Ophelia's Muse (30 page)

CHAPTER 18

On the whole, Rossetti's painting trip to Kent was not a success. The idea had been to immerse himself in nature, but nature had proved as fickle and ungovernable as a woman—at first promising a clear sky and a hint of sun, and then turning rainy and cold the moment he walked a mile from the house and set up his easel and paints.

The first day out he was soaked to the bone and had to run back to the house with his jacket draped over his canvas. The next days were no better, and though he persevered, even the beautiful Annie Miller looked like a drowned rat after a few minutes in the rain—hardly an inspiring sight. Unable to paint outdoors, the group was stuck inside the small house all day, getting in each other's way and on each other's nerves.

Rossetti was forced to admit that perhaps Lizzie had been right: It was awful sharing close quarters with Holman Hunt and Annie Miller. Rossetti hadn't slept with Annie in months—it was too difficult with Lizzie living in his studio and Annie wishing to keep up appearances at her own lodgings—but he was still painting her, against Hunt's explicit wishes. When Hunt returned from his trip and discovered this fact, he wasn't happy. But, on the grounds of brotherly goodwill, he had grudgingly allowed Rossetti to finish his painting.

Still, every time Rossetti and Annie set out into the countryside to paint, Hunt looked after them suspiciously, and he didn't bother to hide his joy when the rain kept driving them back to the cottage. Annie wasn't in a very good mood, either. The liberty that she had enjoyed in Hunt's absence was suddenly at an end, and she chafed at the new limits on her freedom. She snapped at Rossetti and glared at Hunt, and claimed that the rain caused her aches that prevented her from sitting for either of them.

The painting party had not, therefore, produced much painting, or even much camaraderie. Rossetti was anxious to return to London. Annie was a joy to take to the pleasure gardens or the theater, but sharing a house with her was somewhat less agreeable. Her loud voice grated on his ears, and her perfume made him half sick.

When a letter arrived from Ruskin, he hoped that it might offer a new commission, and an excuse to return to town. The letter contained no commission, but it did offer a reason to return to London.

At first Rossetti was annoyed. He could accept Ruskin's advice on his paintings, which Ruskin doled out with a fatherly expectation of obedience. There weren't many men, after all, who would pay for a painting and keep their mouths shut when they weren't happy with it. And there were none at all who would pay what Rossetti was asking and not feel entitled to an occasional quibble. At least Ruskin had a real sense for painting, and an eye for color and form. And though Rossetti may have hollered and protested at some of Ruskin's demands, he knew in the end that his advice was valuable.

Ruskin's interference in Rossetti's personal affairs, however, was much less welcome. Why was it that everyone felt that Lizzie was in need of their aid? Not for the first time, he wished that he had been able to keep Lizzie separate from the rest of his life; not a secret exactly, but a thing apart from the daily business of his work and family obligations. He was tired of having to defend himself in her regard.

He thought of the day that he met her at Deverell's studio, and how her very existence had seemed a revelation. When he saw his friends later that day, he'd known instinctually that to tell them about Lizzie would have diminished the truth of his vision, and made the divine more ordinary by dressing it in the common language of models and bonnet shops. Now he wished that his love for Lizzie didn't require banal explanations and dutiful actions to make it right.

He wondered if he did, as Ruskin asked, have plans regarding Lizzie, and if there was, indeed, a certain sum that would enable him to carry them out. Of course a regular income would make things easier. If he could install Lizzie in a good house in, say, Chelsea, her health might improve, and his studio would once again be his private sanctuary. He could paint all day, whichever models he wanted, and then at night he could return to the loving arms of his wife, who could have her own studio at the back of the house.

No doubt Ruskin hoped that the steadiness of married life might improve Rossetti's own work, and, though he resented Ruskin's intrusion, Rossetti wondered if he might be right. Certainly the shared house in Kent and the looming brawl over Annie Miller's affections wasn't helping him get any painting done. For a moment he was tempted to dash off a note to Ruskin, naming a sum for his marriage as he might name a sum for a painting. But of course he didn't write. It was one thing for Lizzie, a woman with great talent but no training and no resources, to take Ruskin's allowance. For Rossetti to do so would be degrading.

Still, he began to long for Lizzie's company. He may not have wanted Ruskin's voice in his head, but he heard it anyway, and he wondered what sorts of paintings Lizzie was working on, and whether she was looking after herself properly. He forgot that they had bickered over his painting of the fallen woman, and he was relieved when Hunt said that the weather showed no signs of improving, and that they had better return to town.

 

Rossetti returned from Kent and begged for Lizzie's forgiveness, giving her a paisley shawl in the softest wool as a token of his contrition. But Lizzie was too caught up in her work, and too excited for her upcoming show, to bear any real grudge against him. She welcomed him home eagerly and showed him her new paintings, asking for his opinion on which pieces she ought to send to Ruskin.

Rossetti praised her paintings, but he worried, as always, over her health. Was it possible that in his absence she had grown even thinner? He wasn't at all convinced that she'd eaten regularly while he was away, and he blamed the laudanum, which seemed to have become the mainstay of her diet. But her excitement was infectious, and he put his worries aside, convincing himself that if the laudanum made her well enough to paint, then it was, after all, a good remedy.

Ruskin leased a small gallery in Charlotte Street for Lizzie's show, not far from the Rossetti family home, and he oversaw the hanging of her work himself. The subjects were mostly from poetry, and by the time of the show she had a nice collection of illustrations and watercolors, including scenes from the work of Robert Browning, Sir Walter Scott, and her beloved Tennyson.

