Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  She inhaled the cool September air, relishing the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine, and felt refreshed. The glow of the party beyond the terrace doors beckoned to her, and she was just rising to rejoin her group when she heard her name spoken by a familiar voice behind the hedge. There was a moment of silence, and she heard the sounds of two men cutting and lighting their cigars. Intrigued, she paused for a moment to listen, but she couldn’t quite place the voices.

  “Yes, she is very beautiful, but her beauty is nothing in proportion to this madness that Dante has for her.”

  “They’re saying she’s an enchantress, that she’s cast a spell on him and now the poor man can draw no one but her. Have you been to his studio lately? The walls are papered with her image—he’ll have to find a buyer as taken with her as himself if he hopes to make a living. But perhaps John Ruskin is his man—I heard he bought a whole sheaf of them. And now Rossetti has brought her here, to Lord Lamberton’s. I do think that he means to marry her.”

  Lizzie heard laughter. “Marry her? I should think not, though I’ve heard they’re lovers. No, he’ll never marry her. She plays at gentility, but you know she’s got no money and no family. Just like Miss Miller, though Hunt doesn’t seem to care.”

  “Is that so? When I was introduced to her at the Exhibition she looked down her nose at me as if she were the Duchess of York. For my own part, I much prefer Miss Miller—for all her coarseness she seems a great deal more fun.”

  “That she is. And of course, Hunt may marry as he likes. His family has no pretensions and he makes a fine living. But Rossetti would do better to meet some girl of property, with an interest in supporting the arts . . . and supporting an artist.”

  The two men laughed. “Rossetti isn’t the only one who’s come under her spell. Walter Deverell was quite gone on her as well. When he hinted as much to his mother there was an awful row. Can you imagine the very prim and proper Mrs. Deverell welcoming a shopgirl as a daughter-in-law? She sent poor Deverell off to an uncle in Sussex to get him out of the city and away from her.”

  “Probably for the best. Shall we?”

  Lizzie listened as the men stubbed out their cigars and walked back toward the house. She’d stood frozen behind the hedge, but now she sank back down onto the bench, her head bowed under the weight of the men’s words. So that was what was said of her: that she was Dante’s whore.

  It hardly mattered that it wasn’t true—if it was said, it was as good as true. She slapped her hand against the bench in frustration. How naïve she had been, to think that she was making a success of herself. They had seen through her, and easily. She tried to fight back her tears, but they came anyway. She dropped her head into her hands and sat on the bench, unable to move. That was how Emma found her a few minutes later.

  “Lizzie? Are you unwell?”

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Oh, Emma, I’m such a fool.”

  “What’s happened?” Emma asked, putting an arm around Lizzie’s narrow shoulders. “Surely, my dear, this can’t be about Annie Miller. Dante’s flirting means nothing. He’s just humoring Hunt. You mustn’t take it to heart.”

  “No, no. It’s not that, though I have just heard myself compared with her, and not favorably. I overheard two men making sport of my reputation.”

  To Lizzie’s surprise, Emma laughed. “Is that what all this fuss is about? The men always chide us for our gossiping, but I do believe they love a scandal as much as we do. Dry your eyes, Lizzie, that’s nothing to cry over. You’ve no idea what they used to say about me. But now that Ford and I are married, it hardly matters, and they are on to the next scandal.”

  “But what if it’s true? What if they all look down on me?”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say a single unkind word about you. Whoever said that doesn’t know what they’re talking about, and you shouldn’t pay them any mind. Now come back inside, dear. I was sent to fetch you. John Millais has just arrived, and he’s looking for you. Do you know him? He’s the most successful of the bunch, I should say. He spoke to Dante about you—flattering things, dear, don’t look so worried! He wants to have you as the model for his new painting, and he won’t take no for an answer. It’s to be a painting of Ophelia—on a grand scale and very romantic.”

