Although Coldbath Fields no longer housed a public bath, there was no need for residents to go unwashed. At 32 Hatton Garden, a canny homeowner had built new public baths in his garden, a facility the Siddall family would certainly have made use of. A few years after the Siddalls left the area, a young lodger moved into the house at number 32. He was Samuel Plimsoll, the man who invented the Plimsoll mark on ships and to whom so many sailors have owed their lives. Ironically, a few decades later, Hatton Garden was to become the home of someone indirectly responsible for more deaths than almost any other inventor: Hiram Maxim, the man who gave the world the machine-gun. It was developed just metres away from the place of Lizzie Siddall’s birth.
Around 1831, the Siddall family moved to the borough of Southwark, in south London, a less salubrious area than Hatton Garden. The move may have been prompted by the fact that Charles had been going through the business’s profits in his fruitless attempts to claim back his family’s heritage. Or it could have been simply a matter of the family growing in size and needing more space, which they could not afford to rent in Holborn. By 1833, Charles was working on his own and had only one business, run from his home at 8 Kent Place, just off the Old Kent Road.10 This new home was rented from a greengrocer, Mr James Greenacre, who lived at number 2 Kent Place. Their homes were opposite an imposingly large Georgian building, the Asylum for Deaf and Dumb Children, and near several popular coaching inns. It was in Southwark that the rest of Lizzie’s siblings were born: Lydia, to whom Lizzie was particularly close, Mary, Clara, James and Henry. The Siddalls’ youngest child, who was born in 1843, suffered from unspecified learning difficulties, though these were apparently not serious enough to prevent him entering into the family business.11 For a couple of years, the Siddall family rented two properties in Southwark, the one in Kent Place and another in Upper Ground, very close to Blackfriars Bridge. They lived briefly at Upper Ground, before returning permanently to Kent Place when Henry was about a year old.
In 1831, the population of Southwark reached 85,000; over-crowding was a serious problem and many Southwark residents had no access to clean running water. The Thames was desperately unhygienic, still used by many Londoners as a bottomless rubbish tip and choked by having untreated sewage poured into it. In 1832, the borough – in common with much of London – suffered a cholera outbreak. As the cause of cholera was still unknown, thousands of needless deaths were caused by people continuing to drink contaminated water from the river.
There were, however, many positive aspects about the family’s new home. Southwark was far less built up than Hatton Garden, with wide open spaces and green fields for the children to play in; there was even a nearby zoo, which opened in 1831 and became a popular tourist attraction. The local economy was relatively stable, with high employment in the area and new labour continually needed to help build the London and Greenwich Railway and, when that was complete, to work on the Thames Tunnel, an underwater passageway that was the project of Marc Brunel (father of Isambard Kingdom Brunel).
Charles Siddall was not alone in running his business from home. Almost all their neighbours did the same, including their landlord. Lizzie was later to recall how Mr Greenacre, a “giant” of a man, was kind to her and occasionally carried her across the street when the paving stones were covered with sewage or effluent from less savoury businesses than greengrocery or cutlery. When Lizzie was seven years old, however, the “giant” Mr Greenacre disappeared most sensationally from Kent Place, never to return. It was not long before the Siddalls – in company with the rest of the newspaper-reading public – discovered their neighbour and landlord had committed one of the most notorious murders London had yet seen. His case caught the popular imagination, filled the newspapers with sensational “scoops” and even inspired a book. As an adult, Lizzie dwelt quite regularly and with ghoulish melancholy over the fact she had known a murderer and that his unfortunate victim had been killed very close to her childhood home.
A widower with children, Greenacre had been due to marry a childless widow, Mrs Hannah Brown, a laundress who had a small amount of savings. On Christmas Eve, just days before their intended wedding, she disappeared and he told his friends that they had had an argument, the wedding was off and she had left him. That winter was extremely cold, with several inches of snow on the ground. When it started to thaw, a couple of days after Christmas, a scruffy bag, which had been discarded on the Edgware Road and ignored, suddenly attracted attention, because of the red colour that seeped out of it into the surrounding snow. When the bag was opened, it was found to contain severed limbs. A woman’s torso and, a few days later, the head of James Greenacre’s fiancée were discovered in two other locations in London, but she had been dismembered and killed (in that order) in a building very close to Kent Place. James Greenacre was hanged in 1837.
