Finally we arrived at Kalaat Siman, and had our picnic lunch. Sitting there and looking round, Max told me a little more about himself, his life, and the luck he had had in getting the job with Leonard Woolley, just as he was leaving the University. We picked up a few bits of pottery here and there, and finally made our way back just as the sun was setting.
We arrived home to trouble. Katharine was enormously incensed at the way in which we had gone off and left her.
"But you said said you wanted to be alone," I said. you wanted to be alone," I said.
"One says says things when one doesn"t feel well. To think you and Max things when one doesn"t feel well. To think you and Max could could go off in that heartless way. Oh well, perhaps it"s not so bad go off in that heartless way. Oh well, perhaps it"s not so bad of you, of you, because you don"t understand so well, but Maxthat Max, who knows me well, who knows that I might have needed because you don"t understand so well, but Maxthat Max, who knows me well, who knows that I might have needed anything anythingcould go off like that." She closed her eyes and said, "You had better leave me now."
"Can"t we get you anything, or stay with you?"
"No, I don"t want you to get me anything. anything. Really, I feel very hurt about all this. As for Len, his behaviour was absolutely disgraceful." Really, I feel very hurt about all this. As for Len, his behaviour was absolutely disgraceful."
"What has he done?" I asked, with some curiosity.
"He left me here without a single drop to drinknot a drop of water not lemonade, nothing at all. all. Just lying here, helpless, parched with thirst." Just lying here, helpless, parched with thirst."
"But couldn"t you have rung the bell and asked for some water?"
I asked. It was the wrong thing to say. Katharine gave me a withering glance: "I can see you don"t understand the first thing about it. To think that Len could be as heartless as that. Of course, if a woman woman had been here, it would have been different. had been here, it would have been different. She She would have thought." would have thought."
We hardly dared approach Katharine in the morning, but she behaved in the most Katharine-like manner. She was in a charming mood, smiled, was pleased to see us, grateful for anything we did for her, gracious if slightly forgiving, and all was well.
She was indeed a remarkable woman. I grew to understand her a little better as the years went on, but could never predict beforehand in what mood she would be. She ought, I think, to have been a great artist of some kinda singer or an actressthen her moods would have been accepted as natural to her temperament. As it was, she was nearly an artist: she had done a sculptured head of Queen Shubad, which was exhibited with the famous gold necklace and head-dress on it.
She did a good head of Hamoudi, of Leonard Woolley himself, and a beautiful head of a young boy, but she was diffident of her own powers, always apt to invite other people to help her, or to accept their opinions.
Leonard waited on her hand and footnothing he could do was good enough. I think she despised him a little for that. Perhaps any woman would do so. No woman likes a doormat, and Len, who could be extremely autocratic on his dig, was b.u.t.ter in her hands.
One early Sunday morning before we left Aleppo, Max took me on a tour of a.s.sorted religions. It was quite strenuous.
We went to the Maronites, the Syrian Catholics, the Greek Orthodox, the Nestorians, the Jacobites, and more that I can"t remember. Some of them were what I called "Onion Priests"that is to say, having a kind of round onion-like head-dress. The Greek Orthodox I found the most alarming, since there I was firmly parted from Max and herded with the other women on one side of the church. One was pushed into something which looked like a horse-stall, with a kind of halter looped round one, and attached to the wall. It was a splendidly mysterious service, most of which took place behind an altar curtain or veil. Rich sonorous sounds came from behind this and out into the church, accompanied by clouds of incense. We all bobbed and bowed at prescribed intervals. In due course Max reclaimed me.
When I look back over my life, it seems that the things that have been most vivid, and which remain most clearly in my mind, are the places places I have been to. A sudden thrill of pleasure comes into my minda tree, a hill, a white house tucked away somewhere, by a ca.n.a.l, the shape of a distant hill. Sometimes I have to think a moment to remember I have been to. A sudden thrill of pleasure comes into my minda tree, a hill, a white house tucked away somewhere, by a ca.n.a.l, the shape of a distant hill. Sometimes I have to think a moment to remember where, where, and and when. when. Then the picture comes clearly, and I Then the picture comes clearly, and I know. know.
