WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (mobi ebook reader txt) 📕

return to Taormina W. S. wrote to the Author of _Adria_, who had

gone to Venice for “local colour”:

 

 

  TAORMINA,

  19th Nov., 1902.

 

  CARO FRA GIULIANO,

 

 To my surprise I hear from our common friend, Mr. Aurelio Da

 Rù, the painter of Venice, that you are at present staying at

 San-Francisco-in-Deserto. This seems to me a damp and cold place to

 choose for November, but possibly you are not to be there long: indeed,

 Da Rù hints at an entanglement with a lady named “Adria.” Perhaps I am

 indiscreet in this allusion. If so, pray forgive me. The coincidence

 struck me as strange, for only the other day I heard our friend Alec

 Hood speaking of an Adria, of whom, to say the least of it, he seemed to

 think very highly. By the way, I wouldn’t tell him (A. H.) too much of

 your affairs or doings—or _he may put them in a book_. (He’s a “literary

 feller” you know!)

 

 I have just been staying with him—and I wish when you see him you would

 tell him what a happy time I had at Maniace, and how pleasantly I

 remember all our walks and talks and times together, and how the true

 affection of a deepened friendship is only the more and more enhanced

 and confirmed.

 

 It is a lovely day, and very warm and delightful. Sitting by the open

 French-window of my study, with a bunch of narcissus on my table, there

 is all the illusion of Spring. I have just gone into an adjoining

 Enchanted Garden I often frequent, and gathered there some sprays of

 the Balm of Peace, the azure blossoms of Hope, and the white roses of

 Serenity and Happiness and sending them, by one of the wild-doves of

 loving thought and sympathy and affection, to Alec at Maniace.

 

 Ever, dear Fra Giuliano, with love to Da Rù, the Graziani, the Manins,

 and above all to Alec,

 

  Yours,

  WILL.

 

And again two days later:

 

 

 SHAR SHAN, BOR!

 

 Which, being interpreted, is Romany (Gypsy) for “How d’ye do, Mate!”—I

 fear you are having a bad day for your return to Maniace. Here, at

 any rate, ‘tis evil weather. Last night the wind rose (after ominous

 signals of furtive lightnings in every quarter) to the extent of

 tempest: and between two and three a.m. became a hurricane. This lasted

 at intervals till dawn, and indeed since: and at times I thought a

 cyclone had seized Taormina and was intent on removing ‘Santa Caterina’

 on to the top of Isola Bella. Naturally, sleep was broken. And in one

 long spell, when wind and a coarse rain (with a noise like sheep that

 has become sleet) kept wakefulness in suspense, my thoughts turned to

 Venice, to Giuliano in the lonely rain-beat wave-washed sanctuary of

 San-Francisco-in-Deserto; to Daniele Manin, with his dreams of the

 Venice that was and his hopes of the Venice to be; and to Adria, stilled

 at last in her grave in the lagunes after all her passionate life and

 heroic endeavour. And then I thought of the Venice they, and you, and

 I, love:—and recalled lines of Jacopo Sannazaro which I often repeat to

 myself when I think of the Sea-City as an abstraction—

 

  “O d’Italia dolente

    Eterno lumine

    Venezia!”

 

 And that’s all I have to say to-day!... except to add that this very

 moment there has come into my mind the remembrance of some words of

 Montesquieu I read last year (in the _Lettres Persanes_), to the effect

 (in English) that “altho’ one had seen all the cities of the world,

 there might still be a surprise in store for him in Venice,”—which would

 be a good motto for your book.

 

  Your friend,

  WILL.

 

The few entries in William Sharp’s Diary for 1903 begin with New Year’s

Day:

 

 

  TAORMINA.

 

 _Thursday, 1st Jan., 1903._ Yesterday afternoon I ended literary

 work for the year, at p. 62 on my MS. of “The King’s Ring” with the

 sentence: “Flora Macdonald saw clearly that the hearts of these exiles

 and New Englanders would follow a shepherd more potent than any kind,

 the shepherd called Freedom, who forever keeps his flocks of hopes and

 ideals on the hills of the human heart.” To-day, this afternoon, wrote

 till end of p. 70. In the evening we dined with Robert Hichens at the

 Hotel Timeo.

