After our most pleasant evening À deux I had a comfortable journey north: and last night luxuriated in getting to bed early (a rare thing for me) with the sure and certain knowledge there would be no glorious resurrection therefrom at any untimely hour. So after sleeping the sleep of the true Gael—who is said to put 85 to the poor Sassenach 40 winks—I woke in peace. I was thereafter having a cigarette over the Scotsman when my youngest (and secretary) sister brought me my letters, papers, etc. and with them a long narrow box which I soon discovered to be your generous gift of 100 of these delectable Indian cigars. It is very good of you indeed, and I am grateful, and may the ancient Gaelic God Dia-Cheo, God of Smoke, grant you remission of all your philological sins and derivative ‘howlers’—and the more so as there is no authority for any such god, and the name would signify hill-mist instead of pipe-smoke! And may I have a himdred ‘rÈves de Notre Dame de Nicotine!’ I couldn’t resist trying one. Wholly excellent. And in the meditative fumes I arrived through intuition at the following derivation which I hope will find a place in your book:

Roab ancient Celtic for a Good Fellow
H’Errt—” ———” –” –Smoke-Maker or Smoke-Bestower
’s contraction for Agus ‘and’,
Onn ancient Celtic for ‘May Heaven Bless’
W. J. ancient Celtic Tribal tattoo——

which, assisted in dreams by the spirits of Windisch, D’Arbois de Jubainville, Loth, Whitley Stokes and Kuno Meyer, I take to be W. J. Roab-H’Errt-S-onn—i. e. Bill-Jack, or in mod. English ‘William John’ of the Clan of Heaven-Blessed Friendly Smokers—i. e. William John of the Roaberrtsson, or Robertson Clan. This of course disposes of Donnachie once and for all.

“April 19. It was sweet to fall asleep last night to the sound of the hill-wind and the swift troubled waters. We had a lovely walk in the late afternoon, and again in the sombre moonlit night. It came on too stormy for me to go round to the Cavern later, however. I’ll try again. I was there about first dusk, with Mary. To my chagrin there was neither sound nor sight of the sea-woman, but she must be there for MacC. has twice heard her sobbing and crying out at him when he passed close in the black darkness. There was only a lapwing wailing near by, but both Mary and I heard a singular furtive sound like something in a trailing silk dress whispering to itself as it slid past in the dusk—but this, I think, was a curious echo of what’s called ‘a sobbing wave’ in some narrow columnar hidden hollow opening from the sea. Mary got the creeps, and loathed a story I told her about a midianmara that sang lovely songs but only so as to drown the listener and suck the white warm marrow out of his spine.

Later I joined MacC. for a bit over the flickering fireflaucht. I got him to tell me all over again and more fully about the Maighdeann Mhara. The first time he heard ‘something’ was before his fright last November. ‘There was cÈol then’ he said....

I asked in Gaelic ‘were songs sung?’ He said ‘Yes, at times.’ Mrs. MacC. was angry at him he said, and said he hadn’t the common-sense of a jenny-cluckett (a clucking hen)—but (and there’s a world of difference in that) she hadn’t heard what he had heard. So to cheer him up I told him a story about a crab that fed on the brains of a drowned man, and grew with such awful and horrible wisdom that it climbed up the stairway of the seaweed and on to a big rock and waved its claws at the moon and cursed God and the world, and then died raving mad. Seeing how it worked upon him, I said I would tell him another, and worse, about a lobster—but he was just as bad as Mary, and said he would wait for the lobster till the morning, and seemed so absurdly eager to get safely to bed that the pleasant chat had to be abruptly broken off....

P. S. The cold is very great, and it is a damp cold, you couldn’t stand it. When I got up my breath swarmed about the room like a clutch of phantom peewits. No wonder I had a dream I was a seal with my feet clemmed on to an iceberg. A duck went past a little ago seemingly with one feather and that blown athwart its beak, so strong was the north-wind blowing from that snowy mass that Ben Nevis wears like a delicate veil. Cruachan has covered herself with a pall of snow mist.

April 20.... Fiona Macleod has just been made an honorary member of a French League of writers devoted to the rarer and subtler use of Prose and Verse, a charming letter from Paul Fort acting for his colleagues Maeterlinck, Henri de Roquier, Jean MorÉas, Emile Verhacren, Comte Antoine de la Rochefoucault, Duchesse de la Roche-Guyon, Richeguin, Sully Prudhomme, Henri Le Sidaner, Jules Claretie, etc. etc.

