dispel his sense of unease as he quantifies his life’s achievements: “four years married and both working with their own careers, doing well, money in the bank, shopping trips to New York” (30). Against fast lanes and cosmopolitan lives, endless traffic jams and sprawling urban developments, Donovan pits stories of nostalgia and loss, painting a universal portrait of human frailty faced with the end of love, bereavement, and the passing of time.

2 This article examines Donovan’s disenchanted vision of Celtic Tiger Ireland through the jarring contradictions of a society torn between its buoyant new landscape and an enduring nostalgia. The country’s changes are first perceived in terms of space: Donovan maps out the new Irish landscape with characters navigating a labyrinth of places once familiar but now utterly changed, in keeping with the pervading

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placelessness of hypermodernity. The instability at work in the landscape also attests to a new, ambiguous relationship with time. In the stories, characters are torn between the ubiquitous imperative to look forward and their own desperate urge to look back and retain the past. Uncertainty and nostalgia finally culminate in existential disillusion when characters realise that nothing is as it seems, and that the veneer of an easy life and material comfort only conceals their deep-rooted feeling of helplessness and solitude.

Lost in Space

3 The most striking feature in Donovan’s stories is the shift of paradigm at the heart of his spatial depiction of the new Ireland: from a land of bicycles in the 1930s and 1940s, Ireland has become a nation of cars. As the symbol of both rural and urban Irish life for decades, the figure of the bicycle has so permeated Irish literature since the early twentieth century that a change in transportation – both in real life and in its literary representations – is of ground-breaking significance: more than technical progress and affluence, it points to a radical transformation of life itself. In his 1995 poem “Kings and Bicycles,” Donovan evoked childhood memories at a crossroads in time, when fast cars were an attribute of the wealthy American tourist, and the first bicycles were still a vivid memory in the collective imagination. Growing up in Galway, I never thought about ancestry except when gentle foreigners stuck their heads out of expensive cars, asking directions to a town whose name they could not rescue from the neat pages of the tourist guides; and following my finger's gentle trace, they sailed down the boreen into the caress of lost fields, eternally optimistic in their search for a place just beyond pronunciation. […] I imagined the village crowd at the first bicycles – circling High Nellie, High Nellie by the gate or at full speed around every pothole and bump on the wet, brambly tracks2 […]

4 In the poem, foreigners drive in search of an archaeological past. Optimism and exhilaration saturate their perception of the landscape: for them, being lost in space is a sailing adventure. Yet theirs is an irrelevant pursuit to the boy whose past is shaped by living memory, and whose sense of speed is attuned to the bumps and turns in the country tracks. In Country of the Grand, on the other hand, the shift from bicycles to cars comes with a radical change of scale, shrinking the whole country both in time and space as distances are now measured in driving hours, and Galway has become a weekend commute for fast-living Dubliners.

5 The first story in the collection, “Morning Swimmers”, opens with a car: “In the first week of May, before the water in Galway Bay changed to a mild summer blue, Eric Hartman and John Berry drove to Jim’s house and announced that they had gone swimming that morning” (9). Jim’s memory of his childhood’s swimming days is crucially associated with bicycles: “One man used to leap straight from the sea onto his black bike, cycling home instead to change, stopping wet on the way to buy a newspaper” (10). There is no break in time and space as the man transfers seamlessly from his swim to his bicycle ride and onto the social world of the newspaper agent. In Donovan’s new Ireland, the trip has lost its adventurous edge: it is a casual drive in the

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comfort of a waterproof vehicle shielding morning swimmers from the elements. “Morning Swimmers” is a story of overheard conversations and broken heart. After he accidentally hears friends discuss his unfaithful wife, a lonely Jim retreats to his car. His solitary swim had made him one with nature as he “entered fully the green silence, opening his eyes to the salt and the waving seaweed, the fat tendrils’ ballet in a slow current” (11). Once in the car, however, the protective bubble turns into a confined space, irretrievably shutting out the rest of the world.

6 The recurring theme of the car throughout the collection expresses the deep-seated solitude of modern life and echoes Marc Augé’s anthropological analysis of supermodernity and placelessness. Augé examines cars as cogs in a network of non- places designed “for the purposes of a communication so peculiar that it often puts the individual in contact only with another image of himself3.” In this story, Jim’s car reflects his profound isolation and painful self-examination: as he watches the distorted image of his friends’ reflection through his rain-soaked windshield, he realises they have become strangers. Sadness and disenchantment follow in the wake of the monadic car-bubble in Donovan’s new Ireland.

7 Much as bicycles were in previous periods, cars are now a staple of Irish life and a symbol of its newfound prosperity, as the advent of the Celtic Tiger in the 1990s ushered “the transition from communal transport solutions (such as walking, cycling, car-sharing between family-members and neighbours) to individualised, car-based mobility,” together with “novel perceptions of time as accelerated, desynchronized and condensed4.” Cars and motorways alter people’s socialising practices and crucially transform the country’s landscape to the core, as much as they affect our perception of time. Augé insists on the symbolic significance of motorways as non-places whose very existence relies on a contradiction: “motorway travel […] avoids, for functional reasons, all the principal places to which it takes us5.” Besides spatial disruption, individual car travel causes a break in interpersonal communication, as real-life interaction is replaced by the ubiquitous mediation of texts via advertising boards and instruction signs. “How Long Until” illustrates the effect of globalised supermodernity in Celtic Tiger Ireland. The story is mostly set in the confines of a car and follows the tense conversation of a couple driving from Dublin to Galway for a holiday weekend. While the story suggests that Galway has now become a habitual destination for busy Dubliners, there is no liberating speed on the road. As his car is stuck in an endless traffic jam, Peter can only “brak[e] his way forward” (26) and the stalling car mirrors Peter’s realisation that his relationship is falling apart. The couple’s tense dialogue, further exasperated by the frustratingly slow drive, expresses the feeling of entrapment and helplessness pervading the whole collection together with a stifling sense of claustrophobia. “How Long Until” sees a relationship disintegrate within the confines of affluence and comfort. Ironically, cars and the liberating luxury they stand for fail to deliver on their promise of freedom and speed. In this regard, Donovan’s collection contrasts with other literary depictions of contemporary life such as Alan Gillis’s poem “Rush Hour” which tells of cars zooming past “at death-force speed” in a halo of “fumes, windscreens and chrome gleam6”. In her 2007 novel Fox, Swallow, Scarecrow, Éilís ní Dhuibhne describes Dublin’s light rail service, the Luas (Irish for “speed”) as a mechanical embodiment of the Celtic Tiger7, reflecting the common idea, since the early twentieth century, that speed is “the mechanical soul of modernity8.” On the contrary, Donovan examines the deceptiveness of speed and its distorting effects on our perception of the world. In “How Long Until,” Peter’s thoughts are

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triggered by a roadside advertisement prompting him to ask the question that will unravel his relationship. His view of the landscape is reduced to punctual visual stimuli, and he only takes in his whole surroundings once he has come to a complete stop. He pulled into a parking space and glanced out the window: the hotel, a restaurant, petrol stations in a strip, the rest was night. This place, he thought, could be marked as loneliness on a map. Galway had spread in the past decade, gushing for miles along the roads that led to it, pink and blue neon signs, huge hotels standing alone till more business built up around them, and then the rabbit-cage houses. (31-2)

8 Despite the obvious parallel with the great open space of the American landscape, there is no sense of elation here, only loneliness and the stifling, de-humanized “rabbit-cage houses.” Donovan’s cars are thus just one instance of the solitary bubbles of modern life, cutting through social and affective bonds as they drive across the homogenized architecture of generic suburbia, reminding us that the country’s integration into a global capitalist market has no liberating effect on the solitary, anonymous driver.

9 “By Irish Nights” gives us the same view from the driver’s seat, through a nighttime drive that prompts the narrator’s impersonal reverie. In this story, Donovan’s ambiguous use of the third-person plural turns cars into full-fledged characters, as drivers have become one with their machine: But there are so many places and so many cars. Across the country, from Donegal to Tipperary and down to Kerry, the roads have begun to fill, coast road, roads through small towns, roads widening into the midlands, narrowing into cities, red signs, yellow signs, bump ahead, one hundred this, fifty that. So much to notice with a shoe on a pedal, a hand on a wheel, an eye on a road. (74)

10 Flann O’Brien’s “mollycule” theory of the genetic connection between Irishman and bicycle is long gone, together with the friendly, sensitive two-wheeler of his time9. There is no poetic communion between man and machine here, no mysterious transfer of the soul, but the mechanical engineering of efficiency and speed. Drivers are no more than the sum of their parts: they are reduced to functional apparatuses, an eye, a hand, a shoe. The dehumanising effect of the drive further underlines the driver’s estrangement from the organic reality of the earth. No longer are the soles of our feet on the ground – as in Paula Meehan’s elegiac poem “Death of a Field”: “to know the field /Through the soles of my feet,” Meehan says, “before the field becomes solely map memory / In some archive of some architect’s screen10”. Where Meehan sings the end of an era, Donovan takes stock of an already transformed landscape. In Donovan’s stories, Meehan’s architect’s screen surfaces as the omnipresent windshield, the crucial instrument to our new perception of the landscape and symbol of our existential outsideness – defined by geographer Edward Relph as the feeling of strangeness and alienation we experience in a new place11. As cars speed through the night, the landscape around them dissolves into a blurry haze: “they near the place and recognize the shape of the stone walls, the way the field and the sky distribute themselves generally. They continue because they cannot be late” (“By Irish Nights,” 73). The urge to go forward is not so much about speed as it is about the widening chasm between the hurrying drivers and the timeless universe of field and sky they leave behind. A change in pace, then, means a change in space, and the landscape of the past gradually becomes a matter of archaeological and archival reports.

11 Altered perception thus transforms the landscape and yields a pervading sense of uncertainty throughout the stories, leaving characters to wonder whether to question

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their senses or reality itself. “Shoplifting in the USA,” the third story in the collection, shows how reality has been utterly transformed together with our perception of it, and hints at the tangible effects of cultural assimilation in a largely Americanized global culture. It depicts an Ireland of hard shoulders and American style supermarkets, with a deliberately misleading title – the story is not set in the United States but in Ennis – and geographically ambiguous opening: “Bob, the supermarket owner, was adamant this time” (41). Bob is the Texas-born owner of a small business planted at a crossroads “on the way to the airport: a lot of business from lost drivers buying a snack to ask a question” (44). The recurring theme of lost drivers in search of human contact underlines the sense of spatial isolation in a country now defined by fast-lane highways but struggling with the dehumanizing effects of hypermodernity. As in the rest of his collection, Donovan emphasises his characters’ uneasy sense that they can no longer identify with the place they call home. Fintan O’Toole has noted that such dislocations are at the heart of Ireland’s postmodern globalisation: “The diasporic life was now lived at home – a logical outcome of the economic reversal in which, instead of Irish labour moving towards American capital, American capital had moved towards Irish labour12.” In Country of the Grand, foreign travel, airports and “shopping trips to New York” again remind us that the forced exile of bygone eras has been replaced by a close-circuit frenzy of travel consumption, in keeping with the rest of the post-industrialized global world.

12 “Country of the Grand” opens with a different place: a backward glance into the past, which derails the routine of successful solicitor Frank Delaney. The story’s opening ironically debunks its victorious title, suggesting that fragility and self-doubt still hover over the men and women riding the Celtic Tiger: As he left the house that morning, Frank Delaney remembered being so young that he was not able to walk, struggling from his father to his mother, going soft at the knees and collapsing into her hands. This was the image that reached for him across almost fifty years as he stood at the door and snapped his briefcase shut. (55)

13 As his wife and colleagues discuss property development and investments in Spain and Poland, Frank Delaney feels the irrepressible urge to see his childhood home again. Frank’s longing for the past and acute sense of loss translate as spatial inadequacy when he drives back to his old neighbourhood and does not recognise the house. He drove slowly up the hill and waited at a crossroads traffic light. Already he could see that the street had been widened, and when he stopped outside the low white wall of Number 5, he saw that the tree that used to be in the front garden was gone, along with the white and red geraniums he planted thirty-two years ago. The lawn was a concrete parking space with three cars angled into it. (56)

14 The faint echo of pastoral bliss in Frank’s memory of the old house shatters over the harsh reality of concrete and metal, thus pitting the abundance of wealth, measured in numbers of cars outside the house, against the homeliness of a more human-scale sense of happiness. After he sees the house, Frank’s anxiety turns to a panicked frenzy and he joins the compellingly capitalized “GALWAY CITY HOSPICE 8K RUN” (61) in his tailored suit and shoes, in a desperate bid to show his old childhood friend that “his running days are [not] over” (62). Frank’s predictable failure in the race only reflects his own deep-rooted feeling that he has lost himself on the sidelines of his own life. After meandering back to his childhood house again, Frank finds himself “at the main road south to Galway, his thumb out for a lift to the passing cars that droned out of the night” (69). This brief moment of pedestrian helplessness echoes with Frank’s

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recollection of his early walking days in the story’s opening lines, but with a darker undertone, since his parents’ supporting arms have been replaced with the ubiquitous car. Donovan’s car-bound characters cannot feel the ground beneath their feet and have become commuting strangers in a strange land. The Latin motto, “Ubi pedes ibi patria” is particularly apt here to explain Donovan’s depiction of his character’s spatial disconnectedness with their surroundings. There is no resolution in “Country of the Grand”: Frank comes home to a wife who turns away in bed, and lulls himself to sleep with the half-hearted hope that she loves him still, that “It [is] not too late” (72). In the story, Frank’s longing for the past leads him astray, literally, as he loses himself in the sprawling landscape of suburban Galway.

15 Throughout Young Irelanders, the characters’ pervading sense of disorientation and spatial disruption is a direct symptom of their ambiguous longing for times past. Donovan’s subtle landscape of loneliness brings us beyond the surface cartography of ring roads and housing developments, and into the disorienting archaeology of the new Ireland.

Lost in Time

16 Donovan’s characters are lost in time as much as they are lost in space, and the two are closely linked. While speed and time contraction distort our perception of the outside world, Michael Cronin notes that space is what happens to place when time tends towards zero. The less time a person has to dwell on what it means to live in a particular place, the more the place they inhabit becomes filled with the spatialised ubiquity of commodity advertising, ratings-driven media product and context-less information bites. Place becomes the site of the multiple surfaces of consumption, a tantalizingly fragmented space, detached from any longer term sense of what it means to dwell in and be responsible for a particular place and how the place might be positioned relative to others13.

17 Our understanding of time, history and memory is therefore embedded in our perception of the landscape around us. In Country of the Grand, when the promise of high speed comes to a standstill at the obligatory rush-hour traffic jam, characters and readers are left to ponder the sedimented layers of history that make up the shape of the new Ireland. In “Archaeologists”, two students at an excavating site struggle with their contradictory feelings about the new economy of the past that has taken over their academic field. The year before, a photo from a plane captured a swelling near the proposed petrol station and parking area off the new national road. A part of a pot was found in the ground not far from where the bog began. A private consulting company in Dublin won the license to excavate and hired the couple on the site as temporary summer archaeologists. (79)

18 The swelling in the road – a pathological rather than desirable growth – is symptomatic of an impediment to progress: like a cancerous tumour, it must be eradicated. In the story, the excavation in only barely tolerated by an irate foreman who constantly reminds them that time is, indeed, money. The archaeologists, Emma and Robert, have been hired to open up the site, report on their findings, and cover it up again so that building work can resume as soon as possible. The whole enterprise epitomizes neoliberal violence, with academic research led by private companies and contracted

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out to post-doctoral students, the prime targets of academic precariousness in the age of neoliberal higher education14. The excavation itself is subject to severe time constraints, and mostly aims at clearing out the landscape from the historical and material hurdles that slow down the course of ineluctable progress: “You excavate in no time and write a short report, stick the stuff in a warehouse. Why not share what we’re finding with the public? We’re digging them up and hiding them again” (95). For Emma, hiding the past goes directly against public interest and social cohesion, but she is up against an unstoppable force: “We can’t stop the building, everyone knows that” (95). Not only is the construction inevitable, it is also accelerating “to meet the demands of the new economy” (94). Donovan’s depiction of this economic fate puts Ireland within a global, post-industrial society of unrelenting imperatives, one that has fully internalised the Thatcherian slogan that “there is no alternative15.” In this regard, his portrayal of Ireland on the cusp of recession is a universal portrait of our age. Yet Emma’s questions about hiding the past also ironically echo the bureaucratic corruption and financial opacity that produced the specific brand of Irish neoliberal policies throughout the Celtic Tiger years16.

19 In the story, two understandings of the past come head to head in the couple’s strained relationship. The ambitious Robert is focused on his career and wants to settle into a comfortable, middle-class life; he diligently follows the rules of an institution in line with the new economy: “… the old Irish dug up from the ground, and now the new Irish were hiding them again, burying them in long, dark warehouses and reports” (97). Robert views historical research as just a means to his professional success, and he embarks into “the politics of archaeology” with conference papers “designed to say just the right amount of nothing” (94). Emma, on the other hand, is obsessed with displaying the discoveries of the past for all to see. She is a field archaeologist, the “Lady of the bog” (95): her tireless dedication to the excavating site echoes her longing for self-understanding and identity: “Yes, this was the dream she had, that when she dug through the bog she found herself” (92). The belligerent foreman embodies the inexorable demands of the economy: “Every day is a business day for me […] I have two machines and a whole crew waiting to build” (81-2). Time is money, but it is crucially understood in spatial terms. For Emma, fifteen minutes mean another two inches uncovered. Her slow, careful brush reflects her reverence for the long process of historical stratification that covered up the ancient tomb. The foreman’s pressing “Where are we?” (81), on the other hand, betrays his utter inability to understand the depth and significance of Emma’s meticulous efforts. Time is at stake in the territorial struggle playing out on the site: time lost – that of economic imperatives – and time regained, the archaeologist’s obsession with finding herself.

20 For Emma, “an archeological dig is not a delay” (82) because the past is an essential, organic part of the landscape: We should recover the evidence and leave it where we find it, at every roadside stop, in each new housing development. Build glass cases and put the material in them, their knives, their pots, what they placed in their hair to keep it neat. Show how thousands of years ago, so many people lived here. […] And when you stand at those cases you can look around and see the same horizon. It would be so comforting. (98-99)

21 We relate to the past not through abstract reports but through our relationship with its concrete, physical traces. Those are inscribed in the living landscape of our daily life. The comfort of sameness that Emma longs for is a reassuring sense of identity, both in

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space and time. The unearthed artefacts transform places into sites of memory – following Pierre Nora’s definition of lieux de mémoire – precisely because society has lost a sense of collective memory: history, as opposed to memory, “is how our hopelessly forgetful modern societies, propelled by change, organize the past17.” Robert embodies the dispassionate management of the past, in keeping with the sanitisation of globalised Ireland described by Peadar Kirby: “Contemporary Irish identity has […] been sanitised and made remarkably accommodating to the dominant elitist project of subservient assimilation into multinational capitalism; robbed of reference points from a rich and subversive history18.” On the contrary, Emma rejects the violent packaging of archaeological artefacts. Her deep-rooted, ecological and spatial sense of the past stems from a concern for living memory rather than academic history: “She preferred the dirt on her fingers, the smell of the bog” (95). These concerns are paralleled with her personal experience of loss and aborted pregnancy. Finding the inner chamber of the ancient tomb thus gives her the closure and wholeness she longs for: With one glance across time she saw the skull, the shoulders, the spine curled in two short strands that wove through shallow muck. A mother had cried for a long time after this child died. Three thousand years ago was yesterday: she was buried here, exactly as she lay. (107)

22 Emma sees a mirror image of herself in the ancient remains, as young and old become one. The commanding presence of the past finally halts the battle between old and new when the three characters stare in silent awe “as the brown and mute bones of the Young Irelander moved in and out of the dark” (108).

