Category Archives: Music

Winifred Raven Holiday: Musician

One of my current research projects focuses on a particular social set of artists and musicians that came together in West London during the late nineteenth century. Though its most illustrious members (including Pre-Raphaelite painters and famous concert pianists) were men, the women of the group have their own important stories to tell. I’ve found that the wives and daughters of the men in this gang often had their own careers in art and music, but their stories have been relegated to the footnotes of books about their fathers and brothers. 

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Winifred Raven Holiday by Lock & Whitfield, 1886
National Portrait Gallery London

In this post I will share the story of one of these women – the musician and suffragette Winifred Raven Holiday (1866 – 1949). She was the daughter of eminent artist Henry Holiday, whose work with a formidable model called Priscilla was the subject of my last post. 

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Kate Raven, 1861
As featured in Henry Holiday’s Reminiscences

Winifred’s mother, Catherine (Kate) Raven, was also a noted artist. A gifted embroiderer who worked with Morris & Co., she developed her own techniques and executed William Morris’ designs on a large scale. Morris left the colours to her judgement, explaining to Henry Holiday: ‘I’d back your wife for heavy sums against all Europe at embroidery’.  

Kate was also a skilled amateur pianist who shared her husband’s passion for music. The family counted many leading figures from the world of music amongst their closest friends, including the violinist Joseph Joachim, conductor Hans Richter and composer Hubert Parry. 

Kate and Henry’s only child, Winifred, therefore grew up in an intensely musical environment. The Holidays hosted large concerts at their home in Hampstead, and dinner parties involved music too. At one garden party in 1881, guests including William and Fanny Holman Hunt, Lady Burne-Jones and Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema enjoyed Richter’s performance on the piano of extracts from Wagner’s Ring cycle. This had not yet been performed in England. On this same occasion a young Winifred – already a talented violinist in her early teens – performed Bach’s piano and violin sonata in B with Hans Richter. 

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John Collingham Moore, The Young Violinist, 1874

There are two notable paintings of a young Winifred with her violin. The first is by John Collingham Moore. It appears the identity of his sitter has been lost over time – the painting was sold at auction as The Young Violinist some years ago, but a reproduction in Henry Holiday’s Reminiscences confirms that the sitter is Winifred.

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Henry Holiday, The Duet, 1877

The second is a particularly beautiful watercolour portrait of Winifred (on the left) and her friend, Alexandra Kitchin by Henry Holiday himself. My favourite detail is the tiny profile portrait of Mozart just over Winifred’s shoulder. This paitning sold at auction in 2004. ‘Xie’, as Alexandra was known by her friends, was the daughter of Reverend George William Kitchin, a friend of both Ruskin and Lewis Carroll. 

Xie Kitchin playing a violin, photographed by Lewis Carroll, c.1876
Royal Photographic Society

Carroll, who owned at least one of Henry Holiday’s paintings, famously took several photographs of a young Xie.

When the Royal College of Music opened in 1882, Henry felt it was a little late for Winifred’s musical education as her skills were already advanced. However, he was keen for her to gain experience in performance and sit appropriate examinations. He said: ‘Orchestral-playing, ensemble practice, and harmony and counterpoint, are all essential to a musical education, and these were all to be had, and of excellent quality, at the College.’ 

His talented daughter was awarded a scholarship and soon excelled in her studies. Her proud father reported that ‘In advanced harmony and counterpoint Winifred came out first in the last year of her scholarship, though it was only her second study.’

One incident which occurred when she was a student confirms Winifred’s skill. The violinist Henry Holmes was taken ill just before he was scheduled to lead a concert in Newcastle. He asked Winifred to stand in for him. She led performances of quartets by Mozart and Haydn which she was familiar with, as well as a quintet by Schumann which she had never played. Henry reported ‘There was only time [for Winifred] to travel down, get one rehearsal there, and then perform all the works in public. According to accounts of the other members of the quartet, and of the local press, it was a brilliant success.’

