Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 34

Then the characters themselves: a young woman, bitter against life, determined to live only for the future; the young man who refuses to face life and yearns to be mothered; and the boy who childishly wanted to get his own back on the cruel woman who hurt Jimmyand on his young school teacherall those seem to me real, natural, when one watches them.

Richard Attenborough and his enchanting wife Sheila Sim played the two leads in the first production. What a beautiful performance they gave. They loved the play, and believed in it and Richard Attenborough gave a great deal of thought to playing his part. I enjoyed the rehearsalsI enjoyed all all of it. of it.

Then finally it was produced. I must say that I had no feeling whatsoever that I had a great success on my hands, or anything remotely resembling that. I thought it went quite well, but I rememberI forget if it was at the first performance or not; I think it was the beginning of the tour at Oxfordwhen I went with some friends, that I thought sadly it had fallen between two stools. I had put in too many humorous situations; there was too much laughter in it; and that must take away from the thrill. Yes, I was a little depressed about it, I remember.

Peter Saunders, on the other hand, nodded his head gently at me, and said, 'Don't worry! My p.r.o.nouncement is that it will run over a yearfourteen months I am going to give it.'

'It won't run that long,' I said. 'Eight months perhaps. Yes, I think eight months.'

And now, as I write, it is just coming to the end of its thirteenth year, and has had innumerable casts. The Amba.s.sadors Theatre has had to have entirely new seatingand a new curtain. I now hear it has got to have a new setthe old one is too shabby. And people are still still going to it. going to it.

I must say it seems to me incredible. Why should a pleasant, enjoyable evening's play go on for thirteen years. thirteen years. No doubt about it, miracles happen. No doubt about it, miracles happen.

And to whom do the profits go? Mainly, of course, they go out in tax, like everything else, but apart from that who is the gainer? I have given many of my books and stories to other people. The serial rights in one short story, Sanctuary, Sanctuary, were given to the Westminister Abbey Appeal Fund, and other stories have been given to one or other among my friends. were given to the Westminister Abbey Appeal Fund, and other stories have been given to one or other among my friends.

The fact that you can sit down and write something, and that then it pa.s.ses direct from you to someone else, is a much happier and more natural feeling than handing out cheques or things of that kind. You may say it is all the same in the end, but it is not not the same. One of my books belongs to my husband's nephews; though that was published many years ago they are still doing nicely out of it. I gave my share in the film rights of the same. One of my books belongs to my husband's nephews; though that was published many years ago they are still doing nicely out of it. I gave my share in the film rights of Witness for the Prosecution Witness for the Prosecution to Rosalind. to Rosalind.

The play, The Mousetrap, The Mousetrap, was given to my grandson. Mathew, of course, was always the most lucky member of the family, and it was given to my grandson. Mathew, of course, was always the most lucky member of the family, and it would would be Mathew's gift that turned out the big money winner. be Mathew's gift that turned out the big money winner.

One thing that gave me particular pleasure was writing a storya long-short I think they call it: something between a book and a short storythe proceeds of which went to put a stained gla.s.s window in my local church at Churston Ferrers. It is a beautiful little church and the plain gla.s.s east window always gaped at me like a gap in teeth. I looked at it every Sunday and used to think how lovely it would look in pale colours. I knew nothing about stained gla.s.s, and I had a most difficult time visiting studios and getting different sketches made by stained gla.s.s artists. It was narrowed down in the end to a gla.s.s artist called Patterson, who lived in Bideford and who sent me a design for a window that I really admired very muchparticularly his colours, which were not the ordinary red and blue but predominantly mauve and pale green, my favourite ones. I wanted the central figure to be the Good Shepherd. I had a little difficulty over this with the Diocese of Exeter, and, I may say, with Mr Patterson; both insisting that the central pattern of an east window had had to be the Crucifixion. However, the Diocese, on making some research into the matter, agreed that I could have Jesus as the Good Shepherd, since it was a pastoral parish. I wanted this to be a happy window which children could look at with pleasure. So in the centre is the Good Shepherd with His lamb, and the other panels are the manger and the Virgin with the Child, the angels appearing to the shepherds in the field, the fishermen in their boat with their nets, and the Figure walking on the sea. They are all the simpler scenes of the Gospel story, and I love it and enjoy looking at it on Sundays. Mr Patterson has made a fine window. It will, I think, stand the test of the centuries because it is simple. I am both proud and humble that I have been permitted to offer it with the proceeds of my work. to be the Crucifixion. However, the Diocese, on making some research into the matter, agreed that I could have Jesus as the Good Shepherd, since it was a pastoral parish. I wanted this to be a happy window which children could look at with pleasure. So in the centre is the Good Shepherd with His lamb, and the other panels are the manger and the Virgin with the Child, the angels appearing to the shepherds in the field, the fishermen in their boat with their nets, and the Figure walking on the sea. They are all the simpler scenes of the Gospel story, and I love it and enjoy looking at it on Sundays. Mr Patterson has made a fine window. It will, I think, stand the test of the centuries because it is simple. I am both proud and humble that I have been permitted to offer it with the proceeds of my work.

