Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

Chatham Place was nearly empty, and Lizzie stumbled down the street, hardly aware of where she was going. Nearby she heard the lapping of the Thames against its banks, and the water called out to her, offering its soothing, silent embrace. She paused at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, listening to the water rush by the pilings and feeling its unceasing pull.

  Blurry images tugged at her memory, but her thoughts were confused and her recollection indistinct. She tried to sort through them: the painful grip of a man’s heavy hand around her arm, the heavy drag of a soaking gown as cold water swirled around her, the shock of recognizing her own image in the ghastly painting of a prostitute.

  Lizzie shuddered, her whole body convulsing. She leaned over the edge of the embankment, testing the feeling of vertigo, and then, with a wrenching motion, she turned away from the river and fled into the twisting alleys of Southwark, which welcomed her back into their dark and obscure fold.

  She remembered nothing until she arrived at the door of the house in Kent Place. Her feet must have carried her along her old route by instinct, her cloak of unhappiness shielding her from the reaching hands and hungry eyes that trailed after her. She knew that she was not welcome here, in her father’s house, but she had nowhere else to go. Like a dying animal, she sought out a soft and familiar place to lay her head.

  When she reached the door, the desperate strength that had led her there abandoned her. She knocked weakly, despairing that anyone would hear her in the slumbering house.

  But the door opened, and Lizzie collapsed at the feet of her father. He stood in his nightshirt, a flickering candle in his hand.

  “Good Lord!” he cried. “Lydia, come quickly! It’s your sister, and she looks to be at death’s door!”

  CHAPTER 22

  The lodging house room was unbearably stuffy, and Lydia threw open the shutters to coax in the fresh sea air. The smells of the sickroom were stifling: the sharp scent of smelling salts, the untouched broth, and the one that Lydia hated the most, the sickly sweet smell of laudanum.

  Their second trip to Hastings was not proving as successful as their first. Lizzie languished in the cheap lodgings. She didn’t have the strength to leave her room for fortifying walks by the sea, or even to join the other invalids for tea in the sunroom. She lay night and day in her bed, too weak and indifferent even to speak.

  Lydia was afraid to leave her, and so she spent the days pacing back and forth across the worn rug. She tried to get Lizzie to take some broth, and provided her with what cheer she could, reading letters and books aloud to her. But Lizzie was beyond such easy cures, and hardly seemed to care whether she lived or died.

  The doctor came daily to take Lizzie’s pulse and frown over Lydia’s reports. At last the doctor drew Lydia into the hallway and delivered the news that she was expecting, and dreading. It was his opinion that Miss Siddal was failing, and that, as she wasn’t able to eat without vomiting, and took very little water, she didn’t have long to live. He advised writing at once to her mother and father, so that they might have time to make the journey.

  Lydia left Lizzie in the doctor’s care and went next door to her own room. She shut the door behind her and then sat down on her bed to sob, pushing her handkerchief against her mouth to dampen the sound of her cries, lest she do anything to disturb poor Lizzie.

  When her sobs subsided, she rose and once again paced the room, which was far too small to contain her grief. The doctor seemed so sure that Lizzie was beyond hope, and Lydia could hardly argue with him. But she couldn’t let Lizzie go so easily. She must do everything in her power, even if that meant calling upon the one man whom she loathed with all of her soul. She had written to him once before in a time of need, and he had come.

  She sat down at her desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. But try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to write his name. After a struggle, she finally settled on writing to Lizzie’s old friend, John Ruskin, instead. If John Ruskin thought that Rossetti might be of comfort to Lizzie, then surely he would be able to convince him to come better than Lydia herself could.

  She wrote:

  Hastings, January 2, 1856

  Dear Mr. Ruskin,

  It is with a very heavy heart that I write to you. I know that you have, in the past, been a great friend to my sister, Lizzie, and I write to you in the hope that I can call on that friendship for your aid and advice.