23 In “Archaeologists,” the past literally shapes the body of a country, and there is no erasing its traces: they are layered in a poetic archive that reports and warehouses cannot match. Donovan raises the question of history to show how his characters’ acute consciousness of the new is integral to their longing for the past. The bones and fragmented remains of “Archaeologists” are one instance of Donovan’s Proustian fondness for the objects and pictures that trigger involuntary memory. Unlike the commoditised artefacts of global consumer culture, Donovan’s symbolic objects of memory bring us closer to an essence of the past: the mirror reflections in “Another Life” and “Glass” and the coming and going of birds in “Summer of Birds” offer visions associated with bittersweet childhood memories, fleeting happiness and the end of innocence.

24 Like the first-person narrator whose mother has left the family home in “Summer of Birds,” most characters come home to the realization that they have been deluding themselves about their own lives. In “Country of the Grand,” Frank’s solicitor colleagues rejoice that “things have never been better,” thus echoing an official view of the Celtic Tiger years as “the best of times” relayed by President Mary McAleese in a 2003 official speech in the United States: “it is as good [a time] as it has ever been19”. Yet Frank cannot dispel his growing sadness: “he wanted to ask if anything in their lives had ever disappeared when they weren’t looking” (58). The race against time is a losing game, and Frank’s failed attempt at joining the local run reflects the mix of self- delusion and melancholy awareness pervading Donovan’s stories. A race steward waved and shouted something about no spectators being allowed in the race as Frank turned into a lane that ran parallel to the river for about five hundred yards before veering back into the connecting fields, where the slow runners ahead were already turning in a sleek line. He made it halfway down the lane and slowed under a stitch like a blade in his side. […] As Frank ran through the

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gate that led from the river back to the fields he knew that he could not run to the finish line. (64-65)

25 In Young Irelanders, characters can only come to terms with their sense of spatial and temporal displacement by confronting their self-delusion and denial, and Donovan’s bittersweet portrait of the rewards and pressures of the new Ireland finally brings us to the disenchantment at the heart of modern life.

Disenchantment

26 Country of the Grand sheds light on the painful discrepancy at the heart of the Celtic Tiger. Even as it was feted and emulated until after its collapse20, the “Irish model” was experienced at home as a socially, economically and culturally disruptive force; Peadar Kirby, among others, has documented the growing inequality and the emergence of the working poor in Ireland during the first decade of the millennium.21 Celtic Tiger economy in turn affected people’s everyday lives and social representations as culture became fully commoditised. Michel Peillon notes at the time that “most aspects of cultural activity and production are now so integrated into the post-industrial economy, either as a means of production or as a means of consumption, that the very possibility of critical stance is suppressed, or, more simply, not entertained or even imagined22”. Suppressing explicit cultural consciousness has consequences: Donovan’s tales of disenchantment show the pathological return of repressed individual and collective memory through his characters’ spatial and temporal disconnectedness.

27 Fintan O’Toole commented on the difficulty of “writing the Boom” for Irish authors when “the emergence of a frantic, globalised, dislocated Ireland has deprived fiction writers of some of their traditional tools” among which he listed “a distinctive sense of place23”. The anonymity of post-modern, globalized non-places was all the more pervasive as Ireland was hailed as one of the most globalised countries in the world in the early 2000s, and its apparent economic success advertised as a “showcase of globalisation24.” Thus a “pervasive sense of fragmentation and unease […] was one of the corollaries of the country’s newfound prosperity and economic self-confidence25”. Donovan’s title Country of the Grand takes on an ironical tone as his characters experience the inadequacies of a society whose core values have been indexed on economic growth. Most stories in the collection centre around a character’s realisation that their material success only conceals the failure of their personal relationships, and that their blind acceptance of “the good life” has made them largely complicit in their own deception.

28 In “Another Life,” a widow becomes aware of her late husband’s infidelity when she inherits a house she has never seen. Coping with the heart-breaking discovery leaves her with a shattered sense of self, but she harbours no anger against her late husband. She woke before dawn in a parked car on a dark and empty street. The rain on the windshield delivered her waking thought, that Paul had a child with another woman and maintained a house that Mary did not know about. She leaned into her reflection and touched the cold window with her forehead and joined the old woman who lived in that hard, thin, rainy world of glass. Was she that old? He had divided his life in two. Would it have been better to know? She would not have been able to cope at all. (141-142)

29 Mary’s emotions unravel in the confined microcosm of her car, echoing Jim’s helpless despair in “Morning Swimmers”. Yet her disenchantment comes not with anger but

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with resignation to a fate which has already been played out: “To win all that time from bitterness, where a broken heart might never win back its ease. She did not have the time not to forgive” (145). Donovan leaves us with an ambiguous sense of hope when Mary comes to terms with her husband’s betrayal: “She would see what had been true in their lives” (145). The story’s bittersweet irony suggests how close resilience is to self-deception when surviving a broken heart.

30 “Shoplifting in the USA” tells a similar story of betrayal. The first-person narrator, who has come back to Ireland and settled in Ennis with his American wife, learns that their relationship has been based on a lie: “finally I stole you. Remember your girlfriend Cynthia? […] I told her you had a disease” (52). The narrator’s reaction is one of weary acceptance: Now here was the obvious: Heather had stolen my life. But I needed to go to the bathroom. So I switched on the light and stood over the bowl. Nothing came. I flushed the toilet anyway, went back and lay as far from her on the bed as I could manage and not fall off. Heather said, Did you remember to set the alarm? Yes. Okay. Goodnight then. I waited for the rage. But the hour was late and I was tired. (54)

31 Here, resignation comes as a tragicomic anticlimax: there is no resolution to the character’s traumatic awareness. Donovan’s depiction of his characters’ private lives meets the general disenchantment of a country losing itself in its economic success the better to forget what has been left behind. At the same time, some personal responsibility is at stake in the characters’ refusal to fully confront the causes of their underlying depression.

32 Donovan’s personal stories can be paralleled with the underlying logic of the Celtic Tiger, whose economic success was in fact entirely dependent on external, rather than internal factors. In 2009, Peadar Kirby and Pádraig Carmody commented that “what distinguishes the Irish economy from other so-called developed economies is its extreme dependence on multinational capital. […] For what we have at the heart of the Irish model is the entrenched power of foreign capital and this limits severely the room for manoeuvre of domestic policy makers26.” The structural contrast between superficial buoyancy and internal vulnerability is mirrored in Donovan’s intimate portrayals through the characters’ feeling that their understanding of themselves and others is out of joint.

33 When reviewing the collection, author Joseph O’Connor praised Donovan’s ability to see the Celtic Tiger “for what it truly was, in all its shimmering newness and garish strangeness – its ugliness somehow related to its beauty.” For O’Connor, Country of the Grand reflects the uncertainties of a society struggling to cope with the intensity and rapidity of change: Much more than a book about the Celtic Tiger […], this is a collection about the anxieties and sublimated fears of the Ireland that rejected the treaty in June, despite being commanded not to do so by its establishment. There's a sense of having come too far, of something precious being lost, doing battle with a simultaneous and equally adamant mistrust of the past. Is Ireland European? A kind of America? Or both? What did the good years mean27?

34 Such questions are left unresolved in Country of the Grand, and only the last story brings a sense of peaceful closure to Donovan’s collection.

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35 In “A Visit,” a middle-aged man pushes his wheelchair-bound mother from her nursing home all the way to town, along the main road. In these final scenes, Donovan’s pedestrian character reclaims the road, thus ironically reversing the objectifying gaze of car-culture on the cars themselves. Another few hundred yards and the traffic thickened, people glancing out of their cars at this man pushing a woman along a road in a wheelchair, nothing but blank faces in glass fleeting by with glances that could be read in that instant, what this must be, what is happening, why is that woman on the road and who is that man and where could they be going; but they drove steadily on under the shifting cloud of the late afternoon sky, probably because others were following right behind. (219)

36 Here, Donovan makes peace with his initial theme of cars on the road, and brings together two generations, thus restoring the lost relationship between old and new and finally reconciling present and past. His characters have finally come out of their confined spaces – car, retirement home – to fully inhabit the open landscape, as the very act of walking reconciles them with place by situating them existentially in space28. Donovan’s collection had opened with “Morning swimmers”; it ends with a serene evening vision, thus completing our intimate visit of the new Ireland: “My mother faced west […] her face was calm, turned to the sun” (222).

37 Donovan’s Young Irelanders draws a bittersweet portrait of the new Ireland through his characters’ disenchantment and nostalgic longings. Donovan reveals the difficulties and contradictions of a country lost in its own intoxicating success, at a time when global integration disturbs the fragile balance between old and new and the past is increasingly hidden away. Haunting questions about past and present and a disrupted sense of place reflect the disjuncture between the reality of social and economic internal structures and the financial and political delusions of the time. The 2008 crash followed a worldwide rise in estate property prices that had been called “the biggest bubble in history29”. In Donovan’s “grand” Ireland, the bubble is also one of solitude and nostalgia.

38 Most of the stories in the collection are set in Galway, and, significantly, the book cover of the American edition shows a photograph of the diving tower at Salthill, with a solitary diver in mid-air. The sepia colours and the faded title, evocative of an old postcard, tie present and past into one, imparting us with the foreboding sense that the new, successful, booming Ireland is soon to become a picture of the past.

NOTES

1. Gerard Donovan, Young Irelanders [published as Country of the Grand in the British edition], Woodstock and New York, The Overlook Press, 2008, p. 30. Page numbers are mentioned parenthetically in the text hereafter. 2. Gerard Donovan, Kings and Bicycles, Dublin, Salmon Publishing, 1995, p.12.

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3. Marc Augé, Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, London, Verso, 1995, p. 79. 4. Henrike Rau, “Environmental Arguing at a Crossroads? Cultural Diversity in Irish Transport Planning”, Ricca Edmonson & Henrike Rau (eds.), Environmental Argument and Cultural Difference, Oxford/Bern, Peter Lang, 2008, p. 100. 5. Ibid., p. 97. 6. Alan Gillis, Here Comes the Night, Oldcastle, Gallery Books, 2010, p. 42. 7. Éilís Ní Dhuibhne, Fox, Swallow, Scarecrow, Belfast, Blackstaff Press, 2007. 8. Scott McQuire, Visions of Modernity: Representation, Memory, Time and Space in the Age of the Camera, London, Sage, 1998, p. 184. 9. Flann O’Brien [1967] The Third Policeman, London, Flamingo, 2001. 10. Paula Meehan, Painting Rain, Manchester, Carcanet Press, 2009, p. 13-14. 11. Edward Relph, Place and Placelessness, London, Pion, 1976, p. 51. 12. Fintan O’Toole, “Foreword”, Eamon Maher (ed.), Cultural Perspectives on Globalisation and Ireland, Oxford, Peter Lang, 2009, p. xiv. 13. Michael Cronin, “Inside Out: Time and Place in Global Ireland”, New Hibernia Review, Vol. 13 No. 3, Autumn 2009, p. 86. 14. Jason Del Gandio, “Neoliberalism, Higher Education, and the Rise of Contingent Faculty Labor”, Political Research Associates, 15 October 2014, [http:// www.politicalresearch.org/2014/10/15/neoliberalism-higher-education-and-the-rise- of-contingent-faculty-labor/#sthash.4oOKo3Ep.dpbs], accessed 20 January 2016. 15. Susan George, “A Short History of Neoliberalism”, speech presented at the Conference on Economic Sovereignty in a Globalising World, Bangkok, 24-26 March 1999, [https://www.tni.org/en/article/short-history-neoliberalism], accessed 20 January 2016. 16. Fintan O’Toole, Ship of Fools: How Stupidity and Corruption Sank the Celtic Tiger, London, Faber and Faber, 2009. 17. Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire”, Representations, No. 26, 1989, p. 8. 18. Peadar Kirby, “Contested Pedigrees of the Celtic Tiger”, Peadar Kirby, Luke Gibbons, Michael Cronin (eds.), Reinventing Ireland: Culture, Society and the Global Economy, London, Pluto Press, 2002, p. 27. 19. Quoted in Peadar Kirby, Celtic Tiger in Collapse: Explaining the Weaknesses of the Irish Model, Basingstoke, Palgrave, 2002, p. 50. 20. Fintan O’Toole, Ship of Fools, op. cit., p. 7-25. 21. Peadar Kirby & Pádraig Carmody, “Moving Beyond the Legacies of the Celtic Tiger,” IIIS Discussion Paper No. 300, 2009 p. 50-68. 22. Michel Peillon, “Culture and State in Ireland’s New Economy”, Peadar Kirby, Luke Gibbons, Michael Cronin (eds.), op. cit., p. 52. 23. Fintan O’Toole, “Writing the Boom”, Irish Times, 25 January 2001, [http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/writing-the-boom-1.273557], accessed 20 January 2016.

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24. Nicola Jo-Anne Smith, Showcasing Globalisation? The Political Economy of the Irish Republic, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2005. See also Peadar Kirby & Pádraig Carmody, op. cit., p. 5. 25. Liam Harte, Reading the Contemporary Irish Novel, 1987-2007, Chichester, Wiley Blackwell, 2014, p. 8. 26. Peadar Kirby & Pádraig Carmody, op. cit., p. 7. 27. Joseph O’Connor, “Riding the Celtic Tiger,” The Guardian, 9 August 2008, [http:// www.theguardian.com/books/2008/aug/09/fiction1], accessed 20 January 2016. 28. Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1984, p. 117. 29. “In come the waves”, The Economist, 16 June 2006, [http://www.economist.com/ node/4079027], accessed 20 January 2016.

RÉSUMÉS

Cet article examine la représentation de l’Irlande à l’orée de la crise financière de 2008, dans le recueil de nouvelles de Gerard Donovan, Young Irelanders. Donovan interroge le sentiment d’étrangeté de personnages confrontés aux paysages changeants d’une société agressivement triomphante et indifférente à son histoire. La question de la mémoire se traduit en termes de nostalgie et de fragmentation de l’espace et du temps (“Country of the Grand”; “How Long Until”): la « nouvelle Irlande » révèle le revers du néolibéralisme des années 2000 à travers la solitude d’individus pris au piège des nouveaux symboles de la vie moderne (“By Irish Nights”, “Another Life”). L’imaginaire américain et la voiture omniprésente tiennent une place essentielle dans les évocations rêveuses de Donovan, dont les personnages se perdent sur la route en quête d’une quiétude inaccessible (“Harry Dietz”, “Shoplifting in the USA”). Les récits de Donovan dressent ainsi un portrait fragmenté, hanté par la question du passé au moment où l’avenir économique du pays est de plus en plus incertain.

This article examines Gerard Donovan's representation of the new Ireland in his 2008 collection of short stories Young Irelanders. Spanning the past decade, Donovan's stories chronicle the strangeness of life in a country both familiar and utterly changed, as his characters’ nostalgic introspection enhances the ironic contrast between the new landscape of a booming Ireland and their painful awareness of the fleeting nature of time (“Country of the Grand”; “How Long Until”). On the eve of the 2008 collapse, the new Ireland is a disillusioned avatar of hypermodernity. It is marked by a lost sense of place; cars have replaced the bicycles of former times as a symbol of Irish life, but they have also ushered a radically changed perception of the self in relation to the once familiar landscape of childhood memories and family life (“By Irish Nights”, “Another Life”). America looms large in Donovan’s evocation of lost souls on the road, driving aimlessly in search of an unattainable inner peace (“Harry Dietz”, “Shoplifting in the USA”). Donovan's Irelanders are also lost in time: their present reality eludes them as they delve into childhood memories or strive to regain a sense of collective past (“The Summer of Birds”; “Archaeologists”). The characters’ perception of the outside world, mediated by the artefacts of modern life, further enhances their isolation from other people and from their own former

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selves. Donovan's elliptic narratives focus on metonymic details to paint a fragmented portrait of the private and public spaces of the new Ireland, and to raise the question of memory and identity against a background of building sites mushrooming like so many question marks.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Donovan Gerard, Tigre celtique, nostalgie, littérature – nouvelles, histoire et fiction, identité collective, identité individuelle Keywords : Celtic Tiger, nostalgia, Donovan Gerard, history and fiction, literature – short stories, individual identity, collective identity

AUTEUR

FLORE COULOUMA Université Paris Ouest Nanterre

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Rousseau, George Moore, and the Ethics of Confession

Elizabeth Grubgeld

1 Although most readers immediately think of Esther Waters when they think at all of George Moore, the novel is in many ways atypical of his work. Moore repeatedly claimed a literary paternity more French than English, and whereas the vast array of characters from urban and rural life reflects his reading of Balzac and those scenes that made the novel’s debut a matter of scandal reveal his debts to Zola, Moore identified this work “as characteristically English as Don Quixote is Spanish1”. In addition to a place among his contemporaries as a respected English novelist, Esther Waters brought to her Irish author an aura of moral seriousness at variance with his reputation as an iconoclastic provocateur. Unlike Esther Waters, Moore’s autobiographies were for decades understood as little more than salacious gossip: witty and elegantly written but without intellectual or moral complexity. Yet in those memoirs, which themselves have little precedent within the British autobiographical tradition, Moore deploys gossip and satiric comedy as a mode of confession through which to explore challenging questions about art and human relations. As much as his memoirs differ from his best-known novel, they are equally concerned with ethical problems, and Moore locates one of his most crucial confessions in a memory of the servant woman whose conversation, he said, provided the necessary background for Esther Waters. His memories of “awful Emma”, in conjunction with those of the painter Clara Christian and his mother, Mary Blake Moore, offer three foci from which to explore his treatment of a genre most closely associated with both the “God-tortured soul2”, as he calls St. Augustine, and more significantly for Moore, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

2 Although the English language progenitors of George Moore’s autobiographies include Thomas Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus and the eighteenth-century picaresque novels that filled the libraries of Anglo-Ireland, George Moore may also be one of the children whom Jean-Jacques Rousseau notoriously abandoned in their infancy3. Rousseau submitted his singular life narrative as part of his larger philosophical argument about the inherent innocence of human beings and the supremacy of feeling over other human attributes. Correspondingly, works like Confessions of a Young Man (1888) and Hail

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and Farewell (1911-13) tender confession as evidence in support of serious arguments about the nature of art and the even more serious problem of how we are to live in this world: the matter of ethics, which Paul John Eakin has named “the deep subject of autobiographical discourse4”. My purpose here, however, is not to trace influence but to suggest that even as he echoes certain aspects of Rousseau’s peripatetic structure and his naive and sometimes outlandish persona, Moore’s approach to the confession is antithetical to Rousseau’s. To analyze Moore in light of Rousseau is to probe that “deep subject” of which Eakin speaks and to discover in Moore an ethical positioning far different from Rousseau’s and far different from either the studied earnestness of Esther Waters or the “glacial gaze of the serpent” with which one of his most fervent admirers, Ford Madox Ford, nevertheless charged him5. Inquiries into the ethics of nonfiction have thus far primarily concerned the representation of others and questions of privacy. However, if, as Arthur Frank has argued in relation to illness narratives, “self-stories are told to make sense of a life that has reached some moral juncture6”, then readers concerned with the ethics of narration must look carefully at those junctures to ask how narrative structures both allow and avoid moral inquiry.

