Original subtitles

Mew

Down with the pretty ladies of the old school!

Down with the old masters!

Down with the pretty ladies!

Away with the pretty ladies!

(Narrator) Arson, rapine, riot, civil insurrection is terrifying Europe.

The date is 1848.

In England, rebels conspire to overthrow the Royal Academy of Arts.

The rebels are students and idealists.

They are against industry, state religion and official art.

They would replace these with notions of honour, truth and beauty,

quite unsuited to our times.

This infatuation with the deeds of knights and damsels

has led them to join together in a Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,

through which they expect to derive inspiration.

The Pre-Raphaelite Brothers have fished out a stunner

from a milliner's near the Haymarket.

She is working class but respectable, an admirer says.

Unusual for the Haymarket,

where it is easier to walk the streets for a few hours

than to work in a shop for 15.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti has fallen in love with her.

He drifts between being a poet and being a painter-

whatever impresses most, is least effort and pays best.

John Everett Millais has money,

or rather, his parents have.

Rossetti hangs about,

hoping to acquire the method of painting without working at it,

or, if not the method, at least the model.

Ophelia may please Millais,

but Miss Elizabeth Siddal pleases Rossetti more.

Rossetti has led Miss Siddal away from his brother Pre-Raphaelites.

He accuses them of using her as a mere clotheshorse,

but has not got round to painting the girl himself.

He is leading her to expect a proposal of marriage,

but would have no objection if, instead of a wife, he acquired a mistress.

Miss Siddal acts with the instincts of her class.

To protect herself in a cruel and pitiless world,

where love, more often than not, leads to disillusion,

it is best not to be caught too easily.

That's enough of posing. Recite me a poem.

- A sonnet for the sin. - What's that, then?

"I looked, and saw your eyes and the shadow of your hair

"As a stranger sees a stream in the shadow of the wood.

"And I said, my faint heart sighs, ah, me, to linger there,

"To drink deep and to sleep in that sweet solitude."

Oh, I like that, indeed!

- Recite it again from the beginning. - I have not finished.

But it's lovely.

Comprehending not the sense, you like the sounds I sing.

I like the sentiments.

It's poor stuff. It's enough.

But it's lovely and you're to recite it again.

Don't make a nuisance of yourself.

Can't you behave proper?

Miss Siddal, I'm sorry.

Miss Siddal, I'm sorry! I'm beastly to you and I mean to be nice.

You keep me at arms' length, though I long to hug you.

- Don't speak... - Don't spit!

You're just rude!

Miss Siddal, I am sorry.

What do you want, then?

(Gabriel) Oh, my God, what shall I do with the girl?

I want to make you mine, don't you know that?

Oh, then why can't I meet your ma and pa?

- You shall. - You've been saying that for months.

- Well, give me time. - Oh!

You're ashamed of me. I'm a shop girl, what sells bonnets.

I'm not a la-di-da like your sisters.

Bonnets or not, I'm jolly fond of you!

Funny way of showing it.

(Laughs)

Miss Siddal, I'll take you away from that damned Mrs T0zer's bonnet shop.

Ooh, don't use language!

I'll rescue you. No more bonnets, no more Tozer.

Down with Tozer! Death to Tozer!

Shh! This is wicked.

No more Mrs Tozer!

Oh, if only.

Why, I'd never wear a bonnet of hers again!

- Well, let's rid you of this one first. - No!

' Yes! ' No!

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

(Gabriel) She fluted with her mouth as when one sips,

And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd,

Outside his cage, close to the window-blind,

Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips,

Piped low to her of sweet companionships.

And when he made an end, some seed took she

And fed him from her tongue, which rosily peeped

As a piercing bud between her lips.

And like the child in Chaucer,

On whose tongue the blessed Mary laid, when he was dead,

A grain, who straightway praised her name in song:

Even so, when she a little, slightly red, now turned on me and laughed,

I heard the throng of inner voices praise her golden head.

(Narrator) So begins a ritual.

Every day they spend together.

Come evening, Mr Rossetti walks Miss Siddal back

from the rooms he occupies in Blackfriars,

over the biggest open sewer in London,

to the digs that she occupies in Marylebone,

for which he pays the rent.

At her front door he waits, and is turned away every evening,

to do just as he pleases for the rest of the night.

Next morning, Mr Rossetti is back in his rooms in time for the spiritual session,

combining this, perhaps,

with the more mundane matters that seem to arise in an artist's life.

And every morning, in pops Lizzy,

a little paler, saying less, asking nothing.

Thus they exist in a world of their own,

each shaping the other to their own desire,

each oblivious to the stench from the sewer beneath their windows,

each lost to the smoking city and the world beyond.

And the world does not intrude.

