Tipperary (37 page)

SUNDAY, THE 22ND OF MARCH 1908.

At breakfast this morning, and yesterday, Bernard read no newspapers. I asked why. He answered by making an appointment to see me here, in our bedroom, “secretly,” he said, for eleven o'clock. When we met, he told me that all the newspapers are telling of Miss Burke's marriage in London last Wednesday to Henry Somerville's son.

“I did not wish Charles to see,” Bernard said. But who is to tell him? Shall I? Or his father? Or the world? He is certain to find out. Perhaps he already has heard? And does not wish to say? This afternoon he went off to the castle.

Now we shall have some fixing to do. Must he continue working unpaid for this young woman? In how many ways can she break his heart?

Shall we send him abroad for some time? He talks of buying a motor-car. Della can travel no more. Indeed, I fear that he will lose her this winter. Charles says that he does not wish to break in a new horse. Bernard says he should buy one of Dan Dwyer's younger mares; they are well turned out.

Oh, what shall I do—about everything?

Tuesday, the 24th of March 1908.

Darling Mollie,

Now we have something to talk about! In The Times there was a notice, very brief, announcing the marriage (on Wednesday last) “quietly” of “April, only child of the late Mr. and Mrs. Terence Burke of Westminster, to Stephen, eldest child and only son of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Somerville, Ballinacourty House, Limerick, Ireland.”

“Well-well!” I hear you say, perhaps followed by “the scheming rodent!” (which, as I believe, was your more recent nomenclature). You may not like her, my dear, which I think a shame—I find her perfect—but you must agree that her attorneys now have a true interest on winning her case? No? Of course! And she has no money—so what better means could a pretty body devise of addressing the hideously expensive process of the law? You must admit to her shrewdness, Mollie, and you must admit that I bring you the sweetest of gossip!

So—be not surprised if she is found strolling the halls of her “birthright” ere long. In fact, Doty Bandon told me in August that your rodent was all but inviting house-guests for next summer.

Oh, I hear that Bosie was rejected by several hotels in Belgium. I feel sorry for him; the world may loathe him, but he is dying for the love and loss of Oscar.

Keep me posted, Mollie dearest, on the
nouvelle
Mrs. Somerville. Perhaps she'll be in Paris at New Year!

Your fondest friend—

Robbie.

The “decent” period of mourning in a family was, traditionally, a year and a day. April Burke married two years after her father's death. And six months
after
she asked Charles to caretake the property.

Other than the official record of their firm, no documents exist about the Somervilles. They had come into Ireland some hundreds of years earlier, as had Amelia Goldsmith O’Brien's family. But Limerick is a gossipy city, where memories are long, and the family, though now extinct, is well remembered.

Henry Somerville, the old man, had a pleasant, harmless reputation. A useful oarsman at Oxford University in his youth, he became at the age of seventy-five one of the prime founders of the Shannon Rowing Club in 1905. He paid for most of the fine new clubhouse. Other than that, and a Christmas Day swim across the river and back every year, he lived an unremarkable and blameless life. He married late and had one son (a daughter died in infancy).

Of Stephen, a little more was known. He was born in 1875, and was therefore seven years older than April Burke. A brilliant law student, he graduated early from Trinity College, Dublin, and went straight into practice at the Irish Bar. He became the youngest barrister in history to rise to the senior level of King's Counsel—“K.C.” That's how he had the stature to lead the Tipperary Castle case.

He had a big, black beard and a bad name. Two complaints against him can be found in Irish Law Society archives. On both occasions he was accused of assault. No charges were brought, even though one of the allegations was investigated at some length. A sum of damages was agreed, and the case was hushed up.

The plaintiff, a thirty-year-old woman, identified only by initials, described “a drunken attack and attempted violation.” In the other case, which had much less documentation, the words “repeated, violent attacks while drunk” are mentioned.

Nevertheless, at the time that he met and married April, he was enjoying a brilliant legal career. And he must have had something going for him. Flair, charm, individuality, style, great force of personality—these were the hallmarks of the Irish courtroom lawyers of that (or indeed any) time.

For April, it must have seemed perfect. Stephen Somerville, the most sought-after bachelor of the day, was six feet two, dashing, rich, and on the rise. And he could win her lawsuit for her. Plus, his uncle became the judge in the case, which might not be completely harmful.

As for Stephen—he now represented a client who, if he had anything to do with it, could soon own one of the most beautiful and potentially fertile properties in Europe.

My life as a healer taught me many lessons, among them the fact that, from time to time in Life, a stranger giving advice may alter one's own course—as Mr. William Butler Yeats did when he advised me to go to London, seek Miss Burke's father, and pursue my suit down that pathway. Mr. Yeats came back into my life when I was the Responsible Overseer at Tipperary Castle; and the words he spoke to me had a long-lasting and in time transforming effect.

