Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 23

In February of the following year Carlo, Rosalind and I went to the Canary Islands. I had some difficulty in getting my way over this, but I knew that the only hope of starting again was to go right away from all the things that had wrecked life for me. There could be no peace for me in England now after all I had gone through. The bright spot in my life was Rosalind. If I could be alone with her and my friend Carlo, things would heal again, and I could face the future. But life in England was unbearable.

From that time, I suppose, dates my revulsion against the Press, my dislike of journalists and of crowds. It was unfair, no doubt, but I think it was natural under the circ.u.mstances. I had felt like a fox, hunted, my earths dug up and yelping hounds following me everywhere. I had always hated notoriety of any kind, and now I had had such a dose of it that at some moments I felt I could hardly bear to go on living.

'But you could live quietly at Ashfield,' my sister suggested.

'No,' I said. 'I couldn't. If I am quiet there and all alone I shall do nothing but rememberremember every happy day I ever had there and every happy thing I did.' The important thing, once you have been hurt, is not to remember the happy happy times. You can remember the sad timesthat doesn't matterbut something that reminds you of a times. You can remember the sad timesthat doesn't matterbut something that reminds you of a happy happy day or day or a happy a happy thingthat's the thing that almost breaks you in two. Archie continued to live at Styles for a time, but he was trying to sell itwith my consent, of course, since I owned half of it. I needed the money badly now, because I was in serious financial trouble again. Ever since my mother's death I had been unable to write a word. A book was due this year, and having spent so much on Styles I had no money in hand: what little capital I had had was gone in the purchase of the house. I had no money coming in now from anywhere except what I could make or had made myself. It was vital that I should write another book as soon as possible, and get an advance on it. My brother-in-law, Archie's brother Campbell Christie, who had always been a great friend and was a kind and lovable person, helped me here. He suggested that the last twelve stories published in thingthat's the thing that almost breaks you in two. Archie continued to live at Styles for a time, but he was trying to sell itwith my consent, of course, since I owned half of it. I needed the money badly now, because I was in serious financial trouble again. Ever since my mother's death I had been unable to write a word. A book was due this year, and having spent so much on Styles I had no money in hand: what little capital I had had was gone in the purchase of the house. I had no money coming in now from anywhere except what I could make or had made myself. It was vital that I should write another book as soon as possible, and get an advance on it. My brother-in-law, Archie's brother Campbell Christie, who had always been a great friend and was a kind and lovable person, helped me here. He suggested that the last twelve stories published in The Sketch The Sketch should be run together, so that they would have the appearance of a book. That would be a stop-gap. He helped me with the workI was still unable to tackle anything of the kind. In the end it was published under the t.i.tle of should be run together, so that they would have the appearance of a book. That would be a stop-gap. He helped me with the workI was still unable to tackle anything of the kind. In the end it was published under the t.i.tle of The Big Four, The Big Four, and turned out to be quite popular. I thought now that once I got away and had calmed down I could perhaps, with Carlo's help, write another book. The one person who was entirely on my side, and rea.s.sured me in all that I was doing, was my brother-in-law, James. and turned out to be quite popular. I thought now that once I got away and had calmed down I could perhaps, with Carlo's help, write another book. The one person who was entirely on my side, and rea.s.sured me in all that I was doing, was my brother-in-law, James.

'You're doing quite right, Agatha,' he said in his quiet voice. 'You know what is best for yourself, and I would do the same in your place. You must get away. It is possible that Archie may change his mind and come backI hope sobut I don't really think so. I don't think he is that kind of person. When he makes up his mind it is definite, so I shouldn't count on it.' I said no, I wasn't counting on it, but I thought it only fair to Rosalind to wait at least a year so that he could be quite sure that he knew what he was doing. I had been brought up, of course, like everyone in my day, to have a horror of divorce, and I still have it. Even today I have a sense of guilt because I acceded to his persistent demand and did agree to divorce him. Whenever I look at my daughter. I feel still that I ought I ought to have stood out, that I ought perhaps to have refused. One is so hampered when one doesn't want a thing oneself. I didn't want to divorce ArchieI hated doing it. To break up a marriage is wrongI am sure of itand I have seen enough marriages broken up, and heard enough of the inner stories of them, to know that while it matters little if there are no children, it does matter if there are. I came back to England myself againa hardened self, a self suspicious of the world, but better attuned now to deal with it. I took a small flat in Chelsea, with Rosalind and Carlo and went with my friend Eileen Morris, whose brother was now Headmaster of Horris Hill School, to look at various girls' preparatory schools. I felt that as Rosalind had been uprooted from her home and friends, and as there were few children of her own age whom I now knew in Torquay, it would be better for her to go to boarding school. It was what she wanted to do anyway. Eileen and I saw about ten different schools. My head was quite addled by the time we had finished, though some of them had made us laugh. n.o.body, of course, could have known less about schools than I did, for I had never been near one. I had no feeling about schooling one way or the other. I had never missed it myself. But after all, I said to myself, you may have missed somethingyou don't know. Perhaps it would be better to give your daughter the chance. Since Rosalind was a person of the utmost good sense, I consulted her on the subject. She was quite enthusiastic. She enjoyed the day school she was going to in London, but she thought it would be nice to go to a preparatory school the following autumn. After that, she said, she would like to go to a very large schoolthe largest school there was. We agreed that I should try to find a nice preparatory school, and we settled tentatively on Cheltenham, which was the largest school I could think of, for the future. The first school I liked was at Bexhill: Caledonia, run by a Miss Wynne and her partner, Miss Barker. It was conventional, obviously well run, and I liked Miss Wynne. She was a person of authority and personality. All the school rules seemed to be cut and dried, but sensible, and Eileen had heard through friends of hers that the food was exceptionally good. I liked the look of the children too. The other school I liked was of a completely opposite type. Girls could have their own ponies and keep their own pets, if they liked, and more or less choose what subjects to study. There was a great deal of lat.i.tude in what they did, and if they did not want to do a thing they were not pressed to do it, because, so the Headmistress said, they then came to want to do things of their own accord. There was a certain amount of artistic training, and, again, I liked the Headmistress. She was an original-minded person, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and full of ideas. I went home, thought about it, and finally decided to take Rosalind with me and visit each of them once more. We did this. I left Rosalind to consider for a couple of days, then said: 'Now, which do you think you'd like?' Rosalind, thank goodness, has always known her own mind. 'Oh, Caledonia,' she said, 'every time. I shouldn't like the other; it would be too much like being at a party. One doesn't want being at school to be like being at a party, does one?' So we settled on Caledonia, and it was a great success. The teaching was extremely good, and the children were interested in what they learned. It was highly organised, but Rosalind was the kind of child who liked to be highly organised. As she said with gusto in the holidays, 'There's never a moment's leisure for to have stood out, that I ought perhaps to have refused. One is so hampered when one doesn't want a thing oneself. I didn't want to divorce ArchieI hated doing it. To break up a marriage is wrongI am sure of itand I have seen enough marriages broken up, and heard enough of the inner stories of them, to know that while it matters little if there are no children, it does matter if there are. I came back to England myself againa hardened self, a self suspicious of the world, but better attuned now to deal with it. I took a small flat in Chelsea, with Rosalind and Carlo and went with my friend Eileen Morris, whose brother was now Headmaster of Horris Hill School, to look at various girls' preparatory schools. I felt that as Rosalind had been uprooted from her home and friends, and as there were few children of her own age whom I now knew in Torquay, it would be better for her to go to boarding school. It was what she wanted to do anyway. Eileen and I saw about ten different schools. My head was quite addled by the time we had finished, though some of them had made us laugh. n.o.body, of course, could have known less about schools than I did, for I had never been near one. I had no feeling about schooling one way or the other. I had never missed it myself. But after all, I said to myself, you may have missed somethingyou don't know. Perhaps it would be better to give your daughter the chance. Since Rosalind was a person of the utmost good sense, I consulted her on the subject. She was quite enthusiastic. She enjoyed the day school she was going to in London, but she thought it would be nice to go to a preparatory school the following autumn. After that, she said, she would like to go to a very large schoolthe largest school there was. We agreed that I should try to find a nice preparatory school, and we settled tentatively on Cheltenham, which was the largest school I could think of, for the future. The first school I liked was at Bexhill: Caledonia, run by a Miss Wynne and her partner, Miss Barker. It was conventional, obviously well run, and I liked Miss Wynne. She was a person of authority and personality. All the school rules seemed to be cut and dried, but sensible, and Eileen had heard through friends of hers that the food was exceptionally good. I liked the look of the children too. The other school I liked was of a completely opposite type. Girls could have their own ponies and keep their own pets, if they liked, and more or less choose what subjects to study. There was a great deal of lat.i.tude in what they did, and if they did not want to do a thing they were not pressed to do it, because, so the Headmistress said, they then came to want to do things of their own accord. There was a certain amount of artistic training, and, again, I liked the Headmistress. She was an original-minded person, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and full of ideas. I went home, thought about it, and finally decided to take Rosalind with me and visit each of them once more. We did this. I left Rosalind to consider for a couple of days, then said: 'Now, which do you think you'd like?' Rosalind, thank goodness, has always known her own mind. 'Oh, Caledonia,' she said, 'every time. I shouldn't like the other; it would be too much like being at a party. One doesn't want being at school to be like being at a party, does one?' So we settled on Caledonia, and it was a great success. The teaching was extremely good, and the children were interested in what they learned. It was highly organised, but Rosalind was the kind of child who liked to be highly organised. As she said with gusto in the holidays, 'There's never a moment's leisure for anyone.' anyone.' Not at all what Not at all what I I should have liked. Sometimes the answers I would get to questions seemed quite extraordinary: should have liked. Sometimes the answers I would get to questions seemed quite extraordinary: 'What time do you get up in the morning, Rosalind?'

