Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 30

However, I learnt to measure and calculate, and work out things to two thirds of the actual size, or whatever it had to be. Now the time had come when I had to put what I had learnt to the test. There was far too much to be done unless we all pulled our weight. I took, of course, two or three times as long as either of the others but John had to have some a.s.sistance, and I was able to provide it.

Max had to be out on the dig all day, while John drew. He would stagger down to dinner at night, saying, 'I think 'I think I'm going blind. My eyes feel queer, and I am so dizzy I can hardly walk. I have been drawing without ceasing at top speed since eight o'clock this morning.' I'm going blind. My eyes feel queer, and I am so dizzy I can hardly walk. I have been drawing without ceasing at top speed since eight o'clock this morning.'

'And we'll all have to go on after dinner,' said Max.

'And you are the man who told me,' said John accusingly, 'you 'you are the man who said that this was going to be a holiday!' are the man who said that this was going to be a holiday!'

To celebrate the end of the season we decided to organise a race for the men. This had never been done before. There were to be several splendid prizes and it was open to all the men to compete.

There was a great deal of talk about it. To begin with, some of the grave, older men questioned whether they might not lose dignity by competing in such an event. Dignity was always very important. To compete with younger men, possibly beardless boys, was not the sort of thing that a dignified man, a man of substance, ought to do. However, they all came round to it in the end, and we arranged the details. The course was to be about three miles, and they would cross the Khosr River just beyond the mound of Nineveh. Rules were drawn up carefully. The main rule was that there were to be no fouls; n.o.body was to throw anybody down, do any b.u.mping or boring, crossing, or any such thing. Although we hardly expected that such a rule would be respected, we hoped that the worst excesses would be avoided.

The prizes were first, first, a cow and calf; a cow and calf; second, second, a sheep; a sheep; third, third, a goat. There were several smaller prizeshens, sacks of flour, and from a hundred eggs down to ten. There was also, for everyone who completed the course, a handful of dates and as much halva as a man could hold clasped in his two hands. These prizes, I may say, cost us 10. Those were the days, no doubt about it. a goat. There were several smaller prizeshens, sacks of flour, and from a hundred eggs down to ten. There was also, for everyone who completed the course, a handful of dates and as much halva as a man could hold clasped in his two hands. These prizes, I may say, cost us 10. Those were the days, no doubt about it.

We called it the A.A.A.A.the Arpachiyah Amateur Athletic a.s.sociation. The river was in flood at the moment, and n.o.body could cross the bridge to attend, but the R.A.F. was invited to watch the race from the sky.

The day came, and it was a memorable sight. The first thing that happened, of course, was that everyone made a concerted rush forward when the starting pistol went, and most of them fell flat on their faces into the Khosr. Others disentangled themselves from the swarming ma.s.s and ran on. The foul play was not too bad; n.o.body actually knocked anybody down There had been a great deal of betting on the race, but none of the favourites was even placed or looked like being placed. Three dark horses wonand the applause was terrific. First was a strong and athletic man; seconda most popular wina very poor man, who always looked half-starved; and third was a young boy. That night there was immense rejoicing: the foremen danced, the men danced; and the man who had won the second prize of the sheep killed it immediately and feasted all his family and friends. It was a great day day for the Arpachiyah Amateur Athletic a.s.sociation. for the Arpachiyah Amateur Athletic a.s.sociation.

We departed to cries of good will: 'G.o.d bless you!', 'You will come again' 'G.o.d is very merciful' and so on. We then went to Baghdad, where all our finds were waiting in the Museum, and there Max and John Rose unpacked them and the division took place. It was by then May, and in Baghdad it was 108 in the shade. The heat did not suit John, and he looked terribly ill each day. I was fortunate in that I was not part of the packing squad. I could stay in the house.

Times in Baghdad were gradually worsening politically and though we hoped to return next year, either to move on to another mound or to excavate Arpachiyah a little further, we were already doubtful whether it would be possible. After we left trouble arose over the shipping of the antiquities, and there was great difficulty in getting our cases out. Things were smoothed over at last, but it took many months, and for that reason it was declared inadvisable for us to come out and dig the following year. For some years practically no one excavated in Iraq any longer; everyone went to Syria. And so it was that the following year we too decided to choose a suitable site in Syria. Syria.

One last thing I remember which was like a portent of things to come. We had been having tea in Dr Jordan's house in Baghdad. He was a good pianist, and was sitting that day playing us Beethoven. He had a fine head, and I thought, looking at him, what a splendid man he was. He had seemed always gentle and considerate. Then there was a mention by someone, quite casually, of Jews. His face changed; changed in an extraordinary way that I had never noticed on anyone's face before.