II

One night at the theatre stands out in my memory especially; the first night of Witness for the Prosecution. Witness for the Prosecution. I can safely say that that was the only first night I have enjoyed. I can safely say that that was the only first night I have enjoyed.

First nights are usually misery, hardly to be borne. One has only two reasons for going to them. One isa not ign.o.ble motivethat the poor actors have got to go through with it, and if it goes badly it is unfair that the author should not be there to share their torture. I learnt about some of these agonies on the first night of Alibi. Alibi. The script calls for the butler and the doctor to beat on a locked study door, and then, in growing alarm, to force it open. On the first night the study door did not wait to be forcedit opened obligingly before anyone had put a fist on it, displaying the corpse just arranging himself in a final att.i.tude. This made me nervous ever afterwards of locked doors, lights that do not go out when the whole point is that they The script calls for the butler and the doctor to beat on a locked study door, and then, in growing alarm, to force it open. On the first night the study door did not wait to be forcedit opened obligingly before anyone had put a fist on it, displaying the corpse just arranging himself in a final att.i.tude. This made me nervous ever afterwards of locked doors, lights that do not go out when the whole point is that they should should go out, and lights that do not go go out, and lights that do not go on on when the whole point is that they when the whole point is that they should should go on. These are the real agonies of the theatre. go on. These are the real agonies of the theatre.

The other reason for going to first nights is, of course, curiosity. You know you will hate it; that you will be miserable; that you will notice all the things that go wrong, all the lines that are m.u.f.fed, all the fluffs and the gaps and the drying up. But you go because of that 'elephant's child' insatiable curiosityyou have to know for yourself yourself n.o.body else's account is going to be any good. So there you are, s.h.i.+vering, feeling cold and hot alternately, hoping to heaven that n.o.body will notice you where you are hiding yourself in the higher ranks of the Circle. n.o.body else's account is going to be any good. So there you are, s.h.i.+vering, feeling cold and hot alternately, hoping to heaven that n.o.body will notice you where you are hiding yourself in the higher ranks of the Circle.

The first night of Witness for the Prosecution Witness for the Prosecution was not misery. It was one of my plays that I liked best myself. I was as nearly satisfied with that play as I have been with any. I didn't want to write it; I was terrified of writing it. I was forced into it by Peter Saunders, who has wonderful powers of persuasion. Gentle bullying, subtle cajoling. 'Of course you can do it.' was not misery. It was one of my plays that I liked best myself. I was as nearly satisfied with that play as I have been with any. I didn't want to write it; I was terrified of writing it. I was forced into it by Peter Saunders, who has wonderful powers of persuasion. Gentle bullying, subtle cajoling. 'Of course you can do it.'

'I don't know a thing about legal procedure. I should make a fool of myself.'

'That's quite easy. You can read it up, and we'll have a barrister on hand to clear up anomalies and make it go right.'

'I couldn't write a court scene.'

'Yes, you couldyou've seen court scenes played. You can read up trials.'

'Oh I don't know...I don't think I could. could.'

Peter Saunders continued to say that of course I could, and that I must begin because he wanted the play quickly. So, hypnotised and always amenable to the power of suggestion, I read quant.i.ties of the Famous Trials Famous Trials series; I asked questions of solicitors as well as barristers; and finally I got interested, and suddenly felt I was enjoying myselfthat wonderful moment in writing which does not usually last long but which carries one on with a terrific verve as a large wave carries you to sh.o.r.e. 'This is lovelyI am doing it.i.t's workingnow, where shall we get to next?' There is that priceless moment of seeing the thingnot on the stage but in your mind's eye. There it all is, the real thing, in a real courtnot the Old Bailey because I hadn't been there yetbut a real court sketchily etched in the background of my mind. I saw the nervous, desperate young man in the dock, and the enigmatic woman who came into the witness box to give evidence not for her lover but for the Crown. It is one of the quickest pieces of writing that I have doneI think it only took me two or three weeks after my preparatory reading. series; I asked questions of solicitors as well as barristers; and finally I got interested, and suddenly felt I was enjoying myselfthat wonderful moment in writing which does not usually last long but which carries one on with a terrific verve as a large wave carries you to sh.o.r.e. 'This is lovelyI am doing it.i.t's workingnow, where shall we get to next?' There is that priceless moment of seeing the thingnot on the stage but in your mind's eye. There it all is, the real thing, in a real courtnot the Old Bailey because I hadn't been there yetbut a real court sketchily etched in the background of my mind. I saw the nervous, desperate young man in the dock, and the enigmatic woman who came into the witness box to give evidence not for her lover but for the Crown. It is one of the quickest pieces of writing that I have doneI think it only took me two or three weeks after my preparatory reading.

Naturally it had to have some changes in the procedure, and I had also to fight desperately for my chosen end to the play. n.o.body liked it, n.o.body wanted it, everyone said it would spoil the whole thing. Everyone said: 'You can't get away with that,' and wanted a different endpreferably one used in the original short story I had written years ago. But a short story is not a play. The short story had no court scene in it, no trial for murder. It was a mere sketch of an accused person and an enigmatic witness. I stuck out over the end. I don't often stick out for things, I don't always have sufficient conviction, but I had here. I wanted that end. I wanted it so much that I wouldn't agree to have the play put on without it.

