WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) 📖

13 Thorngate Road, Sutherland Gardens,

in deep depression; his persistent appeals to the Railway Company

were unavailing. As the autumn advanced his old enemy rheumatism took

hold of him, and he was laid low again with rheumatic fever, which

this time attacked his heart mainly. His sister Mary came up to town

and she and I nursed him. The best tonic however toward recovery was

the reappearance of the lost portmanteau with its much mourned over

contents in a soaked and sodden condition, but still legible and

serviceable.

 

In the Introduction to a selection of Philip Marston’s Poems my husband

relates that:

 

“During the spring months of 1884 I was residing at Dover, and in

April Marston came down from London to spend a week or so with me. The

weather was perfect, and our walks by shore and cliff were full of

delight to us both. Once or twice we crossed to Calais for the sake of

the sail, and spent a few hours in the old French port, and returned

by the afternoon boat. In the evenings, after dinner, we invariably

adjourned to the beach, either under the eastern bluffs, or along the

base of Shakespeare’s Cliff, for the music of the sea, in calm or tidal

turbulence or tempest, had an unfailing fascination for him.

 

“He took keen pleasure in learning how to distinguish the songs of the

different birds, and all spring’s sounds and scents were sources of

exquisite pleasure. How well I remember the rapt expression of puzzled

delight which animated his face, as one day we crossed some downs to

the westward of Folkestone. ‘Oh, what is that?’ he cried eagerly; and

to my surprise I found that what had so excited him was the crying of

the young lambs as they stumbled or frisked about their mothers. He had

so seldom been out of London in early spring that so common an incident

as this had all the charm of newness to him.

 

“A frisky youngster was eagerly enticed alongside, and the blind poet’s

almost childlike happiness in playing with the woolly little creature

was something delightful to witness. A little later I espied one which

had only been a few hours in the world, and speedily placed it in

his arms. He would fain have carried it away with him: in his tender

solicitude for it he was like a mother over her first-born.

 

“As we turned to walk homeward we met a boy holding a young starling

in his hand. Its feeble strident cries, its funny little beak closing

upon his finger under the impression it was a gigantic worm, delighted

him almost as much as the lambkin. ‘A day of days!’ was his expressive

commentary, as tired and hungry we reached home and sat down to dinner,

with the deep boom of the sea clearly audible through the open window.”

 

From Dover W. S. went to Paris for the first time in his capacity as

Art Critic, and thoroughly enjoyed himself as this letter to me shows:

 

 

PARIS, 10th April, 1884.

 

What remains of me after to-day’s heat now writes to you. This morning

I spent half an hour or so in M. Bourget’s study—and was flattered

to find a well-read copy of my _Rossetti_ there. He had a delightful

library of books, and, for a Frenchman, quite a respectable number by

English writers: amongst other things, I was most interested in seeing

a shelf of about 30 volumes with letters or inscriptions inside from

the corresponding contemporary critics, philosophists, etc. M. Bourget

is fortunate in his friends.

 

I then went to breakfast with him at a famous Café, frequented chiefly

by _hommes de lettres_. At our table we were soon joined by Hennequin

and two others. After breakfast (a most serious matter!) I adjourned

with Bourget to his club, La Société Historique, Cercle St. Simon, and

while there was introduced to one or two people, and made an honorary

member with full privileges. I daresay Bourget’s name is better known

to you as a poet, but generally his name is more familiar as the author

of “Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine”—an admirable series of studies

on the works and genius of Baudelaire, Renan, Gustave Flaubert, Taine,

and Stendhal. He very kindly gave me a copy (which I am glad to have

from him, though I knew the book already) and in it he wrote

 

  À William Sharp

      de son confrère

          Paul Bourget.

 

After leaving him I recrossed the Champs Elysées—perspired so freely

that the Seine perceptibly rose—sank exhausted on a seat at the Café de

la Paix—dwelt in ecstasy while absorbing a _glace aux pistaches_—then

went back to the Grand Hotel—and to my room, where after a bit I set to

and finished my concluding Grosvenor Gallery Notice.

 

On Sunday, if I can manage it, I will go to Mdme. Blavatsky.

 

On Monday Bourget comes here for me at twelve, and we breakfast

together (he with me this time)—and I then go to M. Lucien Mariex, who

is to take and introduce me to M. Muntz, the writer of the best of the

many books on Raphael and an influential person in the Bibliothèque

Nationale. Somebody else is to take me to look at some of the private

treasures in the École des Beaux Arts. In the course of the week I

am to see Alphonse Daudet, and Bourget is going to introduce me to

Émile Zola. As early as practicable I hope to get to Neuilly to see M.

Milsand, but don’t know when. If practicable I am also to meet François

Coppée (the chief living French poet after Victor Hugo)—also M. M.

Richepin, F. Mistral (author of _Miréio_), and one or two others.

Amongst artists I am looking forward to meeting Bouguereau, Cormin,

Puvis de Chavannes, and Jules Breton. As much as any one else, I look

forward to making the acquaintance of Guizot to whose house I am going

shortly with M. Bourget. There is really a delightful fraternity here

amongst the literary and artistic world. And every one seems to want to

do something for me, and I feel as much flattered as I am pleased. Of

course my introductions have paved the way, and, besides, Bourget has

said a great deal about me as a writer—too much, I know.”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

The two important events of 1884 were the publication of a second

volume of Poems, and our marriage.

 

In June _Earth’s Voices_ (Elliot Stock) was issued and was well

received at home and in America. In an article on William Sharp and

Fiona Macleod written for _The Century_ in 1906 Mr. Ernest Rhys wrote

of this volume:

 

“There was an impassioned delight in nature—in nature at large, that

is—in her seas and skies, or in her scenery subjectively coloured by

lyric emotion to be found in these early books.

