“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.
... Yesterday turned out a splendid breezy day, despite its bad opening: one of the most beautiful we have had, altho’ too cold for bathing, and too rough for boating. I went off by myself for a long sail—and got back about 4. Later I went alone for an hour or so to revise what had stirred me so unspeakably, namely the third and concluding “Rune of the Sorrow of Women.” This last Rune tired me in preliminary excitement and in the strange semi-conscious fever of composition more than anything of the kind since I wrote the first of the three in Pharais one night of storm when I was alone in Phenice Croft.
I have given it to Mary to copy, so that I can send it to you at once. Tell me what you think and feel about it. In a vague way not only you, Mona, Edith and others swam into my brain, but I have never so absolutely felt the woman-soul within me: it was as though in some subtle way the soul of Woman breathed into my brain—and I feel vaguely as if I had given partial expression at least to the inarticulate voice of a myriad women who suffer in one or other of the triple ways of sorrow. For work, and rebuilding energy, I am thankful I came here. You were right: I was not really fit to go off to the Hebrides alone, at the present juncture, and might well have defeated my own end. Tomorrow morning I shall be writing—probably at From the Hills of Dream.
From Tighnabruaich Hotel, a lovely little village in the Kyles of Bute, he wrote to me: