Ophelia's Muse (29 page)

She stood slowly and walked into the studio. The landlady had set a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread on the table in the hall. Rossetti must have told her that Lizzie was staying in the studio. At least he'd done that, she thought. She couldn't stomach the thought of the bread, but she used the water to make tea. She combed out her hair and braided it. She thought that she might vomit, but she didn't.

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and checked her purse, but as she readied herself to leave, one of the unfinished drawings on her easel caught her eye. It was her illustration of the Robert Browning poem
Pippa Passes.
It showed the virginal Pippa, her spine straight and her head high, passing a group of loose women who lounge on some steps, staring at her curiously. When Lizzie started the drawing, she had thought of herself as Pippa, poor but virtuous, holding her head high in the face of adversity. Now she was sickened to think that she looked more like the loose women: sloppy and lazy, watching life pass them by in the street.

She decided at once: She wouldn't go to the chemist. She was ashamed. Ashamed that she had wasted so much time when she might have been working; ashamed that she'd given in to the easy comfort of the laudanum. What if Rossetti had returned to find her like this? Even she wouldn't have blamed him for running back into the arms of Annie Miller. She took her shawl off, put her purse away, and went back to the bedroom. She needed to paint, but first, she needed to sleep.

 

When at last she rose, drained but clearheaded, she tried to take up her painting again. Each morning she sat before her easel, but the work did not come easily, and by afternoon she would throw down her brush, gather up her shawl, and head outside to roam through the city in the hope that fresh air was all she needed to forget the painting party in Kent, and the lure of the green bottle.

The walks improved her appetite, and the small meals that she took gave her the fortitude to sit longer at her easel. As the days passed, she started to enjoy the solitude of the studio. She finished the drawing of Pippa, and was pleased with it.

Before she started on her next piece, she sent a note to Ford Madox Brown, asking if he might still be willing to take her to buy some painting supplies. He replied that he was eager to assist her in any way that he could, and on a windy October morning they set out together for Winsor & Newton's, London's finest color men.

The shop was bright and cheerful, and the bells at the door jangled at Lizzie's entrance. She was as excited as she might have been at entering a fashionable dressmaker's. Her purse was heavy with Ruskin's allowance, and she decided that she wouldn't deny herself anything that might be of use in making her name as a real painter.

The shop was filled from floor to ceiling with everything an artist might want: cases full of brushes, palettes, knives, and chalk; canvases ranging in size from the palm of a hand to outstretched arms; easels of solid oak, and lighter ones that were meant to be folded and carried into a field. And then there were the paints. Lizzie had never seen so many colors. There were oils and watercolors in shiny metal tubes, their names printed beneath a dab of the color: French Ultramarine, Cadmium Yellow, and Cobalt. The shop chemists mixed custom orders, and the air smelled of turpentine and linseed oil.

Ford motioned for one of the clerks, and a young man scurried over and bowed to them. “How may I assist you?”

“We're going to need everything, and only the best,” Ford said with a smile, and Lizzie laughed. “But we'll start with the basics—a dozen brushes, half in sable and half in hog's hair, please. As for paints, I'll let the lady choose, but we'll take one of these fine wooden boxes with the palette built in. You can use that to store them, Lizzie, or to take them with you to the park or the countryside. A palette knife, of course, and a box of charcoals. And we'll need several canvases. I'll choose the sizes while Miss Siddal looks over your colors.” He turned to Lizzie. “You'll find the expense worth it, I think. A real painter should have her own materials. They become a part of you, you know. You'll quickly find which are your favorite.”

Lizzie ran her finger over the cool tubes of paint on the counter. “Thank you for helping me, Ford. I'm so anxious to really begin. I've done a few things, of course, but I want to paint something worthy of Ruskin's patronage. I think I might try my hand at a self-portrait.”

“An excellent idea. A painter must know himself, after all, if he wants to paint others truly.”

Lizzie spent the next hour choosing colors, shaking her head yes and no as the clerk took them from the display case. She finally settled on a handful of shades in both oil and watercolor, along with a tube of Chinese white, which the clerk assured her was the best that could be obtained. He wrapped her purchases in brown paper, and Ford helped her carry them back to Chatham Place. She thanked him again, sending her love to Emma, and then bid him good-bye, anxious to start on her painting.

She sat down in her corner of the studio, secured a fresh canvas to her easel, and placed a looking glass on the table in front of her. She stared intently into the glass. In the dim light, a softly lit angel out of one of Rossetti's paintings stared back at her, beatific and beautiful.

She began to draw what she saw, but then stopped, shaking her head. She knew that she was drawing a dream, not a portrait. She stood and dragged her easel and the mirror directly in front of the window. When she looked back into the mirror, the harsh morning sun shone on her face.

What she saw there was not a saint or a myth, but a real woman. She stared at herself for a long time. She found things to admire: large eyes, white skin, and hair that still shone as brightly as when she was a girl. But illness had taken its toll. Her face was thin and her features stood out sharply. The skin around her eyes was tired, and the lids were heavy and swollen. Was it her imagination, or had her lips become a bit pinched, and had two faint lines appeared between her brows?

She took this all in calmly, and then began to draw exactly what she saw, no more and no less. She glanced around the studio at Rossetti's many paintings and sketches. In some cases, even she couldn't tell if he had been drawing her, or some other girl—they all seemed to merge together into one ideal, unreal woman. It suddenly seemed very important to Lizzie that she paint the truth; that there be some record of her as a living, breathing woman.

She worked intently for several hours, and then sat back to survey the results. The woman who was taking form on her canvas was beautiful, but she was also thoughtful and sad. Lizzie was satisfied.

She spent the next week working on the portrait. She chose her palette carefully: red and gold for the hair, emerald green for the background. At the last moment she added a touch of white, a flash of light. The woman in the portrait was still and silent, watching and waiting, but a glint of expectation shone in her eyes. Lizzie thought it very much like her.

