The Wayward Muse (22 page)

J
ANE
was afraid to go home. She thought it must show on her face, in her walk. She could hardly bear to sit at the dining room table with her husband.

“You and Rossetti are awfully chummy lately,” he remarked. “You sat for him again today?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, immediately on her guard.

“Nothing at all,” he said mildly. “Just an observation of fact.”

“He is quite lonely,” Jane said. “His other friends are too busy to visit.”

Morris did not seem to notice the jibe.

“Does he do any work, or does he only make sketches of you?” he inquired.

“You don’t think that my sitting for him constitutes work?” bristled Jane. “You think it’s frivolous and pointless?”

“I didn’t say that,” Morris protested. “I only wondered if he was doing any new history paintings.”

“He is more interested in portraiture right now,” she said. “Allegorical portraits.”

“Of you,” said Morris.

“Yes,” said Jane. “Do you think I am not worthy of such attention, that my image is a waste of a great artist’s time?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Morris. “I’d like to see these paintings sometime. Perhaps I’ll go with you the next time. But now we must go over the menu for the dinner next Thursday. I thought we could order a goose.”

The guests were due to arrive any minute and Jane had a terrible toothache. She suspected it was because Rossetti was to come to her house, and sit across the table from Morris, making a mockery of her unsuspecting husband. She had never felt sick with guilt before. This is how Rossetti felt when Lizzie died, she thought to herself. No wonder he drank himself to sleep.

Jane lay on the sofa with a warm compress on her face. She did not get up to greet the guests as they arrived, and she did not try to take part in the conversation swirling around her. She resolved that when Rossetti arrived, she would be reserved with him. After Millais’s party Jane feared that Georgie suspected something; she had to make sure that her behavior was above reproach.

Unfortunately Rossetti had made no such vow. When he saw her reclining on the sofa, he rushed to her in dismay.

“Mrs. Morris, are you ill?” he cried.

She tried to calm him. “It’s nothing,” she said, glancing around nervously. “A toothache.”

The other guests looked surprised by Rossetti’s disproportionate alarm, but Jane realized they would attribute it to emotions triggered by memories of his wife. She reflected that he must have played this part with Lizzie many times.

“May I bring you anything? Can I help in any way?”

Jane shook her head. “I just need rest, and quiet.”

“I am at your service,” Rossetti said as he moved away.

Morris was late arriving from the workshop and Faulkner, as usual, contrived to play a joke on his host. When Morris entered the drawing room, a large volume fell from the door top onto his head.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Morris asked as he picked the volume up from the floor and checked to make sure none of the pages was torn or bent. “Do you think I need a knock on the head?”

“You said it, not us,” said Faulkner.

“Thackeray,” observed Morris. “Always hated him. Such a mincing, simpering way of writing.” He walked across the room to replace the volume on the shelf.

“I quite liked
Pendennis,”
said Jane.

Morris glanced over at his wife.

“Not feeling well?” he asked carelessly. “I’m sorry to hear it. Now, then, who would like to hear an excerpt from a marvelous poem after dinner?”

Burne-Jones pretended to fall asleep.

“I assure you it’s very thrilling,” said Morris.

“Did you get my order yesterday?” asked Rossetti with a grin. “The one for thirteen bugles and a two-ton head of cheese?”

“So it was you,” said Morris. “I suspected as much. Of course the whole thing was illegible, so there was no way to tell who it was from, not even to contact them and ask them what in the world it said.”

“Exactly,” said Rossetti. “Did you tear your hair out when you saw it?”

“Well, not entirely, since I still have some, as you see. But I did throw a vase or two.”

“None of mine, I hope,” said Burne-Jones.

“No, I believe they were Webb’s,” joked Morris.

Webb picked up the decanter and pretended to hurl it at Morris.

“Now we must be quiet and good,” said Rossetti. “We have a sick lady present.”

Jane sat languidly across from her husband at dinner, listening as he told the others about the antics of a ridiculous prelate who was a client. Occasionally she went into the kitchen to check on things, or brought a fresh dish of nuts or a plate of cheese, but the evening seemed empty, colorless. Rossetti did not approach her, which was what she wanted, she told herself. It would not do to make a spectacle of themselves, in her house, in Morris’s house. But she felt left out and ignored. Now I have two men to neglect me, she thought petulantly.

After dinner Morris read from his poem, “The Life and Death of Jason”:

Morris swayed a little as he read; his voice was strong and loud and he unconsciously flourished his hand at the parts he thought were the best. He is so happy, thought Jane, watching him. When he had finished, there was enthusiastic applause.

