Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  His studio was located in an out-of-the-way corner south of the Thames, a good walk from his home in Charlotte Street. But any inconvenience was more than made up for by the painterly light and constantly changing view of the river, and it was an added pleasure when he discovered that his new model, the incomparable Miss Siddal, lived only a few minutes away in Southwark.

  The first day that Lizzie came to sit for him, she arrived with his translations in her hands, and the poet’s immortal words on her lips: “Here beginneth the new life.”

  Hearing her speak the line touched him as deeply as if she had laid a hand upon his heart, and it was all that he could do to usher her in, an answering line playing silently on his own lips, though he did not dare to speak it aloud:

  I felt a spirit of love begin to stir

  Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;

  And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain . . .

  The memory of that first morning was still enough to cause his cheeks to burn. And to his surprise, the feeling did not fade. Her beauty was a fresh surprise to him each day, as if it were too great and too intricate in its detail to be committed to memory. It was an unsolvable puzzle that he worked at incessantly, trying to capture it in sketch after sketch, churned out with a single-minded devotion. At night, after she left, he asked himself whether she wasn’t an apparition, called forth from an old painting by his imagination. In his dreams she was life breathed into a marble statue, a goddess who held the secret of fire in the flames of her hair.

  Now Rossetti looked down into the street below, searching among the dusty bonnets for a glimpse of Lizzie’s red hair. But the throng below pushed on, with no rose among its thorns. He was just turning away when a single upturned face in the crowd caught his eye. There was no mistaking her ivory skin and brightly trimmed bonnet. She held up her hand to shade her eyes as if she were searching among the windows for the one that belonged to him.

  Rossetti waved, but she did not return his greeting. He waved again and then, realizing that she could not see him in the glare from the balcony windows, he continued to watch her, unobserved in his worship.

  Lizzie separated herself from the bustle of Chatham Place and slipped into number 14. In the downstairs hall she stopped before the mirror to take off her bonnet and pinch her cheeks, which hardly needed the attention—they were already pink and glowing.

  Satisfied, she started up the narrow stairs to the studio. She stepped carefully on the creaking boards, but before she reached the first landing she heard a door open above her. With a sigh she prepared herself for the appearance of the landlady, who had taken an unwelcome interest in her comings and goings over the last week.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Wright was peering out from behind her door at the end of the hallway. She wore a plain black dress with a high neck, and her silver hair was twisted into a tight bun at the crown of her head. When she saw Lizzie, she glared at her with narrowed eyes, and her mouth puckered into a grimace. Like many older women of her sort, she had an active imagination for scandal, and an even greater fondness for voicing her disapproval. Lizzie knew that Mrs. Wright believed her to be Rossetti’s mistress, or something worse.

  Mrs. Wright’s cold gaze wasn’t the only humiliation that Lizzie had encountered on the stairs. A few other tenants had smirked and even leered at her as she made her way up to Rossetti’s studio. She did her best to ignore them, but their looks stung. She knew that she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she was different from the other girls who modeled for artists, but the world did not generally make such fine distinctions.

  Lizzie did her best to maintain her composure. “Good day, Mrs. Wright!” she called out with false cheer.

  The landlady drew in her breath and returned Lizzie’s greeting with a silent glower, and Lizzie bowed her head and hurried past. As she started up the next flight of stairs, she heard the old woman mutter, “If it weren’t for the good rent that he pays,” before the door shut with a bang.

  The words cut Lizzie to the quick. She wondered, not for the first time, how exactly she had found herself here. Rossetti’s studio was only a short walk from her home in Kent Place, and yet it was as alien to her as if she had sailed for a foreign land. She recalled with lingering shame how, on the first day that she sat for Deverell, his mother had led her around to the studio by the garden path without ever having asked her into the house. She had known, at that moment, where she stood. But the respectable domesticity of the studio, and the genteel company of Mary Deverell, had convinced her that there was nothing really untoward in sitting for an artist.

