by Rita Cameron
Lizzie stared at him for a moment, struck by his allusion to Eden. Hadn’t he said the same thing to her that day under the apple tree in Hastings? How quickly his definition of perfection could shift to suit his whims. How could she have pinned her hopes on a man who seemed to create his reality to meet his needs as easily, and as often, as he created new worlds in his paintings? She would never be sure where she stood with him, what version of her he wanted at any moment—whether he wanted the woman or the muse; the collaborator in his art or merely the silent beauty in his paintings.
And what of what she wanted? Of course she wanted to paint, to have the satisfaction of doing good work and maybe one day earning a living by her painting. But she couldn’t see why this should prevent her from marrying, and securing her place in society as well. Not for the first time, Lizzie felt the vast difference between her and Rossetti’s upbringings. The idea that a respectably married woman might still work was not so odd to her. But to Rossetti and his sort, it would be strange for a married woman to enjoy the freedoms that Lizzie now took for granted. For all of his talk of artistic freedom and bohemian ideals, it seemed that Rossetti was still very much a product of his conventional upbringing, and all of the expectations that entailed.
“Dante,” she said carefully. “Of course I want what you want. Your work, and my own, are of the utmost importance to me. But you know the difficulty of my position. You gave me your promise. I’m willing to wait, but I need to know: Is there is any reason why I shouldn’t rely on your word? I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course you can trust me,” he replied, his voice sounding tired.
Lizzie nodded and let the matter drop, seeing no point in pursuing it further tonight. She cleared the table and took down her sketches. She thought longingly of the laudanum bottle in the bedroom, and the easy oblivion it offered, the chance to forget her humiliations, if only for a few hours. But instead she returned to her easel and took up her brush. If the studio had once been her refuge, she now found comfort more readily in the landscape of her imagination, and the careful, detailed work that rendered it onto the canvas. Perhaps, like Rossetti, she could learn to paint herself into her own Eden.
If there was a coolness between Lizzie and Rossetti after Christina’s visit, there was no sign of it a few days later when Rossetti burst into the studio with a smile and a shout, pulling Lizzie from her seat and spinning her around.
“What’s this?” she asked. “Good news?”
“The best—a sale!”
“Was it the painting of Lancelot and Guinevere? It was so beautiful, I knew that it was bound to sell quickly, but I’m sad to see it go.”
“You’ve got it quite wrong. It’s you who’s made a sale.”
Lizzie laughed, thinking it some sort of joke, but Rossetti held a letter out to her. “It’s Ruskin. I knew that he would be interested in your drawings. He wrote to me, asking me to name a price for all the works that he saw. I told him that twenty five pounds would take the lot—I hope that you don’t mind—but he’s just written back to say that he wouldn’t take them for less than thirty. Thirty pounds, Lizzie! Can you believe it?”
She could not. She sat down on the sofa while Rossetti danced a little jig before her. Thirty pounds was more than she had made in a year at Mrs. Tozer’s. And all for a pile of sketches. It seemed too good to be true. “It’s too great a sum. What can he mean by it?”
Rossetti stopped dancing and looked at her with disbelief. “It’s a fine sum. But not a penny more than those sketches are worth. I gave him a low figure in the hope that he would take your work and show it around, stir up some interest in your painting.” He knelt before her. “I’m not jesting with you when I tell you that you have talent. John Ruskin can see that as plainly as I can.”
Lizzie was flattered, but not convinced. She couldn’t look at Ruskin’s offer as a plain business deal. “Dante, I can’t possibly accept that money. How would it look? People already say that I’m kept by you, and if I were to accept money from John Ruskin, Lord knows what they would call me.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “You’ve no need of worrying about that. Haven’t you heard about his troubles? It’s all that London society is talking about at the moment.”
She blushed. His words reminded her of her days at Mrs. Tozer’s, when the other girls would make fun of her for not sharing in their gossip. It was a sore point between them that, since they were not in fact married, Rossetti could only take her to the more informal gatherings of friends that he attended. “You might remember that I have little to do with London society.”
