Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

"I'll never want to draw anyone else but you. You are my muse. Without you there is no art in me." With her pale, luminous skin and cloud of copper-colored hair, nineteen-year-old Lizzie Siddal looks nothing like the rosy-cheeked ideal of Victorian beauty. Working in a London milliner's shop, Lizzie stitches elegant bonnets destined for wealthier young women, until a chance meeting brings her to the attention of painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Enchanted both by her ethereal appearance and her artistic ambitions--quite out of place for a shop girl--Rossetti draws her into his glittering world of salons and bohemian soirees. Lizzie begins to sit for some of the most celebrated members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, posing for John Everett Millais as Shakespeare's Ophelia, for William Holman Hunt--and especially for Rossetti, who immortalizes her in countless paintings as his namesake's beloved Beatrice. The passionate visions Rossetti creates on canvas are echoed in their intense affair. But while Lizzie strives to establish herself as a painter and poet in her own right, betrayal, illness, and addiction leave her struggling to save her marriage and her sense of self. Rita Cameron weaves historical figures and vivid details into a complex, unconventional love story, giving voice to one of the most influential yet overlooked figures of a fascinating era--a woman who is both artist and inspiration, long gazed upon, but until now, never fully seen. An excerpt from Ophelia’s Muse Rossetti stood behind the canvas, pretending to study Deverell's painting while he admired its model. Despite Deverell's enthusiastic descriptions, Rossetti was completely unprepared for the glorious woman before him. She seemed to be from another age, as if she had sprung to life from an antique painting of an Italian saint. Seated before the window, her hair cast a slight golden glow in the afternoon sun, like a halo. She could not have been more perfect if he had sculpted her from marble with his own hands. Deverell claimed that he had found the perfect Viola, but this girl was far too beautiful to pose as some love-sick page. She was clearly meant to sit for the great heroines of history and myth, and Rossetti vowed to paint her as a queen. "Miss Siddal, has anyone ever told you that you were surely crafted by the gods in order to be painted? If you don't believe that yours is a beauty for the ages, you underestimate yourself." The force of his words struck Lizzie, and she wondered if he was serious, and if it could be true. Was this the thing that she had always been waiting for? Was she really meant to inspire great artists? Her head buzzed with the possibility, but the very allure of the idea felt dangerous...

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

London, 1850

Lizzie Siddal pushed her needle through the stiff satin of a black bonnet, attached the last piece of rose trimming, and tied off the thread with an expert knot. Putting the bonnet aside, she slipped the thimble from her finger and shifted on the hard bench. She longed to stretch, but she sat shoulder to shoulder with a dozen other girls. The custom in London’s millinery shops was that the girls must stay in place until their shift was finished, and Lizzie had no wish to risk the anger of the head milliner.

The workroom of the Cranbourne Alley shop was small and cramped, with a long table and a single window at the far end. The shelves that lined the walls held the materials of their trade: rolls of muslin, silk, and satin; lengths of wire and pasteboard; and baskets of feathers, spangles, and silk flowers. Behind a door was the front of the shop, where the bonnets were displayed on glass counters.

At this late hour the shop was closed, and the milliners worked by candlelight, rushing to finish the orders for the next day. Evening had come and gone, and the chatter that animated the girls at midday was now only a murmur. They stared at their work with tired eyes, trying their best to look industrious even as they grimaced at each movement of their swollen fingers.

Lizzie paused for a moment before taking up her next bonnet, thinking that there was no point in rushing if she was going to be there all night. She startled guiltily at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see the commanding form of the head milliner, Mrs. Tozer, behind her.

But Mrs. Tozer didn’t look angry. “Miss Siddal,” she said, “you may go. And mind you go straight home. I expect the shop to be busy tomorrow, and I need you looking fresh. You’ll be working in the front, behind the counter.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, relieved that she was being let out early and not reprimanded for idleness. She gathered up her tools—brightly colored spools of thread, a jumble of needles and pins—and placed them on her tray. As she tidied her space, a few girls gave her a nod and a smile, but there was no good-natured joking or gaily called goodnights, as there would have been for another girl.

