Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 28

Reading Murder at the Vicarage Murder at the Vicarage now, I am not so pleased with it as I was at the time. It has, I think, far too many characters, and too many sub-plots. But at any rate the now, I am not so pleased with it as I was at the time. It has, I think, far too many characters, and too many sub-plots. But at any rate the main main plot is sound. The village is as real to me as it could beand indeed there are several villages remarkably like it, even in these days. Little maids from orphanages, and well-trained servants on their way to higher things have faded away, but the daily women who have come to succeed them, are just as real and humanthough not, I must say, nearly as skilled as their predecessors. plot is sound. The village is as real to me as it could beand indeed there are several villages remarkably like it, even in these days. Little maids from orphanages, and well-trained servants on their way to higher things have faded away, but the daily women who have come to succeed them, are just as real and humanthough not, I must say, nearly as skilled as their predecessors.

Miss Marple insinuated herself so quietly into my life that I hardly noticed her arrival. I wrote a series of six short stories for a magazine, and chose six people whom I thought might meet once a week in a small village and describe some unsolved crime. I started with Miss Jane Marple, the sort of old lady who would have been rather like some of my grandmother's Ealing croniesold ladies whom I have met in so many villages where I have gone to stay as a girl. Miss Marple was not in any way a picture of my grandmother; she was far more fussy and spinsterish than my grandmother ever was. But one thing she did have in common with herthough a cheerful person, she always expected the worst of everyone and everything, and was, with almost frightening accuracy, usually proved right.

'I shouldn't be surprised if so-and-so isn't going on,' my grandmother used to say, nodding her head darkly, and although she had no grounds for these a.s.sertions, so-and-so was exactly what was was going on. 'A downy fellow, thatI don't trust him,' Grannie would remark, and when later a polite young bank-clerk was found to have embezzled some money, she was not at all surprised, but merely nodded her head. going on. 'A downy fellow, thatI don't trust him,' Grannie would remark, and when later a polite young bank-clerk was found to have embezzled some money, she was not at all surprised, but merely nodded her head.

'Yes,' she said, 'I've known one or two like him.'

n.o.body would ever have wheedled my grandmother out of her savings or put up a proposition to her which she would swallow gullibly. She would have fixed him with a shrewd eye and have remarked later: 'I know his kind. I knew what he was after. I think I'll just ask a few friends to tea and mention that a young man like that is going around.'

Grannie's prophecies were much dreaded. My brother and sister had had a tame squirrel as a pet in the house for about a year, when Grannie, after picking it up with a broken paw in the garden one day, had said sapiently: 'Mark my words! That squirrel will be off up the chimney one of these days!' It went up the chimney five days later.

Then there was the case of the jar on a shelf over the drawing-room door. 'I shouldn't keep that there, if I were you, Clara,' said Grannie. 'One of these days someone will slam the door, or the wind will slam it, and down it will come.'

'But dear Auntie-Grannie, it has been there for ten months.' 'That may be,' said my grandmother.

A few days later we had a thunderstorm, the door banged, and the jar fell down. Perhaps it was second sight. Anyway, I endowed my Miss Marple with something of Grannie's powers of prophecy. There was no unkindness in Miss Marple, she just did not trust people. Though she expected the worst, she often accepted people kindly in spite of what they were.

Miss Marple was born at the age of sixty-five to seventywhich, as with Poirot, proved most unfortunate, because she was going to have to last a long time in my life. If I had had any second sight, I would have provided myself with a precocious schoolboy as my first detective; then he could have grown old with me.

I gave Miss Marple five colleagues for the series of six stories. First was her nephew; a modern novelist who dealt in strong meat in his books, incest, s.e.x, and sordid descriptions of bedrooms and lavatory equipmentthe stark side of life was what Raymond West saw. His dear, pretty, old, fluffy Aunt Jane he treated with an indulgent kindness as one who knew nothing of the world. Secondly I produced a young woman who was a modern painter, and was just getting on very special terms with Raymond West. Then there were Mr Pettigrew, a local solicitor, dry, shrewd, elderly; the local doctora useful person to know of cases which would make a suitable story for an evening's problem; and a clergyman.

