Tipperary: A Novel of Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  There is an emotion in the house, a care, a warmth. I must not raise my hopes too much for my son. At the same time I must give him wonderful praise for his feelings about this house. He has been so praiseworthy in his instinct. I applaud his judgment.

  At one moment today I looked at him. He stood on the terrace, inspecting with a shrewd and tasteful eye the house that he once hoped might one day become his. That girl is not his worth by a long chalk. She is not his measure and has little of his character. I know that each crow thinks her own crow the whitest, but my elder son, with his fine shoulders and his mane of hair and his pleasing and willing-to-please face, was always beyond her merit. Yet I do not know how to tell him that. He disparages himself so readily, so often.

  The Irish mansions didn't suddenly begin to rise above the landscape. They weren't a direct product of English colonization. Many of them mutated from the castles of the Norman barons, whose similar buildings can be seen today in Ireland, England, and Wales. But even before the raising of their ramparts and towers, they had forerunners.

  The Irish, as did the Scots, built themselves what are now called “fortified houses.” In Tipperary and the other counties of Munster, many fine examples can still be seen. Some of them have kept their height but lost their heart, and they stand in the fields, gaunt and ruined. Others have been “restored” as hotels and conference centers.

  Tipperary Castle, from all the available documentation, began as one of those fortified houses. Terence Hector Burke did not, as Oscar Wilde had mistakenly believed, build it from the ground up. In fact, it's more the case that he became the last in a line of Burkes who had expanded and decorated their residence.

  In time—and Oscar got this right—Terence Hector Burke added the theater. As his predecessors had done with other wings and sections, he built it so expertly that it looked as though it had always been part of the house. In essence, it became the last phase. Tipperary had grown from the original fortified house into a great Anglo-Irish mansion.

  My appointment as “R.O.” did not specify my tasks, except in the vaguest terms, and so I took it upon myself to define my duties. The keys opened their locks at first turn—excellent craftsmanship to work so well after a disuse of more than half a century. I had brought candles, and the Somerville letter contained detailed instructions as to how I should open shutters all along each passageway. Entering through the servants' halls, I let in light with every few paces that I took.

  Nothing had changed in this house. Dust lay everywhere, but matters had been left as though the occupants had donned their coats one day and walked out. On a small table in the annex of the servants' hall sat a mug, an old candle, and some burnt matches. The mug, when I picked it up, left a ring in the dust.

  When I had opened all the shutters down in this wing, I stood and looked at everything—the walls, painted yellow; the sensible cornices with less adornment than I knew I should find in the main house; the benches painted brown, now gray with the dust. No coats hung on any of the hooks—no hats, no cloaks, no ulsters; when the servants left, they must have known that it might be forever.

  In the kitchen, a giant table stretched down the middle of this long room; on shelves and in cupboards sat the great pots and crocks that had serviced the food of the house. From the servants' quarters, and the kitchens and pantries (which I did not yet open), the main passageway led to the central hallway of the house. Here I had some difficulty; this passageway had no windows, and to illuminate my way I had to depend upon the light coming from the windows that I had opened far behind me. I passed through two heavy doors, and finally, with only a glimmer to help me, found myself in the main hallway.

  The windows here gave greater problems, and dust fell upon me like gray snow as I drew back the long, heavy curtains. I then found the iron handles that, when turned, opened the shutters and, with the same ease as the earlier locks, the first shutter opened, then the second. I was covered with dust—but I had let in the first light in the main hall of the house for more than fifty years.

  Whatever I had imagined I now abandoned. The walls had been composed of beautiful cut stone, which reached to a height of approximately four feet, and above that the hall was paneled with marble. On the cornices and all across the ceiling had been placed the most ornate stucco that I had—or still have—ever seen. As far as I could make out, it seemed eccentric, with some of the richer styles overlaid by simpler motifs; for example, in one corner a large bird with detailed feathers protruded from the wall, grasping a branch with leaves in its beak, while beneath was slung a great plaster chain. In another corner, a proud figure of a “Victory” of sorts surged forth like the figurehead of a ship. A great marbled staircase wound upward from either side to a balcony; the stairs could allow six people abreast.

