Ophelia's Muse (31 page)

Lizzie was standing slightly behind Rossetti, but now she stepped forward. She was prepared for a cold reception, so she was surprised when Christina's smile did not dim at the sight of her.

“And Miss Siddal, as well! It's been entirely too long. Please, come in and meet my mother. Here, this is the most comfortable chair. I know that you've not been well. This is my mother, Mrs. Rossetti. She's heard so much about you, and she's anxious to make your acquaintance.”

Lizzie swallowed her surprise. She followed Christina and sat in a chair by the fire, and Rossetti stood by her shoulder.

“Mother, this is Miss Elizabeth Siddal. Miss Siddal is a talented poet and painter, and she's done me the honor of agreeing to marry me. I hope that you'll give us your blessing.”

Mrs. Rossetti embraced them both, tears in her eyes. “Welcome to our family, Elizabeth.” She turned to Rossetti. “You've picked a pretty one, dear, and made me a happy old woman. Now come and sit with me by the fire. I want to know everything.”

Rossetti told his mother about Lizzie's painting, and about the success of her first show, but his mother and sister, as predicted, only wanted to talk about the wedding.

“Have you set a date?” Mrs. Rossetti asked.

“Not yet,” Rossetti laughed. “But I think you'll agree that it would be best to wait for the nice weather in the spring.”

“Why not a Christmas wedding?” Mrs. Rossetti asked.

“That would be lovely,” Lizzie agreed, smiling at Rossetti.

“But we'll want to travel after the wedding, so a spring wedding makes the most sense.”

Lizzie frowned, and Mrs. Rossetti watched the exchange with a keen eye. “There's no reason to decide tonight,” she said, smoothing over the disagreement. “But these decisions are best left to the women, dear. I'll write to Father Healy and see when he might be available.” Then she turned to Lizzie and asked after her family and her work. Lizzie obliged her, giving vague answers about her family that painted them as a poor but respectable and literary clan. Christina ordered the tea and pulled up a chair to join them, and Lizzie felt that Rossetti's family had welcomed her with affection. She couldn't help but wonder if Christina's own romantic disappointments had made her more sympathetic, but whatever the change was, Lizzie welcomed it.

Rossetti watched his mother and sister, and saw that the Rossetti women had, as women will, quietly rallied around Lizzie. No matter what they may have thought of her background, it was their nature to feel indignant on behalf of a woman in distress. He knew that they disapproved of what they heard of his living arrangements, and that now that he had brought Lizzie home, they would do everything in their power to see that he did right by her. And of course, Mrs. Rossetti could forgive a lot for the promise of a grandchild.

Rossetti did what any man in his situation would do: He ignored the tea completely and poured himself a generous glass of port from the side table. The drink steadied his nerves, and after a second glass, he began to enjoy the sight of his dear, talented Lizzie sitting between his mother and Christina. Domesticity may have its constraints, but surely it also had its advantages? Perhaps Ruskin was right and a steadier way of life would allow him to concentrate more on his work.

When Rossetti and Lizzie rose to take their leave, the Rossetti ladies both embraced Lizzie, and offered her their compliments on her success. As she walked Lizzie to the door, Christina leaned close to her and whispered: “I'm sorry that I haven't been a better friend to you. I hope that you'll depend upon my friendship in the future.”

Lizzie nodded, feeling for the first time since her father had cast her out that she was safe and welcome in a real home. She wondered if now that Rossetti had announced their engagement to his family, she would finally be able to return to her house with her head held high. Sitting by the fire with Mrs. Rossetti had made her long for such moments with her own mother. Surely her family would welcome her again once she was a respectably married woman?

As they made their way out into the street, Rossetti took special care with her, making sure that her cloak was tied tightly around her shoulders and grasping her arm as they stepped over the curb. Lizzie was giddy with her accomplishments; she had sold a painting and she would soon be married to the man whom she loved. Everything would work out in the end, after all—she had been wrong ever to doubt Rossetti, or her own talent. She felt no need to resort to her bottle of laudanum. No anxiety plagued her, and the dulling effects of the laudanum would only have robbed the joy from the day, while offering an empty comfort. For the first time in as long as she could remember, the world was clear and bright, and she walked by Rossetti's side with the feeling that all was just as it should be.