“It’s so sad,” observed Jane. “For of course they were mistaken.”

“ ‘Gleaming with gold, and blue, and cinnabar,’” quoted Georgie. “That is my favorite line. How do you think of these things?”

Morris blushed with pleasure. “Not easily,” he said. “Through much toil and trouble.”

“I’ve recently finished a poem,” announced Rossetti. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Morris, surprised. “I didn’t know you were writing again.”

“The muse has returned,” said Rossetti. He leaned against the mantel, gazed directly at Jane, and began:

Jane thought she might die of mortification right there in her own living room. She could not believe how reckless Rossetti was being. She tried very hard not to let anyone see how she was affected by the poem, but she knew the color was in her face and that she was trembling.

It was a vague poem, she told herself. It could have been about Lizzie, or about Fanny Cornforth. The poem could have been about portraiture in general, or about the act of painting. But it was not, and Jane knew it.

Everyone was very complimentary of Rossetti’s poem, too.

“That’s the kind of poem I like,” said Webb. “Short and full of feeling.”

“Rossetti is in love again,” teased Burne-Jones. “Is it the elephant who has inspired these lines?” Elephant was Rossetti’s pet name for Fanny.

“A gentleman never reveals the name of his muse,” said Rossetti.

Morris was staring at Rossetti as if he’d never seen him before.

“What did you think, Top?” asked Rossetti. “You’re the eminent poet I have to live up to.”

Morris shook himself from his stupor. “The rhythm is good,” he said. “And the depth of emotion, of course, which is always your strong suit.”

“Thank you,” Rossetti bowed.

“If there are no more poems, I suggest music,” said Morris abruptly. “Will you play, Georgie?”

“Of course. Come turn the pages for me.”

Rossetti sat down in the chair opposite the sofa where Jane was reclining. “May I adjust your wrap, Mrs. Morris?” he said. “I fear your shoulders are cold.”

Jane was vexed and pleased and worried and sorry and besotted all at the same time. She hardly knew what to do or say.

“Thank you,” she said at last, “but I am very comfortable.”

“I hope you liked my poem,” he said.

“The lady in question is very fortunate,” she said.

“It is I who am fortunate,” he replied.

“Will you sing, Jane?” Georgie called to her.

“No thank you,” Jane said. “I intend to retire early.”

T
HE
Firm had been commissioned to create a dining room for the South Kensington Museum. Morris was very excited about it.

“Just think how many people will see our work there,” he said. “This will mean more commissions, more attention, less worry. We must celebrate.”

“Oh, William, I don’t think I feel well enough,” protested Jane.

“Nonsense,” he said. “We’re going to the Dorchester hotel for dinner.”

Jane wore a jade green dress and several strands of gold, jade, and amber beads. She tried to ignore the twinge in her back and the pain in her head every time she looked at her husband’s pink and beaming face. The crab-stuffed sole in white sauce and the new peas were not as delicious as they should have been.

“The onion tart is sublime,” said Morris.

As she ate Jane concocted a story in which Morris died suddenly of apoplexy. After the suitable mourning period, she and Rossetti were quietly married at the Catholic church in Bexley-heath. With the money Morris left her, she purchased Red House from the people they had sold it to, and she and Rossetti took Jenny and May there to live. Rossetti was on a scaffolding, painting the ceiling of the bedroom with angels, while she lay faceup on the bed, eating cherries from a bowl and watching him.

Morris reached over and took her hand. Reflexively, she shook it off.

“Is my touch so repulsive to you?” He sounded annoyed that she was spoiling his pleasant evening. She had not planned to tell him so soon, or in this way. But suddenly she could wait no longer.

“William,” she said, and stopped.

“Hmm?” said Morris, his knife shrieking across the plate as he cut his ham.

“I have something I must tell you,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked, his eyes still on his plate.

“I no longer love you,” she said. She did not know how to say it in a gentler way. And even if she could, Morris had an endless ability to ignore or discount the subtle ways in which she had let him know that she did not care for him anymore.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Morris sawed at a spot on the tablecloth with his knife; he appeared stunned.

“How long have you felt this way?” he finally asked. His voice sounded strange; the words came out slowly and calmly, quite unlike his usual quickly tumbling speech.

“Does it matter?” she asked. She had hoped, foolishly she now realized, that since Morris apparently had lost interest in her as well, he would take this news with some measure of calm.

