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

am (I suppose) the only specialist

among English men of letters—the Belgian literary Renaissance since

It is entitled “La Jeune Belgique,” and will appear in (I

understand) the September number of _The Nineteenth Century_....”

 

“ ... We must each ‘gang our ain gait.’ I’m singularly indifferent to

what other people think in any matter where I feel strongly myself.

Perhaps it is for this reason that I am rarely ‘put out’ by adverse

criticism or opinion—except on technical shortcomings. I do a lot of

my own work here lying out on the sand-dunes by the sea. Yesterday I

had a strange experience. I was writing in pencil in _Pharais_ of death

by the sea—and almost at my feet a drowned corpse was washed in by the

tide and the slackening urgency of the previous night’s gale. The body

proves to be that of a man from the opposite Forfar coast. It had been

five days in the water, and death had played havoc with his dignity

of lifeless manhood. I learned later that his companion had been

found three days ago, tide-drifted in the estuary of the Tay. It was

only a bit of flotsam, in a sense, but that poor derelict so sullenly

surrendered of the sea changed for me, for a time, the aspect of those

blithe waters I love so well. In the evening I walked along the same

sands. The sea purred like a gigantic tigress, with a whisper of peace

and rest and an infinite sweet melancholy. What a sepulchral fraud....

 

“Life seems to move, now high and serene and incredibly swift as an

albatross cleaving the upper air, now as a flood hurled across rocks

and chasms and quicksands. But it is all life—even the strangely still

and quiet backwaters, even, indeed, the same healthful commonplace

lagoons where one havens so gladly often....”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

Three months later, he wrote to Mr. Richard Stoddart and proposed

for serial publication in _Lippincotts_ a romance to be called

_Nostalgia_—which was never written. In the same letter he speaks of

“another story, _Pharais_,” which he describes as “written deeply in

the Celtic spirit and from the Celtic standpoint.” Neither suggestion

was accepted; and the author decided to issue _Pharais_ as soon as

possible in book form, and not under his own name.

 

When in the following year the book was published the author,

forgetting that he had ever written Mrs. Janvier about it, sent a

copy of it to her, and said merely that it was a book in which he was

interested. Whereupon she wrote and asked if the book were not his own,

and he replied:

 

“ ... Yes, _Pharais is mine_. It is a book out of my heart, out of the

core of my heart. I wrote it with the pen dipped in the very ichor of

my life. It has reached people more than I dreamt of as likely. In

Scotland especially it has stirred and created a new movement. Here,

men like George Meredith, Grant Allen, H. D. Traill, and Theodore Watts

hailed it as a ‘work of genius.’ Ignored in some quarters, abused

in others, and unheeded by the ‘general reader,’ it has yet had a

reception that has made me deeply glad. It is the beginning of my true

work. Only one or two know I am ‘Fiona Macleod.’ Let you and my dear

T.A.J. preserve my secret. I trust you.

 

“You will find more of me in _Pharais_ than in anything I have written.

Let me add that you will find _The Mountain Lovers_, at which I am now

writing when I can, more elemental still, while simpler.... By blood I

am part Celt, and partly so by upbringing, by Spirit wholly so.... One

day I will tell you of some of the strange old mysteries of earlier

days I have part learned, part divined, and other things of the spirit.

You can understand how I cannot do my true work, in this accursed

London.”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

A little later he wrote:

 

 “ ... I resent too close identification with the so-called Celtic

 renaissance. If my work is to depend solely on its Gaelic connection,

 then let it go, as go it must. My work must be beautiful in

 itself—Beauty is a Queen and must be served as a Queen.

 

 “ ... You have asked me once or twice about F. M., why I took her name:

 and how and when she came to write _Pharais_. It is too complex to

 tell you just now.... The name was born naturally: (of course I had

 associations with the name Macleod.) It, Fiona, is very rare now. Most

 Highlanders would tell you it was extinct—even as the diminutive of

 Fionaghal (Flora). But it is not. It is an old Celtic name (meaning “a

 fair maid”) still occasionally to be found. I know a little girl, the

 daughter of a Highland clergyman, who is called Fiona. _All_ my work is

 so intimately wrought with my own experiences that I cannot tell you

 about _Pharais_, etc., without telling you my whole life.”

 

As a matter of fact _Pharais_ was not the first written expression

of the new work. It was preceded by a short story entitled “The Last

Fantasy of James Achanna” that in the autumn of 1893 was sent to _The

Scots Observer_. It was declined by Mr. Henley who, however, wrote a

word of genuine encouragement. He accepted Mr. Henley’s decision, and

the story was never reprinted in its first form. It was re-written

several times; it was included in _The Dominion of Dreams_ as “The

Archer.” During the writing of _Pharais_ the author began to realise

how much the feminine element dominated in the book, that it grew out

of the subjective, or feminine side of his nature. He, therefore,

decided to issue the book under the name of _Fiona Macleod_, that

“flashed ready made” into his mind. Mrs. Janvier wrote later and asked

why he, a man, chose to send forth good work under the signature of a

woman. He answered:

 

 “ ... I can write out of my heart in a way I could not do as William

 Sharp, and indeed I could not do so if I were the woman Fiona Macleod is

 supposed to be, unless veiled in scrupulous anonymity....

 

 “This rapt sense of oneness with nature, this _cosmic ecstasy_ and

 elation, this wayfaring along the extreme verges of the common world,

 all this is so wrought up with the romance of life that I could not

 bring myself to expression by my outer self, insistent and tyrannical as

 that need is.... My truest self, the self who is below all other selves,

 and my most intimate life and joys and sufferings, thoughts, emotions

 and dreams, _must_ find expression, yet I cannot save in this hidden

 way.”