But kinsfolk do.

When you meet them, Rossetti tells his model,

say nothing and stay safe.

Christina Rossetti loves her mama, and her papa,

and her sister, and William Michael.

But the love she has for her brother, Dante Gabriel,

is greater than for all of them.

Miss Siddal's respectability is gaudy, compared with that of Miss Rossetti.

And Miss Rossetti loves God,

which Miss Siddal does not, except in passing,

like dropping a curtsey to a statue in black.

God has his uses, according to William Michael,

but his sister Christina makes altogether too much of religion,

to the point of religiosity.

So these are the Rossettis, pleased with themselves, apparently,

not Italian, but not really English,

except for William Michael.

He is resigned to supporting the family in failed enterprises,

with Papa bedridden and barmy,

and Christina and Mama failing to start a school,

and Mama being difficult about Gabriel and Miss Siddal.

Mama liked the idea of being a model to an artist in her very own family,

and of having sons and daughters painted as celebrities and saints.

But if Mrs Rossetti has met the challenge of Miss Siddal by refusing to meet her,

her daughter is not so uncharitable.

Excuse me, Miss Rossetti, would you take a cup of tea?

No, thank you.

And what are you doing,

now that you are no longer making hats in Mrs T0zer's shop?

I am teaching Miss Siddal to draw.

How clever! I must take up drawing myself.

We must go.

Very well.

Well, goodbye.

We surely shall meet again...

...s0metime.

Look at this. A fiver.

Not the first, but the second quarter's rent from my full feathered fellow tenant.

You didn't tell me William was sharing.

Don't worry, he won't live here amongst all this squalor.

- It's not as bad as... - Oh, but I shall ensure he pays his share.

Come on.

Let's go and drink his health at supper.

(Crockery shattering)

Damn, that was Mother's present.

Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter.

(Narrator) It is unbecoming for the personification of a spiritual ideal

to display an appetite.

But Miss Siddal goes to the other extreme.

She throws up almost as often as she eats,

and what is more, her ailment is genuine and baffling.

(Laughing)

- I in... - Shh!

- I insist you take a sovereign. - It's all right, I can manage.

But Guggums, you haven't eaten all evening.

It were too rich.

And how...

And how are your dwellings?

They're lovely.

I want you to take a quid.

It would be nice.

Come on, you've earned it.

Good night, my little lamb.

Good night, you old baggage.

(Laughs) You old baggage!

(I Whistles cheerfully)

(Narrator) Caught in his own ideals of chivalry and chastity,

after five years of almost daily visits,

Miss Siddal remains a virgin.

Ideals apart, this could become most tedious.

Even more so if the virgin takes to art,

in slavish imitation of her tutor and in preference to housekeeping,

at which she is also hopeless, even at a medieval level.

- Hell! - And Tommy!

Another butt0n's come off.

I was thinking of you and my heart gave a sudden lurch and the button couldn't hold it,

and it flew off, out of the window.

Huh! I've got a mother of pearl here.

Mother of pearl, sister of Janet.

Sweetheart of gold, all 20 carat.

Oh, no!

I've stitched and stitched that shirt.

Lizzy...

Lizzy, I'm sorry.

Your hair is a golden vale through which I see my dreams.

I've got a needle.

- You would stab me? - I warn you.

- You slashed me. - I warned you.

You had no cause.

It's unbelievable! I rescue you, protect you, cosset and cherish you,

and you... and you stab me!

- Call that a stab? - Well, you attacked me, then.

Don't make me laugh!

Not one drop of her blood is human.

You should be made like a soft, sweet woman.

- I want to go home. - Who's stopping you?

Are you going to take me?

- Oh, I have some use, then? - So has a carthorse.

Well, unless you want me to come like this, all bloodied, you had better wait.

Then don't bother. I'll take meself.

(Narrator) Despairing of home comforts,

Rossetti looks to the possibility of combining business with pleasure

in the person of Miss Fanny Conforth,

another Cockney model, of rather wider experience.

Fancy him taking on like that about a tiny scratch.

Anyways, he deserve it.

He's only got to pop the question. Of course I'll marry him.

God knows what I'd do if I lost him.

Oh, Em...

I hurt so.

Like there was an iron band locked tight around me.

- Ever tried Mother's Blessing? - What's that, then?

Laudanum, of course.

I gives it to kids when they're squally.

Here you are, love. Drink this and say ta-ta to your troubles.

Oh, I'm that desperate, Emmy, I'd drink anything.

(Gasps) It's bitter.

Who is this?

I don't know. Em, do you know who it is?

Sweet Fanny Adams.

Do you know her, Mrs Brown?

Is she a model of your husband's acquaintance?

- It is so unlike Gabriel. - It ain't Brown's.