I got my end, and it was successful. Some people said it was a double cross, or dragged in, but I knew it wasn't; it was logical. It was what could have happened, what might have happened, and in my view probably would have happenedpossibly with a little less violence, but the psychology would have been right, and the one little fact that lay beneath it had been implicit all through the play.

A barrister and his managing clerk duly gave advice and came to the rehearsals of the play on two occasions. The severest criticism came from the managing clerk. He said, 'Well, it's all wrong, to my mind, because, you see, a trial like this would take three or four days at least. You can't squeeze it into an hour and a half or two hours.' He couldn't, of course, have been more right, but we had to explain that all court scenes in plays had to be given the benefit of theatrical licence, and three days had to be condensed into a period counted in hours not in days. A dropped curtain here and there helped, but in Witness for the Prosecution Witness for the Prosecution the continutiy kept in the court scene, I think, was valuable. the continutiy kept in the court scene, I think, was valuable.

Anyway, I enjoyed that evening when the play was first produced. I suppose I went to it with my usual trepidation, but once the curtain rose my pleasure began. Of all the stage pieces I have had produced, this came closest in casting to my own mental picture: Derek Bloomfield as the young accused; the legal characters whom I had never really visualised clearly, since I knew little of the law, but who suddenly came alive; and Patricia Jessel, who had the hardest part of all, and on whom the success of the play most certainly depended. I could not have found a more perfect actress. The part was a difficult one, especially in the first act, where the lines cannot help. They are hesitant, reserved, and the whole force of the acting has to be in the eyes, the reticence, the feeling of something malign held back. She suggested this perfectlya taut, enigmatic personality. I still think her acting of the part of Romaine Helder was one of the best performances I have seen on the stage.

So I was happy, radiantly happy, and made even more so by the applause of the audience. I slipped away as usual after the curtain came down on my ending and out into Long Acre. In a few moments, while I was looking for the waiting car, I was surrounded by crowds of friendly people, quite ordinary members of the audience, who recognised me, patted me on the back, and encouraged me'Best you've written, dearie!' 'First cla.s.sthumbs up, I'd say!' 'V-signs for this one!' and 'Loved every minute of it!' Autograph books were produced and I signed cheerfully and happily. My self-consciousness and nervousness, just for once, were not with me. Yes, it was a memorable evening. I am proud of it still. And every now and then I dig into the memory chest, bring it out, take a look at it, and say 'That was the night, that was!'

Another occasion I remember with great pride, but I must admit with suffering all the same, is the tenth anniversary of The Mousetrap. The Mousetrap. There was a party for itthere had to be a party for it, and what is more I had to go to the party. I did not mind going to small theatrical parties just for the cast, or something of that kind; one was among friends then, and, although nervous, I could get through it. But this was a grand, a super-party at the Savoy. It had everything that is most awful about parties: ma.s.ses of people, television, lights, photographers, reporters, speeches, this, that and the othern.o.body in the world was more inadequate to act the heroine than I was. Still, I saw that it had to be got through. I would have not exactly to make a speech, but to say a few wordsa thing I had never done before. I There was a party for itthere had to be a party for it, and what is more I had to go to the party. I did not mind going to small theatrical parties just for the cast, or something of that kind; one was among friends then, and, although nervous, I could get through it. But this was a grand, a super-party at the Savoy. It had everything that is most awful about parties: ma.s.ses of people, television, lights, photographers, reporters, speeches, this, that and the othern.o.body in the world was more inadequate to act the heroine than I was. Still, I saw that it had to be got through. I would have not exactly to make a speech, but to say a few wordsa thing I had never done before. I cannot cannot make speeches, I make speeches, I never never make speeches, and I make speeches, and I won't won't make speeches, and it is a very good thing that I make speeches, and it is a very good thing that I don't don't make speeches because I should be so bad at them. make speeches because I should be so bad at them.

I knew any speech I made that night would be bad. I tried to think of something to say, and then gave it up, because thinking of it would make it worse. Much better not to think of anything at all, and then when the awful moment came I should just have have to say somethingit wouldn't much matter what, and it couldn't be worse than a speech I had thought out beforehand and stammered over. to say somethingit wouldn't much matter what, and it couldn't be worse than a speech I had thought out beforehand and stammered over.

I started the party in an inauspicious manner. Peter Saunders had asked me to get to the Savoy about half an hour before the scheduled time. (This, I found, when I got there, was for an ordeal of photography. A good thing to get it over, perhaps, but something I had not quite realised was going to happen on such a large scale.) I did as I was told, and arrived, bravely alone, at the Savoy. But when I tried to enter the private room reserved for the party, I was turned back. 'No admission yet, Madam. Another twenty minutes before anyone is allowed to go in.' I retreated. Why I couldn't say outright, 'I am Mrs Christie and I have been told to go in,' I don't know. It was because of my miserable, horrible inevitable shyness.