He said: 'You do not understand. Our Jews are perhaps different from yours. They are a danger. They should be exterminated. Nothing else will really do but that.'

I stared at him unbelievingly. He meant it. It was the first time I had come across any hint of what was to come later from Germany. People who had travelled there were, I suppose, already realising it at that time, but for ordinary people, in 1932 and 1933, there was a complete lack of fore-knowledge.

On that day as we sat in Dr Jordan's sitting-room and he played the piano, I saw my first n.a.z.iand I discovered later that his wife was an even fiercer n.a.z.i than he was. They had a duty to perform there: not only to be Director of Antiquities or even to work for their country, but also to spy on their own German Amba.s.sador. There are things in life that make one truly sad when one can make oneself believe them.

V

We came home to England, flushed with triumph, and Max began a busy summer writing up his account of the campaign. We had an exhibition at the British Museum of some of our finds; and Max's book on Arpachiyah came out either that year or the nextthere was to be no time lost in publishing it, Max said: all archaeologists tend to put off publishing for too long, and knowledge ought to be released as soon as possible.

During the Second World War, when I was working in London, I wrote an account of our time in Syria. I called it Come, Tell Me How You Live, Come, Tell Me How You Live, and I get pleasure in reading it over from time to time, and remembering our days in Syria. One year on a dig is very like anotherthe same sort of things happenso repet.i.tion would not avail much. They were happy years, we enjoyed ourselves immensely, and had a great measure of success in our digging. and I get pleasure in reading it over from time to time, and remembering our days in Syria. One year on a dig is very like anotherthe same sort of things happenso repet.i.tion would not avail much. They were happy years, we enjoyed ourselves immensely, and had a great measure of success in our digging.

Those years, between 1930 and 1938, were particularly satisfying because they were so free of outside shadows. As the pressure of work, and especially success in work, piles up, one tends to have less and less leisure; But these were carefree years still, filled with a good deal of work, yes, but not as yet all-absorbing. I wrote detective stories, Max wrote archaeological books, reports and articles. We were busy but we were not under intense strain.

Since it was difficult for Max to get down to Devonshire as much as he wanted to, we spent Rosalind's holidays there, but lived most of the time in London, moving to one or other of my houses, trying to decide which one we liked the best. Carlo and Mary had searched for a suitable house while we were out in Syria one year, and had a listful for me. They said I must certainly go and look at No. 48 Sheffield Terrace. When I saw it I wanted to live there as badly as I had ever wanted to live in any house. It was perfect, except perhaps for the fact that it had a bas.e.m.e.nt. It had not many rooms, but they were all big and well-proportioned. It was just what we needed. As one went in there was a large dining-room on the right. On the left was the drawing-room. On the half-landing there was a bathroom and lavatory, and on the first floor, to the right, over the dining-room, the same-sized room for Max's libraryplenty of s.p.a.ce for large tables to take the papers and bits of pottery. On the left, over the drawing-room, was a large double bedroom for us. On the floor above were two more big rooms and a small room between them. The small room was to be Rosalind's; the big room over Max's study was to be a double spare-room when we wanted it; and the left-hand room, I declared, I was going to have for my my own workroom and sitting-room. Everybody was surprised at this, since I had never thought of having such a thing before, but they all agreed that it was quite time for poor old Missus to have a room of her own. own workroom and sitting-room. Everybody was surprised at this, since I had never thought of having such a thing before, but they all agreed that it was quite time for poor old Missus to have a room of her own.

I wanted somewhere where I would not be disturbed. There would not be a telephone in the room. I was going to have a grand piano; large, firm table; a comfortable sofa or divan; a hard upright chair for typing; and one armchair to recline in, and there was to be nothing else. I nothing else. I bought myself a Steinway grand, and I enjoyed 'my room' enormously. n.o.body was allowed to use the Hoover on that floor while I was in the house, and short of the house being on fire, I was not to be approached. For once, I had a place of my own, and I continued to enjoy it for the five or six years until the house was bombed in the war. I don't know why I never had anything of the kind again. I suppose I got used to using the dining-room table or the corner of the washstand once more. bought myself a Steinway grand, and I enjoyed 'my room' enormously. n.o.body was allowed to use the Hoover on that floor while I was in the house, and short of the house being on fire, I was not to be approached. For once, I had a place of my own, and I continued to enjoy it for the five or six years until the house was bombed in the war. I don't know why I never had anything of the kind again. I suppose I got used to using the dining-room table or the corner of the washstand once more.