Murderous landlords and impoverished circumstances aside, Elizabeth and Charles Siddall were determined their children would aspire to return to the social class from which they believed they had been wrested. Although there is no record of her having attended school, Lizzie was able to read and write, presumably having been taught by her parents. She developed a love of poetry at a young age, after discovering a poem by Tennyson on a scrap of newspaper that had been used to wrap a pat of butter. This discovery was one of Lizzie’s inspirations to start writing her own poetry.
The Siddall children’s lives were animated with tales told by their father of his family’s former greatness and a belief that they should be living in a minor ancestral hall. Mindful of his origins, Charles and Elizabeth strove to see that their family, though very poor, had the manners of children from a more genteel home. They were taught general lessons about how to behave in public – to eat correctly, to have gracious manners, to converse intelligently, to sit, stand and walk elegantly and how to dress themselves (making their own clothes, of course) with style. This early education was to stand Lizzie in good stead later in life, allowing her to charm several of Rossetti’s more highly connected friends.
Unfortunately, being brought up to consider themselves as equals to their social superiors did not prevent the Siddall children from having to find work as soon as they were old enough. Charles was apprenticed to another cutler in Southwark, James and Henry worked with their father and the girls, except Annie, drudged in the poorer-paid end of the fashion industry. Annie married very young, at the age of fifteen, moved to Scotland and had six children, but Lydia had two jobs, working in her aunt’s candle shop and as a dressmaker. Mary was also a dressmaker and Clara worked as a mantle-maker.
Their wages were not considerable. Mrs Tozer paid Lizzie £24 a year – the modern-day equivalent of just under £1,500 – and her sisters’ salaries would have been similar.12 As Lizzie was to discover, by sitting for an artist she could more than double the money she earned from millinery. The going rate for an artist’s model in 1849 was “a shilling an hour, five shillings for a morning or seven and sixpence a day”13 – and the work was far less backbreaking than making bonnets in a poorly ventilated and meagrely lit little workshop.
When Mrs Deverell paid her visit to Southwark, she was aided in her quest by Mrs Siddall’s galling knowledge of her daughters’ hard lives. Their careers were physically challenging and modelling would be far less harmful to Lizzie’s always delicate constitution than millinery. There was also the element of surprise: the appearance of an elegant woman, arriving by coach, at the front door of 8 Kent Place was an occasion to be remarked upon. Mrs Siddall, unused to receiving such fine visitors and by now mournfully accepting of the fact that she would never be mistress of Hope Hall, was in awe of this friendly but grand lady who appeared so unexpectedly and spoke to her as an equal, from one mother to another. Mrs Deverell later related that Lizzie’s mother was haughty and painfully refined. She had the same very correct manner of walking and sitting, keeping her spine perfectly erect, as her daughter, and possessed beautifully kept, very long hair of a paler, but equally arresting,
colour than Lizzie’s. The house was faultlessly clean, and emanated the impression that its owners had “come down in the world” and were now waiting to be elevated once more. The pleasure of receiving such a guest was tempered by the knowledge that this woman came from a far superior home, which was perhaps the reason for Mrs Siddall’s haughty demeanour. She was an intelligent woman, however, with a large number of daughters to consider. This rich woman’s son was obviously captivated by Lizzie’s looks and a modelling career might lead to something more – it could be Lizzie’s chance to break out of the social mould into which she had been reluctantly cast and to marry her way into a higher echelon of society. Such a marriage would benefit the whole family. Mrs Deverell assured Mrs Siddall that she and her daughters would be on hand to ensure Lizzie was not placed in any awkward or compromising situations. Walter’s mother made the offer sound appealing and lucrative and, if Mrs Tozer had no objection, indeed was being more than generous in her terms, so why should Mrs Siddall object? It was fortunate for the history of art that Lizzie’s father was not at home, as he most certainly did object to his daughter’s new role – when he found out about it. In his absence, however, Lizzie’s mother stiffly gave her permission and Mrs Deverell returned home across the river to tell her son the good news.
