by Rita Cameron
I know that you and Mama must be anxious for news of Lizzie’s health, which was so poor when she left London for Oxford, and I’m happy to report that I had a letter from Dr. Acland. He assures me that she’s rather better than otherwise, and at any rate is not worse. He is convinced that, with the proper rest, she will make a full recovery, and John Ruskin has had reports that she’s been much in society in Oxford, and has been strong enough to go walking. I’ll get down to Oxford to see her as soon as my work allows, and I’ll write you a fuller report when I see her, although I fear that I will not be able to get away from London for some time.
In answer to your question (put very much like a sister would) about the date of our impending marriage, I’m afraid that I can hardly set a date when Lizzie is obliged, by order of the doctor, to maintain rest and calm away from the city, and when I myself am hardly free to set foot from my studio, with the great heap of work that has been commissioned and paid for, but which still has to be done. It is my hope, however, that with proper time for Lizzie to regain her health and for me to finally make my reputation, our wedding cannot possibly be delayed beyond next spring.
Your most affectionate brother,
D. G. Rossetti
Oxford, August 15, 1855
Dear Dante,
I haven’t heard from you for several weeks, and though I know that you’re busy with your work, I worry that perhaps you yourself are ill. Please write as soon as possible, and tell me that all is well with you.
I’m so lonely for you here. Oxford, which at first seemed so lovely, has grown very tedious, and filled with people just as dull and odd as the Aclands. As for Dr. Acland, I have decided that I don’t like him at all. He’s quite unsympathetic for a man of medicine, and his wife is shocked by nearly everything I say, even when I try to limit myself to her own favorite topics: the laziness of the kitchen maids, the brilliance of Dr. Acland, and the prospects of her children.
All of the promised amusements have turned out to be quite singular, and are probably more in your line, or perhaps in John Ruskin’s. This week I was escorted to the Bodleian Library, which was impressive, though drafty, and filled with more volumes than I ever imagined existed. My guide was one of the ancient fellows of the university; a small man, with bright eyes beneath the folds of his heavy eyebrows and hands that were spotted with age but flitted about like newly hatched chicks whenever he was excited by some old manuscript or other, which was very often. I did my best to share his enthusiasm, but I must admit that nothing made so much of an impression on me as the dust, which was everywhere. There was one item of great interest to me, however, and I wished very much that you had been there to see it. I was shown an original engraving by Albrecht Dürer—a study of a black beetle, executed with great skill. I believe that there was much in its work that you would have found interesting. I had to demur, however, when my old fellow offered to fetch me a live beetle from the cellar, so that I might compare the two. Really, it was too much!
So, you see, I’m getting along in Oxford, but I long for your company, and for your cozy little studio. I’m always stronger when you are by my side.
Please do write that you will arrive soon,
Lizzie
Chatham Place, August 20, 1855
Dear Lizzie,
I deeply regret that I cannot immediately join you in Oxford. I’ve just received several profitable commissions, and I must remain in the city to begin the paintings. Ned Burne-Jones will be coming up to Oxford soon, to finish work on the murals. I’ll write to him that you are there.
I’ve had a report from Dr. Acland, and I feel entirely secure knowing that you are in his care. I’m also heartened to learn that you have been well enough to enjoy the sights in Oxford, and as soon as I’m able, I’ll write to you with a few more suggestions of places that you might enjoy. I will keep this letter brief, however, as I am feeling very inspired to paint at the moment, and as you know, it is imperative that I paint when I am able, and that I not lose a moment in securing my reputation, and our future.
Yours,
D. G. Rossetti
Oxford, August 24, 1855
My dear sister Lydia,
I don’t know whether this letter will reach you, or whether Father will throw it into the fire, but I write to you in utter desolation. I’ve been staying at Oxford to convalesce for two months, and I’ve hardly had word from Mr. Rossetti. I can no longer willfully ignore what has, I am sure, seemed plain to everyone else for quite some time: He does not intend to marry me. I’ve been a fool, and ruined myself and shamed our family, just as Father said. Even as my health fails, he finds his other occupations too consuming to come to my side. In my darker moments, I believe that he would greet my death with relief, and after so long a struggle, perhaps so would I. Oh, Lydia, tell me what to do. I love him, but I’m afraid that I am nothing more than a shadow to him now, which is what I shall soon be to myself.
I have no one else to turn to, and I await your advice, which I should have asked for long ago.
Lizzie
London, August 28, 1855
Dearest Lizzie,
My heart breaks for you.
Here is my counsel: You must go to him, without delay. Put aside your pride, and lay before him your case. He has badly misused you, and whether from artistic temperament or something worse, he has failed to fulfill his promise, which is shocking behavior from any man, and in particular from a gentleman. He lived with you as a married woman, and now he must marry you in fact. Go to him. He cannot be such a monster that he will not, if pressed, do what is right and just.