48 Sheffield Terrace was a happy house; I felt it the moment I came into it. I think if one has been brought up with large rooms, such as we had at Ashfield, one misses that feeling of s.p.a.ce very much. I had lived in several charming small housesboth the Campden Street houses and the little Mews housebut they were never quite right. It is not a question of grandeur; you can have a very smart, tiny flat, or you can rent a large, shabby, country vicarage, rapidly falling to pieces, for much less money. It is the feeling of s.p.a.ce round youof being able to deploy yourself.

Indeed, if you have any cleaning to do yourself it is much easier to clean a large room than to get round all the corners and bits of furniture in a small room, where one's behind is always getting terribly in the way.

Max indulged himself by personally superintending the building of a new chimney in his library. He had dealt with so many fire-places and chimneys in burnt-brick in the Middle East that he rather fancied himself at the job. The builder looked doubtfully at the plans. You never can tell with chimneys or flues, he said, according to all the rules they ought to go right, but they didn't.

'And this one of yours here isn't going to go right, I can tell you that,' he said to Max.

'You build it exactly as I say,' said Max, 'and you'll see.'

Much to Mr Withers' sorrow, he did see. Max's chimney never smoked once. It had a great a.s.syrian brick with cuneiform writing on it inset over the mantelpiece, and the room was therefore clearly labelled as an archaeologist's private den.

Only one thing disturbed me after moving in to Sheffield Terrace, and that was a pervasive smell in our bedroom. Max couldn't smell it and Bessie thought I was imagining things, but I said firmly that I wasn't: I smelt gas. There was no gas in the house, Max pointed out. There was no gas laid on.

'I can't help it,' I said, 'I smell gas.'

I had the builders in, and the gas-men, and they all lay down on their stomachs and sniffed under the bed and told me I was imagining it.

'Of course, what it may turn out to be, if there is anythingthough I can't smell it, lady,' said the gas-man, 'is a dead mouse, or maybe it's a dead rat. I don't think it's a rat, though, because I'd I'd smell if it werebut it might be a mouse. A very smell if it werebut it might be a mouse. A very small small mouse.' mouse.'

'It might, I suppose,' I said. 'If so, it is a very dead dead small mouse, at any rate.' small mouse, at any rate.'

'We'll have the boards up.'

So they had the boards up, but they couldn't find any dead mouse, large or small. Yet, whether gas or dead mouse, something something continued to smell. continued to smell.

I went on sending for builders, gas people, plumbers, and everybody I could think of. They looked at me with loathing in the end. Everyone got fed up with meMax, Rosalind, Carlothey all said it was 'Mother's imagination'. But Mother knew gas when she smelt it, and she continued to say so. Finally, after I had driven everyone nearly insane, I was vindicated. There was an obsolete gas pipe under the floor of my bedroom, and gas was continuing to escape from it. Whose meter it was being charged on, n.o.body knewthere was no gas meter in our housebut there was a disused gas pipe still connected and gas was quietly seeping away. I was so conceited about having been proved right on this point that I was unbearable to live with for some timeand more than ever, I may say, confident in the prowess of my nose.

Before the acquisition of Sheffield Terrace, Max and I had bought a house in the country. We wanted a small house or cottage, because travelling to and from Ashfield for weekends was impracticable. If we could have a country cottage not too far from London, it would make all the difference.

Max's two favourite parts of England were near Stockbridge, where he had stayed as a boy, or else near Oxford. His time at Oxford had been one of the happiest times of his life. He knew all the country round there, and he loved the Thames. So we also went up and down the Thames in our search. We looked at Goring, Wallingford, Pangbourne. Houses were difficult on the Thames, because they were either hideous late Victorian or else the kind of cottage that was completely submerged during the winter.

In the end I saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt in The Times. The Times. It was about a week before we were going abroad to Syria one autumn. It was about a week before we were going abroad to Syria one autumn.

'Look, Max,' I said. 'There's a house advertised in Wallingford. You know how much we liked Wallingford? Now, if this should be one of those houses on the river. There was nothing to let when we were there.' We rang up the agent, and dashed down.