CHAPTER 19

Fall turned into winter, and it became clear that there would be no Christmas wedding. January of 1855 was cold; the coldest, some said, in the forty years since the last time the Thames froze over, when there was skating and sledding, and an elephant led across the ice under Blackfriars Bridge. The Thames did not freeze, but the sleet was constant, pooling in the streets in a cold black stew and coating everything from lampposts to ladies' hems in a thick layer of ice and grime. Rossetti fed the fire at Chatham Place, but the hearth did little to drive away the damp that settled in the beams of the building, and soon invaded Lizzie's delicate constitution as well. Her thin frame was no protection against the chill, and she coughed through much of the winter. A fire was lit in the bedroom, and some days she stayed there from morning till night, taking laudanum and hot tea, and leaving Rossetti to his own devices.

Spring came as if it had always been there, like a guest who arrives at a sleeping house and greets the family at the breakfast table. One night they went to bed to the howl of a hard wind blowing in off the Thames, and the next morning they woke to warm pale sunlight and the sound of gulls flying over the river. But the fine weather boded no better for Lizzie's hopes of marriage than the paralyzing freeze of winter. It was a pattern as familiar to her as the changing of the seasons: Rossetti's devoted attention persisted for several months before other concerns clamored for his attention, and Lizzie was once again forgotten, relegated to the corner of the studio to work on her own drawings.

She knew that he didn't mean to be cruel; it was just that there were paintings to be finished and dinners to attend, poems to be written and sold off to magazines, and outings to the pleasure gardens at Cremorne now that the evenings were warm. John Ruskin was no longer the only man championing Rossetti's work, and with the new interest in his painting came a flood of commissions and invitations. The winter left Lizzie weak, and Rossetti was not willing to give up his newfound celebrity to sit at home by her side.

The waiting—waiting for Rossetti to set the date, waiting for him to return home in the evenings—wore on her, and she once again turned from the demanding solace of her painting to the easy comfort of the laudanum. Rossetti grew concerned whenever he saw her taking it, but he accepted without argument her claim that it was the only thing that eased her aches. Emma Brown, on her frequent visits, was more skeptical. “Lizzie,” she said, “you're poisoning yourself. If you took as much food as you take of that nasty potion, you might put a little meat on your bones. Why don't you come stay with Ford and me for a few weeks? The children would love to see you, and chasing them about would give anyone an appetite.” But Lizzie demurred. “My work keeps me here,” she said, and Emma raised her eyebrows, looking at the small pile of sketches that Lizzie had completed, but held her tongue.

 

Rossetti traveled frequently that spring, spending weeks at a time in Oxford while he worked on a mural in the old debating hall at the Union Society. It was a group project that he'd undertaken with a few other painters, including his new friends Ned Burne-Jones and William Morris.

The mural would encompass ten panels that stretched from the tops of the bookcases that lined the room to the vaulted ceiling. The theme was Malory's
Morte d'Arthur,
and Rossetti's panel showed Lancelot prevented from entering the chapel of the Holy Grail by the sin of his adultery with Queen Guinevere. Lancelot has fallen asleep before the shrine, and he dreams that Guinevere is gazing at him with her arms spread out against the backdrop of an apple tree. She is at once Eve in the garden, the cause of Lancelot's fall, and Christ at the crucifixion, savior of his soul. As Rossetti painted Guinevere's outstretched arms, he imagined her holding scales: measuring the weight of their passion against the code of chivalry to which Lancelot is sworn.

If the size of the murals was grand, the painting party that set up camp at Oxford was even grander. Painters, poets, and friends from the city came and went, and Rossetti spent as much time making up silly verses and pursuing the local girls to sit for him as models as he did working on the mural. He became fast friends with Ned Burne-Jones, a young painter who had not only heard of the Brotherhood, but also admired them, and treated Rossetti as a mentor.

