IV
This time I travelled by Lloyd Triestino boat to Beirut, spent a few days there, then once more took the Nairn Transport across the desert. It was somewhat rough along the coast from Alexandretta, and I had not been feeling too well. I had also noticed another woman on the boat. Sybil Burnett, the woman in question, told me afterwards that she had not been feeling too good in the swell either. She had looked at me and thought: a€?That is one of the most unpleasant women I have ever seen.a€At the same time I had been thinking the same about her. I had said to myself, a€?I dona€?t like that woman. I dona€?t like the hat she is wearing, and I dona€?t like her mushroom-coloured stockings.a€?
On this mutual tide of dislike we proceeded to cross the desert together. Almost at once we became friendsa€“and were to remain friends for many years. Sybil, usually called a€?Bauffa€Burnett, was the wife of Sir Charles Burnett, at that time Air Vice-Marshal, and was going out to join her husband. She was a woman of great originality, who said exactly what came into her head, loved travelling and foreign places, had a beautiful house in Algiers, four daughters and two sons by a previous marriage, and an inexhaustible enjoyment of life. With us there was a party of Anglo-Catholic ladies who were being shepherded out to Iraq to make tours of various Biblical places. In charge of them was an excessively fierce-looking woman, a Miss Wilbraham. She had large feet, encased in flat black shoes, and wore an enormous topee. Sybil Burnett said that she looked exactly like a beetle, and I agreed. She was the kind of woman that one cannot help wanting to contradict. Sybil Burnett contradicted her at once.
a€?Forty women I have with me,a€said Miss Wilbraham, a€?and I really must congratulate myself. Every one of them is a sahib except one. So important, dona€?t you agree?a€?
a€?No,a€said Sybil Burnett. a€?I think to have them all sahibs is very dull. You want a good many of the other kind.a€Miss Wilbraham paid no attentiona€“that was her strong point: she never paid attention. a€?Yes,a€she said, a€?I really do congratulate myself.a€Bauff and I then put our heads together to see if we could spot the one black sheep who did not pass the test and was labelled for the trip as not being a sahib.
With Miss Wilbraham was her second-in-command and friend, Miss Amy Ferguson. Miss Ferguson was devoted to all Anglo-Catholic causes, and even more so to Miss Wilbraham, whom she regarded as a super-woman. The only thing that upset her was her own incapacity to live up to Miss Wilbraham. a€?The trouble is,a€she confided, a€?Maude is so splendidly strong. Of course, my health is good, but I must confess I do get tired sometimes. Yet Ia€?m only sixty-five, and Maude is nearly seventy.a€?
a€?A very good creature,a€said Miss Wilbraham of Amy. a€?Most able, most devoted. Unfortunately she is continually feeling fatigueda€“most annoying. She cana€?t help it, I suppose, poor thing, but there it is. Now I,a€said Miss Wilbraham, a€?never feel fatigue.a€We felt quite sure of it. We arrived in Baghdad. I met several old friends, and enjoyed myself there for four or five days, then, on receipt of a telegram from the Woolleys, went down to Ur. I had seen the Woolleys in London the preceding June, when they were home, and indeed had lent them the little mews house which I had recently bought, in Cresswell Place. It was a delightful house, or so I thoughta€“one of four or five houses in the mews which had been built like cottages: old-fashioned country cottages. When I bought it it had stables still, with the loose-boxes and mangers all round the wall, a big harness-room also on the ground floor, and a little bedroom squeezed between them. A ladder-like stair lead to two rooms above, with a sketchy bathroom and another tiny room next to that. With the help of a biddable builder it had been transformed. The big stable downstairs had had the loose-boxes and the wood-work arranged flat against the wall, and above that I had a big frieze of a kind of wallpaper which happened to be in fashion at that moment, of a herbaceous border, so that to enter the room was like walking into a small cottage garden. The harness-room was turned into the garage and the room between the two was a maida€?s room. Upstairs the bathroom was made splendid with green dolphins prancing round the walls and a green porcelain bath; and the bigger bedroom was turned