length of time that the kiss should linger: “Think of romantic interest, not cannibalism”; and “The teeth must never touch the lady's flesh.”
Also, she said, I should create “a compartment” in my mind which contained the knowledge of this kissing technique and “it should never, ever, not on any account, be used for anything other than the kissing of hands.” Buckley said, “That's multiple ways not true.”
Mrs. Curry always became quite excited during this instruction, and Buckley assured me—mystifying to me then—that she had “let her mind wander.”
All in all, they taught me well, if eccentrically. I have been imprinted with some of their habits. Where Buckley said an expectant “Well, now” when he walked into a room, Mr. Halloran rubbed his hands; I do both. I have Miss Taylor's swiftly raised eyebrow, Mrs. Curry's nervous belch. And although they differed widely in their teaching methods, they all exercised one delightful practice for which I am most grateful of all—they conducted tuitions in the open air. When the weather permitted, which, in truth, happened on more days than not, “Teaching becomes walking,” to use Miss Taylor's rendition.
Such an education tells a great deal about the young Charles O'Brien's family. Modern Ireland has been called “classless,” and it's true that, in terms of social hierarchy, today's divisions are defined by meritocracy. However, before the creation of the two states of Ireland in the treaty of 1921, a marked social division already existed between the native Irish and their Anglo-Irish landlords.
Mr. O'Brien's earlier definition of the Anglo-Irish has an accurate—if unnuanced—ring to it: “that peculiar breed of people of English ancestry who settled in Ireland on land that was taken by force from the native Irish.” But he neglects to say (although he implies it) that he was educated in the Anglo-Irish tradition of tutors and governesses—in other words, in the tradition of the European aristocracy.
The subtlety of his not saying so—or even being conscious of it— derives from his Catholic father's example. While enjoying the life of an English or Anglo-Irish landlord, Bernard O'Brien also wished to keep on the best possible terms with his native Irish forebears and neighbors.
And he knew how to do so; that was part of the vigilance. He had married a Protestant girl, and thereby appeased the ruling classes while not becoming one of them. And, by mixing easily and amiably with his Catholic neighbors at all levels—he seems to have employed only Catholics—he obstructed any resentment of his Anglo-Irish style of life.
The house in which Charles O'Brien was born and raised may easily be viewed today—a strong mansion on a hill. O'Briens no longer live there; an American family now owns the estate. The woods and its botanical curiosities still exist, as does the walled garden; and the fields that Charles O'Brien and his father so loved show a long history of excellent farm maintenance.
My family's home, Ardobreen, is painted a strong pink; it still stands, on a crest overlooking the road that travels between Tipperary and Cashel. The pigeons
roo-coo-coo
on slender white columns that support a portico over the front door; deep bow windows curve on either side of the entrance. Great lawns roll away from our terrace, down to a dense, downhill wood, over whose treetops we had views to the Galtee Mountains. Through this wood run paths that were cut by our great predecessor, Captain Ferguson, an eccentric officer who had inherited part of this land and who liked to walk naked about the fields at night-time (and sometimes by day).
I say “great” predecessor because Captain Ferguson made the wood his especial project. He purchased semi-mature, and sometimes mature, trees from all sorts of quarters, including abroad, but mainly from the estates of his friends on the southwest coast of Ireland. Around Glengarriff and Bantry, many
Also, she said, I should create “a compartment” in my mind which contained the knowledge of this kissing technique and “it should never, ever, not on any account, be used for anything other than the kissing of hands.” Buckley said, “That's multiple ways not true.”
Mrs. Curry always became quite excited during this instruction, and Buckley assured me—mystifying to me then—that she had “let her mind wander.”
All in all, they taught me well, if eccentrically. I have been imprinted with some of their habits. Where Buckley said an expectant “Well, now” when he walked into a room, Mr. Halloran rubbed his hands; I do both. I have Miss Taylor's swiftly raised eyebrow, Mrs. Curry's nervous belch. And although they differed widely in their teaching methods, they all exercised one delightful practice for which I am most grateful of all—they conducted tuitions in the open air. When the weather permitted, which, in truth, happened on more days than not, “Teaching becomes walking,” to use Miss Taylor's rendition.
Such an education tells a great deal about the young Charles O'Brien's family. Modern Ireland has been called “classless,” and it's true that, in terms of social hierarchy, today's divisions are defined by meritocracy. However, before the creation of the two states of Ireland in the treaty of 1921, a marked social division already existed between the native Irish and their Anglo-Irish landlords.
Mr. O'Brien's earlier definition of the Anglo-Irish has an accurate—if unnuanced—ring to it: “that peculiar breed of people of English ancestry who settled in Ireland on land that was taken by force from the native Irish.” But he neglects to say (although he implies it) that he was educated in the Anglo-Irish tradition of tutors and governesses—in other words, in the tradition of the European aristocracy.
The subtlety of his not saying so—or even being conscious of it— derives from his Catholic father's example. While enjoying the life of an English or Anglo-Irish landlord, Bernard O'Brien also wished to keep on the best possible terms with his native Irish forebears and neighbors.
And he knew how to do so; that was part of the vigilance. He had married a Protestant girl, and thereby appeased the ruling classes while not becoming one of them. And, by mixing easily and amiably with his Catholic neighbors at all levels—he seems to have employed only Catholics—he obstructed any resentment of his Anglo-Irish style of life.
The house in which Charles O'Brien was born and raised may easily be viewed today—a strong mansion on a hill. O'Briens no longer live there; an American family now owns the estate. The woods and its botanical curiosities still exist, as does the walled garden; and the fields that Charles O'Brien and his father so loved show a long history of excellent farm maintenance.
My family's home, Ardobreen, is painted a strong pink; it still stands, on a crest overlooking the road that travels between Tipperary and Cashel. The pigeons
roo-coo-coo
on slender white columns that support a portico over the front door; deep bow windows curve on either side of the entrance. Great lawns roll away from our terrace, down to a dense, downhill wood, over whose treetops we had views to the Galtee Mountains. Through this wood run paths that were cut by our great predecessor, Captain Ferguson, an eccentric officer who had inherited part of this land and who liked to walk naked about the fields at night-time (and sometimes by day).
I say “great” predecessor because Captain Ferguson made the wood his especial project. He purchased semi-mature, and sometimes mature, trees from all sorts of quarters, including abroad, but mainly from the estates of his friends on the southwest coast of Ireland. Around Glengarriff and Bantry, many
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