It is particularly silly because ordinary social occasions do not make me shy. I do not enjoy big parties, but I can go to them, and whatever I feel is not really shyness. I suppose, actually, the feeling isI don't know whether every author feels it, but I think quite a lot dothat I am pretending to be something I am not, because, even nowadays, I do not quite feel as though I am am an author. I still have that overlag of feeling that I am an author. I still have that overlag of feeling that I am pretending pretending to be an author. Perhaps I am a little like my grandson, young Mathew, at two years old, coming down the stairs and rea.s.suring himself by saying: to be an author. Perhaps I am a little like my grandson, young Mathew, at two years old, coming down the stairs and rea.s.suring himself by saying: 'This is Mathew coming downstairs!' 'This is Mathew coming downstairs!' And so I got to the Savoy and said to myself: 'This is Agatha pretending to be a successful author, going to her own large party, having to look as though she is someone, having to make a speech that she can't make, having to be something that she's no good at.' And so I got to the Savoy and said to myself: 'This is Agatha pretending to be a successful author, going to her own large party, having to look as though she is someone, having to make a speech that she can't make, having to be something that she's no good at.'

Anyway, like a coward, I accepted the rebuff, turned tail and wandered miserably round the corridors of the Savoy, trying to get up my courage to go back and sayin effect, like Margot Asquith'I'm Me!' I was, fortunately, rescued by dear Verity Hudson, Peter Saunders' general manager. She laughedshe couldn't help laughingand Peter Saunders laughed a great deal. Anyway, I was brought in, subjected to cutting tapes, kissing actresses, grinning from ear to ear, simpering, and having to suffer the insult to my vanity that occurs when I press my cheek against that of some young and good-looking actress and know that we shall appear in the news the next dayshe looking beautiful and confident in her role, and I looking frankly awful. awful. Ah well, good for one's vanity, I suppose! Ah well, good for one's vanity, I suppose!

All pa.s.sed off well, though not as well as it would have done if the queen of the party had had some talent as an actress and could give a good performance. Still I made my 'speech' without disaster. It was only a few words, but people were kind about it: everybody told me it was all right. I couldn't go as far as believing them, but I think it served sufficiently well. People were sorry for my inexperience, realised I was trying to do my best, and felt kindly towards my effort. My daughter, I may say, did not agree with this. She said, 'You ought to have taken more trouble, Mother, and prepared something properly properly beforehand.' But she is she, and I am I, and preparing something properly beforehand often leads in my case to much greater disaster than trusting to the spur of the moment, when at any rate chivalry is aroused. beforehand.' But she is she, and I am I, and preparing something properly beforehand often leads in my case to much greater disaster than trusting to the spur of the moment, when at any rate chivalry is aroused.

'You made theatrical history tonight,' said Peter Saunders, doing his best to encourage me. I suppose that is true, in a way.

III

We were staying some years ago at the Emba.s.sy in Vienna, when Sir James and Lady Bowker were there and Elsa Bowker took me seriously to task when reporters had come for an interview.

'But, Agatha!' she cried in her delightful foreign voice, 'I do not understand you! If it were me I should rejoice, I should be proud. I should say yes! come, come, and sit down! It is wonderful what I have done, I know it. I am the best detective story writer in the world. Yes, I am proud of the fact. Yes, yes, of course I will tell you. But I am delighted. Ah yes, I am very clever indeed. If I were you I should feel clever, I should feel so clever that I could not stop talking about it all the time.'

I laughed like anything, and said, 'I wish to goodness, Elsa, you and I could change into each other's skins for the next half-hour. You would do the interview so beautifully, and they would love you for it. But I just am not qualified at all to do things properly if I have to do them in public.'

On the whole I have had sense enough not not to do things in public, except when it has been absolutely necessary, or would hurt people's feelings badly if I didn't. When you don't do a thing well it is so much more sensible not to attempt it, and I don't really see any reason why writers shouldit's not part of their stock-in-trade. There are many careers where personalities and public relations matterfor instance if you are an actor, or a public figure. An author's business is simply to write. Writers are diffident creaturesthey need encouragement. to do things in public, except when it has been absolutely necessary, or would hurt people's feelings badly if I didn't. When you don't do a thing well it is so much more sensible not to attempt it, and I don't really see any reason why writers shouldit's not part of their stock-in-trade. There are many careers where personalities and public relations matterfor instance if you are an actor, or a public figure. An author's business is simply to write. Writers are diffident creaturesthey need encouragement.

