Ophelia's Muse (14 page)

The moment stretched on in excruciating silence, and Rossetti saw Lizzie's face fall. She turned from him ever so slightly, looking past him and pressing her lips together. “Please excuse my silly behavior,” she said, her voice small and cold. “I'm afraid that I've misunderstood you. Shall we rejoin our friends?”

He had disappointed her. It was an unwelcome feeling, crowding out his joy in the success of the exhibition. He roused himself to speak. “Lizzie, there's no misunderstanding. I love you. We won't always have to hide ourselves in alcoves and behind stairs. But I must put all of my effort right now into my work—it's of the utmost importance. Once I've made my reputation, we can plan our future. You have my promise. Until then, you must be my muse, and my inspiration. Come, you're right. We shouldn't be hidden here, alone, when there is an admiring public awaiting a glimpse of you. You must help me charm the wealthy guests who might make my fortune.”

Lizzie's face had softened, but her next words were uttered in a tone almost of warning. “Yours is not the only reputation that I must consider, Dante. The longer that I'm your model, but not your wife, the more the world will look at me as if I am something else altogether. But let us speak no more of it tonight.”

He nodded. He knew that she spoke the truth. But it was a truth that could be considered tomorrow, in the more practical light of day. Tonight was a night for celebrating.

 

Before they could stand, the alcove curtain was pulled back with a flourish, and Emma Brown greeted them with a peal of laughter. “I was wondering where you two slipped off to.”

Lizzie blushed, but Rossetti only smiled. “Be careful, Mrs. Brown,” he joked, “or I'll be forced to whisk you off behind some curtain as well.”

Lizzie tried to join in with their laughter, but she could only manage a stiff smile. Emma rolled her eyes, and Lizzie told herself that Emma was a friend, not a rival. She was beginning to realize that she would have to get used to the easier ways of this crowd if she was to survive in it. And she must put her worries aside, if she was to enjoy the evening. After all, Rossetti had assured her that she had nothing to worry about.

“Ladies,” Rossetti said with a mock bow. “May I escort you on a tour around the paintings?”

“There's nothing that I'd like more,” Lizzie said, determined to enjoy herself. She turned to Emma. “And you must tell me everything that's happened since I've last seen you. I'm so happy to find you here, among all these strangers.”

“Not to worry, my dear. They may be strange, but they will not be strangers for long. Stay close by my side and I'll whisper all the most amusing stories about each of them in your ear as we walk.”

If Emma noticed Lizzie's red cheeks and the agitated way she pulled at her dress, she said nothing. They left the alcove and rejoined the crowd. Rossetti stopped short, however, at the sight of a man who was holding forth to a group at the center of the room. The faces around him ranged from reverence to thinly masked contempt, but they all appeared to be listening closely, like pupils at a lecture.

“That's John Ruskin,” Rossetti said. “The critic and collector. And, incidentally, the man who's kept me in my meals and lodgings these last few months. I must go speak to him.”

Lizzie studied Ruskin. He was tall and slender, with a thick shock of light brown hair, a thoughtful expression, and eyes that darted around the room as he spoke, taking everything in. Whenever he gestured or turned toward different paintings, the group shifted with him, as if he held them on marionette strings.

They joined the crowd around him and Lizzie heard him speak: “The question here is one of truth to nature.” He let the pronouncement hang in the air for the moment, as the group murmured their assent. “That is, is the artist painting life and nature as they truly exist? Or is nature no different to the artist than the scenery at the opera, a pretty setting for his composition? And if it is a mere setting, what does that painting teach us about life, about beauty? No, sir, don't answer, it's a false question. Such a painting teaches us nothing! It is useful only as a decorative item, and nothing more.”

The gentleman who had been quieted by Ruskin put his hand up, as if he was asking for permission to speak. “Then I take it that you disapprove, Mr. Ruskin, of the charming domestic scenes displayed to such great effect tonight?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. These charming domestic scenes, as you call them, lack the very essence of art, as it should be. They reveal nothing; they ask nothing. They are meant only to be hung above the mantel in a nice home, and never to give provocation or offense. They are fashion and decoration only; no better and no worse than a nicely trimmed bonnet.”

A shocked whisper went through the crowd at these words, and Ruskin looked as pleased at their distress as if they had cried out their approval. Rossetti alone nodded his agreement, and spoke up. “Mr. Ruskin has hit the thing on the nose. Our art is stagnating in its own sentimentality. The modern artist celebrates the humble—the adored wife or pet, the country landscape—and fails to elevate it with either skill or beauty.”

