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

your relation towards Miss Macleod, you might be able

to tell me where I could obtain any personal information about her.” In

reply, a few sparse notes were sent; the author in question was said to

have passed her girlhood in the West Highlands; her tastes, her dislike

of towns and her love of seclusion, were among the characteristics

described.

 

When, early in 1896, _The Highland News_ wrote to several authors to

ask their views on the subject of Literature in the Highlands, Mr.

Grant Allen, Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hinkson, Fiona Macleod and William

Sharp were among those writers whose letters, expressive of interest

and sympathy, were published.

 

The two letters contributed by my husband were written necessarily,

each from a slightly different standpoint. He welcomed the opportunity

of appearing in print in the two characters for he believed that it

would help to shield the secret concerning Fiona Macleod.

 

The publication by P. Geddes & Coll. of _The Washer of the Ford_—a

collection of Tales and Legendary Moralities—aroused a fresh outbreak

of curiosity. For instance, a sensational article appeared in _The

Highland News_ on the vexed question of the identity of the Highland

writer, headed: “Mystery! Mystery! All in a Celtic Haze.”

 

According to it: “Highland Celts in Glasgow are, I hear, hot on the

scent of what they imagine to be a female James Macpherson. This, of

course, is Miss Fiona Macleod. The way which Miss Macleod has led our

Glasgow countrymen is strange indeed, and the literary detective has

been busy. In the first place, it is asserted that Miss Fiona Macleod

does not exist. No one seems to have seen her. One gentleman called

twice at her residence in Edinburgh, and Miss Macleod was out. She

has written about Iona, but again in that well watched place her name

is unknown. The natural inference, you will admit, is that there is

something here to be “fahnd aht,” as the Englishman says. Seeing that

the non-existence of Miss Fiona Macleod has been thus established, the

next point is who wrote those books to which that name is attached.

Now, Mr. William Sharp has declared himself to be Miss Fiona Macleod’s

uncle; he has, too, interested himself in Celtic things. Isn’t it the

second natural inference that he has written the books? But Mr. Sharp

has specifically denied the authorship. Then, of course, it must be

Mr. and Mrs. Sharp in collaboration. But again comes denial. Mr. Sharp

has addressed the following note to the Glasgow “Evening News,” which

has been somewhat persistent in casting doubt on the existence of

Miss Macleod—“Miss Fiona Macleod is not Mr. William Sharp, Miss Fiona

Macleod is not Mrs. William Sharp, Miss Fiona Macleod is—Miss Fiona

Macleod.” The persecuted author was much disturbed by this effort

to draw Fiona Macleod into a controversy, to force her to declare

herself. Not only was he indignant at what to him was an unwarrantable

interference with the privacy of the individual, and resented the

traps that were laid to catch the author should “she” be ‘unwary,’ it

was instrumental also in making him much more determined to guard his

secret at all costs. During the months of controversy the subject of it

accomplished a considerable amount of work.

 

He collaborated with me in the preparation of an Anthology of Celtic

Poetry; prepared an edition of _Ossian_ (P. Geddes & Coll.) for which

he wrote a long introduction; and began to work upon a humourous novel,

not, however, finished until 1898.

 

As F. M. he published _The Washer of the Ford_ in April, wrote _Green

Fire_, and also a number of Poems, which were subsequently included in

_From the Hills of Dream_. His Diary for the New Year has this entry:

 

_“Jany 7th, 1896._ _The British Weekly_ has a paragraph given under all

reserve that Fiona Macleod is Mrs. William Sharp. Have written—as W.

S.—to Dr. R. Nicoll and to Mrs. Macdonell of _The Bookman_ to deny this

authoritatively.”

 

From the first we decided that it would be advisable to admit that F.

was my cousin, also, that my husband acted as her adviser and ‘right

hand’ in the matter of publishing.

 

The arrangements for the two first books were made by W. S. in person.

No such precautions were necessary for the books brought out by P.

Geddes & Col. as the head of the firm was in the secret. But, as it was

well known in Edinburgh and elsewhere that William Sharp was keenly

interested in the ‘Celtic Movement,’ he thought it well to collaborate

with me on an Anthology of Celtic Poetry entitled _Lyra Celtica_ (and

published by the firm), for which he prepared an Introduction and Notes.

 

On the 6th January, in a letter to Mrs. William Rossetti he wrote “Just

back from France where I went so far with my wife on her way to Central

Italy. Her health has given way, alas, and she has been sent out from

this killing climate for 3 or 4 months at any rate.”

 

At the end of January he wrote to me:

 

 “Only a brief line to thank you for your letter about _me_ and _Fiona_.

 Every word you say is true and urgent, and even if I did not know it to

 be so I would pay the most searching heed to any advice from you, in

 whose insight and judgment mentally as well as spiritually I have such

 deep confidence. Although in the main I had come to exactly the same

 standpoint I was wavering before certain alluring avenues of thought....

 If I live to be an elderly man, time enough for one or more of my big

 philosophical and critical works. Meanwhile—the flame!

 

 The only thing of the kind I will now do—and that not this year—will be

 the “Introduction to the Study of Celtic Literature”: but for that I

 have the material to hand, and shall largely use in magazines first....

 Well, we shall begin at once! February will be wholly given over to

 finishing _Wives in Exile_ and _The Washer of the Ford_.”

 

On the 1st February he left town and settled down to work at the

Pettycur Inn, Kinghorn, Fife. His Diary gives the following record of

work:

 

“_Feb. 3rd._ Wrote the Preface to _The Washer of the Ford_.

 

“_Feb. 7th._ Dictated (1750 words) article on Modern Romantic Art, for

the Glasgow Herald—Also _World_ article.

 

“_Feb. 9th._ Wrote ‘The Festival of the Birds.’