The third play that I was to have running in London (all at the same time) was Spider's Web. Spider's Web. This was specially written for Margaret Lockwood. Peter Saunders asked me to meet her and talk about it. She said that she liked the idea of my writing a play for her, and I asked her exactly what This was specially written for Margaret Lockwood. Peter Saunders asked me to meet her and talk about it. She said that she liked the idea of my writing a play for her, and I asked her exactly what kind kind of play she wanted. She said at once that she didn't want to continue being sinister and melodramatic, that she had done a good many films lately in which she had been the 'wicked lady'. She wanted to play comedy. I think she was right, because she has an enormous flair for comedy, as well as being able to be dramatic. She is a very good actress, and has that perfect timing which enables her to give lines their true weight. of play she wanted. She said at once that she didn't want to continue being sinister and melodramatic, that she had done a good many films lately in which she had been the 'wicked lady'. She wanted to play comedy. I think she was right, because she has an enormous flair for comedy, as well as being able to be dramatic. She is a very good actress, and has that perfect timing which enables her to give lines their true weight.

I enjoyed myself writing the part of Clarissa in Spider's Web. Spider's Web. There was a little indecision at first as to the t.i.tle; we hesitated between 'Clarissa Finds a Body' and 'Spider's Web', but in the end 'Spider's Web' got it. It ran for over two years, and I was very pleased with it. When Margaret Lockwood proceeded to lead the Police-Inspector up the garden path she was enchanting. There was a little indecision at first as to the t.i.tle; we hesitated between 'Clarissa Finds a Body' and 'Spider's Web', but in the end 'Spider's Web' got it. It ran for over two years, and I was very pleased with it. When Margaret Lockwood proceeded to lead the Police-Inspector up the garden path she was enchanting.

Later I was to write a play called The Unexpected Guest, The Unexpected Guest, and another which, though not a success with the public, satisfied me completely. It was put on under the t.i.tle of and another which, though not a success with the public, satisfied me completely. It was put on under the t.i.tle of Verdicta Verdicta bad t.i.tle. I had called it bad t.i.tle. I had called it No No Fields of Amaranth, taken from the words of Walter Landor's: ' taken from the words of Walter Landor's: 'There are no flowers of amaranth on this side of the grave'. I still think it is the best play I have written, with the exception of I still think it is the best play I have written, with the exception of Witness for the Prosecution. Witness for the Prosecution. It failed, I think, because it was It failed, I think, because it was not a not a detective story or a thriller. It detective story or a thriller. It was a was a play that concerned murder, but its real background and point was that an idealist is always dangerous, a possible destroyer of those who love himand poses the question of how far you can sacrifice, not yourself, but those you love, to what you believe in, even though they do not. play that concerned murder, but its real background and point was that an idealist is always dangerous, a possible destroyer of those who love himand poses the question of how far you can sacrifice, not yourself, but those you love, to what you believe in, even though they do not.

Of my detective books, I think the two that satisfy me best are Crooked House Crooked House and and Ordeal by Innocence. Ordeal by Innocence. Rather to my surprise, on re-reading them the other day, I find that another one I am really pleased with is Rather to my surprise, on re-reading them the other day, I find that another one I am really pleased with is The Moving Finger. The Moving Finger. It is a great test to re-read what one has written some seventeen or eighteen years later. One's view changes. Some do not stand the test of time, others do. It is a great test to re-read what one has written some seventeen or eighteen years later. One's view changes. Some do not stand the test of time, others do.

An Indian girl who was interviewing me once (and asking, I must say, a good many silly questions), included among them, 'Have you ever written and published a book you consider really bad?' I replied with indignation that I had not. No book, I said, was exactly as I wanted it to be, and I was never quite satisfied with it, but if I thought a book I had written was really really bad I should not publish it. bad I should not publish it.

However, I have come near it, I think, in The Mystery of the Blue Train. The Mystery of the Blue Train. Each time I read it again, I think it commonplace, full of cliches, with an uninteresting plot. Many people, I am sorry to say, Each time I read it again, I think it commonplace, full of cliches, with an uninteresting plot. Many people, I am sorry to say, like like it. Authors are always said to be no judge of their own books it. Authors are always said to be no judge of their own books How sad it will be when I can't write any more, though I should not be greedy. After all, to be able to continue writing at the age of seventy-five is very fortunate. One ought to be content and prepared to retire by then. In fact, I played with the idea that perhaps I would would retire this year, but I was lured on by the fact that my last book had sold more than any of the previous ones: it seemed rather a foolish moment to stop writing. Perhaps now I had better make a deadline of eighty? retire this year, but I was lured on by the fact that my last book had sold more than any of the previous ones: it seemed rather a foolish moment to stop writing. Perhaps now I had better make a deadline of eighty?