It was a delightful, small, Queen Anne house, rather close to the road, but behind it was a garden with a walled kitchen sectionbigger than we wantedand below that again what Max has always thought of as ideal: meadows sweeping right down to the river. It was a pretty bit of river, about a mile out of Wallingford. The house had five bedrooms, three sitting-rooms, and a remarkably nice kitchen. Looking out of the drawing-room window, through the pouring rain, we saw a particularly fine cedar tree, a cedar of Lebanon. It was actually in the field, but the field came right up to a ha-ha near the house, and I thought to myself that we would have a lawn beyond the ha-ha, and would push the meadows further down, so that the cedar tree would be in the middle of the lawn, and on hot days in summer we could have tea under it.

We hadn't much time to dilly-dally. The house was remarkably cheap, for sale freehold, and we made up our minds then and there. We rang up the agent, signed things, spoke to lawyers and surveyors, and, subject to the usual surveyor's approval, bought the house.

Unfortunately we were not able to see it again for about nine months. We left for Syria, and spent the whole time there wondering whether we had been terribly foolish. We had meant to buy a tiny cottage, instead we had bought this Queen Anne house with gracious windows and good proportions. But Wallingford was a nice place. It had a poor railway service, and was therefore not at all the sort of place people came to, either from Oxford or from London. 'I think,' said Max, 'we are going to be very happy there.'

And sure enough we have been very happy there, for nearly thirty-five years now, I suppose. Max's library has been enlarged to twice its length, and he looks right down the length of it to the river. Winterbrook House, Wallingford, is Max's house, and always has been. Ashfield was my house, and I think Rosalind's.

So our lives went on. Max with his archaeological work and his enthusiasm for it, and I with my writing, which was now becoming more professional and therefore a great deal less enthusiastic.

It had been exciting, to begin with, to be writing bookspartly because, as I did not feel I was a real author, it was each time astonishing that I should be able to write books that were actually published. published. Now I wrote books as a matter of course. It was my business to do so. People would not only publish themthey would urge me to get on with writing them. But the eternal longing to do something that is not my proper job, was sure to unsettle me; in fact it would be a dull life if it didn't. Now I wrote books as a matter of course. It was my business to do so. People would not only publish themthey would urge me to get on with writing them. But the eternal longing to do something that is not my proper job, was sure to unsettle me; in fact it would be a dull life if it didn't.

What I wanted to do now was to write something other than a detective story. So, with a rather guilty feeling, I enjoyed myself writing a straight novel called Giant's Bread. Giant's Bread. It was mainly about music, and betrayed here and there that I knew little about the subject from the technical point of view. It was well reviewed and sold reasonably for what was thought to be a 'first novel'. I used the name of Mary Westmacott, and n.o.body knew that it was written by me. I managed to keep that fact a secret for fifteen years. It was mainly about music, and betrayed here and there that I knew little about the subject from the technical point of view. It was well reviewed and sold reasonably for what was thought to be a 'first novel'. I used the name of Mary Westmacott, and n.o.body knew that it was written by me. I managed to keep that fact a secret for fifteen years.

I wrote another book under the same pseudonym a year or two later, called Unfinished Portrait. Unfinished Portrait. Only one person guessed my secret: Nan Wattsnow Nan Kon. Nan had a very retentive memory, and some phrase I had used about some children, and a poem in the first book, attracted her attention. Immediately she said to herself, 'Agatha wrote that, I am certain of it.' Only one person guessed my secret: Nan Wattsnow Nan Kon. Nan had a very retentive memory, and some phrase I had used about some children, and a poem in the first book, attracted her attention. Immediately she said to herself, 'Agatha wrote that, I am certain of it.'

One day she nudged me in the ribs and said in a slightly affected voice: 'I read a book I liked very much the other day; now let me seewhat was it? Dwarf's Blood Dwarf's Bloodthat's itDwarf's Blood!' Then she winked at me in the most wicked manner. When I got her home, I said: 'Nowhow did you guess about Then she winked at me in the most wicked manner. When I got her home, I said: 'Nowhow did you guess about Giant's Bread? Giant's Bread?'

'Of course I knew it was youI know the way you talk,' said Nan.

I wrote songs from time to time, mostly balladsbut I had no idea that I was going to have the stupendous luck to step straight into an entirely different department of writing, and to do it, too, at an age when fresh adventures are not so easily undertaken.

