William Sharp (Fiona Macleod): A Memoir Compiled by His Wife Elizabeth A. Sharp

by Elizabeth A. Sharp

“ ... Well, yesterday after lunch I went to the Chiesa del Carmine, and was delighted greatly with the famous frescoes of Masaccio, which I studied for an hour or more with great interest. He was a wonderful fellow to have been the first to have painted movement, for his figures have much grace of outline and freedom of pose. Altogether I have been more struck by Masaccio than by any other artist save Michel Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci. If he hadn’t died so young (twenty-seven) I believe he would have been amongst the very first in actual accomplishment. He did something, which is more than can be said for many others more famous than himself, who merely duplicated unimaginative and stereotyped religious ideals....

Yesterday being Holy Thursday we went to several Churches and in the afternoon and evening to see the Flowers for the Sepulchres. Very much impressed and excited by all I saw. I was quite unprepared for the mystery and gloom of the Duomo. There were (comparatively) few people there, as it is not so popular with the Florentines as Sta. Maria Novella—and when we entered, it was like going into a tomb. Absolute darkness away by the western entrances (closed), a dark gloom elsewhere, with gray trails of incense mist still floating about like wan spirits, and all the crosses and monuments draped in black crape, and a great canopy of the same overhead. Two acolytes held burning tapers before only one monument, that of the Pietà under the great crucifix in the centre of the upper aisle—so that the light fell with startling distinctness on the dead and mutilated body of Christ. Not a sound was to be heard but the wild chanting of the priests, and at last a single voice with a strain of agony in every tone. This and the mystery and gloom and pain (for, strange as it may seem to you, I felt the agony of the pierced hands and feet myself) quite overcame me, and I burst into tears. I think I would have fainted with the strain and excitement, if the Agony of the Garden had not come to an end, and the startling crash of the scourging commenced, the slashing of canes upon the stones and pillars. I was never so impressed before. I left, and wandered away by myself along the deserted Lung-Arno, still shivering with the excitement of almost foretasted death I had experienced, and unable to control the tears that came whenever I thought of Christ’s dreadful agony. To-day (Good Friday) the others have gone to church, but I couldn’t have gone to listen to platitudes—and don’t know if I can bring myself to enter the catholic churches again till the Crucifixion is over, as I dread a repetition of last night’s suffering. I shall probably go to hear the Passion Music in the church of the Badia (the finest in Florence for music). How I wish you were with me....”

Florence, 3: 4: 83.

“ ... The last two days have been days of great enjoyment to me. First and foremost they have been heavenly warm, with cloudless ardent blue skies—and everything is beginning to look fresh and green. Well, on Monday I drove with Mrs. Smillie away out of the Porta San Frediano till we came in sight of Scanducci Alto, and then of the Villa Farinola. There I left her, and went up through beautiful and English-like grounds to the house, and was soon ushered in to Ouida’s presence. I found her alone, with two of her famous and certainly most beautiful dogs beside her. I found her most pleasant and agreeable, though in appearance somewhat eccentric owing to the way in which her hair was done, and also partly to her dress which seemed to consist mainly of lace. A large and beautiful room led into others, all full of bric-a-brac, and filled with flowers, books, statuettes and pictures (poor), by herself. We had a long talk and she showed me many things of interest. Then other people began to arrive (it was her reception day).

Before I left, Ouida most kindly promised to give me some introductions to use in Rome. Yesterday she drove in and left three introductions for me which may be of good service—one to Lady Paget, wife of the British Ambassador, one to the Storys, and one to Tilton, the sculptor....

Yesterday I perhaps enjoyed more than I have done since I came to Italy. In the morning Arthur Lemon, the artist, called for me, and being joined by two others (Lomax, an artist, and his brother) we had a boat carried over the weir and we got into it at the Cascine and rowed down stream past the junction of the Mugnone and Arno, till Florence and Fiesole were shut from view, and the hills all round took on extra beauty—Monte Beni on the right and Monte Morello on the left glowing with a haze of heat, and beyond all, the steeps of Vallombrosa in white—and Carrara’s crags also snow-covered behind us. We passed the quaint old church and village of San Stefano and swung in-shore to get some wine....

We rowed on and in due course came in sight of Signa. We put on a spurt (the four of us were rowing) and as we swept at a swift rate below the old bridge it seemed as if half the population came out to see the unusual sight of gentili signorini exerting themselves so madly when they might be doing nothing. We got out and said farewell to the picturesque-looking fellow who had steered us down—had some breakfast at a Trattoria, where we had small fish half-raw and steeped in oil (but not at all bad)—kid’s flesh, and delicious sheep’s-milk cheese, bread, and light, red, Chianti wine. We then spent some two or three hours roaming about Signa, which is a beautifully situated dreamy sleepy old place—with beautiful “bits” for artists every here and there—old walls with lizards basking on them in numbers—and lovely views.

We came back by Lastia, a fine ancient walled town, and arrived in Florence by open tramcar in the evening, finally I had a delicious cold bath. The whole day was heavenly. If the river has not sunk too low when I return from Rome, Arthur Lemon and some other artists and myself are going on a sketching trip down the Arno amongst the old villages—the length of Pisa—taking about two days.”

Rome.

“ ... It is too soon to give you my impressions of Rome, but I may say that they partly savour of disappointment.... Of one thing however, I have already seen enough to convince me—and that is that Rome is not for a moment to be compared to Florence in beauty—neither in its environs, its situation, its streets, nor its rivers. Its palaces may be grander, the interiors of its churches more magnificent, its treasures of art more wonderful, but in beauty it is as far short as London is of Edinburgh. But it has one great loveliness which can never tire and which charms immeasurably—the fountains which continually and every here and there splash all day and night in the sunlight or in green grottoes in the courts of villas and palaces. I am certain that I should hate to live here—I believe it would kill me—for Rome is too old to be alive—unless indeed a new Rome entirely overshadows the past. I don’t suppose you will quite understand, and I cannot explain just now—but so I feel. Florence (after the cold has gone) is divine—air, atmosphere, situation, memory of the past, a still virile present—but Rome is an anomaly, for what is predominant here is that evil mediæval Rome whose eyes were blind with blood and lust and hate. Ancient Rome is magnificent—but so little remains of it that one can no more live in it than in Karnak or Thebes: as for modern Rome, everything seems out of keeping—so that one has either to weary with the dull Metropolitanism of the capital of Italy or else to enter into the life of the mediæval ages....