3 Rousseau changed the shape of the confessional mode and brought it into a secular universe, one which privileged and continues to privilege the inner life of the individual for its own sake and for the sake of the story told. Through his career-long addiction to the art of self-narrative, Moore too changes and makes further problematic the shape of this evolving genre. Like most children, and particularly problem children, Moore needed to distance himself from Rousseau to assert his originality. It is difficult to ascertain just how much he knew of Rousseau’s Confessions before writing his. When he claimed in the 1917 preface to his latest revision of Confessions of a Young Man that he had not read Rousseau before writing his book and “wrote without a model”, he was telling at least a partial truth7. Despite its currency among Moore’s friends in Paris, when W.K. Magee decades later gave him a copy of The Confessions in English, he observed that Moore had a much easier time with the translation than with the 18th century French 8. Rousseau’s irony is not easily discernible in an English translation, dependent as it is on stylistic parody and allusion, and it is unlikely to have been apparent to someone whose French was serviceable but not conversant in the wide range of textual echoes Rousseau employs. As in Moore’s work, what Rousseau has to say is inextricably embedded in how he says it: the style is also content, and the irony with which both men portray their younger selves depends upon a reader’s recognition of the nuances of language as well as instances of parody and allusion. Moore was alert to irony and cognizant of how translation can mute the effect; thus he complained to his friend Édouard Dujardin in March of 1888 that in the French translation of Confessions of a Young Man “the irony of the English disappears… In English I have my tongue in my cheek, in French I am deadly serious9”.

4 Knowledgeable readers of Rousseau have been widely divided among themselves on the matter of irony, of whether or not Rousseau deliberately rendered his younger self ridiculous, especially since the recollective voice frequently appears equally ridiculous. In contrast, the Moore who emerges at the end of Confessions and Hail and Farewell is a wiser figure whose initial enthusiasms have given over to more pragmatic attitudes and an agenda of hard work. His narrative persona rarely speaks from a static vantage point beyond the action of the text but rather narrates with the knowledge or the convictions held at the time of the past events he describes. The reader watches the persona develop as the story proceeds, although seldom to the point at which he writes the

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book we have in our hands. Early in Hail and Farewell, Moore contrasts his lifelong sense of inferiority to Rousseau’s belief in his innate goodness and, in the process of doing so, addresses Rousseau’s narrative positioning in relation to a past self, noting that “Rousseau realised in age that in youth Rousseau was a shy, silly lad, with no indication, apparently, of the genius that awaited him in middle life, always blundering, and never with the right word on his lips10”. Ostensibly drawing a contrast, he also implies a parallel between himself and Rousseau, as his own persona often speaks under a guise of foolish naïveté that eventually gives way to a disenchanted wisdom. In reality, his comment more aptly describes his own Confessions than it does Rousseau’s. Perhaps Moore is ignoring the lack of development in Rousseau’s retrospective narrator, or his judgment may result from having never finished the book. As Adrian Frazier discovered in an unpublished letter of 1924, Moore acknowledged to Magee that he had never read the final third of the Confessions11. He was thus unacquainted with the grand tour of lies, contradictions, and self-delusions by which Rousseau proclaims his virtues and declares his tender, misunderstood heart all the way to his final pages.

5 So was Rousseau was truly an influence upon Moore in the 1880s? That is not a question with an easy answer, but we can say with great confidence that both men extend the range of autobiography and most especially the range of the confessional. Although confession has been the starting point for western autobiography since Augustine, Rousseau’s Confessions is generally described as the first modern autobiography because of its exclusively secular orientation and its insistence that far from being prototypical of sinful humanity, its narrator is entirely unlike any other man and declares his work to be unlike any other work. In the famous opening sentences of The Confessions, Rousseau affirms confidently, I have resolved upon an enterprise which has no precedent, and which, once complete, will have no imitator. My purpose is to display to my kind a portrait in every way true to nature, and the man I shall portray will be myself. Simply myself. I know my own heart and understand my fellow man. But I am made unlike any one I have ever met; I will even venture to say that I am like no one in the whole world. I may be no better, but at least I am different. Whether Nature did well or ill in breaking the mould in which she formed me, is a questions which can only be resolved after the reading of my book12.

6 In his focus on the individual and unreplicable self, Rousseau, as Lionel Gossman notes, rejected “the neoclassical discrimination of noble and base, high and low, public and private, tragic, and comic13”. Descriptors such as base, low, private, and comic traditionally reference the arena of the body, and Rousseau broke new ground in the confessional mode by treating bodily matters, particularly sexuality, as a vital part of the story of his maturation. Although his manner of telling renders sexuality an often solitary and largely humiliating compulsion, he nevertheless confesses his sexual predilections and adventures as crucial aspects of his emergent sensibility rather than as merely low comedy or as sins repudiated and recalled only as reminders of God’s grace in having rescued his soul from his body. So did Moore, who both spoke and wrote openly about the body as a tragicomic foil to human aspiration and who, as his friends and acquaintances complained, could fail to observe the accepted boundaries between public and private revelation. Advising the object of one of his many epistolary flirtations in a letter of 1910, Moore instructs her to “write your life but write it in detail; it is detail that is interesting in autobiography especially” and to “look into Jean-Ja[c]ques” before beginning14. Privileging detail as autobiography’s most “interesting” element draws away from a notion of the autobiographical self as

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generalized, public and concerned with matters spiritual and intellectual, while potentially embracing that which is base, low, private, and comic. Readers of Moore will at once recall the bumbling sexual encounters of Confessions of a Young Man, the rapturous memories of his thinly-disguised love affair with Maude Cunard in Memoirs of My Dead Life (1906), and the advent of impotency (real or metaphorical) in Hail and Farewell. The sexual body is almost always a part of Moore’s gossip about himself and others, and always part of the whole pattern of development in which he places his narrated life,

7 With family resemblance if not possible parentage thus established, let me now move specifically to matters of confession and ethics, for it is ethics that increasingly seems at issue in thinking about Moore. Confessions of a Young Man can be read as a text that structures itself along not only the tradition of the confession but one of autobiography’s other primary models, the book of Exodus. Moore describes with rapture his deliverance, by means of “echo-augury” and his father’s convenient premature death, to the promised land of Paris, a world of art and women far from the bogs of County Mayo. At its conclusion, financial exigencies and some innate sense of self-preservation deliver its narrator again, this time away from dangerous temptation of dilettantism so pitilessly mocked in Parnell and his Island’s portrait of the Francophile would-be poet, “Landlord M--” and toward the lonely and assiduous labor of authorship in London. But while the story of beginnings (the Genesis) and in particular the story of deliverance (the Exodus) provide the underlying plot structure of the book, Confessions of a Young Man must also be read as its title commands. Moore’s autobiographical narrator confesses to many dreadful things: killing cats as a child (and he was fond of cats as an adult), secret relief at the death of an admirable and formidable parent whose passing set him free financially, self-centered horror that “some wretched farmers and miners refuse to starve that I may not be deprived of my demi-tasse at Tortoni's, my cat and my python15”, his later inadequacy and indifference as a lover, his exacerbation of a quarrel that separated him forever from his brother Maurice, and the deliberate avoidance of his mother’s deathbed.

8 In Hail and Farewell, he also recollects the charwoman described in Confessions of a Young Man as “awful Emma” and admits that in recognition of the years she served him in the Temple, he left her a disgracefully meagre tip and later forgot to assist her in her old age when solicited to do so by her son. The narrator’s neglect of Emma may seem less significant over the course of a life than does avoiding one’s mother’s deathbed, but it is this last incident of which Moore says, “this confession costs me as much as some of Rousseau’s cost him16”. The story parallels and yet distinctly contrasts with the most notorious event of Rousseau’s Confessions: the theft of the pink and silver ribbon, an act for which the young Rousseau successfully shifted blame to a pretty servant girl who, as he imagines, was as a consequence likely condemned to a life of “disgrace and misery” being now without a character reference and branded a thief17.

9 Paul de Man’s provocative reading of Rousseau from his early book Allegories of Reading provides an especially useful perspective from which to analyze Moore’s failure to attend to his downtrodden servant, as well his rejection of Clara Christian (the “Stella” of Hail and Farewell) and his avoidance of his mother’s death bed as recounted in Memoirs of My Dead Life. The confession, de Man claims, holds the revelation of truth as its only act; it is epistemological, having knowing at its center and neutral in moral quality. Judgment follows the confession and is a task left to the listener, the reader, or

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the part of the self which hears the confession of the other part. The excuse, on the other hand, presupposes and predetermines judgment (in Rousseau’s case, a verdict of “not guilty”) and is thus concerned with questions of good and evil rather than matters of fact18. In the case of the stolen ribbon, Rousseau declares that he has regretted the act all his life and seeks relief in telling his secret on the pages of his book. But his confession of the deed is framed by a rhetorical performance in which he insists that the act was motivated by affection because he loved Marion and wished to receive a ribbon from her and was thinking of her when he was so accused; additionally, the act contributed to his later moral development. Although he asserts in his first paragraphs that judgment must be restrained until “after the reading of my book”, he offers his confession as evidence of his righteousness. As de Man observes, “its purpose is not to state but to convince19”.

10 The excuse, then, is a species of self-referential figurative rhetoric which inverts, Ben Roth explains, “the essential form of the confession this is what happened and I feel guilty to I’m not guilty (although I feel so) because this is what happened20”. Additionally, Rousseau suggests that guilt is merely a sign of a pure heart and that a pure heart stands independent of one’s bad actions. Early in the text, he clarifies what he calls “the one great maxim of morality”: the avoidance of situations in which our duties are in opposition to our interests. “In such situations”, he writes, “however sincere and virtuous the motives we start with, sooner or later and unconsciously we weaken, and become wicked and unjust in practice, though still remaining good and just in our hearts21”. Thus another way of seeing this syntactical inversion might be as a shift from although my heart was pure, my actions were bad, and thus I am guilty to I am not guilty, although my actions were bad, because my heart is pure. The confessions of Moore’s fictional characters, like those of his autobiographical persona, follow a different pattern. When Father Gogarty of The Lake exchanges letters with Nora Glynn, he confesses to himself by confessing to her, and he learns to know and understand himself, a process much more important than whatever Nora Glynn thinks of him. Albert Nobbs reveals her great secret to the empathetic but sleepy Hubert Page because she is lonely, not because she seeks judgment for good or bad. When Moore’s most celebrated character, Esther Waters, tells her story to Mrs. Barfield at the book’s conclusion, the story appears to have no motive beyond its own telling as a history of her life since leaving Woodview. The story lacks the structure of the excuse in that justifications neither precede nor follow it. Whether the function of the story-telling is self-analysis, as in the case of Father Gogarty, or the sharing of information, as in the case of Albert Nobbs and Esther Waters, none of these fictional characters neither seek to persuade his or her interlocutor concerning the moral quality of the actions thus narrated.

11 The motives and the correspondent structure of Moore’s autobiographical confessions, however, lie somewhere in-between the open-ended tales of his fictional characters and the excuses of Rousseau. Their moral quality remains uncertain; their revelation may “cost” the autobiographical narrator, to invoke Moore’s term, in some ways and not in others. Before addressing the story of the neglect of “awful Emma”, the memory that Moore identifies as particularly “costly”, I want to look first at two other betrayals. Both involve women he loved and who loved him. In the final volume of Hail and Farewell, the narrator relates the story of his parting from Clara Christian, the English painter whom he took away from her companion and brought with him to Dublin, installed in a house just far enough away from Lower Ely Place to maintain respectability and privacy. Moore also treated this situation in his 1903 short story,

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“The Wild Goose”, in which Ned, a repatriated Irish writer, marries a local woman only to abandon her and their son soon after. Disenchanted with a nation dominated by repressive and anti-intellectual religion, he reasons that to stay would require that “he would have come to accept all the base moral coinage in circulation”. However, Ned is sufficiently self-aware to acknowledge that in addition to whatever other arguments he may produce, he simply no longer loves and desires his wife: “the sensual coil that had bound them was broken; once more he was a free man”. Looking back toward Howth from the boat to England, he is “at one moment ashamed of what he had done, at the next overjoyed that he had done it22”. The ideological basis for his withdrawal (an excuse after de Man’s definition) is undermined by his admission that he no longer finds Ellen sexually attractive (a fact, or morally neutral reason).

12 Within a year of the story’s first publication in English, Moore and Clara Christian had parted. The break with “Stella” in Hail and Farewell draws directly from the language of the short story, further suggesting that Ned’s rejection of his wife bears some relation to Moore’s rejection of Christian and that Moore saw “The Wild Goose” as an early version of what would later become an even more confessional narrative. In the context of the argumentative trajectory of Hail and Farewell, the narrator’s failure to love and his avoidance of their bed follows as a consequence of lingering too long in the land of the “priest, the nun and the ox23” and as further evidence that Ireland is itself impotent and sterile. Yet that rationale, or causal account, is not the one directly stated; it can only be surmised by analysis of the event’s importance in the book’s overall argument. Instead, the narrator flounders about searching for a reason, if not a justification, but finally, none exists. The ideological grounds for his lack of love are in practical terms, absurd. Despite the incident’s important role in the rhetoric of Hail and Farewell’s repudiation of Ireland as a fertile ground for an artistic and cultural renewal, it resonates most poignantly as painful admission of inexplicable neglect and the failure to care sufficiently for another human being.

13 People fall out of love every day, sometimes as inexplicably as the autobiographical narrator of Hail and Farwell falls out of love with “Stella”. Many also dread the agonizing moments of a parent’s last days, as Moore recalls his dread of his mother’s deathbed in the final section of Memoirs of My Dead Life. John Barbour has suggested that “a writer with good judgment… recognizes that moral agency is circumscribed, and there is much in any life… that is beyond one’s control… Certain actions may be neither simply voluntary nor involuntary, and might provide moral excuses that diminish a person’s responsibility without entirely eliminating it24”. Barbour’s usage of the term excuse differs greatly from de Man’s, and that difference is telling in light of the moral significance of Moore’s endeavor. Through its self-mocking comedy, Hail and Farewell reduces Rousseau’s model of the excuse to absurdity while retaining the narrator’s uneasy sense of guilt over ceasing to love, an action which “may be neither simply voluntary nor involuntary.” When Moore approaches the subject of his mother’s death in Memoirs of My Dead Life, he first attempts a self-justifying excuse for his terror of her death-bed: that he has a superior imagination and is thus both more troubled by apprehension of the scene and more sympathetic to those whose sensibilities differ from the norm, unlike those who would condemn him as “hard and selfish25”. Yet as “Resurgam” continues, it develops into an extended meditation on the nature of grief and on the reality of human selfishness. Thinking of a passionate love affair which had

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just ended, he admits that “a man cannot lament two women at the same time” and finds himself dwelling on the loss of the young woman rather than the old: I began to consider that shameful injustice is undoubtedly a part of our human lot… Why, I asked myself, as a I lay under the larches, are we to mourn transitory delight so intensely, why should it possess us more entirely than the sorrow that we experience for her who endured the labor child-bearing, who nourished us perchance at her breast, whose devotion to us was unceasing, and who grew kindlier and more divorced from every thought of self as the year went by? From injustice there can be no escape, not a particle26.

14 If selfishness is “part of our human lot” it might function as what Barbour calls a “moral excuse”. Yet Moore is rigorous in his judgment, regardless of whether such a trait derives from what he would call our “instinct’ or nature. As a confession rather than an excuse, his claim, although selfishness is part of our human lot, I was indeed selfish, and thus I am guilty, follows the syntactical pattern I have identified within de Man’s analysis of the genuine confession: although my heart was pure, my actions were bad, and thus I am guilty.

15 One last confession of neglect requires consideration, that of “awful Emma”, the oppressed and overworked English charwoman who cleaned his spartan lodgings during the years after he had regretfully left his youth in Paris for a regime of disciplined labor in of London. Moore maintains that the confession of his failure to leave Emma an adequate tip or to help her in her old age cost him a great deal. But in what ways? His neglect deprived Emma of money that she very much needed and made her old age more difficult, but his life was not altered in the slightest degree. Similarly, the damage Rousseau brought upon Marion the servant girl was devastating to her, but had a negligible effect on his fortunes. As he acknowledges, without a letter of reference and branded as a thief Marion would have few options beyond prostitution, begging, crime, or hard labor at the very bottom of the social ladder, whereas his crime cost him very little, as the household in which he had been employed was already in the process of dismantlement.

16 If the acts so confessed were without repercussions to either man, what of the confession itself? Rousseau insists that his benign motivation and the importance of such a deed in the development of his sensibility far outweighs whatever harm resulted from this and other similarly questionable actions, such as exposing himself to young girls, abandoning a travelling companion writhing in the throes of an epileptic seizure, and depositing five children born out of wedlock at the gates of a foundling institution. Such deeds cost the narrator nothing precisely because, despite his frequent claims that the reader shall judge him, he has already judged himself and found himself innocent. Published posthumously at his request, his confessions did little to combat Voltaire’s accusations in his anonymous pamphlet “Sentiment des Citoyens” (1764) that Rousseau was a creature of inanity, indecency, megalomania, ingratitude, and debauchery. Yet his reputation as a human being was already sullied before Voltaire published his attack, and his writings only grew in popularity and influence as if immune from charges against his person.

17 Could it be, then, that when Moore asserts that “this confession costs me as much as some of Rousseau’s cost him”, he is in fact saying that his confession cost him nothing? In order to address this question, we must recall one of the most striking features of Moore’s autobiographies: his acute and prescient understanding of the distinction among the public figure of the author, the human being who writes, the voice we hear

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narrating a story, and in the case of autobiography, the man depicted in that story. In advertisements for Moore’s fiction after the mid-1890s, he is repeatedly identified as the “author of Esther Waters”, as he is in reviews and interviews for decades after its publication. His sympathetic treatment of an illiterate servant who raises her fatherless child against all odds brought him not only commercial success but a begrudging recognition what might be called his social conscience. Although he enjoyed public provocation, he was neither a clown nor a libertine and was sincerely disturbed by the limited and often desperate conditions in which the poor – and particularly impoverished women and children – endured their lives. The success of Esther’s efforts to keep her child depend upon her ability to earn sixteen rather than fourteen pounds annually, and Moore’s confession in Hail and Farewell acknowledges that “the author of Esther Waters” could be as destructive in his neglect as some of Esther’s employers were in their outright hostility. The balance between seriousness and scandal that Moore maintained as a public figure is dangerously undermined by such a confession. At the same time, Moore’s knowledge that a servant’s life can be radically altered by a small sum renders this confession the expression not only of an abashed public author but a man censured by his own conscience.

18 In these instances of revelation, both very much confessions rather than excuses or even reasons, Moore walks an ethical tightrope. Insistent on the essential rightness of his life’s pilgrimage to Parnassus, he was also willing to acknowledge that the way was not only “a hard fight”, as Esther Waters characterized her life experience27, but a path strewn with his betrayals and his failure to care enough: for his parents, his brother, for Clara Christian, and even for awful Emma. He admired (and sometimes plagiarized) Dostoevsky’s assertion that a man who knows he is ridiculous cannot really be ridiculous, and perhaps it is true that a man who knows he loves insufficiently is a man who understands love. As a satirist of himself, as well as others, Moore raises in his autobiographical writings ethical problems that he could not solve and allows the reader the knowledge of his stalemate. Another great Russian, Anton Chekov, declared that a good writer is not as one who declares that horse-stealing is wrong but instead depicts convincingly the mind of the horse-stealer. If Chekov is correct, then Moore has given the reader knowledge in the place of excuses, in keeping with his achievement as a consummate writer of the self in its labors, its accomplishments, and its confessions.

