Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s first published illustration was The Maids of Elfen-Mere, drawn to illustrate a ballad by William Allingham titled “The Maids of Elphin-Mere”.  I am unaware why Rossetti chose a different spelling of the title.  I’ve searched through several books and haven’t found anything more than passing mentions.  The Rossetti Archive includes it in their collection note: “DGR’s illustration was made for Allingham’s ballad “The Maids of Elfin-Mere”, which was published in The Music Master, A Love Story, and Two Series of Day and Night Songs (1855) volume. It should be noted, however, that DGR employed a variant spelling–Maids of Elfen-Mere–for his design.”

Dante Gabriel Rossetti by Julian Treuherz, Elizabeth Prettejohn, and Edwin Baker describes the problem that DGR had with this illustration saying that “This was Rossetti’s first published illustration, and he had a great deal of trouble with it, first failing to reverse it for the wood-block, and then complaining that the Dalziel brothers, who were responsible for the design on the wood, had ruined it in the process.  Nevertheless, the engraving was highly praised.  Burne-Jones considered it ‘the most beautiful drawing for an illustration I have ever seen’ “

The Maids of Elfin-Mere is a supernatural ballad, telling the tale of the nightly apparition of three ladies clad in white.  They sing songs while they spin until eleven o’clock, the time when their apparition comes to an end and they disappear (Spinning to a pulsing cadence, Singing songs of Elfin-Mere; Till the eleventh hour was toll’d).  They were loved by all, especially a Pastor’s son who develops a passion for them.  (Most of all, the Pastor’s Son, Listening to their gentle singing, Felt his heart go from him, clinging Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.)  Like most of us, he could not be satisfied with what he had.  The brief nightly visits were not enough, so he changed the time on the village clock.  That night was their last visit.  The Maids never returned and the only remnant of them was three bloodstains left in the lake (Saw at dawn three stains of gore In the waters fade and dwindle).  The Pastor’s Son died broken-hearted and with regret.  It is a sad, haunting tale.  And in the faces of the Maids, we can see traces of Elizabeth Siddal’s features.  For it was drawn by Rossetti in the mid 1850′s, a time when Lizzie’s image permeated his works.  She too would die one night, never to return and left Rossetti to pine and regret and live with a guilt that would never leave.  So, once again we are left to note how often Rossetti’s life imitated his art in a sad and tragic way.

The Maids of Elfin-Mere by William Allingham

When the spinning-room was here
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and Two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll’d,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor’s Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden’d when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock,—
Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock,
Flow’d the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

One that night who wander’d near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
The Pastor’s Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Although Rossetti painted Jane Morris repeatedly, it is a bit unusual to see her painted as Beatrice.  Beatrice, Dante Alighieri’s  unrequited love,  is a character Rossetti strongly associated with Elizabeth Siddal.   There is another painting of Jane Morris as Beatrice at The Rossetti Archive titled  The Salutation of Beatrice, also known as The Lady in the Blue Dress.

One thing I notice about this painting of Beatrice/Jane Morris is that it  is strikingly simple compared to other works by Rossetti during this time period.  His painting style had developed into large-scale works of female figures almost completely surrounded by flowers or ornament.  In contrast, Jane Morris appears here uncrowded and simply presented.

On a side note, we meet our old friend the spiral hair pin again in this painting!

Painted in 1901, The Keepsake by Kate Bunce is based on Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s poem The Staff and Scrip.  The Staff and Scrip is a heroic and romantic tale of a pilgrim who finds himself in a land ruled by Queen Blanchelys.   The pilgrim is shocked by the state of this land and is told in the first stanza that the villainous Duke Luke has ‘harried them’.   The pilgrim makes his way to Queen Blanchelys, falls in love with her, and vows to defeat Duke Luke. In the course of defeating Duke Luke, the pilgrim loses his life.   His staff and scrip are kept by the Queen — hung over her bed as a tragic and romantic keepsake.

The Staff and Scrip

‘Who rules these lands?’ the Pilgrim said.
‘Stranger, Queen Blanchelys.’
‘And who has thus harried them?’ he said.
‘It was Duke Luke did this:
God’s ban be his!’

