Sometimes the story behind a work is just as compelling as the story it tells. This has possibly never been more true than in the case of John Everett Millais’ most well-known painting.

Millais started Ophelia in 1815, basing it off the tragic noblewoman of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He was a member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a group of artists who considered the realistic depiction of nature paramount. In that vein, Millais spent up to 11 hours a day studying and sketching by the banks of the Hogsmill River in Surrey, England. This dedication is apparent in the finished painting, which is beloved today for its beauty, verisimilitude, and depth. (It is now a part of the permanent collection at the Tate Britain.) But when Ophelia was unveiled at the Royal Academy, it received mixed reviews. A critic at The Times (the British daily) wrote, “there must be something strangely perverse in an imagination which souses Ophelia in a weedy ditch, and robs the drowning struggle of that lovelorn maiden of all pathos and beauty.” If he only knew.

In letters written to his brother, Millais describes some of the trials and tribulations he went through in making his masterpiece: “My martyrdom is more trying than any I have hitherto experienced. The flies of Surrey are more muscular, and have a still greater propensity for probing human flesh … I am threatened with a notice to appear before a magistrate for trespassing in a field and destroying the hay … am also in danger of being blown by the wind into the water, and becoming intimate with the feelings of Ophelia when that Lady sank to muddy death…”

But the flesh-eating flies of Surrey were just the beginning of Millais’ grief. The model who posed for the painting, Elizabeth Siddal, had to lay in a bathtub for hours so that Millais could correctly depict the floating Ophelia. At one point, the water was so cold that Siddal grew ill and had to be hospitalized. She recovered, but not before her father threatened Millais with legal action until he agreed to pay for the doctor bills. (And besides, he apparently had enough legal trouble for his “trespassing in a field and destroying the hay.”)

Lastly, we come to the case of the vanishing vole. Millais’ first unveiling of Ophelia included an image of the European water vole—a rodent similar to a large rat—swimming next to the floating girl. It isn’t known why Millais wanted to include this semiaquatic rodent, but it was important enough for Millais’ assistant to fish out a live specimen from the Hogsmill for his reference. In 1851, when Millais invited relatives of his friend and colleague, William Holman Hunt, to see the painting for the first time, none could figure out what the small creature was supposed to be. (Literally, the story goes that they all guessed and none were correct.) Millais relays the interaction for us in one of his diary entries:

“Hunt’s uncle and aunt came, both of whom understood most gratifyingly every object except my water rat … The male relation, when invited to guess at it, eagerly pronounced it to be a hare. Perceiving by our smiles that he had made a mistake, a rabbit was next hazarded. After which I have a faint recollection of a dog or a cat being mentioned.”

By the time Ophelia was officially revealed, Millais had evidently decided to nix the rodent, for Ophelia appeared floating alone. It’s hard not to wonder: what if the vole remained? Would the painting still be as renowned? Would it have been taken as a lighthearted touch, or would it have punctured the gravitas of its source material? We’ll never know of course. But at least we can appreciate the work even more, knowing all of what transpired behind the canvas.