I have enjoyed greatly the second blooming that comes when you finish the life of the emotions and of personal relations; and suddenly findat the age of fifty, saythat a whole new life has opened before you, filled with things you can think about, study, or read about. You find that you like going to picture exhibitions, concerts and the opera, with the same enthusiasm as when you went at twenty or twenty-five. For a period, your personal life has absorbed all your energies, but now you are free again to look around you. You can enjoy leisure; you can enjoy things. things. You are still young enough to enjoy going to foreign places, though you can't perhaps put up with living quite as rough as you used to. It is as if a fresh sap of ideas and thoughts was rising in you. With it, of course, goes the penalty of increasing old agethe discovery that your body is nearly always hurting somewhere: either your back is suffering from lumbago; or you go through a winter with rheumatism in your neck so that it is agony to turn your head; or you have trouble with arthritis in your knees so that you cannot stand long or walk down hillsall these things happen to you, and have to be endured. But one's thankfulness for the gift of life is, I think, stronger and more vital during those years than it ever has been before. It has some of the reality and intensity of dreamsand I still enjoy dreaming enormously. You are still young enough to enjoy going to foreign places, though you can't perhaps put up with living quite as rough as you used to. It is as if a fresh sap of ideas and thoughts was rising in you. With it, of course, goes the penalty of increasing old agethe discovery that your body is nearly always hurting somewhere: either your back is suffering from lumbago; or you go through a winter with rheumatism in your neck so that it is agony to turn your head; or you have trouble with arthritis in your knees so that you cannot stand long or walk down hillsall these things happen to you, and have to be endured. But one's thankfulness for the gift of life is, I think, stronger and more vital during those years than it ever has been before. It has some of the reality and intensity of dreamsand I still enjoy dreaming enormously.

IV

By 1948 archaeology was rearing its erudite head once more. Everyone was talking of possible expeditions, and making plans to visit the Middle East. Conditions were now favourable again for digging in Iraq.

Syria had provided the cream of the finds before the war, but now the Iraqi authorities and the Department of Antiquities were offering fair terms. Though any unique objects found would go to the Baghdad Museum, any 'duplicates', as they were called, would be divided up and the excavator would get a fair share. So, after a year's tentative digging on a small scale here and there, people began to resume work in that country. A Chair of Western Asiatic Archaeology had been created after the war, of which Max became Professor at the Inst.i.tute of Archaeology at London University. He would have time for so many months every year for work in the field.

With enormous pleasure we started off once more, after a lapse of ten years, to resume our work in the Middle East. No Orient Express this time, alas! It was no longer the cheapest wayindeed one could not take a through journey by it now. This time we flewthe beginning of that dull routine, travelling by air. But one could not ignore the time it saved. Still sadder, there were no more journeys across the desert by Nairn; you flew from London to Baghdad and that was that. In those early years one still spent a night here or there on the way, but it was the beginning of what one could see plainly was going to become a schedule of excessive boredom and expense without pleasure.

Anyway, we got to Baghdad, Max and I, together with Robert Hamilton, who had dug with the Campbell-Thompsons and later had been Curator of the Museum in Jerusalem. In due course we went up together, visiting sites in the North of Iraq, between the lesser and the greater Zab, until we arrived at the picturesque mound and town of Erbil. From there we went on towards Mosul, and on the way paid our second visit to Nimrud.

Nimrud was just as lovely a part of the country as I remembered it on our visit long ago. Max examined it with particular zeal this time. Before it had not been even a practical possibility, but now, although he did not say so at this moment, something might be done. Once again we picnicked there. We visited a few other mounds, and then reached Mosul.

The result of this tour was that Max finally came into the open and said firmly that all he wanted to do was to dig Nimrud. 'It's a big site, and an historic sitea site that ought ought to be dug. n.o.body has touched it for close on a hundred years, not since Layard, and Layard only touched the fringe of it. He found some beautiful fragments of ivorythere must be heaps more. It is one of to be dug. n.o.body has touched it for close on a hundred years, not since Layard, and Layard only touched the fringe of it. He found some beautiful fragments of ivorythere must be heaps more. It is one of the the three important cities of a.s.syria. a.s.sur was the religious capital, Nineveh was the political capital, and Nimrud, or Calah, as its name was then, was the military capital. three important cities of a.s.syria. a.s.sur was the religious capital, Nineveh was the political capital, and Nimrud, or Calah, as its name was then, was the military capital. It ought to be dug. It ought to be dug. It will mean a lot of men, a lot of money, and it will take several years. It has every chance, if we are lucky, of being one of the It will mean a lot of men, a lot of money, and it will take several years. It has every chance, if we are lucky, of being one of the great great sites, one of the historic digs which will add to the world's knowledge.' sites, one of the historic digs which will add to the world's knowledge.'

I asked him if he had now had his fun with pre-historic pottery. He said Yes; so many of the questions had been answered now that he was wholly interested in Nimrud as a historic site to dig.

'It will rank,' he said, 'with Tut-ankh-amun's Tomb, with Knossos in Crete, and with Ur. For a site like this, too,' he said, 'you can can ask for money.' ask for money.'

Money was forthcoming; not much to start with, but as our finds grew, it increased. The Metropolitan Museum in New York was one of our biggest contributors; there was money from the Gertrude Bell School of Archaeology in Iraq; and many other contributors: the Ashmolean, the Fitzwilliam, Birmingham. So we began what was to be our work for the next ten years.