People, I have never had a good memory for. My own friends are dear to me, but people that I merely meet and like pa.s.s out of my mind again almost at once. Far from being able to say, "I never forget a face" I might more truly say, "I never remember a face." But places remain firmly in my mind. Often, returning somewhere after five or six years, I remember quite well the road to take, even if I have only been there once before.
I don"t know why my memory for places should be good, and for people so faint. Perhaps it comes from being far-sighted. I have always been far-sighted, so that people have a rather sketchy appearance, because they are near at hand, while places I have seen with accuracy because they are further away.
I am quite capable of disliking a place just because the hills seem to me the wrong shape-it is very, very important that hills should be the right right shape. Practically all the hills in Devonshire are the right shape. Most of the hills in Sicily are the wrong shape, so I do not care for Sicily. The hills of Corsica are sheer delight; the Welsh hills, too, are beautiful. shape. Practically all the hills in Devonshire are the right shape. Most of the hills in Sicily are the wrong shape, so I do not care for Sicily. The hills of Corsica are sheer delight; the Welsh hills, too, are beautiful.
In Switzerland the hills and mountains stand about you too too closely. closely.
Snow mountains can be incredibly dull; they owe any excitement they have to the varying effects of light. "Views" can be dull, too. You climb up a path to a hill topand there! A panorama is spread before you.
But it is all there. There is nothing further. You have seen it. "Superb," you say. And that is that. It"s all below you. You have, as it were, conquered it. There is nothing further. You have seen it. "Superb," you say. And that is that. It"s all below you. You have, as it were, conquered it.
V
From Aleppo we went on by boat to Greece, stopping at various ports on the way. I remember best going ash.o.r.e with Max at Mersin, and spending a happy day on the beach, bathing in a glorious warm sea. It was on that day that he picked me enormous quant.i.ties of yellow marigolds. I made them into a chain and he hung them around my neck, and we had a picnic lunch in the midst of a great sea of yellow marigolds.
I was looking forward enormously to seeing Delphi with the Woolleys; they spoke of it with such lyric rapture. They had insisted that I was to be their guest there, which I thought extremely kind of them. I have rarely felt so happy and full of antic.i.p.ation as when we arrived at Athens.
But things come always at the moment one does not expect them.
I can remember, standing at the hotel desk and being handed my mail, on top of it a pile of telegrams. The moment I saw them a sharp agony seized me, because seven telegrams could mean nothing but bad news.
We had been out of touch for the last fortnight at least, and now bad news had caught up with me. I opened one telegrambut the first was actually the last. I put them into order. They told me that Rosalind was very ill with pneumonia. My sister had taken the responsibility of removing her from school and motoring her up to Cheshire. Further ones reported her condition as serious. The last one, the one I had opened first, stated that her condition was slightly better.
Nowadays, of course, one could have been home in less than twelve hours, with air services going from the Piraeus every day, but then, in 1930, there were no such facilities. At the very earliest, if I could book a seat, the next Orient Express, would not get me to London for four days.
My three friends all reacted to my bad news with the utmost kindness.
Len laid aside what he was doing and went out to contact travel agencies and find the earliest seat that could be booked. Katharine spoke with deep sympathy. Max said little, but he, too, went out with Len to the travel agency.
Walking along the street, half dazed with shock, I put my foot into one of those square holes in which trees seemed eternally to be being planted in the streets of Athens. I sprained my ankle badly, and was unable to walk. Sitting in the hotel, receiving the commiserations of Len and Katharine, I wondered where Max was. Presently he came in. With him he had two good solid crepe bandages and an elastoplast. Then, he explained quietly that he would be able to look after me on the journey home and help me with my ankle.
"But you are going up to the Temple of Ba.s.sae," I said. "Weren"t you meeting somebody?"
"Oh, I"ve changed my plans," he said. "I think I really ought to get home, so I will be able to travel with you. I can help you along to the dining-car or bring meals along to you, and get things done for you."