NOTES

1. George Moore, Esther Waters, New York, Boni and Liveright (Carra Edition), 1922, p. VI. 2. George Moore, Confessions of a Young Man, ed. Susan Dick, Montreal, McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1972, p. 35. 3. In her 1979 article “Where was Rousseau?” Phyllis Grosskurth explores the absence of Rousseau’s confessional mode among nineteenth-century British autobiographies. Despite the recovery of many forgotten Victorian memoirs in the decades since her

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article appeared, her claims remain accurate. Moore is one of the few Anglophone writers of his period to engage Rousseau or his model of autobiography. Phyllis Grosskurth, “Where was Rousseau,” in George Landow (ed.), Approaches to Victorian Autobiography, , Ohio University Press, 1979, 26-38. 4. Paul John Eakin, “Introduction”, in Paul John Eakin (ed.), The Ethics of Life Writing, Ithica, Cornell University Press, 2004, p.6. 5. Ford Madox Ford, “The Glacial Gaze of the Serpent”, in The Bodley Head Ford Madox Ford V.5, ed. Michael Killigrew, London, The Bodley Head, 1971, p. 305-306. 6. Arthur Frank, The Wounded Storyteller: Body, Illness, Ethics, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1995, p. 161. 7. Moore, Confessions of a Young Man, p. 42. 8. John Eglinton [W.K. Magee], Irish Literary Portraits, 1935, Reprint, Freeport, New York, Books for Libraries, 1967, p. 96. Throughout his letters to Édouard Dujardin, Moore frequently laments his limitations as a writer and speaker of French, although he does not therein address his competence as a reader. See George Moore, Letters of George Moore to Ed. Dujardin, 1886-1922, ed. and trans. John Eglinton [W.K. Magee], Bournemouth, Sydenham, 1942. 9. Moore, Letters of George Moore to Ed. Dujardin, 1886-1922, p. 27. 10. George Moore, Hail and Farewell, ed. Richard Cave, Gerrards Cross, Colin Smythe, 1976, p. 100. 11. Adrian Frazier, George Moore, New Haven, Yale University Press, 2000, p. 488. 12. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions, trans. J.M. Cohen, New York, Penguin, 1953, p. 17. 13. Lionel Gossman, “The Innocent Art of Confession and Reverie”, Daedalus, 107.3, 1978, p. 60. 14. George Moore to Emily Lorenz Meyer, 3 August 1910, George Moore on Parnassus (1900-1933 to Secretaries, Publishers, Printers, Agents, Literati, Friends, and Acquaintances),ed. Helmut Gerber, Newark, University of Delaware Press, 1988, p. 183. 15. Moore, Confessions, p. 123. 16. Moore, Hail and Farewell, p. 103. 17. Rousseau, Confessions, p. 86. 18. Paul de Man, Allegories of Reading: Figural Language in Rousseau, Nietzsche, Rilke, and Proust, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1979, pp. 278-301. 19. Ibid., p. 281. 20. Ben Roth, ‘Confessions, Excuses, and the Storytelling Self: Rereading Rousseau with Paul de Man’, Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Junior Visiting Fellows’ Conferences. Vol. XXXII. 21. Rousseau, Confessions, p. 61-62. 22. See George Moore, “The Wild Goose” in The Untilled Field, Gerrards Cross, Colin Smythe, 1976, p. 280, p. 271. I am grateful to Adrian Frazier for suggesting to me the parallel between Ned’s rejection of Ellen and Moore’s rejection of “Stella.” 23. Moore, Hail and Farewell, p. 608. 24. John D. Barbour, “Judging and Not Judging Parents”, in Paul John Eakin (ed.), The Ethics of Life Writing, Ithica, Cornell University Press, 2004, p. 91.

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25. George Moore, Memoirs of My Dead Life, London, William Heinemann, 1906, p. 298. 26. Ibid., p. 313, p. 316. 27. Moore, Esther Waters, p. 400.

ABSTRACTS

George Moore always claimed a literary paternity more French than Anglophone, and although the degree of his debt to Jean-Jacques Rousseau remains a matter of speculation, a comparison of their autobiographies yields a set of important questions about the ethics of life writing. Inquiries into the ethics of nonfiction have thus far concerned the representation of others and questions of privacy. However, the secular confessions of Rousseau and George Moore also elicit our attention to the manner by which narrative structures both allow and avoid moral self- inquiry.

George Moore s'est toujours réclamé d'une paternité littéraire française plutôt qu’anglaise, et quoique la portée de sa dette envers Jean-Jacques Rousseau relève de la conjecture, une comparaison entre leurs autobiographies soulève des questions importantes en matière d'éthique de l’écriture de soi. Jusqu’à présent, les travaux d'investigation portant sur l'éthique des ouvrages de non-fiction n’ont fait qu’interroger la représentation des autres et la question de la vie privée. Pourtant, les confessions profanes de Rousseau et de Moore attirent notre attention sur la manière dont certaines structures narratives permettent et évitent à la fois l’interrogation morale de soi-même.

INDEX

Keywords: Moore George , Rousseau Jean-Jacques, autobiography, individual identity, Franco- Irish relations Mots-clés: Moore George , Rousseau Jean-Jacques, identité individuelle, autobiographie, relations franco-irlandaises

AUTHOR

ELIZABETH GRUBGELD Oklahoma State University

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“Rubbing away their roughness by mutual contact”: Post- Confederation Irish writers and Canadian National Identity

Raymond Jess

1 In 1858 Thomas D’Arcy McGee published a collection of verse called Canadian Ballads, eulogizing the actions of major figures in Canadian history. In his introduction to the collection he stated that of all forms of patriotism, a public-spirited patriotism in literature was not the least admirable1. Originally from Carlingford, Co. Louth, McGee would go on to become one of Canada’s founding fathers and was instrumental in guaranteeing minority education rights in the confederation of the Canadian provinces in 1867. But it was as a member of the Young Irelanders in the 1840s that McGee first recognized the necessity of a national literature for establishing the narrative of nation. Like many other former Young Irelanders of his generation McGee brought with him to the new world a belief that the development of a distinctive cultural identity was intrinsic to the success of the modern nation-state. McGee’s initial Canadian political project was an attempt to create a national literature that would both acknowledge and transcend this cultural diversity. It comes as no surprise that many of those Canadian writers who took up the mantle of McGee’s project were themselves Irish-born, for where else in the at this time did cultural and religious differences cause such deep and unbridgeable divisions?

2 For the historian Adrian Hastings, the nation is a much more self-conscious community than any particular ethnicity as it can be formed from more than one ethnic identity and, more importantly it can generate its own national literature2. However, despite the fact that the nation can be formed from more than one ethnicity, more often than not the national literature is written in a single language. The literary historian Patrick Ward has highlighted how in writing in English the Young Ireland movement borrowed the codes, conventions and epistemologies of British and Anglo-Irish representations of the Gaelic Irish population3. In Canada the anglophone writers and nationalist

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intellectuals who followed the example of McGee were attempting to create a new national narrative that would supersede not only the enduring historical divisions that existed in Britain and Ireland, but also to incorporate the non-British and non-Irish ethnicities they shared the new dominion with. While these literary attempts may have been relatively successful at transcending differences between the English, the Irish and the Scottish, it will be important to examine whether McGee’s disciples were as successful at transcending differences beyond Canada’s anglophone identities.

3 McGee was an important intellectual link between Young Ireland and the Canadian poets of the post-Confederation era. Like the other Young Irelanders of his generation McGee felt that cultural nationalism’s primary role was the moral rejuvenation of the community and the dissemination of historical memory4. Although he felt that Canada could learn from the examples of other nations, he also called for the rejection of what he saw as cheap imports of English and American literature because he felt that they dealt with subjects and themes that weren’t directly related to the Canadian physical or material environment5. His advice to nascent Canadian writers was never more eloquently expressed than in the poem “Arm and Rise” in Canadian Ballads. Calling on Canadians to write Canada as they colonize and settle the land, he reminds them “On the round Canadian cedars / Legends high await but readers6”.

4 Writing in the New Dominion Monthly in the years after his assassination7, McGee’s friend and fellow Montreal Irishman John Reade acknowledged the literary power of the Young Irelanders, identifying how they used songs and popular ballads as “a leading medium for the dissemination of national feeling8”. Although John Reade was twelve years younger than McGee, his involvement in the Canadian literary scene preceded that of McGee by two years. Reade was born on 13th November 1837 in Ballyshannon in Co. Donegal. Educated at Portora School, Enniskillen, and Queen’s College, Belfast, he emigrated with his parents to Montreal in 1856. In the year of his arrival, at the age of just nineteen, he founded the Montreal Literary Magazine9. For the next sixty years, Reade would devote himself to the development of a national literature in Canada. As a trained (but ultimately unsuccessful) Anglican minister, Reade felt keenly that the prejudices and sectarianism of the old country should be left behind there. Like McGee, Reade’s pre-Confederation writings envisioned a future Canada where a hybrid national identity would be formulated out of the many different cultures that inhabited the new dominion. In one such article from 1864 titled “Our Canadian Village”, Reade walks his readers through his vision of an archetypal Canadian community. He leads his readers past numerous churches of all Christian denominations and introduces them to the village’s inhabitants, who are a tried and tested mixture of national stereotypes; the argumentative Irishman, the thrifty Scot, the enterprising American and the affable French-Canadian.

5 While this early image of pre-Confederation Canada has a benign quaintness about it, Reade’s first and only collection of poetry, The Prophecy of Merlin and Other poems, published in the aftermath of Confederation, provided a more violent image of national unity. The shedding of blood is a frequent theme in Reade’s early poetry of national identity. In one of his best-known poems, “Hastings”, he views the Norman invasion of England as a bloody and necessary prerequisite to the creation of a new race: The Sussex woods were bright and red on that October morn; And Sussex soil was red with blood before the next was born; But from that red united clay another race did start On the great stage of destiny to act a noble part10.

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6 Reade goes on to describe how the Battle of Hastings was the culmination of a long history of invasions and racial hybridity that would see the blood of the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons and the Vikings mingle with that of the Normans to produce the modern-day British people. Reade calls on his fellow Canadians to remember the Battle of Hastings as the moment when distinct peoples were brought together to create a new nation, “And as we gather into one let us recall with pride / That we are of the blood of those who fought where Harold died11”. This idea of a shared Norman culture between British and French-Canadians was a prominent feature of late-nineteenth- century Canadian nationalism12.

7 In the newly confederated Canada Reade’s conception of the Canadian village would have to be extended beyond Upper and Lower Canada (now called Ontario and Québec) to include the Maritime provinces of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. In the aftermath of 1867, numerous nationalist voices were calling for greater assimilation of Canada’s different ethnicities. As D’Arcy McGee had said in the run up to Confederation “not French-Canadian, nor British-Canadian nor Irish-Canadian – patriotism rejects the prefix13”. This was in line with prime minister John A. Macdonald’s belief in a strong centralized government, one that would overcome the lingering legacy of pre- Confederation provincialism. However, within twenty years the political and economic ties that were holding Confederation together were on shaky ground. The execution of Louis Riel in 1885 had intensified already existing tensions between British and French Canadians. This, coupled with poor economic performance nationally, led some commentators to suggest that Canada would eventually be annexed by the United States14. The threat of annexation by the southern republic forced many cultural commentators into a defence of Canada’s place as a politically distinct British15 nation on the North American continent, and also to a greater appreciation of the uniqueness of Canada’s different ethnic cultures.

8 In his opening speech as first president for the Society of Canadian Literature formed in 1889, Reade stated that now that the railroad had unified the country, Canadians could finally put provincialism aside and develop a greater knowledge and interest in the different cultures of all Canadians16. Since the publication of his poetry in 1870, Reade had moved away from creative writing and had increasingly turned his attention to Canadian historical scholarship. He was passionate in his study of Native American language and literature, and believed that allowing Native languages to vanish without studying their history “would be a neglect only less blameworthy than the destruction of the historical monuments of Central America and Mexico”17. He wished to preserve much of the heritage of aboriginal people as a way of laying the foundations for a national culture. Reade hoped to develop a sense of enlightened imperialism where intermixing between cultural groups would allow the nation to uncover its latent vitality. He painted a picture of a multi-national Canada, where, through a liberal education system, different nationalities would eventually meld into an idealized Canadian subject. He described this process as “rubbing away their roughness by mutual contact18”. In his 1892 article on the study of folklore in Canada, Reade spoke of his desire to include all of Canada’s peoples in the development of a unique communal identity: […] there is surely no reason why, in the Dominion of Canada, with our Esquimaux [sic] and Indians, our French and English, with their kinships and their diversities, our Celts of Wales and Man, of Ireland and the Highlands, and our scattered colonies of Teutons, Norsemen, Hungarians and Chinese, all living amongst us the

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lives that their fathers led, professing their ancestral creeds and speaking their mother tongues, we, too, may not add our mite to the treasury of knowledge and make Canadian folk-lore a felt reality in the world19.

9 In a later article, Reade sought to remind his readership that the English were an amalgamation of Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Danes and Romans and that this mixture produced a great civilization, one which Canada would one day hope to supersede20. There is a yearning in these articles for cultural hybridity, an amalgamation of the most positive aspects of each ethnic identity. Reade placed special importance on seeing a place for Native peoples in this hybridization of Canadian identities. In an 1887 copy of the national periodical The Week, Reade pointed to a number of studies done by various anthropologists which showed that many of the Iroquois of Québec had intermarried with white families, allowing certain members of the Senate, the universities, the army and the navy to show what he called “visible native ancestry”. It was believed that this blending of races would help to establish good will and peace between whites and natives. “Let us hope so”, comments Reade, “so far unhappily it has not had that result either in the United States or Canada. But then look at the Celt and Saxon in Ireland after seven centuries of intercourse21”. This reference to Ireland as an example of the difficulty of uniting two different ethnicities is Reade’s warning against the political and cultural separation of different ethnic groups. Intermarriage between various ethnic groups such as the English, the Scottish, the Irish and the French should become a model for other new immigrant groups to adapt to an inter-ethnic rather than multi-ethnic Canada.

10 Such was Reade’s enthusiasm for the unearthing of Canadian folklore he was eventually appointed vice-president of the Montreal chapter of the American Folklore Society, a position he shared with the Francophone poet and politician Louis Fréchette22. Fréchette had caused much excitement in Canadian literary circles when the Académie Française awarded him a Montyon prize in 1880 for his collection of poetry Les Fleurs boréales, les oiseaux de neige. This was the first time a Canadian writer had been acknowledged in such a way by a European nation23. For anglophone Canadian cultural nationalists, such an award honoured not only Fréchette, but also the genius and distinctiveness of literature produced in Canada. Reade felt that such genius and distinctiveness could be better developed by greater dialogue between the English- speaking and French-speaking peoples of Canada. In his opening speech to the Society of Canadian Literature he remarked of Canada’s two linguistic communities “As to society and literature, we are greater strangers than are the French and English of Europe…I have no hesitation in saying that the fault for the share which ignorance of each other’s language has in keeping us in a state of alienation from each other lies at the door of the English rather than at the door of the French-Canadians24”.

11 Such sentiments were echoed by Reade’s Irish-Canadian contemporary, William Henry Drummond at a speech to the National Club in Toronto, “…as a member of the English speaking outpost of the old Province of Quebec I feel constrained to say that I believe it to be the patriotic duty of every intelligent British Canadian not to stand aloof from our French-speaking fellow countrymen, but to learn something of the language of France, to study the customs and the characteristics of the people, who are born with that language almost formed on their lips25”. If it was the hope of Reade’s generation of cultural nationalists that a distinctive Canadian literature could be born out of the marriage between the nation’s two linguistic traditions, then no other writer of the era seemed to fulfil that hope more successfully than William Henry Drummond.

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12 Drummond was born in Mohill, Co. Leitrim in 1854. His father was a policeman in the Irish Constabulary who was eventually dismissed from his position over an argument with a local landlord. Drummond emigrated with the rest of his family to Montreal in 1864. He eventually trained as a medical doctor and went to work in the Eastern Townships of Québec. He began writing poetry about the French-Canadian habitant in the early 1870s but his first volume of poetry The Habitant and other French-Canadian Poems wasn’t published until 189726. Much of Drummond’s regular English language poetry was deemed quite stiff and overly-formal27. However, his verse writing in the broken English of the French-Canadian habitant was considered much more vigorous and animated. Drummond’s poems of French-Canada were considered a sort of dialect poetry where he would try to imitate the speech of a people speaking English as a second language. His poetry readings were particularly popular at the time amongst a largely English-speaking Canadian audience. The popularity of his poetry was largely due to the fact that it focused more on country people and their trials and tribulations than it did on the beauty of the natural landscape. Unlike the stifled formal language of the educated urban bourgeoisie, Drummond communicates the unassuming, frank opinions of his habitant characters in order to show his anglophone Canadian audience how the habitant enjoys life without the pretensions of material desire or social aspiration.

13 In the poem “The Curé of Calumette”, Drummond emphasizes how the Irish and French-Canadians would make a good match for each other, echoing Reade’s enthusiasm for cultural hybridity: Hees fader is full-blooded Irish, an’ hees moder is pure Canayenne, Not offen dat stock go tegedder, but she's fine combination ma frien' For de Irish he’s full of de devil, an’ de French dey got savoir faire, Dat's mak'it de very good balance an' tak' you mos’ ev’ry w’ ere28.

14 Much like his contemporaries in the Irish Literary Revival, Drummond looked to the rural hinterland as a natural repository of feeling and sentiment, and as a bulwark against the urban decadence of the modern city. In the late nineteenth century many French-Canadians left Canada looking for work in the larger towns and cities of urban New England. Drummond saw this as a troubling development, as Canada would be losing much of what made its culture distinctive. In the poem “How Bateese Came Home”, Bateese is chided by his friend Napoleon for emigrating to the United States and returning home speaking English. He also remarks on how Bateese seems corrupted by the values of his new country and how his culture and family environment would be better protected if he stayed in Canada: I say "For w'at you spik lak dat? you must be gone crazee Dere ’s plaintee feller on de State, more smarter dan you be, Beside she 's not so healtee place, an' if you mak’ l'argent, You spen’ it jus’ lak Yankee man, an' not lak habitant29.

15 Although the introduction to the original publication of The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems was written in French by Louis Fréchette, francophone interpretations of Reade and Drummond’s work were few and far between. However, when their work was reviewed in the francophone press, reviewers were likely to focus on their Irish origins. An insightful review of John Reade’s poetry by the Francophone periodical Revue de Montréal in 187930 points to a perceived link between Irish romantic sentiment and Catholic mysticism:

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Mais M. John Reade, comme ce pauvre Darcy [sic] McGee, est bien et dûment un poète irlandais. La verte Erin a imprimé son cachet sur toutes ses œuvres, et, bien qu'il appartienne à l'église anglicane, où il a même étudié la théologie, ce cachet, s'il veut bien nous permettre de le dire, est plutôt catholique que protestant. C'est le cas, du reste, pour la plupart des poètes et des orateurs protestants du pays de sa naissance31.

16 The idea that every Irish writer has a Catholic disposition no matter what their religion is an illuminating observation. Throughout much of the nineteenth century Anglo-Irish Protestant writers would develop an increasingly Romantic literary vision as their political power on the island began to diminish. This would ultimately culminate in the largely Protestant-led Irish Literary Revival of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. There were many reasons for this turn towards the Romantic, one of which was to provide an outlet for the spiritual imagination that the Protestant faith couldn’t accommodate in a post-Darwinian world. Protestantism had developed a strong disapproval of the mystical and tended to emphasize the mind over the heart and the literal over the emotional. These Protestant writers also hoped that celebration of a common Irish folklore would help to undermine religious differences in Ireland. In his pre-Confederation article “Our Canadian Village”, Reade pointed to the lack of sectarianism in his idealized picture of a new Canada: “Christianity with its windings is also moving on to another sea – infinitely deep and broad. I only mean Christianity that is of Christ32.”

