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

desolation. The whole country seemed under the curse of barrenness:

nothing but gaunt ribbed mountains, gaunt ribbed hills, gaunt ribbed

sand-plains—this, or stony wastes of an arid desolation beyond words.

But though the country did not become less awful in this respect, it

grew wilder and stranger as we neared Elkantara. I never saw scenery

so _terrific_. The entrance to the last Gorge was very exciting, for

beyond the narrow outlet lay the Sahara and all torrid Africa! North of

this last outpost of the colder zone the date-palm refuses to flourish:

and here, too, the Saharan Arab will not linger: but in a quarter of

a mile one passes from this arid waste into African heat and a superb

oasis of date-palms. It is an indescribable sensation—that of suddenly

swinging through a narrow and fantastic mountain-gorge, where all is

gloom and terror, and coming abruptly upon the full splendour of the

sunswept Sahara, with, in the immediate foreground, an immense oasis

of date-palms, all green and gold! The vista—the vast perspectives—the

glory of the sunflood! From that moment, one can hardly restrain one’s

excitement. Very soon, however, we had fresh and unexpected cause for

excitement. The train slowly came to a stop, and crowds of Arabs came

told we must walk across the intervening bit of desert, and ford the

Oued-Merjarla, till we reached the train sent to meet us. We could see

it in the distance—a black blotch in the golden sunlight. One account

was that some revolted Arabs (and some of the outlying tribes are said

to be in a chronic state of sullen ill will) had done the mischief:

another, and more probable, that the hill-courses had swollen the

torrent of the Oued-Biskra, which had rent asunder the desert and

displaced the lines. The Arabs carried our baggage, and we set forth

across our first Sahara-stretch. Despite the heat, the air was so light

and delicious that we enjoyed the experience immensely. The river (or

rather barren river-bed with a pale-green torrent rushing through a

deep cleft in the sandy grit) was crossed on a kind of pontoon-bridge.

Soon after this the sun sank. We were in the middle of a vast plain,

almost surrounded by a series of low, pointed hills, which became a

deep purple. Far to the right was a chott (or salt lake) and of lucent

silver. For the rest, all was orange-gold, yellow-gold, green-gold,

with, high over the desert, a vast effulgence of a marvellous roseate

flush. Then came the moment of scarlet and rose, saffron, and deepening

gold, and purple. In the distance, underneath the dropping sparkle of

the Evening Star, we could discern the first palms of the oasis of

Biskra. There was nothing more to experience till arrival, we thought:

but just then we saw the full moon rise out of the Eastern gloom. And

what a moon it was! Never did I see such a splendour of living gold.

It seemed incredibly large, and whatever it illumed became strange and

beautiful beyond words.

“Then a swift run past some ruined outlying mud-walls and Arab tents,

some groups of date-palms, a flashing of many lights and clamour of

Eastern tongues—and we were in Biskra: El Biskra-ed-Nokkel, to give

it its full name (the City of the Palms)! We found pleasant quarters

in the semi-Moorish Hotel on Sahara. It has cool corridors, with

arched alcoves, on both sides, so that at any time of day one may have

coolness somewhere. In the courtyard are seats where we can have coffee

and cigarettes under the palms, beside two dear little tame gazelles....

“This morning we had many novel and delightful glimpses of oriental

life. In one narrow street the way was blocked by camels lying or

squatting right across the road. As they are laden, they open their

mouths, snarlingly, and give vent to an extraordinary sound—part roar,

part grunt of expostulation....

“We came across a group of newly arrived camels from the distant Oasis

of Touggourt, laden with enormous melons and pumpkins: and, hopping and

running about, two baby camels! They were extraordinary creatures, and

justified the Arab saying that the first camel was the offspring of

an ostrich and some now extinct kind of monster.... Oh, this splendid

flood of the sun!

  CONSTANTINE, 12th Feb., 1893.