Rossetti ignored the jab. “It’s been in the papers, as well. Ruskin’s wife, Effie, has just sued for annulment of the marriage, on the grounds of non-consummation. It’s quite a scandal. Everyone is saying that Ruskin has no eye for women. Doesn’t bother me a bit, of course, what they say about his romantic tastes. The public would never question his eye for art, and that’s all that matters to me. The scandal seems not to have touched his reputation as a critic.”
Lizzie remembered Ruskin’s sad eyes, and she suddenly understood. She knew how terrible it was to have one’s most personal business on everyone’s lips.
“How horrible,” she said. “Can it be true?”
“He’s chosen not to fight it. To my eye Effie Ruskin is as pretty as they come, but Ruskin’s attorney submitted a statement to the court saying that Effie’s person was not formed to excite passion, but rather to check it, whatever the devil that means. It’s always difficult to imagine what goes on in another man’s bedroom, though all of London seems to be trying in the case of John and Effie. I wouldn’t have guessed that anything was wrong between them, but then they came back from a painting trip in Scotland with John Millais and all of the sudden they were separated. John refuses to say what happened, if he even knows.
“But you’re right to pity him—the poor man can hardly walk down the street without some bawdy comment being hurled after him. But he seems to be weathering it, turning to his work and all that. And at any rate, I don’t believe I need to worry about him in your regard. It’s truly your art that he seeks to buy, and nothing else. He loves to sniff out talent before the rest of the city gets wind of it. And as for my not taking you among London’s society, you have nothing to complain of in that regard, either. Ruskin has invited us to a lunch at the home of his parents, and one couldn’t find nicer society than the Ruskins, scandal or no.”
Lizzie couldn’t brush off her misgivings so easily, but Rossetti seemed so eager for her to be happy, and she hated to deny him anything. “In that case,” she said, finally breaking into a smile, “I’m happy to accept his invitation, and his offer to buy the drawings.”
The Ruskins’ home was very grand, and the ride up the sweeping driveway gave Lizzie plenty of time to worry. When she first met Rossetti and his friends she had felt shy, but their admiration had won her over and made her feel that she belonged with them. Her education, meager though it was, was enough to carry her through, and she was able to join in their conversations about art and poetry. Lately, however, she’d begun to suspect that she was tolerated as Rossetti’s mistress, but nothing more. The failure of her meeting with Christina had made her position clear. If Rossetti’s own family did not accept her, how could she expect anyone else from their circle, especially the very refined Ruskins, to take her seriously?
But she needn’t have worried. Though Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin were well regarded in society, they weren’t conceited, and they had a fondness for their darling John’s artistic causes. Lizzie’s way had been paved by John’s glowing review of her talent, and the Ruskins were curious to meet the young beauty who had turned her hand to painting with great success.
Lizzie and Rossetti descended from their cab and the Ruskins greeted them at the door. Mr. Ruskin senior was tall, like his son, but rounder, with cheeks that were red and jolly from his years working as a respected wine importer. Mrs. Ruskin stood next to him, a thin wo
man with an indulgent smile. Though they must have been suffering under the notoriety brought by their son’s divorce, they showed no sign of the strain and presented a united front to the world.
Mrs. Ruskin took Lizzie’s hands as she walked up the steps. “Welcome, my dear. We’re so pleased that you could come. John has told us so much about you, and about your work.”
“Father,” Ruskin said. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Siddal, or as I like to call her, the Princess Ida.”
Ruskin senior gave her a little bow and then turned to his son. “I don’t know about this Princess Ida business, John, but by the look of her, she could be a countess! Come, my dear, I’ve heard you’re not well. Let’s get you inside and find you a seat somewhere comfortable.”
The kindness of the Ruskins was such a marked change from Christina’s coldness that Lizzie was instantly at ease. They ate lunch in an airy dining room with a long row of French doors that opened onto the terrace. The walls of the room were hung with many paintings by artists familiar to Lizzie, and the table was set with fresh flowers and fine china. The footmen glided silently between the guests and served a parade of delicacies, starting with consommé and ending with éclairs and coffee.
