WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đ
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a story I am about to set out upon. I met two days ago an old man who
hears the fairies he says every night and complains much that their
singing keeps him awake. He showed me a flute which he had got thinking
that if he played it they might be pleased and so cease teasing him. I
have met much curious lore here and in Arran.
I have had some singular experiences myself. I invoked one night the
spirits of the moon and saw between sleep and waking a beautiful woman
firing an arrow among the stars. That night she appeared to Symons who
is staying here, and so impressed him that he wrote a poem on her the
only one he ever wrote to a dream, calling her the fountain of all song
or some such phrase. She was the symbolic Diana. I invoked a different
spirit another night and it appeared in dreams to an old French Count,
who was staying here, and was like Symons ignorant of my invocations. He
locked his door to try to keep it out. Please give my greetings to Miss
Macleod.
Yours Sincerely,
B. YEATS.M. wrote in acknowledgment of a long critical letter from Mr. Yeats,
to whom âsheâ had sent _The Washer of the Ford_:
TARBERT ON LOCH FYNE.
DEAR MR. YEATS,
Unforeseen circumstances have prevented my writing to you before this,
and even now I must perforce be more brief than I would fain be in
response to your long and deeply interesting as well as generous letter.
Alas, a long pencilled note (partly apropos of your vision of the woman
shooting arrows, and of the strange coincidence of something of the same
kind on my own part) has long since been devoured by a too voracious
or too trustful gullâfor a sudden gust of wind blew the quarto-sheet
from off the deck of the small yacht wherein I and my dear friend and
confrĂšre of whom you know were sailing, off Skye.... How good of you to
write to me as you did. Believe me, I am grateful. There is no other
writer whose good opinion could please me moreâfor I love your work, and
take an endless delight in your poetry, and look to you as not only one
of the rare few on whose lips is the honey of Magh Mell but as one the
dark zone of whose mind is lit with the strange stars and constellations
of the spiritual life. Most cordially I thank you for your critical
remarks. Even where I do not unreservedly agree, or where I venture to
differ (as for example, in the matter of the repetition of the titular
words in âThe Washer of the Fordâ poem) I have carefully pondered all
you say. I am particularly glad you feel about the âAnnir Choilleâ as
you do. Some people whom I would like to please do not care for it: yet
I am sure you are right in considering it one of the most vital things I
have been able to do.
With what delight I have read your lovely lovely poem âOâSullivan Rue
to the Secret Rose!â I have read it over and over with ever deepening
delight. It is one of your finest poems, I think: though perhaps it
can only be truly appreciated by those who are familiar with legendary
Celtic history. We read it to each other, my friend and I, on a
wonderful sundown âwhen evening fed the wave with quiet light,â off one
of the Inner Hebrides (Colonsay, to the South of Oban).... I cannot
quite make up my mind, as you ask, about your two styles. Personally,
I incline not exactly to a return to the earlier but to a marriage of
the two: that is, a little less remoteness, or subtlety, with a little
more of rippling clarity. After reading your Blake paper (and with vivid
interest and delight) I turned to an early work of yours which I value
highly, _Dhoya_: and I admit that my heart moved to _it_. Between them
lies, I think, your surest and finest line of workâwith the light deft
craft of _The Celtic Twilight_.
I hope you are soon going to issue the promised volume of poems. When
my own book of verse is readyâit is to be called _From the Hills of
Dream_âit will give me such sincere pleasure to send you a copy. By
the bye, I must not forget to thank you for introducing my work to
Mr. Arthur Symons. He wrote to me a pleasant letter, and asked me to
contribute to the _Savoy_, which I have done. I dare say my friend (who
sends you comradely greetings, and says he will write in a day or two)
will tell you more from me when he and you meet.
I had a strange vision the other day, wherein I saw the figure of a
gigantic woman sleeping on the green hills of Ireland. As I watched, the
sun waned and the dark came and the stars began to fall. They fell one
by one, and each fell into the womanâand lo, of a sudden, all was bare
running water, and the drowned stars and the transmuted woman passed
from my seeing. This was a waking dream, an open vision: but I do not
know what it means, though it was so wonderfully vivid. In a vague way
I realise that something of tremendous moment is being matured just
now. We are on the verge of vitally important developments. And all the
heart, all the brain, of the Celtic races shall be stirred. There is a
shadow of mighty changes. Myself, I believe that new spirits have been
embodied among us. And some of the old have come back. We shall perish,
you and I and all who fight under the âLifting of the Sunbeamââbut we
shall pioneer a wonderful marvellous new life for humanity. The other
day I asked an old islesman where her son was buried. âHe was not
buried,â she said, âfor all they buried his body. For a week ago I saw
him lying on the heather, and talking swift anâ wild with a Shadow.â
_The Shadows are here._
I must not write more just now.
My cordial greetings to you,
Sincerely,
FIONA MACLEOD.
No sooner had W. S. returned to London than he fell ill with nervous
prostration, and rheumatism. It was soon obvious that he could not
remain in town, and that for a short time at any rate he must cease
from pen-work. It therefore seemed an opportune moment for him to go to
New York, and attend to his publishing interests there, especially as
Messrs. Stone & Kimball had recently failed.