  Rossetti’s studio was different. It was a rented space, far from his mother’s house, and on her first visit, Lizzie had been dismayed to find that there was no other lady present when she arrived. Rossetti had mentioned a sister, and Lizzie assumed that she would join them. But Rossetti appeared unconcerned by the situation, and Lizzie could think of no way to insist on a chaperone without implying that she could not trust him to behave as a gentleman. In the end she had decided not to make a fuss. She had lived her entire life under the stern gaze of one lady or another, after all, and she could not deny the appeal of the relative freedom of Rossetti’s studio.

  She tried to put the landlady’s glare from her mind as she entered the studio. The room was lined with bookcases, filled to bursting with hundreds of volumes of poetry, history, and myths. Canvases were everywhere, leaning against tables and easels, and propped up on chairs. A desk in the corner was piled with sketches, and an entire table was devoted to glass pots of paint in an array of colors: cerulean blue for painting the sky on a perfect summer day, viridian green for the shoots of new leaves, and madder rose to tint pouting lips.

  To a more sophisticated eye, the studio may have appeared humble. The room was large but cluttered, with yellowing wallpaper and an unmade bed that could be glimpsed in a side chamber. But to Lizzie it was like something from a novel—the Parisian garret of a romantic poet.

  Lizzie glanced around the room, and dozens of her reflections stared back, her image captured over and over in the sketches that festooned the studio. Her face peered out from every wall: There she was reclining in the divan by the window; over there she rested her face on clasped hands. Piled on the mantel and the desk were still other Lizzies, some quickly drawn in charcoal, and others more detailed and shaded with jewel-toned strokes of watercolor. Rossetti never seemed to tire of drawing her, though Lizzie couldn’t imagine what it was about her that so fascinated him.

  And then she saw him, standing among the paintings with the confidence of a king among his subjects. He smiled and reached out his hand in greeting.

  “Dante,” she said, using his Christian name and giving him her hand to kiss. The gesture, which had at first embarrassed her, now felt more natural, just another part of the glamorous role that she took on when she entered the studio. “I feel as if I never left, with so many reflections here to greet me.”

  “If only you never did leave, I should never have to stop drawing.”

  Lizzie walked over to the divan by the window and threw herself onto it. If it were up to her, she never would leave, but some propriety and restraint must be maintained, and she didn’t think Rossetti could be depended upon in that regard. She enjoyed playing at the sophisticated bohemian, but such games could only be taken so far. “If you never stopped drawing, you might never sleep or eat, and then what would become of you?” she asked.

  “What sustenance do I need, other than your presence?”

  “Do be serious for a moment!” she laughed. “You know that your habits are irregular enough to begin with. Has that horrid landlady been bringing up your meals?”

  Rossetti sat down beside her on the divan. He did not quite touch her, but Lizzie blushed at his closeness. “You’re a dear to worry, but there’s no need. I’ve been taking my suppers with the Brotherhood, and I could hardly be called a starving artist.”

  Whatever secrecy the members of the Brotherhood
had sworn to in the excitement of the moment had in practice been loosely applied. Whispers of its existence had spread out to trusted friends, and Rossetti had wasted no time in telling the story to Lizzie, and recounting his own speech in particular detail.

  Lizzie smiled, happy to be in on the secret of the Brotherhood. “How are the plans for the literary circular coming on?”

  Rossetti became serious. He was always serious when he spoke of his art. Lizzie liked to watch the way emotion passed over his features, his face as changeable as the spring sky beyond the balcony doors.

  “It goes to the printer tomorrow. I’ve put in a poem, and we’ve gathered a few essays that should begin to shape our ideas for the public. But the true test of the Brotherhood’s fate will be the upcoming exhibitions. I’m submitting my painting of the Virgin Mary, modeled on my sister, Christina, and Deverell is sending in his painting of you as Viola. Did he write to you? No? Oh, well, no doubt he will. Millais also has something ready to submit. This is our chance to put the proof of our theories before the world, in the beauty of our paintings.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully,” Lizzie said quietly. She knew that it was unreasonable, but she was disappointed that Rossetti would not be submitting a picture of her for the exhibition.