The problem told by Miss Marple herself bore the somewhat ridiculous t.i.tle of The Thumb Mark of St. Peter, The Thumb Mark of St. Peter, and referred to a haddock. Some time later I wrote another six Miss Marple stories, and the twelve, with an extra story, were published in England under the t.i.tle of and referred to a haddock. Some time later I wrote another six Miss Marple stories, and the twelve, with an extra story, were published in England under the t.i.tle of The Thirteen Problems, The Thirteen Problems, and in America as and in America as The Tuesday Club Murders. The Tuesday Club Murders.

Peril at End House was another of my books which left so little impression on my mind that I cannot even remember writing it. Possibly I had already thought out the plot some time previously, since this has always been a habit of mine, and often confuses me as to when a book was written or published. Plots come to me at such odd moments: when I am walking along a street, or examining a hat-shop with particular interest, suddenly a splendid idea comes into my head, and I think, 'Now that would be a neat way of covering up the crime so that n.o.body would see the point.' Of course, all the practical details are still to be worked out, and the people have to creep slowly into my consciousness, but I jot down my splendid idea in an exercise book. was another of my books which left so little impression on my mind that I cannot even remember writing it. Possibly I had already thought out the plot some time previously, since this has always been a habit of mine, and often confuses me as to when a book was written or published. Plots come to me at such odd moments: when I am walking along a street, or examining a hat-shop with particular interest, suddenly a splendid idea comes into my head, and I think, 'Now that would be a neat way of covering up the crime so that n.o.body would see the point.' Of course, all the practical details are still to be worked out, and the people have to creep slowly into my consciousness, but I jot down my splendid idea in an exercise book.

So far so goodbut what I invariably do is lose the exercise book. I usually have about half a dozen on hand, and I used to make notes in them of ideas that had struck me, or about some poison or drug, or a clever little bit of swindling that I had read about in the paper. Of course, if I kept all these things neatly sorted and filed and labelled it would save me a lot of trouble. However, it is a pleasure sometimes, when looking vaguely through a pile of old note-books, to find something scribbled down, as: Possible plotdo it yourself-Girl and not really sisterAugust Possible plotdo it yourself-Girl and not really sisterAugustwith a kind of sketch of a plot. What it's all about I can't remember now; but it often stimulates me, if not to write that identical plot, at least to write something else.

Then there are the plots that tease my mind, that I like to think about and play with, knowing that one day I am going to write them. Roger Ackroyd Roger Ackroyd played about in my mind for a long time before I could get the details fixed. I had another idea that came to me after going to a performance by Ruth Draper. I thought how clever she was and how good her impersonations were; the wonderful way she could transform herself from a nagging wife to a peasant girl kneeling in a cathedral. Thinking about her led me to the book played about in my mind for a long time before I could get the details fixed. I had another idea that came to me after going to a performance by Ruth Draper. I thought how clever she was and how good her impersonations were; the wonderful way she could transform herself from a nagging wife to a peasant girl kneeling in a cathedral. Thinking about her led me to the book Lord Edgware Dies. Lord Edgware Dies.

When I began writing detective stories I was not in any mood to criticise them or to think seriously about crime. The detective story was the story of the chase; it was also very much a story with a moral; in fact it was the old Everyman Morality Tale, the hunting down of Evil and the triumph of Good. At that time, the time of the 1914 war, the doer of evil was not a hero: the enemy enemy was wicked, the was wicked, the hero hero was good: it was as crude and as simple as that. We had not then begun to wallow in psychology. I was, like everyone else who wrote books or read them, was good: it was as crude and as simple as that. We had not then begun to wallow in psychology. I was, like everyone else who wrote books or read them, against against the criminal and the criminal and for for the innocent victim. the innocent victim.

