Pressure of urgent work—chiefly a lengthy volume on the Evolution of the Fine Arts in the Nineteenth Century, primarily for transatlantic publication—prevented my being much in Scotland this autumn. I was a brief while in Galloway visiting friends, and for a week or so at Portpatrick, and a few days in Edinburgh—c’est tout.
At one time there was a chance that I might be near Taynuilt, and I looked forward greatly to see Mr. Alexander Carmichael again. He is a splendid type of the true Highlander, and of a nature incomparably sweet and refined—and I have the greatest admiration of him in all ways....
A remarkable family, and I would to Heaven there were more such families in the Highlands now. Yes, what a book Carmina Gadelica is! It ought to become as precious to the Scottish Gael as the Greek Anthology to all who love the Hellenic ideal, but with a more poignant, a more personal appeal.... I can’t tell you about Miss Macleod’s historical romance for the good reason that I don’t know anything about its present prospects myself. Personally I regret the long postponement, as I think (judging from what I have seen) that it would be a success as a romance of history. Miss Macleod, however, became dissatisfied with what she had done, or its atmosphere, or both, and has not touched it again for some months past—though the last time she spoke of the subject she said she hoped it would be ready by midsummer.... I am myself heavily engaged in work, including many commissions. I’ve finished an essay on “Impressionism” (“The Impressionist” I call it) for the forthcoming new monthly, The North Liberal Review, and am now in the throes of a long Quarterly article. Then I have a Provencal book on hand, and (interlusive) a Provencal romance.
You will, of course, keep all I have said of myself and doings, and still more importantly of Miss Macleod, to yourself. I don’t think she wants anyone save friends and acquaintances to know that she is abroad, and for her health. And above all needing rest as she is, she dreads the slightest addition to a correspondence already beyond her capacities.
Before I left London I read with deep interest the opening instalments of Neil Munro’s new book Doom Castle. It promises, I think, to be his chef-d’œuvre.
Write to me again soon, with news of your doings and prospects.
Yours sincerely,
William Sharp.
The Provencal romance that he was mentally projecting—the never written Gypsy Trail—was in part to have dealt with his early gipsy experiences. One among other things which revived this strain of memory was our near vicinage to Les Sainte-Maries, in Provence, where the bones of Sarah, the gipsy servant of “les Maries,” are enshrined; also he had recently read the vivid description of the gathering of the gipsy tribes at that Shrine on her Feast day, written by the Provencal novelist Jean Aicard, in his Le Roi des Camargues.
During my husband’s first visit to Provence he had been much interested in meeting certain members of Les Félibres, the Provencal literary and linguistic Nationalists. He visited Frederick Mistral in his charming country home and noticed the similarity of physical type shared by the Provencal and himself. I, also, was struck by the likeness between the two men and thought that Mistral might easily have passed for elder brother of his Scots confrère. At Avignon we saw Madame Roumanille, the sister of Felix Gras, and widow of one of the founders of Les Félibres, and her poet-daughter, Térèse, who inherited her father’s gift. At Aix we met Mistral’s god-daughter Madame Marie Gasquet, daughter of the poet M. Gerard, another of the original group of workers in the old Langue d’Œuil. Madame Gasquet was the wife of the young poet, Joachim Gasquet, between whom and my husband there grew up a warm friendship.