WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP, ELIZABETH A. SHARP [bill gates best books .txt] 📗

naturally had no

inclination towards any such feeling.

 

William Sharp’s great desire was that the Celtic spirit should be kept

alive, and be a moulding influence towards the expression of the racial

approach to and yearning after spiritual beauty, whether expressed in

Gaelic or in the English tongue. He knew that there is a tendency,

with the young of those people in Scotland at least, to put aside the

beautiful old thoughts, or at all events their outward expression, with

the disuse of the older language which had clothed those thoughts;

he feared that to put silence upon them would be to lose them after

a generation or two. Therefore it was his great hope that the genius

of the race would prove strong enough to express itself in either

language; and he realised that its influence would be more potent and

widespread if also it found expression in the English language. Thus a

misunderstanding arose; one of approach to the subject rather than in

essentials.

 

The Irish Press was divided in opinion concerning “Celtic,” especially

_The Irish Independent_, _Freeman’s Journal_ and _All Ireland Review_.

In the latter a correspondence began. One writer welcomed the Essay

as coming from one “possessed, as no other writer of our time is

possessed, with a sense of the faculty and mission of the Celt, and

shows not only deep intuition but the power to see life steadily and to

see it as a whole.”

 

“A. E.” however, was of another opinion. He considered the essay to

be out of place “in a book otherwise inspired by the artist’s desire

to shape in a beautiful way”; to be semi-political and inaccurate as

an expression of the passionate aimes of the Irish Celt; and he took

exception to the expression of belief ‘there is no racial road to

beauty.’

 

M. replied and endeavoured to make more clear her position; but

without success, as a subsequent letter from the Irish poet proved.

Another writer showed that there was obviously a confusion of two ideas

between the disputants—and Mr. T. W. Rolleston closed the discussion

with a letter in which he quietly pointed out the misapprehensions on

both sides and concluded with the generous admission: “Fiona Macleod

is most emphatically a helper, not a hinderer in this work, and one of

the most potent we have. For my own part I think her essay ‘Celtic’

indicates the lines on which we may most successfully work.” William

Sharp realised that since his essay had given rise to misapprehension

of his aims and ideas, it would be well to further elucidate them;

that moreover, as “F. M.” wrote to Mr. Russell, “a truer understanding

has come to me in one or two points where we have been at issue.” He,

therefore, revised and enlarged his essay, and, with an added Foreword

of explanation, had it published separately in America by Mr. T. B.

Mosher; and, finally, he included it in _The Winged Destiny_.

 

In the early autumn the following letter came to my husband from

overseas:

 

 

  BRONXVILLE, N. Y.,

 

  Sept. 26, 1900.

 

  MY DEAREST GUILIELMO,

 

 In this last year of _my_ Century, among my little and exceptional

 attempts to celebrate my coming birthday—I wish that you the most leal

 and loved of our English friends, may receive for once a word from me

 before its sun goes down. Probably you are in some Lodge of the lake of

 your Northern Night, or off for the Mountains of the Moon. Still, even

 your restless and untamed spirit must by this time have been satisfied

 of wandering; at any rate, I doubt not this will in the end find you

 somewhere, and then you will know that my heart began to go out to you

 as I neared another milestone ... it has suffered enough and lost enough

 to make it yearn fondly for the frank face and dear words of a kindred,

 though fresher heart like yours. I have a few devoted sons, and you are

 one of them....

 

 My remembrances to Mrs. Sharp and to Fiona McL—— whether she be real

 or hypothetical. If I could have spared the means, and had had the

 strength, I would have completed my recovery by a voyage to you and

 England last summer....

 

  Ever devotedly yours,

 

C. STEDMAN.

 

The “restless spirit” was by no means tired of wandering. Partly owing

to the insistence of circumstance, partly from choice, we began that

autumn a series of wanderings that brought us back to London and to

Scotland for a few weeks only each summer. The climate of England

proved too severe; my husband had been seriously ill in the New Year.

Despite his appearance of great vitality, his extraordinary power

of recuperation after every illness—which in a measure was due to

his buoyant nature, to his deliberate turning of his mind away from

suffering or from failure and “looking sunwise,” to his endeavour to

get the best out of whatever conditions he had to meet—we realised

that a home in England was no longer a possibility, that it would be

wise to make various experiments abroad rather than attempt to settle

anywhere permanently. Indeed, we were both glad to have no plans, but

to wander again how and where inclination and possibilities dictated.

Early in October he wrote to Mr. Murray Gilchrist from London:

 

 

 MY DEAR ROBERT,

 

 A little ago, on sitting down in my club to answer some urgent

 notes (and whence I now write) my heart leapt with pleasure, and an

 undeserving stranger received Part I of a beaming welcome—for the waiter

 announced that “Mr. Gilchrist would like to see you, Sir.” Alas, it was

 no dear Peaklander, but only a confounded interviewer about the Stage

 Society!...

 

 Elizabeth and I leave England on the morning of the 12th—and go first

 to the South of Provence, near Marseilles: after Yule-tide we’ll go on

 to Italy, perhaps first to Shelley’s Spezzia or to Pegli of the Orange

 Groves near Genoa: and there we await you, or at furthest a little

 later, say in Florence. We shall be away till the end of March.

 

 Meanwhile ‘tis all unpleasantness and incertitude: much to do and little

 pleasure in the doing: a restlessness too great to be salved short of

 departure, and the longed for mental and nervous rest far away.

