Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  Lizzie laid a gentle hand on Rossetti’s arm. “You’ve thumbed your nose at the Academy—you can’t be surprised if people call you arrogant. They’re scared, as people always are of something new and bold. In a few years they’ll all be swearing up and down that they were the first to admire your work. And there have been some good reviews. John Ruskin has come to your defense, and his words surely carry as much weight as those of Dickens, when it comes to art?”

  “Ruskin has stood by us, thank God. But it will take more than one man’s opinion to make a success of this movement.”

  Lizzie wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her chin on his shoulder. “Pay them no mind. I know how talented you are. I can see that you paint dreams, while others paint only what they can see. What sane man would prefer a painting of a fruit bowl, when he could instead look upon the divine visions of the great poets? The public will come around in due course. One day you won’t be able to paint fast enough to satisfy all of those who clamor for your work.”

  “If you see beauty in the paintings, then I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’ll just have to keep painting, Charles Dickens be damned.” He turned to her. “I can never be gloomy for long when you are here, my little dove.”

  “Then I won’t leave your side. But Dante . . .” She hesitated. “There is something that I want.” Deverell’s praise of her drawing had made her bold. “I want to learn how to paint. I mean, really paint, not just the little drawings that I’ve been doing. I want you to teach me.”

  She was afraid that he was going to laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked at her thoughtfully. “Then I’ll teach you. Your drawings show talent, I’ve told you that before. But before you learn how to paint, you have to master the basics: the human figure, the hands, the face, and trees, flowers, petals. Those are your tools, no different from the spangles and ribbons you use to fashion a bonnet. The beauty in any painting comes from a hundred tiny decisions of color and shade and detail, but the basic framework must be there first, the roots that feed the blossom. Come here.”

  He motioned to his easel by the window, and Lizzie sat before it, very aware of being in his seat. He fastened a large sheet of drawing paper to the easel, and handed her a charcoal pencil. “We’ll start with life drawing. Your figures are good, but you need practice. The drawing you did of the Lady of Shalott sitting at her loom, where is it? Not around? It would be a pity to lose it—it had a lot of promise, and the figure was well proportioned. But if I remember right, it was a bit stiff. Don’t look so hurt! If we are to make you into a real artist, you must set aside your vanity.”

  She nodded, encouraging him to go on, and Rossetti began to draw, sketching a quick series of figures in various poses. He was focused and energetic, taking to his new role as teacher with relish. He pointed to the first figure. “This man, Lizzie, what is he doing?”

  “Sitting?”

  “He’s seated, yes, but what is he doing?”

  She hesitated for a moment, studying the figure. There were no other details to give her a clue, not even a chair, and the lines were rough, more a suggestion than a true rendering. But as she looked, she noticed that while the curve of his back implied indolence, the tilt of his head suggested that he might be daydreaming, rather than sleeping, and his outstretched foot looked ready to tap a beat. “He’s listening to music,” she said, suddenly able to imagine a small band of musicians and the park bench where the man sat.

  “Exactly!” Rossetti cried. “And this one?” He pointed to the standing figure, done at a slight angle, his arms folded and one foot crossed over the other.

  “Is he waiting? Waiting for his lover, perhaps, and leaning against a building, or a tree.”

  “Precisely. Do you see, Lizzie, how important a few little lines can be? How they can tell a story as easily as an entire canvas? A woman sitting at a loom sits differently from a woman at her mirror, or a girl at a workroom table in a millinery. We shouldn’t have to see the loom to know that the girl is a weaver. We should be able to read it in the grace of her arms, the delicate movement of her fingers, and the strength of her back. The lines of the figure are not mechanical things; they are creatures of emotion.”

  “I see,” Lizzie said, although she wasn’t entirely sure that she did. But she sensed the beginning of an understanding, a new awareness of the unseen elements of a painting.

  “It takes time—it can’t be learned in a day. You must draw, every day, and practice. When you’re not sitting for me, that is. But today I will sit for you.” He tossed aside the sheet that he had drawn on and fastened a fresh paper to the easel. Then he sat in the chair that was normally hers, leaned back, and crossed his legs.