“Here, perhaps, is our answer to this dilemma,” Ruskin said, ushering Rossetti to the center of the group. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Rossetti. No doubt you've seen his very fascinating picture of the Virgin Mary as a child.” He glanced around the room and located it. “This way, please, right over here.”

“The first thing that you'll notice,” he began, settling again into the role of professor, “is the elevated subject matter: the mother of Christ. This is no mere portrait of a beloved aunt at a country gate. Now, the Virgin Mary is a familiar subject, but one that is presented here in a wholly unique way. We see her as a child, but not, as is the usual way, studying a book under the watchful eye of her mother, Saint Anne. What, really, is the chance that a female child of her day and age would often, if ever, be reading? No, instead Rossetti has portrayed her at her embroidery, leaving the books to the side as a symbolic gesture only, representing the lessons of charity, faith, and hope. The coloring and the use of light should also be noted. The painting is radiant; there is little shadow. And why should there be? The classical proportions of light and shade have no place in this picture. The purity of Mary, and of the saints and angels who surround her, banish any such shadows. Mark my words, this is the new direction of the modern painter. He will paint things as they truly are, or as they might have been, irrespective of any conventional rules of picture-making.”

Rossetti gave Ruskin a deep bow. “That is kind praise. I only hope that it's deserved.”

“It most decidedly is, and you would do well to remember it. If I am not much mistaken, the other critics will not be so easy on your work, and on that of your friends, in the coming weeks.”

Rossetti seemed surprised. “But the pictures have had a very good reception!”

“Yes, but in circles such as these, a little scandalous gossip and a lot of good champagne will go a long way toward endearing the public. In the sober light of the coming weeks, however, I'm afraid that other critics may make a feast of your revolution, and leave nothing but scraps upon the table. We critics are known to be set in our ways, after all, and you have made a bold statement against the current fashion.” He paused to give Rossetti a sympathetic smile. “But do not concern yourself with their words, and do not, by any means, take them to heart. I have faith in your Brotherhood, as they are calling it, and I expect that in time the public will be swayed to see things as I do.”

“Then I may count on you as a friend?”

“You may indeed. In fact, I've been meaning to visit your studio again—I'd like to see what you're working on, and I might have a few buyers for you.” Ruskin looked past Rossetti, and caught sight of Lizzie, who had hung back. He studied her for a moment before speaking. “Is it?” he asked, hesitating. “Could it be Deverell's page, the lovely Viola?”

Lizzie smiled, pleased to be recognized, and nodded her head.

“May I present Miss Elizabeth Siddal?” Rossetti asked.

Ruskin bowed to Lizzie. “What a pleasure. Deverell's portrait is very fine. But it does no justice to the real thing. Are you sitting for Mr. Rossetti?”

Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but Rossetti cut in. “Yes, she is. I've done a number of studies of her, some in watercolor, and one or two in oil. She's proven a very capable model.”

“I have no doubt,” Ruskin said, gazing at Lizzie long enough that she had to look away. “With her cheekbones and your talent, the work must be very fine.”

Rossetti laughed, and Lizzie heard nothing forced about his laughter. To the contrary, he seemed pleased by Ruskin's attentions to her. It was a surprise, after his shortness with Deverell, but of course Ruskin was an important man, and Rossetti would want to court his good opinion, and his checkbook.

“Why don't you come round to the studio next week? If you like what you see here”—Rossetti nodded in Lizzie's direction—“then I have more than a few sketches of her that you might want.”

“You may depend upon it. I'm anxious to see the new work.” Ruskin turned to Lizzie. “And I look forward to seeing you as well, Miss Siddal.”

Lizzie gave Ruskin her hand as he took his leave, but she could not summon more than a slight smile for him. She knew her role tonight was to aid Rossetti in bringing notice to his paintings; he had made that very clear. But Rossetti's compliments had sounded to her ears more like the cries of a street hawker, lavishing praise on her beauty as if she were a particularly juicy apple for sale. She thought of her distaste at being called out into the shop to model bonnets for a wealthy customer, the feeling that she was no different to them than a wooden hat block. As Ruskin walked away, she realized that she had not spoken a single word to him.