 

 I have just returned from a flying visit to Dorset, and saw Thomas

 Hardy. He is well, and at work: the two happiest boons of fortune for

 all our kinship—and therein I hope _you_ are at one with him. I wish you

 could run up and see our first Stage Society production this weekend

 (Sunday) when we bring out a short play by Hardy and R. L. Stevenson and

 Henley’s ‘Macaire.’ (I resigned my Chairmanship but was re-elected: and

 so am extra busy before I go.)

 

  Your loving friend,

  WILL.

 

S. Miss Macleod’s drama ‘The Immortal Hour’ is in the November

_Fortnightly_, also her article “The Gael and His Heritage” in the

November _Nineteenth Century_.

 

And in addition to these a study on the Dramas of Gabriele d’Annunzio

appeared in _The Fortnightly_, in September, signed “W. S.”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

To Mr. Macleay he sent an account of the work he had on hand:

 

 

  AIX-EN-PROVENCE,

 

  30th Nov., 1900.

 

  DEAR MR. MACLEAY,

 

 Your friendly note has reached me here, where I have been some time,

 this being my best centre in Provence at this season for my special

 studies in Provencal literature and history. My wife and I expect to

 remain here till about Christmas time, and then to go on to Italy.

 

 Pressure of urgent work—chiefly a lengthy volume on the Evolution of

 the Fine Arts in the Nineteenth Century, primarily for transatlantic

 publication—prevented my being much in Scotland this autumn. I was

 a brief while in Galloway visiting friends, and for a week or so at

 Portpatrick, and a few days in Edinburgh—c’est tout.

 

 At one time there was a chance that I might be near Taynuilt, and I

 looked forward greatly to see Mr. Alexander Carmichael again. He is a

 splendid type of the true Highlander, and of a nature incomparably sweet

 and refined—and I have the greatest admiration of him in all ways....

 

 A remarkable family, and I would to Heaven there were more such families

 in the Highlands now. Yes, _what_ a book _Carmina Gadelica_ is! It

 ought to become as precious to the Scottish Gael as the Greek Anthology

 to all who love the Hellenic ideal, but with a more poignant, a more

 personal appeal.... I can’t tell you about Miss Macleod’s historical

 romance for the good reason that I don’t know anything about its present

 prospects myself. Personally I regret the long postponement, as I think

 (judging from what I have seen) that it would be a success as a romance

 of history. Miss Macleod, however, became dissatisfied with what she

 had done, or its atmosphere, or both, and has not touched it again for

 some months past—though the last time she spoke of the subject she

 said she hoped it would be ready by midsummer.... I am myself heavily

 engaged in work, including many commissions. I’ve finished an essay on

 “Impressionism” (“The Impressionist” I call it) for the forthcoming

 new monthly, _The North Liberal Review_, and am now in the throes of

 a long _Quarterly_ article. Then I have a Provencal book on hand, and

 (interlusive) a Provencal romance.

 

 You will, of course, keep all I have said of myself and doings, and

 still more importantly of Miss Macleod, to yourself. I don’t think she

 wants anyone save friends and acquaintances to know that she is abroad,

 and for her health. And above all needing rest as she is, she dreads the

 slightest addition to a correspondence already beyond her capacities.

 

 Before I left London I read with deep interest the opening instalments

 of Neil Munro’s new book _Doom Castle_. It promises, I think, to be his

 _chef-d’œuvre_.

 

 Write to me again soon, with news of your doings and prospects.

 

  Yours sincerely,

 

  WILLIAM SHARP.

 

The Provencal romance that he was mentally projecting—the never

written _Gypsy Trail_—was in part to have dealt with his early gipsy

experiences. One among other things which revived this strain of memory

was our near vicinage to Les Sainte-Maries, in Provence, where the

bones of Sarah, the gipsy servant of “les Maries,” are enshrined; also

he had recently read the vivid description of the gathering of the

gipsy tribes at that Shrine on her Feast day, written by the Provencal

novelist Jean Aicard, in his _Le Roi des Camargues_.

 

During my husband’s first visit to Provence he had been much interested

in meeting certain members of Les Félibres, the Provencal literary and

linguistic Nationalists. He visited Frederick Mistral in his charming

country home and noticed the similarity of physical type shared by the

Provencal and himself. I, also, was struck by the likeness between the

two men and thought that Mistral might easily have passed for elder

brother of his Scots _confrère_. At Avignon we saw Madame Roumanille,

the sister of Felix Gras, and widow of one of the founders of Les

Félibres, and her poet-daughter, Térèse, who inherited her father’s

gift. At Aix we met Mistral’s god-daughter Madame Marie Gasquet,

daughter of the poet M. Gerard, another of the original group of

workers in the old _Langue d’Œuil_. Madame Gasquet was the wife of the

young poet, Joachim Gasquet, between whom and my husband there grew up

a warm friendship.

 

PART II  ( FIONA MACLEOD  ) CHAPTER XXII ( PROVENCE )

_Maniace_

 

 

New Year’s Day found us at Palermo where my husband was enchanted

at being presented with a little pottle of freshly gathered wild

strawberries; a week later we traversed the island to Taormina, whence

he wrote to Mrs. Janvier:

 

 

  MONTE VENERE, TAORMINA,

 

  25th Jan., 1901.

 

 ... Today it was too warm to work contentedly indoors even upon our

 little terrace with its superb views over Etna and the Ionian Sea—so

 at 9 a.m. Elizabeth and I, with a young painter-friend came up here

 to a divine spot on the slopes of the steep and grand-shouldered

 Hill of Venus, bringing with us our writing and sketching materials

 and also fruit and wine and light luncheon. It is now about 3 p.m.

 and we have lain here