  Lizzie has, these past months, lain ill at Hastings, and her doctor has just told me that he does not believe that she has long to live. It seems that there is nothing that can be done, and I wonder if, in these last moments, she might find some comfort in the company of Mr. Rossetti. She hasn’t asked for him, but then so few words have passed her lips that I can only guess at what may be in her heart. They have been long apart, and so I write to you as their mutual friend. If you believe, as I do, that he might be of comfort to her, then I entreat you to write to him, and to beg him to make haste.

  Your grateful friend,

  Lydia Siddal

  John Ruskin received Lydia’s letter with shock and regret. He cursed himself for becoming so engrossed in his writing that he had neglected to enquire after Lizzie in the last months, and he cursed Rossetti, that monster of a genius, for allowing her to languish for years and then to discard her in her time of greatest need.

  He called for a boy from the stable to take a letter by hand, and then dashed off a note to Rossetti while the boy stood waiting.

  Rossetti, you damned fool—

  Lizzie lies dying at Hastings, while you cavort with that great elephant, Fanny Cornforth. Have you no shame? The woman was your intended, and you have let her pass into obscurity. Forgive my tone, but I’ve had word from her family that this is truly the end, and I would hate to be the man with that dear angel’s death upon my shoulders. Listen to your friend: Go to her at once, and do what you should have done long ago. Do not delay, in case you should arrive too late.

  Ruskin

  The train ride to Hastings was the longest of Rossetti’s life. Nothing felt solid; the perspectives were wrong. His stomach lurched inside him and his hands felt fit for nothing but prayer and grasping, as if he were crossing a vast sea, rather than the gently rolling hills of Sussex.

  He sat in silence, with no companion other than Ruskin’s note of reproach. He read it over and over, staring at it as if it were the bottom of a teacup, trying to read some hint of his fortune in its leaves. Was it possible that he would be too late?

  The thought acted as a bitter tonic, and Rossetti’s vision cleared and focused, as if he were coming out of a fever. He saw everything in minute detail, so real that it felt like a hallucination: each glossy leaf of the trees that rushed past his window, the starched lace collars of the elderly women in his car brushing against their feathery necks, the speckles of orange and blue paint that he hadn’t bothered to wash from his hands before rushing from his studio to the station.

  He realized with a start that he hadn’t seen so clearly since the first moment he glimpsed Lizzie, sitting in her page’s shift in Walter Deverell’s studio. He’d felt so sure of himself at that moment; sure of what he desired, and what he must do. He’d wanted nothing more than to be near her, to paint her and read poetry to her, to hear her laugh and touch her white skin, and her red hair.

  Somehow he had lost sight of that truth, its simplicity obscured by a thousand trifling concerns. But he found that it was still there, like a half-finished canvas cast aside in favor of a new design. It still waited for him, ready to have its lines filled in with rich color, its promise fulfilled.

  How foolish, how utterly foolish he had been. Why hadn’t he married her when he had the chance?

  He looked down again at Ruskin’s note: I would hate to be the man with that dear angel’s death upon my shoulders. He shuddered. If he were to lose her now, he couldn’t account for the effect that it might have upon his mind. Could he even paint without his muse, his Beatrice? Or would her spirit haunt him, casting its shadow ac
ross his paintings and driving him mad? He’d been so callous. At this last moment, it seemed clear to him that she was what was important, not his work. But he couldn’t think of Lizzie without thinking of his work; the two had never been separate. The artist and the muse, the poetry and the painted images: He saw them suspended like heavenly bodies, each dependent upon the others for its delicate balance. If one were to be extinguished, the rest might tumble from the sky, or spin off wildly into the unknown. He must get to Lizzie in time; everything depended on it. Ruskin was right: If he had to bear the weight of Lizzie’s death, it would crush him. He willed the train on, praying for haste.

  When they at last pulled into the station, Rossetti was the first to grab his case and leap from the carriage. He ran along the platform, past the station, and into the quiet streets of Hastings.

  The streets were nearly empty. The invalids had retreated into the courtyards of their hotels. The sun beat brightly upon the town, and Rossetti looked scornfully at the cheerful façades of the hotels, behind whose whitewashed walls lay fear and illness and common tragedy.

