by Stephanie Chatfield
Lizzie was first discovered by artist Walter Howell Deverell while working in a millinery shop, and she soon appeared in his painting Twelfth Night. This marked her entry into the Pre-Raphaelite circle, leading to her modeling for notable works such as Millais’ Ophelia and Holman Hunt’s Valentine Rescuing Sylvia. In time, however, she became the muse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Subsequently, Lizzie posed exclusively for Gabriel, who became consumed with capturing her likeness — sketching and painting her obsessively.
When she expressed a desire to create art herself rather than simply model for it, he took on the role of her mentor. This aspect of their relationship is the one I find most compelling – the idea of two people inspiring each other creatively and making art side-by-side. Gabriel encouraged her ambitions and supported her work, even going so far as to help secure art critic John Ruskin as her patron.
It all sounds so full of promise — a couple deeply in love, their lives intertwined with art and mutual inspiration. So where did it all go wrong?
Over time, Lizzie developed a reputation for fragile health and began using laudanum, a common remedy in that era but one with dangerous consequences. Meanwhile, Rossetti grew to envision her as an untouchable ideal — worshiping her more as a muse than embracing her as a real, complex woman. She became a symbol, admired from a distance, rather than a partner truly seen and understood.
His sister, the poet Christina Rossetti, alludes to this in her poem In An Artist’s Studio:
One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel; – every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
Their tumultuous, on-again-off-again relationship stretched over nearly a decade before they finally married. Years before their marriage, cracks had already begun to show. Rossetti had become infatuated with model Annie Miller — who was herself involved with Pre-Raphaelite artist William Holman Hunt — sparking Lizzie’s deep dislike for both of them.
Both Lizzie and Rossetti were known for their moody, volatile temperaments, which only added fuel to the fire. The emotional rollercoaster must have been exhausting — Rossetti could swing from being distant and distracted by other women to suddenly attentive and devoted, especially when Lizzie fell ill. And since her illnesses were frequent — and she often recovered just as suddenly — some have speculated that her ailments may have, at times, been a way to draw Rossetti back to her, a bid for his sympathy and attention.
Later, Rossetti grew enchanted by both Fanny Cornforth and Jane Burden (who would become Jane Morris). While it’s unclear how intimate those relationships were at the time, one thing was certain: Lizzie was no longer his only muse. Though she remained a powerful source of inspiration for him, she now had to share that role with other women — a shift that marked a turning point in their dynamic.
Throughout their long courtship, Lizzie and Rossetti experienced many periods of separation. She often traveled in search of better health and, at one point – during a break in their relationship – she even attended an art school in Sheffield (a clear sign that her artistic ambitions were genuine and not merely extensions of her relationship with Rossetti.) But over time, her illnesses became increasingly severe. What may once have been seen as emotional manipulations had turned into very real, serious health issues — exacerbated by her prolonged use of laudanum. The opiate-alcohol mixture, so common in that era, had begun to exact a devastating toll on her body.
In 1860, Lizzie was staying in Hastings, gravely ill — so much so that her family feared she was near death. Rossetti was urgently called to her side. He had seen her unwell countless times before, but something about this moment must have felt different, more dire. At last, after nine years of shared history — years filled with art, inspiration, intense emotion, and countless highs and lows — he was finally ready to follow through on the promise he had long made. He married her.
Perhaps it was an act of love, perhaps one of redemption, or maybe both — but it was, undeniably, the act of a man trying to rescue someone who had been his muse, his partner, and his storm.
Despite her fragile health, Lizzie was well enough for them to travel to Paris for their honeymoon. Their married lives unfolded in the company of fellow artists like Burne-Jones and William Morris, with much of their time devoted to creative pursuits. Together, Lizzie and Rossetti played a significant role in decorating Morris’ Red House — a collaborative effort that evoked a vivid image of joy, imagination, and artistic camaraderie. It was a shining moment of hope and possibility — a time where their shared passion for art brought light to their lives and hinted at a potential future they were only beginning to shape.
Happiness was soon replaced by heartbreak. Their baby, a daughter, was stillborn — a devastating loss likely linked to Lizzie’s ongoing use of laudanum. The sorrow of that moment cast a heavy shadow over what should have been celebratory time.