I wouldn't let him alone with her.

Don't matter who she is. She ain't pretty.

It matters considerably if Dante Gabriel is to be persuaded to sell his work.

It is partly his fault that he's so neglected.

Oh, if we could only find some person of influence to become his patron.

If pigs had wings, they'd fly.

I'm trying to help you both.

Yes, Miss Rossetti.

(Christina) 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 that 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, nor with sorrow dim.

Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright.

Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

He's not coming. He's doing it on purpose, to pay me out.

Mrs Brown and me are going now.

- Can you leave the key under the mat? - Yes, of course.

Lizzy, you look far from well.

Yes, well... Good afternoon.

Come along, Emma.

(Narrator) The L/jqhf of The World

is most certain to establish the fame of one Pre-Raphaelite brother.

William Holman Hunt is also a most sincere Christian.

He need be, to continue helping Gabriel Rossetti,

who repays kindness with condescension,

and renewed requests for loans of tin,

or for introductions to wealthy patrons.

I see Annie Miller's playing Jesus this week.

I decided that it was blasphemous for a woman to pose as Christ.

Hmm, that's a pity.

We might have got some of that 5,000 quid he's asking for it,

and God only knows, we need it.

I want to talk with you about Lizzy.

That's none of your business.

(Hums gibberish)

Look, you are looney.

I'm looney? What about Hunt?

For years, he's been planning a painting trip to Palestine,

and next week he's off to the Dead Sea. Do you know what for?

- To paint a goat. - A goat?

Yeah, Annie Miller told me.

He's educating her, and he's worried she's going to fall behind while he's away.

So I've agreed to take over where he left off.

And why should Holman Hunt ask you to educate his model?

Because the damn fool wants to marry her when he returns.

Oh, Gabriel!

And as recompense for time spent away from my work,

he's going to introduce me to the one and only, the great John Ruskin.

And if Ruskin can't find anybody to buy my work, then... then nobody will.

And if he cannot?

Then there's my poetry.

(Narrator) Self-made millionaires, city fathers, municipal dignitaries

and other art lovers with ready open cheque books

look for guidance on what to buy from one man.

John Ruskin is the arbiter of what is art and what is not.

And it is John Ruskin who comes to Rossetti.

Oh, that's Sir Lancelot, and...

Oh, that's a study by Miss Siddal. It shouldn't be there. She's just a pupil.

This is another one of hers. I don't know how they got in here.

- Another one... - I'm terribly sorry.

- You did this? - Erm... Will you take some tea?

Oh, Miss Siddal, you're under no obligation to play hostess to me.

The plain, hard fact is that you have genius.

And genius must be encouraged.

I have plans for you.

And for our friend here.

(Narrator) In the tactics of patronage, John Ruskin is a master.

He raises the weak with the same suave charm

with which he humbles the proud.

Gabriel says Ruskin keeps his personal effects under glass,

since he never has occasion to use them.

Among other irritations, Ruskin calls Lizzy "lda",

and treats Gabriel like a schoolboy.

(Gabriel) Ruskin is a sneak who is growing to love me, because I am a sneak, too.

He half likes Hunt, because Hunt is half a sneak.

He adores Millais, because Millais is the prince of sneaks.

But too much so, for he has sneaked away Ruskin's wife,

and so Ruskin is obliged to hate him for having too much of his favourite quality.

Admiring my portrait?

No, not particularly.

I wish to see Ida freed from any financial anxiety.

That also is my dearest wish.

I should be delighted to settle a pension on her,

but I fear she is too proud to acquiesce in such an arrangement.

- Not necessarily. - You think not?

That just shows your lack of understanding of a woman's pride.

Now then, I will advance you £150 per annum,

and a similar sum to Ida.

This will be for work which I will value as you produce it.

Well, I erm... I don't know about that.

Ida must spend the winter abroad at my expense.

Would you like some snuff?

Art is my stimulant, Rossetti.

Now then, what delights have you brought me this day?

Hello, Gug.

From Ruskers.

With fondest regards.

Come on, then. Open it.

The most valuable thing in all the world, he said.

What do you reckon, diamonds?

Well, you must admit that stupid old bastard is out to make our fortune.

If only you let him.

"My dear Ida,

"the most precious thing of all is health.

"In this respect, you are the poorest of the poor.

"This box contains one pound of ivory bone dust,

"the rarest and most expensive of health restoratives.

"I ground it with my own hand.

"Make it this way: to the contents, add exactly two quarts of fresh, clean water.

"Boil gently - gently, mark you - for eight hours.

"Remove, and take great care not to disturb the sediment.

"Strain this through clean muslin twice.

"Put the jelly in a clean stew pan,

"add six ounces of low sugar, two teaspoonfuls of brandy.

