CHAPTER IV

THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI

The Directors of The Fine Art Society decided finally not to organise the special department of Engravings of which William Sharp hoped to take charge, therefore his engagement fell through and he was thrown on his own resources. The outlook was very serious, for he was still practically unknown to editors and publishers; and during the following two years he had a hard fight with circumstances. No post of any kind turned up for him and he had to depend solely on his pen, and for many months was practically penniless; and many a time the only food he could afford, after a meagre breakfast, was hot chestnuts bought from men in the street.

I do not care to dwell on those days; I could do so little to help, and by common consent we hid the true condition of things from his mother and mine. Nevertheless we firmly believed in his “future”; that with persistence and patience—and endurance—he would “gain a footing”; that circumstances were pushing him into the one career suited to him, even if the method seemed too drastic at times.

[Illustration: DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI]

He had already succeeded in having a poem accepted occasionally by one or two Magazines and Weeklies. In 1879 _Good Words_ published a poem entitled “Night,” and in 1880 two Sonnets on Schubert’s “Am Meer.” _The Examiner_ printed some Sonnets and a poem of fifteen lines. In 1881 he contributed a long poem on Victor Hugo to _Modern Thought_, and in February of 1882 his Sonnet “Spring Wind” was accepted by the _Athenæum_ and it was afterward included in Hall Caine’s Century of Sonnets. Early the following year he spent a delightful week-end with Rossetti, at Birchington, whence he wrote to me:

Feb. 13, 1882.

“Just a line to tell you I am supremely content. Beautiful sea views, steep ‘cavey’ cliffs, a delicious luxurious house, and nice company. By a curious mistake I got out at the wrong place on Sunday, and had a long walk with my bag along the cliffs till I arrived rather tired and hot at my destination. I was surprised not to find Hall Caine there, but it appeared he clearly understood I was to get out at a different station altogether. I was also delayed in arriving, as I asked a countryman my direction and he told me to go to the left—but from the shape of the coast I argued that the right must be the proper way—I went to the right in consequence, and nearly succeeded in going over a cliff’s edge, while my theory was decidedly vanquished by facts. However the walk repaid it. Oh, the larks yesterday! It was as warm as June, and Rossetti and Caine and myself went out and lay in the grass (at least I did) basking in the sun, looking down on the gleaming sea, and hearing these heavenly incarnate little joys sending thrills of sweetness, and vague pain through all my being. I seemed all a-quiver with the delight of it all. And the smell of the wrack! and the cries of the sea-birds! and the delicious wash of the incoming tide! Oh, dear me, I shall hate to go back to-morrow. Caine is writing a sonnet in your book, Watts is writing a review for the _Athenæum_, Rossetti is about to go on with painting his Joan of Arc, and I am writing the last lines of this note to you.”

Little did he dream as he shook hands with his host on the Monday morning that he was bidding a last farewell to his good friend.

Of that visit he wrote later:

“Of my most cherished memories is a night at Birchington-on-Sea, in March, 1882. It had been a lovely day. Rossetti asked me to go out with him for a stroll on the cliff; and though he leaned heavily and dragged his limbs wearily as if in pain, he grew more cheerful as the sunlight warmed him. The sky was a cloudless blue and the singing of at least a score of larks was wonderful to listen to. Everywhere Spring odours prevailed, with an added pungency from the sea-wrack below. Beyond, the sea reached far to horizons of purple shaded azure. At first I thought Rossetti was indifferent: but this mood gave way. He let go my arm and stood staring seaward silently, then, still in a low tired voice, but with a new tone in it he murmured, ‘It is beautiful—the world and life itself. I am glad I have lived.’ Insensibly thereafter the dejection lifted from off his spirit, and for the rest of that day and that evening he was noticeably less despondent.

“The previous evening Christina Rossetti and myself were seated in the semi-twilight in the low-roofed sitting room. She had been reading to him but he had grown weary and somewhat fretful. Not wishing to disturb him, Miss Rossetti made a sign to me to come over to the window and there drew my attention to a quiet hued but very beautiful sunset. While we were enjoying it Rossetti, having overheard an exclamation of almost rapturous delight from Christina, rose from his great armchair before the fire and walked feebly to the window. He stared blankly upon the dove-tones and pale amethyst of the sky. I saw him glance curiously at his sister, and then again long and earnestly. But at last with a voice full of chagrin he turned away pettishly saying he could not see what it was we admired so much. ‘It is all gray and gloom,’ he added; nor would he hear a word to the contrary, so ignorant was he of the havoc wrought upon his optic nerve by the chloral poison which did so much to shorten his life.... ‘Poor Gabriel,’ Miss Rossetti said, ‘I wish he could have at least one hopeful hour again.’ It was with pleasure therefore next day she heard of what he had said upon the cliff, and how he had brightened. The evening that followed was a happy one, for, as already mentioned Rossetti grew so cheerful, relatively, that it seemed as though the shadow of death had lifted. What makes it doubly memorable to me is that when I opened the door for Miss Rossetti when she bade me good-night, she turned, took my hand again, and said in a whisper, ‘I am so glad about Gabriel, and grateful.’”