17 But it wasn’t just religious differences that had to be superseded, political differences also needed to be overcome. A Canadian identity had to be broad enough to embrace not only different kinds of ethnicity, but even ethnicities that may have had a history of enmity towards one another. The emigrant voyage from Ireland should also be a voyage away from Ireland’s historic relationship with England. In Canada where Saxon and Celt needed to live and work alongside one another, old animosities would have to be abandoned without too much reflection. In his article on early Irish-Canadian Romanticism, Jason King has underscored how the immensity of the Canadian landscape led many Irish-Canadians to reassess Ireland’s adversarial politics. The vastness of Canadian geography dwarfed Irish political histories. The environmental determinism of such a vast space would mean that people would need to work together to master its unforgiving terrain33.

18 While the grand sweep of the Canadian landscape was a powerful source of inspiration for Canadian Romanticism, the lack of a distinctive linguistic identity left Canadian intellectuals hungry for such poetic inventions as Drummond’s habitant dialect. For nineteenth century German Romantic thinkers such as Johan Gottfried Herder, a particular language embodied the living heritage of a particular people, and poetry was the most democratic form of orally communicating the feelings and emotions of previous generations. Such ideas had special import in Ireland in the early nineteenth century as antiquarians sought to revive an oral Gaelic culture they perceived as being in permanent decline. The Young Irelanders also played a part in this linguistic nationalism by highlighting the uniqueness of Hiberno-English forms in their work. As Charles Gavan Duffy stated in his introduction to The Ballad Poetry of Ireland: ‘There is an Anglo-Irish language as easily discriminated from London English as the dialect of

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Saxon spoken in the Lowlands of Scotland…It is a dialect fired with the restless imagination, and coloured with the strong passions of our nation34.

19 Drummond’s poetry proved to be highly popular amongst Canadian critics and readership alike because they felt that here was something uniquely Canadian that no other culture could have created. Before Drummond, those who attempted to encourage the production and reading of Canadian literature appealed to a small number of Canadian nationalists. The reading material desired and chosen by most Canadians was still imported British and American literature35. Within a few years of its initial publication The Habitant and other French-Canadian Poems had sold 30,000 copies. By the time of Drummond’s death in 1907 sales of Drummond’s various poetry collections had reached over 60,000 copies36. The irony of the success of The Habitant and other French-Canadian Poems was that while it dealt with specifically Canadian subjects, it was published by a New York publisher and proved just as popular in the northeastern U.S. and in the American states around the Great Lakes, as it did in Canada. Canadian writers shared a similar problem with their Irish counterparts in that if they wanted a large readership they had to look to the more populous anglophone audience of their next-door neighbour.

20 Although Drummond’s poetry proved to be extremely popular, there seemed to have been resistance from some quarters at the time regarding the depictions of French- Canadians in his poems. In her introduction to the posthumous 1908 collection of her husband’s poetry, May Harvey Drummond pointed out that Louis Fréchette had defended her husband’s poetry in the face of complaints put forward “by a few of the French-Canadian people of Québec, namely, that these verses were written in a spirit of mockery37”. Unfortunately for Drummond’s legacy, these accusations of mockery would only increase in the decades to come. The rising tide of Québécois nationalism in the 1960s and ’70s meant that Drummond’s habitant poems were increasingly seen as derogatory or even outright racist. By the 1980s Drummond seemed to have been quietly dropped from the Canadian literary canon. A standard poetry anthology used on Canadian literature courses today, Canadian Poetry from the Beginnings to the First World War, doesn’t feature any of Drummond’s poetry, despite the fact that he was the best-selling and most widely read Canadian poet of the immediate pre-First World War era38.

21 Even if Drummond’s intention wasn’t one of mockery, he still paints his habitant types as little more than pawns in the development of the Canadian nation. Rural Québec is for Drummond a place that never changes, where there is no advancement; time has come to a standstill. An illuminating story about Drummond’s return to Ireland gives some indication of this psychological desire for a timeless rural haven. On a speaking trip to Britain in 1902, he had a strong desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood in Leitrim and Donegal. When he did return to Ireland, however, he only ended up staying a night in Dublin. The following morning he got back on the boat to Glasgow and returned home to Canada, never to visit Ireland again. In that one night in the Irish capital, Drummond realized that the Ireland of his childhood imagination could never be recaptured39. Instead he replaced it with the habitant world of French Canada, a place he could go back to again and again, secure in the knowledge that it had never changed. In some ways Drummond was compensating for the experience of exile and the dislocation of immigration by constructing an idyllic vision of rural Québec and French-Canadians that would emotionally replicate the lost world of childhood and

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home. Like other Canadian poets of the Confederation era, Drummond also looked to a world of cyclical time outside the ongoing advance of the industrial world. He portrays the French-Canadian subjects of his poems as innocent children of nature, contrasting their vitality with their quaintness, oblivious to the forces of modernity. The habitant would safeguard Canada’s rural idyll and not interfere with British Canadians’ industrial progress. Canadians could then have the best of both worlds, appreciating the simplicity of the French-Canadian past alongside the prosperity of the British- Canadian future. If to share a language is to share a form of life, then ultimately Drummond’s poetry was shared with a specifically anglophone audience across North America and beyond40. Similarly, John Reade’s appreciation of Native literature and his wish for cultural hybridity disguised a more troubling desire for assimilation and appropriation. Reade’s hybrid Canadian wasn’t a unitary figure, someone who bridged identities and brought mutual understanding between natives and settlers; rather, intermarriage between natives and whites was seen as a way of “civilizing” native peoples and integrating them into the dominant European culture. This new Canadian was a culturally British subject who could now rightfully claim some ancient connection to the Canadian landscape.

22 While both Reade and Drummond answered McGee’s call to find something unique about the Canadian experience that could be used to foster a new and novel national culture, ultimately their attempts were more about using the non-British subjects of their work as badges of difference from other anglophone cultures, (i.e. the United States and the rest of the Empire). It’s difficult not to see in these discursive constructions of identity a longing by these writers to overcome the political fear and loathing that so marked their homeland. But although their intentions were to prevent any sectarian or bigoted dogmas from taking hold in the new peaceable kingdom of Canada, their discursive power would simply render other ethnic groups as passive and pliant to their own national imaginings.

NOTES

1. Thomas D’Arcy McGee, Canadian Ballads and Occasional Verses, Montreal, J. Lovell, 1858, p. 7. 2. Umut Özkirmli, Theories of Nationalism: A Critical Introduction, 2 nd ed. Houndmills, Basingstoke; New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2010, p. 58. 3. Ward, Patrick. Exile, Emigration, and Irish Writing, Dublin/Portland, OR/Irish Academic Press, 2002, 92. 4. John Hutchinson, The Dynamics of Cultural Nationalism, London, Allen & Unwin, 1987, p. 9. 5. Thomas D’Arcy McGee, The Mental outfit of the New Dominion, Gazette, Montreal, and Montreal Literary Club, 1867, p. 6.

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6. Thomas D’Arcy McGee, “Arm and Rise”, Canadian Ballads and Occasional Verses, Montreal, J. Lovell, 1858, p. 44. 7. McGee was assassinated on the doorstep of his Ottawa home on the 7 April, 1868. It was believed his assassination was planned and executed by the Fenians for what they felt was McGee’s betrayal of his former republicanism. An Irish immigrant by the name of James Whelan was eventually tried, convicted and executed for his murder. 8. John Reade, “Thomas D’Arcy McGee – The Poet”, The New Dominion Monthly, [Feb, 1870], p. 17. 9. Leslie Monkman, “Reade, John”, Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online, Ottawa, National Archives of Canada and National Library of Canada, 2003, Accessed 29 June 2015. 10. “Hastings” in John Reade, The Prophecy of Merlin and Other Poems. Montreal, Dawson Bros., 1870, p. 100-101. 11. Ibid., p. 102. 12. Colin M. Coates and Cecilia Morgan, Heroines and History: Representations of Madeleine De Verchères and Laura Secord, Toronto; Buffalo, University of Toronto Press, 2002, p. 53. 13. Thomas D’Arcy McGee, “American Relations and Canadian Duties”, Speeches and Addresses Chiefly on the Subject of British-American Union, London, Chapman and Hall, 1865, p. 37. 14. Carl Berger, The Sense of Power, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1970, p. 4. 15. “British” was largely used at this time as meaning a subject of the British Empire, rather than the narrower meaning of a resident of the island of Britain. British imperial sentiment was particularly strong among anglophone Canadians. Philip Buckner and R. Douglas Francis write: “…the descendants of Irish and Scottish immigrants to Canada have succeeded in disassociating themselves from their British imperial past and in presenting themselves as part of the colonized rather than as the colonizers, thus laying the blame for imperial exploitation on the English and their descendants. This is of course a serious distortion of reality. What existed in Canada was a shared British culture in which all of the various immigrant communities from the British Isles, included the Scots and the Irish contributed.” Phillip Buckner and R. Douglas Francis, Canada and the British world, Vancouver, UBC Press, 2006, p. 6. Both John Reade and William Henry Drummond were raised in the Anglican Church of Ireland and would have had experienced little difficulty in reconciling their Irish and British identities. Indeed, Reade would go on to write a defence of British imperialism, admitting that while it was a flawed system, it was the best system that Canada could choose considering the alternatives. See “What is imperialism?” Canadian Magazine, 19 (May- October 1902): 316–18. On his first visit back to Ireland in 1902 after 38 years in Canada, Drummond was shocked at the visible rise of Catholicism outside of the northeast of Ireland. Fearing for the future of the Protestant community in his former home, he wrote to his wife “What an unhappy, wretched country is the West of Ireland…Home Rule be d – d! and to h – with the priests” - Personal letter from W.H. Drummond to his wife May Harvey Drummond (Manuscript Reference: 10.2/7), from the William Henry Drummond Family Fonds at The Osler Library of the History of Medicine, McGill University, Montreal, Canada. 16. “Canadian Literature’, The Gazette, Montreal, 29 January, 1889, p. 2.

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17. John Reade, The Literary Faculty of the Native Races of America, Montreal, Dawson, 1884, p. 30. 18. John Reade, “Our Canadian Village”, British American Magazine, 2(5), 1864, p. 483. 19. John Reade, “The Study of Folklore in Canada”, The Dominion Illustrated Monthly, 1(5), 1892, p. 302. 20. John Reade, “Nation Building”, The Week, 4(30), 1887, p. 480. 21. John Reade, “Nation Building”, The Week, 5(3), 1887, p. 37. 22. “American Folklore Society, Montreal Branch” letterhead, 17 June 1895, in John Reade fonds (P 140), McCord Museum Archives, Montreal, Canada. 23. Jacques Blais, “Fréchette, Louis”, Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online, Ottawa, National Archives of Canada and National Library of Canada, 2003, Accessed 29 December 2015. 24. “Canadian Literature”, The Gazette, Montreal, 29 January, 1889, p. 2. 25. William Henry Drummond, “Address to the National Club, Toronto, on Canadian Literature”, unknown date, (Manuscript Reference: 30.6), from the William Henry Drummond Family Fonds at The Osler Library of the History of Medicine, McGill University, Montreal, Canada. 26. Mary Jane Edwards, “Drummond, William Henry”, Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online, Ottawa, National Archives of Canada and National Library of Canada, 2003, Accessed 29 June 2015. 27. “In one or two instances, Dr. Drummond has forsaken dialect and the results are not happy”, “The Voyageur”, East Anglian Times, London, 28 August, 1905. 28. “The Curé of Calumette’ in William Henry Drummond, Complete Poems, Toronto, McClelland & Stewart, 1926, p. 132. 29. “How Bateese Came Home”, in William Henry Drummond, Complete Poems, Toronto, McClelland & Stewart, 1926, p. 23. 30. For a francophone review of Drummond’s work, see Pierre Lorraine, ‘Le Poète De L”Habitant”’, Le Journal de Françoise, 6(21), 2 février, 1908, p. 332. 31. H.V., “Un Poète Anglo-Canadien”, Revue De Montréal, 3(3), 1879, p. 190. 32. John Reade, “Our Canadian Village”, British American Magazine, 2(5), 1864, p. 483. 33. Jason,King, “Prefiguring the Peaceable Kingdom: The Construction of Counter- Revolutionary Sentiment in Irish-Canadian Romantic Verse and Prose”, The Canadian Journal of Irish Studies, 31(1), 2005, p. 38-44. 34. Charles Gavan Duffy, The Ballad Poetry of Ireland, Dublin, J. Duffy, 1857, p. XXII. 35. D.M.R. Bentley, “Post-Confederation Poetry”, in Coral Ann Howells and Eva-Marie Kröller (eds.), The Cambridge History of Canadian Literature, Cambridge, England, Cambridge University Press, 2009, p. 190. 36. Pierre Lorraine, “Le Poète De L’‘Habitant”’, Le Journal de Françoise, 6(15), 2 Novembre, 1907, p. 236. 37. William Henry Drummond & May Harvey Drummond, The Great Fight; Poems and Sketches (Memorial ed.), New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1908, p. 31. 38. See Carole Gerson and Gwendolyn Davies (eds) Canadian poetry: from the beginnings through the First World War, Toronto, McClelland & Stewart, 1994

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39. Personal letter from W.H. Drummond to his wife May Harvey Drummond (Manuscript Reference: 10.2/7), from the William Henry Drummond Family Fonds at The Osler Library of the History of Medicine, McGill University, Montreal, Canada. 40. In his novel Le Ciel de Québec, published in 1969, the Québécois author Jacques Ferron would even go so far as to joke that Drummond’s French-Canadian patois was an entirely Irish invention: “De ce bel homme chaleureux Orphée acceptait tout. Il est irlandais, écossais, canayen. Il parle joual, vu que c'est une invention irlandaise, l'invention du Docteur Drummond qui, pareil au dénommé James Joyce, voulait rendre l'anglais incomprehensible.” Jacques Ferron, Le ciel de Québec, Montréal, Éditions du Jour, 1969, p. 197.

ABSTRACTS

This article will look at how two Irish writers in nineteenth and early twentieth century Montreal used the print culture of their new Canadian home as a way of conceptualizing a burgeoning national community. Through various published articles in the Canadian periodical press, the Donegal-born poet John Reade tried to imagine a hybrid national identity molded from the many different cultures that inhabited the new Dominion. Reade’s fellow Irish-born poet William Henry Drummond hoped that his own poetic sketches of rural Québec would help Anglo-Canadians better understand the cultural life of their French-Canadian compatriots.

Cet article posera un regard sur la manière dont deux écrivains irlandais à Montréal, au XIXe et au début du XXe siècle, ont utilisé la culture imprimée de leur nouveau domicile canadien comme une façon de conceptualiser une communauté nationale en plein essor. Grâce à divers articles parus dans la presse périodique canadienne, le poète de Donegal John Reade a essayé d'imaginer une identité nationale hybride façonné par les différentes cultures qui ont habité le nouveau territoire. Son compatriote, le poète irlandais William Henry Drummond, espère que ses propres esquisses poétiques du Québec rural aideront les anglo-canadiens à mieux comprendre la vie culturelle de leurs compatriotes canadiens-français.

INDEX

Keywords: Drummond William Henry, Canada, Reade John, diaspora, Irish nationalism, national identity, poetry Mots-clés: Reade John, Drummond William Henry, Canada, diaspora, identité nationale, poésie, nationalisme irlandais

AUTHOR

RAYMOND JESS Concordia University, Montreal

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Voix de revenants dans les Pièces pour danseurs de W. B. Yeats L’exemple de Ce que rêvent les os

Pierre Longuenesse

1 Dans The Dreaming of the Bones, pièce écrite sous le coup des événements de Pâques 1916 à Dublin, trois musiciens-narrateurs sont les spectateurs autant que les ordonnateurs d’une scène unique dans laquelle un jeune insurgé en fuite, perdu dans une lande improbable au fin fond du Comté de Clare, est confronté à deux figures fantomatiques venues du passé, perdues dans les méandres de leur mauvaise conscience : ces deux revenants ne sont autres en effet que le couple de Diarmuid et de son amante Devorgilla qui, au XIIIe siècle, firent appel aux Anglo-Normands pour reconquérir leurs terres suite à leur bannissement, et qui, depuis, ne cessent d’errer en quête du pardon qui rachètera leur faute. Le motif du retour fonde donc dans cette pièce la construction même de la fable, puisque les événements de Pâques ravivent, à l’autre bout du temps historique, l’événement fondateur de l’oppression anglaise que fut cette trahison, sept siècles avant 1916. Qui plus est, et comme l’on sait, Yeats s’inspire pour cette pièce comme pour d’autres du modèle du Nô japonais, en opposant un personnage venu du monde réel, le waki du Nô – ici, le jeune homme – à un esprit ou un revenant, le shite1 – ici, les deux amants.

2 Dès lors, lorsque les deux personnages fantomatiques posent la question : « Pouvons- nous être pardonnés ? » Ils en posent en réalité une autre, aussi simple qu’efficace dans sa théâtralité2 : pouvons-nous revenir ? Dans leur désir de retour, ils sont à la fois déjà là, et pas encore complètement « là », balançant entre absence et surcroît d’être. Cette question fait d’eux, plus que des actants, des « étants », ou en quelque sorte des « aspirants à être ». Comme dit Jacques Derrida, « il y a du disparu dans l’apparition même comme réapparition du disparu3 ». La spectralité, comme le laisse penser son titre, est au centre de la pièce The Dreaming of the Bones.

3 Pour le chercheur, la question n’en reste pas moins de savoir comment s’exprime cette spectralité dramaturgiquement, et s’il y a chez Yeats une dramaturgie spécifique de la revenance. Comment Yeats s’y prend-il pour ne pas représenter un spectre de façon

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totalement incarnée, procédé qui serait contradictoire dans les termes ? Comment trouve t-il les formes adéquates, aussi bien textuelles que scéniques4, de la spectralité5 ? On examinera donc deux aspects majeurs de l’écriture dramatique de cette pièce – le rapport entre le visuel et le sonore d’une part, et les questions d’énonciation d’autre part – en tentant de voir comment c’est bien à la voix, selon des protocoles très définis, qu’il revient d’exprimer cette présence-absence, et ce drame d’un retour impossible.

Du visuel et du sonore, de l’invisible et du dicible

Du sonore au lieu du visuel

4 Le premier procédé visant à la mise en forme de cette idée de « revenance » dans l’écriture est en effet la dissociation entre les deux « media » visuel et sonore. La fiction dramatique se déroule la nuit. Dans le texte cette indication est distillée de façon parfois directe, et souvent indirecte, soit dans les répliques didascaliques et donc narratives des musiciens, soit de façon plus lyrique dans leurs parties chantées, soit enfin dans les répliques des protagonistes eux-mêmes : « What rogue is night wandering6 ? » ; « And many a night it seems […]7 » ; « The hour before dawn and the moon covered up8 » ; « Why have you come creeping through the dark9? » ; « [I] would break my neck/If I were stumbling there alone in the dark10 » ; « He has been wandering on the road all night11. » Plus loin cette ambiance nocturne nous est rappelée par la mention du « night wind », jusqu’à la fin où le motif est repris par les musiciens : « I have heard in the night air12. » Quant au jeune homme, il marche sur les routes tenant à la main une lanterne, dont la faible lueur ne fait qu’accuser la nuit. Et un peu plus loin, les oiseaux de nuit (le hibou, mentionné trois fois) ne cèdent pas la place au coq, qui ne chante pas encore. En un mot, toute la pièce repose sur l’attente en même temps que la crainte du jour. Dans ce contexte, l’invisibilité est constamment rappelée, et cette invisibilité a pour corollaire une valorisation du medium sonore. Symptomatiquement, c’est sur ce mode que s’ouvre l’action dramatique. C’est par sa voix que se manifeste d’abord le jeune homme, après que le bruit de ses pas a précédé son arrivée dans le récit des musiciens :

First musician : […] I hear a footfall – A young man with a lantern comes this way. […] He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays. A Young Man enters, praying in Irish13.