It seemed too marvellous to be true. I thought then, and indeed have thought ever since, what a wonderful person Max is. He is so quiet, so sparing with words of commiseration. He does does things. He does just the things you want done and that consoles you more than anything else could. He didn"t condole with me over Rosalind or say she would be all right and that I mustn"t worry. He just accepted that I was in for a bad time. There were no sulpha drugs then, and pneumonia was a real menace. things. He does just the things you want done and that consoles you more than anything else could. He didn"t condole with me over Rosalind or say she would be all right and that I mustn"t worry. He just accepted that I was in for a bad time. There were no sulpha drugs then, and pneumonia was a real menace.
Max and I left the next evening. On our journey he talked to me a great deal about his own family, his brothers, his mother, who was French and very artistic and keen on painting, and his father, who sounded a little like my brother Montyonly fortunately more stable financially.
At Milan we had an adventure. The train was late. We got out I could limp about now, my ankle supported by elastoplastand asked the wagon lit wagon lit conductor how long the wait would be. "Twenty minutes," he said. Max suggested we should go and buy some oranges-so we walked along to a fruit-stall, then walked back to the platform again. conductor how long the wait would be. "Twenty minutes," he said. Max suggested we should go and buy some oranges-so we walked along to a fruit-stall, then walked back to the platform again.
I suppose about five minutes had elapsed, but there was no train at the platform. We were told it had left.
"Left? I thought it waited here twenty minutes," I said.
"Ah yes, Signora, but it was very much in latenessit waited only a short time."
We looked at each other in dismay. A senior railway official then came to our aid. He suggested that we hire a powerful car and race the train.
He thought we would have a sporting chance of catching it at Domodossola.
A journey rather like one on the cinema then began. First we were ahead of the train, then the train was ahead of us. Now we felt despair, the next moment we felt comfortably superior, as we went through the mountain roads and the train popped in and out of tunnels, either ahead of or behind us. Finally we reached Domodossola about three minutes after the train. All the pa.s.sengers it seemed, were leaning out of the windowscertainly all in our own wagon lit wagon lit coachto see whether we had arrived. coachto see whether we had arrived.
"Ah, Madame," said an elderly Frenchman as he helped me into the train. "Que vous avez du eprouver des emotions?" "Que vous avez du eprouver des emotions?" The French have a wonderful way of putting things. The French have a wonderful way of putting things.
As a result of hiring this excessively expensive car, about which we had no time to bargain, Max and I had practically no money left. Max"s mother was meeting him in Paris, and he suggested hopefully I should be able to borrow money from her. I have often wondered what my future mother-in-law thought of the young woman who jumped out of the train with her son, and after the briefest of greetings borrowed practically every sou sou she happened to have on her. There was little time to explain because I had to take the train on to England, so with confused apologies I vanished, clutching the money I had extracted from her. It cannot, I think, have prejudiced her in my favour. she happened to have on her. There was little time to explain because I had to take the train on to England, so with confused apologies I vanished, clutching the money I had extracted from her. It cannot, I think, have prejudiced her in my favour.
I remember little of that journey with Max except his extraordinary kindness, tact, and sympathy. He managed to distract me by talking a good deal about his own doings and thoughts. He bandaged my ankle repeatedly, and helped me along to the dining-car, which I do not think I could have reached by myself, especially with the jolting of the Orient Express as it gathered strength and speed. One remark I do remember.
We had been running alongside the sea on the Italian Riviera. I had been half asleep, sitting back in my corner, and Max had come into my carriage and sitting opposite me. I woke up and found him studying me, thoughtfully.
"I think," he said, "that you really have a n.o.ble n.o.ble face." This so astonished me that I woke up a little more. It was a way I should never have thought of describing myselfcertainly n.o.body else had ever done so. face." This so astonished me that I woke up a little more. It was a way I should never have thought of describing myselfcertainly n.o.body else had ever done so.
A n.o.ble facehad I? It seemed unlikely. Then a thought occurred to me.
"I suppose," I said, "that is because I have rather a Roman nose." Yes, I thought, a Roman nose. That would would give me a slightly n.o.ble profile. give me a slightly n.o.ble profile.
I was not quite sure that I liked the idea. It was the kind of thing that was difficult to live up to. I am many things: good-tempered, exuberant, scatty, forgetful, shy, affectionate, completely lacking in self-confidence, moderately unselfish; but n.o.ble n.o.bleno, I can"t see myself as n.o.ble. However, I relapsed into sleep, rearranging my Roman nose to look its bestfull-face, rather than profile.