Lizzie was distraught, caught in a world of depression, grief and addiction. Biographer Lucinda Hawksley describes this period in Lizzie Siddal: The Tragedy of a Pre-Raphaelite Supermodel:
Following the loss of her child, Lizzie was permanently altered. She would sit in the drawing room for hours without moving her position, just staring silently into the fire. If there was no fire, she would simply stare into space, apparently not seeing anything in front of her. Once she refused to eat and became increasingly emaciated. The nurse hired as a maternity carer was living with them and taking care of her, but Lizzie was too wrapped up in grief to be aware of anything except her loss. When Ned [Burn-Jones] and a heavily pregnant Georgie [Burne-Jones] came to visit her, Lizzie was in her room alone, staring at the empty baby’s cradle, which she would rock tenderly from side to side as though soothing her daughter to sleep. As the door creaked open she looked up and told them to be quiet so as not to wake the baby. The pregnant Georgie found this heart-rendingly sad; Ned thought Lizzie was being ridiculously over-dramatic.
It’s unbearable to imagine — Lizzie rocking an empty cradle, haunted by the ghost of a child who never got to live. The reactions of Burne-Jones and his wife, Georgie, to Lizzie’s grief are striking in their contrast. Georgie responds with immediate compassion, while Ned dismisses it as unnecessary melodrama. That divide — between male and female responses to emotional pain — feels emblematic of the era, though not confined to it. Women were expected to swoon, men to soldier on with a stiff upper lip. It’s a dynamic that echoes across time.
When Lizzie became pregnant again, it’s hard to imagine her state of her mind. Still addicted, still grieving, and likely worn thin from years of emotional and physical struggle, she must have been in an incredibly vulnerable place.
On February 10, 1862, Lizzie, Rossetti, and the poet Algernon Swinburne shared a meal together. Later that night, Rossetti left to attend a meeting at the Working Men’s College. When he returned, he found Lizzie unconscious — she had overdosed on laudanum.
In a desperate panic, he called for a doctor. Unable to accept that nothing could be done, he summoned three more. But it was too late. In the early hours of February 11, 1862, Lizzie passed away.
Many descriptions of Lizzie’s death claim that she committed suicide, but I don’t believe it was intentional. Certainly, her death was self-inflicted — like many deaths of addicts who have spiraled out of control — but I don’t think Lizzie set out to end her life. While there are accounts of a destroyed suicide note, those stories seem to be mere hearsay.
Lizzie’s image lingered in Rossetti’s mind long after her death. He honored her memory with his painting Beata Beatrix, a poignant tribute that features a dove delivering a poppy flower into her hands. Since opium is derived from poppies, the dove’s gift symbolizes the very substance that ultimately took her life, adding a layer of haunting irony to the painting.
The Rossetti marriage made its mark on literary and art history with a dark twist—Rossetti arranged for Lizzie’s grave to be exhumed seven years after she died.
Rossetti’s desire was to recover a manuscript of poems he had buried with her. In my view, it was an utterly selfish thing to do.
Yet, ironically, without that act, many people might never have known who Lizzie Siddal was. There’s something so strange and compelling about it that when people learn of it, they feel an urge to uncover more about her. I know that feeling firsthand. It was the spark that ignited my own journey to discover everything I could about Lizzie — her life, her struggles, and her art.
As I write this, I can’t help but see that the Rossetti marriage, like so many others, was marked by missed opportunities. It’s a sad thought — both of them seemed to fall short of what they truly wanted from their relationship, and they were constantly plagued by trouble and tragedy.
One of Lizzie’s poems could serve as her epitaph:
Gone
To touch the glove upon her tender hand,
To watch the jewel sparkle in her ring,
Lifted my heart into a sudden song
As when the wild birds sing.
To touch her shadow on the sunny grass,
To break her pathway through the darkened wood,
Filled all my life with trembling and tears
And silence where I stood.
I watch the shadows gather round my heart,
I live to know that she is gone
Gone gone for ever, like the tender dove
That left the Ark alone.