I think what started me off was annoyance over people adapting my books for the stage in a way I disliked. Although I had written the play Black Coffee, Black Coffee, I had never thought seriously of play-writingI had enjoyed writing I had never thought seriously of play-writingI had enjoyed writing Akhnaton, Akhnaton, but had never believed that it would ever be produced. It suddenly occurred to me that if I didn't like the way other people had adapted my books, I should have a shot at adapting them but had never believed that it would ever be produced. It suddenly occurred to me that if I didn't like the way other people had adapted my books, I should have a shot at adapting them myself myself It seemed to me that the adaptations of my books to the stage failed mainly because they stuck far too closely to the original book. A detective story is particularly unlike a play, and so is far more difficult to adapt than an ordinary book. It has such an intricate plot, and usually so It seemed to me that the adaptations of my books to the stage failed mainly because they stuck far too closely to the original book. A detective story is particularly unlike a play, and so is far more difficult to adapt than an ordinary book. It has such an intricate plot, and usually so many many characters and false clues, that the thing is bound to become confusing and overladen. What was wanted was characters and false clues, that the thing is bound to become confusing and overladen. What was wanted was simplification. simplification.

I had written the book Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs because it was so difficult to do that the idea had fascinated me. Ten people had to die without it becoming ridiculous or the murderer being obvious. I wrote the book after a tremendous amount of planning, and I was pleased with what I had made of it. It was clear, straightforward, baffling, and yet had a perfectly reasonable explanation; in fact it had to have an epilogue in order to explain it. It was well received and reviewed, but the person who was really pleased with it was myself, for I knew better than any critic how difficult it had been. because it was so difficult to do that the idea had fascinated me. Ten people had to die without it becoming ridiculous or the murderer being obvious. I wrote the book after a tremendous amount of planning, and I was pleased with what I had made of it. It was clear, straightforward, baffling, and yet had a perfectly reasonable explanation; in fact it had to have an epilogue in order to explain it. It was well received and reviewed, but the person who was really pleased with it was myself, for I knew better than any critic how difficult it had been.

Presently I went one step farther. I thought to myself it would be exciting to see if I could make it into a play. At first sight that seemed impossible, because no one would be left to tell the tale, so I would have to alter it to a certain extent. It seemed to me that I could make a perfectly good play of it by one modification of the original story. I must make two of the characters innocent, to be reunited at the end and come safe out of the ordeal. This would not be contrary to the spirit of the original nursery rhyme, since there is one version of 'Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.r Boys' which ends: 'He got married and then there were none'. 'He got married and then there were none'.

I wrote the play. It did not get much encouragement. 'Impossible to produce' was the verdict. Charles Cochran, however, took an enormous fancy to it. He did his utmost to get it produced, but unfortunately could not persuade his backers to agree with him. They said all the usual thingsthat it was unproduceable and unplayable, people would only laugh at it, there would be no tension. Cochran said firmly that he disagreed with thembut there it was.

'I hope you have better luck some time with it,' he said, 'because I would like to see that play on.'

In due course I got my chance. The person who was keen on it was Bertie Mayer, who had originally put on Alibi Alibi with Charles Laughton. Irene Hensch.e.l.l produced the play, and did so remarkably well, I thought. I was interested to see her methods of production, because they were so different from Gerald Du Maurier's. To begin with, she appeared to my inexperienced eye to be fumbling, as though unsure of herself, but as I saw her technique develop I realised how sound it was. At first she, as it were, with Charles Laughton. Irene Hensch.e.l.l produced the play, and did so remarkably well, I thought. I was interested to see her methods of production, because they were so different from Gerald Du Maurier's. To begin with, she appeared to my inexperienced eye to be fumbling, as though unsure of herself, but as I saw her technique develop I realised how sound it was. At first she, as it were, felt felt her way about the stage, her way about the stage, seeing seeing the thing, not hearing it; seeing the movements and the lighting, how the whole thing would the thing, not hearing it; seeing the movements and the lighting, how the whole thing would look. look. Then, almost as an afterthought, she concentrated on the actual script. It was effective, and very impressive. The tension built up well, and her lighting, with three baby spots, of one scene when they are all sitting with candles burning as the lights have failed, worked wonderfully well. Then, almost as an afterthought, she concentrated on the actual script. It was effective, and very impressive. The tension built up well, and her lighting, with three baby spots, of one scene when they are all sitting with candles burning as the lights have failed, worked wonderfully well.

With the play play also well acted, you could feel the tension growing up, the fear and distrust that rises between one person and another; and the deaths were so contrived that never, when I have seen it, has there been any suggestion of laughter or of the whole thing being too ridiculously thrillerish. I don't say it is the play or book of mine I like best, or even that I think it is my best, but I do think in some ways that it is a better piece of also well acted, you could feel the tension growing up, the fear and distrust that rises between one person and another; and the deaths were so contrived that never, when I have seen it, has there been any suggestion of laughter or of the whole thing being too ridiculously thrillerish. I don't say it is the play or book of mine I like best, or even that I think it is my best, but I do think in some ways that it is a better piece of craftsmanship craftsmanship than anything else I have written. I suppose it was than anything else I have written. I suppose it was Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs that set me on the path of being a playwright as well as a writer of books. It was then I decided that in future no one was going to adapt my books except myself: I would choose what books should be adapted, and only those books that were suitable for adapting. that set me on the path of being a playwright as well as a writer of books. It was then I decided that in future no one was going to adapt my books except myself: I would choose what books should be adapted, and only those books that were suitable for adapting.