  Rossetti saw the unhappiness on her face. “Don’t despair—this is only the beginning, and I haven’t had time to do you justice yet. For the next Exhibition I will submit a painting of you—of you as the fair Beatrice. You, Lizzie Siddal, will be the face of the new British art.”

  “You go too far, Dante. What do I have to offer art?”

  “You don’t see it, do you? Lizzie, you could be the queen of a Renaissance court, adored by knights and noblemen alike.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Then perhaps I should have been born in another era. My looks have never been mistaken for beauty in this one. I can’t help but wonder at your flattery.”

  “This is a new era, Lizzie. A new era for art, and a new era for beauty. The age of tailored young ladies with plump cheeks and plump poodles on their arms is coming to an end. True beauty—the classic, strong beauty of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Beatrice Portinari—will prevail. I see you as their heir, Lizzie. You are beautiful to me, and when I paint you, the world will see what I see.”

  He leaned a little closer and Lizzie smiled with pleasure. “You flatter me, Dante. I only hope that I am equal to the task. Beatrice inspired such poetry. I can hardly imagine that such a woman was flesh and blood.”

  “Perhaps she was like you. Part woman and part angel.”

  Lizzie laughed, but Rossetti’s face was serious. “I am afraid that you see more in me than is really there. I know of women of great beauty and great virtue, but true angels are only born of the grave.”

  “I see only what is right before me.” As they spoke, Rossetti’s voice became more urgent, and he peered at Lizzie with eyes that were unnaturally bright. “Angels do walk the earth, but only the true artist can recognize them. Dante saw his fate in the beauty of Beatrice, and I see mine in yours.”

  Lizzie blushed, feeling the pull of Rossetti’s enthusiasm. No one had ever spoken to her in such terms before, though she had many times imagined herself as a romantic heroine, a Juliet or Queen Guinevere. But she was troubled by the sense that he must be speaking to someone else, someone just past her shoulder, who was truly worthy of such praise and poetry. If she were to give herself over to his vision, she worried that he would only laugh and say, oh, I didn’t mean you, dear, and she would be humiliated.

  She shook her head again and tried to pull away, but this just seemed to encourage him. Undaunted, he spun his glittering web of flattery. “You are so much like her. No true Beatrice would be vain, or easily won. She was the ideal woman—a queen of virtue, blessed in every way. Dante’s love for her was entirely pure, fed by nothing more than a few brief glimpses of her in the street. To Dante she was everything: love, art, salvation.”

  “But they never married?”

  “They were both promised to others. But if he had known her as a wife, he might never have known her as his divine muse.”

  “It must be a wondrous thing, to play such a role in the creations of a great master,” Lizzie said, allowing Rossetti to draw her closer. “To know that one’s very existence can inspire such poetry.”

  “You will certainly be equal to sitting for Beatrice,” Rossetti whispered, almost to himself. “You have already begun to inspire me.” They were face-to-face now, and Rossetti’s eyes were slightly unfocused, as if he saw beyond the present, to the finished canvas.

  Lizzie sat very still. For a moment she saw herself through Rossetti’s eyes: She was a thing of beauty, inseparable from the paintings in which he saw her. The vision worked a sort of alchemy, as if her imagination could teach her body the secret of beauty. She let the feeling wash over her, and smiled the enigmatic smile of a Renaissance portrait. Her eyes grew wide and bright, and she sensed that their light was capable of drawing Rossetti to her with a single glance. She ran her hand through her long hair, and the enchantment of the movement was not lost on either of them.

  Rossetti watched her carefully. She seemed to have gained a greater sense of presence, like a figure in a painting to which he had just applied the final wash of color. “Yes, you are Beatrice.” He cleared his throat and spoke directly to her: “To complete the picture, all you need is her gown.”