  The faint memory of a dream—a heavy satin gown and the twisted gates of a castle—tugged at Lizzie’s memory. “Ophelia? He wishes to paint me as Ophelia?” She paused. “But Dante will never allow it. I’m sure you remember how he put poor Deverell off of painting me at the Exhibition. He seems determined to have me sit for no one but him. And I’ve no wish to cause a row.”

  “I don’t think Dante would dare to refuse him. Millais has been very kind in sending ready buyers in Dante’s direction. And, besides, I heard from a little bird that Dante’s warning didn’t put you off of sitting for Deverell at all.” She laughed at Lizzie’s shocked face. “Very little happens in this circle that I don’t hear about. But don’t worry—I’m sure that Dante doesn’t know, and besides, it’s my opinion that he may tell you what to do as soon as he marries you, and not a moment before.” She stood and held out her hand to Lizzie. “Now put on a brave face, and let’s go inside. This is a party! You mustn’t take everything so seriously.”

  “You’re right.” Lizzie smoothed her hair and dress, but she could not so easily smooth over her ruffled feelings. Everything had worked out for Emma, but Lizzie had no such guarantee—no promise from Rossetti. Still, she had come so far, and she would not give up yet. She linked arms with Emma and went in to find John Millais.

  Millais waved as they entered, and then came forward and made Lizzie a little bow. “The celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia!”

  “Mr. Millais,” Lizzie said, giving him her hand and glancing sideways at Rossetti, who was doing his best not to look put out.

  “I’ve been waiting patiently for my chance to paint you. And now I have a picture for which no one else will do. Do say that you’ll sit for my portrait of Ophelia.”

  She turned to Rossetti, and tried not to sound too eager. “Can you spare me?”

  “It will be a great difficulty, but if I must, I can spare you.” His tone was friendly, but she could tell that the effort cost him something. “I can’t deny a favor to a friend, and you will make a fine Ophelia.”

  “Then I would be happy to sit for you,” Lizzie said to Millais. “Just name the day.”

  “While the weather’s still fine, I’ll paint the background, in Surrey. As soon as that’s finished, I can begin to paint Ophelia. We can work through the winter at my studio.” He offered her his arm, and paraded her around the room as he told about his plans for the painting. Rossetti and Emma followed behind, and Lizzie felt a little triumph at knowing that Rossetti was sure to be jealous of Millais’s attentions. It would serve as a reminder that he had no real claim on her yet.

  Millais’s compliments helped Lizzie to forget the ugly gossip that she’d overheard, and soon she was laughing and gossiping with Emma as if nothing had happened. As the clock approached midnight, the older guests left and the revelries became more spirited. Lizzie watched the men pass around long black pipes, and the room filled with opium’s sweet, sticky smoke. Faces and jeweled hands seemed to float unattached in the mist, and the figures before Lizzie moved slowly, smiling and laughing at everything and nothing.

  Voices echoed from the tiled walls in crescendos and diminuendos of sound, like waves crashing against the shore and receding back into the fold of the ocean. A high voice pierced through the din, and the guests turned as a singer began a slow, haunting song that wound its way through the smoky air and filled the room with long and eerie notes. A drum and guitar provided a spare accompaniment. As the tempo quickened, an oboe joined in, followed by a tambourine.

  Without warning, the music stopped and the room went silent. The lights dimmed and a murmur went through the crowd.

  Suddenly, the tambourine started again, high and fast. Two
kohl-eyed servants threw open a curtain in the wall to reveal a beautiful woman with her arms raised above her head and her hips thrust to one side. The band started up again and she began to dance, swirling through the room, her gold-threaded skirts floating around her and the bells at her ankles and wrists keeping time with the music.

  More dancers appeared at the door and made their way into the crowd, drawing the guests into an impromptu dance and filling the room with twirling couples. Even Lizzie allowed herself to be pulled out onto the floor by Rossetti, and together they danced across the room as the music urged them on.