The next one that I tried my hand on, though several years later, was The Hollow. The Hollow. It came to me suddenly one day that It came to me suddenly one day that The Hollow The Hollow would make a good play. I said so to Rosalind, who has had the valuable role in life of eternally trying to discourage me without success. would make a good play. I said so to Rosalind, who has had the valuable role in life of eternally trying to discourage me without success.

'Making a play play of of The Hollow, The Hollow, Mother!' said Rosalind in horror. 'It's a good book, and I like it, but you can't Mother!' said Rosalind in horror. 'It's a good book, and I like it, but you can't possibly possibly make it into a play.' 'Yes, I can,' I said, stimulated by opposition. make it into a play.' 'Yes, I can,' I said, stimulated by opposition.

'Oh, I wish you wouldn't,' said Rosalind, sighing.

Anyway, I enjoyed myself scribbling down ideas for The Hollow. The Hollow. It was, of course, in some ways rather more of a novel than a detective story. It was, of course, in some ways rather more of a novel than a detective story. The Hollow The Hollow was a book I always thought I had ruined by the introduction of Poirot. I had got used to having Poirot in my books, and so naturally he had come into this one, but he was all wrong there. He did his stuff all right, but how much better, I kept thinking, would the book have been without him. So when I came to sketch out the play, out went Poirot. was a book I always thought I had ruined by the introduction of Poirot. I had got used to having Poirot in my books, and so naturally he had come into this one, but he was all wrong there. He did his stuff all right, but how much better, I kept thinking, would the book have been without him. So when I came to sketch out the play, out went Poirot.

The Hollow got written, in spite of opposition from others beside Rosalind. Peter Saunders, who has produced so many of my plays since then, was the man who liked it. got written, in spite of opposition from others beside Rosalind. Peter Saunders, who has produced so many of my plays since then, was the man who liked it.

When The Hollow The Hollow proved a success, I had the bit between my teeth. Of course I knew that writing books was my steady, solid profession. I could go on inventing my plots and writing my books until I went gaga. I never felt any desperation as to whether I could think of one more book to write. proved a success, I had the bit between my teeth. Of course I knew that writing books was my steady, solid profession. I could go on inventing my plots and writing my books until I went gaga. I never felt any desperation as to whether I could think of one more book to write.

There is always, of course, that terrible three weeks, or a month, which you have to get through when you are trying to get started on a book. There is no agony like it. You sit in a room, biting pencils, looking at a typewriter, walking about, or casting yourself down on a sofa, feeling you want to cry your head off. Then you go out, you interrupt someone someone who is busyMax usually, because he is so good-naturedand you say: 'It's awful, Max, do you know I have quite forgotten how to writeI simply can't who is busyMax usually, because he is so good-naturedand you say: 'It's awful, Max, do you know I have quite forgotten how to writeI simply can't do do it any more! I shall never write another book.' it any more! I shall never write another book.'

'Oh yes, you will,' Max would say consolingly. He used to say it with some anxiety at first; now his eyes stray back again to his work while he talks soothingly.

'But I know I won't. I can't think of an idea. I had an idea, but now it seems no good.'

'You'll just have to get through this phase. You've had all this before. You said it last year. You said it the year before.'

'It's different this time,' I say, with positive a.s.surance.

But it wasn't different, of course, it was just the same. You forget every time what you felt before when it comes again. Such misery and despair, such inability to do anything that will be in the least creative. And yet it seems that this particular phase of misery has got to be lived through. It is rather like putting the ferrets in to bring out what you want at the end of the rabbit burrow. Until there has been a lot of subterranean disturbance, until you have spent long hours of utter boredomyou can never feel normal. You can't think of what you want to write, and if you pick up a book you find you are not reading it properly. If you try to do a crossword your mind isn't on the clues; you are possessed by a feeling of paralyzed hopelessness.

