Childhood

A little four‑year‑old girl was once asked: “What do you want to become?” The immediate answer came: “A violin virtuoso!” Where the child had learned that word, or what she imagined by it – no one knows. But it was a prophecy.

I was born on October 24th, 1880 in Dublin, Ireland , my father from English landed gentry, but my mother a Fitzgerald from Irish nobility. My mother was completely Irish; her father Hercules MacDonnell was a well‑known mathematician, her grandfather Sir Richard MacDonnell was rector of the University of Dublin. Her mother was a highly gifted singer, but she was only allowed to perform at charity concerts and at the court of Queen Victoria , for it was not considered proper to appear for money. She had a highly dramatic coloratura voice and was often compared to the great singer Trebelli‑Bettini of the time.

When I was three years old, we lost our father, and my mother, with her six children – a son and five daughters, of whom I was the second youngest – moved to Germany , because life in Ireland or England seemed to her too conventional and boring. We first went to Wiesbaden .

A major event in my sixth year occurred when my brother Cecil was to receive violin lessons. I gave my mother no peace – I wanted violin lessons too – and finally she yielded to my stormy insistence. The teacher was good, though not a great artist. After a year he recognized my talent and offered to adopt me and educate me as a violinist – but my mother would hear nothing of that. I had to content myself with progress made at a very moderate pace.

In 1888 we moved to Düsseldorf on the Rhine , where I also went to school. I received violin lessons there from a music director , a thoroughly capable and good man, but one who understood little about the violin. The lessons did not give me much joy, and I felt more drawn to the piano, where I could sit for hours, inventing little melodies – and even adding an accompaniment. For an audience I would bring in the two maids, who still existed in those days, and my younger sister; they applauded enthusiastically.

At that time I caused my mother great worries, learned poorly at school, was wild and disobedient, and my temperament was very hard to control. Once I even struck the governess because she had beaten my younger sister Violet , whom I loved very much – that was too much. My mother decided to put me in an English boarding school in Düsseldorf to learn proper manners.

Moments of light in my life during that time were some concerts to which I was taken. They awakened a feeling of bliss in me and doubled my longing for more and more music, which could no longer be suppressed.

Meanwhile, the lessons with the music director continued at the boarding school. For my 13th birthday I wished for Hector Berlioz’ Treatise on Instrumentation , and I received it. When I proudly showed it to my teacher, he asked in astonishment what I intended to do with it. To my answer, “Study it!”, he burst into hearty laughter, which deeply hurt me.

The violin lessons with him gave me little pleasure, and I made no noticeable progress. One day I rebelled and said to him: “I don’t want to play the same little pieces over and over again – they are stupid and ugly!” whereupon he became furious and yelled: “If you don’t want to do what I tell you, you can pack up your violin and leave!” – which I did not need to be told twice.

I then received another teacher who really helped me advance more quickly. I had still never heard a great violinist, but an ideal hovered before me, and I was determined to reach it. But the road ahead was long and very far.

In the meantime, my mother had moved to England , to a small place in the county of Surrey . At 16, I asked to go to Dresden with a friend to study music. But this was not granted – to my great sorrow. Instead, I had to go to the small nest in England, where there was no stimulus of any kind.

When my mother saw how unhappy I was and how desperately I tried to continue on my own in music – also in harmony and counterpoint – she took pity and allowed me to go once a week to the nearby little town of Croydon , to the local music conservatoire. That comforted me somewhat.

My astonishment – not to say fright – was great when my new teacher was presented to me. He was Black, the son of an African chief, and called himself Coleridge Taylor , the reversed name of the poet of “Hiawatha” , Taylor Coleridge. He was not a particularly good violinist but a very good composer, and in one year I learned more about composition from him than about violin playing.

My mother felt reassured that I was unlikely to fall in love with him. But it turned out that he was extremely charming and witty, and I had many lively and stimulating conversations with him. He even dedicated an African Suite for Violin and Piano to me, which pleased me greatly.

He suggested that I apply for a violin scholarship at the Royal Academy of Music in London , and said I could count on being accepted. But our guardian again vetoed it.