  And the hall could accommodate a ball with an orchestra. It went through from one side of the house to the other, and through the north-facing windows I could see our chimneys and the wood. On the other side, the westering sun suddenly came through the clouds and shone straight in to light a ceiling as ornate as Versailles, pink and gold and turquoise. In that radiance too, however, dwelt a sadness; a wide section of the central medallion, populated by lions, tigers, and other great cats, had broken off. In truth, there was much frightful damage elsewhere.

  All had been caused, my father had long ago told me, by vandalism, by would-be thieves; local opportunists had tried to steal the flashings off the roof—to sell to munitions fabricators for making bullets. As one man had wrestled with a particularly dense chunk of lead, it had broken away in his hand, exposing a ceiling underneath, which is where the water poured down in time.

  However, the man had then slipped on the smooth lead and fallen to his death outside. This had strengthened the aura of bad luck in a house already stained with the reputation of loss and pain, and the gutters and lead flashings thus escaped further depredations.

  Through the gap in the ceiling, the once and former grandeur of the private apartments could be glimpsed. They evidently had had much delicacy, much exquisiteness; but, sadly, the years of rains through the holes in the roof had caused very considerable damage, and much of the other plasterwork lay beneath layers of black and green mold.

  It was clear that the true state of the castle could not be judged without a tour of the building. Consolingly, it was plain that whatever restoration would be required, the place retained its basic magnificence.

  I opened the padlock on the bars of the front door, but no matter how I hauled and pushed, I could not move the great door by an inch. It still had damage. I could not climb the staircase, and I could not enter any of the rooms that radiated from the hall. All the doors had swollen, and everywhere destruction had spread. Looking directly above my head, I could see the ribs of the walls to which plaster had once adhered; long, wide reaches of plaster hung loose. As I moved about, some of this stucco began to flake loose; a piece fell in the hallway behind me. Smaller and lighter than a coin, it would have hurt nobody, yet it could have brought others down in its wake.

  Although my activities were necessarily limited, the house came alive again. Working steadily where I could, I threw back every shutter, casement, and door that I could reach, and I let the world bring its healing light and air indoors. Now I could survey the damage to the house, which proved even more extensive than I had anticipated.

  The main staircase, with all its wide marble, was incapable of bearing the weight of a person; but by a rear and undamaged stair I was able to reach the upper floors. In all the corridors, in the gallery, and along the rear passageways, I found damage. Boards had rotted and begun to fall down; in many places I could see through the timbers to the floors below. One of the ornate painted doors to the gallery, which had romantic woodland scenes, hung askew; its companion had lurched from the topmost hinge. On the frayed chairs along the gallery wall, many of the seats crumbled to my touch.

  I could not gain access to the greater rooms upstairs but, through open or
fallen doors, I could see four-poster beds whose canopies had fallen, and exquisite armoires—which bravely seemed to have withstood the assaults of the decades. Through one door several yards away, I looked into a nursery— and at once recalled how Mr. Wilde had told of the mysterious actress showing the new father his son's nursery before she disappeared. I reflected that I had long ago vowed to find the basis of that story, to solve the mystery. Now I felt that I never would; the journey to Somerset had proven too opaque.

  Eventually, in that first week, I attempted to enter as many downstairs rooms as I could (the upper floors felt too dangerous). The more recent construction, such as the theater and the rebuilt kitchens, had stood up well—but the older parts of the house, the dining and breakfast rooms, and the three drawing-rooms, showed much damage. Green mold and fungus spread everywhere, obscuring the details on the plasterwork, much of which had begun to crumble. When I contrived to climb up and reach a cornice in the main dining-room, the stucco cluster of grapes came away in my hand, with the damp smell of decay.

  In the ballroom, I found the greatest contrast—the most beautiful room had suffered the most severe damage. Its stucco peeled; its plaster cornices sagged or lay on the floor in piles. The marks of ancient cascades from water damage all but obscured the beautiful turquoise and pink paintwork. Some of the chairs along the wall, where at one time merry-makers had rested, now leaned or fell like dead, once-golden dancers.

  At the end of the first week, my assessment revealed that more than two-thirds of the house required substantial renovation; in fact, no more than three servants' bedrooms above the stables had escaped damage. All hangings seemed perilous. I dared not tug at a velvet curtain and took no risks with walking across floors; I trod everywhere by the wall, where I knew that joists rested. But many joists came into view beneath rotten floorboards, and from their condition I understood that they would have to be replaced before any new floor could be laid. My inspection was a journey of pain and excitement.

  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.