Then, for some unknown reason, an inner 'starter' gets you off at the post. You begin to function, you know then that 'it' is coming, the mist is clearing up. You know suddenly, with absolute cert.i.tude, just just what A wants to say to B. You can walk out of the house, down the road, talking to yourself violently, repeating the conversation that Maud, say, is going to have with Aylwin, and exactly where they will be, just where the other man will be watching them from the trees, and how the little dead pheasant on the ground makes Maud think of something that she had forgotten, and so on and so on. And you come home bursting with pleasure; you haven't done anything at all yet, but you aretriumphantly what A wants to say to B. You can walk out of the house, down the road, talking to yourself violently, repeating the conversation that Maud, say, is going to have with Aylwin, and exactly where they will be, just where the other man will be watching them from the trees, and how the little dead pheasant on the ground makes Maud think of something that she had forgotten, and so on and so on. And you come home bursting with pleasure; you haven't done anything at all yet, but you aretriumphantlythere.

At that moment writing plays seemed to me entrancing, simply because it wasn't my job, because I hadn't got the feeling that I had I had to think of a playI only had to write the play that I was already thinking of. Plays are much easier to to think of a playI only had to write the play that I was already thinking of. Plays are much easier to write write than books, because you can than books, because you can see see them in your mind's eye, you are not hampered with all that description which clogs you so terribly in a book and stops you getting on with what's happening. The circ.u.mscribed limits of the stage simplifies things for you. You don't have to follow the heroine up and down the stairs, or out to the tennis lawn and back, thinking thoughts that have to be described. You have only what can be seen and heard and done to deal with. Looking and listening and feeling is what you have to deal with. them in your mind's eye, you are not hampered with all that description which clogs you so terribly in a book and stops you getting on with what's happening. The circ.u.mscribed limits of the stage simplifies things for you. You don't have to follow the heroine up and down the stairs, or out to the tennis lawn and back, thinking thoughts that have to be described. You have only what can be seen and heard and done to deal with. Looking and listening and feeling is what you have to deal with.

I should always write my one book a yearI was sure of that. Dramatic writing would be my adventurethat would always be, and always must be hit and miss. You can have play after play a success, and then, for no reason, a series of flops. Why? n.o.body really knows. I've seen it happen with many playwrights. I have seen a play which to my mind was just as good or better than one of their successes failbecause it did not catch the fancy of the public; or because it was written at the wrong time; or because the cast made such a difference to it. Yes, play-writing was not a thing I could be sure of. It was a glorious gamble every time, and I liked it that way.

I knew after I had written The Hollow The Hollow that before long I should want to write another play, and if possible, I thought to myself, I was going to write a play that was not adapted from a book. I was going to write a play as a play. that before long I should want to write another play, and if possible, I thought to myself, I was going to write a play that was not adapted from a book. I was going to write a play as a play.

Caledonia had been a great success for Rosalind. It was, I think, one of the most remarkable schools that I have known. All its teachers seemed the best of their kind. They certainly brought out the best in Rosalind. She was the head of the school at the end, though, as she pointed out to me, this was unfair, because there was a Chinese girl there who was much cleverer than she was. 'And I know what they thinkthey think it ought to be an English girl who is head of the school.' I expect she was right too.

From Caledonia Rosalind went to Benenden. She was bored by it from the start. I don't know whyit was by all accounts a very good school. She was not interested in learning for its own sakethere was nothing of the scholar about her. She cared least of all for the subjects I would have been interested in, such as history, but she was good at mathematics. When I was in Syria I used to get letters from her urging me to let her leave Benenden. 'I really can't stick another year of this place,' she wrote. However, I felt that having embarked on a school career she must at least terminate it in the proper way, so I wrote back to her and said that, once she had pa.s.sed her School Certificateshe could leave Benenden and proceed to some other form of education.

Miss Sheldon, Rosalind's headmistress, had written to me and said that, though Rosalind was anxious to take her School Certificate next term, she did not think she would have any chance of pa.s.sing it, but that there was no reason why she should not try. Miss Sheldon was proved wrong, however, because Rosalind pa.s.sed her School Certificate with ease. I had to think up a next step for a daughter of barely fifteen.

Going abroad was what we both agreed on. Max and I went on what I found an intensely worrying mission to inspect various scholastic establishments: a family in Paris, a few carefully nurtured girls in Evian, at least three highly recommended educators in Lausanne, and an establishment in Gstaad, where the girls would get skiing and other winter sports. I was bad at interviewing people. The moment I sat down I became tongue-tied. What I felt felt was: 'Shall I send my daughter to you or not? was: 'Shall I send my daughter to you or not?

