Ophelia's Muse Read Online Free Page B

sacrilege, but Rossetti continued unabashed. “They’re not so bad in and of themselves, of course.” He paused as the men laughed at his casual tone. “But they had the unfortunate effect of setting a precedent, and a very static one at that, for every work that followed. They’ve made art so mannered, and so elegant, that it no longer shows anything of life. I want to break free from all that. I want to recapture the romance of the old masters.”
    â€œWell, then, you are a pre-Raphaelite,” pronounced the smocked student, with a wondering laugh.
    â€œPerhaps 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