"My father insists you use a superior kind.

"The juice of one lemon, preferably ltalian."

Oh, Gug, what does the stupid fool think I am?

A sick elephant?

Well, let's have a look at his diamond dust, shall we?

(Sniffs)

Oh, really!

I wish he wouldn't call me Ida.

Of all the stupid names!

He wants to send you to the South of France, you lucky old devil.

He's trying to force us apart.

Oh, don't talk such cock.

Well, he's concerned about your health.

And so am I.

Oh, dovey, more tears?

That stupid old Ruskers is a bit of a trial, I know.

But please, for both our sakes, will you try and accommodate him?

I don't want to be an artist.

I only did it to please you.

Please me?

I've got no money.

What's the use of trying to please me?

(I Music box tinkles)

(Narrator) Things are looking up at Rossetti's place,

except that Gabriel is seldom there and Emma Brown always is.

The place is positively cheerful.

It is ironic that Lizzy's success with Ruskin -

he continues to call her Ida -

has spurred Gabriel into attempting hard work

under the tutelage of Emma's husband, Ford Madox Brown.

And Mrs Brown has taken it upon herself

to bring Gabriel to marriage,

which entails the shoving of Lizzy into the best artistic circles.

Miss Elizabeth Siddal, the well-known paintress,

caused a sensation upon her appearance at the Royal Academy.

Oh, you ain't half a stunner.

Here, you can have this one.

(Both) There's plenty more where that came from!

Oh, Em, you don't half dance lovely.

Ooh!

I was poorly again.

Here.

Here, feel.

These are for you, when you're properly dressed.

Where's Rossetti?

He's with Brown. Working.

At that preposterous daub he calls Found?

(I Hurdy-gurdy: "There's No Business Like Show Business")

(Ruskin) Geniuses are all alike, little and big.

Of Turner, Hunt, Millais, Rossetti and Miss Siddal

I don't know which is the wrongest headed.

I'm like the old woman who lived in the shoe,

only I don't want to send them to bed and can't whip 'em,

for that's what they all want.

One thing is certain,

Gabriel Rossetti will never be happy, nor truly powerful,

till he gets over the habit of doing nothing but what pleases him.

(I Hurdy-gurdy: "There's No Business Like Show Business")

What did old face-ache want?

Tickets?

"Good news.

"Arrangements for your convalescence in the South of France

"have been completed.

"Gabriel has arranged for his aunt to act as your chaperone.

"When you return, I shall expect you chirpy as a Cockney canary."

on, Gus!

(Gabriel) That's my idea.

An awakening conscience, your idea?

You must have come over queer.

It's been my idea for years.

A picture that freezes the moment when an erring woman apprehends with terror

that the bottomless pit awaits her.

And Hunt filched it.

By rights, I should filch you.

(Gabriel) Yesterday was St Valentine.

Thought you at all, dear dove divine,

Upon the hair in sorry trim and rueful countenance of him,

That Orson who's your valentine?

He daubed, you know, as usual.

The stick would slip, the brush would fall,

Yet daubed he till the lamp lighter set those two seedy flames astir,

But growled all day at slow St Paul.

"The bore was heard ere noon.

"The dun was at the door by half past one.

"At least, 'tis thought so,

"But the clock - no Lizzy there to help its stroke -

"Struck work before the day begun.

"Some time over the fire he sat,

"So lonely that he missed his cat,

"Then wildly rushed to dine on tick -

"Nine minutes swearing for his stick,

"And thirteen minutes for his hat.

"And now another day is gone.

"Once more, that intellectual one desists from high minded pursuits,

"And hungry, staring at his boots,

"Has not the strength to pull them on.

"Come back, dear Liz,

"And, looking wise in that arm-chair which suits your size,

"Through some fresh drawing scrape a hole.

"Your valentine and Orson's soul

"ls sad for those two friendly eyes."

Get out! Go on, get out!

- Get out! - I was here before you!

Oh, Mama, how surprised dear Lizzy will be

when she arrives and finds you waiting for her.

If you're unexpected, I warn you, she's home.

(Lizzy shouts)

And in excellent bloody health, I'm sure.

What's the matter? Ain't you ever seen anyone laughing before?

Damn your bloody ivory dust!

(Steam train rattles and clanks)

And it came to pass that a dreadful dragon held all the land in its thrall.

Such steam and smoke came from its snout

that all the land grew dark,

and flames belched from its arse.

And the dragon begat dragons that shrieked and roared.

"Who will deliver us from this scourge," cried the goodly brethren,

"but bind us about with bands of iron and steel?"

Then came thereforth a full noble knight to take up arms in the name of art

against the dragons of iron and steel...