Absorbed in her work, she enjoyed her time alone in the studio. She was able to work intently, without the bother of tidying up or worrying about her dress. There was no one to please, and no one's likes or needs to consider, save her own. This must be, she thought, what it's like to be a man.

No one came to visit, and she realized that almost all of the people that she now considered her friends were, in fact, friends of Rossetti's. She had Emma Brown, of course, but Emma was going to have her second child soon, and was busy with the preparations.

It came as a surprise, therefore, when a rapping at the door broke the silence of the studio. Lizzie jumped, startled, and smeared paint across her canvas. She cursed, then quickly rubbed it out and went to get the door. It would, no doubt, be some creditor of Rossetti's. He was behind on his bills, spending his money as quickly as he earned it, and there wasn't an art supplier in the city at whose shop he could show his face.

She opened the door, ready to send whoever it was on their way. She stopped short, however, when she saw John Ruskin.

“Hello! Have I disturbed the genius at work? You look as cross as can be.”

Lizzie laughed, pleased to see Ruskin. “Hello, John. Don't mind me, I didn't expect you. I thought it was someone come round to collect on a bill. I've been locked away in here for days, and I'm hardly fit for company. I jumped like a hare when you knocked.”

Ruskin's face darkened. “Is it that bad? If you're in need of anything, you know that you only need ask . . .”

Lizzie waved him into the studio. “No, no, I'm fine, but you know how Dante is. The minute he has some money, he spends it, and then some. Besides, you've been too generous already, you really mustn't let me take advantage of you.”

“And where is Dante today?”

“Didn't he write to you? No, I suppose that he didn't, he never writes. He's in Kent with Holman Hunt and a small party. They've gone out there to paint real girls under real trees or some such thing.”

“Will you join them?”

“No. I thought it best to stay here and work. You know how they can be when they're together—they have the best of intentions, but picnicking and drinking often prevail over painting.”

Ruskin nodded with a dawning understanding. “And I suppose that they took some models along?”

“Annie Miller went with them.”

“How can you . . .” Ruskin began, and then stopped, perhaps remembering his promise to Lizzie that he wouldn't intrude on her relationship with Dante. “You were no doubt right to stay here. I can see that you've been hard at work.”

He walked over to her easel and looked at the self-portrait. Lizzie couldn't tell if he liked it or not, and she tapped her foot nervously as he surveyed the painting. He looked at it for a long time without saying anything, and she felt exposed, as if he were examining her very soul, and not her mere portrait. At last she felt that she must say something to break the silence. “It's hardly a portrait of the Princess Ida. But I think it might be the first real portrait of Lizzie Siddal that's ever been painted.”

“It's a beautiful painting. Its beauty lies in its truth. But it's not the only truth.” Ruskin looked around the studio at Rossetti's many studies of Lizzie. “All of these are just as much portraits of you as the one that you've painted.”

Lizzie followed Ruskin's eye. “These are Dante's dreams. They're beautiful, but they're not me.”

Ruskin turned back to her. “Surely you see that physical truth is not the only truth? These saints, these queens, they are paintings not only of your face, but also of your soul, of the beauty and imagination that you inspire in Dante. His paintings of you are an expression of his desire . . . of his love.”

Lizzie blushed deeply. “I think that you see more in our art than we see ourselves.”

“I have the advantage of seeing it with fresh eyes.” He turned back to the self-portrait. “And what I see here I like very much. It should have the place of pride at your show.”

“My show? Am I really to show my work?” She rushed up to him and gave him a friendly embrace, kissing his cheek before releasing him. Ruskin turned bright red and stepped back, and Lizzie remembered the gossip, that he hadn't touched his wife. She wondered how a man with such warmth of personality and kindness could feel distaste for the more physical side of love and affection. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“Think nothing of it,” Ruskin said, clearing his throat. “Your happiness is all the thanks I need. I only wish to watch you in your success, and know that I've played some small part in it. That's why I've arranged for a small showing of your work at a gallery in Charlotte Street. You'll have several months to finish up that self-portrait and anything else that you want to show. I've been in contact with a few buyers, including some Americans. I thought that it was high time that we get you into the public eye.”

Lizzie was already bustling around the studio, taking stock of what she would need to work on. She felt an energy that she hadn't known in a long time. She stopped and looked at Ruskin. “This means the world to me. If I can keep working as I have been, I should have several new things ready by then. And of course you have the drawings that I sent to you last month—will they be included? And Dante has a few things that are nearing completion; they should be ready. Have you told him about the show yet? You must write at once, he'll be so pleased.”

“The show will be of your work only. A small, private show is just the place for an artist's debut. Dante already has plenty of interest in his work, and he'll want to save his best work for the exhibitions next spring.”

A show of her own. The thought was nearly overwhelming. “Your kindness to me, it's been my one constant.”

“It's not kindness—it's business. You're a talented painter, and I want the world to value your art as I do. You see, I have my own interests at heart, as an early investor in your work. Now I suppose that I'd better leave you to your painting. I'll come by again next week so that we can discuss which pieces you'd like to show. In the meantime, just write to me if you need anything at all—supplies or anything else.”

“I'll look forward to your visit.” After Ruskin left she leaned against the closed door, overcome with happiness and as giddy as a child. She began to build castles in the air: She might get a notice in the paper; perhaps she would make a few good sales. Would Lydia be allowed to come see her work? By this time next year, Lizzie thought, she might be painting something larger, something good enough to submit to the big exhibitions. Her lingering doubts about Ruskin's motives were gone. She wasn't his charitable case. She was a real painter, a painter with a show of her own. She laughed in wonder. A few years ago she would never have believed herself capable of such a victory.