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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descriptions of certain localities with criticisms and appreciations
of those famous writers who had identified themselves therewith. It
gives one a fresher and keener insight, for instance, into Mr. George
Meredithâs poems to know how much they reveal of the lovely country
in which he lives, and how many of his exquisite similes are drawn
from observation of the birds and beasts and plants which he sees
daily around his home under the shadow of Box Hill. âThe Country of
Stevenson,â âDickens-Land,â âScott-Land,â âThe Country of George
Eliot,â âThackeray-Land,â âThe BrontĂ« Country,â âThe Carlyle Country,â
and âAylwin-Landâ are all both delightful and instructive, full of
poetic description, sound criticism, and brilliant flashes of wit; and
not less so are the chapters on the âliterary geographyâ of the Thames
from Oxford to the Nore, the English Lakes, with all their associations
with Wordsworth and his brother poets, and the Lake of Geneva, which
might have been called Voltaire-Land were it not that so many other
famous personalities and authors are identified with Geneva and its
surroundings that the solitary distinction might seem invidious.â
The book was dedicated to the authorâs friend of early days, Mr. George
Halkett (then Editor of _The Pall Mall Gazette_) with the reminder that
âMore years ago now than either of us cares to recall, we were both, in
the same dismal autumn for us, sent wandering from our native lands in
Scotland to the end of the earth. I remember that each commiserated the
other because of that doctorâs doom in which we both, being young and
foolish, believed. Since then we have sailed many seas and traversed
many lands, and I, at least, have the wayfaring fever too strong upon me
ever to be cured now.â
The critic in the _Daily Chronicl_e explained that the âbook is all
an affair of temperament, and the only thing which really matters is
that Mr. Sharp has made excellent stuff out of his impressions....
For instance, the first time he saw Robert Louis Stevenson was not as
it should have been, in the land of Alan Breck; it was at Waterloo
Station. Is the literary geographer abashed by this conjunction of two
sympathetic Scots in a dismal London shed? Not a bit of it:
âHe was tall, thin, spareâindeed, he struck me as almost fantastically
spare. I remember thinking that the station draught caught him like a
torn leaf blowing at the end of a branch.â
âMind you, at that moment Mr. Sharp did not know who the stranger was,
but knew by instinct that the station draught ought to make poetical
use of him. More than that, Mr. Sharp saw that Stevenson had the air of
a man just picked out of a watery grave. Anybody could see this.
âThat it was not merely an impression of my own was proved by the
exclamation of a cabman, who was standing beside me expectant of a
âfareâ who had gone to look after his luggage: âLooks like a sooercide,
donât he, sir? One oâ them chaps as takes their down-on-their-luck
âeaders into the Thames!ââ
âWhen Stevenson could inflame a cabman with this picturesque fantasy,
no wonder he turned Waterloo Station into the home of romance. But this
was not all. The âsooercideâ had still more magic about him. Stevenson
was waiting for a friend to arrive by train, and when the friend
appeared, the drowned _revenant_ became another being.
âThe dark locks apparently receded, like weedy tangle in the ebb; the
long sallow oval grew rounder and less wan; the sombre melancholy
vanished like cloud-scud on a day of wind and sun, and the dark eyes
lightened to a violet-blue and were filled with sunshine and laughter.â
âThis extraordinary man was carrying a book and dropped it. Then
happened something which expanded Waterloo Station into the infinite:
âI lifted and restored it, noticing as I did that it was the _Tragic
Comedians_, ...
In 1902 W. S. had been greatly gratified by a request from the
composer, Mr. McDowell, couched in generous terms of appreciation:
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY,
NEW YORK, May 25th.
MISS FIONA MACLEOD,
MY DEAR MADAM,
Your work has so grown into my life that I venture to ask you to permit
my placing your name on some music of mine. Your poems have been an
inspiration to me and I trust you will accept a dedication of music
that is yours already by right of suggestion. By this I do not mean
that my music in any way echoes your words but that your words have been
a most powerful incentive to me in my music and I crave your sympathy
for it.
Sincerely yours,
EDWARD MACDOWELL.
At the end of 1904 F. M. wrote to Mr. Lawrence Gilman, the American
Musical Critic:
22 ORMIDALE TERRACE,
MURRAYFIELD, 31st Dec.
DEAR MR. GILMAN,
Some time ago a friend played to me one or two lovely airs by Mr.
Loeffler, and I was so much impressed by their unique quality and their
atmosphere of subtle beauty that I wrote to find out what I could about
this composer, and also about another, Mr. MacDowell, whose beautiful
Keltic Sonata I have heard. And now I have been sent a copy of your
winsome and deeply interesting and informing little book, _Phases
of Modern Music_. There I not only find much of deep interest to me
about Mr. Loeffler and Mr. MacDowell, but find your whole book at once
informing and fascinating. In addition I had the great pleasure of
coming unexpectedly upon allusions to myself and my writings: and I
would like you to know how truly I appreciate these, and how glad I am
that a critic touched to such fine issues in the great art of Music, and
with so keen a sense for the new ideals of beauty, the new conceptions
of style and distinction, should care for what I am trying to do in my
own art.
I hope you are writing another book. Whether on musical subjects only,
or on literary and musical subjects in conjunction (which of course
would appeal to a wider section of the reading public), any such book
would I am sure, be welcomed by all who know _Phases of Modern Music_.
I wish I knew more of the music of these two composers. There is a
spirit abroad just now, full of a new poignancy of emotion, uplifted on
a secret wave of passion and ecstasy, and these men seem to me of that
small but radiant company who have slept and dreamed in the other world
and drank moon-dew.