At the start of her modelling career, Lizzie was in the enviable position of being allowed to remain working at Mrs Tozer’s part time, thereby ensuring herself a regular salary even if the modelling did not work out. This was an unusual opportunity for a woman of her time, and suggests that the milliner was reluctant to lose such a capable assistant. As later reports of Lizzie (written by friends or admirers of Rossetti) suggest she was a languid, dull and lacklustre person, this more favourable opinion of her and her capabilities makes a welcome change. As was to be demonstrated many times throughout Lizzie’s life, she could charm anyone she believed worth charming and snub without compunction anyone she was not in the mood to entertain.
Lizzie was smuggled into and out of the Deverells’ house, in Kew, in order to reach Walter’s slightly damp, makeshift studio in the garden without being seen by his father. Mr Deverell, despite being the head of the Government School of Design, vociferously disapproved of his son’s decision to be an artist. He was not being snobbish, but was worried about his family’s financial situation and needed his son to start earning a decent salary in a reliable job. Mr Deverell was not even aware that Walter had his own studio, let alone one in his own garden. Later reports, by biased commentators such as William Rossetti, claim Lizzie was angry about the indignities of this subterfuge and complained bitterly about the secrecy. In fact, the reverse was true, Lizzie was always touchingly fond of Deverell and all such reports about her being complaining and bitter were written in hindsight, with knowledge of what Lizzie was like later in life, when disappointment and laudanum had so altered her personality. At the time she began working with Deverell, Lizzie was young, naïve and had grown up in a world that led her to expect social and sexual inequality. She had absorbed the works of Tennyson and longed for a more poetic existence than the drudgery of the workroom in Cranbourne Street could ever provide. Modelling was an exciting, entirely new experience, from which she was earning double her usual rates of pay for a great deal less work, and being idolized into the bargain. A little embarrassed secrecy cannot have been too galling under those circumstances. Walter’s nervousness was unsettling and her pride was, of course, dented by the knowledge that his father would disapprove of her, but none of this was any more remarkable than the treatment she received every day from customers at the bonnet shop, all of whom were on a social par with Walter’s father, if not more exalted.
Lizzie’s introduction to modelling was an extremely pleasant entrance into what could be a sleazy world. Mrs Deverell and her daughters took great pains to make Walter’s charming new model feel at ease and were often in the studio with her, so she did not have to be alone with a man she barely knew. They were happy to take her food and cups of tea to sustain her as she worked and, by all accounts, were equally as fascinated by her as he was. Lizzie and Deverell became friends and she was encouraged to show him her own sketches and to share with him her desire to be an artist.
Walter Deverell was charming, kind and generally perceived as the best looking of all the Pre-Raphaelites. William Holman Hunt (1827–1910), a fellow Pre-Raphaelite and student at the Royal Academy with Deverell, describes him as having been a lively, witty companion, usually in infectious high spirits. Deverell was actually suffering from a kidney disease (Bright’s disease) that would kill him at the age of 26, but he refused to admit he was ill and always looked so healthy that it was difficult for his friends to believe the doctor’s diagnosis. It was fortunate for Lizzie that he did not attempt to take advantage of her, as his reputation amongst his friends was one of a practised – and successful – flirt. Perhaps mindful that he needed to fit all life’s experiences into a drastically shortened time frame, he was more adventurous than his friends – most of whom longed to live a wild bachelor experience, but were far too middle-class to do so. Deverell joked that, in his case, the letters “PRB” would not translate to “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood”, but would stand for “Penis Rather Better”.
Deverell was two years older than Lizzie. He had been born in America, in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 1827, returning to England with his parents while still a baby. At the age of 17, he had enrolled at Sass’s art school, where he had met and befriended Rossetti. Deverell exhibited at the Royal Academy for the first time in 1847 and, thus far, his reception had been favourable. Twelfth Night was, he felt, his most ambitious picture and he was anxious to finish it in time to be shown at the Academy in spring 1850.
