  ALGIERS Vistas Many schemes were mentally cartooned for the autumn and winter’s work; but all our plans were suddenly upset by an unlooked for occurrence. While in Rome I had had a severe attack of Roman fever; and I had never quite recovered therefrom. The prolonged rains in the hot autumn, the dampness of the clay soil on which lay the hamlet of Buck’s Green, made me very ill again with intermittent low fever. It was deemed imperative that I should not spend the whole winter in England, but go in search of a dry warm climate. But we had not the necessary funds. So instead of devoting himself to his dream-work, as he had hoped, my husband laid it temporarily aside and settled himself to write between October and Xmas, two exciting boys’ serial stories for Young Folk’s Paper, and thus procured sufficient money to enable us to cross to North Africa. “The Red Rider” and “The Last of the Vikings” were crowded with startling adventures. The weaving of sensational plots offered no difficulties to him, but an enjoyment. He did not consider the achievement of any real value, and did not wish that particular kind of writing to be associated with his name. His impressions of Algeria and Tunisia were chronicled in a series of articles, such as “Cardinal Lavigerie,” “The March of Rome,” “Rome in Africa,” etc.; also in a series of letters to a friend from which I select one or two: Biskra, 2d Feb., 1893. “Here we are in the Sahara at last! I find it quite hopeless to attempt to give you any adequate idea of the beauty and strangeness and the extraordinary fascination “The sun sank over the uplands of Kabylia as we mounted towards the ancient Roman outpost-city, Setif. Setif stands about 3,500 ft. high: and crossing the plateaux beyond it was like making an excursion through Scotland in midwinter. Still, despite the snow on the hills, and even along the roads of Setif itself, the cold was not so severe as we expected. “At four next morning we steamed slowly out of Setif in full moonlight. An hour or so later dawn broke as we passed a series of Arab encampments, and then came another sunrise over a wild and desolate country. We were now entirely in Mahommedan lands, for there are “At a place called El Guerrah we stopped for half an hour for dÉjeuner. Soon thereafter we passed the Salt Lakes, covered with wild-fowl, flamingoes, and other birds. It was hereabouts that we first saw some camels. Once more we mounted, and soon were high among the AurÈs mountains, perhaps the most delightful hill-region of North Africa, with certainly the finest population, Berbers like the Kabyles, but Berber-aristocrats—Berbers refined by potent inherited strains from the Romans of old. From Batna onwards the journey was an endless delight. We came more and more into the East, and soon grew wholly accustomed to Arab encampments, herds of camels, Moors and Negroes coming in with herds of bouricoes (little donkeys), wild black goats and gaunt sheep, Nomads travelling southward or eastward, picturesque Saharians or Spahis dashing past on grey Arab horses, and semi-nude agriculturous Berbers. At last the desert (the hill-desert) was entered. Here one can realise the full significance of the French epithet tourmentÉ: and, as one fares further, of the Biblical phrase, the abomination of 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 “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 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 Ever yours, R. Whiteing. 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 etc.—and also the philosophical “The Brotherhood of Rest.” Besides, a number of short stories: some with a definite end in view, that of coherent book-publication. In the background are other works: e. g. DarthÛla, thought out nearly fully, which I would like to make my chef d’oeuvre. In all, I have actually on hand eight books, and innumerable stories, articles, etc. Fac-simile of an autograph poem by William Sharp The things first to be done now are
(Articles) “The Literary Ideal”: FlemÇen: “Tunisia”: “The Province of Constantine”: “The Province of Oran”: “Lyric Japan”: “Chansons D’Amour”: etc. etc. (Short Stories) “The late Mrs. Pygmalion” etc. etc.” Vistas was published early in 1894 by Mr. Frank Murray of Derby in “his Regent Series,” of which Frangipani by R. Murray Gilchrist was the first number. The English edition of Vistas is dedicated to Madame Elspeth H. Barzia—an anagram on my name. In the Dedication to H. W. Alden (author of “God in His World”) in the American edition—which contains an extra ‘Interlude’ entitled “The Whisperer”—the intention of the book is thus explained: “You asked me what my aim was in those dramatic interludes which, collectively, I call Vistas. I could not well explain: nor can I do so now. All are vistas of the inner life of the human soul, psychic episodes. One or two are directly autopsychical, others are renderings of dramatically conceived impressions of spiritual emotion: to two or three no quotation could be more apt than that of the Spanish novelist, Emilia Pardo BazÀn: ‘Enter with me into the dark zone of the human soul.’ These Vistas were written at intervals: the most intimate in the spiritual sense, so long ago as the spring of 1886, when during recovery from a long and nearly fatal illness “One or two of the Vistas were written in Stuttgart in 1891, others a year or so later in London or elsewhere—all in what is, in somewhat unscholarly fashion, called the Maeterlinckian formula. Almost from the first moment it seemed clear to me that the Belgian poet-dramatist had introduced a new and vital literary form. It was one that many had been seeking—stumblingly, among them, the author of Vistas—but Maurice Maeterlinck wrought the crude material into a form fit for swift and dextrous use, at once subtle and simple. The first which I wrote under this impulse is that entitled ‘Finis.’ The latest or latest but one (’The Whisperer,’ now added to this Edition) seems to me, if I may say so, as distinctively individual as ‘The Passing of Lilith,’ and some, at least of my critics have noticed this in connection with ‘The Lute Player.’ In all but its final form, it embodies a conception that has been with me for many years, ever since boyhood: a living actuality for me, at last expressed, but so inadequately as to make me differ from the distinguished critic who adjudged it the best of the Vistas. To me it is the most obvious failure in the book, though fundamentally, so near and real emotionally.” END OF PART ONE Part II FIONA MACLEOD I too will set my face to the wind and throw my handful of seed on high, F. M. | ||||||||||||||
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