Patrick Pearse, Cultural Revival, and the Site of Sovereignty
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Breaking the law: Patrick Pearse, cultural revival, and the site of sovereignty Eugene McNulty* St Patrick’s College, Dublin This paper focuses on the intersections between Patrick Pearse’s revolutionary career as leader of the Easter Rising and his interests in the law and theatre. The paper opens with a discussion of the context of cultural revival and the emergent anti-colonial movements that so radically shaped Irish history in the early decades of the 20th century – a key suggestion here is that the idea of the law shadows much of this period’s discourse. It is in this context that Pearse’s political pamphlets are unpacked to reveal the manner in which he theorizes the problematic linkages between empire, sovereign power, and the law. The paper then moves to examine Pearse’s use of the theatre as a space for exploring the intimate connections between conceptions of the law and national identity. In all of this, Pearse’s work is seen as much more experimental, and perhaps even proto- modernist, than is often suggested within a critical discourse that focuses on the Romantic-nationalist elements of his revolutionary activities. Keywords: law; theatre; identity; Easter Rising; republicanism; sovereignty Writing from Trieste in 1907, James Joyce, in a newspaper piece entitled “Ireland at the Bar”, sought to allegorize Ireland’s troubled status – as a non-speaking actor on the stage of nations – by recourse to a narrative of legal inequality: Several years ago a sensational trial was held in Ireland. In a lonely place [ … ] a murder was committed. Four or five townsmen [ … ] were arrested. The oldest of them, the seventy year old Myles Joyce, was the prime suspect. Public opinion at the time thought him innocent and today considers him a martyr. Neither the old man nor the others accused knew English. [ … ] The questioning, conducted through the interpreter, was at times comic and at times tragic. On one side was the excessively ceremonious interpreter, on the other the patriarch of a miserable tribe unused to civilised customs, who seemed stupefied by all the judicial ceremony. (197) Much like Joseph K. in Kafka’s The Trial, the old man is faced by a process of law that he cannot comprehend, one he cannot access in any meaningful way. Myles Joyce cannot “read” or make visible the law that has him in its grip, he cannot speak to it. Likewise, Joyce presents the law as having no proper access to, or interest in, him as a subject in the world. It is a narrative that resonates with Gayatri Spivak’s assertion that colonial law was one of those processes whose effect was to eradicate spaces of power within which the colonial subject could articulate his or her proper subjectivity. Along with the production of ideolog- ical and scientific systems of knowledge, the “institution of the law” was one more discursive space wherein “great care was taken to obliterate the textual ingredients with which such a subject could cathect, could occupy (invest?) its itinerary” (Spivak 75). For *Email: [email protected] his namesake James, Myles Joyce becomes symbolic of Ireland as it stands subject to a law that misreads it, as it stands exposed to a system that speaks “differently”: “The figure of this dumbfounded old man, a remnant of a civilisation not ours, deaf and dumb before his judge, is a symbol of the Irish nation at the bar of public opinion” (198). The issue of language in a sense locates just one point in a matrix of deep-rooted communicative failures. For Joyce, these failures are needled through the colonial project as a whole and result in the absence of a law that can properly read the subjects within its purview. The timing of Joyce’s journalistic intervention is interesting; its context is a period in Irish cultural history marked by a concerted renegotiation of the imaginative territory informing conceptions of Irish identity politics. Against the backdrop of a politics in slow- burning crisis, this period of cultural revival is marked by an interrogation – expressed through literary and dramatic forms – of the network of power relations that defined Irish society, its internal delineations, and its external relationship with Great Britain (enshrined legislatively in the Act of Union). In what follows, I want to argue that a key concern for many revivalist writers was the colonial underpinnings of the institution of the law in Ireland. Narratives about the law, justice, prisons, the police, abound in Irish writing from this early part of the 20th century. Most famously, earlier in the same year as Joyce published his piece in Italy, J.M. Synge’s Playboy of the Western World premiered at the Abbey Theatre. The ensuing “riots”, and subsequent