Though she tried her best to be friendly, Lizzie wasn’t close with the other milliners. Most were country girls who came up to London to find work. Lizzie, born and raised in the city, couldn’t help but think them simple and occasionally crude. They, in turn, laughed at her careful manners, which they found pretentious, and whispered about her, asking why a girl with such a fine accent should have to work as they did. They didn’t know that her elegant deportment was nothing more than a relic of her family’s better days, and that she was now as dependent upon her wages as any of them.

Lizzie’s looks also garnered undue and unwelcome notice from the other girls. She was tall for a woman, and at nineteen she stood as tall as many men. But though this might have made her awkward, she carried herself with a graceful gait, and she was often called striking, though rarely pretty. Her skin was pale, and she had large gray eyes with heavy lids. But her most remarkable feature was her thick red hair, which glinted gold in the light and tumbled down her back in loose curls when it wasn’t tied up for work. The shopgirls, like many of their class, considered red hair bad luck—a sign of witchcraft and a bad omen for the shop.

Lizzie picked up her bonnet and cloak and slipped from the room. Behind her, she heard someone do a decent imitation of Mrs. Tozer’s high, fluttering voice: “Miss Siddal needs ’er beauty sleep! Make sure Miss Siddal ’as a cushion for her feet!” The other girls dissolved into giggles, but Lizzie pretended not to hear them.

She opened the shop door, and the empty street rang with the sound of their girlish laughter. Stepping under the street lamp, her hair glowed like copper for one moment before she placed her bonnet firmly on her head and extinguished its flame. She had no wish to attract attention. She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and stepped out into the night, merging into its shadows.

The January air was cold and clear—a welcome change from the stuffiness of the workshop. The great bustle of commerce that daily descended upon Cranbourne Alley, pushing and hollering its way through the narrow passage, had long ago dispersed for more comfortable quarters, and a heavy rain had swept the street clean of its rubbish, leaving only puddles of yellow light beneath the gaslights. A single carriage raced down the street, and the clatter of horses’ hooves echoed from the fronts of the closed-up shops. In the distance, the bells of St. Martin’s began to ring. The sound of the chimes skipped across the rooftops, marking the hour as nine o’clock.

She was halfway down the street when she heard the door open again and a girl cry out, “Wait up, Lizzie!”

She turned to see Jeannie Evans hurrying to her side, her cloak half on and her blond curls bouncing. Like Lizzie, Jeannie was often picked for one of the coveted positions in the front of the shop.

Jeannie fell into step with Lizzie, and together they set off into the twisted web of alleys that made up the commercial quarter of Leicester Square. As they walked, the streets gradually widened and then spilled into the bustling stretch of the Strand. In Cranbourne Alley, the only signs of life at this hour were concealed behind the closed doors of the workshops. But the Strand was lively under the lights of cafés and theaters. Restaurants threw their windows open, beckoning the passersby with the savory scent of meat pies and the sweet aroma of fresh apple fritters. The shows were just letting out, and the sidewalks filled with people, the men in top hats and spats, and the women in crisp satins and furs. The well-to-do crowd attracted a swarm of beggars, flower-sellers, and buskers, and Lizzie and Jeannie were forced to step off the sidewalk and into the muck of the curb to get around them.

They hurried past the theater crowds and struck east toward Fleet Street. An icy wind blew in off the Thames, and Jeannie winced as she pulled her gloves onto her tender hands. “That shop will be the death of me,” she said. “I never stopped sewing for ten minutes altogether, and I’m still behind on my orders. Eight bonnets done, frame to ribbons, and still Mrs. Tozer was fit to be tied. I thought the old devil might have me there all night! And it’s bound to get worse—the Season ain’t even started yet!”