5 De la même façon c’est par une question que s’ouvre la première réplique chantée des musiciens, avant même l’entrée du jeune homme, et cette question porte sur ce dont on pressent la présence sans rien en voir : « Did not a shadow pass? […] Who can have trod in the dark? » Ce questionnement est redoublé par le jeune homme qui interroge à son tour des interlocuteurs qu’il ne voit pas :

Young man : Who is there? I cannot see what you are like! Come to the light14.

6 En guise de réponse la jeune fille souffle la bougie, le plongeant dans le noir. La lanterne éteinte, on ne perçoit plus des personnages que leurs voix. Plus loin il est aussi question du bruit d’un cheval que l’on entend sans voir : « What is that sound? – An old horse gone astray […]15. »

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7 Cette focalisation sur le signifiant sonore, au détriment de sa source, renvoie aux théories acousmatiques développées aussi bien par l’antiquité pré-socratique que par les musicologues contemporains. Le concept d’acousmate, dans son sens pythagoricien originel, désigne en effet un son que l’on entend sans en déceler les causes : Acousmatique n.m. (du grec Akousmatikos, habitué à écouter) Philos. Nom donné aux disciples de Pythagore qui, pendant cinq années, écoutaient ses leçons cachés derrière un rideau, sans le voir, et en observant le silence le plus rigoureux. Adj. Mus. Se dit d’une situation d’écoute où, pour l’auditeur, la source sonore est invisible ; se dit d’une musique élaborée pour cette situation16.

8 Cette distorsion entre vision et audition crée un système d’interprétation des signes qui indique une présence-absence. Ce qui est désigné par un signe sonore est suffisamment présent pour qu’il y ait signe et en même temps suffisamment absent pour qu’il y ait questionnement sur le sens de ce signe. Roland Barthes, dans L’Obvie et l’obtus, explique comment cette posture de guet s’accompagne d’une volonté de déchiffrement. Lorsque l’audition, phénomène physiologique, se mue en écoute, acte psychologique, le personnage est entièrement tendu vers la captation et l’interprétation de signes extérieurs ou intérieurs : « L’écoute ne peut se définir que par son objet, ou si l’on préfère, sa visée […]. L’être vivant tend son audition vers des indices […]. Ce qu’on essaye de capter par l’oreille ce sont des signes17. » Cette focalisation sur l’audition est donc à l’origine d’une dynamique dramatique fondée sur la tension entre le « monde réel » des personnages – en l’occurrence ici le jeune fugitif – et des figures spectrales, hommes ou bêtes, qui ne cessent de le hanter et le menacer. Une sorte de double-jeu – ou de jeu de double ? – s’instaure entre le personnage et sa voix, et la fable devient comme « hantée » par son ombre, par la présence/absence, en creux, d’une altérité non identifiée. La voix coupée du corps se fait étrange. Freud dans son article sur « L’Inquiétante étrangeté » précise que c’est « tout ce qui se rattache […] aux cadavres, à la réapparition des morts, aux spectres et aux revenants18 », qui apparaît de façon récurrente le plus « étrangement inquiétant ». Il articule cette remarque sur les phénomènes de « redoublement du moi, scission du moi, substitution du moi », où « le signe algébrique du double […] devient un étrangement inquiétant signe avant-coureur de la mort. » Bref, la frontière se brouille entre vivants et morts19.

Bruits silencieux, spectres au milieu des spectres

9 Il y a donc un premier niveau, simple, de construction dramaturgique de la revenance. Celle-ci se manifeste vocalement par le jeu des acousmates : des bruits entendus dont on sait la source existante, avérée par une didascalie ou une indication du discours, mais qu’on ne voit pas. La voix qui prie. Le bruit du cheval. Les voix des deux fantômes.

10 Cela dit, à côté de ce paysage sonore, une deuxième trame est bientôt discrètement perceptible, autrement plus importante et plus dense. En effet le discours des personnages – en particulier des deux fantômes – est littéralement peuplé d’un grand nombre de présences évoquées au fil de leur cheminement dans les lieux du passé. Et, comme par hasard, toutes leurs manifestations sont sonores : les moines, les animaux, les objets, les cloches, tout bruisse. Ce phénomène est amplifié par un jeu d’écho entre les répliques des protagonistes et celles des musiciens, comme si la parole des musiciens jouait le rôle d’une caisse de résonance. Au début de la pièce, par exemple, il est question des morts qui hantent ces lieux désolés. Le jeune homme les rassemble dans une même image autant visuelle que sonore : « Let them dream… and fill waste

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mountains with the invisible tumult of the fantastic conscience20. » Juste après, l’étranger introduit sans transition le motif du cri du coq : « before the cocks… shake their wings and cry21 ». Puis c’est le musicien qui revient, sur le mode sonore, aux personnages du passé « The narrow lane where mourners for five centuries have carried/ Noble or Peasant to his burial22 ». À cette image il entremêle d’autres fantômes du présent, le « drinking cattle », le troupeau qui traverse la montagne ; il reprend ensuite au jeune homme le motif du coq dans son chant en y introduisant une variante, puisque l’expression « shake their wings » devient « clap the wing », et « cry » devient « crow ». Plus loin, dans leur chant, les musiciens élargissent encore cet univers de rumeurs. Au lieu du coq c’est la chouette nocturne qui « cry out above their heads », puis qui à la page suivante bat des ailes mais différemment : « beats with a vague wing ». Puis vient le cri de l’oiseau à tête de chat : « The Cat-headed bird is crying out23. » Encore plus loin d’autres « images acoustiques » renforcent l’expressionisme de ce paysage sonore, en entremêlant sans cesse passé et présent dans une même représentation mentale ; à son tour l’étranger évoque les fantômes du passé, comme s’il reprenait au vol la parole du musicien, en la précisant ou la détournant :

In the old days we should have heard a bell Calling the monks before day broke to pray ; […]24

11 Il insère dans le tableau du passé le motif du coq, mais cette fois-ci avec le terme « crow » : « The crowing of its cocks25 ». À la fin de la pièce enfin il y aura d’autres cris encore dans le chant final des musiciens : « the curlew cry before dawn », avant la reprise du cri du coq.

12 Bref, il s’agit d’un vrai concert. Un paysage sonore se déploie dans la parole dialoguée, et se réverbère, en contrepoint, dans le discours lyrique des musiciens. Les uns et les autres se passent le relais, et ces paroles croisées organisent une géographie imaginaire, un cymbalum mundi des oiseaux, des objets, des éléments, et des êtres humains, allant et venant entre passé et présent. Dans le même temps pourtant, tout bruisse silencieusement. Ce concert est un concert muet, l’évocation sonore est purement textuelle. On se trouve face à une sorte de second degré de présence- absence : des bruits silencieux entourent d’autres bruits, eux-mêmes signes d’une présence absente.

13 Yeats met donc en place d’abord une structure acousmatique de surface – les voix des personnages. Organisées choralement, ces voix sont à leur tour le véhicule d’autres figures acousmatiques, plus purement mentales, représentantes d’un univers archaïque, mythologique, voire surnaturel. Dans les mots affleurent ainsi une mémoire, un lointain intérieur, un imaginaire sonore, d’appels, de cris, de martèlement, de heurts, de musique, enfoui dans l’oreille interne, qui se manifeste par rémanence par le biais des acousmates – le paysage qui se construit est un « paysage intérieur », un univers éso- plutôt qu’exo-térique, un théâtre mental construit par les pouvoirs du verbe.

La revenance, ou le passage du sonore au visuel

14 Mais reprenons d’un peu plus près l’un de ces acousmates : celui des oiseaux ; ils sont mentionnés deux fois par les musiciens au début de la pièce : « Birds cry, they cry their loneliness », puis plus loin, « Once more the birds cry in their loneliness26. » Ce motif révèle

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une sorte de double collage : entre le mental et le représenté d’une part, et entre le sonore et le visuel d’autre part. La mention des oiseaux précède en effet immédiatement l’apparition des deux fantômes. Autrement dit, les musiciens se les représentent d’abord mentalement, sous une forme poétique et fantastique, avant qu’ils ne surgissent devant leurs yeux et devant les nôtres. De plus cette représentation mentale est en fait une hallucination sonore. Par cette circulation entre la représentation mentale acousmatique et l’actualité de la scène, une parole hallucinatoire fait surgir une présence. Un autre exemple vient confirmer cette technique de collage lorsqu’à la mention des pas du jeune homme succède son arrivée acousmatique par le bruit de la prière. Cette succession semble anodine, mais le décalage entre ces deux acousmates, l’un mental (le bruit des pas), et l’autre réel (le bruit de la prière), est poétiquement productif. Rien n’empêchait Yeats de créer une didascalie mentionnant le bruit des pas. Et quand bien même il en aurait fait l’économie simplement à cause de leur mention dans le discours des musiciens, le résultat est le même. De fait, les musiciens ne commentent pas une action qui leur est extérieure : cette action est d’abord mentale. Le personnage n’entre pas de lui-même, c’est le discours des musiciens qui le fait surgir. Cette impression est d’ailleurs confirmée par le mode sur lequel, à la fin de la pièce, le personnage sort : en fait, il ne sort pas, il disparaît, happé par le tissu déroulé des musiciens : « While it is unfolded, the Young Man leaves the stage27. » L’objectivité de sa présence est donc relative, et strictement dépendante de la parole.

15 La pièce met donc en scène, de par la relation entre la parole, le son, et l’image, le processus de l’incarnation d’un songe. Fidèle à une technique qu’il développe ailleurs, Yeats enchâsse les uns dans les autres plusieurs niveaux de rêverie. Celle des musiciens d’abord, qui font surgir les personnages de leur imagination : leur verbe se fait chair, et leur texte lyrique est en quelque sorte le lieu d’un pré-conscient : la scène, quant à elle, cristallise le songe. Mais aussi la rêverie des personnages eux-mêmes, puisque les acousmates expriment également ces phénomènes d’ordre hallucinatoire, frappés d’irréalité, que sont les souvenirs auditifs ou visuels. La « musique d’un royaume disparu28 » se déploie donc d’abord dans ces signes de l’absence. Dans ce contexte, la dernière réplique chantée des musiciens opère une synthèse de cet univers de mémoire fragmentaire. Loin en effet de constituer une clôture lyrique triomphante, un retour à la fermeté d’un « je » parlant et chantant, cette réplique ne fait que prolonger une esthétique du tâtonnement et du fragmentaire. La parole des musiciens s’y déroule en effet en vers brefs, et les constantes reprises de termes, ou variations, et les jeux d’homophonie parfois très virtuoses, sont comme autant d’approches par touches successives des fragments d’une mémoire ou d’un souvenir, fragments que l’on rassemble par des tentatives sans cesse incomplètes de nomination. Plus ces différentes touches sont redites, plus elles sont frappées d’absence, dans leur surréalité même. Le chant qui se construit là freine toute tentative d’épanchement lyrique, puisque les répétitions brisent à chaque fois toute possibilité de déploiement vocal. En fait, l’écriture ramène sans cesse la présence des musiciens à leur stricte voix, qui dit la simple tentative d’être à soi et d’être dans le monde, comme s’ils participaient eux- mêmes, par compassion ou par confusion des frontières entre sujet et objet de la vision, à ce drame de la revendication d’être que constitue The Dreaming of the Bones.

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La question de l’énonciation : l’être et la voix

16 Cette dernière remarque sur la voix des musiciens nous met, au demeurant, sur le chemin d’un autre procédé de mise en scène de la revenance. Au-delà en effet du phénomène des acousmates, qui reste du domaine d’un questionnement sur la représentation, on se rend compte que c’est la voix en elle-même qui exprime la spectralité. L’idée n’est évidemment pas nouvelle, mais on peut pourtant examiner avec intérêt le processus par lequel le poète dramatique Yeats fait de ses deux fantômes de pures voix – et bien sûr il faudra analyser ce concept –, à mi-chemin entre une figure absente et une présence incarnée dans l’actualité d’un corps. Au cœur de ce processus, il y a l’organisation énonciative du texte, que l’on examinera sous deux angles particuliers : le traitement des questions de personne et la rythmique du discours.

La question de la personne

17 La question fondatrice de la pièce : « who’s there? », n’est en effet pas seulement de l’ordre d’une situation physique incertaine, où le son permet de représenter ce stade intermédiaire entre visibilité et invisibilité. On remarque qu’à cette question répond une autre question, et que les deux fantômes ne font, au fil de la pièce, qu’un rare usage de la première personne. Et cette quasi absence de je est d’autant plus remarquable que durant toute la scène, par contraste, le jeune homme ne cesse de s’affirmer dans un discours souvent agité, interjectif, interrogatif, exclamatif – on rencontre pour ce qui le concerne vingt-trois occurrences de première personne dans son discours, si l’on y inclut toutes ses formes, y compris possessif (« my ») ou pronom objet (« me ») ou pluriel (« we »). Celui qui répond à une question par une autre question – en l’occurrence l’étranger – reste donc non identifié. Dans toute la pièce, il n’emploie la première personne que sept fois, dont deux seulement à la première personne du singulier : dans « we know the pathways that the sheep tread out29 », le « nous » est une première personne du pluriel qui inclut implicitement la jeune fille, prenant ainsi acte du fait qu’ils ont été perçus, sinon vus, tous les deux, comme en témoigne la phrase du jeune homme quelques répliques auparavant : « I saw a pair of heads against the sky. » Ensuite, on rencontre deux occurrences inattendues, et assez spectaculaires, d’un « je » à la première personne du singulier : « I will put you safe,/No living man shall set his eyes upon you ;/I will not answer for the dead30. » C’est la seule fois où l’étranger coupe la parole au jeune homme, et ce pour introduire le motif de la présence des morts – comme s’il tentait d’emblée le tout pour le tout, tendant au jeune homme une perche pour se faire reconnaître. Cette tentative ayant échoué, on ne rencontre par la suite plus un seul je dans sa bouche ; les trois derniers « nous » sont des « nous » inclusifs et neutres : « We are soon among the stones31 », puis « We’re almost at the summit and can rest […] » et « In the old days we should have heard a bell32 ». La parole de l’étranger s’efface derrière les noms de lieux et les visions, comme une parole narratrice.

18 Celle de la jeune fille, de son côté, est encore plus transparente. Silencieuse durant toute la première partie de la pièce, elle fait irruption dans le discours de son compagnon en cours de vers, prenant le relais de l’étranger comme si elle ne faisait que se glisser dans sa peau et dans son discours, comme son ombre. Ensuite elle parle longuement à la troisième personne, évoquant sur le mode épique et narratif les personnages qu’ils sont sans pouvoir l’être : comme si l’instance énonciatrice de ce

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discours constituait bien le fantôme égaré au présent des figures du passé. Pour tenter de faire se superposer enfin ces doubles, une seule première personne survient enfin « Yes, yes, I spoke/Of that most miserable, most accursed pair […] 33 ». Mais ce « je », en surgissant au moment même où le jeune homme prononce leurs noms, Diarmuid et Devorgilla, ne fait en réalité que creuser l’écart entre les deux termes du double, qui restent séparés. Du reste, il faut remarquer que la dernière occurrence d’une première personne est d’une grande tension dramatique. Le vers « Seven hundred years our lips have never met » prononcé finalement par la jeune fille34 est une reprise-variation explicite du vers qu’elle a prononcé peu de temps auparavant : « Though eyes can meet, their lips can never meet35. » D’un seul coup, la troisième personne devient première : il s’opère enfin une soudaine superposition entre sujet et objet du récit – et ce, au moment même de leur disparition. Le moment même du retour effectif, c’est-à-dire de l’incarnation, constitue une fugitive épiphanie, qui coïncide avec l’effacement des personnages – nous y revenons plus loin.

Le rythme du discours

19 Si les fantômes ne prennent donc en quelque sorte jamais leur place dans le procès de la parole, l’organisation énonciative de cette parole se caractérise également par un rythme particulier, en l’occurrence celui d’une « pensée parlée » se déroulant dans un temps constamment suspendu, comme en apnée respiratoire. Dans ce trio vocal que constitue l’échange entre les trois personnages, la première voix, celle du jeune homme, est très incarnée, sur un rythme vivace. Le rythme des deux autres, au contraire, est ralenti par les suspensions dues aux nombreuses propositions incises à l’intérieur des vers. Les répliques de l’étranger sont quasi systématiquement ralenties par des circonstancielles ou des compléments qui séparent le sujet de son verbe, ou l’auxiliaire de son participe passé. Structuré par de puissantes armatures syntaxiques, le discours est scandé par des anaphores. Le souffle de la réplique est, de fait, suspendu : les reprises d’inspiration, ou les expirations, sont sans cesse retenues ou différées. Les répliques de la jeune fille, quant à elles, amplifient largement ce phénomène, relançant le contraste avec la voix du jeune homme. On peut citer le cas limite d’une réplique de quatorze vers constituée d’une seule phrase36. Dans celle-ci, la construction syntaxique est source d’une grande tension entre clôture et relance, et oblige à une lenteur de la lecture. Expérimentant la limite jusqu’à laquelle il peut différer la résolution de sa phrase, Yeats ajoute vers après vers un degré de tension dans l’esprit et l’oreille du lecteur/spectateur. Du premier au treizième vers, trois occurrences successives de « Although » (la première et la troisième au début des vers 1 et 8, la seconde au milieu du vers 5) maintiennent fermement la réplique dans sa logique discursive, et encadrent trois sous-ensembles eux-mêmes armaturés par d’autres verbes, non sans introduire au demeurant un troisième étage de subordination (une relative des vers 2 à 5, une autre au vers 7, se faisant évidemment écho par la reprise de « who »). Ce sont ces subordonnées incises, ou des verbes au participe présent, qui permettent de différer encore un peu plus le verbe principal et de donner toute son amplitude à cette vaste architecture verbale.

20 On le voit donc, la parole est elle aussi le lieu d’une tentative de retour, et le théâtre de la revenance se joue dans la prise ou la non-prise de parole des personnages : si, comme dit Jakobson, il y a une relation existentielle entre le déictique « je » et l’instance de l’énonciation, (puisque « je » désigne celui qui dit « je »), alors l’absence de « je » pose la

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question de l’impersonnalité. Deux corps qui ne disent pas je se retirent dans deux voix qui elles-mêmes retiennent leur souffle : le mode de déploiement de cette double voix désigne bien cette instance qui fait retour, et qui se tient dans une posture de vouloir- dire, et en même temps parlant depuis le lieu où elle ne peut rien dire.

La parole épiphanique, de la résurgence à la résurrection

21 On aborde ici le point d’arrivée de notre raisonnement. L’horizon dramatique de la pièce est en effet cet épisode épiphanique final que met en scène la dernière réplique du jeune homme, où se résout la tension entre être et non-être, entre le désir d’arrachement au passé et l’impossibilité d’une incarnation au présent. Dans cette réplique en effet, le jeune homme semble décrire une action : celle des deux fantômes qui s’éloignent, dansant, et disparaissent au lointain. Rapidement pourtant, ce mouvement se déplace du visuel au sonore, se concentrant dans la dynamique rythmique des mots que vient appuyer la réapparition des instruments. Le temps des verbes (au present perfect) donne la sensation d’un temps incertain, non linéaire, et favorise cette perception plus sensible que narrative d’une masse d’actions prises dans leur ensemble. La parataxe, les accumulations de verbes, les enjambements ou contre- rejets, créent une tension entre étirement et brisure, continuité et discontinuité, élan et chute, inspiration et affaissement. Les répétitions, par une dialectique subtile entre le même et le différent, sont à l’origine d'un effet de spirale : le mouvement est à la fois circulaire et ascensionnel, mouvement d’éloignement et de fuite, jusqu’à la disparition des personnages engloutis ou aspirés par la brume.