(Coughs) ...called progress.

- Excalibur! - (Train whistle blares)

(I Fanfare)

(Narrator) And the goodly brethren were exceeding joyous

and accompanied him to that sweet city with her dreaming spires

that the vulgar do call Oxford.

And those who came with him were three:

one exceeding hairy, named Morris, whom all call Topsy,

one exceeding thin, named Jones, whom all call Ned,

and one most beauteous, whom all call Algernon Swinburne,

because he cannot paint, but only pose.

Then said they all that he henceforth would be their liege and champion.

"Truly," said the brethren,

"all men throughout the realm do say that ye make marvels."

- Marvels, eh? - Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that.

Modest success, growing reputation.

(Narrator) And the full noble knight doth dwell among us right merrily.

"And in the castle there is much creation,

"and many beautiful things are done," he said.

Rossetti does manage things.

Yesterday he told me neither Ned nor Topsy had painted a bloody thing

until he put them up to this.

Yet he insisted on having them.

Topsy is, after all, very rich.

And Rossetti has the greatest confidence in his abilities.

Bah! Blockhead, Topsy!

Golden hair for the bitch, not pitch black.

- Don't you make notes on the model? - Yes, old fellow, but I prefer black.

Preference... granted.

Argh! Damn you fat thick-arsed lummocker!

May you die on a dung heap!

- You don't take notes. - No need to, you hairy man.

Models float round and round in my head.

Well, I need something more earthy.

By Gumm the great, you do. So do I.

Let's go Studder hunting.

J“ Let's go Studder hunting, we're going Studder hunting... J“

(I Organ music drowns speech)

(Narrator) Sustained by soda pop, currant buns, breakfast and bed,

all laid on for free by Oxford University,

we lack only professional fees,

and the delicious sensation of wickedness

that the presence of female company imparts.

Miss Burden, I'd like you to meet some colleagues of mine.

This is Swinburne, a poet born but not yet burst upon us.

Topsy, an artist born, who bubbles and boils at the slightest provocation.

And there's Ned here, who's, er... who's whatever he chooses.

Gentlemen, we should be extremely grateful to Miss, er...

Burden.

Miss Burden, who has now agreed to sit for us as Queen Guinevere.

Spiel us a grind, Top.

- You've heard 'em all. - Miss Burden hasn't.

Oh, I haven't my book.

- I have. - Are you going to punt?

- No fear. - Then how can I read?

If I might hold the book.

I'll choose the grind.

This one.

That's if you can see it from back there.

See it?

It's etched on my heart.

My lady seems of ivory.

Forehead, nose and cheeks that be hollowed a little mournfully.

Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long, my lady's hair,

Nor yet with yellow colour fair,

But thick, and crisped wonderfully:

{M} Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows, the lids fall low,

The lashes a clear shadow throw

Where I would wish my lips to be.

{M} Beata mea Domina!

Her great eyes, standing far apart,

Draw up some memory from her heart,

And gaze out mournfully.

{M} Beata mea Domina!

So beautiful and kind they are,

But most times gazing out afar,

Waiting for something, not for me.

Beata mea Domina!

Ah.

Hello. You're new.

And beautiful.

Let me show you around.

All these frescoes illustrate medieval romances.

Mr Rossetti up there, he's painting the Lady Guinevere,

one libidinous whore,

who left her husband, King Arthur, for Sir Lancelot.

While over there, Topsy Morris is painting a white-hot adulteress called Isolde,

who left her husband, King Mark,

for Tristram.

And inspired by these promiscuous legendary stories,

over there Ned Jones introduces an appropriate Cupid.

Ah, Miss Siddal.

And what brings you here?

(Coughs)

I knew you'd come back to me.

- (I Wedding March) - (Narrator) Morris to Burden, spliced.

Burne-Jones to MacDonald, spliced.

Rossetti to Siddal, spliced.

It's ten years since we met.

So it is, my dear.

(Gabriel) All such things touch secret strings for heavy hearts to hear.

So it is, my dear.

You're still the only one.

Very like, indeed.

(Gabriel) Sea and sky, afar, on high, sand and strewn seaweed.

Very like, indeed.

(Gabriel) But the sea stands spread as one wall with flat skies,

Where the lean black craft like flies seem well-nigh stagnated,

Soon to drop off dead.

Seemed it so to us

When I was thine and thou wast mine.

And all these things were thus,

But all our world in us?

Could we be so now?

Not if all beneath heaven's pall lay dead but I and thou,

Could we be so now!

(I Wedding March continues)

(Gabriel) And we conclude like this.

These artists, having for many years been deeply attached

to the study of the decorative arts of all times and countries,

have felt more than most people the want of some one place

where they could either obtain or get produced works

of a genuine and beautiful character.