There was one exception in the popular hero Raffles, a sporting cricketer and successful cracksman, with his rabbit-like a.s.sociate Bunny. I think I always felt slightly shocked by Raffles, and in looking back now I feel much more shocked than I did then, though it was certainly in the tradition of the pasthe was the Robin Hood type. But Raffles was a light-hearted exception. No one could have dreamt then that there would come a time when crime books would be read for their love of violence, the taking of s.a.d.i.s.tic pleasure in brutality for its own sake. One would have thought that the community would rise up in horror against such things; but now cruelty seems almost everyday bread and b.u.t.ter. I wonder still how it can can be so, when one considers that the vast majority of people one knows, girls and boys as well as the older folk, are extraordinarily kind and helpful: they will do things to help older people; they are willing and anxious to be of service. The minority of what I call 'the haters' is quite small, but, like all minorities, it makes itself felt far more than the majority does. be so, when one considers that the vast majority of people one knows, girls and boys as well as the older folk, are extraordinarily kind and helpful: they will do things to help older people; they are willing and anxious to be of service. The minority of what I call 'the haters' is quite small, but, like all minorities, it makes itself felt far more than the majority does.

As a result of writing crime books one gets interested in the study of criminology. I am particularly interested in reading books by those who have been in contact with criminals, especially those who have tried to benefit them or to find ways of what one would have called in the old days 'reforming' themfor which I imagine one uses far more grand terms nowadays! There seems no doubt that there are those, like Richard III as Shakespeare shows him, who do indeed say: 'Evil be thou my Good.' They have chosen Evil, I think, much as Milton's Satan did: he wanted to be great, he wanted power, he wanted to be as high as G.o.d. He had no love in him, so he had no humility. I would say myself, from the ordinary observation of life, that where there is no humility the people perish. the people perish.

One of the pleasures of writing detective stories is that there are so many types to choose from: the light-hearted thriller, which is particularly pleasant to do; the intricate detective story with an involved plot which is technically interesting and requires a great deal of work, but is always rewarding; and then what I can only describe as the detective story that has a kind of pa.s.sion behind itthat pa.s.sion being to help save innocence. Because it is innocence innocence that matters, not that matters, not guilt. guilt.

I can suspend judgment on those who killbut I think they are evil for the community; they bring in nothing except hate, and take from it all they can. I am willing to believe that they are made that way, that they are born with a disability, for which, perhaps, one should pity them; but even then, I think, not spare thembecause you cannot spare them any more than you could spare the man who staggers out from a plague-stricken village in the Middle Ages to mix with innocent and healthy children in a nearby village. The innocent innocent must be protected; they must be able to live at peace and charity with their neighbours. must be protected; they must be able to live at peace and charity with their neighbours.

It frightens me that n.o.body seems to care about the innocent. When you read about a murder case, n.o.body seems to be horrified by the picture, say, of a fragile old woman in a small cigarette shop, turning away to get a packet of cigarettes for a young thug, and being attacked and battered to death. No one seems to care about her terror and her pain, and the final merciful unconsciousness. n.o.body seems to go through the agony agony of the of the victim victimthey are only full of pity for the young killer, because of his youth.

Why should they not execute him? We have taken the lives of wolves, in this country; we didn't try to teach the wolf to lie down with the lambI doubt really if we could have. We hunted down the wild boar in the mountains before he came down and killed the children by the brook. Those were our enemiesand we destroyed them.

What can we do to those who are tainted with the germs of ruthlessness and hatred, for whom other people's lives go for nothing? They are often the ones with good homes, good opportunities, good teaching, yet they turn out to be, in plain English, wicked. wicked. Is there a cure for wickedness? What one can do with a killer? Not imprisonment for lifethat surely is far more cruel than the cup of hemlock in ancient Greece. The best answer we ever found, I suspect, was transportation. A vast land of emptiness, peopled only with primitive human beings, where man could live in simpler surroundings. Is there a cure for wickedness? What one can do with a killer? Not imprisonment for lifethat surely is far more cruel than the cup of hemlock in ancient Greece. The best answer we ever found, I suspect, was transportation. A vast land of emptiness, peopled only with primitive human beings, where man could live in simpler surroundings.

Let us face the thought that what we regard as defects were once qualities. Without ruthlessness, without cruelty, without a complete lack of mercy, perhaps man would not have continued to exist; he would have been wiped out quite soon. The evil man nowadays may be the successful man of the past. He was necessary then, but he is not necessary and is a danger now.