But Rossetti was in high spirits. He smiled at her, oblivious to her discomfort. “You've charmed John Ruskin, and that can only be good for both of us. He could be a powerful ally, and a champion for the Brotherhood. He seemed very keen on seeing my portraits of you. You are an absolute dove, Lizzie. I don't know what I would do without you.”

Now that they were alone again, his words felt more sincere, and once again she put aside her misgivings. She must learn not to take things so personally—she herself was not for sale, after all. When they spoke of her, they were really only speaking of Rossetti's paintings of her, which was a different thing altogether. It would serve her well, she thought, to remember the difference.

Rossetti plucked two glasses of champagne from a waiter's tray and handed one to Lizzie, who drank it quickly. The champagne made her giddy, and she was happy to let Rossetti lead her from group to group, where ladies inquired after her dress and gentlemen demanded that Rossetti paint her portrait for them. As the night wore on, the room seemed to open its arms to her, and she imagined for herself a future filled with champagne, parties, and fine dresses. Rossetti never left her side, and at last she gave herself over fully to the pleasure of the evening, as all about them whirled the glowing faces and glittering smiles of those who admired them and wished them well. She had arrived.

CHAPTER 8

After the success of their evening at the Exhibition, Lizzie knew that it would be madness for her to steal off to see Walter Deverell behind Rossetti's back. After all, Rossetti had made it perfectly clear that he objected, and why shouldn't she honor his simple request? It wasn't unreasonable—he might need her at any moment to sit for one of his own drawings. And if they were going to be married soon, it really wasn't proper for her to sit for other artists. And yet, despite all the reasons why she should not be on the omnibus to Kew, that was exactly where she found herself on a brisk September morning.

If Rossetti had been less insistent, less sure of her affection, she may have let the matter drop. But several months had passed since the night of the Exhibition, and Rossetti had not mentioned their talk, or the possibility of their engagement, again. He seemed happy to let things go on as they were, and Lizzie was losing patience. It didn't help that her mother peppered her with questions about his intentions whenever she could get Lizzie alone, and that even the usually imperceptive Mr. Siddal seemed to suspect that Lizzie was up to something other than making bonnets at Mrs. Tozer's. Lizzie wouldn't be able to hide the fact that she was modeling from her father forever, and when she did tell him, she wanted the news to be cushioned by the announcement of her marriage. Rossetti's refusal to give her any real promises in return for her obedience was maddening. She had all but given up her position at the millinery for him, and now he was preventing her from sitting for other painters.

Her old obstinacy, tamed only in part by her desire to please Rossetti, resurfaced. Didn't Rossetti allow himself to be carried along by every impulse and romantic notion that crossed his mind? Why shouldn't she enjoy the same liberties?

When, at the beginning of September, Rossetti went to Birmingham to meet with a new patron, Lizzie seized on his absence as a chance to visit Deverell without deceit or explanation. If she was guilty of anything, she told herself, it was only of an omission, and a small one at that. She wasn't going to sit for a painting, after all, but only a few sketches.

The studio in the garden was just as pleasant as she remembered, though now its cheer came from vases full of early autumn blooms, rather than the fire that had first greeted her. Through the door she glimpsed Deverell at work at his easel and Mary sitting nearby. Lizzie tapped on the glass and then let herself in. Deverell rose at the sound of the door, and Lizzie was brought up short. He was pale, his face almost white, and the skin below his eyes was as dark as a bruise. His wan face was not the only change—his eyes, once bright, now seemed faded, though no less kind, and his hand trembled slightly as he held it out to her.

“You've been ill!” she exclaimed. “I shouldn't have come.”

Deverell stepped closer and took her hand. “Nonsense. I haven't been well, it's true, but I'm fine now. When I received your note, I knew a visit from you would be just the thing to restore me completely.”

Lizzie was relieved to hear that his voice was still as she remembered it, low and hearty. She glanced at Mary, who carefully avoided the question in Lizzie's eyes, instead rising to embrace her.

“It's so good to have you here, Lizzie. Walter and I were a drab pair without you! I'll just run up to the house to fetch some things for tea, and then you have to tell me everything that's happened since we last saw each other. I heard that you made quite an impression at the Exhibition.” Mary bustled out of the studio and Lizzie and Deverell were left alone.

“I am glad that you're better,” Lizzie said, “and glad to be here.”

“So Rossetti has come around?” Deverell asked. “I thought I'd have to give you up, after that little scene at the reception. He seemed determined to keep you to himself.”