They have therefore now established themselves as a firm,

for the production, by themselves and under their supervision, of, one:

mural decorations, either in pictures or in pattern work,

or merely in the arrangements of colours as applied to dwelling houses, churches...

Oh, enough of that, Guggy!

Christina's written us a toast in verse, which she's going to read us.

Now, Christina, let's have it.

The two Rossettis, brothers they,

And Holman Hunt and John Millais,

Ten years ago this very night,

A very solemn cause did plight,

To make the name Pre-Raphaelite

Synonymous with life and art,

Amalgam of both mind and heart.

Oh, bravo!

As fires decline to dying embers,

The P.R.B. soon lost its members.

Oh, dear God!

But from the ash a phoenix flies.

Pre-Raphaelites once more arise.

Full-fledged their art I eulogise.

Toast these men of greater promise,

Ned Burne-Jones and William Morris.

I give you the firm.

(Both) The firm.

The firm.

Who threw that?

I'll chuck the fellow through the window.

(Clucks)

Oh, but acquaint!

Your vicarious feelings I note!

It's a pity you lost your baby, my dear.

Don't fret too much.

I'm sure that you and Gabriel will have many more.

(Gabriel) As when desire, long darkling, dawns

And first the mother looks upon a new-born child,

Even so my lady stood agaze and smiled

When her soul knew at length the love it nurs'd,

Born with her life,

Creature of poignant thirst and exquisite hunger,

At her heart love lay, quickening in darkness,

Till a voice that day cried on him,

And the bonds of birth were burst.

(Belches)

Can thou put that in rhyme?

When a poet eats pasta,

And gobbles it faster

Than we who are sharing the platter,

Then the breath that he held is obscenely expelled

In a mouthful of gaseous matter.

You are so much better than Guggy.

What a gut stuffer!

Shall I tell you a secret?

If you want to.

Guggy's going to be a daddy.

Does that mean that you're going to be a mummy?

You're so clever, Algy.

Gug could never guess a thing like that.

Lizzy, you always know how this ends up.

Leave me alone.

Look, I'm sorry. She... she's not very well.

She... well, she took a pick-me-up before we left home.

He knows all about Lizzy's little black bottle.

Look, Lizzy, you are obviously not hungry.

I'll take you home.

Not home. No, no! Please, no!

(Narrator) We return home via Cranbourne Alley,

haunt of those in search of pleasure... and hats,

for this is where Lizzy worked, twelve years ago,

before the hysteria,

and her addiction to laudanum.

Leave me alone.

We come here so I can be reminded of what he saved me from.

Such a short step from shop to street.

Ain't it, Mr Rossetti?

Give you a good time, Guggy!

You knows you likes it.

Especially with the married ones!

Lizzy, for God's sake!

What are you doing?

I am... writing poetry.

A sonnet for the black-haired bitch!

(Coughs)

Give me a pencil.

Put it on the table.

Now I'd like my laudanum.

- Lizzy, you can't go on. - Don't nag. Give it to me.

Tonight's the night I... I teach the working men, so...

if you don't mind, I'd like to go.

You'll go whether I like it or not.

Well, then, as you don't mind, I erm...

I think I will g0.

I won't be long.

Leave the door open.

How's your poem going?

I'll finish it tonight.

Gug, don't leave me!

Don't go! Don't go!

(Coughing and sobbing)

Don't leave me.

Don't g0!

I am gazing upwards to the sun,

Lord, Lord, remembering my lost one.

Oh, Lord, remember me.

How is it in the unknown land?

Do the dead wander hand in hand?

Do we clasp dead hands and quiver with an endless joy forever?

Is the air filled with the sound of spirits, circling round and round?

Are there lakes of endless song to rest our tired eyes upon?

Do tall white angels gaze and wend along the banks where lilies bend?

Lord, we know not how this may be:

Good Lord, we put our faith in thee -

Oh, God, wait not for me.

Don't do it, Gabriel. No good can come from it.

I gave her little enough when she was alive.

She shall have something of me.

Your poems?

My heart.

...kindle and rally the dead,

The most barren of verse and obscene.

Things monstrous are thine,

Oh, my pallid and poisonous queen.

Take a look at this, dear.

Eugh!

Mew

Hey! Darling!

Do you fancy a bit of the other tonight?

Go away.

(Narrator) Of all London night haunts,

The Grand Turkish Rooms are those most favoured by Rossetti's creature,

Charles Augustus Howell.

This toady profits Rossetti by flogging his paintings at inflated prices.

He sees a profit to himself in egging on Rossetti to publish his poems,

although most of them rot in a coffin

that has lain in Highgate Cemetery these seven years.