“She was very cross today,” Lizzie said. “But what choice does she have? We’re behind on the orders and there’s two girls fallen ill.”

Jeannie giggled and looked at Lizzie with surprise. “Ill? You are an odd duck, aren’t you? Didn’t you hear the talk in the shop today?”

“Has anyone said anything worth hearing? Or worth repeating?”

Jeannie rolled her eyes. “Well, even you will want to hear this, I expect. Bess Bailey ain’t ill at all. In fact she was in fine health when I saw her in the alley just last night. Someone had clapped a brand new silk gown on her back, and it was cut as low as you please.” Jeannie made a clownish curtsy and flashed Lizzie a knowing smile, but Lizzie stared back at her blankly. Jeannie shook her head and said, as if she were explaining something to a child, “She was on the arm of a young swell, and he looked very satisfied with her indeed.”

Lizzie drew in her breath. “Really, Jeannie, you shouldn’t spread such rumors!”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you,” Jeannie sniffed. “But really, you can’t be surprised! You must’ve heard her father’s been out of work, and with her brother passed away last spring, the family can’t be too particular about where the money comes from. There’s a quick profit to be made in the street, and God knows we work hard enough at Mrs. Tozer’s for the pittance we bring home.”

Lizzie slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the small weight of her week’s wages. She would have to turn them over to her mother as soon as she got home. “Then I’m very sorry for her, that her family has sunk so low. She deserves our pity, Jeannie. What will become of her?”

“Aye, it’s no easy thing,” Jeannie agreed, her tone softer now. “I wouldn’t trade places with Bess Bailey for ten new silk dresses, even with the long hours at Mrs. Tozer’s. But really, d’you think we’re any better off? There’s no fortune to be made in Cranbourne Alley, not for the likes of us. Not in the shops or on the street.”

Lizzie nodded, knowing that her own family was not immune from such misfortune, despite their tenuous pretensions to the middle class. One piece of ill luck, and the worn thread that kept them moored to the shores of decent society could snap, leaving her adrift in the dark London night with no hope for rescue. “But I would never let that happen to me,” Lizzie cried, as if to banish the possibility. “She’ll have no chance at marriage now. What man would have her?”

“Half the girls in the shop are married and it ain’t saved them from hard work.”

“Then they’ve made foolish matches,” Lizzie said, knowing even as she said it that many of the girls had no real hope for anything better. “But I won’t be working at Mrs. Tozer’s forever.”

“No? And what will you do, then?” Jeannie asked.

Lizzie glanced at Jeannie, wondering if she should speak freely with her. She usually kept her thoughts to herself, not wanting to give the shopgirls any more reason to laugh at her. But the news of Bess Bailey’s hard luck made her bold. “Perhaps I’ll marry well. And when I do, the only time that you’ll see me at Mrs. Tozer’s Millinery will be when I come in to order my new bonnets—once in the spring and once in the fall.”

“And if you don’t meet a fine gentleman?”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to make my own way. I haven’t got the proper education to be a governess, though I’m sure I’ve read more books than half the girls who pass for accomplished in the great houses. But I won’t die an old maid hunched over Mrs. Tozer’s worktable. It’s too dreary to even think of.”

Jeannie laughed. “You’ve pinned your hopes very high! But I wish you luck. Anything to get out of that workroom. You can’t feed a cat on the wages.”

“And it’s so tedious,” Lizzie said. “To wait on all those fine ladies and never have anything nice for ourselves. But never mind, Jeannie, surely things can only get better.”

Jeannie nodded, and they walked on in silence, each entertaining well-worn daydreams. But something Jeannie said tugged at Lizzie’s memory. “Surely Louisa hasn’t taken to the streets as well?” Lizzie asked, thinking of the other assistant who had been out.

“No, no, not Louisa,” Jeannie said, serious now. “It’s her eyes. The strain . . .” She trailed off. Every milliner and seamstress in the city knew that the detailed work, often done by candlelight, was hard on her sight. They had all heard the stories of girls who went blind from it.