VI
It was a horrible moment when I first lifted the telephone on my arrival in London. I had had no news now for five days. Oh, the relief when my sister"s voice told me that Rosalind was much better, out of danger, and making a rapid recovery. Within six hours I was in Cheshire.
Although Rosalind was obviously mending fast, it was a shock to see her. I had had little experience then of the rapidity with which children go up and down in illness. Most of my nursing experience had been amongst grown men, and the frightening way in which children can look half dead one moment and in the pink the next was practically unknown to me. Rosalind had the appearance of having grown much taller and thinner, and the listless way she lay back in an arm-chair was so unlike my girl.
The most notable characteristic of Rosalind was her energy. She was the kind of child who was never still for a moment; who, if you returned from a long and gruelling picnic, would say brightly: "There"s at least half an hour before supper-what can we do? do? It was not unusual to come round the corner of the house and find her standing on her head. It was not unusual to come round the corner of the house and find her standing on her head.
"What on earth are you doing that for, Rosalind?"
"Oh, I don"t know, just putting in time. One must do something? something? But here was Rosalind lying back, looking frail and delicate, and completely devoid of energy. All my sister said was, "You should have seen her a week ago. She really looked like death." But here was Rosalind lying back, looking frail and delicate, and completely devoid of energy. All my sister said was, "You should have seen her a week ago. She really looked like death."
Rosalind mended remarkably quickly. Within a week of my return she was down in Devonshire, at Ashfield, and seemed almost back to her old selfthough I did my best to restrain her from the perpetual motion which she wished to renew.
Apparently Rosalind had gone back to school in good health and spirits. All had gone well until an epidemic of influenza pa.s.sed over the school, and half the children went down with it. I suppose flu on top of the natural weakness after measles had led to pneumonia. Everybody was worried about her though a little doubtful about my sister"s removing her by car to the north. But Punkie had insisted, being sure that it was the best thingand so indeed it had proved to be.
n.o.body could have made a better recovery than Rosalind did. The doctor p.r.o.nounced her as strong and fit as she had ever beenif not more so, "She seems," he added, "a very live wire." I a.s.sured him that toughness had always been one of Rosalind"s qualities. She was never one to admit she was ill. In the Canary Islands, she had suffered from tonsilitis but never breathed a word about it except to say: "I am feeling very cross? cross? I had learnt by experience that when Rosalind said she was feeling very cross, there were two possibilities: either she was ill or it was a literal statement of factshe I had learnt by experience that when Rosalind said she was feeling very cross, there were two possibilities: either she was ill or it was a literal statement of factshe was was feeling cross, and thought it only fair to warn us of the fact. feeling cross, and thought it only fair to warn us of the fact.
Mothers are, of course, partial towards their children-why should they not bebut I cannot help believing that my daughter was more fun than most. She had a great talent for the unexpected answer. So often you know beforehand what children are going to say, but Rosalind usually surprised me. Possibly it was the Irish in her. Archie"s mother was Irish, and I think it was from the Irish side of her ancestry that she got her unexpectedness.
"Of course," said Carlo to me with that air of impartiality she liked to a.s.sume, "Rosalind can be maddening sometimes. I get furious with her.
All the same I find other children very boring after her. She may be maddening, but she is never boring." That, I think, has held true throughout her fife.
We are all the same people as we were at three, six, ten or twenty years old. More noticeably so, perhaps, at six or seven, because we were not pretending so much then, whereas at twenty we put on a show of being someone else, of being in the mode of the moment. If there is an intellectual fashion, you become an intellectual; if girls are fluffy and frivolous, you are fluffy and frivolous. As life goes on, however, it becomes tiring to keep up the character you invented for yourself, and so you relapse into individuality and become more like yourself every day. This is sometimes disconcerting for those around you, but a great relief to the person concerned.
