‘I think nothing, my lord.’ (Ophelia; ‘Hamlet’, Act 3, scene 2)
I remain puzzled by why Millais
travelled from Bloomsbury
down to Surrey to paint a small
stretch of the Hogsmill,
a minor tributary of the Thames,
with its bothersome flies,
its importuning sheep,
its strong winds,
a farmer’s charge of trespass,
as well as a fury of swans,
hissing and flapping,
defending their patch
against his invasion
of up to eleven hours a day,
six days a week
for over a five-month period in 1851.
But Millais captured his vision,
tamed his flow of paint
onto his canvas,
rendering a veracity of vegetation,
a verismo of wild flowers,
plus a pollarded willow
placed to arch over where later
he would position Ophelia’s head.
And, no doubt he expected
nothing less, scorned anything
less, from his model back
in his Gower Street studio.
Here she, his human swan,
this beauty, lay, lied, quiescent,
clothed in an antique
silver embroidered dress.
Her face shows wonderment,
her slim arms float in surrender,
palms upwards, in her watery coffin,
Millais’ tin bathtub.
The water quickly chilled.
Unable to move,
Millais hoisted her out,
waterlogged.
© Catherine Nicholls
Picture No. 10227080, Ophelia, 1851-52. Millais, Sir John Everett (1829-1896), oil on canvas, 76 x 112 cm.
© Mary Evans/Interfoto Agentur
Catherine Nicholls has lived in the Dark Sky Reserve of the Exmoor National Park for over 20 years. Without the diversions of bright lights and shopping malls she quickly turned to writing poetry to while away the long winter nights. Before moving to Exmoor she farmed in mid-Devon for many years. She is a member of the North Devon Poets @NorthDevonPoet.
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