  It was difficult to begin. Her hand was unsure, as if she had never held a charcoal before. Her first effort was stilted, even to her eyes, with the shoulders too square and his face blank, like a mask. She tossed it aside and began again. The second one was better, but not by much. This too she crumpled up.

  Rossetti laughed. “You’re trying too hard. If you worry too much about what I’ll see when I look at it, you won’t be able to concentrate on what you see. I promise that I won’t even peek. Just draw what you see, and be honest.”

  The result this time was better. Not good, she knew, but better. It caught something of his amused grin, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders. She put down the charcoal, and her hand ached as badly as it did after a long day sewing bonnets. She’d started after lunch, but now the light was nearly gone from the studio.

  “May I see?” Rossetti asked, standing and stretching.

  “No! You promised that you wouldn’t look.” She clutched the paper to her chest as he tried to grab at it.

  “What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t give you a critique?” He snatched the paper from her and looked at it for a moment. “Not bad at all. In fact, it’s rather good. You’re going to be very good.” He kissed her once, hard, and she felt her cheeks flush, from his praise and his touch.

  “Come with me tonight,” he said, turning to his desk and rummaging through a pile of correspondence. He found what he was looking for, an invitation, and slipped it from its envelope. “I’ve been asked to a soirée at the home of Lord Lamberton.”

  “Lord Lamberton?” The name sounded familiar. “The collector?”

  “Yes. He buys up paintings the way some buy bread.”

  Lizzie didn’t pause to wonder why Rossetti was just now asking her to accompany him. An invitation to such a fashionable party was too exciting to question. “But my dress!” She looked down at her plain gown. “I dressed for a day of sketching.”

  “You look splendid as you are. Your gowns are proving more popular than my paintings. I’ve already seen several ladies of our acquaintance adopt your style. And besides, I have something for you.”

  He reached into a drawer in the desk and brought out a little velvet bag. The bag contained a long strand of luminous seed pearls, which he looped carefully around Lizzie’s neck. She fingered the lovely pearls, which were smooth, with a slight graininess reminiscent of their seabed home. “Dante. How on earth? With all of your expenses, and I know that the rent is still to be paid. . . .”

  “Hush. They’re just a trinket, a little souvenir from my travels. I wish that I could buy you the finest pearls of the Indian Ocean. And perhaps someday I will. But for now I hope that you will accept this token of my affection.”

  She nodded and turned away to hide the tears that welled up, unbidden, in her eyes. “It’s the finest gift I’ve ever received. I wouldn’t wish them to be any different.”

  She turned to admire herself in the glass. The strand of pearls transformed her simple blue dress. She loosened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, then smiled at her reflection. “I would be honored to accompany you tonight.”

  Rossetti hailed a cab and they clattered into the night, the streets of London slipping by in a series of gaslit vignettes as they made for the leafy streets near Holla
nd Park. Rossetti took Lizzie’s hand and kissed it. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the party. And don’t worry, you won’t feel out of place. Lord Lamberton’s parties are never stuffy.”

  Rossetti’s words touched off a wave of anxiety that Lizzie had been trying to ignore. She knew that he went out often without her, in the evenings when she was at home with her family, and she had begun to wonder why he didn’t at least ask her to come along. She worried that he hesitated to introduce her into society because her family and position embarrassed him. “Stuffy?” she asked sharply. “By stuffy do you mean respectable? I’m perfectly fit to associate with genteel people, you know. Or are you ashamed of me?”

  Rossetti sighed. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re fit to associate with the Queen. I only meant to say that you would know some people there. Ford and Emma Brown are coming, I believe. They haven’t been about much since their little girl was born, and it will be nice to see them. And Lord Lamberton likes to keep his parties lively. He always invites poets, painters, singers—even dancers. But of course there will be people of his own sort there as well. There might even be a few people who are interested in my work.”