The only hope, it seems to me, would be to sentence such a creature to compulsory service for the benefit of the community in general. You might allow your criminal the choice between the cup of hemlock and offering himself for experimental research, for instance. There are many fields of research especially in medicine and healing, where a human subject is vitally necessaryanimals will not do. At present, it seems to me, the scientist himself, a devoted researcher, risks his own life, but there could could be human guinea-pigs, who accepted a certain period of experiment in lieu of death, and who, if they survived it, would then have redeemed themselves, and could go forth free men, with the mark of Cain removed from their foreheads. be human guinea-pigs, who accepted a certain period of experiment in lieu of death, and who, if they survived it, would then have redeemed themselves, and could go forth free men, with the mark of Cain removed from their foreheads.

This might make no difference to their lives; they might only say, 'Well, I had good luckanywayI got away with it.' Yet the fact of society owing them thanks might might make some faint difference. One should never hope too much, but one can always hope a little. They would at least have had a chance to do a worthwhile act, and to escape the retribution they had earnedit would be up to them to start again. Mightn't they start a little differently? Might they not even feel a certain pride in themselves? make some faint difference. One should never hope too much, but one can always hope a little. They would at least have had a chance to do a worthwhile act, and to escape the retribution they had earnedit would be up to them to start again. Mightn't they start a little differently? Might they not even feel a certain pride in themselves?

If not, one can only say, G.o.d pity them. Not in this life, perhaps, but in the next, they may move 'on the upward way'. But the important thing is still the innocent; those who live sincerely and fearlessly in the present age, who demand that they should be protected and saved from harm. They They are the ones that matter. are the ones that matter.

Perhaps Wickedness may find its physical curethey can sew up our hearts, deep-freeze ussome day they may may rearrange our genes, alter our cells. Think of the number of cretins there used to be, dependent for intellect on the sudden discovery of what thyroid glands, deficient or in excess, could do to you. rearrange our genes, alter our cells. Think of the number of cretins there used to be, dependent for intellect on the sudden discovery of what thyroid glands, deficient or in excess, could do to you.

This seems to have taken me a long way from detective stories, but explains, perhaps, why I have got more interest in my victims than my criminals. The more pa.s.sionately alive the victim, the more glorious indignation I have on his behalf, and am full of a delighted triumph when I have delivered a near-victim out of the valley of the shadow of death.

Returning from the valley of the shadow of death, I have decided not to tidy up this book too much. For one thing I am elderly. Nothing is more wearying than going over things you have written and trying to arrange them in proper sequence or turn them the other way round. I am perhaps talking to myselfa thing one is apt to do when one is a writer. One walks along the street, pa.s.sing all the shops one meant to go into, or all the offices one ought to have visited, talking to oneself hardnot too loud, I hopeand rolling one's eyes expressively, and then one suddenly sees people looking at one and drawing slightly aside, clearly thinking one is mad.

Oh well, I suppose it is just the same as when I was four years old talking to the kittens. I am still talking to the kittens, in fact.

III

In March of the following year, as arranged, I went out to Ur. Max met me at the station. I had wondered if I should feel shyafter all we had been married only a short time before parting. Rather to my surprise, it was as if we had met the day before. Max had written me full letters, and I felt as well informed on the archaeological progress of that year's dig as anyone possibly could be who was a novice in the subject. Before our journey home I spent some days at the Expedition House. Len and Katharine greeted me warmly and Max took me determinedly over the dig.

We were unlucky in our weather, for there was a dust-storm blowing. It was then that I noticed that Max's eyes were impervious to sand. While I stumbled along behind him, blinded by this wind-blown horror, Max, with his eyes apparently wide open, pointed out this, that and the other feature. My first idea was to race for the shelter of the house, but I stuck to it manfully, because in spite of great discomfort I was extremely interested to see all the things about which Max had written.

With the season's expedition at an end, we decided to go home by way of Persia. There was a small air serviceGermanwhich had just started running from Baghdad to Persia, and we went by that. It was a single-engined machine, with one pilot, and we felt extremely adventurous. Probably it was was rather adventurouswe seemed to be flying into mountain peaks the entire time. rather adventurouswe seemed to be flying into mountain peaks the entire time.