  Every fiber of his being called him to Lizzie’s side, but he couldn’t go to her empty-handed. He knew how little his promises and words of comfort were worth. He walked quickly along the high street and ducked into the first church that he saw. He was in luck. The clergyman was in, and in a shaky voice, Rossetti made his application for a marriage license.

  He paced the church impatiently while the papers were drawn up, and the clergyman smiled at him knowingly. “The girl must be very pretty, and you must be very much in love, to be in such a hurry!”

  At last the license was signed, and Rossetti had the paper in hand. He paid his fee and dashed back out into the street. With a burning face, he thought of all the times that he had told Lizzie that he was setting aside this or that sum for their marriage license, and then, finding some other more tempting use for the money, how he had told himself that the matter was not pressing, and could wait.

  The address of the lodging house that Ruskin had given him was in a less fashionable quarter of the town than the hotel where they had stayed in their happier days, when Lizzie’s illness seemed to be on the mend and they had spent long days wandering along the beaches and bluffs. When Rossetti arrived at the door, he saw that the flower boxes in front of each window were empty, and that the parlor was dark, but not quite dark enough to hide its shabbiness. The landlady barely looked up from her book when he inquired after Lizzie, and waved him up the stairs without a word.

  Rossetti took the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the door to Lizzie’s room he paused. The terrible memory of Lizzie, lying cold and white in the tub in John Millais’s studio, came unbidden into his mind, and he felt himself go cold with fear. He whispered a quick prayer—please, God, do not desert me—and pushed open the door.

  The sight that greeted him was sadder than he could have imagined: Lizzie lay upon the bed, completely still. Even under a pile of quilts, Rossetti could see that she was terribly wasted. Her eyes were closed, and her face was without color, except for her large eyelids, which were as purple as fresh bruises. Lydia knelt at her side, holding her sister’s thin hand to her cheek.

  “Am I?” Rossetti choked, unable to get the words out at first. “Am I too late?”

  Lydia looked up at him, startled, and dropped Lizzie’s hand. Rossetti saw Lizzie stir—a faint movement, but a sign of life nonetheless. In two steps he was at her side, kneeling beside Lydia and taking Lizzie’s hand in his own.

  “My dove,” he murmured softly. “My little dove. I’ve come back to you, and I’ll never leave your side again. Only, you must come back to me as well. Come, my little dove, and say a word to me, so that I know that you hear me.”

  Lizzie’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment they seemed to fix on Rossetti’s face before they dropped closed again. Rossetti once again feared that he had come too late. “Lizzie!” he cried. “Open your eyes!” He pulled the marriage license from his pocket. He knew that the gesture was desperate, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt as sure as he had ever felt of anything that if he could only get Lizzie to the church, if he could only marry her as he should have done long ago, that he would somehow be absolved.

  “Look, my love!” He waved the license before her half-closed eyes. “We will be married. Open your eyes and we will be married!”

  Lizzie sighed and turned her face toward the wall, silent. She was, Rossetti saw, past caring. Her indifference stirred him. She was a stone saint upon her tomb, well beyond the earthly pleasures of love and desire, and at that moment, Rossetti perversely decided that there was no woman on earth more deserving of his love.

  Lydia took pity on the hunched man by the bed, and pulled him to his feet. “Let her rest. You’re not too late, but I’m afraid that there is nothing else to be done. If you could only talk to her, and give her some comfort, it might make it easier for her. . . .” Lydia could not finish the thought. “It might give her some final peace.”

  Rossetti frowned and looked at Lydia, not understanding. “The only comfort that I intend to give her is the comfort that I should have given her long ago: that of marriage, and a home.”

  Lydia shook her head. “Mr. Rossetti, I know that this is a great shock. But you must understand—Lizzie hasn’t stirred from her bed for days. She can keep nothing on her stomach for five minutes altogether. Like you, I want nothing more in the world than for her to be as she was. Indeed, that’s why I wrote to John Ruskin—in the hope that if you were to come, she might rally.... But I fear that it’s too late. I’m afraid that I’ve called you here in vain.”