“It would be useless to attempt to give you any idea of all we have

seen since I last wrote. The impressions are so numerous and so

vivid until one attempts to seize them: and then they merge in a

labyrinth of memories. I sent you a P/c from Sidi Okba—the memory of

which with its 5,000 swarming Arab population has been something of

a nightmare-recollection ever since. I can well believe how the City

of Constantine was considered one of the seven wonders of the world.

It is impossible to conceive anything grander. Imagine a city hanging

down the sides of gorges nearly 1,000 feet in depth—and of the most

fantastic and imposing aspect. In these terrible gorges, which have

been fed with blood so often, the storks and ravens seem like tiny

sparrows as they fly to and fro, and the blue rock-doves are simply

wisps of azure....

Last night I had such a plunge into the Barbaric East as I have

never had, and may never have again. I cannot describe, but will

erelong tell you of those narrow thronged streets, inexplicably

intricate, fantastic, barbaric: the Moorish cafés filled with motley

Orientals—from the turban’d Turk, the fez’d Jew, the wizard-like Moor,

to the Kabyl, the Soudanese, the desert Arab: the strange haunts of

the dancing girls: the terrible street of the caged women—like wild

beasts exposed for sale: and the crowded dens of the Haschisch-eaters,

with the smoke and din of barbaric lutes, tam-tams, and nameless

instruments, and the strange wild haunting chanting of the ecstatics

and fanatics. I went at last where I saw not a single European: and

though at some risk, I met with no active unpleasantness, save in

one Haschisch place, where by a sudden impulse some forty or fifty

Moors suddenly swung round, as the shriek of an Arab fanatic, and

with outstretched hands and arms cursed the _Gaiour-kelb_ (dog of an

infidel!): and here I had to act quickly and resolutely. Thereafter one

of my reckless fits came on, and I plunged right into the midst of the

whole extraordinary vision—for a kind of visionary Inferno it seemed.

From Haschisch-den to Haschisch-den I wandered, from strange vaulted

rooms of the gorgeously jewelled and splendidly dressed prostitutes to

the alcoves where lay or sat or moved to and fro, behind iron bars, the

caged “beauties” whom none could reach save by gold, and even then at

risk; from there to the dark low rooms or open pillared places where

semi-nude dancing girls moved to and fro to a wild barbaric music....

I wandered to and fro in that bewildering Moorish maze, till at last

I could stand no more impressions. So I found my way to the western

ramparts, and looked out upon the marvellous nocturnal landscape of

mountain and valley—and thought of all that Constantine had been—”

  CARTHAGE,

  Sunday, 19th Feb.

“How strange it seems to write a line to London from this London of

2,000 years ago! The sea breaks at my feet, blue as a turquoise here,

but, beyond, a sheet of marvellous pale green, exquisite beyond words.

To the right are the inland waters where the Carthaginian galleys

found haven: above, to the right, was the temple of Baal: right above,

the temple of Tanit, the famous Astarte, otherwise “The Abomination

of the Sidonians.” Where the Carthaginians lived in magnificent

luxury, a little out of the city itself, is now the Arab town of

Sidi-ban-Saïd—like a huge magnolia-bloom on the sunswept hillside.

There is nothing of the life of to-day visible, save a white-robed

Bedouin herding goats and camels, and, on the sea, a few felucca-rigged

fisherboats making for distant Tunis by the Strait of Goletta. But

there is life and movement in the play of the wind among the grasses

and lentisks, in the hum of insects, in the whisper of the warm earth,

in the glow of the burning sunshine that floods downward from a sky of

glorious blue. _Carthage_—I can hardly believe it. What _ivresse_ of

the mind the word creates!”

The following letter was received shortly after our return:

  19 ST. MARY ABBOTTS TERRACE, W.,

  7th March, 1893.