The two most striking pieces in the collection, however, were her self-portrait, which Rossetti had exclaimed over to no end upon his return, and her illustration from the old English ballad
Clerk Saunders.
It showed Margaret, a maid who is persuaded to go to bed with her lover before their marriage. Later, his ghost visits her in her room after her brothers kill him. Lizzie had rendered the figures in rich colors, which shone out brightly from the shadows of the dawn light. Margaret wishes to kiss her lover, but he must refuse; his kiss would kill her. Instead, her face taut with grief, Margaret kisses a branch to lay upon his grave. It was a touching painting, and Ruskin hung it in a place of honor in the gallery.

On the first day of the show, Lizzie stayed in Rossetti's studio, waiting for word of her success or failure. She was far too nervous to attend the show herself, and Ruskin would be there to promote her work.

Rossetti, trying to patch over the hard feelings between them, invited Holman Hunt to go to the show with him. Ruskin greeted them at the door of the gallery, and Rossetti saw that it had been very well put on, and that Ruskin had secured a good attendance for the private view.

“Look at this one,” Rossetti said to Hunt, pointing to an illustration that Lizzie had done from a Browning poem. “She's captured the form of the women perfectly. They're so natural. She really is becoming quite a genius.”

“Very natural,” said Hunt. But under his breath he muttered, “Though I'm not sure I would say genius.”

“And here,” Rossetti went on, leading Hunt over to the watercolor of
Clerk Saunders.
“This is her best work. She has such depth of feeling, and such a natural understanding of color and shade.”

Hunt looked at the picture closely. “This one really is quite good! If I hadn't known that it was Lizzie's, I would have thought that perhaps it was yours, or maybe the work of poor Deverell. The style and the colors are so similar, don't you think?”

Rossetti looked angry. “I wouldn't say that at all. Deverell was a man of great talent, but Lizzie has real genius. Her work is completely original. It's an insult, Hunt, to even suggest that she was influenced by him.”

Hunt was taken aback. “You misunderstand me!” he cried. “I meant it as a compliment. After all, she's been studying with you for only such a short time. I didn't mean to insult her talent, or her originality. And besides, weren't they friends? I always find inspiration in the work of my friends, you included, Rossetti.”

Rossetti frowned, then turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Hunt bewildered. Rossetti hated to be reminded of the old rumors: that Deverell had been in love with Lizzie, and that he had painted her in secret, behind his back.

Hunt shrugged, used to such outbursts from Rossetti, and walked after him. He found him speaking with John Ruskin and another man who was exclaiming over the paintings in a brassy American accent. Hunt laid a hand on Rossetti's arm and said, in a conciliatory tone: “You're right.
Clerk Saunders
is surely Miss Siddal's finest work. It shows not only skill, but also perception. The true artist's eye.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear you say so!” cried the American. “I've just agreed to purchase it!”

Rossetti and Ruskin were beaming; they'd made Lizzie's first real sale.

“You'll have to excuse me,” Rossetti said, his quarrel with Hunt forgotten in light of the good news. “I want to be the first to congratulate the artist in person.”

He turned to the American. “You must have Ruskin bring you around to our studio. I'm sure that Miss Siddal would like to show you some of her work in person.”

He shook hands all around, and then dashed off into the street. He couldn't wait to share the good news with Lizzie.

 

Rossetti didn't have to go far to find her. He was barely at the corner of the street when he ran right into her, hurrying in the other direction.

“Lizzie! What are you doing here?”

“I was going mad just sitting and waiting. I had to see what sort of impression my work was making.”

Rossetti swept her into his arms and spun her around, surprising the other people in the street. “You've made your first sale to the public, Lizzie, and a good one at that. An American purchased
Clerk Saunders.
”

Lizzie broke out into a wide smile. “Then, I am an artist.”

“Let's celebrate. What would make you happy? The theater? Oysters and champagne? Tonight you must have whatever you want.”

Lizzie glanced around her. The news of her success made her feel bold. “Whatever I want? I don't want champagne. Dante, I want to meet your mother. Doesn't she live in Charlotte Street? Why don't we pay her a visit. It's high time, I think, that we met.”

“You want to celebrate in my mother's drawing room?” Rossetti laughed, but he could see that Lizzie was serious. It was obvious that she intended to have her way. He shrugged. “As you wish. Today, I'm at your service.”

He led Lizzie a few blocks down the street to the door of a small but respectable house. Any remaining illusions that Lizzie might have had of Rossetti's wealth were finally laid to rest. When she first met him, she thought that anyone who didn't work at a trade must live a life of leisure. But she'd since learned a great deal about London society, and the artist's place in that world. It was fitting that she first glimpsed Rossetti as the court jester in Deverell's painting. Painters, she now saw, were admitted to society, but only so far as they were pleasing and amusing.

Rossetti paused on the doorstep. “You're right, Lizzie. It's time that you met my mother.” He'd put off this moment for far too long, and now that it had arrived, he couldn't quite say why. It was a relief, after all this time, to finally be settling the question of their marriage. Once he introduced Lizzie to his mother as his intended, his future with her would feel more real, like a painting long in planning and finally marked out in pencil on the canvas. He knocked on the door.

The maid let them in, and Lizzie and Rossetti entered the drawing room and found Christina at her desk and Mrs. Rossetti reading a volume by the fireplace.

“Dante!” Christina cried. “You're a welcome sight!”