“RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN”

Green Fire

During the most active years of the Fiona Macleod writings, the author was usually in a highly wrought condition of mental and emotional tension, which produced great restlessness, so that he could not long remain contentedly anywhere. We spent the summer of 1896 moving about from one place to another that had special interest for him. First we went to Bamborough, for sea-bathing (he was a fine swimmer), and to visit the little Holy Isle of the Eastern Shores, Lindisfarne, Iona’s daughter. Thence to the Clyde to be near his mother and sisters. From Inverness we went to the Falls of Lora, in Ossian’s country, and later we moved to one of William’s favourite haunts, Loch Tarbert, off Loch Fyne, where our friends Mr. and Mrs. Frank Rinder had taken a house for the summer. There I left him with his secretary-sister, Mary, and returned to London to recommence my work on The Glasgow Herald. The two following letters to me told of the progress of his work:

September 23d.

I am now well in writing trim I am glad to say. Two days ago I wrote the long-awaited “Rune of the Passion of Woman” the companion piece in a sense to the ‘Chant of Woman’ in Pharais—and have also done the Savoy story “The Archer” (about 4,500 words) and all but done “Ahez the Pale.” Today I hope to get on with the “Lily Leven.” ...

I must make the most of this day of storm for writing. I had a splendid long sleep last night, and feel ‘spiff.’ ... I am not built for mixed companies, and like them less and less in proportion as the imperative need of F. M. and W. S. for greater isolation grows. I realise more and more the literal truth of what George Meredith told me—that renunciation of ordinary social pleasures (namely of the ordinary kind in the ordinary way) is a necessity to any worker on the high levels: and unless I work that way I shall not work at all.

26th Sept.

From Tighnabruaich Hotel, a lovely little village in the Kyles of Bute, he wrote to me:

I am glad to be here, for though the weather has changed for the worse I am so fond of the place and neighbourhood. But what I care for most is I am in a strong Fiona mood, though more of dream and reverie—creatively—than of actual writing: indeed it is likely all my work here, or nearly all shall be done through dream and mental-cartooning. I have written “The Snow Sleep of Angus Ogue” for the winter Evergreen, and am glad to know it is one of F. M.’s deepest and best utterances.

The Evergreen was a Quarterly started by Prof. Geddes, of which W. S. was Editor. Five numbers only were issued. During the autumn William had prepared for publication by P. Geddes & Coll a re-issue of the Tales contained in The Sin-Eater and The Washer of the Ford, in the form of a paper covered edition in three volumes, Barbaric Tales, Spiritual Tales, Tragic Romances. Each volume contained a new tale. Mr. W. B. Yeats considered that “Of the group of new voices none is more typical than the curious mysterious voice that is revealed in these stories of Miss Fiona Macleod.... She has become the voice (of these primitive peoples and elemental things) not from mere observation of their ways, but out of an absolute identity of nature.... Her art belongs in kind, whatever be its excellence in its kind, to a greater art, which is of revelation, and deals with invisible and impalpable things. Its mission is to bring us near to those powers and principalities, which we divine in mortal hopes and passions.

Mr. W. E. Henley had shown considerable interest in the “F. M.” Tales, and had written an appreciative letter to the author, who immediately acknowledged it:

1:4:97.

Dear Mr. Henley,

I thank you for your kind letter. Any work of recognition from you means much to me. Your advice is wise and sane, I am sure—and you may be certain that I shall bear it in mind. It will be difficult to follow—for absolute simplicity is the most difficult of all styles, being, as it must be, the expression of a mind at once so imaginative in itself, so lucid in its outlook, and so controlled in its expression, that only a very few rarely gifted individuals can hope to achieve the isolating ideal you indicate.

The three latest things I have written are the long short-story “Morag of the Glen,” “The Melancholy of Ulad,” and “The Archer.” I would particularly like to know what you think of the style and method of “The Archer” (I mean, apart from the arbitrary fantasy of the short supplementary part—which affords the clue to the title)—as there I have written, or tried to write, with the accent of that life as I know it.