'I don't know, really. A bell rings.'

'Don't you want want to know the time the bell rings?' to know the time the bell rings?'

'Why should I?' said Rosalind. 'It's to get us up, that's all. And then we have breakfast about half an hour afterwards, I suppose.' Miss Wynne kept parents in their place. I asked her once if Rosalind could come out with us on Sunday dressed in her everyday clothes instead of her Sunday silk frock, because we were going to have a picnic and a ramble over the downs. Miss Wynne replied: 'All my pupils go out on Sunday in their Sunday clothes.' And that was that. However, Carlo and I would pack a small bag with Rosalind's rougher country clothes, and in a convenient wood or copse she would change from her silk Liberty frock, straw hat and neat shoes into something more suitable to the rough and tumble of our picnic. No one ever found us out. She was a woman of remarkable personality. Once I asked her what she did on Sports Day if it rained. 'Rain?' said Miss Wynne in a tone of surprise, 'It has never rained on Sports Day that I can remember.' She could, it seemed, dictate even to the elements: or, as one of Rosalind's friends said, 'I expect, you know, G.o.d would would be on Miss Wynne's side.' I had managed to write the best part of a new book, be on Miss Wynne's side.' I had managed to write the best part of a new book, The Mystery of The Blue Train, The Mystery of The Blue Train, while we were in the Canary Islands. It had not been easy, and had certainly not been rendered easier by Rosalind. Rosalind, unlike her mother, was not a child who could amuse herself by any exercise of imagination: she required something concrete. Give her a bicycle and she would go off for half an hour. Give her a difficult puzzle when it was wet, and she would work on it. But in the garden of the hotel at Oratava in Tenerife there was nothing for Rosalind to do but walk around the flower-beds, or occasionally bowl a hoopand a hoop meant little to Rosalind, again unlike her mother. To her it was only a hoop. while we were in the Canary Islands. It had not been easy, and had certainly not been rendered easier by Rosalind. Rosalind, unlike her mother, was not a child who could amuse herself by any exercise of imagination: she required something concrete. Give her a bicycle and she would go off for half an hour. Give her a difficult puzzle when it was wet, and she would work on it. But in the garden of the hotel at Oratava in Tenerife there was nothing for Rosalind to do but walk around the flower-beds, or occasionally bowl a hoopand a hoop meant little to Rosalind, again unlike her mother. To her it was only a hoop.

'Look here, Rosalind,' I said, 'you must not not interrupt. I've got some work to do. I've got to write another book. Carlo and I are going to be busy for the next hour with that. You must not interrupt.' interrupt. I've got some work to do. I've got to write another book. Carlo and I are going to be busy for the next hour with that. You must not interrupt.'

'Oh, all right,' said Rosalind, gloomily, and went away. I looked at Carlo, sitting there with pencil poised, and I thought, and thought, and thoughtcudgelling my brain. Finally, hesitantly, I began. After a few minutes, I noticed that Rosalind was just across the path, standing there looking at us.

'What is it, Rosalind?' I asked. 'What do you want?'

'Is it half an hour yet,' she said.

'No, it isn't. It's exactly nine minutes. Go away.'

'Oh, all right.' And she departed. I resumed my hesitant dictation. Presently Rosalind was there again.

'I'll call you when the time is up. It's not up yet.'

'Well, I can stay here, can't I? I can just stand here. I won't interrupt.'