 

He was wont to say “Should the secret be found out, Fiona dies.” Later

in the year he wrote: “Sometimes I am tempted to believe I am half

a woman, and so far saved as I am by the hazard of chance from what

a woman can be made to suffer if one let the light of the common day

illuminate the avenues and vistas of her heart....”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

A copy of _Vistas_ and one of _Pharais_ were sent to George Meredith,

who wrote in acknowledgment to the author:

 

 

  BOX HILL, July 5, 1894.

 

  DEAR MR. SHARP,

 

 ‘Vistas’ gave me pleasure, and a high lift at times. There is the breath

 in it. Only beware of a hurried habit of mind that comes of addiction to

 Impressionist effects. They engender that mood in readers ultimately.

 

 ‘Pharais’ is in many respects most admirable—pure Celtic salt. I should

 have written to thank the writer before this: but I am at work up to an

 hour of the dinner bell day by day at the finish of this novel—and not

 too happy about it.

 

 Will you beg Miss Macleod’s excuse of me for the moment? Her book is one

 to fly sure to the mark. I hope you will come to me in September, when I

 shall be back there.

 

 Give my warm respects to your wife.

 

  Ever faithfully yours,

  GEORGE MEREDITH.

 

The following letter to Mr. Grant Allen is one of the earliest that

were signed with the pseudonym:

 

  1894.

 

  GRANT ALLEN, ESQ.:

  DEAR SIR,

 

 I have only now ascertained that you are in England. I was informed that

 you were in the south of France. Some short time ago I asked Mr. Frank

 Murray of Derby to forward to you a copy of my just published romance

 _Pharais_. I now write to ask if you will accept it as a slight token

 of homage from the youngest and latest of Celtic writers to the most

 brilliant champion of the Celtic genius now living. I do not, however,

 send it by way of inveigling you to write about it, much as any word of

 yours would mean to me both in service and honour: but primarily because

 of your deep and vivid sympathy not only with nature but with the Celtic

 vision of nature—and, also, let me add, because of the many delightful

 hours I have enjoyed with your writings.

 

  Faithfully yours,

  FIONA MACLEOD.

 

Mr. Grant Allen replied:

 

 

  THE CROFT, HINDHEAD.

 

  DEAR MADAM,

 

 I thank you for your book, and still more for your charming and too

 flattering letter. _Pharais_ strikes me as a beautiful and poetical

 piece of work. It is instinct with the dreamy Celtic genius, and seems

 to come to us straight from the Isles of the Dead. That shadowy Ossianic

 spirit, as of your misty straits and your floating islands, reminds me

 exactly of the outlook from the western mountains over the summer-blue

 belted sea as I saw it once on an August morning at Oban. Too shadowy,

 sometimes, and too purely poetical, I fear, for your Saxon readers. But

 the opening sentences are beautiful, and the nature-studies and the

 sense of colour throughout are charming. Now, after so much praise,

 will you forgive a few questions and a word of criticism? You are, I

 take it, a young writer, and so an older hand may give you a hint or

 two. Don’t another time interlard your English with Gaelic. Even a

 confirmed Celtomaniac like myself finds it a trifle distracting. Don’t

 say “the English,” and “the Gaelic.” Give a little more story to less

 pure poetry. Of course I recognise that your work is an idyll, not a

 novel, a cameo, not a woodcut; but even so, it seems to me a trifle too

 dreamy. Forgive this frankness, and remember that success still lies in

 the lap of the Saxon. Also that we Celts have our besetting sins, and

 that perfection in literature lies in avoiding excess in any direction,

 even that of one’s own best qualities. Now a question or two—because

 you interest me. How in English letters would you write _Pharais_

 phonetically, or as near it as our clumsy southern lips can compass? (I

 have not “the Gaelic,” and my Celtic blood is half Irish, half Breton.)

 And how “Fiona?” Is it something like Feena? And are you Miss or Mrs.?

 And do you live in Edinburgh? If ever you come south, we hope you will

 let us know; for my wife read your book before I did, and interested me

 in it by sketching the story for me. Now see how long a letter I have

 written unto you, going the Apostle one better, with my own left hand:

 only the busiest man in England could have found time to do it.

 

  Faithfully yours,

  GRANT ALLEN.

 

Questions as to the identity of the author were already ‘in the air’;

“F. M’s” answer to Mr. Allen shows that the author felt ‘her’ security

menaced:

 

 

  KILCREGGAN, ARGYLL,

  1894.

 

  DEAR MR. GRANT ALLEN,

 

 You are very kind indeed—both to write to me, you who are so busy, and

 to promise to do anything you can for my book. It is very good of you.

 Truly, it is the busiest people who find time to do what is impossible

 to idle folk....

 

 I have just had a letter of deeply gratifying praise and recognition

 from Mr. George Meredith, who says he finds my work ‘rare and

 distinctive.’ He writes one phrase, memorable as coming from him: “Be

 sure that I am among those readers of yours whom you kindle.”

 

 Permit me, dear Mr. Allen, to make a small request of you. If you are

 really going to be so kind as to say anything about my book I trust you

 will not hint playfully at any other authorship having suggested itself

 to you—or, indeed, at my name being a pseudonym. And, sure, it will be

 for pleasure to me if you will be as scrupulous with Mr. Meredith or

 anyone else in private, as in public, if chance should ever bring my

 insignificant self into any chit-chat.

 

 My name is really Fiona