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

by Elizabeth A. Sharp

“You will see by the above address that I have arrived in this beautiful old city.

I left Rome and arrived in Perugia on Thursday last—spending the rest of the day in wandering about the latter, and watching the sunset over the far-stretching Umbrian country. I made the acquaintance of some nice people at the Hotel, and we agreed to share a carriage for a day—so early on Friday morning we started in a carriage and pair for Assisi. About 3 miles from Perugia we came to the Etruscan tombs, which we spent a considerable time in exploring: I was much struck with the symbolism and beauty of the ornamental portions, Death evidently to the ancient Etrurians being but a departure elsewhere. The comparative joyousness (exultation, as in the symbol of the rising sun over the chief entrance) of the Etruscans contrasts greatly with the joylessness of the Christians, who have done their best to make death repellant in its features and horrible in its significance, its possibilities.

Only a Renaissance of belief in the Beautiful being the only sure guide can save modern nations from further spiritual degradation—and not till the gloomy precepts of Christianity yield to something more akin to the Greek sense of beauty will life appear to the majority lovely and wonderful, alike in the present and in the future.

After leaving the Tombs of the Volumnii we drove along through a most interesting country, beautiful everywhere owing to Spring’s feet having passed thereover, till we came to the Church of Sta. Maria degli Angeli—on the plain just below Assisi. We went over this, and then drove up the winding road to the gray old town itself, visiting, before ascending to the ruined citadel at the top of the hill, the Chiesa di Santa Chiara. Lying on the grass on the very summit of the hill, we had lunch, and then lay looking at the scenery all round us, north, south, east, and west. Barren and desolate and colourless, with neither shade of tree nor coolness of water, these dreary Assisi hills have nothing of the grandeur and beauty of the barrenness and desolation of the north—they are simply hideous to the eye, inexpressibly dreary, dead, and accursed. I shall never now hear Assisi mentioned without a shudder, for picturesque as the old town is, beautiful as are the Monastery, the Upper Church, the paintings and the frescoes—they are overweighted in my memory with the hideousness of the immediate hill-surroundings. It made me feel almost sick and ill, looking from the ruined citadel out upon these stony, dreary, lifeless, hopeless hills—and I had again and again to find relief in the beauty of more immediate surroundings—the long grasses waving in the buttresses of the citadel, the beautiful yellow (absolutely stainless in colour) wallflowers sprouting from every chink and cranny, and the green and gray lizards darting everywhere and shining in the sunlight. Here at least was life, not death: and to me human death is less painful than that of nature, for in the former I see but change, but in the latter—annihilation. These poor mountains!—once, long ago, bright and joyous with colour and sound and winds and waters and birds—and now without a tree to give shadow where grass will never again grow, save here and there a stunted and withered olive, like some plague-stricken wretch still lingering amongst the decayed desolation of his birthplace—without the music and light of running water, save, perhaps twice amidst their parched and serried flanks a crawling, muddy, hideous liquid; and without sound, save the blast of the winter-wind and the rattle of dislodged stones.

Yet the day was perfect—one of those flawless days combining the laughter of Spring and the breath of ardent Summer: but perhaps this very perfection accentuates the desert wretchedness behind the old town of St. Francis. Yet the very day before I went I was told that the view from the citadel was lovely (and this not with reference to the Umbrian prospect in front of Assisi, which is fine though to my mind it has been enormously exaggerated)—lovely! As well might a person ask me to look at the divine beauty of the Belvedere Apollo, and then say to me that lovely also was yon maimed and hideous beggar, stricken with the foulness of leprosy.

The hills about Assisi beautiful! Oh Pan, Pan, indeed your music passed long, long ago out of men’s hearing....”

Florence, 7th May.

“On either Wednesday or Thursday last we started early for Monte Oliveto, and after a long and interesting drive we came to a rugged and wild country, and at last, by the side of a deep gorge to the famous Convent itself. The scenery all round made a great impression on me—it was as wild, almost as desolate as the hills behind Assisi—but there was nothing repellant, i. e., stagnant, about it. While we were having something to eat outside the convent (a huge building) the abbé came out and received us most kindly, and brought us further refreshment in the way of hard bread and wine and cheese—their mode of life being too simple to have anything else to offer.

Owing to the great heat and perhaps over-exposure while toiling up some of the barren scorched roads, where they became too hilly or rough for the horses—I had succumbed to an agonising nervous headache, and could do nothing for a while but crouch in a corner of the wall in the shade and keep wet handkerchiefs constantly over my forehead and head. In the meantime the others had gone inside, and as Mrs. S. had told the abbé I was suffering from a bad headache he came out to see me and at once said I had had a slight touch of the sun—a frequent thing in these scorched and barren solitudes. He took me into a private room and made me lie down on a bed—and in a short time brought me two cups of strong black coffee, with probably something in it—for in less than twenty minutes I could bear the light in my eyes and in a few minutes more I had only an ordinary headache. He was exceedingly kind altogether, and I shall never think of Monte Oliveto without calling to remembrance the Abbé Cesareo di Negro. I then spent about three hours over the famous 35 noble frescoes by Sodoma and Signorelli, illustrating the life of Saint Benedict, the founder of the convent. They are exceedingly beautiful—and one can learn more from this consecutive series than can well be imagined. While taking my notes and wondering how I was to find time (without staying for a couple of days or so) to take down all particulars—I saw the abbé crossing the cloisters in my direction, and when he joined me he said, “la Signora” had told him I was a poet and writer, and that I thought more of Sodoma than any of his contemporaries, and so he begged me to accept from him a small work in French on the history of the convent including a fairly complete account of each fresco. A glance at this showed that it would be of great service to me, and save much in the way of note-taking—and I was moreover glad of this memento; he inscribed his name in it....

The more I see of Sodoma’s work the more I see what a great artist he was—and how enormously underrated he is in comparison with many others better known or more talked about. After having done as much as I could take in, I went with the abbé over other interesting parts and saw some paintings of great repute, but to me unutterably wearisome and empty—and then to the library—and finally through the wood to a little chapel with some interesting frescoes. I felt quite sorry to leave the good abbé. I promised to send him a copy of whatever I wrote about the Sodomas—and he said that whenever I came to Italy again I was to come and stay there for a few days, or longer if I liked—and he hoped I would not forget but take him at his word. Thinking of you, I said I supposed ladies could not stay at the Convent—but he said they were not so rigorous now, and he would be glad to see the wife of the young English poet with him, if she could put up with plain fare and simple lodging. Altogether, Monte Oliveto made such an impression on me that I won’t be content till I take you there for a visit of a few days....”