 

“_Feb. 10th._ Glasgow Herald Article (1500 words) on The Art of the

Goldsmith, and wrote ‘The Blessing of the Fishes.’”

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

In the middle of February William had written to Mr. R. Murray

Gilchrist, one of the few friends who then knew the secret of the

pseudonym:

 

 

  MY DEAR GILCHRIST,

 

 Fiona Macleod has suddenly begun to attract a great deal of attention.

 There have been leaders as well as long and important reviews: and now

 the chief North of Scotland paper, _The Highland News_, is printing

 two long articles devoted in a most eulogistic way to F. M. and her

 influence “already so marked and so vital, so that we accept her as the

 leader of the Celtic Renaissance in Scotland.” There is, also, I hear,

 to be a Magazine article on her. This last week there have been long and

 favourable reviews in the _Academy_ and _The New Age_.

 

 I am glad you like my other book, I mean W. S’s! [_Ecce Puella_] There

 are things in it which are as absolutely out of my real self as it is

 possible to be: and I am glad that you recognise this. I have not yet

 seen my book of short stories published in America under the title _The

 Gypsy Christ_, though it has been out some weeks: and I have heard

 from one or two people about it. America is more indulgent to me just

 now than I deserve. For a leading American critic writes of _The Gypsy

 Christ_ that, “though it will offend some people and displease others,

 it is one of the most remarkable volumes I have read for long. The

 titular story has an extraordinary, even a dreadful impressiveness:

 ‘Madge o’ the Pool’ is more realistic than ‘realism’: and alike in

 the scathing society love-episode, ‘The Lady in Hosea,’ and in that

 brilliant Algerian _conte_, ‘The Coward,’ the author suggests the method

 and power of Guy de Maupassant.”

 

 I hope to get the book soon, and to send you a copy. As I think I told

 you, the setting of the G/C is entirely that which I knew through you.

 I have made use of one or two features—exaggerated facts and half

 facts—which I trust will not displease you. Do you remember my feeling

 about those gaunt mine-chimneys: I always think of them now when I think

 of the G/C. Fundamentally, however, the story goes back to my own early

 experiences—not as to the _facts_ of the story, of course.... Then

 again, Arthur Sherburne Hardy, who is by many considered the St. Beuve

 of American criticism—in surety and insight—has given his opinion of a

 book i. e. of all he has seen of it (a comedy of the higher kind) for

 which Stone and Kimball have given me good terms—_Wives in Exile_—that

 it is “quite unlike anything else—at once the most brilliant, romantic,

 and witty thing I have read for long—to judge from the opening chapters

 and the scheme. It will stand by itself, I think.”

 

 Personally, I think it shows the best handicraft of anything W. S. has

 done in fiction. It is, of course, wholly distinct in manner and method

 from F. M.’s work. It _ought_ to be out by May. Sunshine and blithe

 laughter guided my pen in this book. Well, I have given you my gossip

 about myself: and now I would much rather hear about _you_. I wish you

 were here to tell me all about what you have been doing, thinking, and

 dreaming.

 

  Yours,

S.

 

I received the following letter from him in Rome:

 

 

  LONDON, 21st Feb.

 

 I am sure _The Highland News_ must have delighted you. Let me know what

 you think of Fiona’s and W. S.’s letters.... I am so sorry you are

 leaving Siena.... I follow every step of your movements with keenest

 interest. But oh the light and the colour, how I envy you!

 

 I am hoping you are pleased with _Lyra Celtica_. It is published today

 only—so of course I have heard nothing yet from outsiders. Yesterday

 I finished my Matthew Arnold essay[3]—and in the evening wrote the

 first part of my F. M. story, “Morag of the Glen”—a strong piece of

 work I hope and believe though not finished yet. I hope to finish it by

 tonight. I am so glad you and Mona liked the first of “The Three Marvels

 of Hy” (pronounced _Eo_ or _Hee_) so well. Pieces like “The Festival of

 the Birds” seem to be born out of my brain almost in an inspirational

 way. I hardly understand it. Yes, you were in the right place to read

 it—St. Francis’ country. That beautiful strange Umbria! After all, Iona

 and Assisi are not nearly so remote from each other as from London or

 Paris. I send you the second of the series “The Blessing of the Flies.”

 It, too, was written at Pettycur—as was “The Prologue.” ... There is

 a strange half glad, half morose note in this Prologue which I myself

 hardly apprehend in full significance. In it is interpolated one of the

 loveliest of the ‘legendary moralities’ which I had meant to insert in

 Section I—that of ‘The King of the Earth.’ I will send it to you before

 long....

 

To a correspondent he wrote about the “Three Marvels of Hy”: “They

are studies in old Religious Celtic sentiment so far as that can be

recreated in a modern heart that feels the same beauty and simplicity

of the Early Christian faith.”

 

And to me again: “... I know you will rejoice to hear that there can be

no question that F. M’s deepest and finest work is in this “_Washer of

the Ford_” volume. As for the spiritual lesson that nature has taught

me, and that has grown within me otherwise, I have given the finest

utterance to it that I can. In a sense my inner life of the spirit is

concentrated in the three pieces “The Moon-Child,” “The Fisher of Men,”

and “The Last Supper.” Than the last I shall never do anything better.

Apart from this intense inner flame that has been burning within me so

strangely and deeply of late—I think my most imaginative work will be

found in the titular piece “The Washer of the Ford,” which still, tho’

written and revised some time ago, haunts me! and in that and the pagan

and animistic “Annir Choille.” We shall read those things in a gondola

in Venice?”

 

He joined me in Venice on the 16th May—glad of sunshine and rest. We

journeyed back to England by way of the Lakes, in a time of early

roses, and returned to