  MY DEAR SHARP,

I did not reply to your kind letter because I could not divest myself

of a certain suspicion of the postal arrangements of the desert. I

admit however there was little warrant for misgiving since they are

evidently civilised enough to keep the natives well supplied with

copies of _The Island_. The thought of the studious Sheik painfully

spelling out that work with the help of his lexicon is simply

fascinating, and I have made up my mind to read _The Arabian Nights_

in the original by way of returning the compliment. But if I talk any

more about myself I shall forget the immediate purpose of this letter

which is to ask if you and Mrs. Sharp are back again; and, if you are,

how and when we may see you. I think this was about the date of your

promised return. We shall all be delighted to see you and to hear

about your journey. You are more than ever Children of To-morrow in my

esteem, to be able not only to dare such trips but to do them. When I

read your letter I felt more than ever a child of yesterday. Do write

and give us a chance of seeing you as soon as you can.

  Ever yours,

Mr. Whiteing was one of the many friends who came to our cottage for

week-end visits in the ensuing spring and summer. Among others whom

we welcomed were Mrs. Mona Caird, Miss Alice Corkran, Mr. George

Cotterell, Mr. and Mrs. Le Gallienne, the Honble Roden Noel, Mr.

Percy White, Dr. Byres Moir, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Rinder, Mr. R. A.

Streatfield, Mr. Laurence Binyon, my brother R. Farquharson Sharp,

and my sister-in-law Mary, or Marik, who for many years acted as my

husband’s secretary and whose handwriting became familiar to many

correspondents who afterwards received letters in handwriting from

Fiona Macleod.

The Diary for December 1893 has the following entries:

“We came back to a lovely English Spring, the finest for a quarter of

a century it is said. In May E. went to Paris for the Salon: I went to

Ventnor and Freshwater. Wrote my long article for _Harpers’_ on ‘The

March of Rome in North Africa.’

“At the end of July we went to Scotland: first for three weeks to St.

Andrew’s: then to Mrs. Glasford Bells’ at Tirinie, near Aberfeldy in

Perthshire: then to Corrie, in Arran, for over a fortnight. Then E.

visited friends, and I went to Arrochar, etc. Then at my mother’s in

Edinburgh: and on my way south I stopped with R. Murray Gilchrist at

Eyam, in Derbyshire.

“In the autumn I arranged with Frank Murray of Derby to publish

_Vistas_. He could afford to give me only £10, but in this instance

money was a matter of little importance. _Harpers’_ gave me £50 for

“The March of Rome.” Knowles asked me to do “La Jeune Belgique” for

the September number which I did, and he commissioned other work. On

the head of it, too, Elkin Matthews and John Lane have commissioned

an extension of the essay, and translation, for a volume to be issued

in the spring. In _Good Words_, “Froken Bergliot,” a short story, was

much liked: later, in December, “Love in a Mist” (written June /92)

still more so. African articles commissioned by _Harpers_, _Atlantic

Monthly_, _Art Journal_, _Good Words_, and provisionally two others.

“Have written several stories and poems. Also done the first part of a

Celtic romance called _Pharais_, from the word of Muireadach Albarmach,

“Mithil domb triall gu tigh na Pharais.” Have mentally cartooned

_Nostalgia_ (a short one vol. romance) _The Woman of Thirty_ (do.

novel), _Ivresse_ (which I have proposed to Lady Colin Campbell for

our collaboration in preference to _Eve and I_): “Passée,” “Hazard of

Love”: a collection of short stories, collectively called _The Comedy

of Woman_: and other volumes in romance, fiction, poetry, and drama.

Have done part of _Amor_ (in Sonnets mostly as yet): and the first

part of “The Tower of Silence.” Have thought out “Demogorgon”: also,

projected a dramatic version of _Anna Karenina_.

“Some time ago signed an agreement with Swan Sonnenschin & Co. to write

a new life of Rossetti. It will be out, I hope, next spring. Been

getting slowly on with it.

“Besides the bigger things I am thinking of, e. g. in poetic drama

“Demogorgon”: in fiction “The Lunes of Youth” (Part 1 of the Trilogy

of _The Londoners_), and the _Women_ series, have thought out _The

Literary Ideal_