It wasn’t natural. We knew that. It’s like asking for trouble, inviting misfortune. Somehow Mr Painter-Poet got himself a permit to go ahead anyways. They say he must have bribed the Home Secretary or something. I wager he promised him a painting. Some fancy lady smelling a rose, or floating down the river, her hair all splayed out round her. Don’t people love that sort of thing? To hang before them, above their tables, next to their armoires.…You’d be the expert on those matters.… But even the dog in the street knows it’s bad luck to meddle with the dead. Bohemian types always think the rules of life don’t apply to them. They have to go above and beyond, or below and beyond, you might say.
I’m only telling you this now because Bigwig Painter-Poet – Mr. Rosetti - is dead. And, well, I suppose, I finally can. Since you’ve gone to the trouble of seeking me out, and all, I’d like to give you my version of events. Clear my name and, I suppose, my conscience. Though I did nothing wrong. Not in the realm of the law - our man-made ones - anyways. I wouldn’t be broadcasting this, all the same. Wouldn’t want people thinking I was some class of resurrectionist, not of bodies at least. I’m an honest man who digs graves. Don’t the deceased be needing a final place of rest? And someone’s got to do the needful. All I’m saying is some sort of a deal must’ve been struck for the powers that be to consent to digging Elizabeth up. They liked to call her ‘Lizzie’ but, out of respect, I always use her proper name. ‘Elizabeth Eleanor’ it says on her headstone.
Nothing about any of it sat well with me, but I agreed to do it when he first asked, and I felt I couldn’t back out. Truth be told, I needed the money. Thirteen years ago this winter it was. Back in October 1869. And that man Rossetti got to do his dirty work… what was his name again? Howell, I think? Yes, that was him. Charles Howell. Well, he was determined to proceed at all costs. Rossetti’s agent, they said he was. I suppose you’re thinking that we all had an interest in disturbing the settled soil? But I’m more used to lowering than raising, unless it’s a pint, that is. And pints aren’t free, as my missus used to remind me on my regular late returns.
I made sure I was well tanked that night. Not enough ale to hamper my strength for the digging, but just enough to cushion my senses against the stench. That poor woman… Hadn’t I dug the very same earth for her coffin seven years prior? And don’t I well remember her funeral too? Some tragedy it was... I left before Bigwig started his theatrics, but I heard all about his declamations after, from the lads down the pub. How he carefully laid the book of his love poems in her coffin, entwining her golden hair round its pages… How he recited his tributes as if he was Shakespeare himself.
Lord God, couldn’t the man have let her be? What class of lout tampers with his wife’s corpse for the sake of a few paltry verses? I’d wager it was guilt made him pen them in the first place, the philandering cad. They say he was obsessive, you know. Kept her very close. Wouldn’t let her pose for any of the other artists. Continued to paint her after her death too. Beatrice praying, and the like. Sure you probably know more about this stuff than me. Though I don’t mind admitting I’ve taken a keen interest in the whole sorry story since I played my own small part in how it unfolded.
I reckon Elizabeth was too good for the likes of him. A stunner she was in her day. It’s nigh impossible to remember her like that now, except in them paintings. Not that I would ever get to look upon the likes of them. Only the highest bidder gets to gaze on her fair face. And the likes of your good self. Art historians. Where did you say you were doing your research again? The Courtauld Institute, was it?
I’ve seen the prints, of course, and who hasn’t? Couldn’t miss ‘em. They were everywhere… Ravaged with TB she was, when she died. And wouldn’t I have done the very same in her situation? Laudanum is no friend, but it does soothe the suffering. Moreso, those with cheating spouses. There was talk of a lost baby too, a stillborn. Awful tragic stuff… just thirty-two years of age she was. Oh, you hadn’t heard about all that? Well, I’m sorry. Tis a doomed tale, the whole lot of it. But I may as well continue, now that you’re here.
On that bitterly cold night, we made our way to Highgate and set about lighting a bonfire. To purify the air, warm us up a bit. And so we could see. We were working under cover of night, remember, to keep things private as possible. Not to offend any other mourners, they told us. It was all very sobering - a grave affair - if you’ll pardon my pun. There was even a lawyer present, and a doctor too. Witnesses. To make sure everything complied with the law. Ha, isn’t the law an ass all the same?
Well, we started in on the digging. Dreading each shovelful of earth. Though there was a knot in the pit of my stomach, I must admit the ale gave me a welcome recklessness. Finally, I felt it; my spade hit the hard wood. I’d reached her coffin.
I know what you’re wondering now. If those rumours were true. Just give me a moment to collect myself. This isn’t easy to talk about, and you’re the first I’ve told.
I’m not saying I ever expected to see Ophelia or anything – yes, I’ve seen that print of her too - but nothing could have prepared us for what we uncovered as we spun those butterfly bolts, unlocked the rusted latches and prised off the heavy lid. Instinctively, I flinched from the fetid atmosphere, to confront the sight at a slight distance.