“I know I’ve neglected you,” he said. “The business has sucked all of the energy out of me for too long. But now things will be different. Now that we have this commission, success is more or less assured. I’ll be able to spend more time at home. More time with you and with the kiddies.”

“It’s too late, William,” she said sorrowfully. “It might have made a difference two years ago, but not now. I don’t love you.”

Now he looked at her, incredulously, his eyes full of pain. “You stopped loving me years ago, but you kept it to yourself until now? Why tell me, then? Why not let me go to my grave thinking I had a loving wife, a family?” With horror she saw that he might cry, but there were other people dining nearby and though his voice had become thick and hoarse, he managed to keep the tears in check.

“It seemed dishonorable to continue living a lie,” she said.

“Have you fallen in love with someone else?” he asked sharply, catching Jane off guard. She had hoped to ease her conscience by disengaging herself from her husband, but she could not tell Morris about Rossetti. Not yet. In a few months, when they had accustomed themselves to the reality of their loveless marriage, then she would tell him. He would find someone else, too. But now she was frightened.

“This does not concern anyone else,” she said, her heart pounding.

Morris seemed to accept this.

“Is there any way your feelings might return?” he begged. “If I change?”

“I don’t mean to reproach you,” she said, “but no, I don’t believe they will.”

“But there is a chance?” he said. He got up from his place and came to kneel before her. He took her hand, which she tried, successfully, not to draw away.

“If there is anything I can do to make you love me again, you have only to say it. For I love you more than anything and your happiness is my only concern.”

“Get up, William.” Jane felt guiltier than ever. “Don’t make such a display.” Other diners were frowning at their hands to avoid staring.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I will do anything.”

At home he paused awkwardly in the doorway of their bedroom. For years now he had worked late in his study and come to bed when she had been asleep for hours, but now he hesitated.

“Would you like me to come to bed?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said wearily.

“I’ll just check on May,” he said. “Then I’ll come.”

She submitted to his clumsy, desperate attentions that night because it seemed to be the only way to appease him. She felt no disgust, only pity. Afterward he tried not to let her see that he was weeping.

At breakfast Morris stared at her dolefully and it made Jane unable to eat.

“I think we should take a trip,” he said as Jane aimlessly stirred her tea. “We’ve never been to Italy together.”

“William,” she said pityingly. After that he quickly finished his toast and went down to the shop.

At Ruskin’s party the next night, by prior agreement Jane and Rossetti greeted each other cordially and formally, spoke to a few people, and met after an hour or so in the darkest corner of the drawing room. There they would lounge for the rest of the night.

“I’ve withdrawn from him,” she whispered, clutching Rossetti’s hand. “I’ve told him I don’t love him.”

Rossetti put her palm against his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “But you didn’t tell him? About us?”

“How could I?” she said. “If he didn’t kill
me,
he might kill himself, or you. And it’s not as if there has been any talk of separation.”

“Not yet,” said Rossetti. Jane’s eyes were drawn, unbidden, to her husband. He was waving his arms about wildly as he talked to a small fair-haired man. The man’s face was very pink and he was laughing at whatever Morris was saying.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“That’s Eirikr Magnusson,” said Rossetti. “A man of the cloth. From Iceland, I believe. He’s come to England to supervise the printing of an Icelandic New Testament. He’s also working on a Norse dictionary and a series of translations of Icelandic legends.”

“William is obsessed with Icelandic legends,” said Jane.

“I know,” said Rossetti. “When he lived at Red Lion Square, he used to read them out loud in the evenings, and he invariably complained that there isn’t a reliable English translation.”

Georgie came and stood next to the sofa upon which Jane and Rossetti were lounging.

“Have you learned any good gossip out there, Georgie?” asked Rossetti merrily.

Georgie didn’t smile. “Could I speak with you, Jane?” she said.

“Well, if you must go, try to find out something shocking to tell me when you get back,” said Rossetti.

They left the drawing room. As they passed into the hall, Georgie turned and gripped her hand.

“Is it true?” Georgie hissed. All at once Jane felt faint and sick.

“Did he tell you?” she gasped, reaching for the wall to support her trembling legs.

“I received the most terrible letter,” Georgie said. “Full of curses and self-recrimination and so much pain! I know that you would not deliberately be the cause of your dear husband’s torment.”

