Tipperary (26 page)

“But sir, my old tutor, my dear Buckley—he used to say those very words.”

“A good tutor, an excellent tutor!”

Soon, Mr. Burke went to fetch the next bottle of the sweet beauty. He survived a little mishap (I heard the noise of furniture being accosted) and returned triumphant. Between us, we managed to extract a difficult and recalcitrant cork; we filled each other's glasses to the brim and drank yet another toast to “New Friends”—and, I added, “To Great Estates.”

Mr. Burke sat back in his chair in a manner of great comfort and said, “I should like to sing to you.”

I applauded.

He said, “I shall sing ‘Greensleeves.’ Do you know that it was written by King Henry the Eighth?”

I marveled, and he began.

“ ‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong—’ ” There he halted abruptly, saying, “I have forgot the tune.” His eyes were droopy.

I said, “Sir, would you like to sleep awhile?”

He laughed, saying, “My dear friend”—and my heart soared; I had won his approval.

“Permit me to sing you a lullaby,” I said, at which he took my hand in a most touching manner and held it as a child might. I knelt beside his chair, and began to sing; and I have a good voice—of that I am certain, on account of the many compliments that I have received. Indeed, he found my lullaby affecting, for soon Mr. Burke began to snore, and Madeira, I know from my father's life, produces loud snoring.

At that, somebody must have opened the door from the street, because some instinct made me look up. There I saw Miss Burke standing in her own parlor, gazing at me, as I knelt beside her father's chair, holding and stroking his hand and singing a lullaby to him in the Irish language (I had learned it of Cally) while her father snored with his head back and his mouth open. Two empty bottles that had lately contained Madeira stood nearby.

It became an ugly circumstance. Notwithstanding my fine clothing, and the efforts I had made to make myself look a gentleman, she continued to see me as the “lout” (her word) whom she had last encountered on the streets in Paris. I tried to explain, but she would have none of it.

“Your father and I have been to his childhood home,” I said. “He has been much enjoying—”

“What?!” She was capable of such explosion as I had not seen in my placid household. “My father is not permitted to travel. And you have led him to drink—and drink can prove fatal to his health!”

“But he has enjoyed—”

She all but shouted. “What?! ‘Enjoying’? ‘Enjoyed’? Is ‘enjoy’ the main word in your lexicon, sir?!”

Her father did not cease snoring, even though voices had become raised.

“You lout! You—you scandal! Leave this house now.”

In the interest of order and calm I moved very quickly to quit that room and house. On the street outside I continued my hectic pace until I had traveled some distance. Then I paused, and found a bench with a view upon the river, where I reflected upon the latest great misunderstanding.

I admit that I began to shed tears. It all seemed so unfortunate, and my case seemed so futile. Not for one moment had this young woman, who seemed even more beautiful than in Paris, and with a new poise, I thought—not for one moment had she allowed any judgment of me other than the forms she had already settled in her mind.

For a time, all other thoughts departed my mind as I contemplated my own condition. There I sat, at forty-four years of age, a time when other men have maturing and loving children—and some even close to grandchildren—and I had surrendered my life to a dream of love that would never reach fulfillment. I had money in the bank, because I had saved prudently, and because I had a generous father; across the land of Ireland, people knew and liked me, even loved me; I did not frighten children, offend ladies, or cause distress to clergymen; even now, I remained as diligent to my parents as when I had wanted to please them as eagerly as any small child; my knowledge of diverse and useful matters was wide and copious; I was instructed in art and science, in poetry and healing; important people knew my name and found pleasure in my company.

And yet this young woman of twenty-two years could not find it in herself to look at me beyond her own prejudice of me.

Perhaps, I thought, I carry a mark on my forehead. Perhaps some wrinkle of my complexion, like a hidden sign, says to the world, “Here is a man to be kicked. He will not retribute.” Perhaps my anointed function in the world chose me to be a butt to some people, in order that they might express unpleasantness safely upon somebody who could be trusted not to damage them in return. If so, that is a useful purpose to them, and I must bear it.

As he always did when distressed, Charles went straight to his parents' house—to unexpected developments.

His mother's letters and journals, not known to her son, and never read by him, became available in 2003. She recorded his arrival, how the family gathered around him to hear what had happened, and to commiserate. Her papers also reveal what happened next. First, she received a letter.

Dear Mrs. O'Brien
,

I am given to understand by mutual friends that you are the mother of one Charles O'Brien, who lately visited my father in London and took him upon an excursion to the county of Somerset.

It would prove of inestimable value to me should you provide me with a means of reaching your son. I should also feel most grateful were you to provide me with the name of a lawyer in Ireland whom you recommend without qualification.

Yours Faithfully and in hope,

April Burke
.

Amelia O'Brien couched her reply in terms meant to smoke out April Burke's intentions and yet offer no clue that she knew anything of the young woman.

Dear Madam,

Forgive my impersonal greeting, but I am unaware from your manner of signature whether to address a married lady or not.

If you will tell me some reason for your needing to reach my son, Charles, I shall be happy to pass on any communication. He leads a busy life, he is much in demand, and at his request all correspondence will pass through his father or myself. May I also ask the names of the “mutual friends” whom you mention?

As to the unqualified recommendation of a lawyer, I fear that my husband, who addresses these matters, refuses to believe that such a creature exists as a lawyer whom he or anybody feels he can “recommend without qualification.” He also asks me to state that before giving a name he must “take the cloth to the tailor”— meaning that the nature of the legal business must guide the recommendation.

Yours Faithfully,

Amelia O'Brien.

