The previous post's mention of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (not to mention the inescapable imminence of effin' Hallowe'en) reminded me of a notable biographical detail in the life of this solidly second-rate Victorian poet and serial painter of curiously similar-looking women. In case you were unaware of this, shall we say, unusual event, I have summarised it from Wikipedia thusly:
In 1849 or 1850, Rossetti met Elizabeth Siddal, who had entered the Pre-Raphaelite circle after being noticed by Walter Deverell while working in a milliner's in Leicester Square. Over the next decade, Siddall became Rossetti's muse and pupil, and after 1851, modelled exclusively for him. The couple were married in 1860 after a long engagement, during which Rossetti was serially unfaithful, and Siddal became addicted to laudanum. In 1862, Siddall died of an overdose of laudanum, shortly after giving birth to a stillborn child. After her death Rossetti became increasingly depressed, and when Elizabeth was buried at Highgate Cemetery, he interred the bulk of his unpublished poems with her. In later years Rossetti was prevailed upon by friends, in particular Charles Augustus Howell, to exhume his poems from his wife's grave. In 1869 he did so, collating and publishing them in 1870 in the volume Poems by D. G. Rossetti. The collection included some translations, such as his "Ballad Of Dead Ladies", an 1869 translation of François Villon's poem "Ballade des dames du temps jadis".
A number of comments suggest themselves. Let's bullet-point them:
- Do the maths: 1862 to 1869... Eek. Enough said.
- Surely it would have occurred to any idiot to make some copies before committing this histrionic gesture? Clearly not.
- Before doing something even more crazy, Gabriel, you might have considered the possibility that your so-called friends might just have been winding you up. [1]
- Laudanum... Just say no. See also absinthe.
- "Ballad of Dead Ladies"? You're kidding, right, Gabe? What, you're Bertolt Brecht now?
- Generally speaking, it seems best to stay well away from any involvement with poets and painters. It never seems to end well. "Scenius"? Steer clear...
I think I'm speaking for every sane person reading this blog – obviously, there are a few lunatics out there – when I say that most of us would regard any such "stuff stashed in a coffin" situation – maybe some extremely valuable keepsake or heirloom – as irreversible. Damn, I wish I hadn't done that, but what can I do about it now? Nothing, obviously. To request an exhumation – seven years later – would not (I trust) even cross your mind as a possibility. No, you'll just have to leave that Rolex for the detectorists of the future.
Which is probably why most of us are not even within shouting distance of ever achieving fame as a second- or even third-rate anything. Our names will never trouble the biographies of our more prominent contemporaries, even as a footnote to a footnote. Sane people lack the extremity of motivation that brushes off bad reviews, repeated rejection, impoverishment, personal tragedy, or any other sort of obstacle that a halfway-normal person will stand before, shrug, and say, "Oh, well! It was never meant to be. Better recalibrate and get a proper job..."
Whereas the crazy, narcissistic types simply say, "Fetch me a spade, a crowbar, a ladder, and some bolt cutters... This is very fucking far from over!"
It's in there? Not a problem, more of a challenge...
1. A dialogue:
DGR: So I finally did what you said. I've got all those poems back now.CAH: You did what? You mean the ones in Lizzie's grave? No way, man! Jesus H. Christ! Say you're kidding me!DGR: No, really: they're at the dry cleaners just now, though. What a mess...CAH: I can't believe you're serious... That's... insane...DGR: Insane? But it was your idea! You guys kept going on about it, and I finally saw it made perfect sense!CAH: We were winding you up, mate! We all enjoyed the look on your face whenever the subject came up, that was all...DGR: Well, I've done it now, and I'm glad. Some of the bits I could still make out through the, uh, residue were pretty good.CAH: What can I say, Gabe? You're a legend, mate.
In actual fact, though, it was CAH (Charles Augustus Howell ) himself who arranged the exhumation. Howell (a.k.a. "Owl") was a rogue with a reputation for blackmail, a manipulative art dealer and "business manager" who insinuated himself into the affairs of several prominent figures – Ruskin, Swinburne, and Whistler, for example – and whose life of lies and extortion and extraordinary death (go on, follow the link to Wikipedia) seem to have been rather more interesting than most. There was a biography by Helen Rossetti Angeli published in 1954 (Pre-Raphaelite Twilight, which Evelyn Waugh reviewed in The Spectator with the enticing title "A Mid-Victorian Spiv"), but I suspect a fresh, properly-researched biography is long overdue. His story would also make a cracking caper-cum-costume-drama film, with colourful touches of "body horror"... Or – here's a thought – how about a musical? The songs practically write themselves!
Mr. RossettiDo not forgettiI am the manWho's got a planFor your sonnetti!
Yo, Lloyd-Webber, get your people to talk to my people.
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