I remember the morning so clearly—a fine Tuesday in March, a true spring day, with pleasant warmth, even though we were promised rain. The gates at the entrance to the avenue now opened easily, yet I was always surprised when I saw a visitor. Usually they came on foot or on horseback; that morning, a full landau arrived, and even at a distance I recognized Mr. Yeats, with his great mane of hair and his tweed cloak and his large spectacles.

He had the reputation of being a diffident man, awkward in company. I found him delightful. With gestures he directed his driver to take the carriage along by the terrace to a point where he could see the fullest view of the castle's facade. There he stopped, sitting and looking. I, at the front door, waited a moment to see whether he would emerge for a deeper inspection. But my patience gave out, and I walked down the terrace and greeted him.

“Good morning, Mr. Yeats. Welcome to Tipperary Castle.”

To my astonishment, he remembered me. I was just about to tell him my name, and remind him of my visit to his home in Dublin, when he stretched out his hand in greeting and said, “Mr. O’Brien.”

I laughed and asked how he came to be here. He told me that he was driving from Limerick, where he had been staying, to pay a visit to his old friend the Archbishop, at Cashel.

When I offered to give him a guided tour of the place, we began to walk and I pointed out everything that I felt might appeal to him. He was consumed with interest, and soon we reached the spot where the best view is to be taken. As I pointed out to him the Rock of Cashel in the distance, he held up his hand for silence. (I talk a great deal when I am nervous.)

After a few moments, Mr. Yeats said, “This place has an importance to me.”

Expecting a continuation of his thought, I said nothing. He waited for a moment, then spoke again:

“ ‘He bore her away in his arms,/The handsomest young man there.’ ”

I knew that he was quoting from one of his own poems, “The Host of the Air,” and I murmured the refrain from it: “ ‘And never was piping so sad/And never was piping so gay.’ ”

He looked at me with his intense eyes and he said, “Thank you, Mr. O’Brien,” and again lapsed into silence.

After a few moments he said, “Show me as much of the house as you can.”

We went inside; I was delighted that, being the same height, we walked shoulder to shoulder. I took him by safe routes across shattered floors, beneath rotted stucco, up the rear staircases, and eventually we came back out through the servants' quarters.

Strolling up to the terraces, I said to him that I much admired his work in the arena of Irish lore. He became very animated and asked me what I enjoyed. I asked whether he would care to hear the full, complete version of my tale of the magic deer and we stood there, in the sunshine, as I told it. He was delighted with it, and said so three or four times, and asked me whether I would write it down and send it to him (which it has since been my pleasure to do).

As we walked up to his landau, he said, “What do you know of the plans for this place?”

I told him of the lawsuit, remarking upon its likely complexity. As he climbed into his seat I said, “My hope is that Miss Burke will win the place. Her father, whom I came to know—at your advice, sir, if you remember.” He nodded. “Well, he passed away, and now Miss Burke is his sole successor. My hope is that she and I will marry and we will settle down here and renew the castle and the lands.”

Mr. Yeats looked at me in the most peculiar way, a long, penetrating stare.

“Is that your hope or your definite plan?”

I said, “Both.”

He said nothing, merely looked again at the facade of the castle. Then he reached across the carriage's polished side and shook my hand earnestly.

“Good-bye, Mr. O’Brien. Meeting you the second time was even more pleasant than the first—and the first meeting was very agreeable.”

But he did not tell the driver to move on. Instead he sank back in his seat and seemed deep in thought. I waited, my hands clasped behind my back like an obedient boy. Then he spoke:

“You told me, during our long talk when we last met, of something Oscar said. What was it again?”

I quoted: “Be sure to keep beauty preserved.”

Mr. Yeats nodded. “Mr. O’Brien, I didn't say so earlier because I was afraid of breaking the spell of the place—but I was here before; I was visiting Cashel and I rode over one day. One empty, beautiful summer day. And that poem you so kindly quoted—I got the idea for that poem here. So the place is important to me. And it's important to you.”

I said, fervently, “Oh, it is.”

Mr. Yeats said, “Make it the most important part of your life. It has enough beauty to warrant that. If you do that, if you take that step— you'll not fail. You'll get everything you wish for. It might not happen in the way you think—but, Mr. O’Brien, you'll keep beauty preserved. I know it.”

He shook my hand again, this man of whose aloofness people complain; he tapped the driver on the shoulder, and they drove away. The last I saw of them was the horses turning the corner down by the bridge and Mr. Yeats's hand in the air, waving as the landau disappeared into the trees of the avenue.