  They no longer seemed to be in London, or in any real place. The night was a mad dream, and it would be remembered as dreams are: in shards of light and color, the echo of a whispered aside, a haunting scrap of melody. Lizzie spun in Rossetti’s arms, letting her hair and dress fly around her. Annie Miller danced past her, moving her hips as expertly as the dancing girl and trailing a wide-eyed Hunt behind her. But amidst so many wonders Lizzie hardly noticed. She pulled closer to Rossetti, abandoning herself to the call of the strange and intoxicating music.

  It was nearly morning when the last guests took their leave. Rossetti stumbled a little on the path. “Should we walk?” he asked. “I need to clear my head.”

  Holland Park was quiet, populated only by servants and deliverymen who scurried up to the back doors of the grand houses before the families awoke. As they drew closer to the river, however, the streets narrowed and came to life. Poverty kept no hours, and in these crowded alleys the poor moved like wraiths through the morning’s long shadows.

  Children were everywhere: collecting rags to sell, or sitting bundled in doorways with younger babes asleep in their arms. Glassy-eyed men stared at Lizzie and Rossetti, gauging whether they might have anything worth taking, and women in cheap gowns called out to Rossetti as they passed, paying Lizzie no mind.

  She pulled in closer to Rossetti’s side. She was not afraid—she was used to such scenes, had passed them countless times outside her own door. But it was shocking to see so much suffering after the splendid excesses of Lord Lamberton’s house. She felt for a moment that she had lost the physical presence that pegs a person to time and place, as if she were a falling leaf that could either ascend to the heavens or drift down to settle in the mud, depending on the breeze. She buried her head deeper into Rossetti’s shoulder, wishing to pin herself to something real. But as she turned to him, the sight of a woman in a doorway brought her up short.

  The girl was crouched on the step, her head tipped back to rest against the door and her arms crossed. Her dress, once grand, was dirty, and her skin and hair were the sallow color of moth wings. She stared out at the street, but she didn’t call to passersby like the other girls. The girl’s eyes caught Lizzie’s attention. They were an unusual shade of pale blue, watery but still distinctive, and Lizzie thought that she would know them anywhere.

  She broke away from Rossetti and went over to the girl, motioning to Rossetti that he should wait for her in the street.

  “Bess?” she asked, suddenly unsure. The girl looked like a milliner from Mrs. Tozer’s shop, but her face was badly wasted, and on closer inspection Lizzie thought she might have made a mistake. “Elizabeth Bailey? Is that you?”

  The girl in the door stared at her for a moment. “Lizzie Siddal? My God, I’d never’ave thought to see you’ere.” She looked Lizzie up and down. “But you look very well. What are you doing out here?”

  Lizzie glanced back at Rossetti, who was still standing in the middle of the street. “No, no. I’m not . . . I’m just . . .” She trailed off. She couldn’t think how to explain to Bess why she was walking in the street in the middle of the night with a man who was not, in fact, her husband.

  Bess reached out and fingered the strand of seed pearls around Lizzie’s neck. “Well, anyway, it looks like you’ve done very well for yourself.”

  Lizzie blushed, but she was too worried by Bess’s state to feel much shame at her own situation. “Bess, you don’t look well.”

  “I been ill since last month. I went to the hospital but they was short on beds and sent me off. The gentlemen won’t have me looking like this, but if I don’t work, I don’t eat.” She looked down at the ground and then back at Lizzie with a smile that was more like a grimace. “It’s a far cry from Mrs. Tozer’s, where I’ve found myself, ain’t it?”

  “Lizzie?” Rossetti called. She glanced back at him and held out her hand, asking for one more moment.

  “You’d best be off. You don’t want to keep your gentleman waiting. But it warms my heart to see that one of Mrs. Tozer’s girls has made good for herself.”

  Lizzie could have cried. She felt that she had failed in some way, though she couldn’t say how. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the few coins that she had, pressing them into Bess’s hand. She was afraid that Bess might refuse her charity, but she didn’t protest.

  “Lizzie!” Rossetti called again, angry now. He started to walk over toward her.

  “I must go, but I’ll come back to see you.”