Lizzie was in her element. The least bit of admiration acted upon her as the sun upon a morning glory, and during lunch she displayed the full blossom of her charm and wit. After the meal the men went into the study to smoke cigars, and Mrs. Ruskin and Lizzie took a turn together on the terrace. John Ruskin had given his mother a full account of Lizzie’s poor health, and Mrs. Ruskin fretted over her and advised her on a number of remedies. She was convinced that Lizzie’s ailments could be helped by a jelly of ivory dust, and she insisted that Lizzie take a generous amount of the rare and expensive remedy from her own stores. She also advised Lizzie to reduce her laudanum use. “A dangerous medicine, dear; one that is as like to kill you as to cure you.”
When the ladies came back in, they found John waiting for them by the stairs. He offered to show Lizzie around the house’s extensive gardens. “I have a few matters to talk over with you. Would a walk in the fresh air agree with you?”
“Very much,” she said, taking Ruskin’s arm and letting him lead her out onto the terrace.
“Miss Siddal, I asked you here today because I have a proposal to make to you.”
“I know. Dante told me that you offered to buy my drawings. The terms are very generous.”
“No. I mean, yes, I did offer to buy the sketches, and I hope you’ll let me have them. They showed a lot of promise. But I have another proposal in mind, one that I hope will be acceptable to you as well.”
Lizzie felt herself blush. Perhaps Rossetti had been wrong, and the purchase did come with strings attached. Lizzie wondered, for a moment, if Ruskin hoped to use the appearance of an affair with her to quell the nastier bits of gossip about his marriage.
“I propose to settle an annual sum on you, Lizzie, in the amount of one hundred and fifty pounds per year, in return for which I’ll take any works that you produce. I’ll keep the best ones for myself, and in regard to the others I will act as agent and sell them for you. Of course I’ll give any amount that I receive over your settlement directly to you. I believe the terms are quite fair.”
Lizzie stopped and stared at Ruskin in disbelief. She couldn’t quite make sense of his proposal. Could he really want to settle a very large sum of money on her for works that she hadn’t yet produced? It was absurd. “Mr. Ruskin,” she said, her voice strained. “That’s a very generous offer, but I cannot possibly accept. I do indeed hope to become a painter, but I’ve hardly begun my training! I couldn’t make a fair exchange with you. I really must ask you not to press the matter.”
But Ruskin wouldn’t be put off so easily. “You would argue with the judgment of one of Britain’s leading critics?”
“No, no, of course not,” she stammered, afraid that she had offended him. Then she saw the twinkle in his eye. “But surely such an arrangement would be highly irregular?”
“Nothing irregular about it. It is no more than I would do for any young artist who was struggling to make his start.” He surprised Lizzie by taking both of her hands and looking her straight in the eye. “You’re very talented. I would not say that lightly. In your work I already see the stirrings of something new, something different than anything I’ve seen before. See it from my perspective: You, a woman, and with no formal training, are producing drawings on a level with many students at the Academy. Your work may not yet reach the level of its graduates, but why should it? Yours is a talent still in its bud. I pride myself on finding hidden gifts, and I’m sure that I see in you the makings of an artist.”
Ruskin sounded so kind, and so sincere, that Lizzie regretted her suspicions about his motives. “I hope that you’re right. It’s my greatest wish that my painting show potential. Sometimes I feel that I have more hope of making a success of myself as an artist than I have of anything else. But I can see that I have a long road ahead of me, and I’m afraid that my health prevents me from applying myself as I would like to.”
At the mention of her illness Ruskin frowned. “But don’t you see? That’s precisely why you must accept my offer. We can’t have you tiring yourself out with purely mercenary work. You must be free to paint only what you love. I wish only to preserve your genius, Miss Siddal, as one would a beautiful tree from being cut down, or a bit of a Gothic cathedral whose strength was failing.”