This year, this very month, my husband's book Nimrud and its Remains Nimrud and its Remains will be published. It has taken him ten years to write. He has always had the fear that he might not live to complete it. Life is so uncertain, and things like coronary thrombosis, high blood-pressure and all the rest of the modern ills seem to be lying in wait, particularly for men. But all is well. It is his life work: what he has been moving steadily towards ever since 1921. I am proud of him and happy for him. It seems a kind of miracle that both he and I should have succeeded in the work we wanted to do. will be published. It has taken him ten years to write. He has always had the fear that he might not live to complete it. Life is so uncertain, and things like coronary thrombosis, high blood-pressure and all the rest of the modern ills seem to be lying in wait, particularly for men. But all is well. It is his life work: what he has been moving steadily towards ever since 1921. I am proud of him and happy for him. It seems a kind of miracle that both he and I should have succeeded in the work we wanted to do.

Nothing could be further apart than our work. I am a lowbrow and he a highbrow, yet we complement each other, I think, and have both helped each other. Often he has asked me for my judgment on certain points, and whilst I shall always remain an amateur I do know quite a lot about his special branch of archaeologyindeed, many years ago, when I was once saying sadly to Max it was a pity I couldn't have taken up archaeology when I was a girl, so as to be more knowledgeable on the subject, he said, 'Don't you realise that at this moment you know more about pre-historic pottery than almost any woman in England.'

At that moment perhaps I did, though things did not remain like that. I shall never have a professional att.i.tude or remember the exact dates of the a.s.syrian kings, but I do take an enormous interest in the personal aspects of what archaeology reveals. I like to find a little dog buried under the threshold, inscribed on which are the words: 'Don't stop to think, Bite him!' 'Don't stop to think, Bite him!' Such a good motto for a guard-dog; you can see it being written on the clay, and someone laughing. The contract tablets are interesting, throwing light on how and where you sell yourself into slavery, or the conditions under which you adopt a son. You can see Shalmaneser building up his zoo, sending back foreign animals from his campaigns, trying out new plants and trees. Always greedy, I was fascinated when we discovered a stele describing a feast given by the King in which he lists all the things they had to eat. The oddest thing seemed to me, after a hundred sheep, six hundred cows and quant.i.ties of that kind, to come down to a mere twenty loaves of bread. Why should it be such a small number? Indeed why have loaves of bread at all? Such a good motto for a guard-dog; you can see it being written on the clay, and someone laughing. The contract tablets are interesting, throwing light on how and where you sell yourself into slavery, or the conditions under which you adopt a son. You can see Shalmaneser building up his zoo, sending back foreign animals from his campaigns, trying out new plants and trees. Always greedy, I was fascinated when we discovered a stele describing a feast given by the King in which he lists all the things they had to eat. The oddest thing seemed to me, after a hundred sheep, six hundred cows and quant.i.ties of that kind, to come down to a mere twenty loaves of bread. Why should it be such a small number? Indeed why have loaves of bread at all?

I have never been a scientific enough digger really to enjoy levels, plans, and all the rest of it, which are discussed with such gus...o...b.. the modern school. I am unabashedly devoted to the objects of craftsmans.h.i.+p and art which turn up out of the soil. I daresay the first is more important, but for me there will never be any fascination like the work of human hands: the little pyxis of ivory with musicians and their instruments carved round it; the winged boy; the wonderful head of a woman, ugly, full of energy and personality.

We lived in a portion of the Sheikh's house in the village between the tell tell and the Tigris. We had a room downstairs for eating in and stacking things, a kitchen next door to it, and two rooms upstairsone for Max and myself and a little one over the kitchen for Robert. I had to do the developing in the dining-room in the evenings, so Max and Robert would go upstairs. Every time they walked across the room, bits of mud used to fall off the ceiling and drop into the developing dish. Before starting the next batch, I would go up and say furiously: and the Tigris. We had a room downstairs for eating in and stacking things, a kitchen next door to it, and two rooms upstairsone for Max and myself and a little one over the kitchen for Robert. I had to do the developing in the dining-room in the evenings, so Max and Robert would go upstairs. Every time they walked across the room, bits of mud used to fall off the ceiling and drop into the developing dish. Before starting the next batch, I would go up and say furiously: 'Do 'Do remember that I'm remember that I'm developing developing underneath you. Every time you move something falls. Can't you just talk without moving?' underneath you. Every time you move something falls. Can't you just talk without moving?'

They always used, in the end, to get excited, and rush off to a suit-case to take out a book and consult it, and down would fall the dried mud again.

In the courtyard was a storks' nest, and the storks used to make a terrific noise mating, with their wings flapping and a noise like the rattling of bones. Storks are highly thought of in most of the Middle East, and everyone treats them with great respect.

When we left at the end of the first season, we got everything settled for building a house of mud-brick actually on the mound. The bricks were made and laid out to be dried, and the roofing was arranged for.

When we came out the following year we were very proud of our house. There was a kitchen; next to it a long mess-room and sitting-room, and next to that a drawing-office and antica-room. We slept in tents. A year or two later we built on to the house: a small office with a desk and a window in front of it through which one could pay the men on pay-day, and on the other, side an epigraphist's desk. Next to this was the drawing-office and work-room, with trays of things being repaired. Beyond that again was the usual dog-hole in which the wretched photographer had to develop and do loading. Every now and then there was a terrific dust-storm and a wind which came up from nowhere. Immediately we would rush out and hang on to the tents with all our might while all the dust-bin lids blew away. In the end the tents usually came down with a flop, burying someone underneath their folds.