To E. A. S.:

11: 4: 82.

“...After spending a very pleasant day at Haileybury with Farquharson [E. A. Sharp’s brother] we arrived late in London, and while glancing over an evening paper my eye suddenly caught a paragraph which made my heart almost stop. I could not bring myself to read it for a long time, though I knew it simply rechronicled the heading—“Sudden Death of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti.” He died on Sunday night at Birchington. I cannot tell you what a grief this is to me. He has ever been to me a true friend, affectionate and generous—and to him I owe more perhaps than to any one after yourself. Apart from my deep regret at the loss of one whom I so loved, I have also the natural regret at what the loss of his living friendship means. I feel as if a sudden tower of strength on which I had greatly relied had given way: for not only would Rossetti’s house have been my own as long as and whenever I needed, but it was his influence while alive that I so much looked to. Comparatively little known to the public, his name has always been a power and recommendation in itself amongst men of letters and artists and those who have to do with both professions. When I recall all that Rossetti has been to me—the pleasure he has given me—the encouragement, the fellowship—I feel very bitter at heart to think I shall never see again the kindly gray eyes and the massive head of the great poet and artist. He has gone to his rest. It were selfish to wish otherwise considering all things....

If I take flowers down, part of the wreath shall be from you. He would have liked it himself, for he knew you through me, and he knew I am happier in this than most men perhaps.”

To E. A. S.:

April 13, 1882.

“ ... I have just returned (between twelve and one at night) tired and worn out with some necessary things in connection with Rossetti, taking me first to Chelsea, then away in the opposite direction to Euston Road. As I go down to Birchington by an early train, besides having much correspondence to get through after breakfast, I can only write a very short letter. I have felt the loss of my dear and great friend more and more. He had weaknesses and frailties within the last six or eight months owing to his illness, but to myself he was ever patient and true and affectionate. A grand heart and soul, a true friend, a great artist, a great poet, I shall not meet with such another. He loved me, I know—and believed and hoped great things of me, and within the last few days I have learned _how_ generously and how urgently he impressed this upon others. God knows I do not grudge him his long-looked-for rest, yet I can hardly imagine London without him. I _cannot_ realise it, and yet I know that I shall never again see the face lighten up when I come near, never again hear the voice whose mysterious fascination was like a spell. What fools are those vain men who talk of death: blinded, and full of the dust of corruption. As God lives, the soul dies not. What though the grave be silent, and the darkness of the Shadow become not peopled—to those eyes that can see there is light, light, light—to those ears that can hear the tumult of the disenfranchised, rejoicing. I am borne down not with the sense of annihilation, but with the vastness of life and the imminence of things spiritual. I _know_ from something beyond and out of myself that we are now but dying to live, that there is no death, which is but as a child’s dream in a weary night.

I am very tired. You will forgive more, my dearest friend.”

To Mr. W. M. Rossetti:

13 THORNGATE ROAD, SUTHERLAND GARDENS, W., 15th April, 1883.

DEAR MR. ROSSETTI,

As your wife kindly expressed a wish that I would send you a copy of the sonnet I left in your brother’s coffin along with the flowers, I now do so. It must be judged not as a literary production, but as last words straight from the heart of one who loved and revered your brother.

Yours very sincerely, WILLIAM SHARP.

_To Dante Gabriel Rossetti_

AVE! MORS NON EST!

True heart, great spirit, who hast sojourn’d here Till now the darkness rounds thee, and Death’s sea Hath surged and ebbed and carried suddenly Thy Soul far hence, as from a stony, drear, And weary coast the tide the wrack doth shear; Thou art gone hence, and though our sight may be Strained with a yearning gaze, the mystery Is mystic still to us: to thee, how clear!

O loved great friend, at last the balm of sleep Hath soothed thee into silence: it is well After life’s long unrest to draw the breath No more on earth, but in a slumber deep, Or joyous hence afar, the miracle Await when dies at last imperious Death.

W. S.

Keenly desirous of offering some tribute to the memory of Rossetti, whose friendship had meant so much to him during the years of struggle in London, William Sharp eagerly accepted a proposal from Messrs. Macmillan that he should write a biographical Record and appreciation of the painter-poet, to be produced within the year. It was begun in June, it was his first lengthy attempt in prose and attempted with little knowledge of the art of writing; but it was written “red hot,” as he used to say, inspired by deep affection and profound admiration for his friend. He spared no pains to make his story as accurate as practicable, and visited the chief owners of the pictures, photographs of which Rossetti had given him. Several of the later paintings he had seen and discussed many times in Rossetti’s studio.

The book divides itself naturally into two parts representing the man in his dual capacity as painter and as poet, and the author selected as frontispiece Rossetti’s most characteristic and symbolic design for his sonnet on the sonnet.