The first stop was at Hamadan, the second at Teheran.

From Teheran we flew to Shiraz, and I remember how beautiful it lookedlike a dark emerald-green jewel in a great desert of greys and browns. Then, as one circled nearer, the emerald grew even more intense, and finally we came down to find a green city of oasis, palms, and gardens. I had not realised how much desert there was in Persia, and I now understood why the Persians so appreciated gardensit was because it was so very difficult to have have gardens. gardens.

We went to one beautiful house, I remember. Years later, on our second visit to Shiraz, I tried hard to find it again, but failed. Then the third time we succeeded. I identified it because one of the rooms had various pictures painted in medallions on the ceiling and walls. One of them was of Holborn Viaduct. Apparently a Shah of Victorian times, after visiting London, had sent an artist back there with instructions to paint various medallions of scenes he wanted portrayedand there, among them, many years later, was Holborn Viaduct still, a little bruised and scratched with wear. The house was already dilapidated, and was not lived in by then, but it was still beautiful, even if dangerous to walk about in. I used it as the setting for a short story called The House at Shiraz. The House at Shiraz.

From Shiraz we went by car to Isfahan. It was a long drive on a rough track, through desert the whole time, with now and then a meagre village. We had to stop the night in an excessively primitive rest-house. We had a rug from the car and bare boards to sleep on, and a rather doubtful-looking bandit in charge, aided by some ruffianly peasants.

We pa.s.sed an excessively painful night. The hardness of a board to sleep on is unbelievable; one would not think that one's hips, elbows, and shoulders could get so bruised as they do in a few hours. Once, sleeping uncomfortably in my Baghdad hotel bedroom, I investigated the cause, and found that under the mattress a heavy board had been placed to combat the sagging of the wired springs. An Iraqi lady had used the room last, so the house-boy explained, and had been unable to sleep because of the softness, so the board had been put in to enable her to have a good night's rest.

We resumed our drive, and arrived, rather weary, in Isfahan, and Isfahan, from that time forward, has been listed by me as the most most beautiful city in the world. Never have I seen anything like its glorious colours, of rose, blue and goldthe flowers, birds, arabesques, lovely fairy-tale buildings, and everywhere beautiful coloured tilesyes, a fairyland city. After I saw it that first time I did not visit it again for nearly twenty years, and I was terrified to go there then because I thought it would be completely different. Fortunately it had changed very little. Naturally there were more modern streets, and a few slightly more modern shops, but the n.o.ble Islamic buildings, the courts, the tiles and the fountainsthey were all there still. The people were less fanatical by this time, and one could visit many of the interiors of the mosques which were inaccessible before. beautiful city in the world. Never have I seen anything like its glorious colours, of rose, blue and goldthe flowers, birds, arabesques, lovely fairy-tale buildings, and everywhere beautiful coloured tilesyes, a fairyland city. After I saw it that first time I did not visit it again for nearly twenty years, and I was terrified to go there then because I thought it would be completely different. Fortunately it had changed very little. Naturally there were more modern streets, and a few slightly more modern shops, but the n.o.ble Islamic buildings, the courts, the tiles and the fountainsthey were all there still. The people were less fanatical by this time, and one could visit many of the interiors of the mosques which were inaccessible before.

Max and I decided we would continue our journey home through Russia, if that did not prove too difficult as regards pa.s.sports, visas, money, and everything else. In pursuit of this idea we went to the Bank of Iran. This building is so magnificent that you could not help considering it more as a palace than a mere financial establishmentand indeed it was hard to find where in it the banking was going on. When, finally, you arrived through the corridors set with fountains in a vast ante-chamber, there in the distance was a counter behind which smartly dressed young men in European suits were writing in ledgers. But as far as I could see, in the Middle East you never transacted business at the counter of a bank. You were always pa.s.sed on to a manager, a sub-manager, or at least to someone who looked like a manager.