Your sister, always,
Lydia
Oxford, September 1, 1855
Dearest Dante,
If you are feeling inspired, then don’t you wish me by your side to sit for you, or to aid you in any way that I can? I’ve benefitted as much as I will from my visit to Oxford and to Dr. Acland, and I feel quite strong enough to travel. I return to London tomorrow by the last train, and will come directly to your studio.
With love,
Lizzie
Chatham Place, September 2, 1855
Dear Lizzie,
Received your letter by the last post yesterday evening and am sending this one by the first post this morning, so that it might reach you before you depart.
You are a dear little dove to offer to join me here, but I must insist that you do not. The heat has not yet broken in London, and I fear that any progress that you’ve made in the cooler air of Oxford will be lost if you make too hasty a return to the city. Besides, I’m very occupied with my painting at the moment, and want for absolutely no one—I am in one of those states where the artistic soul requires nothing but solitude and application to work.
I’ll come down to Oxford to see you as soon as possible, but do not, dear, come up to London until Dr. Acland deems it absolutely safe.
Yours,
D. G. Rossetti
Oxford, September 3, 1855
Dear Mr. Ruskin,
I write to you as I’m quite at a loss—your Miss Siddal, without any warning or goodbyes other than a scribbled note, took off on the last train for London yesterday evening. She gave no explanation to the landlady, and when a letter from Mr. Rossetti came for her just after her departure, marked urgent, the landlady did not know what to do, other than to bring it to Dr. Acland. I enclose that note with this letter, in the hopes that you may be better able to find her than we are.
I know that in your work as a critic of the arts you must, by necessity, associate with all sorts of persons. But Miss Siddal was truly a person quite outside my experience. I must say that we found her rather more melancholy and willful than the ordinary invalid, and on occasion I found her behavior quite shocking!
All I can say is that I hope that we have been of service to Miss Siddal, and have not given her any offense that would cause her to flee in such a manner. She left a few things here—a shawl, a book of poems—that I will forward to you or to h
er, when I receive your instructions.
Regards,
Mrs. Acland
CHAPTER 21
Rossetti posted his letter to Lizzie, advising her to stay in Oxford for the time being, and sighed with relief, a great weight off of his mind. Then he hurried back to Chatham Place, where his newest model, Fanny Cornforth, was waiting for him.
Fanny Cornforth; what could be said about her that was not immediately obvious to the eye? Everything about her was large: her great head of rippling blond hair, her generous flesh, her full lips and wide yellow eyes. There was nothing hidden about her, no pretense or hint of secret longings or tragedies. She was simply beautiful, and her whole body radiated the promise of warmth and comfort.
Rossetti found her plump and cheery bearing refreshing. He was tired of painting wan women whose faces, though beautiful, projected nothing so much as their suffering. His studio was filled with scenes from Dante, images of the courtly love of restraint and suffering. He wanted to paint something new—images of love that did not deny sensuality, portraits that celebrated pleasure as a virtue.
When Rossetti returned to the studio, Fanny was waiting for him, still in costume. He sat at his easel and studied her, taking in every detail. Then he began to paint, filling the entire canvas with her face, her hair, her hands. Her golden hair was decorated with marigolds and jeweled pins. A black velvet robe was draped over her shoulders, and an intricate gold necklace encircled her white throat. He painted each detail, but he lingered over the execution of her lips, which were full and slightly parted. He called the painting Bocca Baciata, or the Mouth That Has Been Kissed.
The painting was based on a princess from the Decameron, who takes eight lovers before marrying her ninth, and who is hailed, rather than condemned, for her passion. Unlike his previous work, this painting didn’t tell its story through symbols and sideways glances, and it didn’t trade on hints of coded meaning. Instead, he had painted one pure idea: sensuality in the absence of shame.
Fanny couldn’t have been a more perfect model; there was no better history of love than her look of frank and unconcerned desire. Rossetti was enthralled. And his passion wasn’t limited to his painting. When he finished painting Fanny, he drew her up from her seat and let his lips reach for hers, kissing her deeply. The movement felt as natural as his new style of painting, and he led her to his bedroom at the back of the studio. He slipped the velvet robe from around her shoulders and let it drop on the floor. She stood before him without shame, smiled invitingly, and pulled him onto the bed.
Lizzie was exhausted by the time she reached Paddington Station, but she went straight from the station to Chatham Place. She was determined to follow Lydia’s advice, and to put her case to Rossetti once and for all. She had waited quietly for far too long.
It was dark when she arrived, and there was no light at the top of the stairs to greet her. She lit a lamp and carried it into the empty studio.
There was a fresh canvas sitting on the easel in the center of the room. It was turned away from her, but she could see an inscription scrawled across the back. She held the lamp closer and read: The mouth that has been kissed loses not its freshness; still it renews itself even as does the moon.