I wonder if the same holds good for writing. Certainly, when you begin to write, you are usually in the throes of admiration for some writer, and, whether you will or no, you cannot help copying their style. Often it is not a style that suits you, and so you write badly. But as time goes on you are less influenced by admiration. You still admire certain writers, you may even wish you could write like them, but you know quite well that you can"t. Presumably, you have learnt literary humility. If I could write like Elizabeth Bowen, Muriel Spark or Graham Greene, I should jump to high heaven with delight, but I know that I can"t, and it would never occur to me to attempt to copy them. I have learnt that I am me, me, that I can do the things that, as one might put it, that I can do the things that, as one might put it, me me can do, but I cannot do the things that can do, but I cannot do the things that me me would like to do. As the Bible say, "Who by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature?" would like to do. As the Bible say, "Who by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature?"
Often there flashes through my head a picture of the plate which hung upon my nursery wall: one which I think I must have won at a coconut shy at one of the regattas. "Be a wheel-greaser if you can"t drive a train" "Be a wheel-greaser if you can"t drive a train" is written across itand never was there a better motto with which to go through life. I think I have kept to it. I have had a few tries at this and that, mind you, but I have never stuck to trying to do things which I do badly, and for which I do not have a natural apt.i.tude. Rumer G.o.dden, in one of her books, once wrote down a list of the things she liked and the things she didn"t like. I found it entertaining, and immediately wrote down a list of my own. I think I could add to that now by writing down things I is written across itand never was there a better motto with which to go through life. I think I have kept to it. I have had a few tries at this and that, mind you, but I have never stuck to trying to do things which I do badly, and for which I do not have a natural apt.i.tude. Rumer G.o.dden, in one of her books, once wrote down a list of the things she liked and the things she didn"t like. I found it entertaining, and immediately wrote down a list of my own. I think I could add to that now by writing down things I can"t can"t do and things I do and things I can can do. Naturally, the first list is much the longer. do. Naturally, the first list is much the longer.
I was never good at games; I am not and never shall be a good conversationalist; I am so easily suggestible that I have to get away by myself before I know what I really think or need to do. I can"t draw; I can"t paint; I can"t model or do any kind of sculpture; I can"t hurry without getting rattled; I can"t say what I mean easily-I can write it better.
I can stand fast on a matter of principle, but not on anything else. Although I know tomorrow is Tuesday, if somebody tells me more than four times that tomorrow is Wednesday, after the fourth time I shall accept that it is Wednesday, and act accordingly.
What can can I do? Well, I can write. I could be a reasonable musician, but not a professional one. I am a good accompanist to singers. I can improvise things when in difficultiesthis has been a most useful accomplishment; the things I can do with hairpins and safety pins when in domestic difficulties would surprise you. It was I who fashioned bread into a sticky pill, stuck it on a hairpin, attached the hairpin with sealing wax on the end of a window pole, and managed to pick up my mother"s false teeth from where they had fallen on to the conservatory roof! I do? Well, I can write. I could be a reasonable musician, but not a professional one. I am a good accompanist to singers. I can improvise things when in difficultiesthis has been a most useful accomplishment; the things I can do with hairpins and safety pins when in domestic difficulties would surprise you. It was I who fashioned bread into a sticky pill, stuck it on a hairpin, attached the hairpin with sealing wax on the end of a window pole, and managed to pick up my mother"s false teeth from where they had fallen on to the conservatory roof!
I successfully chloroformed a hedgehog that was entangled in the tennis net and so managed to release it. I can claim to be useful about the house.
And so on and so forth. And now for what I like and don"t like.
I don"t like crowds, being jammed up against people, loud voices, noise, protracted talking, parties, and especially c.o.c.ktail parties, cigarette smoke and smoking generally, any kind of drink except in cooking, marmalade, oysters, lukewarm food, grey skies, the feet of birds, or indeed the feel of a bird altogether. Final and fiercest dislike: the taste and smell of hot milk.
I like sunshine, apples, almost any kind of music, railway trains, numerical puzzles and anything to do with numbers, going to the sea, bathing and swimming, silence, sleeping, dreaming, eating, the smell of coffee, lilies of the valley, most dogs, and going to the theatre.
I could make much better lists, much grander-sounding, much more important, important, but there again it wouldn"t be me, and I suppose I must resign myself to but there again it wouldn"t be me, and I suppose I must resign myself to being being me. me.