The painting focuses on three central figures: Viola, on the left, Orsino, in the centre, and Feste, the jester, on the right. It is Act 2, Scene 4 of the play and Orsino is pining over his unrequited love for Olivia. Lizzie was painted sitting sideways on, gazing up at Orsino, a self-portrait of Deverell. Feste was modelled by Rossetti – but the figure of the jester was already finished before Deverell started painting Lizzie so the future lovers did not pose together. The one aspect of the painting Deverell found difficult to paint to his satisfaction was Viola’s hair, so Rossetti, in a prophetic gesture, finished it for him. In addition to the oil painting of Twelfth Night that was exhibited at the Royal Academy, Deverell painted another version of the play, using a different scene. Lizzie was employed once again as the model for Viola and the painting was printed in the Pre-Raphaelites’ short-lived journal, The Germ.14
Twelfth Night, now considered Deverell’s best surviving work, was released at an unfortunate time and received mixed reactions from the critics. It was not given a fair trial, being exhibited at the excruciating moment when the artistic world had just discovered what the letters “PRB” daubed onto certain paintings meant. Although he was not one of the original seven members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, Walter was known to be one of their circle, and thereby guilty by association. Indeed, when James Collinson resigned in May 1850, Walter Deverell was the name suggested by Rossetti as his replacement. In the end, no formal decision was made and Deverell was never actually elected, but he was thought of by the rest of the Brotherhood as an honorary member of the PRB.
The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood was a society set up by seven very idealistic young men who were passionate about art, depressed by the current, very conventional state of the art world and idealistically desirous of bringing about dramatic changes. The group held its first meeting in the autumn of 1848. Its members were: John Everett Millais (1829–96); William Holman Hunt; Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his brother William Rossetti (1829–1919); Thomas Woolner (1825–92); Frederic George Stephens (1828–1907); and James Collinson (1825–81). All, except William Rossetti, were artists who had studied at London’s best schools – Sass’s and the Royal Academy – and were disillusioned by the instruction they had received. William Rossetti, although not a s
erious artist, was a great lover of art and a “man of letters”; his journalistic talents were to prove of great benefit to the group. When they met, the “brothers” talked earnestly about their love of art and literature and how the conventions of these artistic schools were stifling the progress of painting. As they saw it, art was being taught in too stylized a manner, with no room for individual expression or original ideas. There was no scope for using any subject matter other than that deemed suitable by the powers that be – and those “suitable” subject matters were highly limited. The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood also objected strongly to the use of boring, sombre colour palettes. They wanted to paint vibrantly coloured works that would mean something to the viewer, subjects that would provoke the imagination and cause discussion. They wanted to experiment with new techniques and to create robust new paint colours. They wanted to turn the course of British painting around, harking back to a time when bold colour and imagination were not disdained as being beneath the notice of so important a personage as a Royal Academician.
These seven idealists – all aged between 19 and 23 – came up with a list of “Immortals”: people and legends that could inspire wonderful paintings. They placed Jesus Christ at the top and went on to list revered poets and authors, from Chaucer to Tennyson. All the members of the PRB were inspired by medievalism, in particular the legends of King Arthur, as well as by the Bible, the works of Shakespeare and more modern poets, including Byron, Keats and their hero-worshipped contemporary, Robert Browning. They harked back to the paintings of Botticelli and other early Italian artists and they admired the style of medieval frescos, so rich in colour and depicting animated subject matter. Eventually, the group pinpointed the time at which they believed art had “gone wrong”: it had been with the advent of Raphael (1483–1520). Although not denigrating Raphael’s abilities, they believed that it was his style that dictated the rigid codes now adhered to by the British artistic establishment. The new society swore to return to the artistic ideals displayed before Raphael, and so the name “Pre-Raphaelite” was born.
Lizzie Siddal Page 2