presence of the police in the theatre to subdue an animated and offended audience, ironically mirrored the action on stage of a play concerned with the reach of the law and with the distrust of “English law” amongst the west’s Irish-speaking communities. Just a few months earlier (October 1906), the Abbey had also been the venue for the first production of Lady Gregory’s play The Gaol Gate. In this piece, two women keep a vigil outside the gate of Galway Gaol awaiting the release of their husband/son Denis, who they are convinced has been wrongly detained. Rather than see him released, however, the prison’s Gatekeeper informs them that Denis has already been executed and they are too late in their mission to plead his case. The play ends with the women taking solace in the fact that Denis had chosen death rather than turning informant to the authorities. Two of the men who would go on to play key roles in the nationalist rebellion of Easter 1916, Thomas MacDonagh and James Connolly, would each pick up on this theme of the law as a suspect agent of power in plays written during this period. MacDonagh’s When the Dawn Is Come (1908) recounts a story of Irish rebellion in some unspecified period of history; and at its heart we find a group of proto-nationalist leaders who are largely suspi- cious of the law, an entity that they read as a possible obscurer of truth. As one rebel puts it: “Ere we proceed, I think it were well to ask if this cry of ‘the law’ lead us aright or amiss. We are soldiers, aye, and Councillors, for the war, unsuited to the wordy ways of the law” (67). While another comes to the revolutionary conclusion that “supreme command in battle is the law, suspending other law” (67), an idea that speaks strongly to the later event in which MacDonagh will play such a leading role. We can detect an even more direct relationship between the cultural deconstruction of law in Ireland and the philosophy of rebellion in James Connolly’s play Under Which Flag? (1916), written and performed just weeks before the real-life drama of the Easter Rising. Connolly here returns to ground familiar from Gregory’s Gaol Gate, to the dangers of informants and covert agents of the law, with one character clearly expressing the nationalist distrust of the police: Mary: Indeed, I heard a man say that the polis are worse than the sogers [soldiers]. He said that if the sogers fight for England, the polis man spies for England. [ … ] The polis man spends his whole life as a spy and a traitor upon his own people, drinks with them, goes to the chapel with them, and sits down in their houses, and all the time busy contriving how he can send them to the prison or the gallows. (114) Under Which Flag? was first performed in Liberty Hall, the main base for the Easter Rising in Dublin, just one month before the rebellion, and is clearly a warning to its audience to be on their guard against informers, covert agents, and “loose-talk”. But it is also a thorough- going critique of the jurisprudence of colonialism and its power-invested modalities within an oppressed society. The clear suggestion is that Irish people should not only reject these legal agents but also the entire edifice of the law that they embody. From the literary iconoclast James Joyce, through the dominant revivalist figures of the early Abbey Theatre, to the militant rebels of the Easter Rising, then, we can trace a shared concern for the law as a problematic agent of power in Ireland. This varied but connected interest in the law as a synecdoche for the issues of power and sovereignty, I want to argue, provides an important map of the imaginative territory on which Ireland engaged with its search for postcoloniality. It is here that Patrick Pearse becomes a particularly key figure, for it is Pearse who, more than anyone else perhaps, engaged with the full range of this web of cultural and political praxis. Mostly remembered as the iconic figure of the Easter Rising, Pearse was also a playwright, poet, and principal of his own school. As Seamus Deane puts it, Pearse is this period’s “most famous minor writer and its major revolutionary figure” (63); one could argue, indeed, that it is the tensions between these designations that leads Declan Kiberd to note that it can seem “almost heretical to link Pearse to James Joyce” (65). Yet both men were certainly interested in the transformatory possibilities offered by the imaginative re-ordering of the world. Moreover, many years before the turn to militarism, Pearse too had been much concerned with the problems of communication and the law. In addition to his persona of schoolmaster turned soldier, Patrick Pearse also held a law degree, and it was this intimate knowledge of judicial procedure that generated his interest in the law as an instrument of colonial policy.