We’re glad, aren’t we, you and I? She’s our daughter, isn’t she?

23d April.... You will have got my note of yesterday telling you that I have reluctantly had to relinquish Iona. The primary reason is its isolation at present....

But from something I heard from old Mr. C. I fancy it’s as well for me not to visit there just now, where I’d be the only stranger, and every one would know of it—and where a look out for F. M. or W. S. is kept! And, too, anything heard there and afterwards utilised would be as easily traced to me.... After Tiree and Iona and Coll, and Arran in the South, I don’t care just now for anywhere else—nearer: as for Eigg, which I loved so much of old, Rum or Canna and the Outer Isles, they are too inaccessible just now and Skye is too remote and too wet and cold. However, it is isolation plus ‘atmosphere’ I want most of all—and I doubt if there is any place just now I could get so much good from as Lismore. I love that quiet isolated house on the rocks facing the Firth of Lorne, all Appin to Ben Naomhir, and the great mountains of Morven.

It was on the sandy bindweed-held slope of the little bay near the house, facing Eilean-nan-Coarach, that F. wrote the prelude to The Winged Destiny—and also the first piece, the “Treud-nan-Ron,” which describes that region, with Mr. MacC.’s seal legend, and the dear little island in the Sound of Morvern (do you remember our row to it one day?) There one could be quiet and given over to dreams and to the endless fascination of outer nature.... And I have got much of what I want—the in-touch above all, the atmosphere: enough to strike the keynote throughout the coming year and more, for I absorb through the very pores of both mind and body like a veritable sponge. Wild-life and plant-life too extremely interesting here. There does seem some mystery about that cave tho’ I cannot fathom it.

I’ve all but finished the preparation of the new Tauchnitz vol. (The Sunset of Old Tales) and expect to complete it (for May) tonight.

24th April.... Yes, I was sorry to leave Lismore. It may be my last time in the Gaelic west. (I don’t say this “down-ly”—but because I think it likely). There is much I want to do, and now as much by W. S. as by F. M. and that I realise must be done abroad where alone can I keep well and mentally even more than physically. (How I hope Fontainebleau may some day suit us.) Dear MacC. was sorry to part too. He shook hands (with both his) and when I said in Gaelic “Goodbye, and Farewell upon that, my friend” he said “No—no”—and then suddenly said “My blessing on you—and goodbye now!” and turned away and went down the pier-side and hoisted the brown sail and went away across the water, waving a last farewell.

Just a brief line, for I am still very restricted in permission as to writing, as so much depends on the rest-cure which is no small factor in my redemption here....

It has been ‘a narrow squeak.’ Briefly, after a hard tussle at the brink of ‘Cape Fatal’ and a stumble across ‘Swamp Perilous’ I got into the merely “dangerous condition” stage—and now at last that’s left behind, and I’ll soon be as well in body as I’m happy and serene in mind.

It is at best, however, a reprieve, not a lifetime-discharge. N’importe. Much can be done with a reprieve, and who is to know how long the furlough may be extended to. At any rate, I am well content.”

... Here, at the Villa Usner, it is deliciously quiet and reposeful. I had not realised to the full how much nervous harm I’ve had for long. To live near trees is alone a joy and a restorative. The heat is very great but to me most welcome and strengthening.... In my room or in the garden I hear no noise, no sounds save the susurrus of leaves and the sweet monotony of the rushing Ahr, and the cries and broken songs of birds....

I could see that Dr. G. can’t understand why I am not more depressed or, rather, more anxious. I explained to him that these physical troubles meant little to me, and that they were largely the bodily effect of other things, and might be healed far more by spiritual well-being than by anything else: also that nature and fresh air and serenity and light and warmth and nervous rest were worth far more to me than all else. “But don’t you know how serious your condition may become at any moment, if you got a bad chill or setback, or don’t soon get better?” “Certainly,” I said; “but what then? Why would I bother about either living or dying? I shall not die before the hour of my unloosening comes.”

I want to be helped all I may be—but all the waters in the world can only affect the external life, and even that only secondarily very often....