  “Oh. Of course I’ll be very pleased to see Emma,” Lizzie said, regretting her touchiness, and the anxiety that it revealed.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, and in the quiet streets of Holland Park, the only sound was the carriage wheels and the crack of the driver’s whip. They pulled up in front of a grand redbrick house surrounded by a high hedge. A gravel path led to the front door, which opened as if by magic as they approached, and a silent butler took their cloaks and waved them into the hall. The door closed behind them, and the spicy scent of incense filled Lizzie’s nostrils.

  When their eyes adjusted to the low light, they saw that they were in a long hall of iridescent blue tiles, which glinted like the sea under a noon sun. Above them, marble columns stretched grandly up to a gold leaf ceiling. Bronze sculptures lined the walls, and Lizzie recognized among them a small statuette of Narcissus, peering at himself in the pond. She laughed, wondering how he could be expected to fall in love with his own image in the midst of so much beauty.

  Arm in arm, they walked down the hall toward the muffled sounds of the party. The hall opened into a cavernous room, where the soaring walls were inlaid with thousands of tiles and bits of glass in shades of cobalt, sapphire, and indigo. White Arabic script wove its way across the tiles, its unfamiliar letters twisting seamlessly into flowers and snakes, which climbed the walls as if they were a garden trellis. In the center of the room, a black marble pool shone with the soft light of candles that floated on its surface like lily pads. Lizzie had never seen anything like it.

  The room was full of people. The women were intimidating in their collective beauty and style, and they lounged on window seats and fainting couches in poses of studied nonchalance. The gentlemen roamed among them, laughing loudly and blowing great plumes of cigar smoke toward the arched ceiling. A band played a strange and keening music, and servants clad in silk headscarves and kohl-blackened eyes threaded their way through the crowd, pouring fragrant teas and wine into jewel-toned glasses.

  Lizzie looked at Rossetti in wonder, and he smiled and nodded his head as if to say yes, this is all real, you’re not dreaming. She shook her head in a pantomime of disbelief, but her eyes traveled over the room, taking in every detail. She felt that she had at last drawn back the heavy curtain of the city’s most fascinating drawing room, and what she saw was more wild and beautiful than she had ever imagined.

  She heard a familiar voice behind her and turned. “Lizzie! Dante! There you are!” Emma Brown trilled. “Isn’t it too much?” She gestured around the room with her fan and then opened it with a flick of her wrist and fluttered it in front of her face. Above her fan, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s all very grand and mysterious. The costumed servants are an exotic touch, I dare say.”

  “Lord Lamberton never does things by halves,” Rossetti said, looking around. “The house is a work of art in itself. Say, have you seen Holman Hunt? He’s supposed to be here.”

  “Yes, he was just over there. . . .” Emma scanned the room. “There he is! Hunt! Hunt! Over here!” She waved her fan.

  Holman Hunt caught her eye and came over. He shook hands with Rossetti and nodded to Lizzie. “Lord Lamberton certainly has a taste for the East. I’m thinking of trying to get him to put up some funds for my painting trip to Palestine. What do you think? I bet that he’d be game to commission a few pictures.”

  “He might, at that,” Rossetti said. “When do you leave? I hate to think of the painting that you’ll do there without me.”

  “Not for a few months. And you know that I would love nothing more than to have you come with me. The light there is supposed to be the most beautiful in the world. What do you say?”

  Rossetti’s eyes took on a faraway look at the suggestion, as if he were already among the desert dunes, the flat light reflecting off of the sand. He’d mentioned to Lizzie several times that he was thinking of joining Hunt on his travels, but Lizzie had done everything in her power to gently discourage him. She hated the thought of his leaving for so long. A trip to Palestine would take at least a year, and if they weren’t married, or at least engaged before he left, it would be ridiculous for Lizzie to wait for him. She would have no means of support, except to go back to Mrs. Tozer’s, if Mrs. Tozer would take her back, and no reason to think that he would return to her. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it, willing him to remember that she was a reason to stay.

  Rossetti glanced over at her and seemed to snap to attention. “No, no, it’s very tempting, but I have all the inspiration that I require right here.”

