Tipperary (16 page)

Nine years later, the body was removed to the celebrity graveyard of Père-Lachaise, where the grave became and remains a place of pilgrimage. The marble stone is stained with red and pink marks; it is a tradition to wear lipstick when kissing the grave. His epitaph consists of four lines from his own poem
The Ballad of Reading Gaol:

And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men
And outcasts always mourn.

In Ireland, rumors flew that “Wilde the pervert” had repented of everything on his deathbed—and converted to Catholicism. Father Cuthbert Dunne, who officiated at the funeral, had certainly been called. It is also true that Oscar had long professed more than a passing interest in Catholicism; he loved liturgy, rubric, and the theater of religion.

Sadly, Death had traveled fast, and at the end, Charles O'Brien no longer had access to Wilde's sickroom. If he had been present, all the conflicted reports about Oscar's death, his last words and whether he took the rites of the Catholic Church, could have been cleared up. However, Mr. O'Brien might not have been the most reliable of reporters, given his sudden infatuation and the bluntness of its object's rejection.

Courage: that is the word by which I guide myself, the star by which I steer. Next morning, I rose early and walked briskly across Paris to inspect the Rue Seminole. A cul-de-sac, it offered certain difficulties in terms of patrolling without being observed; I could get out only by the way I came in. Nor could I linger and watch Dr. Tucker's house; I should immediately be seen, as very few people came and went in that street— the rich stay indoors for long hours.

My vigil never flagged. Dr. Tucker's life, I reflected, must be governed by exceptional order; other than grocers, butchers, and other deliverers, nobody came to his door. Eventually, I was justified when, at three o'clock in the afternoon, the door opened and out, alone, strode April Burke. I concealed myself by walking slowly on the opposite side of the street, in the same direction, head averted and eyes down, until she had passed by, in a long stride.

Soon, she had more than a hundred yards' start on me. This proved to be a good fact in that she did not look behind, a bad fact in that I had no easy chance to intercept her. I possess long legs, but my goodness how she raced! Presently, I began to understand her destination: she was bound for Her Majesty's Ambassadorial building on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. In due course, she entered the magnificent place and I remained outside.

Estimating that she might be in there for some time, I sought a café. Not that I dallied long; I could not see the building, so I hurried my coffee and cognac. On the way back, I passed a stall selling pretty little manikins and I bought one, as a whimsical gift.

By the time April reappeared, I had planned what to do. Head down, I would stride busily along the street and overtake her; I knew that this would require me to walk extremely fast, but I reasoned that this would merely convey an air of added industry.

Fortune favored me; April walked toward me, and I was able to create a great impression of surprise.

“My goodness!” I cried as I halted almost alongside.

She stopped and within half a second recalled me.

“Oh, Jehovah!” she said, in a tone of great irritation. I raised my hat.

“How wonderful to see you again,” I said. “I haven't yet left Paris.”

“Really? Do you say? Are you still here?” She began to step away from me.

Sarcasm ill becomes most people; it is best to pretend that it has not appeared.

“And how are you? So fortunate to have met you—in fact, I have just taken delivery of a gift I have purchased for you; that is why I happen to be in this neighborhood.”

“Gift?” She frowned in suspicion.

I handed her the doll, which she unwrapped.

“It is a doll.”

She looked at it. “You have not ‘just taken delivery’—you bought this for a few centimes from that old crook at the corner of the Rue Napoléon.”

She threw the doll into the street.

“Please,” I said as she turned and strode away. “Are there no circumstances in which I may be of service to you?”

“None.”

I followed. “Is there no care that I can give you?”

“None.”

“Are you not too harsh upon me?”

“No.”

“I am sad,” I said, and the note in my voice caught her.

“Are you to follow me like a puppy dog everywhere I go?”

“If I am to gain your kind attention I will go anywhere,” I said.

“Then go back to Ireland; go back to your bogs.”

“But how will that gain your attention?”

She looked at me, those strong brown eyes beneath that abundant hair.

“I cannot stop you from walking in the streets. But I can stop you from following me around. If I have to.”

“May I see you tomorrow?” Perhaps the note of entreaty in my voice softened her, because when she spoke her voice had a resigned tone.

“Doubtless you will. So—may I now walk home? Alone?”

I took off my hat like a musketeer and bowed deep and low. April, still looking warily at me, walked on—and stepped fruitily into a dog mess.

“Ohhh!” She held up her foot with the soiled shoe. “Look! You did this.”