Monday evening.

... “How I enjoyed my breakfast this morning! (in the lovely garden, in a vine-shadowed arbour or pergola, with great tall poplars and other trees billowing against the deep blue). Then a cigarette, a stroll in the lovely sunlit-dappled green shadowiness of an adjoining up-sloping avenue—and a seat for a little on a deserted south-wall bench (because of the blazing heat) for a sun-bath, while I watched a nightingale helping its young to fly among the creaming elders and masses of wild-rose, while her mate swung on a beech-branch and called long sweet exquisite cries of a thrilling poignancy (which, however, might only be “Now then, Jenny, look out, or Tommy will fall into that mass of syringa:—hillo! there’s Bobby and Polly gone and got scratched pecking at these confounded white wild-roses!).”

Then I got up to come in and write to you (gladly in one way, reluctantly in another for I seem to drink in life in the strong sunlight and heat), but first stopped to speak to a gorgeous solitary dandelion. I stroked it gently, and said “Hullo, wee brother, isn’t the world beautiful? Hold up your wee head and rejoice!” And it turned up its wee golden nose and said “Keep your hair on, you old skidamalink, I’m rejoicing as hard as ever I can. I’m always rejoicing. What else would I do? You are a rum old un-shiny animal on two silly legs!” So we laughed, and parted—but he called me back, and said gently in a wee soft goldy-yellow voice, “Don’t think me rude, Brother of Joy. It’s only my way. I love you because you love me and don’t despise me. Shake pinkies!”—so I gave him a pinkie and he gave me a wee golden-yellow pinkie-petal....

Tell Marjorie[5] the wee Dandelion was asking about her and sends her his love—also a milky daisy that says Hooray! every morning when it wakes, and then is so pleased and astonished that it remains silently smiling till next morning.

This flower and bird talk doesn’t bother you, does it? Don’t think I don’t realise how ill I have been and in a small way still am: but I don’t think about it, and am quite glad and happy in this lovely June-glory....”

“ ... How you’d love to be here!

Nothing visible but green depths fading into green depths, and fringing the sky-lines the endless surf of boughs and branches. From the forest-glades the cooing of doves and the travelling-voice of a flowing cool sweet wind of this delicious morning. I always gain immensely in mind and body from nearness to woodlands and green growth—hence in no small part my feeling for Fontainebleau. I’d such a lot to tell you about it—and of what we should strive to obtain for ourselves in restful, fine, dignified life, and much else, apropos and apart—as you lay happy and contented on the long luxurious lounge beside my chair on the deep balcony, half listening to me and half to the soft continuous susurrus of the pine-fragrant breeze—that more than an hour elapsed while I drank my tea and read your letter....

“It is no exaggeration to say, that, so greatly do I value and treasure afterwards certain aspects of beauty, I would quite willingly go through all the suffering again for the sake of the lovely impressions here last night and this morning. The beauty and charm of this house and its forest-environment, the young moon and the night-jar at dusk (and then to soothe and sleepify me still more, the soft, sweet, old-fashioned melodies of Haydn from 9 to 9.30)—one or two lovely peacocks trailing about in front—the swallows at corner of my great verandah—a thousandfold peace and beauty, and the goodness of these dear friends, have not only been, and are, a living continuous joy, but have been like the Heralds of Spring to the return of gladness and energy into my mind. Today I realise that too, for one thing, ‘Fiona’ has come back from afar off. It is peace and greenness she loves—not the physical and psychical perturbation and demoralisation of towns.

Yes, we’ll make ‘green homes’ for ourselves now. No more long needless months in London....

A brief word to tell you what pleasure I have had in your little book A Mainsail Haul. It is not only that it is written with delicate art: but it is rich in atmosphere—a much rarer thing. The simplicity, the charm, the subtle implication of floating, evasive yet fluctuating romance, your own keen sense of the use of words and their veiled life and latent as well as obvious colour, combine to a winning and often compelling effect. I do not think any who has read Don Alfonso’s drinking bout with the little red man and the strange homegoing of the weed and flower-grown brigantine with the Bible name, will forget it: and what dream charm also there is in “Port of Many Ships,” “Sea Superstition,” “The Spanish Sailor’s Yarn.” In such a splendid and delightful colour fabric as “From the Spanish” “high words and rare” are of course apt—but is it not a mistake to introduce in “Sea Superstition” words such as “august” and “wrought” in a sailor’s mouth? (In the text the effect seems to be enhanced not lessened, by the omission of these words—“were like things in bronze,” “the roof of which was of dim branches.”)