  She turned and ran back to Rossetti. He looked at her, and his eyes had a strange sheen to them. “Who was that? Was that . . . a friend of yours?”

  “Of course not,” Lizzie said, thinking quickly. She couldn’t let him connect her in any way with that sort of girl—her position was already so precarious. “A charity case. A poor unfortunate I helped at the church. I’m afraid that she’s not been reformed.”

  When she looked at Rossetti again, his eyes were kinder, the light of suspicion extinguished. “You’re an angel of mercy,” he said, pulling her close. “Let’s get you home. The streets at night are no place for a lady.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Rossetti paced back and forth in his studio, glancing at his watch at every turn. What was keeping Lizzie so late? It was long past the hour when she should have stopped by on her way home from Millais’s studio.

  An image of Millais and Lizzie entwined on the sofa, the painting forgotten, came unbidden to his mind. Would Millais dare to take the liberties that Rossetti had, for the past year, denied himself? He tried to banish the thought, but it only grew more insistent. Finally he cursed and threw on his overcoat. He would go to Gower Street to check on her.

  The January night was so cold that his back ached from shivering and each breath was painful. He flipped his collar up against the bite of the wind, but he had no defense against the creeping chill of his own thoughts. He imagined them, alone for hours on end, sharing the intimacy of jokes and compliments that should have been his.

  In the two months that Millais had been painting Lizzie, Rossetti’s jealousy had become constant, seeping up like bile and spoiling his taste for food and drink. He was too restless to paint and his verses sounded stilted to his ears. Worse yet was the thought that the Ophelia painting might be very good, and that Millais would then possess a part of Lizzie’s beauty that Rossetti would never be able to regain, even if he were to possess her in other ways.

  It had been a mistake to allow Lizzie to sit for Millais, but he had felt that he owed too many of his commissions to Millais’s influence to refuse him the favor. And he hadn’t been able to object on the grounds of propriety, since they weren’t married. He ought just to marry her, he thought, and be done with it.

  And why hadn’t he married her? The question seemed always to be hanging between them these days. He could sense her expectations, like the drag of a current beneath the water’s brilliant surface. But even when he gave himself over to the ecstasy of painting her, he always pulled back at the last moment, stubbornly resisting the tide that should have borne him along to the moment where he declared his love, plucked it down from the heavens and presented it to her like a gift in a silver box. And yet—why should he rob the heavens of that star?

  He told himself that his love for Lizzie had nothing to do with the things of this earth; it was neither the feverish satisfaction of desire that he found in other models, n
or the steady companionship of husband and wife. It was as pure as poetry and as delicate as a gossamer web; it could only be marred by human touch. How could he take such a love and lay it out in his mother’s drawing room, to be handled and picked over by those who knew nothing of its secrets? To the outside world it would look cheap and tawdry, he an artist and she a model from the lower classes, and their judgment would make it so.

  And so the question of marriage had remained just that: a question. But the answer could not be put off forever—he couldn’t race out into the cold night like a lovesick schoolboy every time Lizzie was out of his sight. He knew he ought to give her the position that she deserved, and make sure that Millais’s painting was the last one that she sat for, save for his own.

  He arrived at the studio and saw that the lamps were still burning and Millais was at his easel, his brush poised over the canvas. Millais put one finger to his lips, indicating that Lizzie was not to be disturbed. “She’s been in that position for hours,” he whispered. “She really is quite a skilled model. I can tell what you see in her.”

  “Can you?” Rossetti shot Millais a wary look. Millais shook his head dismissively and turned back to the painting, and Rossetti joined him by the easel.

  The painting showed Ophelia spurned by Hamlet and driven mad by his betrayal. She has raced from the castle and thrown herself into the weeping brook, but it has not yet pulled her to her muddy death. The stream is tranquil, the water smooth and dark, and field roses spill over its banks like a protective veil. In the midst of the calm water floats a girl, her face and hands just breaking the surface and her lovely features pale and still. It was a dream tinged with horror; the sublime beauty of youth and love preserved for one moment on the cusp of death.