“No, I believe it was a dog.”

“Ohhh!”

April Burke had a friend in Ireland, Mrs. Katherine Moore, whose brother had been an old friend of April Burke's father. Mrs. Moore had become something of a confidante to the motherless girl, who wrote many revealing letters to her, including one sent from Paris late in December 1900.

My dear Kitty
,

Please forgive the brevity of my last letter; I was sad when I wrote it, and I remain so. I know now that my sadness was caused by more than the loss of dear Mr. Wilde, whom I scarcely had met, but who had reached directly to my heart in a brief time
.

You asked me for a complete description of Mr. Wilde in his end of days. I find that I may be too much moved to tell you competently. He wept much. Was this pain? Yes, but also pain in his heart, I think. He grieved for his sons.

His rooms grew very still in his last week. I bathed his hands often, and this seemed to calm him. He surged in his bed and was most restless and spoke not much sense. Twice on his second-to-last day, he called me to him. Each time, he said the same words. “Be sure to keep beauty preserved.” I am sure that I do not know what he meant by this. He had been most flattering to me, but I think he meant a greater matter than mere compliment.

When I last saw him, hours before his passing, he perspired much. I felt so inadequate to his needs; I bathed his face with cool towels and he felt it not. All his friends had gathered, and I never saw men so moved, so sad, so quiet, and I wish never to observe such sorrow again.

Your friend, Mr. Ross—indeed, as you say, a dear and gentle man—held Mr. Wilde's hand and said over and over, “Oscar, we love you, we love you very much.” Mr. Wilde had spoken quietly to Mr. Ross too, regarding the late Mrs. Wilde and their sons. Both men wept.

Now, dearest Kitty, I have a request of you. I was accosted in Paris by a strange man—a big Irish fellow, with, I confess, a light in his eyes and a deep voice. His name is Charles O'Brien—do you know him? He may live near you, for all I know. Even though he seems to have well-trained manners, I am given an impression that he may be quite dangerous. He attended Mr. Wilde as a healer and much havoc ensued. Certainly he is unsteady and keeps himself not very clean.

I should be most grateful for any knowledge of this fellow, as I fear that he may become a difficulty to me and I know not yet how I should address it. In Paris he followed me so assiduously that Dr. Tucker, who was most put out by him, had to send for the authorities. O'Brien came to Mr. Wilde's room, I believe, through a friend of Mr. Ross, a Lady Carew; do you know her?

My work at the Ministry will begin on Monday, the 7th of January; and Papa is to cease working for Mr. Whitbread at the end of the year, and so will spend all his days at home. I am pleased that he shall have some rest; and I am pleased on the double that I shall have more of his company.

We have a new maid, from Ireland. She is young and inexperienced, but she may prove quick to train, and she speaks interestingly. Now that I am quitting Paris, and that my duties should prove more regular, I shall be able to write again when I have settled back in London.

Your affectionate friend,

April.

A note may be required here as to Charles O'Brien's view of himself. Perhaps as a matter of personal style, he seems never to acknowledge how his efforts or presence may be seen. Not only did the treatments of Oscar Wilde fail to work, but even on his own account he was mixing herbal potions that contained the possibility of serious burns. If he did so much damage to the carpet, what might he have done to the man he had come to heal?

As to his reception by Miss Burke—first of all, he more or less sprang upon her, and she was a girl who might never have spoken unchaperoned to a man who was not a relation or close family friend.

Secondly, judging from her correspondence—a kinder tone than she showed to Mr. O'Brien—his appearance obviously gave her cause for concern. This is puzzling, given Mr. O'Brien's cultivated background. She saw in front of her (or thought she saw) a fearsome stereotype, with embellishments. A wild Irishman with a mop of yellow hair who had almost burned a hole in the head of Oscar Wilde was now apparently pursuing her. Not only did he want to get his hands on her heart, he was also chasing her possible inheritance—of which she had just recently heard so vividly.

From my Journal:

MONDAY, DECEMBER THE 17TH 1900.

Such a cold night, yet the stars have magnificence. I sit on the deck of a steamer awaiting clearance to leave the port of Rotterdam. In a moment we shall be under way again and I shall reach home for Christmas. How I wish I could have remained in Paris, but I had little choice. I am very mournful. Now I hope that the company of my parents, and Euclid's wit and affection, and the animals in the yard, and the clouds in Tipperary will mend me, will heal this racking cough and this sad heart, and will give me time to reconsider my approaches to my future.