In his Diary of 1890 the author refers to “my first serious effort in prose, my honest and enthusiastic, and indeed serviceable, but badly written ‘Life of Rossetti.’” And he tells that the first two thirds were written at Clynder on the Gareloch (Argyll), “in a little cottage where I stayed with my mother and sisters eight years ago”; and the rest was written in London, and published in December.

“I remember that the book was finished one December day, and so great was the pressure I was under, that, at the end, I wrote practically without a break for thirty-six hours: i. e., I began immediately after an early breakfast, wrote all day except half an hour for dinner, and all evening with less than ten minutes for a slight meal of tea and toast, and right through the night. About 4 or 5 A.M. my fire went out, though I did not feel chilled till my landlady came with my breakfast. By this time I was too excited to be tired, and had moreover to finish the book that day. I was only a few minutes over breakfast, which I snatched during perusal of some notes, and then buckled to again. I wrote all day, eating nothing. When about 7 P.M. I came to ‘finis,’ I threw down the pen from my chilled and cramped fingers: walked or rather staggered into the adjoining bedroom, but was asleep before I could undress beyond removal of my coat and waistcoat. (What hundreds of times I have been saved weariness and bad headaches, how often I have been preserved from collapse of a more serious kind, by my rare faculty of being able to sleep at will at any time, however busy, and for even the briefest intervals—ten minutes or less.)

“For three weeks before this I had been overworking and I was quite exhausted, partly from want of sufficient nourishment. It was the saving of my brain, therefore, that I slept fourteen hours without a break, and after a few hours of tired and dazed wakefulness again fell into a prolonged slumber, from which I awoke fresh and vigorous in mind and body.”

The most interesting letter which he received during the interval of the writing was one from Robert Browning, in answer to an inquiry concerning a letter written years earlier by Rossetti to Browning, to know if the author of _Paracelsus_ was also the author of _Pauline_. Rossetti once told William Sharp that it was “on the forenoon of the day when the _Burden of Nineveh_ was begun, conceived rather,” that he read this story (at the British Museum) “of a soul by the soul’s ablest historian.” So delighted was Rossetti with it, and so strong his opinion that _Pauline_ was by Browning, that he wrote to that poet, then in Florence, for confirmation. Mr. Browning, in his reply—which I quote from my husband’s monograph on Browning—gave the following

## particulars of the incident:

ST. PIERRE DE CHARTREUSE, Aug. 22, 1882.

DEAR MR. SHARP,

Rossetti’s _Pauline_ letter concerning which you inquire was addressed to me at Florence, more than thirty years ago: I must have preserved it, but, even were I at home, should be unable to find it without troublesome searching. It was to the effect that the writer, personally and altogether unknown to me, had come upon a poem in the British Museum, which he copied the whole of, from its being not otherwise procurable, that he judged it to be mine, but could not be sure, and wished me to pronounce on the matter—which I did. A year or two after, I had a visit in London from Mr. Allingham and a friend—who proved to be Rossetti: when I heard he was a painter I insisted on calling on him, though he declared he had nothing to show me—which was far enough from the case. Subsequently on another of my returns to London, he painted my portrait: not, I fancy, in oils but water colours—and finished it in Paris shortly after: this must have been in the year when Tennyson published “Maud,” unless I mistake: for I remember Tennyson reading the poem one evening, while Rossetti made a rapid pen-and-ink sketch of him, very good, from an unobserved corner of vantage—which I still possess and duly value. This was before Rossetti’s marriage.

I hope that these particulars may answer your purpose; and beg you to believe me, dear Mr. Sharp,

Yours very truly, ROBERT BROWNING.

The young biographer wrote to every one who he thought might possess drawings or paintings by Rossetti—and among others he applied to Tennyson. The Poet Laureate replied:

ALDWORTH, HASLEMERE, Oct. 12, 1882.

DEAR SIR,

I have neither drawing nor painting by Rossetti. I am sorry for it, for some of his work which I have seen elsewhere I have admired very much; nor (as far as I know) have I any letter from him, nor have I the slightest recollection of his being present when I was “reading the proof sheets of Maud.”

My acquaintance with him was in fact but an acquaintance, not an “intimacy,” though I would willingly have known something more of so accomplished an artist.

Wishing all success to your Memorial of him,

I am, Faithfully yours, A. TENNYSON.

The book met with immediate success; it was recognised that the work was “one of no ordinary difficulty,” that the author “brought fairness and critical acumen to his task,” “truest enthusiasm and perseverance that nothing can daunt; that by reason of his friendship he had unusual insight into the history and work of Rossetti,” and “a critic of Art and a writer of poems he is thus further to be respected in what he has to say.” Only three letters are in my possession of the many he received from friends of his own, or of the dead poet; two are from Walter Pater with whom he had recently become acquainted: and the other from Christina Rossetti:

30 TORRINGTON SQUARE.

DEAR MR. SHARP,

Thank you with warm thanks from my Mother and myself for your precious gift. She has already and with true pleasure perused