'I suppose you can stand there,' I said, unwillingly. And I started again. But Rosalind's eye upon me had the effect of a Medusa. I felt more strongly than ever that everything I was saying was idiotic! (Most of it was, too.) I faltered, stammered, hesitated, and repeated myself. Really, how that wretched book ever came to be written, I don't know! To begin with, I had no joy in writing, no elan. elan. I had worked out the plota conventional plot, partly adapted from one of my other stories. I knew, as one might say, where I was going, but I could not see the scene in my mind's eye, and the people would not come alive. I was driven desperately on by the desire, indeed the necessity, to write another book and make some money. That was the moment when I changed from an amateur to a professional. I a.s.sumed the burden of a profession, which is to write even when you don't want to, don't much like what you are writing, and aren't writing particularly well. I have always hated I had worked out the plota conventional plot, partly adapted from one of my other stories. I knew, as one might say, where I was going, but I could not see the scene in my mind's eye, and the people would not come alive. I was driven desperately on by the desire, indeed the necessity, to write another book and make some money. That was the moment when I changed from an amateur to a professional. I a.s.sumed the burden of a profession, which is to write even when you don't want to, don't much like what you are writing, and aren't writing particularly well. I have always hated The Mystery of the Blue Train, The Mystery of the Blue Train, but I got it written, and sent off to the publishers. It sold just as well as my last book had done. So I had to content myself with thatthough I cannot say I have ever been proud of it. Oratava was lovely. The big mountain towered up; there were glorious flowers in the hotel groundsbut two things about it were wrong. After a lovely early morning, mists and fog came down from the mountain at noon, and the rest of the day was grey. Sometimes it even rained. And the bathing, to keen bathers, was terrible. You lay on a sloping volcanic beach, on your face, and you dug your fingers in and let waves come up and cover you. But you had to be careful they did not cover you too much. Ma.s.ses of people had been drowned there. It was impossible to get into the sea and swim; that could only be done by one or two of the very strongest swimmers, and even one of those had been drowned the year before. So after a week we changed, and moved to Las Palmas in Gran Canaria. Las Palmas is still my ideal of the place to go in the winter months. I believe nowadays it is a tourist resort and has lost its early charm. Then it was quiet and peaceful. Very few people came there except those who stayed for a month or two in winter and preferred it to Madeira. It had two perfect beaches. The temperature was perfect too: the average was about 70 but I got it written, and sent off to the publishers. It sold just as well as my last book had done. So I had to content myself with thatthough I cannot say I have ever been proud of it. Oratava was lovely. The big mountain towered up; there were glorious flowers in the hotel groundsbut two things about it were wrong. After a lovely early morning, mists and fog came down from the mountain at noon, and the rest of the day was grey. Sometimes it even rained. And the bathing, to keen bathers, was terrible. You lay on a sloping volcanic beach, on your face, and you dug your fingers in and let waves come up and cover you. But you had to be careful they did not cover you too much. Ma.s.ses of people had been drowned there. It was impossible to get into the sea and swim; that could only be done by one or two of the very strongest swimmers, and even one of those had been drowned the year before. So after a week we changed, and moved to Las Palmas in Gran Canaria. Las Palmas is still my ideal of the place to go in the winter months. I believe nowadays it is a tourist resort and has lost its early charm. Then it was quiet and peaceful. Very few people came there except those who stayed for a month or two in winter and preferred it to Madeira. It had two perfect beaches. The temperature was perfect too: the average was about 70, which is, to my mind, what a summer temperature should be. It had a nice breeze most of the day, and it was warm enough in the evenings to sit out of doors after dinner. It was in those evenings with Carlo that I made two close friends, Dr Lucas and his sister Mrs Meek. She was a good deal older than her brother, and had three sons. He was a tuberculosis specialist, was married to an Australian, and had a sanatorium on the east coast. He had himself been crippled in youthwhether by tuberculosis or by polio, I do not knowbut he was slightly hunch-backed, and had a delicate const.i.tution. He was by nature a born healer, though, and was extraordinarily successful with his patients. He said once: 'My partner, you know, is a better doctor than I ambetter in his qualifications, knows more than I dobut he cannot do for his patients what I can. When I go away, they droop and fall back. I just make make them get well.' He was always known as Father to all his family. Soon Carlo and I were calling him Father too. I had a bad ulcerated throat when we were there. He came to see me and said, 'You are very unhappy about something, aren't you? What is it? Husband trouble?' I said yes it was, and told him something of what had happened. He was cheering and invigorating. 'He'll come back if you want him,' he said. 'Just give him time. Give him plenty of time. And when he does come back, don't reproach him.' I said I didn't think he would come back, that he wasn't the type. No, he agreed, some weren't. Then he smiled and said: 'But most of us are, I can tell you that. I've been away and come back. Anyway, them get well.' He was always known as Father to all his family. Soon Carlo and I were calling him Father too. I had a bad ulcerated throat when we were there. He came to see me and said, 'You are very unhappy about something, aren't you? What is it? Husband trouble?' I said yes it was, and told him something of what had happened. He was cheering and invigorating. 'He'll come back if you want him,' he said. 'Just give him time. Give him plenty of time. And when he does come back, don't reproach him.' I said I didn't think he would come back, that he wasn't the type. No, he agreed, some weren't. Then he smiled and said: 'But most of us are, I can tell you that. I've been away and come back. Anyway, whatever whatever happens, accept it and happens, accept it and go on. go on. You've got plenty of strength and courage. You'll make a good thing out of life yet.' Dear Father. I owe him so much. He had enormous sympathy for all human ailments and failings. 'When he died, five or six years later, I felt I had lost one of my best friends. Rosalind's one fear in life was that the Spanish chamber-maid would speak to her! You've got plenty of strength and courage. You'll make a good thing out of life yet.' Dear Father. I owe him so much. He had enormous sympathy for all human ailments and failings. 'When he died, five or six years later, I felt I had lost one of my best friends. Rosalind's one fear in life was that the Spanish chamber-maid would speak to her!

'But why shouldn't she?' I said. 'You can speak to her.'

'I can'tshe's Spanish. Spanish. She says "Senorita' and then she She says "Senorita' and then she says says a lot of things I can't understand.' a lot of things I can't understand.'

'You mustn't be so silly, Rosalind.'

'Oh, it's all right. You can go to dinner. I don't mind being left alone as long as I'm in bed. bed. Then I can shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep when the chamber-maid comes in.' It is odd what children like or don't like. When we got on a boat to come back it was rough, and a large, hideously ugly Spanish sailor took Rosalind in his arms, and jerked up with her from the boat to the gangway. I thought she would roar with disapprobation, but not at all. She smiled at him with the utmost sweetness. Then I can shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep when the chamber-maid comes in.' It is odd what children like or don't like. When we got on a boat to come back it was rough, and a large, hideously ugly Spanish sailor took Rosalind in his arms, and jerked up with her from the boat to the gangway. I thought she would roar with disapprobation, but not at all. She smiled at him with the utmost sweetness.