Her hair! exclaimed Rosetti, tumbling onto the grass in an excess of grief.
I stared in awe at the masses of golden, silky wires covering her corpse like a shroud, from head to toe. Almost spilling out over the sides of the box, as copper as the flames of the fire.
It must have kept on growing. Even in death.
Rosetti wept in shock, barely masking his horror. Beauty that defied mortality itself...
Howell nudged him then, reminding him why we were there. Rosetti nodded slowly. Reached down in a daze through the coiled bounty to grope for his precious pages. It pains me to say it, but when those poems came out the following year, they sold like hot cakes. When the public got wind that Elizabeth had been exhumed, they lapped them up. Of course, they had to do their own post-mortem.
I averted my gaze, trying my best not to retch, but turned back all the same, curious to know if he retrieved what he was so determined to find. They placed the manuscript upon a silver tray, with a velvet sash of honour welcoming it as it passed through the lawyer’s hands. As you can imagine, it was totally sodden. Weren’t there were worm-holes in the pages and lots of gaps in the text? Completely decayed it was. Rosetti was distraught, after going to all that trouble. And so he should have been, the rake!
I can guarantee you, Mr. Rosetti, that once these pages are treated, my expert will be able to trace the words for you, said Howell, understanding the momentous importance of this resurrection.
And they took away the bloated leaves for disinfecting, paying us on the spot, in beer and cash, once we’d laid the earth back in place. And me and the lads beat a hasty retreat to the pub, still awed by what we had just beheld.
It was then that I started to feel the misfortune come upon me. From that point onwards, everything started to go downhill. My beautiful boy was tragically killed. Fell from a scaffold. My wife and I never recovered from the grief. She left me, eventually, because my drinking had gotten heavier. Only spirits could sate me. What had I ever done to deserve that terrible luck? I always tried to do the right thing. Ah, I can see I’ve upset you now. I’m sorry. Do you need a handkerchief? You are kind, sir, to empathise with the likes of me.
‘Tis no wonder Rosetti himself said: let me not on any account be buried at Highgate. For he knew well what he’d done. And we were the ones did his bidding for him. It was us who tampered with his dead bride, plundered and desecrated her grave. A communal family plot too! And didn’t the man himself go mad in the end? Haunted by Elizabeth’s ghost he was. Couldn’t remain in their home. Convinced himself that her soul had migrated into birdsong. That she was appearing to him as a chaffinch, of all things.
You may write about some of this in your thesis, if you like. Just promise you won’t give my name. Say that you spoke to me. That you met a faithful eye-witness. That I recounted the whole truth of the wretched story to you, here in this tavern…
I can understand why you looked for me, why you’re here. There’s some ferocious interest in them Pre-Raphaelite painters now. That poor girl devoted her life to art. Those men poached her innocence, her lifeforce. Like vampires. Did you know she got pneumonia lying in that icy bathtub for hours on end posing for Ophelia? Too gentle, too polite she was to complain. Naturally, the public loved it, said it was so true to life. Then, to think that they – we – couldn’t even let the girl rest in peace. It makes me livid. Can you honestly tell me that all them paintings were worth cutting short Elizabeth’s life? It feels good to get this off my chest at last.
You want to know if the rumours are true, that she was preserved in death, like a saint? My answer to you is this: Elizabeth’s beauty was immortal. As an art student, you should well know that. It will endure to the ends of time. Did I tell you I first caught sight of her before she got mixed up with that lot? Back when she sold hats at Mrs. Tozer’s shop on Cranbourne street. Even then she could turn heads, walking home from work of an evening.
Something you might not know is that Elizabeth was an artist in her own right. A decent one at that. Mr. Ruskin was her patron at one point. And she could write poems too. To rival any of Rosetti’s. There’s one stands out clearly to me. It shocked me so much, to hear a muse speak, that I committed a few of its lines to memory. Aye, she understood the fickle ways of men, their love of female beauty. I’ll recite a few lines for you now and we’ll leave it at that. Good luck to you and I wish you well with your studies. Please God, my testament will exonerate me. If not in this life, then maybe in some unearthly realm:
I care not for my Lady’s soul Though I worship before her smile I care not where’s my Ladys goal When her beauty shall lose its wile Low wit I down at my Lady’s feet Gazing through her wild eyes, Smiling to think how my love will fleet When their starlike beauty dies Then who shall close my Lady’s eyes, And who shall fold her hands? Will any hearken if she cries Up to the unknown lands?
Emily Cullen is a Galway-based writer and the Meskell Poet in Residence at the University of Limerick, where she lectures on the MA in Creative Writing. She has published three poetry collections to date: Conditional Perfect (Doire Press, 2019), In Between Angels and Animals (Arlen House, 2013) and No Vague Utopia (Ainnir Publishing, 2003). Conditional Perfect was included in The Irish Times round-up of “the best new poetry of 2019”. Emily holds a PhD in English from the University of Galway. Twice nominated for the Pushcart prize, her poetry explores themes of history, social justice, ecology, music and the female experience.