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

 right on Monday afternoon, after a wonderful journey. We left Taormina

 in a glory of midsummerlike warmth and beauty—and we drove down the

 three miles of winding road from Taormina to the sea at Giardini;

 thence past the bay and promontory of Naxos, and at the site of the

 ancient famous fane of Apollo Archagêtês turned inland. Then through

 the myriad lemon-groves of Al Cantara, till we crossed the gorges of

 the Fiumefreddo, and then began the long ascent, in blazing heat, by

 the beautiful hill road to the picturesque mountain-town of Piedemonte.

 There we caught the little circum-Ætnean mountain loop-line, and

 ascended the wild and beautiful slopes of Etna. Last time we went we

 travelled mostly above the clouds, but this time there was not a vestige

 of vapour in the radiant air, save for the outriders’ trail of white,

 occasionally flame-coloured, smoke from the vast 4-mile wide mouth of

 snow-white and gigantically-looming cone of Etna. At the lofty mediæval

 and semi-barbaric town of Randazzo we were delayed by an excited

 crowd at the station, on account of the arrest and bringing in by the

 carabinieri of three chained and heavily manacled brigands, one of them

 a murderer, who evidently had the sympathy of the populace. A woman,

 the wife of one of the captured men, outdid any lamenting Irish woman

 I ever saw: her frenzy was terrible—and of course the poor soul was

 life-desolate and probably punished and would likely never see her man

 again. Finally she became distracted with despair and fury, and between

 her appeals and furious curses and almost maniacal lamentations, the

 small station was anything but an agreeable stopping place. The captive

 brigands were absolutely impassive: not a glance: only, as the small

 train puffed onward, one of them lifted a manacled arm behind one of the

 carabinieri and made a singular sign to some one.

 [Illustration: MRS. WILLIAM SHARP

 From a photograph by T. Craig-Annan, 1909]

 Thereafter we passed into the wild and terrible lava-lands of the last

 frightful eruption, between Randazzo and the frontier of the Duchy of

 Bronte: a region as wild and fantastic as anything imagined by Doré, and

 almost terrifying in its sombre deathfulness. The great and broad and

 sweeping mountains, and a mighty strath—and we came under the peaked

 rocks of Maletto, a little town standing 3000 feet high. Then the

 carriage, and the armed escort, and we had that wonderful drive thro’

 wild and beautiful lands of which I have heretofore written you. Then

 about four we drove up to the gates of the Castle, and passed into the

 great court just within the gates, and had the cordial and affectionate

 welcome of our dear host.

 A few minutes later we were no longer at an ancient castle in the wilds

 of Sicily, but in a luxurious English country house at afternoon tea....

My husband had taken with him, as material for the winter’s work, his

notes for the _Greek Backgrounds_, and the finished drafts of two

dramas. One, by W. S., was to be called _Persephonæia, or the Drama of

the House of Ætna_, and of it one act and one scene had been written

at Maniace two years before. It was to have been dedicated to The Duke

of Bronte. The other drama was Fiona’s projected play _The Enchanted

Valleys_, of which one scene only was written. But he felt unable for

steady work, as the following letter to the same friend, shows:

 ... A single long letter means no work for me that day, and the need

 of work terribly presses, and in every way, alas. My hope that I might

 be able for some writing in the late afternoon, and especially from 5

 to 7.30 is at present futile. I simply can’t. Yesterday I felt better

 and more mentally alert than I’ve done since I came, and immediately

 after afternoon tea, I came to my study and tried to work, but could

 not, though I had one of my nature articles begun and beside me: nor

 had I spirit to take up my reviews: then I thought I could at least get

 some of that wearisome accumulated correspondence worked off, but a

 mental nausea seized me, so that even a written chat to a friend seemed

 to me too exhausting. C’est cette maladie poignante, ce “degoût de la

 plume,” que Tourgenieff (ou Flaubert?) parlait de son cœur frappé. So I

 collapsed, and dreamed over a strange and fascinating ancient-world book

 by Lichtenberger, and then dreamed idly, watching the flaming oak-logs.”

In William’s Diary for December there are the following entries:

 _1st. Friday._ Wrote the short poem “When greenness comes again.” Read

 Zola’s wearisome “His Excellency Eugène Rougon,” and in the evening the

 “Jupiter” and “Saturn” chapters in Proctor’s “Otherworlds Than Ours.”

 _2d. Saty._ Read and took notes and thought out my Country Life article

 on “At the Turn of the Year.” Also incidentally “The Clans of the Rush,

 the Reed, and the Fern,” and one to be called “White Weather” (snow, the

 wild goose and the wild swan). Alec and I walked to the Boschetto. Began

 (about 1300 words) “At the Turn of the Year.”

 _3rd. Sunday._ A stormy and disagreeable day. Wrote long letters.

 In afternoon felt too tired and too sleepy to work or even to

 write letters: so sat before the fire in my study and partly over

 that fascinating book I love often to recur to for a few pages,

 Lichtenberger’s _Centaures_, and partly in old dreams of my own, it

 was 7.30 and time to dress before I knew it. Heard today from Ernest

 Rhys about the production of his and Vincent Thomas’ Opera _Guinevere_.

 Thought over an old world book to be called _Beyond the Foam_.

 _Dec. 4th._ In the forenoon began again and wrote first thousand words

 of “At the Turn of the Year.” At 3 went to drive with Elizabeth along

 the Balzo to near the Lake of Garrida.