When Winifred had completed her time at the RCM, she spent some time in Berlin where she played in a quartet with celebrated violinist Joseph Joachim. On her return to London she formed a quartet of her own – her pianists included both Fanny Davies and Leonard Borwick, both notable performers in their own right. With the help of clarinettist Mr. Draper, her father explained, ‘they played Brahms’ quintet for clarionet and strings, a work of no small difficulty, not often heard.’ 

In the autumn of 1893, at the urging of his wife, Henry Holiday took Winifred on something of a pilgrimage across Europe. Their final destination was in Bayreuth. Joining them on this journey was Winifred’s friend, a fellow Wagner devotee called Miss Florence Scott. On their grand tour they enjoyed much music, one highlight being a meeting in Venice with the man in whose arms Wagner had died. The grand finale of the tour was a performance of Parsifal and Lohengrin, which (according to Henry) ‘seemed to soar into the regions never before attained by any composer’.

In the years that followed, Winifred established herself as a performer of note. She led a ‘ladies orchestra’ which gave performances in cities around Britain, also leading a second orchestra primarily made up of female players. They performed to predominantly working-class audiences. Her father said: ‘The audiences at these concerts are largely working-class, and it is delightful, though to me not surprising, to see their enthusiastic appreciation for the greatest works of the greatest masters. There are few concerts I enjoy so much.’

As this begins to suggest, Winifred was (like her parents) very politically aware – a supporter not only of workers’ rights, but an active suffragette. In my next blog post, I will discuss Winifred’s activities as a suffragette, and reveal that she leveraged her father’s contacts in the art world to win support for the cause. Watch this space…

The Mysterious Priscilla W: Pre-Raphaelite Model & Musician

My research on the connections between musicians and artists in late nineteenth-century London has led me towards a number of bohemian families. Often, I’m finding, the daughters of well-known artists became musicians – or vice versa. These women played a vital role in connecting the communities they were part of, and many were also extremely politically active. Uncovering their stories has been one of the most exciting revelations of this project so far, and I’m looking forward introducing them to you as my research develops.

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Henry Holiday, Dante and Beatrice, Oil on canvas, 1883, Walker Art Gallery

Today, though, I want to discuss a woman who was on the fringes of this bohemian community. She wasn’t a member of an affluent artistic family but was nevertheless able to capitalise on her connections in the art world in order to forge a career in music. I came across her story in the autobiography of artist Henry Holiday, whose family straddled the worlds of art and music in just the way I have described. A member of the Pre-Raphaelite school, Holiday is best remembered for his Dante and Beatrice, now at the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. His Reminiscencesare a brilliant read, offering a great deal of insight into the worlds of art and music in late-Victorian and Edwardian London. Here’s the section that piqued my interest:

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Henry Holiday’s house in Kent, as it looks today

Our house, “Portlands” by name, near Knockholt, was seven miles from St. Mary Cray, our nearest station, so that it was impossible to have models for a few hours, and we had either to have them in the house or get a room out. Burne-Jones told me of a very good one, Miss Priscilla W., who stayed with us for two or three weeks at a time while I was painting the Muses. I remember that she told me during the sittings the greater part of the story of “Our Mutual Friend,” which was then new, and I had not read it. She had a wonderful memory and repeated whole conversations with a keen sense of the humour. During her second visit I heard her one morning singing to herself during a rest, and said to her, “That’s a Sonata of Schubert’s you’re humming.” “Yes,” she answered, “I know it is.” “But how do you come to know it?” “Mrs. Holiday used to play it when I was last here, and I love music.”

I was struck by her musical memory, and she, on hearing more of my wife’s pieces, developed so keen an interest in them that she saved up money enough to buy a piano, and Mrs. Holiday gave her some lessons. Later we introduced her to Miss Bondy, an admirable pianist, who kindly gave her lessons at a moderate charge, and in an incredibly short space of time she became an accomplished musician and had given up sitting for teaching the piano.

