by Rita Cameron
The simple act of being near Miss Siddal filled him with the desire to paint. The urge to create, which raged like a storm inside him, stopped its pointless churning and thrashing. He felt it gather strength and form itself into a powerful tide, pulling him toward his purpose: He would paint real beauty. He would paint Miss Siddal.
If destiny was real, he thought loftily, then his was now defined. He would paint her as Beatrice, and as a hundred other beauties, real and imagined. His mind, so recently a blank canvas, was now brimming with images: a narrow alley of medieval Florence, a hidden window seat beneath jewel-toned stained glass, a candlelit chapel. And through each of these settings floated a woman with the radiance of an angel and the bearing of a noblewoman. He could see her as clearly as if she still stood before him: white skin with a hint of rose, and wide eyes like the pools of a shaded courtyard. He was not an overly religious man, but he couldn’t help but feel that the sight of Miss Siddal had been a moment of grace.
Yet perhaps the most amazing thing was that she had appeared completely unaware of her effect. She had none of the showy confidence of the ladies who populated London’s drawing rooms. She seemed untouched by the world, above its vanities and desires, and he was as dazzled by her innocence as by her beauty.
Deverell had called her his “muse,” and Rossetti seized upon the word. Until this moment, he had always used it half in mocking—it never seemed to apply to the models whom he knew, who laughed too loudly and wore too much rouge on their cheeks. But seeing Miss Siddal, he finally felt that he understood how the quality of a poem or painting might depend not only upon the skill of its author, but also upon the beauty of the muse.
His mind still on Miss Siddal, he walked up Kew Road, hardly noticing the stately homes that he passed, or the snug cottages that replaced them as he drew nearer to the high street. In this quiet suburban quarter the road was no busier than a country lane. He waited for a carriage to go by and then crossed the street, cutting through a churchyard where March’s first daffodils and crocuses were just beginning to push up among the gravestones. The view opened onto Kew Green, where a few boys were shouting and running after a kite. Rossetti paused for a moment to watch them.
He thought of going straight to his studio, to begin sketching Miss Siddal while her image was fresh in his mind. But he had promised her a copy of his translations. He would go to Charlotte Street instead, to his study at his mother’s house, where the sonnets lay on his desk, unfinished. The moment that they were complete, he could use their delivery as an excuse to see Miss Siddal again.
He took off toward the high street and climbed aboard the first omnibus he saw. The open-air seats on the roof were already full, and he had to take a seat inside with the women and children. The driver tapped the horses and the carriage lurched forward, joining the traffic flowing into the city. Someone had left a newspaper on the seat, and he paged through it, happy for the distraction. But the whiskered man across from him took this as an invitation to discuss politics, and he soon gave up trying to read. The carriage stopped frequently to load and unload passengers, and soon it was full of quarrelling children and their indifferent nannies. He fidgeted in his seat until they finally reached the corner of Hyde Park, where he stepped over the boots and skirts of the other passengers and leapt from the vehicle. He tossed a shilling up to the driver and set off, meaning to walk the rest of the way to Charlotte Street.
He entered the park down a wide alley of elms and passed through an iron gate onto a narrow path. Two young ladies in white fur muffs and silk gowns walked by, and Rossetti made them a deep bow and tipped his hat. The girls giggled and hurried on, and a woman pushing a baby pram shook her head and smiled. He made her a bow as well, and then continued on his way. The afternoon sun warmed the path, and the scent of fresh earth tempted his senses with the promise of spring. He inhaled deeply.
The path joined with a larger road, and Rossetti fell in among the other fashionable Londoners who paraded slowly down the road, enjoying the long-awaited sun and the chance to see, and be seen. Gentlemen on horseback and ladies in open carriages went by at a slow trot, nodding and waving to each other as they passed. Everyone was in their best dress: the women in the newest styles from Paris and the men in silk waistcoats and hats. The road led toward the Serpentine Lake, and small boys raced toward its edge, clutching wooden sailboats and fishing rods under their arms. Their sisters, some of them in long skirts for the first time this spring, looked on with envy, but walked primly alongside their mothers.
Rossetti followed the road toward the half-finished structure of the Crystal Palace, which was rising quickly beside the lake in anticipation of the Great Exhibition, due to open the next spring. It was a massive building, constructed almost entirely from iron and glass, and it sprung from the fields of Hyde Park like a glittering mirage. The central gallery, still just an iron skeleton, soared skyward like the transept of a great cathedral, but a small army of workmen was busy affixing thousands of sheets of plate glass to its grid. The glass shimmered in the afternoon light, and Rossetti joined a crowd of onlookers who stood marveling at it.
Turning away, he continued down the path and across the Serpentine Bridge. Under the spell of his own thoughts, he failed to notice the approach of two familiar forms until a friendly hand caught him by the shoulder.
“Rossetti! Hello! You must really be a poet at heart. Didn’t you see us waving?”
“Hunt, Ford.” Rossetti nodded. “You’ve caught me daydreaming, I’m afraid. I was enjoying the air before I lock myself up to work.”