Now that I was starting life again, I had to take stock of my friends. All that I had gone through made for a kind of acid test. Carlo and I compiled between us two orders: the Order of the Rats and the Order of the Faithful Dogs. We would sometimes say of someone, "Oh yes, we will give him the Order of the Faithful Dogs, first cla.s.s," or, "We will give him the Order of the Rats, third cla.s.s." There were not many Rats, but there were some rather unexpected ones: people who you had thought were your true friends, but who turned out anxious to disa.s.sociate themselves from anybody who had attracted notoriety of the wrong sort. This discovery, of course, made me more sensitive and more inclined to withdraw from people. On the other hand, I found many most unexpected friends, completely loyal, who showed me more affection and kindness than they had ever done before.
I think I admire loyalty almost more than any other virtue. Loyalty and courage are two of the finest things there are. Any kind of courage, physical or moral, arouses my utmost admiration. It is one of the most important virtues to bring to life. If you can bear to live at all, you can bear to live with courage. It is a must.
I found many worthy members of the Order of Faithful Dogs amongst my men friends. There are faithful Dobbins in most women"s lives, and I was particularly touched by one of these who arrived at a Dobbin-like gallop. He sent me enormous bunches of flowers, wrote me letters, and finally asked me to marry him. He was a widower, and some years older than I was. He told me that when he had first met me earlier, he had thought me far too young, but that now he could make me happy and give me a good home. I was touched by this, but I had no wish to marry him, nor indeed had I ever had any such feelings towards him. He had been a good, kind friend, and that was all. It is heartening to know that someone caresbut it is most foolish to marry someone simply because you wish to be comforted, or to have a shoulder to cry upon.
In any case, I did not wish to be comforted. I was scared of marriage.
I realised, as I suppose many women realise sooner or later, that the only person who can really hurt you in life is a husband. n.o.body else is close enough. On n.o.body else are you so dependent for the everyday companionship, affection, and all that makes up marriage. Never again, I decided, would I put myself at anyone"s anyone"s mercy. mercy.
One of my Air Force friends in Baghdad had said something to me that disquieted me. He had been discussing his own marital difficulties, and said at the end: "You think you have arranged your life, and that you can carry it on in the way you mean to do, but it will come to one of two things in the end. You will have either to take a lover or to take several lovers.
You can make a choice between those two." Sometimes I had an uneasy feeling that what he said was right. But better either of those alternatives, I thought, than marriage. Several lovers could not hurt you. One lover could, but not in the way a husband could. For me, husbands would be out. At the moment all men were outbut that, my Air Force friend had insisted, would not last.
What did surprise me was the amount of pa.s.ses that were made as soon as I was in the slightly equivocal position of being separated from or having divorced a husband. One young man said to me, with the air of finding me thoroughly unreasonable: "Well, you"re separated from your husband, and I gather probably divorcing him, so what else can you expect?"
At first I couldn"t make up my mind whether I was pleased or annoyed by these attentions. I thought on the whole that I was pleased. One is never too old to be insulted. On the other hand it made sometimes for tiresome complicationsin one case with an Italian. I brought it on myself by not understanding Italian conventions. He asked me if I found the noise of the coaling of the boat kept me awake at night, and I said no because my cabin was on the starboard side away from the quay. "Oh," he said, "I thought you had cabin thirty-three." "Oh no," I said, "mine"s an even number: sixty-eight." That was surely an innocent enough conversation from my point of view? I did not realise that to ask the number of your cabin was the convention by which an Italian asked if he might visit you there. Nothing more was said, but some time after midnight my Italian appeared. A very funny scene ensued. I did not speak Italian, he spoke hardly any English, so we both argued in furious whispers in French, I expressing indignation, he also expressing indignation but of a different kind. The conversation ran something like: "How dare you come to my cabin."
"You invited me here."
"I did nothing of the sort."
"You did. You told me your cabin number was sixty-eight."
"Well, you asked me what it was."
"Of course I asked you what it was. I asked you what it was because I wanted to come to your cabin. And you told me I could."
"I did nothing of the sort."