by Rita Cameron
Lizzie made a perfect model for Ophelia; her translucent skin and heavy eyes suggested a girl on the threshold of the next world. But most importantly, she was willing to indulge Millais in a rather unorthodox scheme, submerging herself in a tub of water every day for hours on end so that he could capture the exact look of a drowned girl and make his painting as true to nature as possible.
It was one of the guiding principles of the Brotherhood: A painting must reflect the truth of nature. In keeping with this principle, Millais had painted the background entirely in the open air, on the banks of a river in Surrey. But it was not practical, particularly at this time of year, to paint Lizzie floating in a real creek. He’d mentioned the possibility, but it presented far too many difficulties, not the least of which was the chance of his model drowning, just as Ophelia had. Instead, he’d painted her as she lay floating in an old tin bath filled with warm water. The studio could be cold, but he heated the water with oil lamps placed below the tub, and the lamps made the water just warm enough to keep Lizzie comfortable. It was awkward, to be sure, and the lamps had to be refilled with oil several times a day, but Millais was not one to sacrifice his artistic principles over a matter of mere comfort.
Each morning, Lizzie donned an antique wedding dress that had cost Millais a small fortune. Then she climbed into the tub, fully clothed, and lay back, letting her face and hands float just above the water. Her red hair fanned out, undulating like sea grass, and her gown, all silver embroidery and tiny seed pearls, floated around her like a shroud.
Rossetti needed to see the painting only once to know that it was a masterpiece. It was at once hauntingly dark and full of a radiant beauty. His first acute pang of jealousy was quickly overcome by admiration. “It’s wonderfully like her. It gives me chills just to look at it. You’ve captured the sad, sweet moment of transcendence perfectly. Is Ophelia still among the living or not? The canvas doesn’t tell. It’s like a secret taken to the grave.”
“Thank you. It’s coming along, but slowly, and I’m afraid that poor Miss Siddal must be soaked right through. I’ll just be a few more minutes, and then I promise to release her to you.”
Rossetti looked at Lizzie lying silently in the tub, as still as a wax figure. Her face was tilted toward Millais, with her lips slightly parted and her eyes staring off into the distance, as if she were seeing her final vision. In her upturned palm she held a wreath of flowers, and he saw that it contained a single poppy, the bright scarlet flower of death and dreams.
Outside the studio, a high wind whipped down Gower Place. It tugged at the shutters, and one flew open with a bang, letting in a cold gust of air. The shutter beat against the wall and the lamps danced, casting their flickering lights over Lizzie’s face. Rossetti watched in horror as the play of the light transformed her delicate features into a grotesque mask. Her cheekbones stood out in stark contrast to the dark sockets of her eyes, and the shadows ate away her flesh, revealing her skull. He shuddered and stumbled back, convinced that he saw some grim omen in her face.
The shutter banged once more and then the wind stopped, just as suddenly as it began. The lamps calmed and the shadows retreated to their corners, restoring Lizzie’s youth and beauty. The studio was quiet for a moment, but it was like the eerie silence before a storm. Rossetti waited, his body tense, and when a terrible sob broke the silence, he jumped more out of reflex than real surprise. Lizzie sat straight up in the tub, her chest heaving and the water swelling violently around her.
He ran the few steps to her and tried to pull her from the tub. Her body was limp and heavy in his arms. “My God, man! This water is freezing! How long has she been in here?”
“I-I don’t know.” Millais came over to help him. “I don’t remember when I last filled the lamps. They may have gone out some time ago.” Together they lifted her, in her soaking gown, out of the bath and onto a nearby sofa. Rossetti held her cold hands in his warm ones, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders.
“Miss Siddal, why didn’t you say something?” Millais demanded, clearly distraught. “It was madness to sit in that cold bath! You may have done yourself harm!”