Rossetti is sodden with insomnia, whisky and a new drug, chloral.

With only Janey Morris to dream about and whores to confide in,

he gropes for courage to desecrate his wife's grave.

(Murmurs)

You don't half put it away, don't you?

- What are you after? - Same as per usual.

Well, if you must know, the armadilly's arrived.

Have you got tin for that?

- I blued it on your booze, didn't I? - Liar!

Where money's concerned, you're as bottomless as the pit.

My bottom's all right, thank you very much.

I'll tell them the usual, you'll pay later.

- Gabriel? - Yes.

When're you gonna finish me picture?

When I feel like it.

You never feels like anything these days.

He's put the armadilly in the garden with the rest of 'em.

By the way, that owl's outside.

What's the matter with you? You're jumpy as a bag of fleas.

What does he want? I don't want him in here!

He's back again.

Bring that horror in here and I'll leave.

You give me the creeps, you and that bleedin' boozer, Swinburne.

How did it go?

Smoothly.

I took 'em out myself.

It's a ghastly business.

- I should never have let you persuade me. - You wanted them.

I need them.

Then... take 'em.

- They'll sell like hot cakes. - They're poems!

They're not pastries.

I suppose you'll... you'll blab to all and sundry.

Me? Hmm.

I'm as discreet as the grave.

So...

Well... I've changed my mind.

(Gabriel) This is her picture as she was.

It seems a thing to wonder on,

As though mine image in the glass should tarry when myself am gone.

I gaze until she seems to stir,

Until mine eyes almost aver that now,

Even now, the sweet lips part to breathe the words of the sweet heart -

And yet the earth is over her.

Alas, even such the thin-drawn ray

That makes the prison depths more rude,

The drip of water, night and day

Giving tongue to solitude.

Yet this, of all l0ve's perfect prize remains,

Save what in mournful guise takes counsel with my soul alone,

Save what is secret and unknown,

Below the earth, above the skies.

Here with her face doth memory sit meanwhile,

And wait the day's decline,

Till other eyes shall look from it,

Eyes of the spirit's Palestine,

Even than the old gaze tenderer:

While hopes and aims long lost with her

Stand round her image, side by side,

Like tombs of pilgrims that have died

About the Holy Sepulchre.

(P "Abide With Me" on hurdy-gurdy drowns speech)

Like to come and keep me company, guv?

It ain't far.

(Screams)

Can't you treat anyone proper?

Come back!

You shan't get away from me. I'll get you!

Come back!

(Narrator) Tempted as he was, R0ssetti's plunge into suicide was not by drowning.

He chose the drug used by his wife, laudanum.

As always, his ex-mistress and present housekeeper, Fanny, the faithful elephant,

is there to help him back, a little paralysed, into the gloom of his Chelsea house.

You're a bleedin' sly one, ain't you, eh?

- Go away. - You have a visitor.

- Ha! Well, if that's your attitude. - Go away!

He don't want to see you.

Gabriel.

Don't mind little old me.

You carry on, girl. I'm just part of the furniture.

Well, here's summat you don't know. He tried to kill hisself, he did.

And it was me what saved his life. Me. Nursed him, I did.

- Go away, you bitch. - I will, I will.

She can have you. Huh! Look at you.

You can hardly walk, you can hardly see. A blind cripple.

Well, she's bleedin' welcome to you!

I'll get that stuff out the way! That's a bloody disgrace!

Well, here you are. Cop hold of that, see how you like that!

I'm fed up with bloody waiting on you hand and foot.

I'm just fed up with you!

It's arranged.

We've found a place near Oxford.

It's ready and waiting for you.

Waiting?

For me?

Hmm?

But a web of gold is before her, and therein by her shuttle wrought,

The early days of the Volsungs, and the war by the sea's rim fought,

And the crowned queen over Sigmund, and the Helper's pillared hall,

And the golden babe uplifted to the eyes of duke and thrall.

And there was the slender stripling by the knees of the Dwarf-folks' Lord,

And the gift of the ancient Gripir, and the forging of the sword:

And there were the coils of Fafnir, and the hooded threat of death,

And the king by the cooking fire, and the fowl of the Glittering Heath.

And there was the headless king-smith, and the golden halls of the worm,

And the laden Greyfell faring through the land of perished storm.

And there was the head of Hindfell and the flames to the sky-floor drive'n.

And there was the glittering shield-burg, and the fallow bondage riven,

And there was the wakening woman, and the golden Volsung done.

And they twain o'er the earthly kingdoms, in the lonely evening sun.

You haven't changed your mind about sharing?

No, why should I?

Because you're the most changeable fellow I know.

I shall like it here, lacking in comforts though it is.

Oh, comforts! There's nothing less important.