“Might she recover?”

Jeannie shook her head. “I heard today that Mrs. Tozer sent a present of extra wages round to her family. That usually means that a girl ain’t coming back.” She turned to give Lizzie another quizzical look. “You must have your head in the clouds—the talk in the shop was of little else! What do you think of all day?”

Lizzie fought a rising wave of panic. She quickened her step, as if she could feel, lapping at her heels, the same ill tide of poverty that had dragged the other girls under. She turned to Jeannie, a fierce expression on her face. “What do I think of all day?” she asked, no longer caring if Jeannie thought her ridiculous. “Why, I think of poems and stories: the Knights of the Round Table and the ladies of the court; the moors of the countryside and the finest drawing rooms of the city. I dream myself among them, away from all this . . .”

She waved her hand to indicate the street around them, the many girls just like themselves who were trudging home from factories and shops to boardinghouses and tenements. Then she looked at Jeannie and saw on her face the beginnings of a grin, as if Lizzie had made some sort of joke.

Lizzie sighed. It wasn’t fair to expect a girl like Jeannie, whose education had consisted of little more than her letters and numbers, to understand. The other shopgirls hadn’t read the books that Lizzie had; they couldn’t imagine a world beyond the crowded alleys of Leicester Square.

“Poems?” Jeannie finally asked. “Well, don’t tell any of the other girls. They already think you’re strange. You’re lucky that you’re a favorite with Mrs. Tozer, you know, so they leave you alone.”

Lizzie bristled. “I don’t think that I’m better than them, if that’s what they think.” But to herself she thought: not better, perhaps, but certainly different.

“Don’t be prickly. They’re just jealous that Mrs. Tozer lets you work in the front of the shop, while they’re stuck in the back, filling the orders.”

“I can’t help it, you know that.” The fact was that Mrs. Tozer liked the more elegant girls up front, and Lizzie, though lacking Jeannie’s flaxen curls and pink cheeks, had a face that wasn’t easily forgotten.

“It wouldn’t hurt to join in more,” Jeannie said. “They do think you’re an awful snob. But of course if you’re too busy thinking of poetry . . .”

Jeannie giggled at her joke, and Lizzie blushed. But before she could make a retort, they were nearly knocked into the curb by three little girls skipping by them in the street. The girls held bouquets of wheat and flowers, and they chanted a song in high voices as they headed toward the church of St. Clement:

“Agnes sweet, and Agnes fair, hither, hither, now repair; bonny Agnes, let me see, the lad who is to marry me.”

“There you go, Lizzie!” Jeannie cried. “It’s St. Agnes’ Eve. The night for virgins to dream of their husbands.” She smiled suggestively at Lizzie, and Lizzie blushed again. Together they watched the girls toss their flowers onto the white stone steps of the church, and then clasp their hands together in an earnest prayer.

“Why don’t you make an offering?” Jeannie teased. “Maybe you’ll have a vision of your husband tonight! Here,” she said, stooping to pick up a flower that one of the little girls had dropped, then handing it to Lizzie. “Willing to try your luck for a glimpse of your white knight?”

Lizzie shook her head, but she put the flower into the pocket of her cloak. “I don’t care what he looks like,” she said lightly, embarrassed that she had confided in Jeannie, who would surely spread gossip around the shop. “So long as he appears! I’m dying of boredom at Mrs. Tozer’s—I must have some new adventure.”

“Just take care that you don’t end up like Bess Bailey. She has adventure in spades now, to be sure.” Jeannie grinned at Lizzie and then gestured to a little street on her right. “I’m just up this way. I hope that they kept some supper warm! Goodnight then, Lizzie, and hurry home.”

She turned with a wave and darted up her street, leaving Lizzie, who had no intention of hurrying, alone in the midst of the crowded city.