'He's foreign, and you didn't mind,' I said. foreign, and you didn't mind,' I said.

'Well, he didn't talk talk to me. And anyway I liked his facea nice, to me. And anyway I liked his facea nice, ugly ugly face.' Only one incident of note happened as we left Las Palmas for England. We arrived at Puerto de la Cruz to catch the Union Castle boat, and the discovery was made that Blue Teddy had been left behind. Rosalind's face immediately blanched. 'I won't leave without Teddy,' she said. The bus driver who had brought us was approached. Largesse was pressed upon him, though he hardly even seemed to want it. Of course he would find the little one's blue monkeyof course, he would drive back like the wind. In the meantime he was sure the sailors would not let the boat leavenot without the favourite toy of a child. I did not agree with him. I thought the boat face.' Only one incident of note happened as we left Las Palmas for England. We arrived at Puerto de la Cruz to catch the Union Castle boat, and the discovery was made that Blue Teddy had been left behind. Rosalind's face immediately blanched. 'I won't leave without Teddy,' she said. The bus driver who had brought us was approached. Largesse was pressed upon him, though he hardly even seemed to want it. Of course he would find the little one's blue monkeyof course, he would drive back like the wind. In the meantime he was sure the sailors would not let the boat leavenot without the favourite toy of a child. I did not agree with him. I thought the boat would would leave. It was an English boat, leave. It was an English boat, en route en route from South Africa. If it had been a Spanish boat, no doubt it would have remained a couple of hours if necessary. However, all was well. Just as whistles began blowing, and everyone was told to go ash.o.r.e, the bus was seen approaching in a cloud of dust. Out jumped the driver; Blue Teddy was pa.s.sed to Rosalind on the gangway; and she clasped him to her heart. A happy ending to our stay there. from South Africa. If it had been a Spanish boat, no doubt it would have remained a couple of hours if necessary. However, all was well. Just as whistles began blowing, and everyone was told to go ash.o.r.e, the bus was seen approaching in a cloud of dust. Out jumped the driver; Blue Teddy was pa.s.sed to Rosalind on the gangway; and she clasped him to her heart. A happy ending to our stay there.

VII

My plan of life henceforward was more or less established, but I had to make one last decision. Archie and I met by appointment. He looked ill and tired. We talked of ordinary things and people we knew. Then I asked him what he felt now; whether he was quite sure he could not come back to live with Rosalind and me. I said once again that he knew how fond of him she was, and how much she had been puzzled over his absence. She had said once, with the devastating truthfulness of childhood: 'I know know Daddy likes Daddy likes me, me, and would like to be with me. It's and would like to be with me. It's you you he doesn't seem to like.' he doesn't seem to like.'

'That shows you,' I said, 'that she needs you. Can't you manage to do it?' He said, 'No, no, I'm afraid I can't. There's only one thing that I really want. I want madly to be happy, and I can't be happy unless I can get married to Nancy. She's been round the world on a trip for the last ten months, because her people hoped it would get her out of it too, but it hasn't. That's the only thing I want or can do.' It was settled at last. I wrote to my lawyers and went to see them. Things were put in train. There was nothing more to do, except to decide what to do with myself. Rosalind was at school, and she had Carlo and Punkie to visit her. I had till the Christmas holidaysand I decided that I would seek sunshine. I would go to the West Indies and Jamaica. I went to Cook's and fixed up my tickets. It was all arranged. Here we come to Fate again. Two days before I was to leave I went out to dinner with friends in London. They were not people I knew well, but they were a charming couple. There was a young couple there, a naval officer, Commander Howe, and his wife. I sat next to the Commander at dinner, and he talked to me about Baghdad. He had just come back from that part of the world, since he had been stationed in the Persian Gulf. After dinner his wife came and sat by me and we talked. She said people always said Baghdad was a horrible city, but she and her husband had been entranced by it. They talked about it, and I became more and more enthusiastic. I said I supposed one had to go by sea.

'You can go by trainby the Orient Express.'

'The Orient Express?' All my life I had wanted to go on the Orient Express. When I had travelled to France or Spain or Italy, the Orient Express had often been standing at Calais, and I had longed to climb up into it. Simplon-Orient ExpressMilan, Belgrade, Stamboul... Simplon-Orient ExpressMilan, Belgrade, Stamboul... I was bitten. Commander Howe wrote down for me places I must go and see in Baghdad. 'Don't get trapped into too much Alwiyah and Mem-sahibs and all that. You must go to MosulBasra you must visitand you certainly ought to go to Ur.' I was bitten. Commander Howe wrote down for me places I must go and see in Baghdad. 'Don't get trapped into too much Alwiyah and Mem-sahibs and all that. You must go to MosulBasra you must visitand you certainly ought to go to Ur.'

'Ur?' I said. I had just been reading in The Ill.u.s.trated London News The Ill.u.s.trated London News about Leonard Woolley's marvellous finds at Ur. I had always been faintly attracted to archaeology, though knowing nothing about it. Next morning I rushed round to Cook's, cancelled my tickets for the West Indies, and instead got tickets and reservations for a journey on the Simplon-Orient Express to Stamboul; from Stamboul to Damascus; and from Damascus to Baghdad across the desert. I was wildly excited. It would take four or five days to get the visas and everything, and then off I should go. about Leonard Woolley's marvellous finds at Ur. I had always been faintly attracted to archaeology, though knowing nothing about it. Next morning I rushed round to Cook's, cancelled my tickets for the West Indies, and instead got tickets and reservations for a journey on the Simplon-Orient Express to Stamboul; from Stamboul to Damascus; and from Damascus to Baghdad across the desert. I was wildly excited. It would take four or five days to get the visas and everything, and then off I should go.

'All by yourself?' said Carlo, slightly doubtful. 'All by yourself to the Middle East? You don't know anything about it.'

'Oh, that will be all right,' I said. 'After all, one must do things by oneself sometime, mustn't one?' I never had beforeI didn't much want to nowbut I thought: 'It's now or never. Either I cling to everything that's safe and that I know, or else I develop more initiative, do things on my own.' And so it was that five days later I started for Baghdad. It is the name, really, that so fascinates one. I don't think I had any clear picture in my mind of what Baghdad was like. I was certainly not expecting it to be the city of Haroun-al-Raschid. It was just a place that I had never thought of going to, so it held for me all the pleasures of the unknown. I had been round the world with Archie; I had been to the Canary Islands with Carlo and Rosalind; now I was going by myself by myself I should find out now what kind of person I waswhether I had become entirely dependent on other people as I feared. I could indulge my pa.s.sion for seeing placesany place I wanted to see. I could change my mind at a moment's notice, just as I had done when I chose Baghdad instead of the West Indies. I would have no one to consider but myself. I would see how I liked that. I knew well enough that I was a dog character: dogs will not go for a walk unless someone takes them. Perhaps I was always going to be like that. I hoped not. I should find out now what kind of person I waswhether I had become entirely dependent on other people as I feared. I could indulge my pa.s.sion for seeing placesany place I wanted to see. I could change my mind at a moment's notice, just as I had done when I chose Baghdad instead of the West Indies. I would have no one to consider but myself. I would see how I liked that. I knew well enough that I was a dog character: dogs will not go for a walk unless someone takes them. Perhaps I was always going to be like that. I hoped not.