 

 _Sat. 3rd._ Finished “The King’s Ring.” Revised: and sent off to Mary to

 type. We lunched at the Timeo. After lunch we spent an hour or more in

 the Greek Theatre with Hichens. Then we walked to Miss Valerie White’s

 villa and had tea with her. In evening ‘turned in’ about 9 and read

 Bourget’s Calabria _Ricordi_, and Lenormant on Crotone and Pythagorus.”

 

 

  Saturday, 9th Jan.

 

  _To the Editor of The Pall Mall Magazine_:

 

  DEAR SIR,

 

 I have written a story somewhat distinct in kind from the work

 associated with my name, and think it is one that should appeal to a

 far larger public than most of my writings do: for it deals in a new

 way with a subject of unpassing interest, the personality of Flora

 Macdonald. “The King’s Ring,” however, is not concerned with the

 hackneyed Prince Charlie episode. It is, in a word, so far as I know,

 the only narrative presentment of the remarkable but almost unknown

 late-life experiences of Flora Macdonald: for few know that, long

 after her marriage, she went with her husband and some of her family

 and settled in South Carolina, just before the outbreak of the War of

 Independence: how her husband was captured and imprisoned: how two of

 her sons in the Navy were lost tragically at sea: and how she herself

 with one daughter with difficulty evaded interference, and set sail

 from a southern port for Scotland again, and on that voyage was wounded

 in an encounter with a French frigate. True, all these things are

 only indicated in “The King’s Ring,” for fundamentally the story is a

 love-story, that of Flora M.’s beautiful eldest daughter Anne and Major

 Macleod, with the tragical rivalry of Alasdair Stuart, bearer of the

 King’s Ring.

 

 Practically the facts of the story are authentic: save the central

 episode of Alasdair Stuart, which is of my own invention. I think the

 story would appeal to many not only in Scotland and England but in

 America.

 

  Yours very truly,

  FIONA MACLEOD.

 

The story was accepted and the first instalment was printed in the

_Pall Mall Magazine_ in May, 1904; but after its appearance the author

did not care sufficiently for it to republish it in book form.

 

The Diary continues:

 

 _Sunday 4th._ Began article on “Thro’ Nelson’s Duchy” commissioned

 for _The Pall Mall Magazine_. Received _The Monthly Review_ for Jany.

 with the Fiona Macleod article, “The Magic Kingdoms”: the _Mercure de

 France_ for January: and proofs from the _Pall Mall Magazine_ of my

 articles on Scott and George Eliot. Among several letters one from Mrs.

 Gilchrist, who says (apropos of F. M.’s “By Sundown Shores”) “she always

 can send one back to the distance which is all the future.”

 

 Later, after a walk alone I looked in at Villa Bella Rocca and had a

 pleasant chat with M. et Mme. Grandmont about Anatole France, Loti,

 and treatment of sea in “Pecheur d’Islande,” Bourget’s and Lenormant’s

 “Calabria,” etc. Wrote after dinner from 9 till 11; and read some

 Bacchylides, etc. At 11.15 suddenly some five or six cocks began to crow

 vehemently: and about five minutes later abruptly stopped.

 

 _Monday 5th._ A day of perfect beauty. Divinely warm. In morning sat out

 on Loggia two hours or so working at revision. After lunch Hichens came

 for me and we walked down to Capo San Andrea and thence took a boat with

 two men (Francesco and his brother) across to Capo Schiso (Naxos) and

 thence walked some five or six miles back. Tea at H’s. A divinely lovely

 sunset.

 

 _Tuesday 6th._ As beautiful a day as yesterday. More could be said of no

 day. Worked at “Thro’ Nelson’s Duchy” material, and wrote a letter. A

 walk after lunch. Then again a little work. Had a charming letter from

 Joachim Gasquet, and to F. M. one from Stephen Gwynn (with his “Today

 and Tomorrow in Ireland”)—and an _Academy_ with pleasant para. about F.

saying just what I would want said (with an allusion to a special

 study of F. M. in the _Harvard Monthly_, by the Editor).

 

 This afternoon, the Festa of the Epiphany, more great doings with the

 delayed Xmas tree treat of the School-children of Taormina. Much enjoyed

 it.