into a dining-room, with a divan that turned into a bed at night. The very small room was a kitchen, and the other room a second bedroom. It was while the Woolleys were installed in this house that they had made a lovely plan for me. I was to come to Ur about a week before the end of the season, when they were packing up, and after that I would travel back with them, through Syria, on to Greece, and in Greece go to Delphi with them. I was very happy at this prospect. I arrived at Ur in the middle of a sandstorm. I had endured a sandstorm when visiting there before, but this was far worse and went on for four or five days. I had never known that sand could permeate to the extent it did. Although the windows were shut, and mosquito-wired as well, onea€?s bed at night was full of sand. You shook it all out on the floor, got in, and in the morning there was more sand weighing down on your face, your neck, and everywhere else. It was five days of near torture. However, we had interesting talks, everyone was friendly, and I enjoyed my time there enormously. Father Burrows was there again, and Whitburn, the architecta€“and this time there was Leonard Woolleya€?s assistant, Max Mallowan, who had been with him for five years, but who had been absent the previous year when I came down. He was a thin, dark, young man, and very quieta€“he seldom spoke, but was perceptive to everything that was required of him. I noticed this time something I had not taken in before: the extraordinary silence of everyone at table. It was as though they were afraid to speak. After a day or two I began to find out why. Katharine Woolley was a temperamental woman, and she had a great facility either for putting people at their ease or for making them nervous. I noticed that she was extremely well waited on: there was always someone to offer her more milk with her coffee or butter for her toast, to pass the marmalade, and so on. Why I wondered, were they all so scared of herOne morning when she was in a bad mood I began to discover a little more.
a€?I suppose no one is ever going to offer me the salt,a€she said. Immediately four willing hands shoved it across the table, almost upsetting it in the process. A pause ensued, then nervously Mr Whitburn leaned forward and pressed toast upon her.
a€?Dona€?t you see my mouth is full, Mr Whitburn?a€was the only response he got. He sat back, blushing nervously, and everybody ate toast feverishly before offering it to her again. She refused. a€?But I really think,a€she said. a€?that you might occasionally not finish all the toast before Max has had a chance to have a piece.a€I looked at Max. The remaining piece of toast was offered to him. He took it quickly, without protest. Actually he had already had two pieces, and I wondered why he did not say so. That again I was to realise more fully later. Mr Whitburn initiated me into some of these mysteries: a€?You see,a€he said, a€?she always has favourites.a€?
a€?Mrs Woolley?a€?
a€?Yes. They dona€?t stay the same, you know. Sometimes one person, sometimes another. But, I mean, either everything you do is wrong, or everything is right. Ia€?m the one in the doghouse at present.a€It was equally clear that Max Mallowan was the person who did everything right. It may have been because he had been away the preceding season, and so was more of a novelty than the others, but I think myself it was because in the course of five years he had learnt the way to treat the two Woolleys. He knew when to keep quiet; he knew when to speak. I soon realised how good he was at managing people. He managed the workmen well, and, what was far more difficult, he managed Katharine Woolley well. a€?Of course,a€said Katharine to me, a€?Max is the perfect assistant. I dona€?t know what we would have done without him all these years. I think youa€?ll like him very much. I am sending him with you to Nejef and Kerbala. Nejef is the Moslem holy city of the dead, and Kerbala has a wonderful mosque. So when we pack up here and go to Baghdad he will take you there. You can go and see Nippur on the way.a€?
a€?Oh,a€I said, a€?buta€“wona€?t he want to go to Baghdad tooI mean, he will have friends there to see before he goes home.a€I was dismayed at the thought of being sent off with a young man who was probably yearning for freedom and some fun in Baghdad after the strain of a three months season at Ur.
a€?Oh no,a€said Katharine firmly. a€?Max will be delighted.a€?