PART VIII

SECOND SPRING

I

Trains have always been one of my favourite things. It is sad nowadays that one no longer has engines that seem to be one's personal friends. I entered my wagon lit wagon lit compartment at Calais, the journey to Dover and the tiresome sea voyage disposed of, and settled comfortably in the train of my dreams. It was then that I became acquainted, with one of the first dangers of travel. With me in the carriage was a middle-aged woman, a well-dressed, experienced traveller, with a good many suitcases and hat-boxesyes, we still travelled with hat-boxes in those daysand she entered into conversation with me. This was only natural, since we were to share the carriage, which, like all second-cla.s.s ones, had two berths. It was in some ways much nicer to travel by second rather than first cla.s.s, since it was a much bigger carriage, and enabled one to move about. Where was I going? my companion asked. To Italy? No, I said, further than that. Where then compartment at Calais, the journey to Dover and the tiresome sea voyage disposed of, and settled comfortably in the train of my dreams. It was then that I became acquainted, with one of the first dangers of travel. With me in the carriage was a middle-aged woman, a well-dressed, experienced traveller, with a good many suitcases and hat-boxesyes, we still travelled with hat-boxes in those daysand she entered into conversation with me. This was only natural, since we were to share the carriage, which, like all second-cla.s.s ones, had two berths. It was in some ways much nicer to travel by second rather than first cla.s.s, since it was a much bigger carriage, and enabled one to move about. Where was I going? my companion asked. To Italy? No, I said, further than that. Where then was was I going? I said that I was going to Baghdad. Immediately she was all animation. She herself lived in Baghdad. What a coincidence. If I was staying there with friends, as she presumed, she was almost sure to know them. I said I wasn't going to stay with friends. I going? I said that I was going to Baghdad. Immediately she was all animation. She herself lived in Baghdad. What a coincidence. If I was staying there with friends, as she presumed, she was almost sure to know them. I said I wasn't going to stay with friends.

'But where are you going to stay, then? You can't possibly stay in a hotel in Baghdad.' I asked why not. After all, what else are hotels for? That at least was my private thought, though not uttered aloud. Oh! the hotels were all quite quite impossible. 'You can't possibly do that. I tell you what you must do: you must come to us!' I was somewhat startled. impossible. 'You can't possibly do that. I tell you what you must do: you must come to us!' I was somewhat startled.

'Yes, yes, I won't take any denial. How long did you plan to stay there?' 'Oh, probably quite a short time,' I said.

'Well, at any rate you must come to us to start with, and then we can pa.s.s you on to someone else.' It was very kind, very hospitable, but I felt an immediate revolt. I began to understand what Commander Howe had meant when he advised me not to let myself be caught up in the social life of the English colony. I could see myself tied hand and foot. I tried to give a rather stammering account of what I planned to do and see, but Mrs C.she had told me her name, that her husband was already in Baghdad, and that she was one of the oldest residents therequickly put aside all my ideas.

