And had it not been for the interventions of his friends, Oscar's body might have been taken to the public morgue. Instead of being laid out in beauty, he might have been given a pauper's grave. As it was, he received a “sixth-class burial” in the Cimetière de Bagneux, which is actually in Montrouge, a southern suburb of Paris.
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 becom
e 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.
I shall leave it for my Journal to reflect my melancholia of the moment; and I shall content myself here with the repeated expression of surprise that Miss Burke took so furiously against me. What occasioned her contempt? Do I carry a mark upon my forehead? Has somebody spoken against me? It is a mystery that a young woman should take so against a man she has never before known.
When I reached home, I decided to tell the whole story, and I can truly say that I have never captured my family's earnest attention so completely as on that first night at dinner. They listened, with no more than an occasional interjection, and they listened with attitudes of great sympathy. When I had finished, Euclid, red with anger, asked the first question.
“Do you think she is dangerous? Might she carry a stiletto?”
Mother said, “This is a young woman who has not yet learned to care for herself, has only been trained to care for others.”
Said my father, “Was Wilde as tall as people said?”
“Indeed,” I said. “As tall as you and me.”
“Goodness,” said both my parents. Then began the advice.
“Go and find her,” said Mother.
Euclid: “I shall make maps of London and Paris for you.”
My father said, “Go and look at the estate.”
He confirmed that in general Mr. Wilde's story of Tipperary Castle's fate had been what he understood, too, that there had been, as he said, “some old story; my father knew it. The lawyers go up there every few years and look at the place. And we rent conacre from them, when we need extra fields.”
When turbulent, I try to step back and view myself. To this end, I soon found myself walking in our wood, in mid-winter, though in mild weather, and in turmoil. Captain Ferguson's plantings had allowed for the seasons, and many orchidaceous blooms gleamed like colorful lamps among the bare trees.
That morning, I saw a sad man no longer young, wrapped in an oat-meal-colored tweed ulster, and wearing tan boots and gloves. Hatless, his thick yellow hair flew back from his forehead in all directions, and as he walked he clapped his hands together and talked aloud to himself: “Learn from what has happened!”
My mother and brother had said that I must go and find April—but I knew not where or how. And my own father—whose advice on life ultimately seemed best fitted to my nature—spoke only of the estate. I found that Father had the best proposal; if I could not as yet associate with the object of my desire, perhaps a visit to the inanimate would inspire me. I strode from the wood and saddled Della.
Charles O'Brien makes it difficult to judge him. At the age of forty he seems not to have made any permanent relationship or experienced significant romantic liaisons. Judging from the tone of his utterances regarding April Burke, if there had been a notable love affair, or even a passing romance, he would almost certainly have mentioned it—unless he was practicing discretion.
Does this mean that he had known no strong feelings for any woman until he reached the age of forty? Or ever felt a desire to settle down? His connection with his parental home seems never to have dimmed. It remained his major port of call—as witnessed by the fact that after the cruelty of Paris he made straight for home and took solace there. Nor did he keep many secrets from his parents. He confided his feelings to the entire family and listened to their advice.
Overall, though, a picture is forming. In 1898, Auguste Rodin un-veiled his controversial statue of Balzac. It showed the novelist as a figure of some giantism. Wrapped in his robe, he stands huddled against the world, eyes deep-set, head held proud, his mane of hair a plaything of the breeze. Rodin gave Balzac more than a hint of Beethoven. The statue has bulk, and a ferocity of withdrawal, a denial of the world; this is a big man, somewhat preoccupied and defiant.
Charles O'Brien may have had none of Balzac's rage against the world, nor his frantic industry. Nor did he have Balzac's—or Beethoven's—desperation to write as much as he could as often as he could. He does, however, have a touch of the same “square peg” syndrome—but he has no great sense of it, no anguish at his own misfittingness.
And he does have the same hint of inner torture—which then escalated sharply under Miss Burke's brusque contempt. Also, in those early pages of his text, he defines a major chasm between how people perceive him and how he thinks they see him.
Who, therefore, was the real Charles O'Brien, and in which direction would he develop? Was he an undeveloped man with character blemishes or an amiable figure like his father? We are about to discover the key that will unlock him.
From years of local knowledge, imbibed unknowingly, I had the impression that Tipperary Castle touched deeply all who saw it. Not many knew of its existence, but those who had heard of it, who had traveled there in search of its legend and then found it, sighed with surprise and pleasure. It exceeded, I understood, what they had expected from the hearsay.
Many local people already knew the house's effect and visited it regularly; a number of them went there often, along their own paths through the wood or by the lake shore, simply to gaze.
Strangers discovered the place in the old formal way that was once open to all. First they struggled through an overgrown gate serene with lions on the pillars, then walked half a mile of a graveled avenue that had once been planted either side with great beauties of trees and flowering shrubs. Then, around a long, gentle corner, the house appeared—at the top of a slope, with green fields leading up t
o its forecourts. My mood, as I rode, varied between somber and gay. Would I be further cast down that I could not bring this estate into my life? Or would its sight fire me, inspire me, and in some mysterious fashion teach me the way forward?
I succeeded in opening part of the old gate sufficiently wide to lead Della through, and then I remounted. The avenue was quiet, save for a rustle here and there as a small animal slipped away from the intruding hooves. Then I rounded the corner—and gasped.
It commanded total attention, a full halt to take in its splendor. Who had ever seen such a building, such grandeur, such romantic mystery, except in the pages of a child's story-book? From a distance the house looked steady and intact, and the towers had such authority; the walls so strong, the terraces so wide, so generous, the little bridge so sound and firm. I had been here once before as a boy of twelve or so; but this view far excelled that memory.
The construction of the house had been famously sturdy; therefore ruin had entered with caution and it advanced only slowly. Shales of glinting slate held many blue-black expanses of the roof together, and the square eastern tower stood completely intact, with its battlements like rows of teeth.
A great front door stood askew within its frame, leaning as though it had a hand on its hip. It seemed barred in some way from inside. I remembered Father telling us that the timber had been so massive it took six men, using ramps and wedges, to hold the door in place while the carpenters hung it on hinges that were almost six feet deep; they secured it with nails seven inches long that they had fashioned at the site.
My father had told me not to expect too much from the place—he'd said he feared that damage must have been accumulating. From what I now saw, his fears were not justified. In the empty times after the owner's fate, local men had tried to plunder the house by entering through the door—but they had merely forced it partly off one hinge and then had to walk away, irked at the door's victory. They'd never tried again, preferring to talk about their defeat in terms of the door's heroic stature; it had, after all, been built and hung by their grandfathers. Lawyers (as I would learn) had then come by and established iron bars to secure the door further.