The Pilgrim said: ‘Where is your house?
I’ll rest there, with your will.’
‘You’ve but to climb these blackened boughs
And you’ll see it over the hill,
For it burns still.’

‘Which road, to seek your Queen?’ said he.
‘Nay, nay, but with some wound
You’ll fly back hither, it may be,
And by your blood i’ the ground
My place be found.’

‘Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head,
And mine, where I will go;
For He is here and there,’ he said.
He passed the hill-side, slow,
And stood below.

The Queen sat idle by her loom:
She heard the arras stir,
And looked up sadly: through the room
The sweetness sickened her
Of musk and myrrh.

Her women, standing two and two,
In silence combed the fleece.
The Pilgrim said, ‘Peace be with you,
Lady;’ and bent his knees.
She answered, ‘Peace.

Her eyes were like the wave within;
Like water-reeds the poise
Of her soft body, dainty thin;
And like the water’s noise
Her plaintive voice.

For him, the stream had never well’d
In desert tracts malign
So sweet; nor had he ever felt
So faint in the sunshine
Of Palestine.

Right so, he knew that he saw weep
Each night through every dream
The Queen’s own face, confused in sleep
With visages supreme
Not known to him.

‘Lady,’ he said, ‘your lands lie burnt
And waste: to meet your foe
All fear: this I have seen and learnt.
Say that it shall be so,
And I will go.’

She gazed at him. ‘Your cause is just,
For I have heard the same:’
He said: ‘God’s strength shall be my trust.
Fall it to good or grame,
‘Tis in His name.’

‘Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead.
Why should you toil to break
A grave, and fall therein?’ she said.
He did not pause but spake:
‘For my vow’s sake.’

Not to God’s will?’ ‘My vow
Remains: God heard me there as here,’
He said with reverent brow,
‘Both then and now.’

They gazed together, he and she,
The minute while he spoke;
And when he ceased, she suddenly
Looked round upon her folk
As though she woke.

‘Fight, Sir,’ she said; ‘my prayers in pain
Shall be your fellowship.’
He whispered one among her train,
‘To-morrow bid her keep
This staff and scrip.’

She sent him a sharp sword, whose belt
About his body there
As sweet as her own arms he felt.
He kissed its blade, all bare,
Instead of her.

She sent him a green banner wrought
With one white lily stem,
To bind his lance with when he fought.
He writ upon the same
And kissed her name.

She sent him a white shield, whereon
She bade that he should trace
His will. He blent fair hues that shone,
And in a golden space
He kissed her face.

Born of the day that died, that eve
Now dying sank to rest;
As he, in likewise taking leave,
Once with a heaving breast
Looked to the west.

And there the sunset skies unseal’d,
Like lands he never knew,
Beyond to-morrow’s battle-field
Lay open out of view
To ride into.

Next day till dark the women pray’d:
Nor any might know there
How the fight went: the Queen has bade
That there do come to her
No messenger.

The Queen is pale, her maidens ail;
And to the organ-tones
They sing but faintly, who sang well
The matin-orisons,
The lauds and nones.

Lo, Father, is thine ear inclin’d,
And hath thine angel pass’d?
For these thy watchers now are blind
With vigil, and at last
Dizzy with fast.

Weak now to them the voice o’ the priest
As any trance affords;
And when each anthem failed and ceas’d,
It seemed that the last chords
Still sang the words.

‘Oh what is the light that shines so red?
‘Tis long since the sun set;’
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid:
‘Twas dim but now, and yet
The light is great.’

Quoth the other: ‘Tis our sight is dazed
That we see flame i’ the air.’
But the Queen held her brows and gazed,
And said, ‘It is the glare
Of torches there.’

‘Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread?
All day it was so still;’
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid;
‘Unto the furthest hill
The air they fill.’

Quoth the other; ”Tis our sense is blurr’d
With all the chants gone by.’
But the Queen held her breath and heard,
And said, ‘It is the cry
Of Victory.’

The first of all the rout was sound,
The next were dust and flame,
And then the horses shook the ground:
And in the thick of them
A still band came.

‘Oh what do ye bring out of the fight,
Thus hid beneath these boughs?’
‘Thy conquering guest returns to-night,
And yet shall not carouse,
Queen, in thy house.’