  “Nonsense.” Rossetti surprised her by rising and beginning to bustle about the room, straightening the cups and cloths on the bedside table and throwing open the window. “I will nurse her myself. And mark my words: I do intend to marry her. I will not lose her again.”

  Rossetti set about nursing Lizzie with all of the dedication that he usually reserved for his paintings. He saw at once that Lydia had not exaggerated; Lizzie’s health was failing, and quickly. At first she hardly seemed to recognize him. Her state varied between a listlessness that left her too tired even to speak, and terrifying fits, which caused her face to enliven horribly as she screamed for aid. At such moments Rossetti would rush to her side, desperate to help her. He held the laudanum to her lips, feeding it to her like a child. It was the only thing that seemed to calm her and ease her pain.

  He tended to her with a single-minded devotion. He was a pilgrim, trudging toward the holy land, borne along by faith and fear, love and guilt, long after the exhilaration of the journey has worn thin. He spoke to her constantly: reminding her of happier times, weaving plans for their wedding and honeymoon, praising her talent and speaking of the great works of poetry and art that they would create together as man and wife. He made little sketches to amuse her: caricatures of their friends and drawings of curious animals at play. Spoonful by spoonful, he fed her by his own hand: first water, then tea, and finally broth. And at last, ever so slowly, Lizzie began to improve.

  When Lydia was at last called back to London to help with the nursing of one of the younger children, she was able to leave Hastings with an easier mind. Lizzie was now regularly sitting in a chair by the window, while Rossetti sketched her or read to her. There had even been some talk of her being taken in a chair down to the seaside. Rossetti was set on marrying Lizzie the moment that she could make the walk to the church, and Lydia was inclined to believe him. But Lizzie’s progress was slow, and it was May before Rossetti was able to write to his mother with the happy news:

  Dearest Mother,

  I write with the greatest joy to say that Lizzie and I are going to be married at last, in as few days as possible.

  I know that you should have liked to see us married at your church in London, with you and dear Christina in attendance, but I’m afraid that I must disappoint you, as we shall be married here in Hastings, at St. Clements. Like al
l the important things I ever meant to do—to fulfill duty or secure happiness—this one has been deferred almost beyond possibility. I would not now delay it any longer than necessary. I have hardly deserved that Lizzie should still consent to it, but she has done so, and I trust that I may still have time to prove my thankfulness to her.

  As soon as Lizzie is well enough to travel, we will return to London, and our first stop shall be at your doorstep.

  Your son,

  D. G. Rossetti

  On the morning of the appointed day, Lizzie rose alone and made her small toilet at the washstand in her room. She fixed her hair the best she could, brushing it out and letting it fall loosely over her shoulders, rather than in the more traditional chignon. Her face in the mirror looked pale and thin, but her hair was still her crowning glory, bright and thick despite her long illness. There was a knock at the door, and the maid, a local girl of seventeen, came in with a small sewing basket. The landlady of the lodging house, upon hearing that Lizzie would have no attendants, had taken pity on her, and offered her the use of the maid for her dressing and to act as witness.

  “Miss Siddal! Isn’t it nice to see you up and about, and with your hair so pretty! You will make Mr. Rossetti a proud husband, I should say! Well, let’s have a look at the dress, shall we?” the maid asked, walking over to the wardrobe. “I’m sure that we can have it fixed up for you in a moment.”

  Lizzie pulled her gray silk gown from the wardrobe. The fashion, since the wedding of the Queen, had been for a white wedding dress, and Lizzie had imagined herself standing at the altar in a cloud of white organdy and lace. But there had been neither time nor money for a new gown; and besides, she didn’t have the strength for the many fittings that a new gown would require. Instead she settled on the old gray silk, which brought out the clear gray of her eyes. Mrs. Rossetti, upon receipt of her son’s letter, had sent down a new collar and a matching veil of the sheerest lace.