'Oh, you'll find it quite different when you get there. One has a very good life indeed. Plenty of tennis, plenty going on. I think you really will enjoy it. People always say that Baghdad is terrible, but I can't agree. And one has lovely gardens, you know.' I agreed amiably to everything. She said, 'I suppose you are going to Trieste, and will take a boat there on to Beirut?' I said no, I was going the whole way through by the Orient Express. She shook her head a bit over that. 'I don't think that's advisable, you know. I don't think you would like it. Oh well, I suppose it can't be helped now. Anyway, we shall meet, I expect. I'll give you my card, and as soon as you get to Baghdad, if you just wire ahead from Beirut, when you are leaving, my husband will come down and meet you and bring you straight back to our house.' What could I say except thank you very much and add that my plans were rather unsettled? Fortunately Mrs C. was not going to make the whole journey with methank G.o.d for that, I thought, as she would never have stopped talking. She was going to get out at Trieste, and take a boat to Beirut. I had prudently not mentioned my plans for staying in Damascus and Stamboul, so she would probably come to the conclusion that I had changed my mind about travelling to Baghdad. We parted on the most friendly terms the next day in Trieste, and I settled down to enjoy myself. The journey was all that I had hoped for. After Trieste we went through Yugoslavia and the Balkans, and there was all the fascination of looking out at an entirely different world: going through mountain gorges, watching ox-carts and picturesque wagons, studying groups of people on the station platforms, getting out occasionally at places like Nish and Belgrade and seeing the large engines changed and new monsters coming on with entirely different scripts and signs. Naturally I picked up a few acquaintances en route, en route, but none of them, I am glad to say, took charge of me in the same way as my first had done. I pa.s.sed the time of day agreeably with an American missionary lady, a Dutch engineer, and a couple of Turkish ladies. With the last I could not do much conversing, though we managed a little sporadic French. I found myself in what was the obviously humiliating position of having only had one child, and that a daughter. The beaming Turkish lady had had, as far as I could understand her, thirteen children, five of whom were dead, and at least three, if not four miscarriages. The sum total seemed to her quite admirable though I gathered that she was not giving up hope of continuing her splendid record of fertility. She pressed on me every possible remedy for increasing my family. The things with which I was urged to stimulate myself: tisanes of leaves, concoctions of herbs, the use of certain kinds of what I thought might be garlic, and finally the address of a doctor in Paris, who was 'absolutely wonderful'. Not until you travel by yourself do you realise how much the outside world will protect and befriend younot always quite to one's own satisfaction. The missionary lady urged various intestinal remedies on me: she had a wonderful supply of aperient salts. The Dutch engineer took me seriously to task as to where I was going to stay in Stamboul, warning me of all the dangers in that city. 'You have to be careful,' he said. 'You are well brought up lady, living in England, protected I think always by husband or relations. You must not believe what people say to you. You must not go out to places of amus.e.m.e.nt unless you know where you are being taken.' In fact he treated me like an innocent of seventeen. I thanked him, but a.s.sured him that I would be fully on my guard. To save me from worse dangers he invited me out to dinner on the night I arrived. 'The Tokatlian,' he said, 'is a very good hotel. You are quite safe but none of them, I am glad to say, took charge of me in the same way as my first had done. I pa.s.sed the time of day agreeably with an American missionary lady, a Dutch engineer, and a couple of Turkish ladies. With the last I could not do much conversing, though we managed a little sporadic French. I found myself in what was the obviously humiliating position of having only had one child, and that a daughter. The beaming Turkish lady had had, as far as I could understand her, thirteen children, five of whom were dead, and at least three, if not four miscarriages. The sum total seemed to her quite admirable though I gathered that she was not giving up hope of continuing her splendid record of fertility. She pressed on me every possible remedy for increasing my family. The things with which I was urged to stimulate myself: tisanes of leaves, concoctions of herbs, the use of certain kinds of what I thought might be garlic, and finally the address of a doctor in Paris, who was 'absolutely wonderful'. Not until you travel by yourself do you realise how much the outside world will protect and befriend younot always quite to one's own satisfaction. The missionary lady urged various intestinal remedies on me: she had a wonderful supply of aperient salts. The Dutch engineer took me seriously to task as to where I was going to stay in Stamboul, warning me of all the dangers in that city. 'You have to be careful,' he said. 'You are well brought up lady, living in England, protected I think always by husband or relations. You must not believe what people say to you. You must not go out to places of amus.e.m.e.nt unless you know where you are being taken.' In fact he treated me like an innocent of seventeen. I thanked him, but a.s.sured him that I would be fully on my guard. To save me from worse dangers he invited me out to dinner on the night I arrived. 'The Tokatlian,' he said, 'is a very good hotel. You are quite safe there. there. I will call for you about 9 o'clock, and will take you to a very nice restaurant, very correct. It is run by Russian ladiesWhite Russians they are, all of n.o.ble birth. They cook very well and they keep the utmost decorum in their restaurant.' I said that would be very nice, and he was as good as his word. Next day, when he had finished his business, he called for me, showed me some of the sights in Stamboul, and arranged a guide for me. 'You will not take the one from Cook'she is too expensivebut I a.s.sure you this one is very respectable.' After another pleasant evening, with the Russian ladies sailing about, smiling aristocratically and patronising my engineer friend, he showed me more of the sights of Stamboul and finally delivered me once more at the Tokatlian Hotel. 'I wonder,' he said, as we paused on the threshold. He looked at me inquiringly. 'I wonder now' and the inquiry became more p.r.o.nounced as he sized up my likely reaction. Then he sighed, 'No. I think it will be wiser that I do not ask.' I will call for you about 9 o'clock, and will take you to a very nice restaurant, very correct. It is run by Russian ladiesWhite Russians they are, all of n.o.ble birth. They cook very well and they keep the utmost decorum in their restaurant.' I said that would be very nice, and he was as good as his word. Next day, when he had finished his business, he called for me, showed me some of the sights in Stamboul, and arranged a guide for me. 'You will not take the one from Cook'she is too expensivebut I a.s.sure you this one is very respectable.' After another pleasant evening, with the Russian ladies sailing about, smiling aristocratically and patronising my engineer friend, he showed me more of the sights of Stamboul and finally delivered me once more at the Tokatlian Hotel. 'I wonder,' he said, as we paused on the threshold. He looked at me inquiringly. 'I wonder now' and the inquiry became more p.r.o.nounced as he sized up my likely reaction. Then he sighed, 'No. I think it will be wiser that I do not ask.'

'I think you are very wise,' I said, 'and very kind.' He sighed again. 'It would have been pleasant if it had been otherwise, but I can seeyes, this is the right way.' He pressed my hand warmly, raised it to his lips, and departed from my life for ever. He was a nice mankindness itselfand I owe it to him that I saw the sights of Constantinople under pleasant auspices. Next day I was called on by Cook's representatives in the most conventional fashion, and taken across the Bosphorus to Haidar Pasha, where I resumed my journey on the Orient Express. I was glad to have my guide with me, for anything more like a lunatic asylum than Haidar Pasha Station cannot be imagined. Everyone shouted, screamed, thumped, and demanded the attention of the Customs Officer. I was introduced then to the technique of Cook's Dragomen. 'You give me one pound note now,' now,' he said. I gave him one pound note. He immediately sprang up on the Customs benches and waved the note aloft. 'Here, here,' he called. 'Here, here!' His cries proved effective. A customs gentleman covered with gold braid hurried in our direction, put large chalk marks all over my baggage, said to me 'I wish you good voyage'and departed to harry those who had not as yet adopted the Cook's one pound procedure. 'And now I settle you in train,' said Cook's man. 'And now?' I was a little doubtful how much, but as I was looking among my Turkish moneysome change, in fact, which had been given me on the he said. I gave him one pound note. He immediately sprang up on the Customs benches and waved the note aloft. 'Here, here,' he called. 'Here, here!' His cries proved effective. A customs gentleman covered with gold braid hurried in our direction, put large chalk marks all over my baggage, said to me 'I wish you good voyage'and departed to harry those who had not as yet adopted the Cook's one pound procedure. 'And now I settle you in train,' said Cook's man. 'And now?' I was a little doubtful how much, but as I was looking among my Turkish moneysome change, in fact, which had been given me on the wagon lit wagon lithe said with some firmness, 'It is better that you keep that money. It may be useful. You give me another pound note.' Rather doubtful about this but reflecting that one has to learn by experience, I yielded him another pound note, and he departed with salutation and benedictions. There was a subtle difference on pa.s.sing from Europe into Asia. It was as though time had less meaning. The train ambled on its way, running by the side of the Sea of Marmara, and climbing mountainsit was incredibly beautiful all along this way. The people in the train now were different toothough it is difficult to describe in what the difference lay. I felt cut off, but far more interested in what I was doing and where I was going. When we stopped at the stations I enjoyed looking out, seeing the motley crowd of costumes, peasants thronging the platform, and the strange meals of cooked food that were handed up to the train. Food on skewers, wrapped in leaves, eggs painted various coloursall sorts of things. The meals became more unpalatable and fuller of hot, greasy, tasteless morsels as we went further East. Then, on the second evening, we came to a halt, and people got out of the train to look at the Cilician Gates. It was a moment of incredible beauty. I have never forgotten it. I was to pa.s.s that way many times again. both going to and coming from the Near East and, as the train schedules changed, I stopped there at different times of day and night: sometimes in the early morning, which was indeed beautiful; sometimes, like this first time, in the evening at six o'clock; sometimes, regrettably, in the middle of the night. This first time I was lucky. I got out with the others and stood there. The sun was slowly setting, and the beauty indescribable. I was so glad then that I had comeso full of thankfulness and joy. I got back into the train, whistles blew, and we started down the long side of a mountain gorge, pa.s.sing from one side to the other, and coming out on the river below. So we came slowly down through Turkey and into Syria at Aleppo. Before we reached Aleppo, however, I had a short spell of bad luck. I was, as I thought, badly bitten by mosquitoes, up my arms and the back of my neck, and on my ankles and knees. I was still so innocent of travel abroad that I did not recognise that what I had been bitten by was not mosquitoes but bed-bugs, and that I was going to be all my life peculiarly susceptible to such bites. They came out of the old-fashioned wooden railway carriages, and fed hungrily on the juicy travellers in the train. My temperature rose to 102 and my arms swelled. Finally, with the aid of a kindly French commercial traveller, I slit the sleeves of my blouse and coatmy arms were so swelled inside them that there was nothing else one could do. I had fever, headache and misery, and thought to myself, 'What a mistake I have made to come on this journey!' However, my French friend was very helpful: he got out and purchased some grapes for methe small sweet grapes which you get in that part of the world. 'You will not want to eat,' he said. 'I can see that you have fever. It is better that you stick to these grapes.' Though trained by mother and grandmothers to wash all food before eating it abroad, I no longer cared about this advice. I fed myself with grapes every quarter of an hour, and they relieved a lot of the fever. I certainly did not want to eat anything else. My kind Frenchman said goodbye to me at Aleppo, and by the next day my swelling had abated and I was feeling better. When I finally arrived at Damascus, after a long weary day in a train that never seemed to go more than five miles an hour, and constantly paused at something hardly distinguishable from the surroundings but which was called a station, I emerged into the midst of clamour, porters seizing baggage off me, screaming and yelling, and other ones seizing it from them in turn, the stronger wrestling with the weaker. I finally discerned outside the station a handsome looking motor-bus labelled Orient Palace Hotel, A grand person in livery rescued me and my baggage, and together with one or two other bewildered voyagers we piled in and were driven to the hotel, where a room had been reserved for me. It was a most magnificent hotel, with large marble glittering hallsbut with such poor electric light: that one could hardly see one's surroundings. Having been ushered up marble steps and shown into an enormous apartment, I mooted the question of a bath with a kindly-looking female who came in answer to a bell, and who seemed to understand a few words of French.