“Dante's away on business, and can't possibly need me today. I couldn't see any harm in coming to see an old friend.”

Deverell's smile faded, and the coldness of his next words surprised Lizzie. “You came here behind his back? I wouldn't have thought you capable of such artifice.” He paused and frowned. “What hold does he have over you?”

Lizzie thought that there must be some very great change in Deverell, or in herself, for him to speak to her this way. “Please, you must not think ill of Dante—it's only that he's so serious about his work, and he never knows when inspiration might strike. It makes him easy to know that I'm there if he needs me. And I hope you won't think ill of me, either. I'm a free woman, after all, and I may come and go as I please.”

“You didn't seem so free when I saw you at the Exhibition.”

Lizzie blushed, hating to admit that Rossetti had given her no real reason to answer in the negative. She forced a laugh and tried to hide her embarrassment with light banter: “Oh, but I am free! No man can claim my obedience besides my father, and he takes little interest in such claims.” But the words rang hollow in the silence that followed. That sort of talk had no place between her and Deverell, with whom she had always felt at ease being herself. “My heart,” she finally said, “is not quite so free. You asked me what his hold was. I'm not sure if I know. But I love him. I feel as if I never knew myself until I knew him. When he paints me, I am a holy thing to him. What woman would forsake the chance to become a goddess?”

Deverell started to turn away again, but then changed his mind and stepped closer. His next words were quiet, but their softness in no way detracted from their force. “Be careful, Lizzie. Rossetti is not a god, and he is certainly not a monk. He won't always be content merely to worship at your altar. If he doesn't keep you as his wife, then he keeps you as a pet, and you are far too fine a creature to be kept like a songbird in a cage, petted and kissed, when you should be free.”

“Deverell, please don't.”

They stood in pained silence for a moment, and both were relieved when Mary returned with the tea tray.

“Walter?” Mary asked, looking at Lizzie's white face. “Why are you upsetting dear Lizzie?”

“No, no, it's nothing,” Lizzie said with forced cheerfulness. She moved past Deverell and began to help Mary with the tea.

“I know you adore Shakespeare,” Mary said. “So you'll be pleased to hear that Walter has planned another beautiful picture of you from one of the plays. I've looked over the sketches and they're lovely.”

“No,” Deverell interrupted his sister. “I changed my mind. I have something quite different in mind for Miss Siddal.”

“Oh, well, of course, you're the artist,” Mary said, surprised.

“I'm happy to sit for anything you like,” Lizzie said. “But I'll only be able to sit for a few sketches. I don't know when I might be able to return again.”

“It's no matter.” He had decided, it seemed, not to quarrel with her. “I'm happy to have you here for however long you can stay. I have a painting in mind that will require only your spirit. For the rest—the hair, the cheek, and so on—Mary will do as well as any-one.”

“Well! I'm glad that I'll do for something!”

“Mary, don't listen to me. You'll do quite nicely, is what I mean. And indulge me once more, darling sister, by being a dear and running up to the house to fetch your gray parrot for me. I need him for my picture.”

Mary went up to the house for her parrot, and Deverell turned once more to Lizzie. “I'll give you no reason to fear upsetting Rossetti. In fact, I'll paint your hair as black as a raven, and no one shall know you, unless they guess by the fineness of the sentiment.”

“Thank you.” Lizzie saw that Deverell understood, and that he would treat her with sympathy, rather than scorn. Her face brightened. “I almost forgot! I've brought you a little present.”

She opened her small portfolio and took out a sketch, which she handed to Deverell. It was a drawing of a woman sitting at a loom. In it, the woman stares steadily out of her window, while behind her the threads of her weaving fly wildly from the loom and a great mirror on the wall cracks to pieces. “It's my poor rendering of the Lady of Shalott, at the moment that she turns to see Lancelot through the window, and brings the curse upon herself by leaving off of weaving her magic web. I hoped it might serve as a remembrance of your kind gift to me of Tennyson's poems.”

Deverell examined the sketch and then smiled, his eyes regaining some of their brightness. “It's very well done! You've made progress since I last saw your work. Has Rossetti been giving you lessons?”

“You're very kind. No formal lessons, I'm afraid, but of course I learn so much just being in the studio with him. And I always think of your encouragement, and practice whenever I have a spare moment.”

