by Rita Cameron
“No, not Dante’s painting. What of your own sketches and poems? The drawing that you made of my sister Mary still hangs on my studio wall. As I told you then, it showed great promise.”
“You’re too kind—I’m afraid that I’ve done nothing more than dabble in drawing lately. I do a little sketching here and there, mostly while Dante is working. But I would love to really learn to paint.” She colored a little at this admission, embarrassed to talk of her own wish to paint in such a setting. But Deverell didn’t laugh at her.
“Well then, Rossetti must give you lessons. Or perhaps I could do so myself. In fact, I’ve been meaning to send you a note. I’m planning a new picture, and I was hoping that you might come sit for me again. Mary is eager to have your company. She speaks of you often.”
Before Lizzie could reply, Rossetti broke in. “I’m afraid that Miss Siddal is very much occupied with my own work at the moment. I couldn’t possibly spare her.”
“Oh, come now, Rossetti! You can’t mean to keep this lovely creature all to yourself? Miss Siddal says that you’re almost finished with your picture, and I’ve planned my picture around her—no one else will do.”
“As I said, Miss Siddal is occupied at the moment,” Rossetti said sharply. “I really can’t spare her—she’s absolutely essential to my work.”
Lizzie stared at Rossetti in surprise. He was nearly finished with the Beatrice painting, and she had taken on extra days at the shop, knowing that he might not pay her to sit again for a few weeks. It seemed odd that, knowing that she must make her living as a model or else return to Mrs. Tozer’s, he would wish to prevent her sitting for Deverell. But perhaps he had some something besides painting in mind. If he was planning on proposing soon, of course he wouldn’t want her sitting for other painters.
Deverell was frowning, and Lizzie sought to smooth over any ruffled feathers. “My dear Mr. Deverell, I’m busy at the moment, but I’ll write to you as soon as I am free.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked questioningly at Rossetti. “Some other time.”
“Well, we must make the rounds,” Rossetti said, drawing the conversation to an abrupt end. He seemed embarrassed by his outburst, and eager to get away from Deverell. He took Lizzie’s arm and steered her into the crowd, leaving her no choice but to shrug and smile at Deverell over her shoulder.
Deverell stared after them as they crossed the room arm in arm, their heads inclined toward each other as Rossetti whispered some little comment in her ear. His eyes lingered on the pair as they joined another group, Rossetti joking with friends and Miss Siddal smiling her serene smile, her eyes locked on him. If Deverell was uneasy at the sight, it would have been difficult for him to say why. Perhaps it was only jealousy that Rossetti had lacked his scruples in the matter of Miss Siddal. Or perhaps it was a more instinctive alarm at the way Miss Siddal’s radiance seemed to dim in Rossetti’s company, as if her light reflected off of him to greater effect, leaving her somehow depleted.
Rossetti led her into a private alcove at the far end of the gallery, and Deverell at last turned away, shrugging and muttering under his breath, “If they are in love, or lovers, what business, really, is it of mine?”
Rossetti pulled Lizzie onto his lap and loosened the velvet curtains of the alcove so that they were hidden from view.
He was in his element, his sudden celebrity a more powerful intoxicant than the fine champagne, though he’d drunk plenty of that as well. He thought of all the hours spent in his studio, choosing just the right paints, working and reworking his figures; the labor so draining that it sometimes felt like a bloodletting, as if the paint came not from a pot but from his open veins. And the other moments, when he sketched Lizzie as if he had been born to do nothing else, each drawing engendering the next; the desperate need to capture every telling glance, his hand racing across the page for hours until he fell back, spent. The exhaustion and the exhilaration had all culminated in this, his moment of victory.
He felt as rich men must feel—the reckless abandon of a heavy purse. Tonight London was his, and he saw what he wanted: Lizzie, resplendent in her rich velvet gown, no longer of this age or place. She was Beatrice, as if he had conjured her from Dante’s sonnets with a sorcerer’s spell. She was a tableau vivant staged only for him, poetic verse given the warmth and weight of a body. “You look divine,” he said, running his fingertips over her cheek and down her white neck.