In “From the Spanish” I would, as a matter of personal taste, prefer that the end came at the close of the penultimate para, the shore-drift of the Italian lute. I think the strange dream-like effect would be much enhanced without (what seems to me) the superfluous ‘realistic’ tag. Otherwise the piece is a gem of its kind.

But you will forgive the critic (and it shows he has read closely) in the admirer, I hope?

Let us have more work of the kind. There is much need of it, and you are of the few who can give it.

I was deeply touched by your kind letter about my little book [A Mainsail Haul]. If it should go to a second edition I will make use of your suggestion. I prepared the book rather hurriedly, and there is much in it that I very much dislike, now that it cannot be altered.

The mood in which I wrote the tales you like, has gone from me, and I am afraid I shall be unable to write others of the same kind. In youth the mind is an empty chamber; and the spirits fill it, and move and dance there, and colour it with their wings and raiment. In manhood one has familiars. But between those times (forgive me for echoing Keats) one has little save a tag or two of cynicism, a little crude experience, much weariness, much regret, and a vision blurred by all four faults. One is weakened, too, by one’s hatreds.

I thank you again for your very kind and cordial letter.

... I have been away, in the isles, and for a time beyond the reach of letters. I wish there were Isles where one could also go at times, where no winged memories could follow. In a Gaelic folk-tale, told me by an old woman once, the woman of the story had only to burn a rose to ashes and to hold them in the palms of her hands and then to say seven times A Eileanain na Sith, “O Isles of Peace”! and at once she found herself in quiet isles beyond the foam where no memories could follow her and where old thoughts, if they came, were like phantoms on the wind, in a moment come, in a moment gone. I have failed to find these Isles, and so have you: but there are three which lie nearer, and may be reached, Dream, Forgetfulness, and Hope.

And there, it may be, we can meet, you and I....

Yes, your insight is true. There is a personal sincerity, the direct autobiographical utterance, in even, as you say, the most remote and phantastic of my legends as in the plainest of my words. But because they cover so much illusion as well as passion, so much love gone on the wind as well as love that not even the winds of life and death can break or uproot, so much more of deep sorrow (apart from the racial sorrow which breathes through all) than of joy save in the deeper spiritual sense, they were thus raimented in allegory and legend and all the illusion of the past, the remote, the obscure, or the still simpler if more audacious directness of the actual, the present, and the explicit. There is, perhaps, a greater safety, a greater illusion, in absolute simplicity than in the most subtly wrought of art....

But you will understand me when I say that you must not count on our meeting—at any rate not this year. I too stand under obscure wings.

... I have the memory that recalls everything in proportion and sequence. I have often written that art is memory, is in great part memory, though not necessarily a recalling of mere personal experience: and the more deeply I live the more I see that this is so....

When you write, I mean imaginatively, you must write more and more with concentrated vision. Some time ago I re-read your Four Winds of the World; much of it is finely done, and in some of it your self lives, your own accent speaks. But you have it in you to do work far more ambitious. The last is not a word I like, or affect; but here it is convenient and will translate to your mind what is in my mind. These stories are yours but they are not you: and though in a sense art is a wind above the small eddies of personality, there is a deeper sense in which it is nothing else than the signature of personality. Style (that is, the outer emotion that compels and the hidden life of the imagination that impels and the brooding thought that shapes and colours) should, spiritually, reflect a soul’s lineaments as faithfully as the lens of the photographer reflects the physiognomy of a man or woman. It is because I feel in you a deep instinct for beauty, a deep longing for beautiful expression and because I believe you have it in you to achieve highly in worth and beauty, that I write to you thus.... There is that Lady of Silence, the Madonna of Enigma, who lives in the heart of many women. Could you not shape something under Her eyes—shape it and colour it with your own inward life, and give it all the nobler help of austere discipline and control which is called art? I have not much to tell you of myself just now. At the moment I do not write to you from the beloved west where I spend much of each year and where my thoughts and dreams continually are. Tonight I am tired, and sad, I hardly know why.