Lizzie cupped her fingers together and blew on them. “I’m so sorry. I tried to keep still for as long as I could. You were so intent on your work, and I didn’t want to disturb you. But I couldn’t stand it any longer.” She looked at Millais with eyes filled with tears. “I must get into some dry things. I’m really very sorry if I’ve failed you.”
“Please, don’t apologize; you haven’t failed me in the least. Rather, I’ve failed you. Go change into something warm at once.”
Lizzie walked behind the oriental screen in the corner of the studio, her wet finery dragging behind her. Shivering, she started to undo the tiny satin buttons of the dress. Her fingers were numb, and she struggled to get them loose. On the other side of the screen, she heard Rossetti laying into Millais for neglecting the lamps.
At last she freed herself from the soaking gown. She threw it over a rack to dry and slipped into a dressing gown. Now that she was warmer, she felt tired. It would do little harm, she thought, to sit by the fire in her robe while she combed out her hair.
She stepped from behind the screen and Rossetti and Millais fell silent. She knew that they were looking at her, but exhaustion made her unmindful of her modesty. She walked unsteadily toward the sofa, and each step seemed to take a tremendous effort, as if she were walking through water. She felt hot, and she wanted to ask if they could open a window to let in some of the cool night air, but she couldn’t form the words. She stood in the center of the room, staring blankly around her, not knowing, suddenly, where she was, or where she was going.
Rossetti watched as Lizzie emerged from behind the screen in a silk dressing gown that swirled around her ankles as she walked. Her skin was still pale and her eyelids were lowered drowsily, but the effect was mesmerizing. When she stopped before the fire, the light from the embers caused her copper hair to blaze like a flame.
He had the disorienting sensation of having seen this all before. The vision of white skin and red hair was intensely familiar, and yet it was not an image of Lizzie that tugged at his memory. He closed his eyes, and he saw the girl on the bridge, the red-haired beauty who had raced past him in the night, fleeing the unhappy scene.
It was Lizzie—she was the girl whom he saw that night last year, he was sure. And it was fate, he thought, that had led him back to her. Entranced, he walked toward her, his hand extended. But before he could reach her, she let out a soft sigh, looked around with unseeing eyes, and collapsed into a dead faint.
CHAPTER 11
Ophelia wandered through the woods, her shrill laugh ringing out in the quiet forest. She carried a bouquet of wildflowers, and she threw them one by one onto the path, like a bridesmaid. She followed the path to a brook, singing a melancholy song:
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
The brook was high and the water rushed by, catching fallen flowers in its eddies. Tall reeds rose up along the banks, and a weeping willow let down its branches to skim the water’s surface.
The water was cool and inviting. Ophelia stepped onto the low branch of a willow tree and inched out along its length. The branch formed a gentle curve over the water, and she lay down in its cradle.
She heard the snap before she felt the branch give way. In an instant she was in the water, its icy fingers pushing beneath her dress and combing through her hair. The shock of the cold seized up her breath, freezing the scream in her throat. Her gown wrapped around her like an anchor, and she began to sink, pulled down by its weight.
She searched desperately for a hold in the banks, but she couldn’t
get her footing in the soft silt. Her head went under, water filling her mouth and stinging her eyes. Above her, the surface shimmered and she stretched her fingers up to it. With the last of her strength, she gave a mighty push, fighting her way toward the light. Her face broke the surface of the water, and she took a grateful, gulping breath of air.
Lizzie bolted upright in bed, eyes wide, gasping for breath.
“What is it?” cried Lydia.
Lizzie stared at her sister, who stood above her, holding her by the shoulders, her face fearful. Still half dreaming, Lizzie looked around wildly. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, but then she realized that she was at home, in her own room.
“You’re very ill,” she heard Lydia say. “You must lie back down.” Lydia eased her back against the pillows and drew the blanket over her.
Lizzie could hear voices in the kitchen below. First her father’s, tense and angry, and then her mother’s calm tones. Her eyelids felt heavy and she let them drop. She remembered Millais’s drafty studio, the cold bath, and then nothing. “Have I been ill?” Her voice was hoarse, and her lips felt dry and cracked.