‘Uncover ye his face,’ she said.
‘O changed in little space!’
She cried, ‘O pale that was so red!
O God, O God of grace!
Cover his face.’

His sword was broken in his hand
Where he had kissed the blade.
‘O soft steel that could not withstand!
O my hard heart unstayed,
That prayed and prayed!’

His bloodied banner crossed his mouth
Where he had kissed her name.
‘O east, and west, and north, and south,
Fair flew my web, for shame,
To guide Death’s aim!’

The tints were shredded from his shield
Where he had kissed her face.
‘Oh, of all gifts that I could yield,
Death only keeps its place,
My gift and grace!’

Then stepped a damsel to her side,
And spoke, and needs must weep:
‘For his sake, lady, if he died,
He prayed of thee to keep
his staff and scrip.’

That night they hung above her bed,
Till morning wet with tears.
Year after year above her head
Her bed his token wears,
Five years, ten years.

That night the passion of her grief
Shook them as there they hung.
Each year the wind that shed the leaf
Shook them and in its tongue
A message flung.

And once she woke with a clear mind
That letters writ to calm
Her soul lay in the scrip; to find
Only a torpid balm
And dust of palm.

They shook far off with palace sport
When joust and dance were rife;
And the hunt shook them from the court;
For hers, in peace or strife,
Was a Queen’s life.

A Queen’s death now: as now they shake
To gusts in chapel dim, —
Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake,
(Carved lovely white and slim),
With them by him.

Stand up to-day, still armed, with her,
Good knight, before His brow
Who then as now was here and there,
Who had in mind thy vow
Then even as now.

The lists are set in Heaven to-day,
The bright pavilions shine;
Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay;
The trumpets sound in sign
That she is thine.

Not tithed with days’ and years’ decease
He pays thy wage He owed,
But with imperishable peace
Here in His own abode,
Thy jealous God.

And Rossetti’s portrait Fair Rosamund:

For more on the story of Fair Rosamund see the post Fair Rosamund and Queen Eleanor which features the painting of the same name by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones.  The jewelry in this painting is also mentioned in one of my favorite entries that I’ve written for this site:  Rossetti and His Baubles.

The Wine of Circe, painted by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones.   Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote a sonnet inspired by this painting, which you can read a great deal of background on at The Rossetti Archive:

DGR wrote the sonnet for the express purpose of having “some record of [Burne-Jones'] work in my book [i.e., in the 1870 Poems],” as he told Barbara Bodichon. “I have tried in the first lines to give some notion of the colour, and in the last some impression of the scope of the work,—taking the transformed beasts as images of ruined passion—the torn seaweed of the sea of pleasure. You will remember that in the picture the window shows a view of the sea and the galleys which bear the new lovers and victims of the enchantress” (see DGR’s letter of 15 March 1870, Fredeman, Correspondence, 70. 53 ). DGR’s interest in the colour dynamics of Burne-Jones’ painting reflects his awareness of the problematic character of both beauty and pleasure. That awareness is a constant theme in his work—indeed, is perhaps his predominant theme.

One thing I love about Rossetti’s works is that he demonstrated a strong link between poetry and painting. Not only did he write sonnets to accompany many of his own works, he wrote poems for paintings by other artists. Looking through the table of contents of my book of Rossetti’s poems I see poems written for Our Lady of the Rocks by Da Vinci, a Venetian Pastoral by Giorgione, an Allegorical Dance of Women by Andrea Mantegna, Ruggiero and Angelica by Ingres and more.

For “The Wine of Circe” By Edward Burne-Jones

DUSK-HAIRED and gold-robed o’er the golden wine
She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame,
Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame,
Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine.
Doth Helios here with Hecaté combine
(O Circe, thou their votaress!) to proclaim
For these thy guests all rapture in Love’s name,
Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign?
Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee
Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore,
Wait; who with them in new equality
To-night shall echo back the sea’s dull roar
With a vain wail from passion’s tide-strown shore
Where the disheveled seaweed hates the sea.

I’ve also scanned the poem from my own volume of Rossetti’s works because it represents my favorite reading experience:  a beautiful hardcover book with gilt edged pages, that certain typeset from yesteryear, and a slightly musty yet welcoming smell.  I’m not sure how old my volume is, but it was published by Hurst & Co. which existed between 1871 and 1919.