“But who will see me back here, in this alcove?” she laughed.
“Who could look at the paintings when you are in the room? I’m doing the other artists a favor by taking you aside.”
“Promise me,” Lizzie whispered, taking his face in her hands, and feeling her power over him at this moment, “you will paint no one but me.”
“No one but you,” he said, kissing her. “There’s no one else worth painting.” He slipped his hands around her waist, and she was instantly pliant, leaning against him and sighing. He wanted to whisper poetry into her hair, but none of Dante’s verses felt right. Such carefully constructed lines, love tempered by restraint, felt pale and stilted in the face of his desire for Lizzie at this moment. His lips mute, he kissed her neck and her shoulders, pulling at the sleeve of her dress as he searched for more of her white skin. All of his art seemed to fall away; he would worship her not with verse but with a love so pure that it would transcend all words. Was not love an art in itself? But Lizzie drew back with unexpected force and put a restraining hand on his chest.
“Somebody might see us, Dante! And what will they think?”
“Our friends will think that we are in love, and what should I care what anyone else thinks?” he said, renewing his efforts.
“Are we in love?”
“Yes, of course we are, you silly girl. If this isn’t love, what is?” Rossetti stopped trying to kiss her for a moment, and looked at her with tenderness and amusement.
Lizzie smiled, but she kept a hand firmly between them. “You may not care what people think, but I must care. Already people are talking. I can’t be seen back here, alone with you. Unless, of course, there was some reason . . .” She let the suggestion hang in the air.
Rossetti released her and sat back. Thoughts of marriage, and its attendant concerns—houses to be let, visits to be made, the cries of babies outside the studio door—were so far from his mind that it took him a moment to catch her meaning. “Lizzie,” he murmured, but no further words came to his lips, and his brow furrowed. Had he not, just a moment before, thought his love for her a thing more perfect and pure than Dante’s sonnets to Beatrice? And yet . . . the practical concerns of marriage and family seemed to have little to do with such a love. That day in St. Saviour’s he had nearly proposed, but something had held him back. He wanted to savor what they had, and was in no rush to change it. He desired the Lizzie who walked among other women like a goddess, who fed upon nothing more than love and poetry, and demanded nothing more, or less, than worship.
The moment stretched on in excruciating silence, and Rossetti saw Lizzie’s face fall. She turned from him ever so slightly, looking past him and pressing her lips together. “Please excuse my silly behavior,” she said, her voice small and cold. “I’m afraid that I’ve misunderstood you. Shall we rejoin our friends?”
He had disappointed her. It was an unwelcome feeling, crowding out his joy in the success of the exhibition. He roused himself to speak. “Lizzie, there’s no misunderstanding. I love you. We won’t always have to hide ourselves in alcoves and behind stairs. But I must put all of my effort right now into my work—it’s of the utmost importance. Once I’ve made my reputation, we can plan our future. You have my promise. Until then, you must be my muse, and my inspiration. Come, you’re right. We shouldn’t be hidden here, alone, when there is an admiring public awaiting a glimpse of you. You must help me charm the wealthy guests who might make my fortune.”
Lizzie’s face had softened, but her next words were uttered in a tone almost of warning. “Yours is not th
e only reputation that I must consider, Dante. The longer that I’m your model, but not your wife, the more the world will look at me as if I am something else altogether. But let us speak no more of it tonight.”
He nodded. He knew that she spoke the truth. But it was a truth that could be considered tomorrow, in the more practical light of day. Tonight was a night for celebrating.
Before they could stand, the alcove curtain was pulled back with a flourish, and Emma Brown greeted them with a peal of laughter. “I was wondering where you two slipped off to.”
Lizzie blushed, but Rossetti only smiled. “Be careful, Mrs. Brown,” he joked, “or I’ll be forced to whisk you off behind some curtain as well.”