Ford Madox Brown, who at thirty was a few years older than Rossetti and Hunt, was a fellow painter who often served as a mentor and tutor to them. Ford hadn’t officially joined the Brotherhood—he was already an established, if often impoverished, painter—but the style of his work was an inspiration for their methods. Ford looked amused by the genuine surprise that his approach had elicited. “Dante Rossetti choosing work over the pleasures of a fine afternoon? I never thought that I’d see the day. Either your model must be very beautiful, or the bill collectors must be at your heels.”
Rossetti blushed, and Ford gave him a searching look. He turned to Holman Hunt with a devilish smile. “Is it possible that Rossetti’s eyes are glowing a little too brightly to be chalked up entirely to the fresh air and a brisk walk? If I didn’t know him so well, I might be inclined to think that he is in love.”
“I doubt it,” said Hunt. “Rossetti is too great a flirt to fall for any one girl. Perhaps he’s in love with a design for a painting. Or the undertaking of some new literary circular. It’s grand ideas that Rossetti truly loves.”
“Perhaps,” said Ford, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Rossetti laughed. “I swear to you both that my heart still belongs to Art; she’s not had a worthy contender yet.” He said nothing about Miss Siddal. With Deverell blabbing around about what a stunner she was, the other artists of their group were bound to find out about her without his help. If he wished to secure her for himself, he would do better to keep mum. Besides, Hunt and Ford were in a joking mood, and Rossetti had no wish to have his feelings for Miss Siddal made a subject of their jibes.
Ford gave Rossetti one more close look and then shrugged, letting the matter drop. “If you were in love, you would be in good company. I’m afraid that we’ve completely lost Hunt to his newest conquest, the barmaid Annie Miller.”
Ford’s tone was light, but Hunt flushed with anger at his words. “I told you,” he snapped, “not to call her the barmaid. She’s a lady of uncommon kindness and beauty, and if she’s had to work for her living, it’s no fault of her own. She’s lived in hard circumstances.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Ford sighed, turning to Rossetti. “At any rate, Hunt’s lady of uncommon kindness and beauty, most certainly not a barmaid, has been sitting for him for his latest painting. Have you seen the sketches? She’s the girl with the great head of golden hair. She’s charmed h
im completely and stolen his heart. I don’t think that he shall ever get it back to give to his next model.”
Rossetti smiled, thinking vaguely of some sketches that he’d seen lying about Hunt’s studio. The girl was no match for Miss Siddal.
“Ford!” Hunt barked. “This one is different. I’m determined to make her my wife, after her education has been looked to, so you’d do best to be careful of what you say about her.”
“You mean you’ll marry her after she stops dropping her aitches?” Ford laughed, and then, seeing that his friend was in no mood to joke, he put a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hunt. Miss Miller really is quite lovely, and friendly as can be. You couldn’t have picked a nicer girl. I’m sure that all the members of the Brotherhood will be having her to sit before long. But don’t leave her alone with Rossetti—if he isn’t already in love, he certainly looks ripe for the picking.”
Hunt flushed again, and this time it was Rossetti who laid a calming hand on his friend’s arm. “Come, friends,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m just on my way to Charlotte Street to work on my translations. Walk with me and I’ll tell you about a plan I have for a magazine, to be published monthly, which will showcase the works of the members of the Brotherhood and our friends.”
“I told you that it would be some new plan,” Hunt said. “I suppose that we had better go along and hear all about it. No doubt we will all be caught up in it before long. Who can resist Rossetti’s schemes?”
He threw his arm around Rossetti’s shoulders and the three friends resumed their walk, leaving the touchy subject of love behind, and speaking instead of their work as they made their way down the path and out of the park.
Rossetti burst into the parlor of his family’s small but respectable home in Charlotte Street and threw his jacket onto a chair. His sister, Christina, was sitting at a writing desk in the corner of the room, her head bent over her work. She had dark hair, simply parted, and a naturally serious face, made more so by her devotion to her poetry and her church. But when she saw her brother she smiled, and she was pretty.
Rossetti strode over to her, swept her from her seat, and began to waltz her around the room. Christina threw back her head and laughed, hardly able to keep up with his steps.
“Dante!” she cried as he released her. “You’re certainly in a grand mood! To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
He’d been staying at his studio more and more lately, and he knew that he was missed at home. He depended upon his sister’s great affection for him to keep her from scolding him for his rare visits. “Why, only my wish to see my darling sister. Is Mother at home?”
“No, I’m afraid that she’s out on a visit.” Christina settled onto a divan and patted the seat next to her.
“All the better, then.” Rossetti sat beside her. “I’ll have you all to myself, and you can tell me how your writing is getting along. By the way, Ford sends his compliments on your last contribution to Athenaeum. He said that it was quite as good as anything you’ve ever published, and I agree wholeheartedly.”
Christina glowed under her older brother’s praise. “I would love to have your opinion on my new sonnets.”
“It would be my pleasure. And I may have another reader for you. Another student of poetry—perhaps a protégée.”