Lizzie hesitated for a moment before turning the canvas around. A silent prayer formed on her lips: Please, God, let me find my own image on that canvas. She touched her lips gently with her fingers. They were dry and cracked, and felt as thin as the rest of her. She shuddered, sensing that she wouldn’t see her reflection on the canvas. She had grown frail. How could she hope to inspire a great artist?
But still, the flame of hope, the voice that refused to be silenced by the long years of waiting, made its well-worn plea: He does love you, you are his muse, do not give up hope. She turned the canvas around.
With that simple gesture, the little flame was at last extinguished. She saw the blond hair, the full cheeks, the rosy lips. Rossetti had forsaken her.
She turned away from the painting, unable to look any longer. She staggered over to the sofa and collapsed, nearly choking on all the words of love and entreaty that she had planned to put to Rossetti, words now trapped behind mute lips. Her chest was tight and her breath painful.
She reached in her pocket for her bottle of laudanum and cast the stopper aside. With the mouth of the bottle pressed to her lips, she drank hungrily, not bothering to measure out her dose in drops or teaspoons. Dr. Acland’s warnings were a dim memory. She had only one goal: to ease the panic that pounded through her body, radiating from her heart and marching along her veins, an invading army on undefended roads.
It was only a moment before her breathing slowed and became less labored. The medicine washed over her like a warm sea, and for a moment she was confused: What was she doing here? Then she remembered, and the warm sea turned rougher and more treacherous. She felt as if she were sinking.
She gathered what strength she had and stood. She walked toward the bedroom and paused at the door, holding up the lamp. She drew in her breath sharply, and the two figures on the bed stirred. Rossetti sat up, and his face was white, as if he’d seen a ghost. He rubbed his eyes. “Lizzie? What are you doing here? I wrote to you to stay at Oxford.”
The woman beside him was awake now, too, and she wrapped the sheet around herself and walked out of the room, passing Lizzie. As she went by, she looked at Lizzie with what seemed like pity.
Lizzie stared after her for a moment and then turned back to Rossetti. “And who are you to tell me whether to stay or to go? My betrothed? No! You’re nothing to me!”
Rossetti looked tired. “Lizzie, please calm down. I love you, you know that. Nothing else matters, does it?”
“You love only yourself, Dante, and your work. You’ve used me up in its service, and now you’ll discard me, like one of your failed sketches. You’re a monster.”
Lizzie began to sob, and to flail her arms about uselessly, as if she were fighting off some unseen adversary. Rossetti rose from the bed and grabbed her wrists, trying to calm her. “Lizzie! Calm down. You’re not yourself.”
“No! At last I remember myself! At last I can see clearly. I’ve been blind, very blind, but you’ve been blind as well. You can’t even see what you’ve done to me. You’ve never really been able to see me.”
Rossetti looked at Lizzie, at her wild eyes, and shivered. He pushed her onto the bed. “It’s that damned medicine. You’ve taken too much. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” She knew that she was ranting, but the words poured out unbidden, and as she heard them, she knew that they were true. “You’ve never seen me as I really am. You never even tried. I’m not just the girl in your paintings, Dante. I’m not a reflection that requires nothing more than hope to feed upon. I’ve been making a meal of such scanty offerings for too long. I’ve forsaken everything for you, and you’ve given me nothing but false promises in return.”
Rossetti turned on her. “I’ve given you nothing? Have I not given you immortality? Have I not painted you as the most beautiful and sainted women who have ever lived? Is that nothing?”
All of the rage that had driven Lizzie up to this moment suddenly left her. “It’s not nothing, but it’s not enough. It’s no more than you will give to that whore who waits for you in the studio, and no more than you’ve given other women in the past. I always wanted more.”
Rossetti was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what more I can give you, Lizzie. I must be allowed to paint, and to explore the things that give my painting meaning. I need love, passion, adventure. I thought that we wanted the same things, but I was wrong. I never should have given you my promise. It’s a promise I can’t keep. I’m sorry.”
Lizzie nodded and rose from the bed. Her legs were weak beneath her and she struggled to stand. Rossetti went to her side. “You aren’t well. Don’t try to stand.”
“No. I must go.” She stared at Rossetti, taking in every feature of the face of the man w
hom she had loved, and longed for. She saw that she wasn’t the only one who had grown older. The years had also left their mark on him, and his face was already beginning to thicken, helped along by drink. His eyes, which had once danced with such mischievous joy and kindness, now seemed more guarded. But the life in them was still strong, and Lizzie could see that even as they looked at her, they looked beyond her, to the promise of tomorrow and the days beyond.
She turned away and with her last strength she pushed past him. When she glanced back, she saw that he stood several paces behind her, his hand stretched toward her irresolutely, in a gesture that was as familiar as his kiss. She turned and slipped through the door, down the stairs, and out into the street.