They began to refer to the undertaking as the Jovial Campaign, and when the six weeks allotted for the project came and went without much progress being made, the committee overseeing the work was at a loss and wrote to John Ruskin for advice. But Ruskin was of little help, writing back that painters were all a bit mad, and difficult to manage, and that the best thing to do was to let them have their way and hope for the best.

The mural was still far from finished when a letter came from London that broke up the painting party. Lizzie was ill again, and Christina wrote to Rossetti to urge him to return to the city. He was enjoying his new friends and new surroundings, but Christina's words reminded him of his duty. He returned to Lizzie, chastened and bearing gifts, and swearing that he had thought of no one but her while he was away. Lizzie rallied, but she was still weak, and Rossetti found himself wondering, not for the first time, how long he would have to sit by her sickbed.

 

In June, Ford and Emma Brown proposed an outing to Hampton Court Palace, and Rossetti jumped at the chance to get out of the house. The city was already hot, and everyone longed for the fresh air of the countryside. A party was put together and two carriages were hired to take them west of the city to the palace grounds, which had been opened to the public by the Queen. At first, Lizzie demurred. But for once Rossetti insisted that she come with him, and she gave in, convinced that the change of scenery would do her good.

Hampton Court was famous for its hedge maze and its excellent picnicking grounds. Baskets were packed with a glorious spread: cold hams and wheels of cheese, fresh strawberries, a salad of peas and mint, and bottles of wine and beer.

Lizzie and Rossetti rode in the first carriage with Ford and Emma. Holman Hunt and Annie Miller, on precarious terms since Hunt's return from the East, rode in the second carriage with John Ruskin. Ned Burne-Jones, who came down to the city from Oxford for the outing, rounded out the group.

The ride was difficult for Lizzie. The jolting and rocking of the carriage upset her stomach and made her head ache. But Rossetti tended to her lovingly, and, as always, Lizzie improved under his care, gaining strength from his attention. He measured out a generous portion of her laudanum, and had the carriages stop so that beer could be fetched from the other carriage to settle her stomach. By the time the party reached Hampton Court, Lizzie was sleeping peacefully, her head resting on Rossetti's shoulder.

When they arrived at the gates, Rossetti shook her awake. She peered out of the window as the carriage rolled down a broad avenue toward the palace. White paths crisscrossed the manicured lawns, and iris, foxglove, and lilies bordered the lane. The sun reflected off of the water of the curving canal that bordered the garden. The carriage rolled down an allée of trees trimmed into perfectly matching cones. The palace, visible ahead, was massive, built of pale pink brick, with hundreds of chimneys rising up from the roof against the bright blue sky. It couldn't have been a more perfect setting, or a more glorious day, for a picnic.

The carriages pulled up short of the palace and the party began to unload. Ruskin helped Lizzie down from the carriage. Rossetti offered her his arm and Ruskin held a parasol over her head as they escorted her through a small garden, dotted with stone sculptures and bounded by hedges. They picked a spot in the field beyond the garden and settled Lizzie in the shade of a great plane tree. The rest of the party followed behind, carrying the blankets and baskets of food.

Annie Miller watched as Rossetti and Ruskin fussed over Lizzie. Lizzie overhead her say to Hunt, “Well, ain't she the Queen of Sheba?” But Lizzie ignored the slight, shaking her head at the crassness of the woman that so fascinated Rossetti.

They shook out the blankets and Lizzie lay down with her head in Rossetti's lap. The sun shone down through the branches of the tree and played upon his face, and she was reminded of their one perfect day together in Hastings. She smiled at him, feeling the easy intimacy of their early days, before illness and the bothers of money and marriage and everything else had crowded out the thing that she had almost forgotten—that she loved Rossetti from deep within her soul; that she had only risen from her waking slumber when he had looked upon her and seen saints and angels, noblewomen and goddesses.

He smiled back, and she saw him clearly, as if they were alone. Then her focus shifted and became hazier, and the faces of her friends seemed to glide by slowly and indistinctly. Her heartbeat, slow and regular from the laudanum, sped up, and her hands began to tremble. The dose was wearing off.

