WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP - ELIZABETH A. SHARP (phonics reader TXT) 📗
- Author: ELIZABETH A. SHARP
Book online «WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP - ELIZABETH A. SHARP (phonics reader TXT) 📗». Author ELIZABETH A. SHARP
silent ghostly wings with weird uncanny cries, and bats begin to lead
a furiously active existence. The other night I was quite startled
by seeing a perfectly white animal slowly approaching me: it looked
remarkably like the ghost of a fox or wild-cat, but I am afraid it was
only a white hare.
So much for my surroundings. As for the few people hereabout they are
all charmingly of the old time. After dinner, and while the claret,
port, and sherry (the latter, oh so brandied!) are in process of
consumption, large toddy goblets with silver spoon-ladles and smaller
tumblers are handed round to ladies and gentlemen alike. Then come the
large silver flagon with the hot water, the bowl with the strictly
symmetrical lumps of sugar, three of which go to this large tumbler,
and the cut crystal decanter of pure Glenlivet. The custom has great
advantages, but it certainly does not conduce to the safe driving of the
dogcart home again.
Here is a specimen of a purely Scotch Bill of Fare, for some especially
noteworthy occasion:
BILL OF FARE
A wee drappie Talisher.
——
Callipee Broth. Hotch Potch.
——
Saumon à la Pottit Heed. Pomphlet à la Newhaven.
——
Anither Drappie.
——
Mince Collops. Doo Tairt.
——
Haggis.
——
An Eek.
——
Stuffed Bubbly Jocks an Hawm.
Gigot of Mutton wi’ red curran jeelie.
Sheep’s Heed an’ Trotters.
——
Tatties Biled & Champit.
Bashed Neeps.
Jist a wee Donal’.
——
Glesky Magistrates. Sma’ peas.
——
Grozet Pies. Aiple Dumplins.
——
Ice Puddin wi’ cookies.
——
A Guid Dram to keep a’ doon.
When I have a house of my own I shall give such a dinner some day, and
the Sassenach hearts present shall admit there is no dinner like a
Scotch one and no whiskey like the heavenly Celtic brew.
And now, au revoir,
Ever yours affectionately,
WILLIAM SHARP.
PART I (WILLIAM SHARP) CHAPTER IV ( THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI )
The Directors of The Fine Art Society decided finally not to organise
the special department of Engravings of which William Sharp hoped to
take charge, therefore his engagement fell through and he was thrown
on his own resources. The outlook was very serious, for he was still
practically unknown to editors and publishers; and during the following
two years he had a hard fight with circumstances. No post of any kind
turned up for him and he had to depend solely on his pen, and for many
months was practically penniless; and many a time the only food he
could afford, after a meagre breakfast, was hot chestnuts bought from
men in the street.
I do not care to dwell on those days; I could do so little to help, and
by common consent we hid the true condition of things from his mother
and mine. Nevertheless we firmly believed in his “future”; that with
persistence and patience—and endurance—he would “gain a footing”; that
circumstances were pushing him into the one career suited to him, even
if the method seemed too drastic at times.
[Illustration: DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI]
He had already succeeded in having a poem accepted occasionally by one
or two Magazines and Weeklies. In 1879 _Good Words_ published a poem
entitled “Night,” and in 1880 two Sonnets on Schubert’s “Am Meer.”
_The Examiner_ printed some Sonnets and a poem of fifteen lines. In
1881 he contributed a long poem on Victor Hugo to _Modern Thought_,
and in February of 1882 his Sonnet “Spring Wind” was accepted by the
_Athenæum_ and it was afterward included in Hall Caine’s Century of
Sonnets. Early the following year he spent a delightful week-end with
Rossetti, at Birchington, whence he wrote to me:
Feb. 13, 1882.
“Just a line to tell you I am supremely content. Beautiful sea views,
steep ‘cavey’ cliffs, a delicious luxurious house, and nice company. By
a curious mistake I got out at the wrong place on Sunday, and had a long
walk with my bag along the cliffs till I arrived rather tired and hot
at my destination. I was surprised not to find Hall Caine there, but it
appeared he clearly understood I was to get out at a different station
altogether. I was also delayed in arriving, as I asked a countryman my
direction and he told me to go to the left—but from the shape of the
coast I argued that the right must be the proper way—I went to the right
in consequence, and nearly succeeded in going over a cliff’s edge, while
my theory was decidedly vanquished by facts. However the walk repaid it.
Oh, the larks yesterday! It was as warm as June, and Rossetti and Caine
and myself went out and lay in the grass (at least I did) basking in
the sun, looking down on the gleaming sea, and hearing these heavenly
incarnate little joys sending thrills of sweetness, and vague pain
through all my being. I seemed all a-quiver with the delight of it all.
And the smell of the wrack! and the cries of the sea-birds! and the
delicious wash of the incoming tide! Oh, dear me, I shall hate to go
back to-morrow. Caine is writing a sonnet in your book, Watts is writing
a review for the _Athenæum_, Rossetti is about to go on with painting
his Joan of Arc, and I am writing the last lines of this note to you.”
Little did he dream as he shook hands with his host on the Monday
morning that he was bidding a last farewell to his good friend.