- Iceland? - It's beyond me.

You translate from the Italian and remain indifferent to Italy.

Damnit, you've never been there!

Do you think I can translate Icelandic sagas and remain indifferent to Iceland?

These Icelandic sagas say it all.

And all within the compass of a few hundred words. Unlike Dante.

And unlike Dante, without poetry.

That's the reason, and no other, why I have decided to take a trip there.

I shan't be taking her. It's no place for a woman.

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing.

I cannot ease the burden of your fears,

Or make quick-coming death a little thing,

Or bring again the pleasure of past years.

You don't object to him sharing.

It's a bit late now.

(Gabriel) This hour be her sweet body all my song.

Now the same heartbeat blends her gaze with mine.

One parted fire, l0ve's silent countersign:

Her arms lie wide open,

Throbbing with their throng of confluent pulses,

Bare and fair and strong:

And her deep-freighted lips expect me now,

Amidst the clustering hair that shrines her brow five kisses broad,

Her neck ten kisses long.

And on his heart, the weight of woe so pressed

That he his wretched head could never hide.

But needs must wander forth until he died.

Ah, God, more full of horror seemed that place

Than the world's curious eyes upon his face,

For there he seemed to sleep, that he might dream the worst of dreams.

He seemed to be awake.

That through them all might pierce no hopeful gleam,

That he the fearful chain might never break,

And shameful images his eyes must make

That shuddering he must call by his l0ve's name,

And on his lips must gather words of shame.

And yet, indeed, if I must live alone,

If fellowship be but an empty dream,

ls there not left a world that is mine own?

Am I not real if all else doth but seem?

Yea, rather with what wealth the world doth teem,

When we are once content from us to cast the dreadful future

And remorseful past.

(Narrator) Jenny May and Janey Morris

Give Gabriel the inspiration for new sonnets.

Morris can sweat it out in Iceland.

Fanny can peddle his paintings.

A critic, anonymous, can attack his newly published poems,

For these clouds beyond the clear skies of his earthly paradise,

Gabriel gives not a damn.

He savours only the joys, the innocence and the bliss of happy family life.

Please be my daddy.

Can Mr Rossetti adopt me too, please, Mummy?

(Gabriel) Sometimes she is a child within mine arms.

Cowering beneath dark wings that love must chase.

With still tears showering and averted face,

inexplicably fill'd with faint alarms:

And 0ft, from mine own spirit's hurtling harms

I crave the refuge of her deep embrace.

Against all ills the fortified strong place

And sweet reserve of sovereign counter-charms.

Would you like a child of your own?

No.

Suppose you had no choice?

Do you see me as a father?

No.

(Gabriel) Don't leave me! Don't leave me!

Don't leave me!

(Gabriel) What of her glass without her?

The blank grey there where the pool is blind of the moon's face.

Her dress without her?

The tossed, empty space of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.

Her past without her.

Day's appointed sway usurp'd by desolate night.

Her pill0w'd place without her?

Tears, ah, met for l0ve's good grace,

And cold forgetfulness of night or day.

(Narrator) Janey has left him.

His mind has become clouded with chloral.

He hears and sees the dead.

They wait on him, accusing, condemning,

as he accuses and condemns himself... endlessly,

(Gabriel) The lost days of my life, until today,

What were they?

Could I see them on the street lie as they fell?

Would they be ears of wheat sown once for food but trodden into clay?

Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?

Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?

Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat

The throats of men in Hell, who thirst away?

I do not see them here,

But after death God knows I know the faces I shall see.

Each one a murdered self, with a low last breath,

"I am myself. What hast thou done to me?"

And I, and I, thyself, l0, each one saith,

"And thou thyself, to all eternity!"

Ah! Dear one,

We were young so long,

It seemed that youth would never go,

For skies and trees were ever in song and water in singing flow

In the days we never again shall know,

Alas, so long!

(Lizzy) Ah! Then was it all spring weather?

(Gabriel) Nay, but we were young and together.

Ah! Dear one, I've been old so long,

It seems that age is loath to part,

Though days and years have never a song,

And 0h, have they still the art that warmed the pulses of heart to heart?

Alas, so long!

(Lizzy) Ah! Then was it all spring weather?

(Gabriel) Nay, but we were young and together.

Ah! Dear one, you've been dead so long,

How long until we meet again,

Where hours may never lose their song nor flowers forget the rain

In glad moonlight that never shall wane?

Alas, so long!

Ah! Shall it be then spring weather?

And ah! Shall we be young together?

(Narrator) Too late, old man.

You had your chance.

So, till chloral kills you,

console yourself with your bottle,

and your muse,

Oi! Rossetti!

Don't drink the bleedin' lot yourself!

Hey!

You rotten bastard!