How can I find out what you are really like? like? How on earth can I find out if How on earth can I find out if she she would like being with would like being with you? you? And anyway, what's it all about?' Instead, I used to stammer and say 'erer'and ask what I could hear were thoroughly idiotic questions. And anyway, what's it all about?' Instead, I used to stammer and say 'erer'and ask what I could hear were thoroughly idiotic questions.

After much family consultation, we decided on Mademoiselle Tschumi's Pension at Gstaad. It proved a fiasco. I seemed to get letters from Rosalind twice a week; 'This place is awful, Mother, absolutely awful. awful. The girls hereyou've no idea what they are like! They wear The girls hereyou've no idea what they are like! They wear snoods snoodsthat will show you?'

It didn't didn't show me. I didn't see why girls shouldn't wear snoods, and I didn't know what snoods were anyway. show me. I didn't see why girls shouldn't wear snoods, and I didn't know what snoods were anyway.

'We walk about two by twotwo by twofancy! At our our age! And we're never even allowed in the village for a second to buy anything at a shop. It's awful! Absolute imprisonment! They don't teach us anything either. And as for those bathrooms you talk about, it's an absolute swizzle! They're never used. None of us has ever had a bath age! And we're never even allowed in the village for a second to buy anything at a shop. It's awful! Absolute imprisonment! They don't teach us anything either. And as for those bathrooms you talk about, it's an absolute swizzle! They're never used. None of us has ever had a bath once! once! There isn't even any hot water laid on yet! And for skiing, of course, it's far too far down. There may be a bit in February, but I don't believe they will ever take us there even then.' There isn't even any hot water laid on yet! And for skiing, of course, it's far too far down. There may be a bit in February, but I don't believe they will ever take us there even then.'

We rescued Rosalind from her durance and sent her first to a pension at Chateau d'Oex and then to a pleasantly old-fashioned family in Paris. On our way back from Syria we picked her up in Paris, and said we hoped she now spoke French. 'More or less,' said Rosalind, careful not to allow us to hear her speak a word. Then it occurred to her that the taxi-driver taking us from the Gare de Lyon to Madame Laurent's house was following an unnecessarily devious route. Rosalind flung down the window, stuck out her head, and addressed him in vivid and idiomatic French, asking him why on earth he thought he was taking those particular streets and telling him what streets he ought to take. He was vanquished at once, and I was delighted to find out what otherwise I might have had some difficulty in establishing: that Rosalind could speak French. that Rosalind could speak French.

Madame Laurent and I had amicable conversations. She a.s.sured me that Rosalind had comported herself extremely well, had behaved always tres comme it faut tres comme it fautbut, she said, 'Madame, elle est d'une froideurmais d'une froideur excessive! C'est peut-etre le phlegme brittanique.' elle est d'une froideurmais d'une froideur excessive! C'est peut-etre le phlegme brittanique.'

I said hurriedly that I was quite sure that it was le phlegme britannique. le phlegme britannique. Again Madame Laurent a.s.sured me that she had tried to be like a mother to Rosalind. Again Madame Laurent a.s.sured me that she had tried to be like a mother to Rosalind. 'Mais cette froideurcette froideur anglaise! 'Mais cette froideurcette froideur anglaise!'

Madame Laurent sighed with the memory of the rejection of her demonstrative heart.

Rosalind still had six months, or possibly a year, of education to put in. She pa.s.sed it with a family near Munich learning German. Next came a London season.

At this she was a decided success, was called one of the best looking debutantes of her year, and had plenty of fun. I think, myself, that it did her a great deal of good, and gave her self-confidence and nice manners. It also cured her of any mad wish to continue the social racket indefinitely. She said she had enjoyed the experience, but had no intention of doing any more of that silly kind of thing.

I raised the subject of a job with Rosalind and her great friend, Susan North.

'You've got to choose something to do,' I said to Rosalind dictatorially. 'I don't care what it is. Why don't you train as a ma.s.seuse? ma.s.seuse? That would be useful later in life. Or I suppose you could go and arrange flowers.' That would be useful later in life. Or I suppose you could go and arrange flowers.'

'Oh, everybody is doing that,' said Susan.

Finally, the girls came to me and said they thought they would like to take up photography. I was overjoyed; I had been wishing to study photography myself. I had been doing most of the photography on the dig, and I thought it would be useful for me to have some lessons in studio photography, about which I knew little. So many of our objects had to be photographed in the open, and not in studio conditions, and since some of them would remain in Syria it was important that we should have the best photographs of them possible. I enlarged enthusiastically on the subject and the girls went into fits of laughter.