I didna€?t think Max would be delighted, though I had no doubt that he would conceal the fact. I felt very uncomfortable. I regarded Whitburn as a friend, having seen him the year before, and so I spoke to him about it.
a€?Dona€?t you think ita€?s rather high-handedI hate to do that sort of thing. Do you think I could say I didna€?t want to see Nejef and Kerbala?a€?
a€?Well, I think you ought to see them,a€said Whitburn. a€?It will be quite all right. Max wona€?t mind. And anyway, I mean, if Katharine has made up her mind, then thata€?s settled, you see.a€I saw, and an enormous admiration spread over me. How wonderful to be the sort of woman who, as soon as she had made up her mind, had everybody within sight immediately falling in with it, not grudgingly, but as a matter of course. Many months later, I remember speaking to Katharine with some admiration of her husband Len. a€?Ita€?s wonderful,a€I said, a€?how unselfish he is. The way he gets up on the boat at night and goes off and makes you Bengera€?s or hot soup. There arena€?t many husbands who would do that.a€?
a€?Really?a€said Katharine, looking surprised. a€?Oh, but Len thinks ita€?s a privilege.a€And he did think it was a privilege. In fact, everything that one did for Katharine felt, at any rate for the moment, like a privilege. Of course, when you got home and realised you had parted with the two library books you had just fetched and were looking forward to reading, profering them to her eagerly because she sighed and said she had nothing to read, and not even grudging the fact until later, you realised what a remarkable woman she was. Only exceptional people did not fall under her sway. One was, I remember, Freya Stark. Katharine was ill one day and wanted a lot of things fetched and done for her. Freya Stark, who was staying with her, was firm, cheerful and friendly: a€?I can see you are not awfully well, dear, but I am absolutely no good with illness, so the best thing I can do for you is to go out for the day.a€And go out for the day she did. Strangely enough, Katharine did not resent this; she merely thought it a splendid example of what force of character Freya had. And it certainly did show that. To get back to Max, everybody seemed to agree it was perfectly natural that a young man, who had worked hard on an arduous dig and was about to be released for rest and a good time, should sacrifice himself and drive off into the blue to show a strange woman a good many years older than him, who knew little about archaeology, the sights of the country. Max seemed to take it as a matter of course. He was a grave-looking young man, and I felt slightly nervous of him. I worried whether I should offer some apology. I did essay some kind of stumbling phrase to the effect that I had not myself suggested this tour, but Max was calm about it all. He said he had nothing particular to do. He was going back home by degrees, first travelling with the Woolleys, and then, since he had already been to Delphi, dividing from them and going up to see the Temple of Bassae and other places in Greece. He himself would quite enjoy going to Nippur. It was a most interesting site, where he always enjoyed goinga€“and also Nejef and Kerbala, which were well worth seeing. So the day came when we started off. I enjoyed the day at Nippur very much, though it was extremely exhausting. We motored for hours over rough ground, and walked round what seemed acres of excavations. I dona€?t suppose I would have found it very interesting had I not had someone with me to explain it all. As it was I became more enamoured of digging than ever. Finally, at about seven oa€?clock at night, we came to Diwaniya, where we were to stay the night with the Ditchburns. I was reeling on my feet with the desire to sleep, but somehow or other managed to comb the sand out of my hair, wash it off my face, apply a little restorative powder, and struggle into some kind of evening dress. Mrs Ditchburn loved entertaining guests. She was a great talkera€“indeed never stopped talking, in a bright and cheerful voice. I was introduced to her husband, and placed next to him. He seemed to be a quiet man, which was perhaps to be expected, and for a long time sat in lowering silence. I made a few rather inane remarks about my sightseeing, to which he did not respond. On the other side of me was an American missionary. He too was very taciturn. When I looked sideways at him, I noticed that his hands were twisting and turning beneath the table, and that he was slowly tearing a handkerchief to shreds. I found that rather alarming, and wondered what occasioned it. His wife sat across the table, and she too seemed in a highly nervous condition. It was a curious evening. Mrs Ditchburn was in full social flight, chatting with her neighbours, talking to me and to Max. Max was responding reasonably well. The two missionaries, husband and wife, remained tongue-tied, the wife watching her husband desperately, and he still tearing his handkerchief to smaller and smaller shreds. In a dazed dream of half-sleep, ideas of a superb detective story came into my head. A missionary slowly going mad with the strain. The strain of whatThe strain of something, at any rate. And wherever he has been, torn-up handkerchiefs, reduced to shreds, provide clues. Clues, handkerchiefs, shredsa€“the room reeled around me, as I nearly slipped off my chair with sleep. At this moment a harsh voice spoke in my left ear. a€?All archaeologists,a€said Mr Ditchburn with a kind of bitter venom, a€?are liars.a€I woke up and considered him and his statement. He threw it at me in the most challenging manner. I did not feel in the least competent to defend the veracity of archaeologists, so I merely said mildly. a€?Why do you think they are liarsWhat do they tell lies about?a€?