“Yes, with a terrible fever. These are the first sensible words that you’ve uttered in two days. You hardly knew me when they first brought you home! The doctor’s been several times. He said it’s an infection of the lungs, on account of the bad chill that you received.”
Lizzie tried to think, but her mind was a confused procession of dreams and memory: the drafty studio and the cold forest path, the icy swell of the water and the memory of a lilting song. Or was it the sound of voices, calling to her? She shivered and pulled the quilt tighter, as if the memories were a cold wind.
“Mother will want to know that your fever has broken.”
“Wait.” Lizzie put up a hand to stop her sister. “Who brought me home?”
“Two gentlemen carried you in. You could hardly walk yourself.” Lydia paused for a moment, remembering. “One was Mr. Millais, who introduced himself to Father, and the other man I recognized as Mr. Rossetti, from your stories. He seemed quite frantic, but I didn’t speak with him. Father sent us straight out of the room when they arrived.”
“Yes, that would have been Mr. Rossetti. Father must have been livid—did he make a terrible fuss, Lyddie? Oh, if he did, I’ll be too ashamed to see them again!” For a moment, she forgot her illness and thought only of her mortification. “And I suppose they saw our poor little house, with the shop downstairs. It must have looked very shabby to them, and Father very coarse.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Lizzie! Father has been beside himself while you were ill. Anyway, I hardly know what sort of gentlemen they could be to bring you home in such a state. Of course Father was angry! He threw them both straight out of the house. He had no idea that they were artists; he couldn’t think what you were doing with them. He thought . . . well, I’m sure that you know what he thought! Mother had to tell him the whole story, so he wouldn’t assume something worse.”
Lizzie’s face went paler, and Lydia grew alarmed. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. Please don’t upset yourself. The important thing is that you’re making a recovery.” She laid a gentle hand on her sister’s brow. “Much cooler. Now, I mustn’t delay another moment, Mother and Father will be so relieved.” She rose and left the room before Lizzie could object.
Lizzie sighed and turned to face the wall. Her shame at the imagined scene burned as hot as any fever, and she suspected that its effects would be just as harmful. She’d never intended to introduce Rossetti to her family until an engagement was firmly in place. He may not, after all, have turned out to be quite as wealthy as she had supposed, but the genteel Charlotte Street of his upbringing was miles away from the shabbiness of Kent Place. She wasn’t so foolish as to think that such things wouldn’t matter to him, despite his professions to the contrary.
Mrs. Siddal appeared at the door, and Lizzie watched her face, lined from many years of nursing sick children, soften. She came over to the bed and smoothed Lizzie’s hair back from her brow. “We were very worried for you. Thank God the fever has passed.”
“I’m so sorry, Mama. I never intended this to happen.”
“But what were you thinking? It was madness to sit in a cold tub, in the middle of winter, no less. If I’d known, I never would have allowed it. I’ve told you before that these notions that you get are going to lead you to no good. Your father . . .” She stopped as Lizzie began to cough, unable to chastise her daughter while she was so ill.
“I am very sorry, Mama. I’m sure that Mr. Millais never meant to cause me any harm. He had no idea that the water was cold. Is Father angry? Will he forbid me from sitting for paintings?”
Mrs. Siddal sighed. “I have only myself to blame, I suppose. I agreed to let you sit for that painter in the hope that you might make some good connections. But it’s been nearly a year now, and nothing has come of it. Perhaps it would have been better if I’d forbidden it.”
“How can you say that nothing has come of it? I’ve met Mr. Rossetti!”
“Yes, but where has that left you, other than ill in bed? No, Lizzie, I’ll not hear any arguments. You know that I dreamed of a good marriage for you, but at the moment I can see no hope for it. You’re ill, and people are starting to talk. The neighbors know that you aren’t working for Mrs. Tozer any longer. If Mr. Rossetti doesn’t marry you, what decent man of our acquaintance will have you? It was a mistake to ever let you take up with those people.”
