Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  “Well, then, you are a pre-Raphaelite,” pronounced the smocked student, with a wondering laugh.

  “Perhaps I am,” Rossetti agreed with a smile, breaking the tension. The square echoed with the sound of the bells at St. Martin’s. Rossetti counted them silently . . . seven, eight, nine. “Damn, I’m late,” he said, nodding goodbye to the other students. He hurried down the steps and into the square. He thrust his hand into his pocket to see if he had a few shillings for a cab, but all that he came up with was a handful of old ticket stubs. No matter—his friends would surely not begin without him. It was he who had called the meeting, after all.

  It had recently become fashionable among the students to form clubs around their artistic and political interests. Some were little more than drinking clubs with amusing names. A paper had recently been posted in the vestibule advertising for a Mutual Suicide Society, in which any member, weary of life, could call at any time upon another to cut his throat for him. This had caused a great deal of amusement, and garnered a fair number of signatures. But other societies were far more serious, with strictly observed rules and rites of membership. Tonight would be the first meeting of a new society, formed by Rossetti and his friends and fellow artists. By banding together, they hoped to give each other support in their pursuit of a new direction for British art. It was a bold plan, Rossetti knew. But what did he have to lose—besides his wits—if he had to endure any more tedious lessons at the hands of the old professors?

  He cut across the wide expanse of Trafalgar Square and made his way through the winding streets toward the river and Blackfriars Bridge. He ducked down an alley where children scavenged in the refuse behind the shops, and factory men, fresh from the gin shop, staggered past him on their way home. Women with brightly painted faces and hollow eyes called out from the doorsteps, but Rossetti ignored them, intent on his purpose.

  When he reached the foot of Blackfriars Bridge he stopped at the sight of a solitary girl at the far end of the bridge, leaning over the rail. For a moment it seemed that she meant to do herself harm, and he started toward her. But then he saw that she was only tossing something into the river, and he paused, curious. From where he stood he could see that she was plainly dressed, but a hint of red hair and the sweep of a high, perfect cheekbone were visible beneath her bonnet.

  The fact that he was already late, and that a half-dozen men awaited his arrival, hardly crossed his mind. He was fascinated by the girl’s graceful posture as she leaned against the rail and the porcelain-like curve of her cheek. It was like glimpsing the edge of a fine piece of stationery mixed among the dull pile of bills in one’s mail, the creamy paper promising a glittering invitation or perfumed love letter. As a painter, he felt entitled—almost obligated—to indulge these romantic fancies, and tonight he imagined that he had spied a royal among the street rabble. A painting began to take shape in his mind: a girl on a bridge, but a bridge far from London. She was suddenly an Italian contessa, tossing an illicit love letter into the Arno in Florence.

  He stood watching her, imagining the scene, and a line from Dante came to mind: “My lady looks so gentle and so pure, when yielding salutation by the way . . .” He was translating Dante Alighieri’s love sonnets into English, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the moment when the poet had first seen his beloved muse, the lady Beatrice, in the streets of medieval Florence. The poet fell in love with Beatrice at first sight, and though the strictures of courtly love, and his own delicacy, prevented him from doing anything more than admiring her from afar, his passion lasted his whole life. Rossetti had often longed for such a love: a passion that would transform and inspire him, and give direction to his art.

  But unlike Dante, Rossetti was under no stricture of courtly love, and so he began to cross the bridge, thinking that he would speak with the girl. As he drew nearer, he heard a faint cry. The fog was rolling quickly across the bridge, and it was difficult to see, but it appeared that there were now two figures at the end of the bridge. Rossetti could just make out the larger form of a man, his arms around the girl.

  He blushed at his foolishness. The girl was not some saintly Beatrice after all; he’d come upon a lovers’ rendezvous, or something more sordid. Shaking his head, he kept walking, determined to pass them quickly. But he heard another cry, of pain, not pleasure, and realized this was no tryst. He could see now that the man had the girl pinned against the stones, and her pale hands were pushing desperately against his weight. Rossetti’s chivalrous instinct was instantly revived. “Hello! What’s going on here?” he demanded, stepping toward them.