  “I see,” Hunt said, looking at Lizzie with somewhat less affection. “Of course I understand. I myself am loath to leave my fiancée, Miss Miller. But I have our marriage to look forward to on my return, and the thought of that happiness must sustain me.”

  “And when do I get to meet the beauty who finally tamed you? I’ve heard so much about her from Ford.”

  “You can meet her now,” Hunt said, looking over Rossetti’s shoulder. “Here she comes.”

  The little group turned toward the approaching woman, who moved through the room like a siren, turning heads as she went. Her hair was golden, and she wore it loose, like Lizzie’s. Her gown was daringly low cut, and the men in the room took no pains to hide their admiration of her gifts, despite the sizeable pearl engagement ring on her finger.

  Emma leaned toward Lizzie and whispered in her ear: “Don’t be fooled by the new dress—Annie Miller’s as low as they come. Hunt may have taken her out from behind the bar, but I don’t think that he’s quite managed to take the taste for the bar life out of her.”

  Hunt beamed at his intended as she joined the group. “Miss Annie Miller,” he said, taking her hand. “Allow me to present Mr. Dante Rossetti.”

  Miss Miller made an exaggerated curtsy and smiled at Rossetti. Her cheeks were flushed from drink, and she tossed her head and simpered, aware of her effect on the men in the room. When she began to speak, Lizzie wasn’t at all surprised to hear the thick accent of the lower classes. She shuddered at the harsh tones, though she knew that it was only with great effort that she had avoided such an accent herself. But Miss Miller clearly couldn’t care less what people thought. Lizzie shifted away, not wanting to be associated with the fringes from which she had somehow made her way here.

  “Mr. Rossetti,” Miss Miller said, ignoring the two ladies completely. “Very pleased to meet you! Hunt ’as told me all about you, you know.” She smiled and placed a light finger on Rossetti’s chest. “A great painter and a great rascal, he says! Well, I like a man with a little fire in him. Keeps life interesting, I say.”

  Hunt cleared his throat, and Lizzie saw him flush, but Miss Miller took no notice of his discomfort.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Rossetti looked at Miss Miller appraising
ly. To Lizzie’s surprise, he seemed impressed by what he saw, rather than repelled. “Now I know why Hunt has kept you to himself for so long—you must be a great asset to him in the studio. But I insist that he bring you round to my studio at your earliest convenience, so that I might paint you as well.”

  “To be sure!” Annie giggled, enjoying the attention. “But nothing naughty, mind you. Now that I’m to be married, my dear Hunt tells me that I’m only to sit for portraits of the highest kind!” She let out a peal of laughter and Rossetti laughed right along with her.

  Lizzie’s eyes went wide. The man she saw before her was very different from the serious painter and poet whom she knew, the one who had promised to paint no one but her. That man never would have been amused by Miss Miller’s crude jokes.

  Lizzie wasn’t the only one made uncomfortable by Miss Miller’s easy manner. “Annie, dear,” Hunt hissed. “You’re making an exhibition of yourself.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Miss Miller is a great one for jokes.”

  Lizzie leaned in to Rossetti’s side. “Dante, it’s a bit close in here—I need some air.”

  “It is warm,” he agreed, not taking his eyes from Miss Miller. “There’s a lovely terrace right through there.” He pointed to the doors that led out to the garden. “Why don’t you step outside, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Lizzie had no choice but to smile tightly and make her way alone onto the terrace. She had no wish to watch Rossetti fawn over Miss Miller. Emma shot her a sympathetic smile as she left, but didn’t offer to accompany her, either—she was enjoying the spectacle of Hunt’s fiancée far too much to leave.

  The terrace was breezy and dark, and Lizzie found a bench sheltered from the noise of the party by a low hedge. The night air cooled her jealousy. She knew that she shouldn’t let Rossetti’s flirting bother her. After all, she had to admit that it wasn’t really the flirting that annoyed her, but the sight of the showy engagement ring on Annie’s finger, while her own finger went bare. But it was useless to fret over such things; Rossetti had promised her that he would propose as soon as he had the means to support her, and his work was going well. It wouldn’t be long, surely, before she had a ring of her own.