"Maurice Harte" portrays the most sinister force which holds the Irish
people in awe--that heaviest of all bondage, priestcraft.
_Michael Harte_, his wife _Ellen_, and their son _Owen_ are bent on one
purpose; to make a priest of their youngest child _Maurice_. The mother
especially has no other ambition in life than to see her son "priested."
No higher ideal to most Catholic mothers than to consecrate their
favorite son to the glory of God.
What it has cost the Hartes to attain their ambition and hope is
revealed by _Ellen Harte_ in the conversation with her sister and later
with her husband, when he informs her that he cannot borrow any more
money to continue the boy in the seminary.
_Mrs. Harte._ If Michael and myself have our son nearly a priest
this day, 'tis no small price at all we have paid for it.... Isn't
it the terrible thing, every time you look through that window, to
have the fear in your heart that 'tis the process-server you'll see
and he coming up the boreen?
_Old Harte_ impoverishes himself to enable his son to finish his
studies. He has borrowed right and left, till his resources are now
entirety exhausted. But he is compelled to try another loan.
_Michael._ He made out 'twas as good as insulting him making such a
small payment, and the money that's on us to be so heavy. "If you
don't wish to sign that note," says he, "you needn't. It don't
matter at all to me one way or the other, for before the next
Quarter Sessions 'tis Andy Driscoll, the process-server, will be
marching up to your door." So what could I do but sign? Why, 'twas
how he turned on me in a red passion. "And isn't it a scandal,
Michael Harte," says he, "for the like o' you, with your name on
them books there for a hundred and fifty pounds, and you with only
the grass of nine or ten cows, to be making your son a priest? The
like of it," says he, "was never heard of before."
_Mrs. Harte._ What business was it of his, I'd like to know? Jealous
of us! There's no fear any of his sons will ever be anything much!
_Michael._ I was thinking it might do Maurice some harm with the
Bishop if it came out on the papers that we were up before the judge
for a civil bill.
_Mrs. Harte._ ... 'Tisn't once or twice I told you that I had my
heart set on hearing Maurice say the marriage words over his own
brother.
_Maurice_ comes home for the summer vacation, looking pale and
emaciated. His mother ascribes his condition to the bad city air and
hard study at school. But _Maurice_ suffers from a different cause. His
is a mental struggle: the maddening struggle of doubt, the realization
that he has lost his faith, that he has no vocation, and that he must
give up his divinity studies. He knows how fanatically bent his people
are on having him ordained, and he is tortured by the grief his decision
will cause his parents. His heart is breaking as he at last determines
to inform them.
He reasons and pleads with his parents and implores them not to drive
him back to college. But they cannot understand. They remain deaf to his
arguments; pitifully they beg him not to fail them, not to disappoint
the hope of a lifetime. When it all proves of no avail, they finally
disclose to _Maurice_ their gnawing secret: the farm has been mortgaged
and many debts incurred for the sake of enabling him to attain to the
priesthood.
_Michael._ Maurice, would you break our hearts?
_Maurice._ Father, would you have your son live a life of sacrilege?
Would you, Father? Would you?
_Mrs. Harte._ That's only foolish talk. Aren't you every bit as good
as the next?
_Maurice._ I may be, but I haven't a vocation.... My mind is finally
made up.
_Mrs. Harte._ Maurice, listen to me--listen to me! ... If it went
out about you this day, isn't it destroyed forever we'd be? Look!
The story wouldn't be east in Macroom when we'd have the bailiffs
walking in that door. The whole world knows he is to be priested
next June, and only for the great respect they have for us through
the means o' that, 'tisn't James McCarthy alone, but every other one
o' them would come down on us straight for their money. In one week
there wouldn't be a cow left by us, nor a horse, nor a lamb, nor
anything at all!... Look at them books. 'Tis about time you should
know how we stand here.... God knows, I wouldn't be hard on you at
all, but look at the great load o' money that's on us this day, and
mostly all on your account.
_Maurice._ Mother, don't make my cross harder to bear.
_Mrs. Harte._ An' would you be seeing a heavier cross put on them
that did all that mortal man and woman could do for you?
_Maurice._ Look! I'll wear the flesh off my bones, but in pity spare
me!
_Mrs. Harte._ And will you have no pity at all on us and on Owen
here, that have slaved for you all our lives?
_Maurice._ Mother! Mother!
_Mrs. Harte._ You'll go back? 'Tis only a mistake?
_Maurice._ Great God of Heaven!...you'll kill me.
_Michael._ You'll go back, Maurice? The vocation will come to you in
time with the help of God. It will, surely.
_Maurice._ Don't ask me! Don't ask me!
_Mrs. Harte._ If you don't how can I ever face outside this door or
lift my head again?... How could I listen to the neighbors making
pity for me, and many a one o' them only glad in their hearts? How
could I ever face again into town o' Macroom?
_Maurice._ Oh, don't.
_Mrs. Harte._ I tell you, Maurice, I'd rather be lying dead a
thousand times in the graveyard over Killnamartyra--
_Maurice._ Stop, Mother, stop! I'll--I'll go back--as--as you all
wish it.
Nine months later there is general rejoicing at the Hartes': _Maurice_
has passed his examinations with flying colors; he is about to be
ordained, and he is to officiate at the wedding of his brother _Owen_
and his wealthy bride.
_Ellen Harte_ plans to give her son a royal welcome. Great preparations
are on foot to greet the return of _Maurice_. He comes back--not in the
glory and triumph expected by his people, but a driveling idiot. His
mental struggle, the agony of whipping himself to the hated task, proved
too much for him, and _Maurice_ is sacrificed on the altar of
superstition and submission to paternal authority.
In the whole range of the Irish drama "Maurice Harte" is the most Irish,
because nowhere does Catholicism demand so many victims as in that
unfortunate land. But in a deeper sense the play is of that social
importance that knows no limit of race or creed.
There is no boundary of land or time to the resistance of the human mind
to coercion; it is worldwide. Equally so is the rebellion of youth
against the tyranny of parents. But above all does this play mirror the
self-centered, narrow, ambitious love of the mother, so disastrous to
the happiness and peace of her child. For it is _Ellen Harte_, rather
than the father, who forces _Maurice_ back to his studies. From whatever
viewpoint, however, "Maurice Harte" be considered, it carries a
dramatically powerful message of wide social significance.