  The man turned in surprise and dropped his hands, and the woman broke free. She ran past Rossetti, and her red hair, loosened in the struggle, burned like a flame in the mist. He called out to her, and she paused, staring at him with wide gray eyes. She was beautiful, more perfect than he had imagined. With her flowing hair and flushed cheeks, she looked as if she had stepped from one of the medieval paintings that populated his imagination. He reached out his hand, but she turned and fled, disappearing into the night. He could not even be sure, for a moment, if she was real.

  But the man was still there, and Rossetti turned to face him. He was leaning against the embankment, watching Rossetti with amusement. He let out a short, nasty laugh. “You needn’t look so worried. Just a little slut, playing coy with me.”

  Rossetti didn’t share his laughter. “I think that you should take yourself home,” he said firmly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the girl had gotten clear. He was unsettled—the girl’s sad and lovely face had pierced him to his core. “A girl like that is not to be trifled with.”

  The drunk raised his eyebrows, but chose not to argue. As he walked away, however, he called back over his shoulder: “Love and chivalry are a young man’s game. Just wait and see.”

  Rossetti watched the man lurch back across the bridge, laughing at his own imagined cleverness. Once he was sure the man was gone, Rossetti began to search the shadows for some sign of the girl. He felt a sense of responsibility for her safety, and knew that he ought to go look for her.

  But his better intentions were overcome by the sound of a single church bell. He swore again—he was now a full half hour late. With a shrug of annoyance, he looked around once more, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. This was really not his concern, after all. He had somewhere to be.

  By the time he arrived at the meeting, his unease was forgotten. The evening held too much promise for the troubles of a girl by the river to worry him for long. He pushed open the door of the studio, and saw that his friends had all arrived ahead of him. They sat by the fire, their evening wear in various states of disarray. They were gathered around a book of Italian paintings, and Rossetti listened as they debated the merits of the frescoes in voices that rang with the ardor and grandiosity of men who were only lately out of their teens. Rossetti was pleased to see so many artists that he admired among those present.

  John Millais sat at the center of the group. He was the rising star of the Royal Academy, and his prospects as a painter were good. He was talented and handsome, and not surprisingly, a favorite with society ladies eager for portraits. But despite his success, he professed to be bored by the austere style of the Academy, and he had thrown his hat in with the new movement.

  Millais caught sight of Rossetti and rose to greet him. “You’re late,” he said, smiling. Rossetti was famous among his friends for having the best of intentions, but the worst resolve: he was always roaming through the city or dashing off a poem when he was supposed to be finishing a painting or meeting a friend. He was lucky that his friends found these qualities endearing; his charm had smoothed over many ruffled feathers. “But never mind,” Millais said. “Everyone is here now, and it’s a good group.”

  William Holman Hunt, a fellow student at the Academy, came over to them. Hunt was older than the others, but he had an unfortunately turned-up nose that made him look like a perpetual schoolboy. He had attempted to coun
teract this by growing extravagant sideburns that bordered on muttonchops, and the effect was slightly ludicrous. Hunt was, however, very serious about his work, and unlike Rossetti, he turned out regular pieces for sale.

  Hunt shook Rossetti’s hand. “It seems that we’re really going to pull it off! I brought round a book of early Italian paintings. I think they’re a perfect example of the spirit of simplicity that should regulate our movement, and everyone seems to agree.”

  “Yes, I saw,” Rossetti said, bristling at Hunt’s real or imagined intrusion on his authority with the group. It had been Rossetti’s idea, after all, to look to the early Italians for inspiration. But he tried not to betray his annoyance. The point was to draw inspiration from each other, not to bicker over who came up with what idea.

  Though the men were not generally drinkers, Millais poured out glasses of wine in acknowledgment of the occasion. Rossetti cleared his throat and the room quieted.