  From a wardrobe in the corner he produced an elegant gown of deep green velvet. It was simply cut, with a loose velvet bodice that hung like a tunic over sleeves of royal blue silk.

  “It could not possibly improve you—but perhaps you will find that it transforms you.”

  He handed the gown to Lizzie, and she held it to her body, feeling the luxurious pile of the velvet. She had never worn a dress so fine. She smiled, thinking that she already felt different. Rossetti had led her to the edge of a new world, and she could sense in it the beginnings of a new self. He was right; all she needed was the dress.

  To Lizzie and Rossetti, the studio in Chatham Place was a retreat. It floated above the city, a place without prying eyes or ticking clocks. As long as they stayed within its book-lined walls, they felt no need to answer to anything besides the cause of art, and the demands of their own happiness. They were free, and surprisingly innocent—like children playing in a garden, with no thought of the world beyond its walls. This purity found its way into Rossetti’s sketches, which showed Lizzie in simple lines: her lips curved in slight smiles, her eyes lowered from nothing more provocative than the languor of a warm afternoon.

  The new painting changed that. Lizzie donned the gown, and the studio became a stage.

  Draped in velvet and with her hair loose and flowing, she looked every inch the part of Beatrice. It wasn’t difficult to go a step further, to believe that she was assuming that medieval maiden’s grace and charm along with her attire. In her heart, Lizzie knew that it was nothing more than an illusion, a trick of the studio’s enchanting light, and that underneath the gown she was still Lizzie Siddal, milliner. But it was a powerful illusion, and Rossetti seemed to feel its effect as well.

  The room, which once felt safe from the sordid implications that the world attaches to even the most innocent of gestures, was now full of undiscovered possibility and hidden meaning. Each of Lizzie’s movements, and each of their shared glances, were now weighted with the echoes of Dante’s poems: She was the untouchable muse, he was her knight-errant; they were lovers, in body or in spirit; they were souls, swirling in the inferno. Their possibility was limited only by what Rossetti could render on the canvas.

  The painting of Beatrice was small and jewel-like, painted in rich reds and greens. The Poet gazes upon his beloved as she passes by him on her way to a wedding feast. Beatrice is pale and lovely, with her head held high and her body still for a moment in the middle of the revelry of the other guests. She has heard that Dante loves another, and she looks down on him, her gaze cold. He leans tow
ard her, his jaw tense and his hands hanging irresolute by his sides. Desire and restraint, equal and opposite forces, hold them rooted to the spot, while the crowd flows around them and a fresco of angels regards them mournfully from the walls above.

  As he painted, Rossetti tried to maintain the measured practices of courtly love that he so wished to emulate. But the privacy of the studio was a very different place from the crowded streets of Florence. Rossetti began to wonder how Dante would have fared if he had ever had the pleasure of a private interview with Beatrice.

  He placed a crown of fresh flowers on Lizzie’s head, barely letting his fingertips brush against her hair as he guided her pose, and Lizzie blushed.

  “Your modesty is becoming. Remember, I must have your most proud expression for this painting. Beatrice believes that Dante loves another, and in her anger denies him her salutation. You must look down upon him with disinterested eyes, like a queen upon her subjects.”

  He placed his fingers under Lizzie’s chin and raised it up slightly. The unexpected touch sent a shiver across her skin, and he let his hand linger for a moment against her cheek. “That’s right, just a bit higher.”

  He stepped back and slowly took her measure. She purposely kept her eyes down, avoiding his gaze, but Rossetti continued to stare at her.

  “It is the height of cruelty, and coquetry,” he finally said, his voice taking on a raw edge that she had not heard before, “for a woman to feign disinterest in a man whom she knows to love her deeply. Dante Alighieri had great control of himself. I don’t know if Beatrice would have been so fortunate with another admirer.”