F. M.

The central story of “The Archer” was one of the Tales which the author valued most, and rewrote many times. In its final form—“Silas,” in the Tauchnitz volume of F. M. Tales—it stands without the opening and closing episodes. Concerning the “fantasy of the short supplementary part” a curious coincidence happened. That arbitrary fantasy is the record of a dream, or vision, which the author had at Tarbert. In a letter from Mr. Yeats received shortly after, the Irish poet related a similar experience which he had had—a vision of a woman shooting arrows among the stars—a vision that appeared also the same night to Mr. Arthur Symons. I remember the exchange of letters that passed between the three writers; unfortunately Fiona’s letter to Mr. Symons, and the latter’s answer, are not available. But I have two of the letters on the subject which, through the courtesy of Mr. Yeats, I am able to quote; both, unfortunately are undated. F. M. describes a second vision which, however, had no connection with the coincidence.

Mr. Yeats wrote:

Tillyra Castle,

Co. Galway.

My dear Sharp,

Many thanks for your letter. You must have written it the very morning I was writing to Miss Macleod. I have just returned from the Arran Islands where I had gone on a fishing boat, and where I go again at the end of this week. I am studying on the islands for the opening chapter of a story I am about to set out upon. I met two days ago an old man who hears the fairies he says every night and complains much that their singing keeps him awake. He showed me a flute which he had got thinking that if he played it they might be pleased and so cease teasing him. I have met much curious lore here and in Arran.

I have had some singular experiences myself. I invoked one night the spirits of the moon and saw between sleep and waking a beautiful woman firing an arrow among the stars. That night she appeared to Symons who is staying here, and so impressed him that he wrote a poem on her the only one he ever wrote to a dream, calling her the fountain of all song or some such phrase. She was the symbolic Diana. I invoked a different spirit another night and it appeared in dreams to an old French Count, who was staying here, and was like Symons ignorant of my invocations. He locked his door to try to keep it out. Please give my greetings to Miss Macleod.

Yours Sincerely,

W. B. Yeats.

F. M. wrote in acknowledgment of a long critical letter from Mr. Yeats, to whom “she” had sent The Washer of the Ford:

Tarbert on Loch Fyne.

Dear Mr. Yeats,

My cordial greetings to you,

Sincerely,

Fiona Macleod.

No sooner had W. S. returned to London than he fell ill with nervous prostration, and rheumatism. It was soon obvious that he could not remain in town, and that for a short time at any rate he must cease from pen-work. It therefore seemed an opportune moment for him to go to New York, and attend to his publishing interests there, especially as Messrs. Stone & Kimball had recently failed.

Before starting he had read and reviewed with much interest a volume of poems by the American poet, Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, and had received a pleased acknowledgment from her husband Richard A. Stoddard:

New York,

Oct. 30, 1896.

My dear Sharp,

I am greatly obliged to you for what you have written about my wife’s poetry, any recognition of which touches me more nearly than anything that could be said about my own verse.... My wife has told you, I presume, how much I enjoyed your wife’s Women’s Voices, just before I went into the Hospital, and how I composed a bit of verse in my head when I couldn’t see to feed myself. Do you ever compose in that silent way? I have taught myself to do without pens, ink, and paper, in verse; but I can’t do so in prose, which would print itself in the thing I call my mind. Give my kindest regards and warmest good wishes to your Elizabeth, whose charming book is a favourite with my Elizabeth as well, as with

Yours sincerely,

R. H. Stoddard.

Later, Mr. Stedman wrote an account of a dinner given to Mr. Stoddard to which W. S. was invited:

Bronxville, N. Y.,

Feb. 17, 1897.

My dear Sharp,

I have received your long letter of the 25th Jany, and also a shorter one of the 30th written at Mr. George Cotterell’s house. I will say at the outset that I feel guilty at seeing the name of that loveable man and true poet; for although a year has passed since the completion of my (Victorian) “Anthology” I have been positively unable to write the letter which I have in my heart for him.

... The most important social matter here this winter relating to our Guild will be a large important dinner to be given on March 25th by the Author’s Club and his other friends, to Richard Henry Stoddard. We are going to try to make an exception to the rule that New York is not good to her own, and to render a tribute somewhat commensurate with Stoddard’s life long services, and his quality as poet and man. A few invitations are going to be sent to literary men abroad, and I have been able to write about them to Besant, Dobson, Garnett and yourself. Of course I do not expect that you will come over here, and I am quite sure you will write a letter which can be read at the dinner, for I have in mind your personal friendship with Stoddard and affectionate comprehension of his genius and career....