His voice was sincere, but Lizzie sensed in his tone something more tender than pure respect for her skill as an artist. “But it’s not only my painting that you admire,” she said, not as a rebuke, but just as a statement of fact.
Ruskin sighed and released her hands. He offered his arm to her and they walked farther down the path. “No. There’s much else about you that I admire.”
She took this in silently, and Ruskin went on. “But you would never have to worry—I know only too well what it is like to have someone courted out from beneath my nose. My wife, Effie . . . well, I’m sure that you’ve heard the gossip—all of it vicious and quite untrue, of course. All it comes down to is that her affections are now engaged elsewhere. Perhaps I neglected her, but it’s too late now.... At any rate, I would never think to visit that kind of pain upon a friend, especially one as dear to me as Rossetti.” He hesitated, and then added: “Though I can’t help but think that Rossetti has not acted as well as he might.”
Lizzie nodded. “There’s no point in pretending—you know Dante too well not to see how things are between us. You must know that I have been living with him these many months, and my family is ashamed, and won’t see me. May I confide in you? He’s given me assurances that we will marry, but it’s been such a very long time, and there is always some excuse, some delay. I’m afraid that we shall go on this way forever.”
“And yet you stay by his side?”
“Yes. I love him. Despite everything, I suppose that I’d rather be his lover than some dull man’s wife. From the first moment I met him, I felt that I’d stepped into another world, one more beautiful and magical than I ever could have imagined. It’s as if he can create vast scenes of romance not only on the canvas, but also in life. And I am a part of both.”
Ruskin nodded. “It speaks to the fineness of your artistic sensibilities, that you would choose the world of art and the imagination over the comforts of an ordinary life. It’s no small thing to serve as inspiration to such a great artist. But you must look after yourself as well.”
“Sometimes I think I must be mad to stay with him. But then I remember that while some women must settle for clichéd love letters cribbed from bad poetry, Dante’s love letters to me are his paintings and his verses. When he paints me as the noble Beatrice, I am that woman. In some ways, I believe that’s worth everything that I have given up in return.”
“But Beatrice died very young,” Ruskin murmured, almost to himself. “Perhaps she could not bear the weight of so many virtues heaped upon
her.”
“Perhaps. But I’m sure that Dante sees my failings quite clearly. If he did not, he would have made me his wife long ago.”
Ruskin looked pained. “Or perhaps you are too perfect, and he feels that he can love you only from afar. I cannot admit of any failings in my Princess Ida.”
“I wonder why it is that I should always be seen as a figure in a poem, and never as myself?”
“I should like to see you as a painter. Say that you’ll accept my allowance. I’ve already talked it over with Rossetti, and he has no objection. Please accept it as you would a glass of water when you are thirsty.”
Lizzie suspected that Rossetti might not be so eager for her to take Ruskin’s money if he knew Ruskin’s real feelings. But perhaps he didn’t care. Perhaps he was grateful to Ruskin for taking her care off of his hands and his conscience. She decided that she would accept Ruskin’s proposal. She must start to look after her own interests if Rossetti was not to bother himself in her regard.
“I accept. And I’ll do my best to be worthy of your patronage.”
“Then it’s settled. Now let’s return to the house. I don’t want to tire you out.”
They found Rossetti in the drawing room with the elder Ruskins, amusing them with greatly embellished stories of his days at the Academy. When Lizzie entered the room he shot her a questioning glance and she nodded to indicate that she had accepted Ruskin’s allowance.
“Sit down, you two,” he cried gaily. “Let’s call for more Madeira.”
“I’m afraid that Miss Siddal is quite worn out,” Ruskin said, his voice full of kind concern. “Perhaps it would be best for her to return home to rest after all this excitement.”
Rossetti looked disappointed, but he looked at Lizzie’s pale face and nodded his agreement. The group made their goodbyes, and Ruskin took Lizzie’s hand. “Please come back whenever you like. You have the run of the house, and you must come walk in our gardens, or make use of our library, whenever it would please you.”