'Man arrange,' she said. She elucidated further: 'Un hommeun typeil va arranger.' She nodded rea.s.suringly and disappeared. I was a little doubtful as to what She nodded rea.s.suringly and disappeared. I was a little doubtful as to what 'tin type' 'tin type' was, but it seemed in the end that it was the bath attendant, the lowest of the low, dressed in a great deal of striped cotton, who finally ushered my dressing-gowned form into a kind of bas.e.m.e.nt apartment. Here he turned various taps and wheels. Boiling water ran out all over the stone floor, and steam filled the air so that I was unable to see. He nodded, smiled, gestured, gave me to understand that all was well, and departed. He had turned off everything before going, and the water had all run away through the trough in the floor. I was uncertain as to what I was meant to do next. I really dared not turn on the boiling water again. There were about eight or ten small wheels and k.n.o.bs round the walls, any one of which, I felt, might produce a different phenomenonsuch as a shower of boiling water on my head. In the end I took off my bedroom slippers and other garments and padded about, washing myself in steam rather than risking the dangers of actual water. For a moment I felt homesick. How long would it be before I should enter a familiar shiny-papered apartment with a solid white porcelain tub and two taps labelled hot and cold which one turned on according to one's taste? As far as I remember, I had three days in Damascus, during which I duly did my sight-seeing, shepherded by the invaluable Cook's. On one occasion I made an expedition to some Crusader castle, in company with an American engineerengineers seemed pretty thick on the ground all through the Near Eastand a very aged clergyman. We met for the first time as we took our places in the car at 8.30. The aged clergyman, beneficence itself, had made up his mind that the American engineer and I were man and wife. He addressed us as such. 'I hope you don't mind,' said the American engineer. 'Not at all,' I replied. 'I am so sorry that he thinks you are my husband.' The phrase seemed somewhat ambiguous, and we both laughed. The old clergyman treated us to a dissertation on the merits of married life, the necessity of give and take, and wished us all happiness. We gave up explaining, or trying to explainhe appeared so distressed when the American engineer shouted into his ear that we were was, but it seemed in the end that it was the bath attendant, the lowest of the low, dressed in a great deal of striped cotton, who finally ushered my dressing-gowned form into a kind of bas.e.m.e.nt apartment. Here he turned various taps and wheels. Boiling water ran out all over the stone floor, and steam filled the air so that I was unable to see. He nodded, smiled, gestured, gave me to understand that all was well, and departed. He had turned off everything before going, and the water had all run away through the trough in the floor. I was uncertain as to what I was meant to do next. I really dared not turn on the boiling water again. There were about eight or ten small wheels and k.n.o.bs round the walls, any one of which, I felt, might produce a different phenomenonsuch as a shower of boiling water on my head. In the end I took off my bedroom slippers and other garments and padded about, washing myself in steam rather than risking the dangers of actual water. For a moment I felt homesick. How long would it be before I should enter a familiar shiny-papered apartment with a solid white porcelain tub and two taps labelled hot and cold which one turned on according to one's taste? As far as I remember, I had three days in Damascus, during which I duly did my sight-seeing, shepherded by the invaluable Cook's. On one occasion I made an expedition to some Crusader castle, in company with an American engineerengineers seemed pretty thick on the ground all through the Near Eastand a very aged clergyman. We met for the first time as we took our places in the car at 8.30. The aged clergyman, beneficence itself, had made up his mind that the American engineer and I were man and wife. He addressed us as such. 'I hope you don't mind,' said the American engineer. 'Not at all,' I replied. 'I am so sorry that he thinks you are my husband.' The phrase seemed somewhat ambiguous, and we both laughed. The old clergyman treated us to a dissertation on the merits of married life, the necessity of give and take, and wished us all happiness. We gave up explaining, or trying to explainhe appeared so distressed when the American engineer shouted into his ear that we were not not married that it seemed better to leave things as they were. 'But you ought to get married,' he insisted, shaking his head. 'Living in sin, you know, it doesn't doit really doesn't do.' I went to see lovely Baalbek, I visited the bazaars, and the Street called Straight, bought many of the attractive bra.s.s plates they make there. Each plate was made by hand, and each pattern peculiar to the one family that made it. Sometimes it was a design of fish, with threads of silver and bra.s.s raised in a pattern running all over it. There is something fascinating in thinking of each family with its pattern handed down from father to son and to grandson, with no one else ever copying it and n.o.body ma.s.s-producing it. I imagine that if you were to go to Damascus now you would find few of the old craftsmen and their families left: there would be factories instead. Already in those days the inlaid wooden boxes and tables had become stereotyped and universally reproducedstill done by hand, but in conventional patterns and ways. I also bought a chest of drawersa huge one, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silverthe sort of furniture that reminds one of fairyland. It was despised by the Dragoman who was guiding me. married that it seemed better to leave things as they were. 'But you ought to get married,' he insisted, shaking his head. 'Living in sin, you know, it doesn't doit really doesn't do.' I went to see lovely Baalbek, I visited the bazaars, and the Street called Straight, bought many of the attractive bra.s.s plates they make there. Each plate was made by hand, and each pattern peculiar to the one family that made it. Sometimes it was a design of fish, with threads of silver and bra.s.s raised in a pattern running all over it. There is something fascinating in thinking of each family with its pattern handed down from father to son and to grandson, with no one else ever copying it and n.o.body ma.s.s-producing it. I imagine that if you were to go to Damascus now you would find few of the old craftsmen and their families left: there would be factories instead. Already in those days the inlaid wooden boxes and tables had become stereotyped and universally reproducedstill done by hand, but in conventional patterns and ways. I also bought a chest of drawersa huge one, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silverthe sort of furniture that reminds one of fairyland. It was despised by the Dragoman who was guiding me.

