Ophelia's Muse Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
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    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