Of that visit he wrote later:
“Of my most cherished memories is a night at Birchington-on-Sea, in
March, 1882. It had been a lovely day. Rossetti asked me to go out with
him for a stroll on the cliff; and though he leaned heavily and dragged
his limbs wearily as if in pain, he grew more cheerful as the sunlight
warmed him. The sky was a cloudless blue and the singing of at least
a score of larks was wonderful to listen to. Everywhere Spring odours
prevailed, with an added pungency from the sea-wrack below. Beyond, the
sea reached far to horizons of purple shaded azure. At first I thought
Rossetti was indifferent: but this mood gave way. He let go my arm and
stood staring seaward silently, then, still in a low tired voice, but
with a new tone in it he murmured, ‘It is beautiful—the world and life
itself. I am glad I have lived.’ Insensibly thereafter the dejection
lifted from off his spirit, and for the rest of that day and that
evening he was noticeably less despondent.
“The previous evening Christina Rossetti and myself were seated in the
semi-twilight in the low-roofed sitting room. She had been reading to
him but he had grown weary and somewhat fretful. Not wishing to disturb
him, Miss Rossetti made a sign to me to come over to the window and
there drew my attention to a quiet hued but very beautiful sunset. While
we were enjoying it Rossetti, having overheard an exclamation of almost
rapturous delight from Christina, rose from his great armchair before
the fire and walked feebly to the window. He stared blankly upon the
dove-tones and pale amethyst of the sky. I saw him glance curiously at
his sister, and then again long and earnestly. But at last with a voice
full of chagrin he turned away pettishly saying he could not see what it
was we admired so much. ‘It is all gray and gloom,’ he added; nor would
he hear a word to the contrary, so ignorant was he of the havoc wrought
upon his optic nerve by the chloral poison which did so much to shorten
his life.... ‘Poor Gabriel,’ Miss Rossetti said, ‘I wish he could
have at least one hopeful hour again.’ It was with pleasure therefore
next day she heard of what he had said upon the cliff, and how he had
brightened. The evening that followed was a happy one, for, as already
mentioned Rossetti grew so cheerful, relatively, that it seemed as
though the shadow of death had lifted. What makes it doubly memorable
to me is that when I opened the door for Miss Rossetti when she bade me
good-night, she turned, took my hand again, and said in a whisper, ‘I am
so glad about Gabriel, and grateful.’”
To E. A. S.:
11: 4: 82.
“...After spending a very pleasant day at Haileybury with Farquharson
[E. A. Sharp’s brother] we arrived late in London, and while glancing
over an evening paper my eye suddenly caught a paragraph which made
my heart almost stop. I could not bring myself to read it for a long
time, though I knew it simply rechronicled the heading—“Sudden Death of
Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti.” He died on Sunday night at Birchington. I
cannot tell you what a grief this is to me. He has ever been to me a
true friend, affectionate and generous—and to him I owe more perhaps
than to any one after yourself. Apart from my deep regret at the loss of
one whom I so loved, I have also the natural regret at what the loss of
his living friendship means. I feel as if a sudden tower of strength on
which I had greatly relied had given way: for not only would Rossetti’s
house have been my own as long as and whenever I needed, but it was his
influence while alive that I so much looked to. Comparatively little
known to the public, his name has always been a power and recommendation
in itself amongst men of letters and artists and those who have to do
with both professions. When I recall all that Rossetti has been to
me—the pleasure he has given me—the encouragement, the fellowship—I feel
very bitter at heart to think I shall never see again the kindly gray
eyes and the massive head of the great poet and artist. He has gone to
his rest. It were selfish to wish otherwise considering all things....
If I take flowers down, part of the wreath shall be from you. He would
have liked it himself, for he knew you through me, and he knew I am
happier in this than most men perhaps.”
To E. A. S.:
April 13, 1882.
“ ... I have just returned (between twelve and one at night) tired
and worn out with some necessary things in connection with Rossetti,
taking me first to Chelsea, then away in the opposite direction to
Euston Road. As I go down to Birchington by an early train, besides
having much correspondence to get through after breakfast, I can
only write a very short letter. I have felt the loss of my dear and
great friend more and more. He had weaknesses and frailties within
the last six or eight months owing to his illness, but to myself he
was ever patient and true and affectionate. A grand heart and soul, a
true friend, a great artist, a great poet, I shall not meet with such
another. He loved me, I know—and believed and hoped great things of
me, and within the last few days I have learned _how_ generously and
how urgently he impressed this upon others. God knows I do not grudge
him his long-looked-for rest, yet I can hardly imagine London without
him. I _cannot_ realise it, and yet I know that I shall never again see
the face lighten up when I come near, never again hear the voice whose
mysterious fascination was like a spell. What fools are those vain men
who talk of death: blinded, and full of the dust of corruption. As God
lives, the soul dies not. What though the grave be silent, and the
darkness of the Shadow become not peopled—to those eyes that can see
there is light, light, light—to those ears that can hear the tumult of
the disenfranchised, rejoicing. I am borne down not with the sense of
annihilation, but with the vastness of life and the imminence of things
spiritual. I _know_ from something beyond and out of myself that we
are now but dying
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