22 Cette danse des mots est donc la cristallisation même du revenant-partant. C’est le départ de ce qui n’est pas arrivé à revenir – et du coup c’est l’arrivée de ce qui s’en va. Si la chose était complètement là, elle n’apparaitraît plus. C’est donc bien dans la partance que se joue le stade exaspéré de la revenance. C’est dans la disparition que se joue l’apparition. Pour Yeats, le ballet des mots joue justement à étirer cet instant de l’entre-deux. L’action ne se situe ni « dans le monde », ni même dans l’esprit, de celui qui parle, mais bien dans sa voix. Du reste, rien ne nous dit dans le texte que ces deux fantômes dansent effectivement, ou au contraire ne dansent pas : bien sûr, le terme « dance » est repris abondamment par le personnage du jeune homme, aussi bien dans la dernière réplique dont nous parlons, que dans l’une des répliques précédentes. Mais aucune didascalie ne le spécifie, et ne confirme pour nous l’effectivité de cette danse. L’hypothèse a minima que l’on puisse faire est que le jeune homme la voit ; et à coup sûr, elle est dans sa parole. Il n’y a donc ni danse, ni absence de danse, mais peut-être le troisième terme d’une danse-dans-les-mots. Du reste, si la danse d’effacement et de disparition des fantômes est ainsi, comme nous le suggérons, un jeu verbal, la triple répétition (à certains égards inutile en soi) du terme « dance » lui-même, et l’effet rythmique qu’elle induit, en constitue précisément une ultime preuve – tout comme le quasi-anagramme constitué par les lettres, autant que les sons, du mot « hands ». L’hallucination par la parole se substitue à l’envoûtement par la danse. C’est en cela que nous pouvons dire, concernant Yeats, que la parole est épiphanique, et sur cette question de la présence de la danse, au final, la décision n’appartient qu’au metteur en scène. Et si l’on peut se permettre d’énoncer ici un point de vue, il ne serait probablement pas judicieux de créer une redondance inutile en « illustrant » la parole

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du jeune homme par une danse des deux fantômes : le metteur en scène est mis au défi de trouver un moyen tel que ce soit la parole qui fasse voir cette danse.

23 Dans ces nouvelles règles du jeu, que devient la revenance ? L’écriture, en effet, en ne s’articulant ni à un référent-dans-le-monde, ni à un référent-sur-scène (ou du moins pas physiquement manifesté en dehors de la voix), construit un univers de mouvement et de vision, par auto-référence, en s’appuyant sur la voix et le souffle. Dans une perspective théâtrale, cette « voix de l’écriture », parce que sa nature est autant, voire plus, pneumatologique que grammatologique37, pose donc en termes nouveaux la question de la représentation. Le texte est foncièrement non-référentiel, parce qu’il devient auto-référentiel, en ne renvoyant plus qu’à lui-même : le signifiant se rabat sur le signifié, et la rythmique des mots double l’image poétique des personnages dansant. Dans le ballet des mots il n’y a plus alors de revenance, il n’y a plus que de la performance : la musique de la parole, et son incarnation par la voix du comédien, soutenue par la rythmique des instruments, se déroule dans « l’ici et maintenant » de sa profération, sans renvoyer à quelque représentation que ce soit38. Il ne s’agit plus d’évoquer de façon indicielle un univers invisible, mais d’incarner un monde en quelque sorte « parallèle », double, et peut-être métaphore, du monde réel. La parole, en tant que souffle, rythme et mouvement, est en soi incarnation. Celle-ci s’opère de façon magique, épiphanique : la frontière entre celui qui regarde et ce qu'il regarde s'est estompée, le protagoniste parlant s’efface, se dissout, par sa propre voix, dans la vision qui l’habite, donnant à cette vision une dimension apocalyptique, de révélation. Dans ce contexte, il n’est pas anodin que le propos de cette pièce soit la catastrophe de Pâques 1916, et la confrontation à l’indicible de la mort.

Conclusion

24 L’écriture dramatique de Yeats fait de lui un musicien du seuil, des limites, du passage. Les acousmates organisent un orchestre sonore d’objets et d’êtres dont une partie est dans l’ici et l’autre dans l’ailleurs. On se situe dans la catégorie psychologique du double, et dans une tentative de mise en scène de la mort, ou du mort, au théâtre : Accueillir […] mais tout en appréhendant […] un étranger qui se trouve déjà au- dedans, plus intime à soi que soi-même, la proximité absolue d’un étranger dont la puissance est singulière et anonyme, une puissance innommable et neutre39.

25 Pour mémoire, ce qui definit l’eidolon archaïque, c’est sa valeur de présence dans le visible d’une puissance de l’ordre de l’invisible, qu’elle soit des morts ou des dieux. Dans cette configuration dramatique, la voix est le lieu par excellence de la représentation du « déjà là » et du « pas encore là », l’inscription de l’ailleurs dans l’ici. On peut rappeler ces derniers vers de la pièce qui a précédé immédiatement The Dreaming of the Bones dans l’œuvre de Yeats, At the Hawk’s Well :

Come to me, human faces, Familiar memories ; […] Being but a mouthful of air, I am content to perish ; I am but a mouthful of sweet air.40 (CP, 219)

26 Le spectral, le fantôme c'est donc aussi le pneuma, le souffle : « plus rien, restait le souffle » dit Mallarmé sur la demeure d'Igitur. Le lyrisme tel que le travaille la modernité après Mallarmé problématise de façon nouvelle la question de la présence, très loin du bel canto romantique. De la même façon dans le Nô, la voix et la musique

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préludent au surgissement des fantômes qui vont prendre forme, prendre corps. Parce que voix et musique sont aussi souffle et rythme, la danse n’a pas d’autre racine que la musicalité : la maîtrise du souffle est à l’origine de la matérialisation par le mouvement de l’invisible dans l’espace41. De ce fait, le drame ne repose plus sur le principe de représentation, mais au contraire interroge la représentabilité. Son objet est le retour du disparu, par le pouvoir magique de la nomination, et son horizon est l’attente d’une résurrection épiphanique par la parole chantée. L’écriture elle-même se fait le lieu de l’affleurement du songe, par sa capacité à faire surgir les choses tout en manifestant leur absence. La scène théâtrale, dans cette pièce et peut-être dans toutes les « Pièces pour danseurs » de Yeats, n’est qu’une variation poétique sur la question : « Who’s there? ».

27 Au passage, signalons qu’en dévouant ainsi à la parole cette mission de convocation, le poète adopte une posture biblique. Dans ses commentaires sur la pièce, Yeats signale son analogie avec une des visions du prophète Ezechiel : celle, précisément, des ossements qui se réveillent et parlent (Ezechiel, 37-1-14). Dans The Dreaming of the Bones, le déploiement de la parole parlée et chantée des musiciens fait basculer le texte dans le rite, voire la liturgie : une cérémonie de parole et de chant convoque êtres et choses dans un monde spectral, et la scène n’est que le double d’une scène primitive qui revient hanter le temps d’une représentation le monde présent. Un dernier fantôme, glissé discrètement mais judicieusement au début de la pièce, prend alors toute sa valeur, lorsque l’on comprend que le poète-écrivain en est la résurgence présente :

Have not old writers said That dizzy dreams can spring From the dry bones of the dead?

NOTES

1. Dans le Nô, le waki est un étranger qui vient visiter un lieu retiré et hanté, et est confronté à un revenant, à une vision spectrale, le shite, personnage dans l’entre-deux de la vie et de la mort. On peut suggérer une analogie entre la figure masquée du shite et l’eidolon grec, cette figure venue de ces espaces autres que sont similairement le monde des morts ou celui des dieux. On ne reviendra pas sur les circonstances de la découverte du Nô par Yeats à travers ses liens avec Ezra Pound, ni sur le contexte de cette découverte, marqué par un fort regain d’intérêt pour le Japon en général en ce début du XXe siècle, intérêt ravivé par la découverte des manuscrits de Zeami en 1910, suivi très rapidement par leur publication. Ernest Fenollosa (1853-1908), historien d’art et philosophe, vécut une quinzaine d’années au Japon dans les années 1880 et 1890. Professeur à l’Université et Directeur de l’Académie des Beaux-Arts de Tokyo, puis conservateur au département d'art oriental au musée des Beaux-Arts de Boston, il meurt prématurément, laissant en friche une œuvre considérable. Sa veuve demande à Ezra Pound de publier les carnets de son mari. Pound publie donc en 1914 le Nô Nishikigi – qui inspira The Dreaming of the Bones –, puis en 1917, l’essai Nô, or Accomplishment, une

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étude sur la scène classique japonaise. L’article de Yeats Certain Noble Plays of Japan constitua l’introduction de ce dernier ouvrage. 2. On envisage ici le terme théâtralité à partir de son étymologie grecque : est « théâtral » ce qui littéralement se donne à voir, et induit l’opsis, la vision, qui elle- même est le fondement de toute représentation, mettant face à face un regardant et un regardé. C’est en ce sens que la question posée par les deux fantômes est proprement théâtrale : peuvent-ils « revenir » ou, en d’autres termes, ré-apparaître pour être vus. 3. Jacques Derrida, Spectres de Marx, Paris, Galilée, 1993, p. 25. 4. L’objet de cette étude est l’analyse du texte, tout en gardant à l’esprit l’horizon que constitue la scène. Du reste, au delà de la structuration de la parole et des regards, et de la question des acousmates, qui vont être traitées ici, le texte inscrit également dans ses didascalies des directions soumises aux praticiens – notamment les masques, et les jeux d’apparition/disparition des personnages grâce à l’étoffe dépliée et repliée par les musiciens. Une étude reste à faire sur la création de la pièce au Peacock, la petite salle de l’Abbey Theatre de Dublin, le 6 décembre 1931, soit quatorze ans après son écriture, et dix après son édition. On sait qu’une musique fut rapidement commandée au compositeur Walter Rummel, mais qu’elle ne fut jamais jouée. A la création, Udolphus Wright assurait la mise en scène, et ce fut John Larchet, directeur musical de l’Abbey, qui créa la musique de scène, pour un chanteur, une flûte, une percussion et un « zither », ou petite harpe, proche du psaltérion. 5. Dans une lettre à Lady Gregory, Yeats confie : « I believe I have at last found a dramatic form that suits me » (lettre à Lady Gregory du 26 mars 1916, in Letters, Allan Wade (dir.), London, Rupert Hart-Davis, 1954, p. 609). Comme on l’a dit plus haut, Yeats s’inspire d’un canevas de Nô existant pour écrire The Dreaming of the Bones : il en respecte donc la structuration des personnages et de la trame. Mais son entreprise n’est pas tant archéologique que poétique. Les codes du Nô n’ont été pour Yeats que les outils adéquats lui permettant de rompre avec les modèles dramatiques dominants. Il ne s’agit donc pas tant de prendre à la lettre ces codes que de s’intéresser plutôt au champ dramaturgique nouveau qu’ils lui ont permis de dessiner : celui d’une subtile architecture de paroles, enchâssées, en contrepoint, en alternance, déléguées, d’une partition de musique avec ou sans musique, partition d’une cérémonie ritualisée au service d’une initiation métaphysique. Les Plays for Dancers ont pour objet le retour spectral du mort, dans un instant d’épiphanie éphémère située au climax de la pièce. L’écriture de The Dreaming of the Bones sous l’influence du Nô permet ainsi une subtile inscription de l’actualité politique (la révolte de Pâques 1916 à Dublin) dans une mythologie nationale héroïque. 6. William B. Yeats, Collected Plays, Londres, Macmillan, [1934], 1982, p.433. 7. Ibid., p. 434. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid., p. 435. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., p. 436. 12. Ibid., p. 445. 13. Ibid., p. 434. 14. Ibid., p. 435.

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15. Ibid., p. 436. 16. « Acousmatique », Grand Larousse Universel, 1995. 17. Roland Barthes, L'obvie et l'obvus, Paris, Seuil, 1982, p. 215. 18. Sigmund Freud, « L'inquétante étrangeté » (Das Unheimlich), in Essais de Psychanalyse appliquée, Nrf Gallimard, collection « Idées », 1976 [1933], p. 194, traduit de l’allemand par Marie Bonaparte et Mme E. Marty. 19. Georges Didi-Huberman développe longuement ces figures de la spectralité au théâtre, et les manifestations d’une dissolution du sujet, en soulignant l’étymologie commune des termes « spectacle » et « spectral » ; voir Génie du non-lieu, Paris, Minuit, 2001, p. 121. 20. William B. Yeats, Collected Plays, op. cit., p. 436-437. 21. Ibid., p. 437. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., p. 438. 24. Ibid., p. 439. 25. Ibid. 26. Ibid., p. 434. 27. Ibid., p. 444. 28. Ibid., p. 444. Ce sont les mots des musiciens dans leur chant final : “At the grey round of the hill/ Music of a lost kingdom/Runs, runs and is suddenly still.” 29. Ibid., p. 435. 30. Ibid., p. 436. 31. Ibid., p. 437. 32. Ibid., p. 438-439. 33. Ibid., p. 442. 34. Ibid., p. 443. 35. Ibid., p. 441. 36. Il s’agit de la réplique de la jeune fille : « Although they have no blood, or living nerves, […] And drive them apart. » C.P., p. 441. 37. Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie, Paris, Minuit, 1967, p. 29. 38. À une exception près – et c’est encore un paradoxe de cette pièce, et non des moindres : si aucune didascalie ne signale une danse, alors que l’horizon même de la pièce semble être la danse des fantômes, à trois reprises il est question d’une marche : « They go round the stage once. » Ces marches semblent représenter quelque chose : comme nous le suggèrent les commentaires des musiciens, chacune d’entre elles correspond, symboliquement, à une étape du chemin vers l’abbaye. Mais à certains égards, elles sont aussi une belle preuve de la porosité, dans la dramaturgie de Yeats, entre représentation et performance : tendant vers l’auto-référentialité, elles ne sont aussi signes que d’elles-mêmes, comme si les « stations » du chemin vers la révélation/ disparition des fantômes n’étaient, dans l’ici et maintenant du spectacle, qu’à la fois du souffle et du mouvement, de la voix et du corps. 39. Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie, op. cit., p. 273. 40. William B. Yeats, Collected Plays, op. cit., p. 219.

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41. On retrouve là le cœur de ce qui fait l’art de l’acteur de Nô. Comme le dit Monique Borie, « La plénitude de son art se réalise dans l’accord parfait du chant et de la danse, du souffle et du mouvement, de ce qui se donne à voir et de ce qui se donne à entendre, du voir et de la voix ». Ainsi le yugen, au Japon, est cet art de l’acteur qui chante et qui danse, et qui peut le temps d’une brève incarnation être habité par l’esprit d’un mort ou d’un dieu. Voir Monique Borie, Le Fantôme ou le théâtre qui doute, Paris, Actes Sud, 1997, p. 96.

RÉSUMÉS

Dans The Dreaming of the Bones, écrit sous le coup des événements de Pâques 1916 à Dublin, Yeats met en scène, jouant du modèle du Nô, un jeune insurgé en fuite, confronté à deux fantômes, à mi-chemin entre passé et présent, songe et réalité. La figure de la revenance devient alors aussi bien l’enjeu de la fable que la forme par laquelle se déploie l’écriture. D’une part, tout dans la pièce n’est que retour, puisque les événements de Pâques ravivent, à l’autre bout du temps historique, l’événement fondateur de l’oppression que fut la trahison du couple princier de Diarmuid et Devorgilla lorsque, dépossédés de leur royaume, ils firent appel aux Anglo-Normands pour le reconquérir. Et d’autre part, par une relation subtile entre le visuel et le sonore d’un côté, et les questions d’énonciation de l’autre, il revient à la voix, selon des protocoles définis, d’exprimer cette présence-absence, et ce drame d’un retour impossible. Cette forme de spectralité est redoublée par le fait que la « scène théâtrale » ne nous est donnée à voir qu’à travers les yeux – ou les songes ? – d’un chœur de musiciens, sans qu’aucune didascalie ne vienne objectiver cet univers visuel et sonore en un système référentiel donné. L’action qui se déroule devant lui devient donc la projection de son univers mental, la « musique du royaume perdu » de la mémoire, surgie par la puissance de la parole. L’écriture elle-même se fait le lieu de l’affleurement du songe, par sa capacité à faire apparaitre les choses tout en manifestant leur absence. En ce sens, la pièce est une variation poétique sur la question toute shakespearienne : « Who’s there ? » : ce qui est en jeu est bien le retour des fantômes.

In The Dreaming of the Bones, written after the turmoil of the 1916 , Yeats, following the Noh tradition model, stages the confrontation between a young rebel fugitive and two ghosts, caught half-way between past and present, dream and reality. The figure of the past coming to haunt the present thus plays as pivotal a role in the fable as the form in which the writing unfolds. On the one hand, everything in the play is a return, as the events of the Easter Rising re- enact, from the other end of historical time, the event which gave rise to the oppression resulting from the betrayal of the royal couple, Diarmuid and Devorgilla when, dispossessed of their kingdom, they sought the assistance of the Anglo-Normans to reclaim it. On the other hand, through a subtle relationship between the visual and aural, and the new form taken by speech and enunciation, it is the role of the voice, according to defined protocols, to express this presence-absence, and the drama of an impossible return. The spectral projection is furthermore intensified by the fact that the “theatrical representation” is only conveyed to us through the eyes – or possibly dreams – of a group of musicians, without any stage direction which might situate this visual and aural universe in a given system of reference. The action that unfolds before the spectator thus becomes a projection of his imaginary landscape, the “music of the lost

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kingdom” of memory, brought forth by the power of utterance. In this manner the writing itself becomes the place where dreams can emerge through its capacity to conjure up things that are simultaneously shown to be absent. Thus, the play is a poetic variation on the question “Who’s there?”.

INDEX

Keywords : Yeats W. B., drama, Easter Rising (1916) Mots-clés : Yeats W. B., théâtre, soulèvement de Pâques (1916)

AUTEUR

PIERRE LONGUENESSE Université d’Artois

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Comptes rendus de lecture Book Reviews

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Yeats and Afterwords

Thierry Dubost

RÉFÉRENCE

Marjorie Howes, Joseph Valente (eds.), Yeats and Afterwords, Notre Dame, University of Notre Dame Press, 2014, 348 p.

