WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đ
- Author: ELIZABETH A. SHARP
Book online «WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đ». Author ELIZABETH A. SHARP
inclination towards any such feeling.
William Sharpâs 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 âCeltic,â especially
_The Irish Independent_, _Freemanâs Journal_ and _All Ireland Review_.
In the latter a correspondence began. One writer welcomed the Essay
as coming from one âpossessed, 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.â
âA. E.â however, was of another opinion. He considered the essay to
be out of place âin a book otherwise inspired by the artistâs desire
to shape in a beautiful wayâ; 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 âthere is no racial road to
beauty.â
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 disputantsâand 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: âFiona 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 âCelticâ
indicates the lines on which we may most successfully work.â 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 âF. M.â wrote to Mr. Russell, âa truer understanding
has come to me in one or two points where we have been at issue.â 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 birthdayâI 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 McLââ 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 ârestless spiritâ 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 illnessâwhich in a measure was due to
his buoyant nature, to his deliberate turning of his mind away from
suffering or from failure and âlooking sunwise,â to his endeavour to
get the best out of whatever conditions he had to meetâwe 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 welcomeâfor the waiter
announced that âMr. Gilchrist would like to see you, Sir.â 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 12thâand go first
to the South of Provence, near Marseilles: after Yule-tide weâll go on
to Italy, perhaps first to Shelleyâs 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 âtis 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 kinshipâand 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
Henleyâs âMacaire.â (I resigned my Chairmanship but was re-elected: and
so am extra busy before I go.)
Your loving friend,
WILL.
S. Miss Macleodâs drama âThe Immortal Hourâ is in the November
_Fortnightly_, also her article âThe Gael and His Heritageâ in the
November _Nineteenth Century_.
And in addition to these a study on the Dramas of Gabriele dâAnnunzio
appeared in _The Fortnightly_, in September, signed âW. S.â
* * * * *
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 workâchiefly a lengthy volume on the Evolution of
the Fine Arts in the Nineteenth Century, primarily for transatlantic
publicationâprevented 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 Edinburghâcâest 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 refinedâand 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 canât tell you about Miss Macleodâs historical
romance for the good reason that I donât 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 pastâthough 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. Iâve finished an essay on
âImpressionismâ (âThe Impressionistâ 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 donât 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 Munroâs new book _Doom Castle_. It promises, I think, to be his
_chef-dâĆuvre_.
Write to me again soon, with news of your doings and prospects.
Yours sincerely,
WILLIAM SHARP.
The Provencal romance that he was mentally projectingâthe never
written _Gypsy Trail_âwas 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 âles Maries,â 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 husbandâs first visit to Provence he had been much interested
in meeting certain members of Les FĂ©libres, 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 _confrĂšre_. At Avignon we saw Madame Roumanille,
the sister of Felix Gras, and widow of one of the founders of Les
FĂ©libres, and her poet-daughter, TĂ©rĂšse, who inherited her fatherâs
gift. At Aix we met Mistralâs god-daughter Madame Marie Gasquet,
daughter of the poet M. Gerard, another of the original group of
workers in the old _Langue dâĆuil_. 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 Yearâs 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 Seaâso
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
Comments (0)