There are many reasons that this short passage jumped out at me. Firstly, I wondered, who was Priscilla W? I’ve had a dig around and can’t find any information about a model with that name – unless I’m missing something obvious. If she was recommended by Burne-Jones, does that mean she modelled for him too? We know a lot about some of the famous models who worked in Pre-Raphaelite circles – might Priscilla be worthy of further research?

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The frieze, as reproduced in Holiday’s Reminiscences

Details from the frieze, as reproduced in Holiday’s Reminiscences

All Holiday tells us is that Priscilla was the model he used for his frieze Apollo and the Muses, which he completed for the Clifton Theatre. I can’t find any information about this venue online, and it seems unlikely that the frieze survives. However, Holiday does reproduce a drawing of it in his memoirs.

Preparatory drawings for Holiday’s muses, recently sold at auction

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Detail from preparatory drawing

While searching online, I also came across two preparatory drawings for the muses that were sold at auction recently– see here and here. These three sources give us some indication what Priscilla looked like. It seems that she had red wavy hair and a strong jaw – characteristic features of Pre-Raphaelite women.

The main reason Holiday’s description grabbed my attention, though, is that Priscilla sounds like a force! With an appetite for literature and music, and the ability to memorise Dickens and Schubert, she was clearly culturally engaged and extremely smart.

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Miss Bondy in The Musical World

Most striking, though, is the way in which she was able to leverage the contacts her modelling career gave her access to. She set herself up as a piano teacher, which was both a more stable and more respectable form of work. It’s also notable that it was other women who facilitated this career move – the artist’s wife, Catherine Holiday (herself a noted textile artist who worked for William Morris) took the initiative in assisting Priscilla. Miss Bondy then offered lessons at a reduced rate. This is a great example of women helping women.

Without her full surname it’s difficult to research Priscilla’s career as a teacher, but I have found some adverts for piano recitals given by her own teacher, Miss Bondy. It’s possible that Priscilla also performed at some of these. I’ll continue to dig around in the archives and see what I find. In the meantime, if any readers have thoughts or suggestions about who this mysterious musical model was (and what else she might have modelled for!) I’d love to hear them…

Introducing Paderewski

It’s been a long time since I updated my blog, so I thought it was about time I got back on it – especially as I’ve (finally!) started some exciting new projects. The first of these is entitled Musical Portraits in Bohemian London: 1870 – 1930. I was lucky enough to be awarded an Understanding British Portraits Fellowship to support this research, which you can read more about here.

In a nutshell, my aim is to explore the relationships that existed between (visual) artists and musicians in this period, using four portraits at the Royal College of Music (RCM) as starting point. This post is about one of these portraits – a stunning Edward Burne-Jones painting of Ignacy Jan Paderewski.

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Portrait of Ignacy Jan Paderewski, Edward Burne-Jones, 1890

An international piano virtuoso turned statesman, the Polish polymath Paderewski deserves to be far better known that he is. Indeed, I had never heard of him before I started working at the RCM. Allow me to introduce him…

Born in Poland in 1860, Paderewski studied music at the Warsaw Conservatory, later becoming a piano teacher there. In 1880 he married one of his pupils, Antonina Korsak, who sadly died in childbirth the following year. Encouraged and financed by a Polish actor named Helena Modjeska, he studied in Vienna for several years before making his first public appearances as a concert pianist. Modjeska, as a famous actor, was well aware of how a person had to market themselves – she encouraged Paderewski to wear his hair wild, and dress in dark clothing so that he would cut a romantic and artistic figure. Her advice worked – he soon became a sensation and was in demand across Europe.