Let me thank you again for all the pleasure you have given me, and
Believe me
Most truly yours,
FIONA MACLEOD.
Mr. Lawrence Gilman replied:
NEW YORK,
Jan 14, 1905.
MY DEAR MISS MACLEOD,
It would not be easy for me to tell you, without seeming extravagance,
of the keen pleasure I have had in your cordial letter concerning my
book, _Phases of Modern Music_. The deep impression which your own
work has made upon me must already have become evident to you through
even the most cursory reading of my bookâan impression the extent and
definiteness of which I myself had scarcely realised. You will know,
then, how great a satisfaction it is for me to hear that you have been
interested in my thoughts on musical subjects, and that they have seemed
to you worthy of the friendly praise which you have spoken in your
letter.
So you know and like the music of Loeffler and MacDowell! That is good
to hear; for few, even in this country, where they have been active in
their art for so long, are sensible of the beauty and power of their
work. Do you know Loefflerâs latest productionââQuatre PoĂ«mes,â settings
of verses by Verlaine and Baudelaire? They are written for voice,
piano, and viola: a singular and admirable combination. Mr. MacDowell
will be glad to hear of your pleasure in his âKeltic Sonata,â for he is
one of your most sensitive admirers: it was he, indeed, who first made
me acquainted with your work. Have you heard his earliest sonatasâthe
âNorse,â âEroica,â and âTragicaâ? They are not very far behind the
âKelticâ in distinction and force, though lacking the import and
exaltation of the latter.
You would be surprised, I think, to know how the Celtic impulse is
seizing the imaginations of some of the younger and more warmly-tempered
of American composers. I am enclosing a programme of a concert given
recently in Boston, consisting entirely of music written on Celtic
themes.
Thank you again.
Very faithfully yours,
LAWRENCE GILMAN.
When in New York William Sharp had written to Mr. Alden âon behalf of
Miss Macleodâ concerning her later nature-essay work, and explained
that âSome months ago, by special request from the Editor of _Country
Life_ Miss M. began contributing one or two of these papers. From the
first they attracted notice, and then the Editor asked her if she would
contribute a series to appear as frequently as practicableâaveraging
two a monthâtill next May when they would be issued in book-form. As
Miss M. enjoys writing them, she agreed.â
In the same letter he spoke of a subject on which he had long
meditated. He proposed it for _Harperâs Magazine_:ââI have long been
thinking over the material of an article on the Fundamental Science of
Criticism, to be headed, say âA New Degree: D. Crit.ââ This project
among many others was never worked out. But the ânature-papersâ were a
great pleasure to him, and in 1904 and 1905 he wrote on many subjects
for _Country Life_, over the signature of F. M., also several poems
that were afterwards included in the second edition of _From the Hills
of Dream_.
As month by month the number of nature essays grew, he planned to
issue them in two, and later in three volumes. To the second volume
he thought to give the title âBlue Days and Green Daysâ (from a line
of R. L. Stevensonâs), and to call the third, which was to deal with
the stars and the skies at night, âBeyond the Blue Septentrion.â Not
all the projected essays for each book, however, were written; but
those which appeared serially were published posthumously in 1906,
by _Country Life_ under the title of _Where the Forest Murmurs_.
Concerning the titular essay, Mr. Alfred Noyes wrote: âIt is one of
those pieces of nature-study which, in Matthew Arnoldâs phrase, have
that rarest of all modern qualitiesââHealing Power.ââ
And according to _The Contemporary Review_:
âFiona Macleodâs prose baffles description. It is perhaps hardly prose
at all. It is melody in words suggesting scenes as much by sound as
by the passage of ideas. The ideas conveyed by the actual words are
supplemented by the rhythm or melody conveyed by the sequence of
words. But it is, when all analysis is ended, something quite alone:
pure music of a strange and curious quality that is neither prose nor
poetry, but thrilling with the pain and passion of a Gaelic chant. It
conveys to the mind and heart the scenes and sounds of nature with
almost magical accuracy.â
* * * * *
The immediate object of our short visit to New York and Boston was that
I should know in person some of the many friends my husband valued
there, and I was specially interested to make the acquaintance of Mr.
and Mrs. Stedman, who gave me a warm welcome, of Mr. and Mrs. Alden,
Mr. and Mrs. R. Watson Gilder, Mr. John Lafarge, Mrs. Julia Ward
Howe, and Miss Caroline Hazard whom we visited at Wellesley College.
But winter set in with December. The cold proved so severe that we
sailed for and reached Naples in time to spend Xmas Day with friends
at Bordighera whence W. S. wrote to Mr. Murray Gilchrist: âWe are back
from America (thank God) and are in Italy (thank Him more).... For
myself I am crawling out of the suck of a wave whose sweep will I hope
be a big one of some months and carry me far.â
* * * * *
In Rome we took rooms at the top of Fischerâs Park Hotel, whence from
the balconies we had a superb view over Rome. There we saw a few
friendsâin particular Mr. Hichens who was also wintering there; but my
husband did not feel strong enough for any social effort. As he wrote
to Mr. Mosher:
11th Feb., 1905.
Dubious and ever varying health, with much going to and fro in quest of
what is perhaps not to be found (for mere change of climate will not
give health unless other conditions combine to bring about the miracle)
have, among other causes, prevented my writing to you as I had intended,
or, indeed, from doing much writing of any kind. I have written a few
articles for _Country Life_âand little else, published or unpublished.
The days go by and I say âat nightââand every night I am too tired or
listless, and say âtomorrowâ:
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