Circe Invidiosa, John William Waterhouse

Waterhouse is an adept at blending feminine beauty and mystery.  Here he depicts the goddess Circe amidst shades of greens and blues, creating a world that draws us in and mesmerizes.   If you really look at this painting, you can feel yourself transported into Circe’s world:  you can hear the water echoing through a secluded grotto.  It is dark.  Calm and cool.  And it is beautiful. Not a passive beauty, but a powerful beauty born of Circe’s focus and intensity.

The goddess Circe is mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey and in Hesiod’s Theogeny, as well in other ancient Greek writings.  She is a goddess of magic and metamorphosis:

KIRKE (or Circe) was a goddess pharmakeia (witch or sorceress) who lived with her nymph attendants on the mythical island of Aiaia. She was skilled in the magic of metamorphosis, the power of illusion, and the dark art of necromancy. When Odysseus landed on her island she transformed his men into animals, but with the help of the god Hermes, he overcame the goddess and forced her to release his men from her spell. Kirke’s name was derived from the Greek verb kirkoô meaning “to secure with rings” or “hoop around”–a reference to her magical powers. (Via Theoi.com)

It is Waterhouse’s simplicity that I admire in this painting. We are not distracted by background scenes. It is all about Circe. Waterhouse has chosen to depict Circe in a scene from Ovid’s Metamorphoses:

Having tried without success to lure the deity Glaucus away from the object of his affection the beautiful nymph Scylla, Circe is filled with envious rage. In the seclusion of a quiet grotto, she poisons the water where Scylla goes to bathe and turns her rival into a dreadful sea monster. Waterhouse’s handling of the scene is brilliantly economical. With grim determination, Circe empties a bowl of green poison into the waters, half hovering, half standing on the already transformed Scylla, who writhes beneath the surface. Her waist-length hair, meanwhile billows up and out, as if disturbed by a rush of deadly vapours” (Trumble, Angus. Love and Death in the Age of Queen Victoria. Adelaide: Art Gallery of South Australia. 2002.)

Welcome to 21st Century Stunner, a blog for women with an interest in Pre-Raphaelite style, both modern and antique, as well as Artistic / Aesthetic dress and accessories.  This blog is primarily for enjoyment and not meant to be a historical compendium, although scholarly discussion is welcome.  It is my hope that this can be a gathering place of women who like to cultivate a modern Pre-Raphaelite look.

I have a weakness for art inspired by literary and mythological themes, so I can not resist comparing Evelyn De Morgan’s Helen of Troy with the Pre-Raphaelite artists that came before her.   I’ve written a bit about Eveylyn De Morgan before in this post.  She was heavily influenced by Burne-Jones and was inspired by artists such as Botticelli due to the amount of time she spent in Florence with her uncle, artist John Roddam Spencer Stanhope.

De Morgan’s Helen of Troy seems more conventionally pretty than Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s.  Doves flock around her, apparently drawn to her goodness and beauty.  Oddly, this reminds me of birds and woodland creatures who are always drawn to Disney heroines in Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty and I wonder if there is some sort of a connection.  Of course, this could just be my subconscious desire to see relationships between modern culture and Pre-Raphaelite art.

Helen of Troy by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

While we see De Morgan’s Helen of Troy in full figure and gazing in a mirror, Rossetti’s Helen fills the canvas and, like many of Rossetti’s women, is apparently doing nothing.  Rossetti has a tendency to portray beautiful women lost in thought and looking off into the imaginary distance.  Rossetti used model Annie Miller for his Helen in 1863 - I’ve written a longer post about Rossetti’s Helen of Troy here.

Four years after Rossetti painted his Helen, Frederick Sandys painted this depiction of Helen of Troy. Tensions rose between Rossetti and Sandys – Rossetti believed that Sandys’ version was too similar to his own. Elizabeth Prettejon discussed this in her book Rossetti and His Circle saying, “The rippling hair and full lips functioned as talismans in much the same way as the hair ornaments or pieces of china. They were symbols, in a general sense, of the group’s shared artistic project; more specifically they were symbols of the group’s compelling shared image of woman. The Rossettian image of woman has been criticised for its repetitiveness; but repetition was precisely its hallmark.”