A clerk would beckon to one of the bank messengers who stood about in picturesque att.i.tudes and costumes, and he would then wave you to any one of several enormous leather divans, and disappear. By and by he would return, beckon you towards him, take you up marble stairs of great magnificence, and lead you to some presumably sacred door. Your guide would tap on it, go in leaving you standing outside, to return presently, beaming all over his face and showing himself delighted that you had pa.s.sed the test successfully. You would enter the room feeling that you were no less than a Prince of Ethiopia.

A charming man, usually rather portly, would rise to his feet, greet you in perfect English or French, beckon you to a seat, offer you tea or coffee; ask when you had arrived, whether you liked Teheran, where you had come from, and finallyquite, as it were, by accidentproceed to the question of what you might happen to want. You would mention such things as travellers' cheques. He would sound a little bell on his desk, another messenger would enter and would be told: 'Mr Ibrahim.' Coffee would arrive, there would be more conversation on travel, the general state of politics, failure or success of crops.

Presently Mr Ibrahim would arrive. He would be wearing a puce-coloured European suit, and would be about thirty years of age. The bank manager would explain your requirements and you would mention what money you would like the payment to be made in. He would then produce six or more different forms which you would sign. Mr Ibrahim would then disappear and another long interlude would take place.

It was at this moment on the present occasion that Max began to talk about the possibility of our going to Russia. The bank manager sighed and raised his hands.

'You will have difficulties,' he said.

'Yes,' Max said, he expected there would be difficulties, but surely it was not impossible? There was no actual bar, was there, to crossing the frontier?

'You have no diplomatic representation at present, I believe. You have no Consulates there.'

Max said, no, he knew we had no consuls there, but he understood there was no prohibition on English people entering the country if they wanted to.

'No, there is no prohibition at all. Of course, you would have to take money with you.'

Naturally, Max said, he expected he would have to take money with him.

'And no financial transaction that you can make with us will be legal,' said the bank manager sadly.

This startled me a little. Max, of course, was not new to Oriental ways of doing business, but I was. It seemed to me odd that in a bank a financial transaction could be both illegal and yet practised.

'You see,' explained the bank manager, 'they alter the laws; they alter them the whole time. And anyway the laws contradict each other. One law says you shall not take out money in one particular form, but another law says that is the only form in which you can can take it outso what is one to do? One does what seems best on that particular day of the month. I tell you this,' he added, 'so that you may understand beforehand that though I can arrange a transaction, I can send out to the bazaar, I can get you the most suitable kind of money to take, it will all be illegal.' take it outso what is one to do? One does what seems best on that particular day of the month. I tell you this,' he added, 'so that you may understand beforehand that though I can arrange a transaction, I can send out to the bazaar, I can get you the most suitable kind of money to take, it will all be illegal.'

Max said that he quite understood that. The bank manager cheered up, and told us that he thought we would enjoy the journey very much. 'Let me see nowyou want to go down to the Caspian by car? Yes? That is a beautiful drive. You will go to Resht, and from Resht you will go by boat to Baku. It is a Russian boat. I know nothing about it, nothing whatsoever, but people go by it, yes.'

His tone suggested that people who went by it disappeared into s.p.a.ce, and nothing was known of what happened to them afterwards. 'You will not only have to take money,' he warned us, 'you will have to take food. I do not know if there are any arrangements for getting food in Russia. At any rate there are no arrangements for buying food on the train from Baku to Batumyou must take everything with you.'

We discussed hotel accommodation and other problems, and all seemed equally difficult.

Presently another gentleman in a puce suit arrived. He was younger than Mr Ibrahim, and his name was Mr Mahomet. Mr Mahomet brought with him several more forms, which Max signed, and also demanded various small sums of money to purchase the necessary stamps. A messenger was summoned, and sent to the bazaar for currency.

Mr Ibrahim then reappeared. He set out the amount of money we had asked for in a few notes of large denomination instead of the notes of small denomination we had requested.

'Ah! but it is always very difficult,' he said sadly. 'Very difficult indeed. You see sometimes we have a lot of one denomination, and some days we have a lot of another. It is just your good fortune or your bad fortune what you get.' We were obviously to accept our bad fortune in this case.