Lizzie set off, determined to enjoy her solitude. No one would expect her at home for at least another hour, and it wasn’t often that she had a few moments to herself. At home she shared a small room with her sister, Lydia, in a crowded house, where it always seemed that there was a baby crying or a teakettle screaming for attention. To be alone with her thoughts, or better yet, with a book of poetry, was a treat worth savoring.

Fleet Street was still crowded, even at this late hour. Newspapermen were stumbling back to work after a few at the pub, and messenger boys darted past them, running tips and copy between the offices. Wishing to escape the crush, she slipped down a side street and into the parklike oasis of the Inns of Court. A narrow path wound between the gracious limestone and brick chambers of the city’s barristers, and through the windows Lizzie saw the glow of their lamps as they hunched over their writs and pleas. Passing under a stone arch, she entered a series of courtyards made pleasant by manicured hedges and whispering fountains. She was only steps from the noise of Fleet Street, but the Inns were so quiet that she could have been miles away. The tap of her boots hitting the flagstones was the only sound as she followed the path past an expanse of green lawn and down toward the Thames. Cutting right, she made for Blackfriars Bridge, which would lead her across the river and home to Southwark.

She paused on the bridge to lean against the stone rail and look out at the water below. The river shimmered darkly under the night sky, and a light fog rolled along its banks. The bridge was lively in the afternoons, but now it was quiet and shrouded in mist, and Lizzie was glad for the privacy that it offered.

She sighed and removed her gloves. It was a cool night, but she didn’t hurry on. Instead, she placed her fingers against the cold stones of the bridge, using them to soothe her raw hands.

The sounds of the city washed over her: the lap of the water against the bank, sailors calling to each other from their ship decks, the hum of wheels and the crack of hooves as a carriage passed behind her. It was a pleasant change from the millinery, where the incessant gossip was punctuated only by the sharp voice of Mrs. Tozer, criticizing some poor girl’s handiwork.

Lizzie had forgotten that it was St. Agnes’ Eve. She thought of the girls throwing their flowers onto the church steps, and another, older memory of the night surfaced: Lizzie, at thirteen years old, slipping a dusty volume of Keats from the shelf in the parlor. She had carried the book to bed with her, and burned down one of her mother’s precious candles reading a poem of romantic love fulfilled on the Eve of St. Agnes. She could still recite her favorite verse, and she now began to whisper the dreamy words to the night air:


Lizzie smiled and slipped her hand into her pocket. The flower was still there, wilted but intact. Glancing around to make sure that she was unobserved, she threw it into the river and began to mouth the words of the old chant: “Agnes sweet, and Agnes fair, hither, hither, now repair; bonny Agnes, let me see, the lad who is to marry me.”

The flower landed on the water and quickly sank below the surface. Her prayer had begun as a game, a moment’s folly as she stood daydreaming. But as she stared down into the water, she struggled to contain the hope that beat against her chest and rose into her throat. “Please, please,” she whispered to the silent waters, “show me some sign that I will love, and be loved!”

But of course she saw nothing. The dark water offered no sign, and if she had allowed herself to indulge for a moment in childish hope, she now brushed it from her mind. It would take more than a whispered prayer to escape a life of drudgery in a millinery shop.

She was lost in her thoughts and plans when a footstep behind her brought her firmly back to the present. For one wild moment she imagined that this might be her vision, her future come to reveal itself. She had almost turned, a smile forming on her face, when she came to her senses. Whoever was behind her was no vision, but a living, breathing man.

The heavy footsteps drew nearer and she tensed, her skin growing clammy despite the cold. The empty bridge, so recently a haven, now felt desolate and foreboding.

The man was now close enough that she could hear the pant of his breath. With a chill, she caught the sour scent of alcohol on the air. It was a tramp, or worse. She pulled herself up to her full height before turning around, her most commanding expression on her face.

“Oh!” she said, letting out her breath. The man behind her was no tramp—he was an older gentleman, in evening clothes of obvious quality. There was nothing to fear from him. But as he came closer, too close, she saw that his cheeks were red with drink, and the broken vessels across his nose mapped a history of many such nights.