 

“Perhaps one of his Northern poems may best serve to illustrate his

faculty; and there is one that is particularly to the purpose, since it

sketches ‘Moonrise’ from the very spot—Iona—with which so many of the

‘Fiona’ tales and fantasies were to be connected afterward.

 

  Here where in dim forgotten days,

  A savage people chanted lays

  To long since perished gods, I stand:

  The sea breaks in, runs up the sand,

  Retreats as with a long-drawn sigh,

  Sweeps in again, again leaves dry

  The ancient beach, so old and yet

  So new that as the strong tides fret

  The island barriers in their flow

  The ebb hours of each day can know

  A surface change. The day is dead,

  The Sun is set, and overhead

  The white north stars set keen and bright;

  The wind upon the sea is light

  And just enough to stir the deep

  With phosphorescent gleams and sweep

  The spray from salt waves as they rise.

 

“Sharp’s early work is more like that of a lyric improvisator than of a

critical modern poet. At this period he cared more for the free colours

of verse than for exact felicity of phrase. His writings betrayed a

constant quest after those hardly realisable regions of thought, and

those keener lyric emotions, which, since Shelley wrote and Rossetti

wrote and painted, have so often occupied the interpreters of the

vision and spectacle of nature.

 

“One may find this variously attempted or half expressed in several

of the poems of his second book. In one called ‘A Record’ (to which a

special inscription drew attention in the copy he sent me), he treats

very fancifully the mystery of transmigration. He pictures himself

sitting in his room, and there he resumes the lives, and states of

being, of many savage types of man and beast viewed in passion and

action—the tiger, the eagle, and the primitive man who lighted the fire

that consumed the dry scrub and his fellow-tribesmen:

 

  He looks around to see some god,

  And far upon the fire-scorched sod

  He sees his brown-burnt tribesmen lie,

  And thinks their voices fill the sky,

  And dreads some unseen sudden blow—

  And even as I watch him, lo,

  My savage-self I seem to know.

 

“Or again he reincarnates the Druid:

 

  And dreaming so I dream my dream:

  I see a flood of moonlight gleam

  Between vast ancient oaks, and round

  A rough-hewn altar on the ground

  Weird Druid priests are gathered

  While through their midst a man is led

  With face that seems already dead.

 

“And again the type is changed into a Shelleyan recluse, a hermit who

had had retreated to his cave, and that hermit

 

  Was even that soul mine eyes have traced

  Through brute and savage steadily,

  That he even now is part of me

  Just as a wave is of the sea.

 

“If there are traces of Shelley in this poem, Rossetti and Swinburne

have also their echo in some of its rhapsodic, highly figurative

stanzas. There are unmistakable germs in it, too, of some of the

supernatural ideas that afterward received a much more vital expression

in ‘Fiona Macleod’s’ work.”

 

The volume was dedicated to his friend Walter Pater and from him and

other writers and friends he received many interesting letters, and

from them I select the following:

 

 

  2 BRADMORE ROAD, May 28th.

 

  MY DEAR SHARP,

 

I was just thinking of sending off my long-delayed acknowledgment

of your charming volume, with its friendly dedication (which I take

as a great compliment, and sincerely thank you for) when your post

card arrived. These new poems must, I feel sure, add much to your

poetic reputation. I have just finished my first reading of them; but

feel that I shall have to go back many times to appreciate all their

complex harmonies of sense and rhythm. On a first superficial reading,

I incline to think that the marks of power cluster most about the

poem of _Sospitra_. Also, I prefer the _Transcripts from Nature_, to

the various poems included in _Earth’s Voices_, admirable as I think

many of the latter to be, e. g., The Song of the Flowers, The Field

Mouse, The Song of the Thrush, The Cry of the Tiger, The Chant of the

Lion, The Hymn of the Autumn. This looks shamefully matter-of-fact.

But then, you asked me to tell you precisely which I preferred. _The

Shadowed Souls_, among the short pieces, I find very beautiful. The

whole volume seems to me distinguishable among latter-day poetry for

its cheerfulness and animation, and of course the Australian pieces are

delightfully novel and fresh. Many thanks, again, from

 

  Yours very sincerely,

  WALTER H. PATER.

 

 

In an article on Christina Rossetti, William Sharp relates:

 

“In the beginning of May, 1884, I called to see Miss Rossetti and to

leave with her a copy of a just-published volume of verse, but failed

to find her at home. The poem I cared most for was the epilogue,

_Madonna Natura_, but instinct told me Miss Rossetti would neither like

nor approve so pagan an utterance, and the surmise was correct:

 

 

  30 TORRINGTON SQUARE, W. C.,

  May 3, 1884.

 

  DEAR MR. SHARP,

 

I might say “Why do you call just when we are out?” only that you might

retort “Why are you out just when I call?”

 

Thank you very much for your new volume and yet more for the kindness

which enriches the gift. Be sure my Mother and I retain you in friendly

remembrance.

 

An imperfect acquaintance with your text inclines me for the present to

prefer “the Thames” amongst rivers, and the “West” among winds, and the

“Thrush” among song-birds. So also “Deserts” to “Cornfields.”

 

Of course all the pieces which memorialise our dear Gabriel interest us.

 

And “Ah Sin” I like and sympathise with: and I fear it is only too

lifelike. Shall I or shall I not say anything about “Madre Natura”? I

dare say without my taking the liberty of expressing myself you can (if

you think it worth while) put my regret into words.

 

  Very truly yours,

  CHRISTINA G.