She reached for the bottle and Rossetti noticed her movement. His face registered his surprise that she needed more so soon. Then he shrugged and reached out his own hand. He had started to take it a bit himself, just a touch here and there, saying that the opium encouraged his artistic vision.

The picnic baskets were unpacked and they ate their meal on the grass, washing down the food with generous glasses of sweet wine. When they finished, they lay back on the blankets, full and happy. The talk was slow and idle, and Rossetti drifted off to sleep under the shade of the tree. Ned Burne-Jones had brought a small portable easel with him, and he set it up to make studies of the ladies, capturing their whispers and laughter in a series of quick sketches.

Lizzie had almost fallen asleep herself when Emma's cheerful voice roused the group. “I'm tired of sitting. Let's play a game!”

“Charades?” Ford suggested.

“No, we always play charades. Besides, Hunt and Ruskin will pick the most obscure books. It leaves me quite out of the game.”

“If you read more, my dear, you wouldn't mind so much,” Ford said with a smile.

Emma ignored him. “Let's go into the maze! There should be enough light left to see our way back out, unless we get hopelessly lost.”

“I suppose we should see it while we're here.” Ford rolled over on the blanket. “But I'd much rather lie here and have Ned tell us what he's working on.”

Ned blushed and smiled, delighted to have the notice of a painter he admired. He'd said little during the afternoon, but now he rose to his feet. “Perhaps I can please both the ladies and the gentlemen. I propose a game in the nature of my new painting. It's only in designs at the moment, but when it's finished it will show the fall of Troy, starting with the golden apple of discord, tossed among the goddesses. I hope you don't mind—I've taken a few quick studies of the ladies today for my goddesses, as I'm not often in the company of three women so clearly on loan to us from the gods.”

“How interesting,” Emma said. “Do go on.”

“It all began with a trick played by Eris, the goddess of discord. Eris wasn't invited to the wedding feast of Peleus. Her feelings were hurt, and she decided to go anyway. She arrived at the celebration with a golden apple, on which she inscribed,
To the Fairest One.

“There were many beautiful goddesses at the wedding, and Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite all claimed the apple as theirs. The goddesses asked Zeus to judge which of them was the fairest, but Zeus was far too clever to be drawn into such an argument, and to show favor to any one goddess. Instead, he declared that Paris, the Trojan prince, would be the judge. And that's how Paris found himself tasked with judging among the beauty of three lovely goddesses, who each offered him bribes of earthly glories to gain his choice.”

“It's a wonderful tale,” Emma broke in. “But I don't see how we should make a game out of it.”

“Don't you see? Here, today, we have three of the most beautiful ladies that I've ever laid eyes upon. It would not go too far, I think, to call you goddesses, and certainly you've been painted as such.”

He reached into the picnic basket and found an apple, which he began to carve with a pocketknife. When he held it up for them to see, it had Eris's inscription upon it:
To the Fairest One.
“Shall we have a competition,” he asked, “for the golden apple?”

Emma and Annie Miller clapped their hands in pleasure, and even Lizzie was intrigued.

“I'll name each of you as a goddess, and you yourselves shall choose the gifts that you will bestow on our judge, should he choose you as the fairest.”

He turned first to Lizzie. “You will be Hera, the queen of the gods, since it's said that you have the bearing of a queen. Hera offered to make Paris the king of all Europe and Asia, and he was sorely tempted.”

“I accept,” Lizzie said, with a gracious smile.

“And you, Emma, shall be our Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, since you've organized our outing today with the skill and forethought of a general. Athena offered to share her knowledge of war with Paris, and the glory that would come with such skill.”

Emma laughed. “I'm honored, though I'm afraid that Ford will protest my being named the goddess of wisdom.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Ford said. “You manage me quite well, and I'm a happy man!”

“And finally, there is Aphrodite, goddess of love, who offered Paris the love of the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Oh!” Annie Miller cried out. “That was Helen of Troy, wasn't it? Dante painted me as Helen, I remember the story!” She turned and looked triumphantly at Hunt, as if to say, see, I am not so simple as you think. But Hunt looked more pained than pleased.