Lizzie began to edge away from him, but he stepped closer, blocking her way.

“Evening, pretty,” he slurred. “May I join you?”

“Certainly not!” Hands shaking, she pulled her cloak tighter, as if it offered her some real protection.

He grabbed her arm. “You look like a good sort of girl. D’you work in the shops? Let me show you a nice time—I’ll take you out on the town! A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be all alone.”

Lizzie looked across the bridge toward Southwark, wishing that she had just hurried home, as she ought to have done. If anyone she knew were to see her with this man, it could ruin her. She didn’t dare to make a scene, but she had to get away.

“You must excuse me. My companion is waiting,” she cried, hoping that the specter of a chaperone might scare him off. She gestured toward the other side of the bridge. “I really must go,” she added, and then stopped, hating the pleading note in her voice.

“Your companion?” He squinted at the empty road. When he turned back to her, the thin veneer of drunken jollity had fallen from his face. “Now, don’t be coy with me, or I’ll teach you your place with the back of my hand.” He looked her up and down, taking her measure with his eye. “Girls like you are ten to a penny.”

Without warning, he tightened his hand around her arm and pulled her closer, his fat, ring-laden fingers holding her like a vise. She felt his hot breath against her cheek and shuddered.

“You’re nothing so special as you think, missy,” he hissed. “Girls like you always end up lifting your skirts for some bloke or other. You all think you’re different, but I know better.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and Lizzie recoiled at what she saw—neither pity nor desire, but only a terrible blankness. She tried desperately to pull away, but the man had her pinned firmly. She cried out, no longer caring what anyone might think, just wanting to get away. Her breath came fast and shallow, and her mouth felt dry. The man’s face grew dim before her eyes, and her knees gave way with a sickening lurch.

The old drunk didn’t hear the other man until he was nearly upon them. Lizzie saw him first, over the drunk’s shoulder, a young man hurrying toward them, calling out and waving. As he drew nearer the drunk turned, surprised, and his hand went slack. Lizzie took her chance, twisting away from his grasp.

She ran without seeing, not wasting a moment or glancing behind her. She felt herself brush past the stranger, but she didn’t stop.

“Wait! Miss! Are you all right?” he called. His voice, deep and calm, broke the spell that fear had cast upon her.

She took a few more steps, and then, feeling that she had gained a safe distance, she paused and looked over her shoulder. The drunk was leaning against the rail, and the other man had positioned himself between them. He looked at her curiously, and despite the fog, she thought she could see real kindness in his regard. Was it possible that his eyes were the same pale gray as her own? She watched as he looked at the drunk, his jaw setting with contempt. Could he guess what had happened?

The emotion of the last few minutes flooded through her, leaving her weak and shaking. She felt a mad impulse to go to this stranger, her rescuer; to lean on his arm and seek his protection. But the feeling diminished as quickly as it came, and instead she turned and ran on, anxious to get away.

The man called after her again, but she didn’t stop and he didn’t follow her. When she reached the street she gathered her courage and looked back, but she was alone. She turned and fled into the alleys of Southwark, grateful, for once, to be running toward the familiar outlines of its crumbling streets.

In the main hall of the Royal Academy of Arts, Dante Gabriel Rossetti found himself in the awkward position of nodding off during a lecture. Try as he might, he could not force his eyes to stay open, and his head dropped forward over and over, only to snap back to attention with a jerk.

The professor droned on in that aloof and nasal monotone particular to academics and the nobility, of which he was both. But his dry tone didn’t stop the other students from leaning forward in their seats as they transcribed his every word with a chorus of scratching pencils. Rossetti alone was indifferent to the professor’s words.