Lizzie tried to join in with their laughter, but she could only manage a stiff smile. Emma rolled her eyes, and Lizzie told herself that Emma was a friend, not a rival. She was beginning to realize that she would have to get used to the easier ways of this crowd if she was to survive in it. And she must put her worries aside, if she was to enjoy the evening. After all, Rossetti had assured her that she had nothing to worry about.
“Ladies,” Rossetti said with a mock bow. “May I escort you on a tour around the paintings?”
“There’s nothing that I’d like more,” Lizzie said, determined to enjoy herself. She turned to Emma. “And you must tell me everything that’s happened since I’ve last seen you. I’m so happy to find you here, among all these strangers.”
“Not to worry, my dear. They may be strange, but they will not be strangers for long. Stay close by my side and I’ll whisper all the most amusing stories about each of them in your ear as we walk.”
If Emma noticed Lizzie’s red cheeks and the agitated way she pulled at her dress, she said nothing. They left the alcove and rejoined the crowd. Rossetti stopped short, however, at the sight of a man who was holding forth to a group at the center of the room. The faces around him ranged from reverence to thinly masked contempt, but they all appeared to be listening closely, like pupils at a lecture.
“That’s John Ruskin,” Rossetti said. “The critic and collector. And, incidentally, the man who’s kept me in my meals and lodgings these last few months. I must go speak to him.”
Lizzie studied Ruskin. He was tall and slender, with a thick shock of light brown hair, a thoughtful expression, and eyes that darted around the room as he spoke, taking everything in. Whenever he gestured or turned toward different paintings, the group shifted with him, as if he held them on marionette strings.
They joined the crowd around him and Lizzie heard him speak: “The question here is one of truth to nature.” He let the pronouncement hang in the air for the moment, as the group murmured their assent. “That is, is the artist painting life and nature as they truly exist? Or is nature no different to the artist than the scenery at the opera, a pretty setting for his composition? And if it is a mere setting, what does that painting teach us about life, about beauty? No, sir, don’t answer, it’s a false question. Such a painting teaches us nothing! It is useful only as a decorative item, and nothing more.”
The gentleman who had been quieted by Ruskin put his hand up, as if he was asking for permission to speak. “Then I take it that you disapprove, Mr. Ruskin, of the charming domestic scenes displayed to such great effect tonight?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. These charming domestic scenes, as you call them, lack the very essence of art, as it should be. They reveal nothing; they ask nothing. They are meant only to be hung above the mantel in a nice home, and never to give provocation or offense. They are fashion and decoration only; no better and no worse than a nicely trimmed bonnet.”
A shocked whisper went through the crowd at these words, and Ruskin looked as pleased at their distress as if they had cried out their approval. Rossetti alone nodded his agreement, and spoke up. “Mr. Ruskin has hit the thing on the nose. Our art is stagnating in its own sentimentality. The modern artist celebrates the humble—the adored wife or pet, the country landscape—and fails to elevate it with either skill or beauty.”
“Here, perhaps, is our answer to this dilemma,” Ruskin said, ushering Rossetti to the center of the group. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Rossetti. No doubt you’ve seen his very fascinating picture of the Virgin Mary as a child.” He glanced around the room and located it. “This way, please, right over here.”
“The first thing that you’ll notice,” he began, settling again into the role of professor, “is the elevated subject matter: the mother of Christ. This is no mere portrait of a beloved aunt at a country gate. Now, the Virgin Mary is a familiar subject, but one that is presented here in a wholly unique way. We see her as a child, but not, as is the usual way, studying a book under the watchful eye of her mother, Saint Anne. What, really, is the chance that a female child of her day and age would often, if ever, be reading? No, instead Rossetti has portrayed her at her embroidery, leaving the books to the side as a symbolic gesture only, representing the lessons of charity, faith, and hope. The coloring and the use of light should also be noted. The painting is radiant; there is little shadow. And why should there be? The classical proportions of light and shade have no place in this picture. The purity of Mary, and of the saints and angels who surround her, banish any such shadows. Mark my words, this is the new direction of the modern painter. He will paint things as they truly are, or as they might have been, irrespective of any conventional rules of picture-making.”
Rossetti gave Ruskin a deep bow. “That is kind praise. I only hope that it’s deserved.”