“Indeed? I always love to meet your friends.”
“Her name is Elizabeth Siddal. She’s modeling for Deverell at the moment, and he says that she shows a great aptitude for drawing and verse. I met her today and I think that with your guidance, perhaps her talents could be encouraged.”
“Oh yes?” Christina’s tone grew more formal. “And has she published?”
“No, I don’t believe so. But be kind, dear sister. This girl has not had your advantages; her origins appear quite humble. But she has a very artistic manner, and an excellent knowledge of poetry. Deverell found her working at a millinery, but you would never know it. She was exceptionally beautiful—I’m going to paint her as Beatrice.” Caught up in his thoughts of Miss Siddal, he was oblivious to Christina’s fading smile and darkening brow.
“I see. How charming.”
“I told her that you would be very pleased to meet her. She is really more of a lady than the usual model, and I think that it would set her at ease if you could take her under your wing. Deverell’s sister is quite taken with her. I have no doubt that you will be as well. I’ll bring her around to the house to visit as soon as she is free.”
Christina fingered the heavy cross at her neck. “A model? You want to bring her here, to visit with Mother and me? Dante, you can’t believe that we can receive such a person!”
“Don’t be a snob. Where’s your Christian charity, dear sister?”
Christina was quiet for a moment. Then she gave Rossetti a resigned smile. “Perhaps it would be best if I came to see her at your studio.”
“Yes, that’s just the thing. I have a number of sketches that I’d like to show you anyway. Once you meet her, you’ll love her just as I do.”
“Love her? Dante, you’ve only just met her!”
“No, of course,” Rossetti laughed, embarrassed by his ardor. “I only meant that you’re sure to see the same promise in her that I do.” He kissed his sister on the cheek and rose from the divan, cutting the visit short. “I’m off to work in my study. Can you have tea sent up?”
“Of course,” Christina said, glancing over at her unfinished work on the desk. “I’ll bring it up myself. It’s the maid’s day off.”
But Rossetti didn’t hear her—he was already on the stairs, eager to begin work on his translations.
Dante Rossetti was not the only man determined to court Lizzie with poetry. Deverell, who didn’t like being upstaged by Rossetti, had taken a page from his friend’s book and purchased a little volume of Alfred Tennyson’s poems as a gift for her. He presented it on the last day that she came to sit for him.
He handed her the book, not quite meeting her eye. “A little token of my appreciation for your help. It’s a volume by our new poet laureate. It’s not his most recent work, but there is a poem in it that reminds me of you.”
Lizzie glanced down at the book, which was bound in soft leather and felt heavy in a satisfying way. “I very much admire the works of Tennyson,” she murmured. Without opening the book, she began to recite:
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
Deverell looked disappointed. “You already have it.”
“No!” Lizzie laughed. “Certainly not. We hardly have any books at all, I’m afraid.” She stopped, anxious that her words had revealed too much. But Deverell didn’t seem embarrassed by her admission, and so she went on: “I first read Tennyson’s poems only by chance. One morning I unwrapped a pat of butter for my mother, and the newspaper that it came in was printed with one of his verses. I read it right there on the kitchen floor, and ever since I’ve collected his works whenever I can. I cut them out of my father’s magazines and paste them into a little book.”
Deverell smiled. “How sweet you must have been. I can just imagine the young Miss Siddal hiding away her book of poems.”
“And now I have a beautiful copy of them to treasure. I’m very grateful.”
It looked for a moment as if Deverell meant to take her in his arms and test out her gratitude. But he stayed put behind his easel.
Lizzie felt relief tinged by disappointment. Her month in the studio had passed like a pleasant dream. For a few weeks she had played a small part in the creation of something beautiful. And Walter Deverell, with his excellent manners and kind words, had treated her as if she belonged there.
She swallowed, realizing how hard it would now be to return to the long hours at the millinery, to once again spend her days fending off the obnoxious young men in the shop and enduring the silly talk of the other girls. And despite Mrs. Tozer’s predictions, it didn’t seem that her time here would lead to anything else. If Deverell had any real feelings for her, the gift of the book of poetry had been the first and only definite sign, and he had said nothing about having her come to sit again. It would have been better, she thought churlishly, if he had never asked her in the first place—then she wouldn’t have known what she was missing.
As if reading her thoughts, Deverell said, “You remember my friend, Mr. Rossetti, I’m sure. He mentioned that he might want you for a painting. If your employer can spare you again, of course.”
“Did he?” Lizzie smiled. If Rossetti were to ask her to sit, she might be able to linger a little longer in this dream. Though whether her mother and Mrs. Tozer would allow it was another matter. Rossetti had projected none of the stodgy respectability that the Deverells possessed. “Is he any good? He was very forward. I don’t know if I would be quite as easy in his studio as I am in yours. But of course I’d be honored to sit for him, if he asked me.”
Deverell gave Lizzie a close look and then turned back to his canvas. “It might be best to take a chaperone. And you’d do well to ask for your wages up front,” he added, with a peevish note. “Dante is always short of funds.”