 _Dec. 5. Tuesday._ In forenoon wrote the remaining and large half of “At

 the Turn of the Year”: revised the whole of it and posted it to Mary,

 with long letter.

 In afternoon a drive, despite the wet and inclement weather, up to

 Maletto. I walked back. A lovely, if unsettled sunset of blue and gold,

 purple brown, amethyst, and delicate cinnamon. A marvellous light on the

 hills. Luminous mist instead of cloud as of late. For the first time

 have seen the Sicilian Highlands with the beauty of Scotland.

 From 10 till 11.30 P.M. worked at notes for “White Weather” article.

 _Dec. 6. Wed._ In the forenoon worked at Gaelic material partly for

 articles, partly for other things. But not up to writing. There is a

 sudden change to an April-like heat: damply-hot; though fine: very

 trying, all feel it. After lunch walked up the north heights with Alec,

 then joined E. and D. L. in carriage and drove up past Otaheite to the

 Saw-Mills. Lovely air, gorgeous windy sky in the west, and superb but

 thunderous clouds in S. and E. Another bad change I fear. Etna rose

 gigantic as we ascended Otaheite-way, and from Serraspina looked like an

 immense Phantom with a vast plume of white smoke.

 In afternoon (from 5.30 till 7.30) wrote 1200 words of “White Weather.”

 _Thursday. 7th._ This morning fresh and bright and clear, a welcome

 change from these recent days—with the Beechwoods all frosted with snow.

 The Simeto swollen to a big rushing river.

 Worked at and finished the latter part of “White Weather,” and then

 revised and sent off to Mary to forward with note to _Country Life_.

 Also other letters. Turned out the wettest and worst afternoon we’ve had

 yet, and return of severe thunderstorm.

 _Dec. 8. Friday._ A fine morning but very doubtful if yet settled.

 Went out and was taken by Beek to see the observatory instruments and

 wind-registers and seismographs. Then took the dogs for a walk, as “off”

 work today.

 Wrote a long letter to Robert Hichens, also to R. L. S. Also, with

 poem “When Greenness comes again” by W. S. to C. Morley _Pall Mall

 Magazine_. In afternoon we had a lovely drive up above the Alcantara

 Valley along the mountain road toward Cesaro.”

And here the Diary ends, and here too ends the written work of a tired

hand and brain, but of an eager outlooking spirit. Ever since we

left London it was evident that his life forces were on the ebb-tide

slowly but surely; and he knew it, but concerned himself little, and

believed he had at any rate a few months before him and possibly a

whole year. Yet he seemed to have an inner knowledge of what was to

there; that he knew it, and had said farewell to his mother. On the

afternoon when we drove up to the Saw-Mills in the oak-woods he got

out of the carriage and wandered among the trees. When I urged him to

come away, as the light was waning rapidly, he touched the trees again

and again and said, “Ah dear trees of the North, dear trees of the

North, goodbye.” The drive on the 8th, so beautiful, to him so full of

fascination, was fatal to him. We drove far along a mountain pass and

at the furthest point stopped to let him look at the superb sunset over

against the hillset town of Cesaro.

He seemed wrapt in thought and looked long and steadfastly at the

wonderful glowing light; it was with difficulty that I persuaded him

to let us return. On the way back, a sudden turn of the road brought

us in face to the snow covered cone of Ætna. The wind had changed and

blew with cutting cold straight off the snow. It struck him, chilling

him through and through. Half way back he got out of the carriage to

walk and get warm. But the harm was done. That evening, before dinner,

he said to me: “I am going to talk as much as I can tonight. That dear

fellow Alec is rather depressed. I’ve teased him a good deal today;

now I am going to amuse him.” He was as good as his word, anecdote,

reminiscence, followed one another told in the gayest of spirits, and

in saying goodnight to me our host declared, “I have never heard Will

more brilliant than he has been tonight.”

The next morning my husband complained of pain which grew rapidly more

severe. The doctor was sent for, and remained in the house.

On the morning of the 12th—a day of wild storm, wind, thunder and

rain—he recognised that nothing could avail. With characteristic

swiftness he turned his eager mind from the life that was closing to

the life of greater possibilities that he knew awaited him. About 3

o’clock, with his devoted friend Alec Hood by his side, he suddenly

leant forward with shining eyes and exclaimed in a tone of joyous

recognition, “Oh, the beautiful ‘Green Life’ again!” and the next

moment sank back in my arms with the contented sigh, “Ah, all is well.”

On the 14th, in an hour of lovely sunshine, the body was laid to rest

in a little woodland burial-ground on the hillside within sound of the

Simeto; as part of the short service, his own “Invocation to Peace,”

from _The Dominion of Dreams_, was read over the grave by the Duke of

Bronte. Later, an Iona cross, carved in lava, was placed there, and on

it this inscription, chosen by himself:

  Farewell to the known and exhausted,

  Welcome the unknown and illimitable

and

  Love is more great than we conceive, and Death is the keeper

  of unknown redemptions.

 _Now, truly, is Dreamland no longer a phantasy of sleep, but a

 loveliness so great that, like deep music, there could be no words

 wherewith to measure it, but only the breathless unspoken speech of the

 soul upon whom has fallen the secret dews_.

“How the man subdivided his soul is the mystery,” wrote Mr. James

Douglas. And in trying to suggest an answer I would say with “F.

M.”—“I write, not