  Despite their youth, or perhaps because of it, it was a serious occasion. The men knew that a movement was afoot, and each man felt the thrill of a private revolution, of being on the cusp of an important change in their craft. No one felt this more keenly than Rossetti, but he tried to dampen his excitement in favor of the solemnity that he believed such an occasion demanded. He stood to speak, summoning all his powers of poetry.

  “Friends,” he said. “I believe that I speak for all of us when I say that I have no more wish to paint according to formulas and prescribed proportions than I have to spend my days sitting over a ledger book. I wish to paint nature as I find it, not as the Academy believes that it would be prettiest. I wish to take my inspiration from the old paintings of saints and heroes, where beauty was prized above all. Together we can teach the British people to appreciate the true beauty of nature, and to reject the contrivance of the fruit bowl and the country lane. But if we are to succeed, we must band together and swear to be true to our ideals in art, and in life. We must guard our new movement closely, and fan up its small flame until it becomes a great blaze that will consume even the much-vaunted halls of the Academy! I know you all to be artists of the highest order, and I believe that we are the men to change the face of British painting. And why should we not distinguish ourselves in the process?”

  “Hear! Hear!” cried the other men, nodding their heads vigorously in assent. What young artist present that night did not think of the glory that could be his if they were to pull this off?

  “Then we are agreed. We shall paint beauty as we see it, in nature and in life.”

  “And in women!” called out Holman Hunt, lightening the mood. Everyone laughed, Rossetti as heartily as the rest. No one could deny that the chance to paint beautiful women was one of the draws of the field. For a fleeting moment, Rossetti recalled the girl on the bridge, with her wide eyes and shining hair, though now he could not be sure whether he was remembering her as she was, or as he had imagined her into a painting.

  “Of course, we must paint beautiful women,” he said. “But not just the pink-cheeked English roses. We must paint the more exotic beauties; the orchids and lilies of the foreign fields; the willowy women whose beauty harkens back to the age of saints and angels. Lord knows that we have enough paintings of plump and bonny-faced country girls.”

  “There are never enough bonny-faced English girls,” said Holman Hunt. “I would take them by the two or three.”

  “Come,” Rossetti said, his voice rising above the laughter of the other men. “If we talk all night of the beauty of women, we shall never get round to creating our own works of beauty.”

  “Amen to that. The most stunning woman will fade as sure as the sun will set,” Hunt quipped, “but a beautiful painting may guarantee immortality to the artist.”

  “To the immortality of art,” Rossetti toasted, raising his glass. The other men raised their glasses in cheers.

  “And,” Rossetti added, suddenly inspired, “to the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood!” The men laughed, not quite catching his meaning. “Tonight, after the lecture, one of the other students called me a pre-Raphaelite. Word has gotten around that we don’t worship at the feet of the great master.”

  This news was greeted with delight. The men were pleased to think that their theories had gained some celebrity among their peers, even if they had been greeted with mocking. It was better, after all, to be known with contempt than not to be known at all.

  “It’s as good a name as any other,” Millais said. He tried it out: “The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The PRB.”

  “The PRB,” Rossetti repeated. “We can each inscribe our works with the initials, as a mark of our membership.”

  The other men nodded eagerly, liking the sense of intrigue and belonging that a secret symbol implied. Unable to contain himself any longer, Rossetti sprang from his chair and flourished a paper upon which he had been working. “Here, my friends, is our artistic creed: We hereby affirm our loyalty to Nature, Art, and Brotherhood.”

  “Agreed,” affirmed the other artists, their young voices grave. They gathered around Rossetti to sign the statement, and then solemnly shook hands.

  “To Brotherhood,” cheered Millais, raising his hand in salute. His cry was echoed around the room. “To Brotherhood!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Despite the damp chill and fading light of the March afternoon, the scene in Cranbourne Alley was anything but subdued. Walter Deverell made his way down the alley from Leicester Square, pressing his way through the crowd with his mother on his arm. He should have been at his studio, painting, but his mother had begged him to accompany her on a shopping trip to the city, and he could hardly refuse her simple request. She refused him nothing, and spared no expense when it came to his training, his studio, or his supplies.