a€?Everything,a€said Mr Ditchburn. a€?Everything. Saying they know the dates of things, and when things happeneda€“that this is 7,000 years old, and the other is 3,000 years old, that this king reigned then, and another king reigned afterwards! Liars! All liars, every one of them!a€?
a€?Surely,a€I said. a€?that cana€?t be so?a€?
a€?Cana€?t it?a€Mr Ditchburn uttered a sardonic laugh and relapsed into silence. I addressed a few more words to my missionary, but I got little more response. Then Mr Ditchburn broke the silence once more, and incidentally revealed a possible clue to his bitterness by saying: a€?As usual, I have had to turn out of my dressing-room for this archaeological chap.a€?
a€?Oh,a€I said uncomfortably, a€?I am so sorry. I didna€?t realise.
a€?It happens every time,a€said Mr Ditchburn. a€?Shea€?s always doing ita€“my wife, I mean. Has to be asking someone or other to put up with us. No, ita€?s not youa€“youa€?ve got one of the regular guest-rooms. Wea€?ve got three of those, but that isna€?t enough for Elsie. No, shea€?s always got to fill up all the rooms there are, and then have my dressing-room as well. How I stand it I dona€?t know.a€I said again I was sorry. I could not have been more uncomfortable, but presently I was once more bending all my energies on keeping awake. I could only just manage it. After dinner I pleaded to be allowed to go to bed. Mrs Ditchburn was much disappointed, because she had had plans for a splendid rubber of bridge, but by this time my eyes were practically closed, and I only just managed to stumble upstairs, throw off my clothes, and fall into bed. We left at five oa€?clock next morning. Travelling in Iraq was my introduction to a somewhat strenuous way of living. We visited Nejef, which was indeed a wonderful place: a real necropolis, a city of the dead, with the dark figures of the black-veiled Muslim women wailing and moving about it. It was a hot-bed of extremists, and it was not always possible to visit it. You had to inform the police first, and they would then be on the lookout to see that no outbreaks of fanaticism occurred. From Nejef we went to Kerbala, where there was a beautiful mosque, with a gold and turquoise dome. It was the first that I had seen close up. We stayed the night there at the police post. A roll of bedding that Katharine had lent me was unfastened on the floor and my bed was made in a small police cell. Max had another police cell, and urged me to invoke his assistance if needed during the night. In the days of my Victorian upbringing I should have thought it most strange that I should awaken a young man whom I hardly knew and ask him to be kind enough to escort me to the lavatory, yet this soon seemed a matter of course. I woke Max, he summoned a policeman, the policeman fetched a lantern, and we three tramped along long corridors and finally arrived at a remarkably evil-smelling room containing a hole in the floor. Max and the policeman waited politely outside the door to light me back to my couch. Dinner was served at the police post on a table outside, with a large moon above us, and the constant monotonous yet musical croaking of frogs. Whenever I hear frogs I think of Kerbala and that evening. The policeman sat down with us. Now and again he said a few words of English rather carefully, but mostly spoke Arabic with Max, who occasionally translated a few words which were addressed to me. After one of the refreshing silences that always form part of Eastern contacts and accord so harmoniously with onea€?s feelings, our companion suddenly broke his silence. a€?Hail to thee, blithe spirit!a€he said. a€?Bird thou never wert.a€I looked at him, startled. He proceeded to finish the poem. a€?I learned that,a€he said, nodding his head. a€?Very good, in English.a€I said it was very good. That seemed to end that part of the conversation. I should never have envisaged