“It most decidedly is, and you would do well to remember it. If I am not much mistaken, the other critics will not be so easy on your work, and on that of your friends, in the coming weeks.”
Rossetti seemed surprised. “But the pictures have had a very good reception!”
“Yes, but in circles such as these, a little scandalous gossip and a lot of good champagne will go a long way toward endearing the public. In the sober light of the coming weeks, however, I’m afraid that other critics may make a feast of your revolution, and leave nothing but scraps upon the table. We critics are known to be set in our ways, after all, and you have made a bold statement against the current fashion.” He paused to give Rossetti a sympathetic smile. “But do not concern yourself with their words, and do not, by any means, take them to heart. I have faith in your Brotherhood, as they are calling it, and I expect that in time the public will be swayed to see things as I do.”
“Then I may count on you as a friend?”
“You may indeed. In fact, I’ve been meaning to visit your studio again—I’d like to see what you’re working on, and I might have a few buyers for you.” Ruskin looked past Rossetti, and caught sight of Lizzie, who had hung back. He studied her for a moment before speaking. “Is it?” he asked, hesitating. “Could it be Deverell’s page, the lovely Viola?”
Lizzie smiled, pleased to be recognized, and nodded her head.
“May I present Miss Elizabeth Siddal?” Rossetti asked.
Ruskin bowed to Lizzie. “What a pleasure. Deverell’s portrait is very fine. But it does no justice to the real thing. Are you sitting for Mr. Rossetti?”
Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but Rossetti cut in. “Yes, she is. I’ve done a number of studies of her, some in watercolor, and one or two in oil. She’s proven a very capable model.”
“I have no doubt,” Ruskin said, gazing at Lizzie long enough that she had to look away. “With her cheekbones and your talent, the work must be very fine.”
Rossetti laughed, and Lizzie heard nothing forced about his laughter. To the contrary, he seemed pleased by Ruskin’s attentions to her. It was a surprise, after his shortness with Deverell, but of course Ruskin was an important man, and Rossetti would want to court his good opinion, and his checkbook.
“Why don’t you come round to the studio next week? If you like what you see here”—Rossetti nodded in Lizzie’s direction—“then I have more than a few sketches of her that you might want.”
> “You may depend upon it. I’m anxious to see the new work.” Ruskin turned to Lizzie. “And I look forward to seeing you as well, Miss Siddal.”
Lizzie gave Ruskin her hand as he took his leave, but she could not summon more than a slight smile for him. She knew her role tonight was to aid Rossetti in bringing notice to his paintings; he had made that very clear. But Rossetti’s compliments had sounded to her ears more like the cries of a street hawker, lavishing praise on her beauty as if she were a particularly juicy apple for sale. She thought of her distaste at being called out into the shop to model bonnets for a wealthy customer, the feeling that she was no different to them than a wooden hat block. As Ruskin walked away, she realized that she had not spoken a single word to him.
But Rossetti was in high spirits. He smiled at her, oblivious to her discomfort. “You’ve charmed John Ruskin, and that can only be good for both of us. He could be a powerful ally, and a champion for the Brotherhood. He seemed very keen on seeing my portraits of you. You are an absolute dove, Lizzie. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Now that they were alone again, his words felt more sincere, and once again she put aside her misgivings. She must learn not to take things so personally—she herself was not for sale, after all. When they spoke of her, they were really only speaking of Rossetti’s paintings of her, which was a different thing altogether. It would serve her well, she thought, to remember the difference.
Rossetti plucked two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and handed one to Lizzie, who drank it quickly. The champagne made her giddy, and she was happy to let Rossetti lead her from group to group, where ladies inquired after her dress and gentlemen demanded that Rossetti paint her portrait for them. As the night wore on, the room seemed to open its arms to her, and she imagined for herself a future filled with champagne, parties, and fine dresses. Rossetti never left her side, and at last she gave herself over fully to the pleasure of the evening, as all about them whirled the glowing faces and glittering smiles of those who admired them and wished them well. She had arrived.