The pianist inspired an almost fevered devotion in his fans – particularly his female fans. They were dubbed the ‘Paderwski girls’, or sometimes the ‘Paderewski cult’. There were often small-scale riots at his concerts, as women rushed up to him with scissors hoping for a lock of his famous hair. On one occasion the pianist fainted as he was so overwhelmed by the mob of women that surrounded him! Many were quick to cash in on the popularity of the new virtuoso – he became a celebrity in a very modern sense. He was featured in adverts for a wide range of goods, and his portrait appeared on collectible prints, posters and souvenirs. [1]

But Paderewski was far more than a pianist – he also became a noted statesman. Throughout his career, he had been a staunch patriot and often used his platform to endorse the cause of Polish independence. During World War One, he was appointed as a representative of the Polish National Committee in the United States, and was instrumental in gaining President Woodrow Wilson’s support for an independent Poland. In 1919 Paderewski became Prime Minister of Poland and represented his country at the Paris Peace Conference in the same year – there he signed the treaty of Versailles, which restored some of his country’s former territories.

Although his time as Prime Minister was short, Paderewski achieved an impressive amount during his time as leader. He called a democratic election, passed a treaty to protect ethnic minorities and established a public education system. After the election Paderewski resigned, but he continued to represent Poland at the League of Nations. Here he was the only delegate who did not require a translator, as he was fluent in seven languages.

In 1922 the composer retired from politics and re-dedicated himself to music. He performed across the United States, travelling around in a private railway car. During World War Two Paderewski put his political hat on for one last time, travelling to Europe to speak out against the Nazis. In 1941, the 50th anniversary of the pianist’s first US tour was celebrated with a festival called ‘Paderewski Week’ – over 6,000 concerts were put on across the country in his honour. The composer died later that same year.

In later posts, I’ll discuss the important relationship Paderewski had with artists – most particularly Edward Burne-Jones. I’ll also be sharing some fascinating archival sources that provide new insight into the musical world of Burne-Jones and his circle. Watch this space…

[1] For more on Paderewski’s image, I highly recommend this excellent article which is freely available on JSTOR: Maja Trochimczyk, ‘An Archangel at the Piano: Paderewski’s Image and His Female Audience’, Polish American Studies, Vol. 67. No. 1 (Spring 2010) pp. 5-4

 

 

Dragonetti & His Dolls: The Musician Who Married a Mannequin

Autobiographies of nineteenth-century performers are a lot of fun to work with. They are, without exception, filled will all manner of bizarre and surprising anecdotes. In a previous post I discussed the opera singer Henry Phillips (1801-1876), who wrote about the way in which he was influenced by American Indian dance.  Today I am returning to Phillips’ memoirs, this time taking a look at what he had to say about his eccentric friend Domenico Dragonetti (c.1755-1846).

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Maxim Gauci after W. F. Rosenburg | Domenico Dragonetti | Lithograph | 280 mm x 212 mm | Early Nineteenth Century | National Portrait Gallery, London

Dragonetti was a famous double bass virtuoso. Born in Venice, his father was an amateur musician whose instruments filled their home. The young Dragonetti took advantage of these, teaching himself to play. His talents were soon noticed, and he became something of a child prodigy. By the age of 13 he was appointed principal player at one of the city’s opera houses. He eventually worked his way into the employ of Saint Mark’s Basilica, where he became famous in his role as principal bassist. He dazzled crowds with his solo pieces and presided over prestigious music festivals. Having huge hands meant that he was able to play the double bass in a new and exciting way.

After thirty years in Venice, Dragonetti headed to London where he took up a position at the King’s Theatre. As a member of the orchestra, he soon became a celebrity in the city. He associated with many important society figures, including the Prince Consort who became his close friend. He stayed in London for the rest of his life, though he made various trips to Vienna where he met both Haydn and Beethoven. According to legend, he played one of Beethoven’s pieces for the composer, who became so overwhelmed that he leapt up to embrace him!