The manager attempted to cheer us by sending for yet more coffee. Turning to us, he went on, 'It is best that you take all the money you can to Russia in tomans. Tomans,' he added, 'are illegal in Persia, but they are the only things we can use here because they are the only things they will take in the bazaar.'

He sent yet another myrmidon out into the bazaar to change large quant.i.ties of our newly-acquired money into tomans. Tomans turned out to be Maria Theresa dollarspure silver and excessively heavy.

'Your pa.s.sport, it is in order?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'It is valid for the Soviet Union?' We said yes, it was valid for all countries in Europe including the Soviet Union.

'Then that is all right. The visa, no doubt, will be easy. It is understood then? You must make your arrangements for a carthe hotel will do that for youand you must take with you sufficient food for three or four days. The journey from Baku to Batum lasts several days.'

Max said he would also like to break his journey at Tiflis.

'Ah, for that you will have to inquire when you get your visa. I do not think it is possible.'

That rather upset Max. However, he accepted it. We said goodbye and thanked the manager. Two hours and a half had pa.s.sed.

We went back to our hotel, where our diet was somewhat monotonous. Whatever we ordered, or whatever we asked for, the waiter would say: 'There is very good caviare todayvery good, very fresh.' Eagerly we used to order caviare. It was amazingly cheap, and though we used to have enormous amounts of it, it always seemed to cost us only five shillings. We did, however, occasionally baulk at having it for breakfastsomehow one does not want caviare for breakfast.

'What have you got for breakfast?' I would ask.

'Caviaretres frais.'

'No, I don't want caviare, I want something else. Eggs? Bacon?' 'There is nothing else. There is bread.'

'Nothing else at all? What about eggs?'

'Caviare, tres frais,' tres frais,' said the waiter firmly. said the waiter firmly.

So we had a little caviare and a great deal of bread. The only other thing offered us for a meal at lunch except caviare was something called La Tourte, which was a large and excessively sweet kind of jam tart, heavy, but of pleasant flavour.

We had to consult this waiter as to what food we should take into Russia with us. On the whole the waiter recommended caviare. We agreed to take two enormous tins of it. The waiter also suggested taking six cooked ducks. In addition we took bread, a tin of biscuits, pots of jam and a pound of tea'for the engine,' the waiter explained. We did not quite see what the engine had to do with it. Perhaps it was usual to offer the engine-driver a present of tea? Anyway Anyway we took tea and coffee essence. we took tea and coffee essence.

After dinner that evening we fell into conversation with a young Frenchman and his wife. He was interested to hear of our proposed journey, and shook his head in horror. 'C'est impossible! C'est impossible pour Madame. Ce bateau, k bateau de Resht a Baku, ce bateau russe, c'est infecte! Infecte, Madame!' 'C'est impossible! C'est impossible pour Madame. Ce bateau, k bateau de Resht a Baku, ce bateau russe, c'est infecte! Infecte, Madame!' French is a wonderful language. He made the word French is a wonderful language. He made the word infecte infecte sound so depraved and filthy that I could hardly bear to contemplate the prospect. sound so depraved and filthy that I could hardly bear to contemplate the prospect.

'You cannot take Madame there,' the Frenchman insisted firmly. But Madame did not shrink.

'I don't suppose it's nearly so infecte infecte as he says,' I remarked later to Max. 'Anyway, we've got lots of bug powder and things like that.' as he says,' I remarked later to Max. 'Anyway, we've got lots of bug powder and things like that.'

So in due course we started, laden with quant.i.ties of tomans and given our credentials by the Russian consulate, who were quite adamant about not letting us get off at Tiflis. We hired a good car, and off we went.

It was a lovely drive down to the Caspian. We climbed first up bare and rocky hills, and then as we came over the top and down the other side discovered ourselves in another worldfinally arriving in soft warm weather and falling rain at Resht.