On the 13th of April Mr. Stedman wrote again to report on the proceedings:

Your letter to the Stoddard Banquet was by far the best and most inclusive of the various ones received, and it was read out to the 150 diners and met with high favour. I mailed you the full report of the affair, but believe I have not written you since it came off. It proved to be the most notable literary occasion yet known in this city—was brilliant, magnetic, enthusiastic throughout. I felt a pride in my office as Chairman. The hall was one of the handsomest in America, the speaking of the most eloquent type, and full of laughter and tears. The Stoddards were deeply gratified by your letter.

E. C. S.

My husband arrived in New York on All Hallow E’en and went direct to the hospitable house of Mr. Alden whence he wrote to me:

Metuchen, N. J.,

1st Nov., 1896.

... Of course nothing can be done till Wednesday. All America is aflame with excitement—and New York itself is at fever-heat. I have never seen such a sight as yesterday. The whole enormous city was a mass of flags and innumerable Republican and Democratic insignia—with the streets thronged with over two million people. The whole business quarter made a gigantic parade that took 7 hours in its passage—and the business men alone amounted to over 100,000. Everyone—as indeed not only America, but Great Britain and all Europe—is now looking eagerly for the final word on Tuesday night. The larger issues are now clearer: not merely that the Bryanite 50-cent dollar (instead of the standard 100 cent) would have far reaching disastrous effects, but that the whole struggle is one of the anarchic and destructive against the organic and constructive forces. However, this tremendous crisis will come to an end—pro tem. at any rate—on Tuesday night....

During his absence, F. M.’s romance, Green Fire, was published. The title was taken from a line in ‘Cathal of the Woods,’ ‘O green fire of life, pulse of the world, O Love!’ And the deeper meaning of the expression ‘Green Life’—so familiar to all who knew ‘Fiona Macleod’—is suggested in a sentence at the close of the book: “Alan knew that strange nostalgia of the mind for impossible things. Then, wrought for a while from his vision of green life, and flamed by another green fire than that born of earth, he dreamed his dream.”

To me, the author wrote from New York:

“ ... I am indeed glad you like Green Fire so well. And you are right in your insight: Annaik is the real human magnet. Ynys is an idealised type, what I mean by Ideala or Esclarmoundo, but she did not take hold of me like Annaik. Alan, too, is a variation of the Ian type. But Annaik has for me a strange and deep attraction: and I am sure the abiding personal interest must be in her. You are the only one who seems to have understood and perceived this—certainly the only one who has noticed it. Some day I want to tell Annaik’s story in full....”

The author had read much Breton lore during his study of French Literature, and as his interest had for a time been centred on the land of the kindred Celt, he determined to make it the setting of a new Romance. He had never been there, so drew on his imagination for the depiction of the places he knew of by hearsay only. The result, when later he judged the book in cool criticism, he considered to be unsatisfactory as to structure and balance. He realised, that although the Fiona impetus produced the first chapter and the latter part, the plot and melodramatic character of the Breton story are due to W. S.; that the descriptions of nature are written by F. M. and W. S. in fusion, are in character akin to the descriptions in “The Children of Tomorrow,” written by W. S. in his transition stage. Consequently, when in 1905, he discussed with me what he wished preserved of his writings, he asked my promise that I would never republish the book in its entirety.

In order to preserve what he himself cared for, he rewrote the Highland portion of the book, named it “The Herdsman” and included it in The Dominion of Dreams. (In the Uniform Edition, it is placed, together with a series of detached Thought-Fragments from Green Fire, in The Divine Adventure, Vol. IV.) He never carried out his intention of writing Annaik’s story in full. Had he done so it would have been incorporated in a story, partly reminiscent of his early sojourn among the gipsies, and have been called The Gypsy Trail.

Some months later Mr. W. B. Yeats wrote to W. S.:

“I have read ‘Green Fire’ since I saw you. I do not think it is one of your well-built stories, and I am certain that the writing is constantly too self-consciously picturesque; but the atmosphere, the romance of much of it, of ‘The Herdsman’ part in particular haunts me ever since I laid it down.

‘Fiona Macleod’ has certainly discovered the romance of the remote Gaelic places as no one else has ever done. She has made the earth by so much the more beautiful.”

And Mr. George Russell (A. E.) wrote to F. M. from Dublin:

Dear Fiona Macleod,

A. E.