The door rattled and Mary entered, carrying two wicker birdcages. “I've brought the gray, as well as the canaries. I hope that you don't mind, but they could use the change of scenery. They drive Mother mad with their chirping and chattering all day in the drawing room.”

Deverell began to set his scene. He propped open the door to the studio, beyond which was a neat gravel walkway and border of boxwood and geranium. He hung the canary cage from the doorframe and placed the parrot's cage just outside the open door. Then he opened the little gates of the cages.

“Won't they fly away?” Lizzie asked.

Deverell shook his head. “No, they're quite domestic. They've been fed by Mary's gentle hand for far too long to dream of taking to the open skies. We call them lucky, of course. Their fine feathers and pretty songs have bought them comfort and ease, of a sort. Now, Lizzie, if I could ask you to pose in the doorway as well? With your profile toward me, and your attention on the canaries, as if you were feeding them. Or must I worry that you will fly away if I leave the door open?”

Lizzie laughed. “No, I won't desert you. I'm afraid that I'm quite as domesticated as these gentle birds.”

Deverell drew his easel closer to the door and began the sketches. Lizzie cooed at the birds and they sang back to her. Mary filled a teacup with seeds for them, and Lizzie fed them from her fingers, laughing with delight when one jumped from its cage onto her shoulder and settled itself happily just below her chignon. She knew that she made a charming sight.

Deverell's sketches took the better part of the day, and he didn't take a break until well into the afternoon. The weather was fine, and the days were still long, so they took a turn in the garden when they were done, not wishing the visit to end. When it was at last time for Lizzie to leave, Mary gathered the birds into their cages and returned to the house.

“I hope that you'll come again, if you can get away,” Deverell said.

“Then we are friends?” Lizzie asked, holding out her hand to him.

“Yes, of course we are friends. And I hope that you'll remember that friendship if you're ever in need of it. I feel some responsibility for you, you know.”

They smiled at each other, and Deverell's smile was tender, not like Rossetti's, which dazzled her with its brilliance, but left her blind to everything else. Deverell's friendship, on the other hand, felt like a real thing, something that she could put into a carved box and hide away for later.

“Come,” Deverell said. “We'll share a cab. I'm on my way into the city.” As they left the studio, he pressed some money into Lizzie's hand. “Your fee, for your excellent work today.”

Lizzie could tell, without looking, that it was far too much for a single day of work. “It's not necessary. I came to you today as a friend.”

“I'll hear no arguments. Think of it as a present, and buy some pretty trifle. A woman of your beauty should have things as lovely as herself.”

Lizzie smiled and slipped the money into her pocket. She could never resist a gift, and she knew exactly where she would spend it. “In that case, would you tell the driver to take me to Cranbourne Alley?”

 

It was nearly six o'clock when Lizzie reached the doorstep of Mrs. Tozer's Millinery. Deverell helped her down from the cab and made her an elegant bow, then jumped back in and rode on with a last wave of his hand.

Jeannie Evans stood on the doorstep, greeting the last of the day's customers, and she waved her hand and called out: “Lizzie! Is that really you? Why, the girls will never believe it!” She took Lizzie's arm and led her into the shop.

The girls didn't have to believe it—a few of them had seen Lizzie through the window, and now they gathered around her, exclaiming over her dress and the glow in her cheeks. Even Mrs. Tozer joined them in their admiration. She held Lizzie out at arm's length and looked her over, eyeing Lizzie's dress with a seamstress's practiced eye. “Just look at our Miss Siddal—it
is
still Miss Siddal, isn't it? I suppose if it weren't, you would have called on me to do the wedding bonnet!”

“Yes, it's still Miss Siddal—though perhaps not for long.” Lizzie blushed, touching off a wave of giddy laughter from the girls. Whatever they'd thought of her before, she was now worthy of their interest, and they had only to see whether she might also be worthy of their jealousy.

“Now, now, girls,” Mrs. Tozer said. “Let her be. A lady hardly speaks of such things.” She smiled at Lizzie, as if the two of them were now of the same breed, with the other girls to be indulged only up to a point. “Are you here for a social call only? Or for a new bonnet to hide those blushing cheeks?”

“You did say, Lizzie, that you would only come back here to order your new bonnets, as I remember!” Jeannie chimed in.

“And so I am,” Lizzie said, not bothering to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. She turned to Mrs. Tozer. “Do you still make the brown silk, with the ostrich trim?”