We were ushered on to the infecte infecte Russian boat feeling rather nervous. Everything was as different as could be from Persia and Iraq. First, the boat was scrupulously clean; as clean as a hospital, indeed rather like a hospital. Its little cabins had high iron beds, hard straw pallia.s.ses, clean coa.r.s.e-cotton sheets, and a simple tin jug and basin. The crew of the boat were like robots; they seemed all to be six foot high, with fair hair and impa.s.sive faces. They treated us politely, but as though we were not really Russian boat feeling rather nervous. Everything was as different as could be from Persia and Iraq. First, the boat was scrupulously clean; as clean as a hospital, indeed rather like a hospital. Its little cabins had high iron beds, hard straw pallia.s.ses, clean coa.r.s.e-cotton sheets, and a simple tin jug and basin. The crew of the boat were like robots; they seemed all to be six foot high, with fair hair and impa.s.sive faces. They treated us politely, but as though we were not really there. there. Max and I felt exactly like the suicide couple in the play, Max and I felt exactly like the suicide couple in the play, Outward Bound Outward Boundthe husband and wife who move about the boat like ghosts. n.o.body spoke to us, looked at us, or paid the least attention to us.

Presently, however, we saw that food was being served in the saloon. We went hopefully to the door and looked in. n.o.body made any sign to us or appeared to see us. Finally, Max took his courage in both hands and asked if we could have some food. The demand was clearly not understood.

Max tried French, Arabic, and such Persian as he knew, but with no effect. Finally he pointed his finger firmly down his throat in that age-old gesture which cannot fail to be recognised. Immediately the man pulled forward two seats at the table, we sat down, and the food was brought to us. It was quite good, though very plain, and it cost an incredible amount.

Then we arrived at Baku. Here we were met by an Intourist agent. He was charming, full of information, and spoke French fluently. He thought, he said, that we might like to go to a performance of Faust Faust at the Opera. This, however, I did not want to do. I felt I had not come all the way to Russia to see at the Opera. This, however, I did not want to do. I felt I had not come all the way to Russia to see Faust Faust performed. So he said he would arrange some other entertainment for us. Instead of performed. So he said he would arrange some other entertainment for us. Instead of Faust Faust we were forced to go and look at various building sites and half-built blocks of flats. we were forced to go and look at various building sites and half-built blocks of flats.

When getting off the boat, the procedure was simple. Six robot-like porters advanced in order of seniority. The charge, said the Intourist man, was one rouble for each piece. They advanced upon us, and each porter took one piece. An unlucky one had Max's heavy suitcase full of books; the luckiest one had only an umbrellabut they both had to be paid the same.

The hotel we went to was curious also. It was a relic of more luxurious days, I should imagine, and the furniture was grand but old-fashioned. It had been painted white, and was carved with roses and cherubs. For some reason it was all standing in the middle of the room, rather as though furniture movers had just pushed a wardrobe, a table, and a chest of drawers in and left them. Even the beds were not against the wall. These last were magnificently handsome in style, and most comfortable, but they had on them coa.r.s.e cotton sheets, too small to cover the mattress.

Max asked for hot water for shaving the next morning, but had not much luck. Hot water were the only words he knew in Russianapart from the words for 'please' and 'thank you'. The woman he asked shook her head vigorously and brought us along a large jug of cold water. Max used the word for hot several times hopefully, explaining, as he put his razor to his chin, what he needed it for. She shook her head and looked shocked and disapproving.

'I think,' I said, 'that you are being a luxurious aristocrat by asking for hot water to shave in. You'd better stop.'

Everything in Baku seemed like a Scottish Sunday. There was no pleasure in the streets; most of the shops were shut; the one or two that were open had long queues, and people were standing waiting patiently for unattractive articles.

Our Intourist friend saw us off at the train. The queue for tickets was enormous. 'I will just see about some reserved seats,' he said, and moved away. We edged slowly forward in the queue.

Suddenly someone patted us on the arm. It was a woman from the front of the queue. She was smiling broadly. In fact all these people seemed ready to smile if there was anything to smile at. They were kindliness itself. Then, with a good deal of pantomime, the woman urged us to step up to the top of the queue. We didn't like to do this, and hung back, but the whole of the queue insisted. They patted us on the arm and on the shoulder, nodded and beckoned, and finally one man took us up by the arm and moved us forcibly forward, and the woman at the front stepped aside and bowed and smiled. We purchased our tickets at the Surchet. Surchet.

The Intourist man came back. 'Ah, you are ready,' he said.