The letter contains a number of slap-downs—the failure of April Burke to identify her single status (a matter of manners and breeding) and a certain bridling at the younger woman's importuning a total stranger. Nevertheless, within days came an answer.

Dear Mrs. O'Brien,

Thank you for the favor of your prompt reply. Your name was given to me by the Countess of Athlone, with whom I believe you are well acquainted, and she gave me a most warm opinion of you.

As to the body of my letter, I fear that I put the cart before the horse, as the expression goes. Your son has directed me to my possible ownership in an Irish estate of which he has knowledge, and I required further details from him. Then, in order to pursue such a claim, if indeed it should exist, I reasoned that I must need an Irish solicitor versed in land matters.

My gratitude to you bears repetition.

Yours Faithfully,

April Burke (Miss).

Amelia O'Brien wrote back (in her superb copperplate handwriting) and recommended her husband's legal firm in Limerick—Stokes and Somerville, on Catherine Street. In subsequent exchanges of correspondence back and forth, for six weeks, travel arrangements were made that would bring April Burke to Ireland and have Charles O'Brien show her the house in Tipperary. She arrived at the O'Brien household on the afternoon of Saturday, 1 October 1904, accompanied by Mary, the maid from Cork. Here is Amelia O'Brien's journal entry describing the occasion:

It is late; the night outside is beautiful. We are still warm with the summer. And we have had such times. If a day can be so crammed with new matter as to last a hundred hours, this was such a day. Charles came home last Wednesday. He has grown thin, and I do not like that. I fear that this unrequited love he suffers has now begun to hurt his body as well as his soul.

Bernard took him riding to Kilshane, whose wood Charles so loves. They had a long talk. Bernard reports that Charles seems almost unable to contain his excitement at the prospect of this young woman staying under our roof. Is my son too boyish, too unformed, for a man his age?

She arrived, this Miss Burke, this afternoon. I mean to gather my thoughts here so that I may try to understand her. But I have been much disposed to a strong dislike of her on account of her view of Charles. And her behavior toward him. Also, if she has not the acuteness of mind to perceive my son's innate goodness and innocence, I should not wish him to throw his life away on a hope of her.

I did not like the nearly peremptory tone of her letters to me. And I thought the freedom which she felt to approach me had in it something of the “user.”

So it was that I expected to meet a conniving young woman. Careless of the feelings of others. Willing and prepared to make use of those whom she had but lately injured. Not at all a prospect to be cherished.

And I fear to say that I found a conniving and icy young woman. With little heart and no interest at all in my dear son—except, I fear, as to how she may use him in her own interests. In my life I cannot remember a time when I have taken so against another woman. She glanced this way and that, assessing us and not finding us wanting. But rather she conveyed surprise that we did not live in some mud hut like savages on the Equator.

My Bernard has charms beyond most men, and he failed to touch her. She did not smile at his sallies, she did not laugh at his jokes. (I, who have heard them many, many times, can still be prostrated by them.) Perhaps worst of all, she gave no impression that she might find the company of any of us to have value in any wise. This is a dreary and cunning young woman. Of great beauty, I grant, but I should not choose her company were she and I alone in a boat at sea.

Her first impression is of some money in her family system. How that can be I cannot know. Bernard says that she hired her car and driver well, with good horses, from an excellent livery in County Cork. That she has manners goes beyond doubt. But I fear that they may be trained manners, rather than the grace that comes from within. She behaved elegantly toward me, and false-prettily toward Charles—whose face whitened with strong feeling as he greeted her.

Bernard and I had made an understanding that Charles must introduce her to us. All morning he fretted, pacing upon the terrace, asking over and over how long the drive from Cork must take. Of Euclid, Miss Burke made no show. A mistake, I think; can she not know of Charles's fond affections for his brother? He judges people by their expression of regard for Euclid.

My impression of her has not yet been a good one. She presents herself as if in expectation of the world's unquestioning appreciation of her beauty. Forthright and confident in her views. Very sure that her beauty will open all doors.

Charles stumbled and hesitated in her presence. I watched closely. She took less and less regard of him, except what courtesy demanded. I am glad to say that his manners showed him to be a gentleman. I had feared that he might have crumbled. But he behaved so beautifully that I wonder how many men of such manners and gentleness does she meet that she can afford to spurn him?

Bernard and Charles showed her our gardens, our horses and cattle, and our beloved wood. Bernard reports that she talked amiably but showed little interest in the creatures or in the wood's eccentric growths or their history. She came back to the terrace and sat for tea. And she accepted our sensible invitation to stay the night. Charles has undertaken to show her the disputed property over at Tipperary Castle. They will go there tomorrow.

When Miss Burke had repaired upstairs to change for dinner, Charles naturally and with heartbreaking eagerness asked Bernard and me if we liked her. As we had had no opportunity to confer, we retreated a little. In such circumstances, Bernard always believes it best to tell what he calls “the truth of the moment.” He said, “She is such a beauty.” I said, “I will make up my mind about her when we have had dinner. And I will give you my candid opinion.”

Charles then turned to Euclid, who said something I believe to be unfortunate.

“She'll change,” Euclid said. “She'll learn to love you.”

Oh, dear me! If we had any means left by which we might encourage Charles to extricate himself, we lost them at that moment.

At dinner tonight we were five. I had decided not to invite friends or neighbors until we had seen her further. She has excellent table manners. I would expect no less from a young woman who has worked for our Embassy in Paris. Bernard told a story I have heard many times (about a man who caught a fox, a rambling and funny story). Euclid told about electricity and what he had learned about it. Charles said little but for an occasional remark. The young Miss Burke looked at each speaker in turn as if calculating them in some way, assessing them.