“If I’ve hurt him, I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I don’t know what else to do.” She could not look at her friend. She gazed over Georgie’s shoulder into the room they had just left. William was still gesticulating at the Icelander. Rossetti had joined a group that included Ruskin and a young woman with copper-colored hair. She wore it in an intricate style and Jane wondered whether the hair was entirely her own, or a fall. There was so much of it, and it curled so beautifully. Rossetti was staring at it as if he wanted to touch it, and it gave Jane a pang.

“You know, when we married, we took a sacred vow,” Georgie began. She was not used to giving lectures and she instinctively fell back on the sermonizing she had grown up with. “We said that we would love, honor, and obey our husbands, and they promised to love, honor, and cherish us.”

“I know,” said Jane miserably. How could she explain it all to Georgie, who was faithful to Ned despite Maria Zambaco?

“I understand that sometimes marriage is difficult,” Georgie rasped, the tears she was trying hard to suppress nearly choking her. “I wish you had come to me when you began to have doubts. Together we could have figured out how to help you.”

“I don’t think there is anything to be done,” said Jane.

“Sometimes people turn our heads. They make us forget our duty and the things we hold most dear,” said Georgie. “But if we gave in to temptation, we would be very sorry afterward that we had forgotten ourselves.”

“I have not forgotten myself,” said Jane heatedly. “Quite the opposite.”

When Georgie left her to find Burne-Jones, Jane did not have the heart to return to Rossetti. But neither could she join her husband and the Icelandic minister. Instead she wandered about Ruskin’s house, picking up seashells and fossils and examining portraits of his parents until she heard the other guests departing.

“I met the most interesting man,” said Morris on the way home. “He is going to teach me Icelandic. We are to meet next Thursday afternoon.”

“That’s wonderful, William,” said Jane. She was staring out the window of the carriage, trying not to cry.

“At last I will be able to learn all of the great stories,” said Morris. “Perhaps we can translate them into English together.”

“You can write some poems of your own, based on the stories,” said Jane.

“My poor poetry isn’t worthy of the stories,” said Morris, taking her hand. “But I’m touched that you think so.”

Jane’s sobs now became audible but she told her husband it was the backache again.

It was very disconcerting to Jane, how hard Morris tried to win her love. He came home earlier from work. He attempted to engage her in conversation that interested her. He seldom droned on about the minutiae of his business now; he was more likely to ask her what she was reading, or what she thought of a new book of poems. He began refusing dessert at dinner. He trimmed the beard she disliked and bought a new suit of clothes. Jane did not have the heart to tell him that these gestures were hopeless.

One evening Morris hesitantly entered her sitting room. Jane was embroidering a design of heart’s ease onto a dress for Jenny and did not look up.

“A nice pattern,” he said, touching the starched pink cotton fabric.

“I was thinking of making one for May, in yellow, with green floss,” Jane said.

“What about willow leaves?” he said. “Or fern. I can draw it up for you.”

“Did you want something?” asked Jane.

“I have a surprise for you,” Morris said eagerly. “I’ve commissioned Rossetti to paint your portrait.”

Jane could not believe it. “Are you sure?” she asked. “It would mean even more time sitting.”

“I figure if you are going to spend so much time modeling for him, I might as well get something out of it. And I want a portrait of my wife by the best painter in London. And as Millais is abroad…”

Jane smiled at his joke but did not think it very funny.

Rossetti grumbled about painting Jane for her husband instead of solely for himself. He had wanted to say no, but could not think of a legitimate excuse for doing so, and, as usual, he was short of cash.

“He wants to play Medici to my Michelangelo, does he?” he said to Jane at the first sitting. “He cannot tell me how to paint you, at least. It won’t be one of those horribly tasteful portraits that fill the drawing rooms of London, where the lady is softly pretty, perhaps holding a spaniel in one hand and a fan in the other.”

“It would be funny, though, if you did that,” said Jane. “He’s expecting a Rossetti and you give him something proper and horrible.”

“You are a cruel woman, Jane,” Rossetti said. He left the easel and came to sit beside her. “Do you really want to wear this dress?” He stroked the sleeve of the brown velvet gown.

“William asked me to,” Jane said. “It is his favorite.”

“I should have known!” exclaimed Rossetti. “You are drowning in it. It hides your light entirely. You must wear something else.”

“What would you like?” asked Jane.

“I like the idea of blue,” he said. “The Virgin Mary, the sky, the ocean…Something vivid. Peacock, with that iridescence.”

“I don’t have anything like that,” said Jane. She knew that Rossetti, who paid close attention to dress, remembered her gowns perfectly.

“Then you’ll have one made. I’m sure we can find the fabric I’m thinking of if we scour the shops.”