What fascinates me most about Dragonetti, however, is not his impressive career. I am intrigued by his personal life, which was eccentric in the extreme. Phillips, who was a friend of Dragonetti, discusses this at length. He begins:

Dragonetti! in him what a strange being I shall have to describe: he was a kind-hearted man, abounding with eccentricities; by nature a lover of the fine arts; and on his instrument, the double bass, perfection. The power and tones he produced from his unwieldy instrument were wonderful, and to this he added great and rapid execution. The ends of his fingers had become, by practice, broad, covered with corns, and almost without form.

Phillips then goes on to describe the personality and private life of the great virtuoso:

Take him out of his profession, he was a mere child, given to the greatest frivolities. He led a single life, and occupied one lodging for years; which lodging, consisted of a bed-room, sitting-room, and a vacant apartment, which contained his collection of paintings, engravings and dolls.

Yes – dolls! Dragonetti had a large collection of dolls to which he was unusually attached. Phillips explains:

Dolls – do not start reader! a strange weakness for a man of genius to indulge in, but so it was; white dolls, brown dolls, dark dolls, and black, large, small, middling, and diminutive, formed an important feature in his establishment.

The singer goes on to tell us that not only did the bachelor Dragonetti fill his home with dolls – he also ‘married’ one!

The large black doll he would call his wife, and she used to travel with him sometimes to the [music] festivals. He […] generally journeyed [inside a] coach, and when changing horses in some little village, he would take his black doll and dance it at the window, to the infinite astonishment and amusement of the bystanders. Such was one of the strange eccentricities of this really great man.

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Thomas Fairland after Charles Doane | Domenico Dragonetti | Lithograph | 557 mm x 383 mm | 1846 | National Portrait Gallery, London

If Dragonetti was alive today, I can imagine him starring in a tacky Channel 4 documentary: ‘The Man Who Married a Doll!’ Phillips didn’t have a film crew, but he was much intrigued by his friend’s eccentricity and wrote a letter to Dragonetti, asking him various questions about his life – a sort of interview by correspondence. As the musician was quite elderly by this time (and, Phillips says, not a fan of writing letters) he dictated his reply to his good friend, the musician Vincent Novello. He did, however, add his own signature at the end. Phillips reproduces this letter in its entirety, but the most intriguing section concerns his harem of dolls:

To your sixth inquiry, I have to inform you that I have only one black doll. I have seven other dolls in my seraglio, two of which are finishing their education amongst the German literati, who are remarkably clever and experienced in their mode of treating blockheads, for I wish my dollies to have an education of the most polished kind, especially in the smoothness and waxen-brilliancy of their innocent faces, which never degenerates (as it sometimes happens with living dolls) into an ill-tempered frown. The other five dolls are such dolce companions, that they render my home a perfect dulce domum.

Though this is clearly a humorous account of the musician’s peculiar relationship with his dolls, it does raise all sorts of intriguing questions. Was this attachment to dolls a self-conscious, deliberately cultivated eccentricity? Was Dragonetti a lonely man who found strange consolation in the company of dolls? Did he find real women too intimidating? Or is there a more sinister undercurrent of misogyny here? He prefers perfect and ’innocent’ young dolls to ‘living dolls’ who ‘degenerate’. Perhaps this fixation was even a symptom of his childishness – he preferred playing with toys to the company of real adults. This latter possibility seems perhaps most likely, given Phillip’s concluding description of Dragonetti:

He was a gentle, kind person; if there had ever been any harshness in his nature, music had certainly softened it. His last words are a sufficient evidence of his child-like nature. Lying on the sofa, surrounded by many of his most intimate friends, he said, “Stand aside, I see my father; and my mother is coming to kiss me.” Then, growing faint, he feel back exhausted, and died. This was related to me by Novello, who was by his side.

We’ll probably never know quite what was going on with Dragonetti and his dolls, but I find this tale captivating: a famous Venetian musician living in Leicester Square, surrounded by mannequins. Autobiography is frequently stranger than fiction!