1 Yeats and Afterwords est un recueil d’essais compilés par Marjorie Howes et Joseph Valente autour d’un questionnement qui consiste à « articulate W.B. Yeats’s powerful, multilayered sense of cultural belatedness as part of his complex literary method ». L’ouvrage, qui comporte un index, se compose de trois parties « The Last Romantics », « Yeats and Afterwords » et « Yeats’s Aftertimes ». Les chapitres s’attachent à la manière dont Yeats construit une poétique de l’itération qui fait entrer en résonnance l’expérience de la finalité et de l’irrévocable. Dans « The Revivalist Museum », Renée Fox aborde la manière dont Yeats s’inscrit sur un mode de pensée proustien par rapport aux musées. Selon Yeats, la renaissance s’opère grâce à une première décontextualisation, et le musée devient le lieu d’une recombinaison. Elizabeth Cullingford revient sur la démarche qui fut celle de Yeats et de Lady Gregory, cherchant à donner une assise à l’Irlande grâce à un retour sur un passé culturel glorieux. Partant d’un paradoxe, autour de Cuchulain qui tue son fils, ce qui conduit à un mythe antinomique avec l’espoir d’une visée prospective positive, Yeats questionne la masculinité et des codes qui conduisent à la tragédie, laquelle s’incarne dans la perte du fils. Selon Cullingford, cette vision désenchantée trouve un écho dans l’insuccès de l’Irlande après l’indépendance. James H. Murphy traite de Yeats en tant que critique et revient sur la manière dont celui-ci se positionnait vis-à-vis de Carleton. Par-delà Carleton, Murphy aborde la question des anthologies et des implications esthétiques et politiques qu’elles recèlent. Via la défense de Carleton et ce qu’il représentait (une tradition paysanne, masculine et celte), Murphy montre combien Yeats et Carleton étaient moins les porteurs que les inventeurs d’une tradition. Joseph Valente interroge une opposition esthétique entre Yeats et Wilde ou Pater, dans la mesure où The Irish Literary revival traçait des perspectives littéraires autres que celles de Pater ou Wilde.

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Cependant, le rejet du matérialisme du xixe siècle constitue un point de rassemblement entre deux démarches apparemment opposées. Ceci conduit Valente à questionner le positionnement de Yeats par rapport à ses proximités fluctuantes avec le peuple et à une vision plus aristocratique qui tisse d’autres rapports avec l’esthétique. L’article intitulé « The Age-Long Memoried Self : Yeats and the Promise of Coming Times » aborde la manière dont Yeats s’attache à la redéfinition des rapports entre l’artiste et la tradition, aux liens entre mémoire et désir, histoire et avenir. Dans une vision singulière des œuvres, Gregory Castle propose une autre lecture du « revitalisme » de Yeats où ce qui importe serait moins le regard rétrospectif que la construction d’une mythologie de l’avenir. « Afterwardness » explore les poèmes d’amour écrits par Yeats, où se nouent plusieurs discours autour d’un manque, qui concerne tant l’objet aimé que soi-même, et dont Guinn Batten montre qu’il trouve un écho dans la sphère politique. « The clock has run down and must be wound up again » s’attache à A Vision et à sa nouvelle publication à 22 ans d’intervalle. Margaret Mills Harper met en question la théorie selon laquelle la version finale de A Vision ne serait que l’amélioration d’une ébauche. Elle souligne que la seconde publication marquait moins un retour créatif qu’une progression en spirale, autour d’une répétition anticipée qui inclut la différence, illustration d’une créativité continuée de la pensée yeatsienne. « Yeats’ Graves : Death and Encryption in Last Poems » propose une étude de Lost Poems, un recueil publié par Yeats à la fin de sa vie. L’article se consacre à l’étude des méditations du poète sur la mort, mettant l’accent sur un aspect quasi-obsessionnel, la représentation des tombes. Ce travail interroge une tension entre la volonté Yeatsienne contradictoire de penser sa mort et sa postérité, tant sur un plan public que privé, en soulignant que cette ultime écriture de poèmes lui permit de s’assurer que ses dernières volontés seraient respectées. Dans « “Echo’s Bones”, Samuel Beckett After Yeats », Sean Kennedy revient sur la relation singulière qui liait Beckett à Yeats, et propose une lecture qui s’écarte des classements quelque peu mécaniques de certains critiques. À partir de l’article de Beckett « Recent Irish Poetry », il met en avant une prise de distance beckettienne vis-à-vis de l’autoritarisme de Yeats et de sa lecture biaisée de la culture irlandaise. L’opposition, qui semble centrale à Kennedy, se situe dans le positionnement de Beckett vis-à-vis de la censure, incluant la contraception, par contraste avec la vision nataliste de Yeats. « Yeats and Bowen : Posthumous Poetics » met en rapport les deux créateurs autour des descriptions poétiques de Yeats qui manifestent l’interdépendance psychique d’Eros et de Thanatos, ainsi que des rêves et de la réalité. Vicky Mahaffey met en relief un point de convergence entre Bowen et Yeats dans une confrontation avec la mort et une découverte partagée du fait que la mort et l’amour sont marqués à la fois par l’union et la rupture. Ronald Schuchard étudie l’impact de Yeats sur la poésie contemporaine, tant en Irlande du Nord que dans la République. Il montre, en s’appuyant sur des archives récemment mises à disposition des chercheurs, comment les influences esthétiques convergent parfois avec des perspectives plus larges puisque, comme Yeats, les poètes contemporains abordent les contraintes historiques, politiques et religieuses pour les dépasser. Les confluences mises à jour concernent Boland, Longley, Mahon ou Heaney. En se penchant sur les proximités entre les écrits tardifs de Yeats et de T. S. Eliot, Jed Esty s’interroge sur les points communs entre les deux poètes, en portant l’accent sur des cycles de vie, incluant mort et résurrection, voire une écriture du déclin de la civilisation. Le point de rencontre des deux écrivains pourrait être leur propre vieillissement et celui d’une civilisation, où une dimension créatrice permettrait peut-être d’effacer la composante

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historique du temps. Au vu de la richesse des contributions, il ne fait aucun doute que Yeats and Afterwords figurera en bonne place parmi les ouvrages utiles aux spécialistes de W. B. Yeats.

AUTEURS

THIERRY DUBOST Université de Caen-Normandie

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Yeats et la scène, l'acteur et sa voix à l'Abbey Theatre de Dublin

Jacqueline Genet

RÉFÉRENCE

Pierre Longuenesse, Yeats et la scène, l’acteur et sa voix à l’Abbey Theatre de Dublin, Villeneuve-d’Ascq, Presses universitaires du Septentrion, coll. « Irlande », 2015, 224 p.

1 Yeats et la scène, l’acteur et sa voix à l’Abbey Theatre de Dublin s’inscrit dans le courant d’intérêt porté au théâtre de W. B. Yeats dont l’initiateur Ronald Schuchard est cité en exergue. Le contexte irlandais et européen y est envisagé. Yeats rejette et le théâtre nationaliste irlandais reflet des « réalités rurales » ou des « luttes militantes », et les « conventions du théâtre victorien ». Il s’en prend aux productions irlandaises du Queens, refuse « la surcharge des détails décoratifs », « les costumes qui tuent l’imagination » et l’agitation injustifiée des acteurs des théâtres commerciaux. Le contexte culturel, littéraire et musical est évoqué à travers Arthur Symons. « La dimension magique au cœur de l’événement théâtral » permet de rapprocher Yeats et Antonin Artaud. Mallarmé est cité plusieurs fois ainsi qu’Ezra Pound qui découvre le nô et pour qui la musique est « l’essence même de l’écriture poétique. » Des références à Arnold Schönberg et à Pierre Boulez accompagnent l’analyse du « sprechgesang ». La complémentarité parole-musique-danse est au cœur du livre. L’accent porte sur les mots – sonorité, rythme – et leur passage sur scène par la voix de l’acteur, sur les mouvements qui doivent être simplifiés, sacralisés, avec une interrelation entre travail corporel et composition vocale, celle des acteurs ou du chœur. La musique de At the Hawk’s Well « s’apparente […] plus à un livret qu’à un texte dramatique », et justifie l’analogie avec « certaines expériences de mélodrame musical », terme défini au chapitre 4 qu’il aurait été judicieux d’expliquer dès son premier emploi. Voix, gestes, musique, sources de « révélation », créent une « cérémonie ritualisée ». En s’appuyant sur The Only Jealousy of Emer, P. Longuenesse montre que les parties parlées sont le lieu du réel, alors que le chant se situe dans un mode visionnaire. « Diseurs » ou

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chanteurs, les mouvements de leur corps rendent visible l’invisible ; l’auteur s’interroge : ces pièces sont-elles des représentations ou des révélations ? Si la parole parlée-chantée devient « une psalmodie proche de la prière », la représentation un « rituel orphique », les sources sont « autant profanes que sacrées ». N’aurait-il pas été préférable de regrouper l’ouverture du livre sur « Yeats et la religion » et les analyses des pièces qui en sont l’illustration ? Le thème récurrent des pièces-nô de Yeats est l’ingérence de l’au-delà, voyage du héros vers la mort, rencontre avec des fantômes, dans « un espace-seuil entre le monde des vivants et celui des esprits », questionnement sur l’incarnation et la vie après la mort. La voix qui parle avec les morts est celle de l’acteur, seule ou accompagnée de musique et de danse, manifestation d’une « puissance d’outre-tombe ». Si P. Longuenesse s’interroge à juste titre sur les croyances de Yeats, il refuse « l’institution religieuse » et les « dogmes » ; n’aurait-il pas été préférable d’évoquer d’emblée son syncrétisme ? Parler de théologie ne semble guère possible sauf, comme indiqué par l’auteur, dans Calvary et The Resurrection. Le credo de Yeats est cette « Unity of Being » définie à maintes reprises. En quête d’un acteur nouveau pour une scène renouvelée, Yeats préfère aux acteurs professionnels les amateurs qu’il peut former à la diction psalmodiée. Il consacre à Florence Farr et Frank Fay, acteurs et metteurs en scène lors des années de l’Irish Literary Theatre, plusieurs pages et de longues notes. Leur parole est « le vecteur central de la théâtralité », leur psalmodie rythmée soutenue par le psaltérion d’Arnold Dolmetsch dont les cordes sont accordées en fonction de la voix. Une succession de rondes sans mesure peut former la partition, ainsi le chant « The Four Rivers » composé par Florence Farr. Frank Fay et son frère William collaborent avec Yeats à partir de 1902 ; ils entendent ne pas sacrifier texte et parole « au profit d’effets théâtraux inutiles et défendre un répertoire national ». Pour mesurer l’enjeu de l’interprétation, P. Longuenesse, après des jugements élogieux, expose les échecs, de moins bonnes prestations incitant le public à quitter la salle. Quand Frank Fay s’endort sur scène à la première de The Unicorn from the Stars, la rupture est consommée. Les deux frères démissionnent en janvier 1908 et, en 1912, Florence Farr part à Ceylan. Yeats est alors en quête d’acteurs d’exception ; Mrs. Patrick Campbell ne sera qu’une solution éphémère. Avec le nô, il trouve en Michio Ito, danseur japonais dont il admire le génie du mouvement, une alliance parfaite avec la pensée : « Il ne s’évadait que pour habiter […] les profondeurs de l’esprit », écrit-il. Sa rencontre avec Ninette de Valois en 1927 sera également fructueuse ; il compose pour elle Fighting the Waves qu’elle interprète en 1928 avec les masques d’Hildo Van Krop et la musique de George Antheil ; faut-il pour autant comparer les mégaphones utilisés pour la pièce à ceux des séances à la Golden Dawn ? Il fut difficile à Yeats d’établir l’empathie nécessaire entre scène et public. At the Hawk’s Well et Fighting the Waves n’eurent pas le succès escompté en partie parce que le public, habitué au théâtre de l’époque, n’était pas initié au nô. Ce livre témoigne d’une excellente connaissance du théâtre de Yeats ; on peut regretter que le rôle déterminant de Gordon Craig ne soit que rapidement mentionné, même si son importance est évoquée dans d’autres écrits. P. Longuenesse connaît parfaitement les problèmes posés par la représentation. Ses analyses minutieuses seront appréciées des metteurs en scène. Réjouissons-nous aussi de l’annonce de futures publications.

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AUTEURS

JACQUELINE GENET Université de Caen Normandie

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The Irish Dramatic Revival

Alexandra Poulain

RÉFÉRENCE

Anthony Roche, The Irish Dramatic Revival 1899-1939, London, Bloomsbury, 2015, 272 p.

1 Anthony Roche’s new book provides a compact history of the Irish dramatic movement from the first year of the Irish Literary Theatre, initiated by Yeats, Lady Gregory and Edward Martyn, to Yeats’s death. Thus Yeats is construed as the tutelary figure of what Roche refers to as the “Irish dramatic revival”, yet the book usefully opens up the canon and incorporates discussions of playwrights not often mentioned in the context of the Revival, such as G.B. Shaw and Teresa Deevy. It also broadens the scope to look at those theatrical experiments which took place on other stages than that of the Irish National Theatre, giving ample space to Yeats’s experiments with dramaturgical arrangements which were intended for intimate spaces in the 1910s and 20s, and to such initiatives as the Dublin Drama League and the beginnings of the Gate Theatre. The first chapter, “the Late Nineteenth Century”, sets the context for the emergence of the dramatic movement. Commenting on the influence of Douglas Hyde’s pioneering work as translator and scholar of the native Irish literary tradition, Roche makes the decisive point that “there was no native Irish drama to develop”, so that a canon had to be created to refute the stage Irish stereotypes conveyed on the English stage and in the melodramas of Boucicault, which had been immensely popular but were violently rejected by the intellectual elite who took up the task of representing the “authentic” Ireland during the Revival. The chapter situates Wilde and Shaw as the contemporary luminaries of the Anglo-Irish theatrical tradition initiated by Farquhar, Goldsmith and Sheridan, then goes on to devote a substantial section to the influence of Ibsen on Irish drama, usefully revising common assumptions about Yeats’s and Synge’s alleged abhorrence of his brand of naturalism. The chapter closes with a brief evocation of the three-year experiment of the Irish Literary Theatre, which served to ascertain that “Irish playwrights could write plays on native subjects and have those plays produced

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in their own country”. The following chapters are devoted to each of the major figures of the dramatic revival, respectively the early Yeats (from Cathleen ni Houlihan to the first Plays for Dancers), Synge, Shaw, Gregory and O’Casey, and offer detailed readings of a selection of plays. Among particularly compelling passages are Roche’s tracing of Shakespearean echoes in On Baile’s Strand, and his reading of the onstage audience in Synge’s Playboy as the reflection of the offstage, non-fictional audience. The chapter devoted to Shaw focuses specifically on the three plays which Shaw intended for the Abbey stage, explicitly or otherwise, namely John Bull’s Other Island (which was initially rejected by the Abbey and premiered at London’s Royal Court Theatre), The Shewing-up of Blanco Posnet and O’Flaherty, V.C. (which was never staged at the Abbey), and the latter is fruitfully read as anticipating some of the thematic and formal preoccupations of O’Casey’s The Silver Tassie. The chapter about Lady Gregory forcefully challenges the notion (first circulated by Yeats himself) that she was a minor, essentially comic playwright, and brings out the radical political potential in Spreading the News, The Gaol Gate, The Rising of the Moon and especially Grania, which Roche reads as a fierce feminist play with a daring queer twist (though the word is never used). Chapter 6 convincingly makes a case for the inclusion of the Tassie within a “Dublin quartet” (comprising also O’Casey’s three Abbey plays, usually read as a trilogy). Chapter 8, “The Revival from O’Casey to the death of Yeats” (1928-39) traces the beginnings of the Gate theatre, and includes a reading of Denis Johnston’s début play The Old Lady Says “No!” in that context ; it offers an important study of Teresa Deevy’s decisive contribution to the formation of the National Theatre and ends with a reading of Yeats’s late plays, in a section astutely entitled “Yeats’s Endgame” which pays particular attention to the line of influence between Yeats’s Purgatory and Beckett’s Waiting for Godot and Endgame. The final chapter, “Critical Perspectives”, offers exciting essays by two major commentators on the theatre and performative culture of the period. Paige Reynolds compellingly revises the widely-spread assumption that Irish theatre was predominantly text-based until the turn of the twentieth century, when it made a transition towards physical theatre and performance, and shows instead that a vibrant performative tradition existed during the Revival, which included sports, dancing, political protests, and such institutionalised events as the Tailteann Games in the 1920s, the Dublin Civic Weeks staged in 1927 and 1929, and the 1932 Eucharistic Congress. P.J. Matthews usefully replaces Synge’s drama in the context of the cultural debates which were prominent during his brief writing career, which revolved around Celticism, the value of peasant culture, and the Irish language. The volume closes with an interview between Antony Roche and Conor McPherson, where the latter yields interesting insights about the difference between Irish and English worldviews, but rather disappointingly reiterates the banal and questionable claim that theatre should not be concerned primarily with politics. The book is a very valuable introduction to the study of the theatre of the Revival, which engages with the most recent research and offers clear, challenging close readings of the prominent plays of the period, as well as providing ample contextual material.

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AUTEURS

ALEXANDRA POULAIN Université Lille 3

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Arthur Griffith

Julien Guillaumond

RÉFÉRENCE

Owen McGee, Arthur Griffith, Sallins, Merrion Press, 2015, 536 p. 2015

1 Si l’on s’en tient à la première page, le titre de l’ouvrage pourrait paraître trompeur. En effet, seuls les quatre premiers chapitres semblent s’attacher de près à des moments clés de la vie d’Arthur Griffith : son enfance dans les quartiers pauvres de la capitale (expliquant ses prises de position futures en faveur de l’amélioration des conditions de logement via la rétention d’une partie des sommes versées au Trésor britannique), sa formation politique et ses années de journalisme en Afrique du Sud, puis son retour en Irlande comme éditeur du journal The United Irishman avant la parution de The Resurrection of Hungary et la fondation du Sinn Féin en 1905. Mais, c’est là où s’opère le tour de force d’Owen McGee. En effet, dans la seconde partie de l’ouvrage, l’auteur parvient à mener en parallèle une biographie d’Arthur Griffith et une étude du mouvement nationaliste irlandais entre les années précédant le troisième projet de Home Rule et celles conduisant aux négociations pour le traité de Londres, en passant par le soulèvement de Pâques. En s’appuyant sur un minutieux travail d’archives, tant en Irlande qu’au Royaume-Uni, ainsi que sur de nombreuses autres sources primaires sur la période, comme en attestent les quelques cent vingt pages de notes, l’ouvrage propose une analyse stimulante du mouvement nationaliste irlandais. Il souligne ainsi avec finesse les tensions qui traversent et structurent le mouvement nationaliste en Irlande, mais également les difficultés que pose la relation coloniale, autant sur le plan politique que sur le plan économique, afin de tendre vers la république tant désirée alors que le futur État libre ne dispose pas de ressources économiques suffisantes. En ce sens, en retraçant les années conduisant à l’établissement de l’État libre d’Irlande, l’ouvrage met véritablement en lumière la structuration du discours nationaliste, le positionnement du Sinn Féin, les luttes de pouvoir au sein du parti avant que celles-ci ne conduisent à sa lente division sur la question du Traité. L’ouvrage montre également

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le rôle controversé des autorités britanniques, apportant dès lors une vision plus nuancée de la partition de l’île, soulignant les intérêts souvent complémentaires des milieux économiques, tant au nord qu’au sud, et montrant comment la dimension religieuse en vint à revêtir une importance toute particulière entre les deux parties de l’île alors que Griffith considérait avant tout la dimension économique comme première pierre d’achoppement, synonyme du déséquilibre existant entre le Royaume-Uni et l’Irlande. L’on peut regretter toutefois que les derniers chapitres se teintent d’un certain manichéisme, décrivant Arthur Griffith comme un homme fatigué, bataillant ferme pour défendre ses idées face à un gouvernement britannique manipulateur et à ses nombreux détracteurs au sein du mouvement nationaliste. Une telle position semble d’autant plus critiquable dans la mesure où le dernier chapitre, longue conclusion de cinquante pages, s’attache à remettre en perspective les idées de Griffith tout en interrogeant le travail des historiens, passés et présents, dans la production du récit national. Il n’en demeure pas moins que cet ouvrage comble un vide sur la politique irlandaise avant et après la Première Guerre mondiale, et l’on ne peut que rendre hommage à Owen McGee pour ce précieux travail.

AUTEURS

JULIEN GUILLAUMOND Université Clermont-Auvergne

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