  In the great current of commerce, it was all he could do to keep the two of them together. Genteel shoppers, companions in tow, sailed regally through the mass of working women. A crowd of children, beggars, and street hawkers spilled from the curb and into the street, and darted among the passing carts. Traffic snarled behind carriages that lingered outside of shops, while the shopgirls stood in the muck to show their wares to fine ladies who preferred to make their purchases from the comfort of their carriages.

  Cranbourne Alley had its share of dressmakers and jewelers, but it was for the most part devoted to a wide selection of millineries, each showcasing the latest and most daring styles in ladies’ bonnets. Through the dusty windows Deverell glimpsed an array of jewel-colored silks that rivaled the palette of paints in his studio. The better shops had new glass display windows presenting their finest wares: crown bonnets of deep blue taffeta trimmed with ribbon and Chantilly lace, shirred bonnets of olive crepe done up with paper roses and silk leaves, and, in one particularly sumptuous display, a burgundy velvet hat trimmed with ostrich plumes.

  Each shop employed touters, wiry young girls who used flattery, charm, and, if necessary, force to solicit passersby into their shops. One of these touters, a pale girl in last season’s faded silk bonnet, suddenly linked up with Deverell’s free arm. Despite her small size, she managed to steer both Deverell and his mother back toward her shop, speaking all the while of the glorious wares within. Mrs. Deverell needed little convincing to enter the shop, and so, with a good-natured sigh, Deverell let himself be led, by both arms now, out of the cold afternoon and into the warmth of Mrs. Tozer’s Millinery.

  Inside the shop a quiet bustle prevailed. Pretty assistants stood at the ready behind glass cases, while the shoppers giggled and preened in front of the mirrors on the countertop. The shop was presided over by an older woman in purple satin, who kept order with a sweep of her eye and a wave of her hand, somehow appearing to be everywhere at once.

  Deverell was forced into a waltz of polite bowing and stepping aside as the bells on the shop door jingled and women in cashmere coats and fur muffs paraded in and out, their slender arms laden with shopping bags. The shopgirls relieved them of their packages and helped them onto stools
where their custom bonnets were fitted. The milliners set intricate frames of wire and straw upon the ladies’ heads, and fluttered over them with deft hands, adjusting the shape here and there for a perfect fit.

  Deverell observed these feminine rites with a smile. With their colorful silk dresses and wire bonnets, the fine ladies looked like nothing so much as songbirds caught in cages: well fed, well plumed, and perfectly suited to decorate a drawing room.

  The scene would make for an amusing sketch, perhaps for a magazine. Deverell surveyed the room with a painterly eye, noting the lines and colors. But almost as soon as he had conceived it, the sketch was forgotten. At that moment, into the midst of this quotidian menagerie strode a most striking and luminous beauty.

  She entered from the workroom behind the shop, but she was a lady in her bearing, and her simple beauty stood out among the studied prettiness of the shop. She was tall, with perfect poise and skin of the most translucent white, touched only by a hint of rose on her high cheekbones. But it was her hair, a great wealth of copper strands laced through with fine gold threads, that caught Deverell’s eye. She reached for a bonnet on a high shelf and one long curl sprung loose from her chignon and lay against her cheek, revealing a natural unruliness. She was, as Deverell’s friend Rossetti was famous for saying, a real stunner.

  Deverell couldn’t believe his good luck. He had been looking for a redhead to model for his latest painting for ages, and he hadn’t seen anyone who would do. The picture was his most ambitious yet, and he’d taken painstaking care with every detail. The scene was from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and it depicted a melancholy moment of longing, as the young heroine Viola, disguised as a pageboy, pines for the love of the Duke, who hardly takes notice of her. But the success of the painting hinged on the figure of Viola, who must possess a classic beauty that would shine through her page’s costume, but not make it ridiculous. The model would have to be young and slim enough to wear the page’s disguise successfully, but at the same time reveal enough soft femininity to suggest the tenderness and yearning that she feels for the Duke.