Finally, a year or two later still, I pet.i.tioned to be allowed to have a small room added on of my own. This I would pay for myself. So, for 50, I built on a small, square, mud-brick room, and it was there that I began writing this book. It had a window, a table, an upright chair, and the collapsed remains of a former 'Minty' chair, so decrepit it was difficult to sit on, but still quite comfortable. On the wall I had hung two pictures by young Iraqi artists. One was of a sad-looking cow by a tree; the other a kaleidoscope of every colour imaginable, which looked like patchwork at first, but suddenly could be seen to be two donkeys with men leading them through the Suqa most fascinating picture, I have always thought. I left it behind in the end, because everyone was attached to it, and it was moved into the main sitting-room. But some day I think I want to have it back again.

On the door, Donald Wiseman, one of our epigraphists, fixed the placard in cuneiform, which announces that this is the Beit AgathaAgatha's House, and in Agatha's house I went every day to do a little of my own work. Most of the day, however, I spent on photography or on mending and cleaning ivories.

We had a splendid succession of cooks. One of them was mad. He was a Portuguese Indian. He cooked well, but he became quieter and quieter as the season went on. Finally the kitchen boys came and said they were worried about Josephhe was becoming very peculiar. One day he was missing. We searched for him, and notified the police, but in the end it was the Sheikh's people who brought him back. He explained that he had had a command from the Lord and had to obey, but he had now been told that he must come back and ascertain the Lord's wishes. There seemed to be some slight confusion in his mind between the Almighty and Max. He strode round the house, fell on his knees before Max, who was expounding something to some workmen, and kissed the bottom of his trousers, much to Max's embarra.s.sment.

'Get up, Joseph,' said Max.

'I must do what you command me, Lord. Tell me where to go and I will go there. Send me to Basra and I will go to Basra. Tell me to visit Baghdad and I will visit Baghdad; to go to the snows of the north and I will go to the snows of the north.'

'I tell you,' said Max, accepting the role of the Almighty. 'I tell you to go forthwith to the kitchen, to cook us food for our needs.'

'I go, Lord,' said Joseph, who then kissed the turn-up of Max's trousers once more and left for the kitchen. Unfortunately the wires seemed crossed, for other commands kept coming to Joseph and he used to stray away. In the end we had to send him back to Baghdad. His money was sewn up in his pocket and a wire was dispatched to his relations.

Thereupon our second house-boy, Daniel, said he had a little knowledge of cooking and would carry on for the last three weeks of the season. We had permanent indigestion as a result. He fed us entirely on what he called 'Scotch eggs' excessively indigestible, and cooked in most peculiar fat. Daniel disgraced himself before leaving. He had a row with our driver, who then split on him and informed us that he had already salted away in his luggage twenty-four tins of sardines and sundry other delicacies. The riot act was read, Daniel was told that he was disgraced both as a Christian and a servant, that he had lowered the Christian in Arab eyes, and that he would no more be engaged by us. He was the worst servant we ever had.

To Harry Saggs, one of the epigraphists, Daniel went, saying 'You are the only good man on this dig; you read your BibleI have seen you. Therefore since you are a good man, you will give me your best pair of trousers.'

'Indeed,' said Harry Saggs, 'I shall do nothing of the sort.'

'You will be a Christian if you give me your best trousers.'

'Not my best trousers, nor my worst trousers,' said Harry Saggs. 'I need both my pairs of trousers.' Daniel retired to try to cadge something elsewhere. He was extremely lazy, and always managed to clean the shoes after dark so that no one would see that he was not really cleaning them at all but just sitting and humming to himself, smoking.

Our best house-boy was Michael, who had been in service with the British Consulate in Mosul. He looked like an El Greco, with a long, melancholy face and enormous eyes. He was always having great trouble with his wife. Occasionally she tried to kill him with a knife. In the end the doctor persuaded him to take her to Baghdad.

'He has written to me,' said Michael, appearing one day, 'and he says it is only a matter of money. If I will give him 200 he will try to cure her.'

Max urged him to take her to the main hospital to which he had already given him a chit, and not to be victimised by quacks.

'No,' said Michael, 'this is a very grand man, he lives in a grand street in a grand house. He must be the best.'

Life at Nimrud for the first three or four years was relatively simple. Bad weather often separated us from the so-called road, which, kept a lot of visitors away. Then one year, owing to our growing importance, a kind of track was made to link us to the main road, and the actual road to Mosul itself was tarmacked for a good length of its way.

This was very unfortunate. For the last three years we could have employed one person to do nothing but show people round, do the courtesies, offer drinks of tea or coffee, and so on. Whole charabancs of school-children came out. This was one of the worst headaches, because there were large excavations everywhere and the crumbling tops of these were unsafe unless you knew exactly where you were walking. We begged the school-teachers to keep the children away from the actual excavations, but they, of course, adopted the usual att.i.tude of 'Inshallah, all will be well.' In time a great many babies got brought out by their parents.