Before starting he had read and reviewed with much interest a volume of
poems by the American poet, Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, and had received a
pleased acknowledgment from her husband Richard A. Stoddard:
NEW YORK,
Oct. 30, 1896.
MY DEAR SHARP,
I am greatly obliged to you for what you have written about my wifeâs
poetry, any recognition of which touches me more nearly than anything
that could be said about my own verse.... My wife has told you, I
presume, how much I enjoyed your wifeâs _Womenâs Voices_, just before
I went into the Hospital, and how I composed a bit of verse in my head
when I couldnât see to feed myself. Do you ever compose in that silent
way? I have taught myself to do without pens, ink, and paper, in verse;
but I canât do so in prose, which would print itself in the thing I
call my mind. Give my kindest regards and warmest good wishes to your
Elizabeth, whose charming book is a favourite with _my_ Elizabeth as
well, as with
Yours sincerely,
H. STODDARD.
Later, Mr. Stedman wrote an account of a dinner given to Mr. Stoddard
to which W. S. was invited:
BRONXVILLE, N. Y.,
Feb. 17, 1897.
MY DEAR SHARP,
I have received your long letter of the 25th Jany, and also a shorter
one of the 30th written at Mr. George Cotterellâs house. I will say at
the outset that I feel guilty at seeing the name of that loveable man
and true poet; for although a year has passed since the completion of
my (Victorian) âAnthologyâ I have been positively unable to write the
letter which I have in my heart for him.
... The most important social matter here this winter relating to our
Guild will be a large important dinner to be given on March 25th by
the Authorâs Club and his other friends, to Richard Henry Stoddard. We
are going to try to make an exception to the rule that New York is not
good to her own, and to render a tribute somewhat commensurate with
Stoddardâs life long services, and his quality as poet and man. A few
invitations are going to be sent to literary men abroad, and I have
been able to write about them to Besant, Dobson, Garnett and yourself.
Of course I do not expect that you will come over here, and I am quite
sure you will write a letter which can be read at the dinner, for I
have in mind your personal friendship with Stoddard and affectionate
comprehension of his genius and career....
On the 13th of April Mr. Stedman wrote again to report on the
proceedings:
Your letter to the Stoddard Banquet was by far the best and most
inclusive of the various ones received, and it was read out to the 150
diners and met with high favour. I mailed you the full report of the
affair, but believe I have not written you since it came off. It proved
to be the most notable literary occasion yet known in this cityâwas
brilliant, magnetic, enthusiastic throughout. I felt a pride in my
office as Chairman. The hall was one of the handsomest in America, the
speaking of the most eloquent type, and full of laughter and tears. The
Stoddards were deeply gratified by your letter.
C. S.
My husband arrived in New York on All Hallow Eâen and went direct to
the hospitable house of Mr. Alden whence he wrote to me:
METUCHEN, N. J.,
1st Nov., 1896.
... Of course nothing can be done till Wednesday. All America is aflame
with excitementâand New York itself is at fever-heat. I have never seen
such a sight as yesterday. The whole enormous city was a mass of flags
and innumerable Republican and Democratic insigniaâwith the streets
thronged with over two million people. The whole business quarter made
a gigantic parade that took 7 hours in its passageâand the business men
alone amounted to over 100,000. Everyoneâas indeed not only America, but
Great Britain and all Europeâis now looking eagerly for the final word
on Tuesday night. The larger issues are now clearer: not merely that
the Bryanite 50-cent dollar (instead of the standard 100 cent) would
have far reaching disastrous effects, but that the whole struggle is one
of the anarchic and destructive against the organic and constructive
forces. However, this tremendous crisis will come to an endâpro tem. at
any rateâon Tuesday night....
During his absence, F. M.âs romance, _Green Fire_, was published. The
title was taken from a line in âCathal of the Woods,â âO green fire
of life, pulse of the world, O Love!â And the deeper meaning of the
expression âGreen Lifeââso familiar to all who knew âFiona Macleodââis
suggested in a sentence at the close of the book: âAlan knew that
strange nostalgia of the mind for impossible things. Then, wrought for
a while from his vision of green life, and flamed by another green fire
than that born of earth, he dreamed his dream.â
To me, the author wrote from New York:
â ... I am indeed glad you like _Green Fire_ so well. And you are right
in your insight: Annaik _is_ the real human magnet. Ynys is an idealised
type, what I mean by Ideala or Esclarmoundo, but she did not take hold
of me like Annaik. Alan, too, is a variation of the Ian type. But Annaik
has for me a strange and deep attraction: and I am sure the abiding
personal interest must be in _her_. You are the only one who seems
to have understood and perceived thisâcertainly the only one who has
noticed it. Some day I want to tell Annaikâs story in full....â
The author had read much Breton lore during his study of French
Literature, and as his interest had for a time been centred on the
land of the kindred Celt, he determined to make it the setting of a
new Romance. He had never been there, so drew on his imagination for
the depiction of the places he knew of by hearsay only. The result,
when later he judged the book in cool criticism, he considered to be
unsatisfactory as to
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