“You don’t understand. They do things differently in his circle.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand. But I do know that you need rest. There will be no question of your modeling at the moment.”
Lizzie’s disappointment was blunted by exhaustion. She lay back in bed, the pillows swallowing her thin frame. “Then I’m to give up hope?”
“Oh, Lizzie, you’ve always been dramatic! When you’re well, I’ll see what I can do. Naturally, your father is angry, but he may come around. But I’ll hear no more talk of it now.”
Lydia returned to the room with the tea tray and a bowl of broth. Mrs. Siddal kissed Lizzie on the forehead and rose, leaving the sisters alone. Lydia waited for their mother to close the door, and then nearly upset the tray in her eagerness to retrieve an envelope that she had secreted beneath the cloth. “Look, a letter, from Mr. Rossetti. It was mixed up in some notes from our cousins; I don’t think that Father even noticed it.”
Lizzie tore it open and began to read:
Chatham Place, February 1, 1851
My Dear Miss Siddal,
You’ve made everyone quite frantic over your health, and you should know that not so much as a single flower has been painted by any of us in our concern for your well-being. Millais is beside himself, and of course I gave him quite a lecture on your behalf. Please write immediately to set us at our ease on your account or Art itself may be in danger of extinction, lacking its muse.
Do take good care of yourself—I must have my little dove back, as my work goes nowhere without you. Deverell sends his regards. He’s laid up as well, some problem of the kidneys, but I’ve just been round to see him and he seems to be on the mend. He insisted that I not worry you on his account.
I think that I caught sight of a charming sister or two when we brought you home. Perhaps one of them would be so kind as to post a letter for you, assuring me that you’re no longer in danger?
Your affectionate,
D. G. Rossetti
She read the letter twice over. Lydia looked on expectantly, but Lizzie didn’t hand it to her to read, as was their usual practice. It was hardly a love letter, but it was too intimate to share. Lizzie flushed with pleasure, and hope once again filled her heart. Perhaps he had not found her family too far beneath him after all.
“Well,” said Lydia. “I can see that you’re pleased. But come, have some tea and something to eat. You’ve got to get your strength back.”
“I can’t eat now, I haven’t a bit
of appetite. Be a dear and fetch me my notepaper and a pen. I must write him back.”
Lydia gave her an exasperated look, but she fetched the paper and Lizzie composed her note to Rossetti. She assured him that she wished nothing more than to return to his studio, but that the doctor, judging her condition serious, could not allow any thought of it at the moment. She would allow him to worry a little longer on her account; such fears, she knew, had a way of working on the heart.
Satisfied, she signed the letter and gave it to Lydia to post. Then she settled back into her pillow, exhausted by the effort. She let her eyes close. It would not be so long, she thought, until she was back in Rossetti’s studio, lounging on his sofa as he painted her, or read his poetry to her. As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts lingered on Rossetti, and her dreams played across the lush landscape of a medieval painting.
CHAPTER 12
Lizzie was young and healthy, but her recovery proved much slower than everyone had hoped. For several weeks she hardly moved from her bed, stirring only when she heard the sounds of the post delivery.
Just as she began to regain her strength, the fever returned with a viciousness that had the family on near constant vigil for her life. The doctor was called to her side almost daily, and the bills began to accumulate. The lines on Mrs. Siddal’s face deepened each time she passed the sideboard where they sat, unpaid.
At first, Rossetti’s notes came regularly. Lydia read them to her as she lay in bed, half delirious with fever. Lizzie was often too ill to reply, but she thought of little else. Of course there was no question of his coming to see her, but as the fever raged, he visited her dreams. He came to her as the poet Dante to his beloved Beatrice, eyes wild with love as she held his burning heart in her hands. She imagined them embracing, and then woke with a start, the sheets soaked with sweat.