He was beginning to think that he would have to find his future outside of the halls of the Royal Academy, where conformity and tradition were valued above all else. He’d been drawn to the Academy by its excellent reputation and delighted when he was accepted; graduates of the Academy were practically guaranteed a steady income from their art, and even a chance at making a great name for themselves, so long as they painted in the accepted style. But to Rossetti, such a path was beginning to seem impossibly dull. He was twenty-one, and he felt himself too old for lessons and too young to compromise his ideas about art for a steady income earned with stodgy paintings. He stifled a yawn and stared idly at the paintings that hung on the walls above him while the professor continued his lecture.

The Royal Academy occupied quarters in the new National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, and the lecture hall was lined with an impressive collection of paintings in heavy gold frames. The pictures formed a catalogue of the Academy’s illustrious history: a pompous self-portrait of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Academy’s founder; Sir Edwin Landseer’s paintings of well-fed dogs and preening deer, which were much loved by Queen Victoria; and the dramatic seascapes of J. M. W. Turner, which were the best of the lot, in Rossetti’s opinion.

Rossetti turned his attention back to the professor, who was smacking his stick against the side of the lectern for emphasis and saying, for at least the tenth time: “You must look to Raphael, you see, and nowhere else, for your proportions of light to dark. The light is an accent to be sparingly used. Do not be tempted to stray from these classical proportions. Raphael attained the highest excellence in execution and form, and it is toward his example that you must strive.”

Rossetti let out a snort, which was noted with raised eyebrows by a few students near him. Classical proportions were all well and good, Rossetti thought, but true art should celebrate vibrant color and the beauty of light, the romance of imagination and the truth of nature. It could hardly be denied that Raphael had attained near perfection when it came to the classical forms, but the Academy was now so slavishly dedicated to his example that they no longer cared, in Rossetti’s opinion, whether a painting contained real truth or beauty.

The professor turned his attention to critiquing a bland painting that sat next to him on an easel, and Rossetti began to nod off again. The paintings above him swam and floated before his eyes: Landseer’s dogs paddled through Turner’s raging seas, while Sir Joshua Reynolds looked on from the deck of the ship, disapproving. “Sir Joshua, Sir Sloshua,” he muttered sleepily.

He leaned back in his chair, content to wait out the end of the lecture with a nap. But as he gazed at the Turner seascape, the professor’s words echoed through his mind like the dissonant tones of a cracked bell: “You must look to Raphael, you see, and nowhere else, for your proportions of light to dark. The light is an accent to be sparingly used.” But here, right in front of him, was a painting that radiated light, as if it were illuminated from behind. He sat up straight and stared at the seascape as if he were seeing it for the first time. The golden sun bled into the water below and reflected off of every conceivable surface, gilding the edges of the clouds and the crests of the waves, and catching in the full sails of the ships. It captured the exact feeling of watching the sea, when the sun reflects so strongly off the water that you have to squint to look at it, and the clouds shift constantly overhead, bathing the shore in unreal washes of yellow and gray.

Rossetti let out a low laugh. So Turner had strayed from the rigid practices of the Academy, and yet they had hung his picture in a place of honor. Perhaps, he thought, the Academy’s rules only applied to the mediocre. If you were truly great, a genius, they didn’t give a damn if you followed the rules or not.

At last the class came to an end, and there was a general shuffling as the students stood up to leave. The student in the next chair noticed that Rossetti was still staring at Turner’s seascape. “It’s a fine painting,” he said.

“It’s more than fine,” Rossetti declared. “It’s genius.”

“Well, yes, of course,” the man said, taken back by Rossetti’s zealous tone. “Turner is one of the Academy’s most esteemed graduates.”

“It’s genius,” Rossetti repeated, “but not for the reasons that you think. In fact, I suspect that if you’ve been listening to this travesty of a lecture, you’re completely blind to the very things that make it great.”

“Well, I say!” The student stared at Rossetti, as if he suspected that he’d been insulted, but wasn’t entirely sure how.

“Oh, never mind,” Rossetti muttered. There was no point in arguing over the merits of the Academy with its acolytes. He gathered up his portfo