 

 _Thursday 8th._ Finished the P. M. Mag. commissioned article “Thro’

 Nelson’s Duchy”—about 5,000 words—then revised: marked with directions

 the 8 fine Photos selected by A. N. H. (Alex. Nelson Hood) and sent off

 to be registered....

 

 After dinner wrote one or two letters including longish one of literary

 advice to Karl Walter. Read some Æschylus’ “Eumenides.”

 

[Illustration: WILLIAM SHARP

 

From a photograph taken by the Hon. Alex. Nelson Hood, 1903]

 

This is the letter in question:

 

 

  TAORMINA,

  Jan., 1903.

 

  MY DEAR WALTER,

 

 ... In some respects your rendering of your sonnet is towards

 improvement. But it has one immediate and therefore fatal flaw.

 Since the days of Sophocles it has been recognized as a cardinal

 and imperative law, that a great emotion (or incident, or idea,

 or collective act) must not be linked to an effective image, an

 incongruous metaphor. Perhaps the first and last word about passion

 (in a certain sense only, of course, for to immortal things there is

 no mortal narrowing or limiting in expression) has been said more than

 two thousand years ago by Sappho and to-day by George Meredith. “The

 apple on the topmost bough” ... all that lovely fragment of delicate

 imperishable beauty remains unique. And I know nothing nobler than

 Meredith’s “Passion is noble strength on fire.” ... But turn to a

 poet you probably know well, and study the imagery in some of the

 Passion-sonnets in “The House of Life” of Rossetti—of Passion

 

          ... “creature of poignant thirst

  And exquisite hunger” ...

 

 —the splendid sexual diapason in the sestet of the sonnet celled “The

 Kiss”—or, again, to “the flame-winged harp-player.”

 

            ... “thou art Passion of Love,

  The mastering music walks the sunlit sea.”

 

 Perhaps I have said enough to illustrate my indication as to the opening

 metaphor in your sonnet. Apart from the incongruity of the image, it

 has no logical congruity with the collateral idea of Fear. The sonnet

 itself turns on a fine emotion in your mind: let that emotion shape a

 worthy raiment of metaphor and haunting cadence of music, _not_ as the

 metricist desires but as the poet au fond compels.

 

 Yes, both in sonnet-writing and in your terza-rima narrative (cultivate

 elision here, also fluent terminals, or you will find the English

 prosody jib at the foreign reins) you will find G. useful. But the

 secret law of rhythm in a moving or falling wave, in the cadence of

 wind, in the suspiration of a distant song, in running water, in the

 murmur of leaves, in chord confluent upon chord, will teach you more—if

 you will listen long enough and know what you listen to.

 

 I hope I have not discouraged you. I mean the reverse of that.

 

  Your friend,

  WILLIAM SHARP.

 

I add here a letter of criticism and encouragement sent by F. M. to

another young writer, in the previous summer, to the nephew of William

Black the novelist:

 

 

  LONDON, June, 1902.

 

  MY DEAR MR. BLACK,

 

 As soon as possible after my return from Brittany I read your MS. It

 is full of the true sentiment, and has often charm in the expression:

 but I think you would do well to aim at a style simpler still, freer

 from mannerisms, and above all from mannerisms identified with the work

 of other writers. As I am speaking critically, let me say frankly that

 I have found your beautiful tale too reminiscent ever and again of an

 accent, a note, a vernacular (too reminiscent even in names), common to

 much that I have written. You are sympathetic enough to care for much

 of my work, and loyal enough to say so with generous appreciation: but

 just because of this you should be on guard against anything in my style

 savouring of affectation or mannerism. You may be sure that whatever

 hold my writings may have taken on the imagination of what is at most a

 small clan has been in despite of and not because of mannerisms, which

 sometimes make for atmosphere and versimilitude and sometimes are merely

 obvious, and therefore make for weakness and even disillusion. Be on

 guard, therefore, against a sympathy which would lead you to express

 yourself in any other way than you yourself feel and in other terms than

 the terms of our own mind. Mannerism is often the colour and contour of

 a writer’s mind: but the raiment never fits even the original wearer,

 and is disastrous for the borrower, when the mental habit of mannerism

 is translated into the mental incertitude of mannerisms. You have so

 natural a faculty and