'Not good work that,' he said. 'Quite oldfifty years old, sixty years old, more perhaps. Old-fashioned, you understand. Very old-fashioned. Not new.' I said I could see that it wasn't new and that there weren't many of them. Perhaps there would never be another one made.

'No. n.o.body make that now. You come and look at this box. See? Very good. And this here. Here is a chest of drawers here. You see? It has many woods in it. You see how many different woods it has? Eighty-five different woods.' The net result, I thought, was hideous. I wanted my mother-of-pearl, ivory and silver chest. The only thing that worried me was how I was ever going to get it home to Englandbut that apparently held no difficulties. I was pa.s.sed on through Cook's to somebody else, to the hotel, to a firm of shippers, and finally made various arrangements and calculations, with the result that nine or ten months later an almost forgotten mother-of-pearl and silver chest turned up in South Devon. That was not the end of the story. Though it was a glorious thing to look at, and capacious inside, it produced in the middle of the night a strange noise, as if large teeth were champing something. Some creature was eating my beautiful chest. I took the drawers out and examined them. There seemed no sign of tooth-marks or holes. Yet night after night, after the witching hour of midnight, I could hear 'Crump, crump, crump 'Crump, crump, crump'. At last I took one of the drawers out and carried it to a firm in London which was said to specialize in tropical wood-pests. They agreed immediately that something sinister was at work in the recesses of the wood. The only thing would be to remove the wood entirely and re-line it. This, I may say, was going to add heavily to the expensein fact it would probably cost three times as much as the chest itself had done and twice as much as its fare to England. Still, I could no longer bear that ghostly munching and gnawing. About three weeks later I was rung up and an excited voice said 'Madam, can you come down to the shop here. I should really like you to see what I have got.' I was in London at the time, so I hurried round immediatelyand was shown with pride a repulsive cross between a worm and a slug. It was large and white and obscene, and had clearly enjoyed its diet of wood so much as to make it obese beyond belief. It had eaten nearly all the surrounding wood in two of the drawers. After a few more weeks my chest was returned to me, and thereafter the night hours held only silence.

After intensive sightseeing that only increased my determination to return to Damascus and explore much more there, the day came when I was to undertake my journey across the desert to Baghdad. At this time the service was done by a big fleet of six-wheeler cars or buses which were operated by the Nairn Line. Two brothers, Gerry and Norman Nairn, ran this. They were Australians, and the most friendly of men. I became acquainted with them on the night before my trip, when they were both busy in an amateurish way making up cardboard boxes of lunch, and invited me to help them.

The bus started at dawn. Two hefty young drivers were on the job, and when I came out following my baggage they were busy stowing a couple of rifles into the car, carelessly throwing an armful of rugs over them.

'Can't advertise that we've got these, but I wouldn't care to cross the desert without them,' said one.

'Hear we've got the d.u.c.h.ess of Alwiyah on this run,' said the other. 'G.o.d Almighty,' said the first. 'We'll have trouble there, I expect. What does she want this time, do you think?' Everything upside down and down side up,' said the other. At that moment a procession arrived down the steps of the hotel. To my surprise, and I am afraid not to my pleasure, the leading figure was none other than Mrs C., from whom I had parted at Trieste. I had imagined that by now she would have already got to Baghdad, since I had lingered to see the sights.

'I thought you would be on this run,' she said, greeting me with pleasure. 'Everything is fixed up, and I am carrying you back with me to Alwiyah. It would have been quite quite impossible for you to have stayed in any hotel in Baghdad.' What could I say? I was captured. I had never been to Baghdad, and never seen the hotels there. They might, for all I knew, be one seething ma.s.s of fleas, bed-bugs, lice, snakes, and the kind of pale c.o.c.kroach that I particularly abhor. So I had to stammer some thanks. We ensconced ourselves, and I realised that 'The d.u.c.h.ess of Alwiyah' was none other than my friend Mrs C. She refused at once the seat she had been given as too near the rear of the bus, where she was always sick. She must have the front seat behind the driver. But that had been reserved by an Arab lady weeks ago. The d.u.c.h.ess of Alwiyah merely waved a hand. n.o.body counted, apparently, but Mrs C. She gave the impression that she was the first European woman ever to set foot in the city of Baghdad, before whose whims all else must fall down. The Arab lady arrived and defended her seat. Her husband took her part, and a splendid free-for-all ensued. A French lady also made claim, and a German general, too, made himself difficult. I don't know what arguments were urged, but, as usual on this earth, four of the meek were dispossessed of the better seats and more or less thrown into the back of the car. The German general, the French lady, the Arab lady, shrouded in veils, and Mrs C. were left with the honours of war. I have never been a good fighter and did not stand a chance, though actually my seat number would have ent.i.tled me to one of these desirable positions. In due course we rumbled off. Having been fascinated by rolling across the yellow sandy desert, with its undulating sand-dunes and rocks, I finally became more or less hypnotised by the sameness of the surroundings, and opened a book. I had never been car-sick in my life but the action of the six-wheeler, if you were sitting towards the back of it, was much the same motion as a ship, and what with that and reading I was severely sick before I knew what had happened to me. I felt deeply disgraced, but Mrs C. was very kind to me, and said it often took people unawares. Next time she would see to it that I had one of the front seats. The forty-eight hour trip across the desert was fascinating and rather sinister. It gave one the curious feeling of being enclosed rather than surrounded by a void. One of the first things I was to realise was that at noon it was im