myself coming all the way to Iraq so as to have Shelleya€?s a€?Ode to a Skylarka€recited to me by an Iraqi policeman in an Eastern garden at midnight. We breakfasted early the next morning. A gardener, who was picking some roses, advanced with a bouquet. I stood expectantly, ready to smile graciously. Somewhat to my discomposure he passed me without a glance and handed them with a deep bow to Max. Max laughed, and pointed out to me that I was now in the East, where offerings were made to men and not to women. We embarked with our belongings, bedding, stack of fresh bread, and the roses, and started off again. We were going to make a detour on our way back to Baghdad to see the Arab city of Ukhaidir. This lay far out in the desert. The scenery was monotonous, and to pass the time we sang songs, calling upon a repertoire of things we both knew, starting with Fr ere Jacques, and proceeding to various other ballads and ditties. We saw Ukhaidir, wonderful in its isolation, and about an hour or two after we had left it came upon a desert lake of clear, sparkling blue water. It was outrageously hot, and I longed to bathe. a€?Would you really like to?a€said Max. a€?I dona€?t see why you shouldna€?t.a€?
a€?Could I?a€I looked thoughtfully at my roll of bedding and small suit-case. a€?But I havena€?t got any bathing-dressa€“a€?
a€?Havena€?t you got anything that woulda€“wella€“do?a€asked Max delicately. I considered, and in the end, dressed in a pink silk vest and a double pair of knickers. I was ready. The driver, the soul of politeness and delicacy, as indeed all Arabs are, moved away. Max, in shorts and a vest, joined me, and we swam in the blue water. It was heavena€“the world seemed perfecta€“or at least it did until we went to start the car again. It had sunk gently into the sand and refused to move, and I now realised some of the hazards of desert driving. Max and the driver, pulling out steel mats, spades, and various other things from the car, endeavoured to free us, but with no success. Hour succeeded hour. It was still ragingly hot. I lay down in the shelter of the car, or what shelter there was on one side of it, and went to sleep. Max told me afterwards, whether truthfully or not, that it was at that moment he decided that I would make an excellent wife for him. a€?No fuss!a€he said. a€?You didna€?t complain or say that it was my fault, or that we never should have stopped there. You seemed not to care whether we went on or not. Really it was at that moment I began to think you were wonderful.a€Ever since he said that to me I have tried to live up to the reputation I had made for myself. I am fairly good at taking things as they come, and not getting in a state. Also I have the useful art of being able to go to sleep at any moment, anywhere. We were not on a caravan route here, and it was possible that no lorries or anything else might come this way for days, perhaps as long as a week. We had with us a guard, one of the Camel Corps, and in the end he said he would go and get help within, presumably, twenty-four hours, or at any rate within forty-eight. He left us what water he had. a€?We of the Desert Camel Corps,a€he said loftily, a€?do not need to drink in emergency.a€He stalked off, and I looked after him with some foreboding. This was adventure, but I hoped it was going to turn out a pleasant one. The water did not seem very much, and the thought of not having water made me thirsty straight away. However, we were lucky. A miracle happened. One hour later, a T Ford with fourteen passengers drove out of the horizon. Sitting beside the driver was our Camel Corps friend, waving an exuberant rifle. At intervals on our journey back to Baghdad we stopped to look at tells, and walked round them picking up sherds of pottery. I was particularly enchanted with all the glazed fragments. The brilliant colours: green, turquoise, blue, and a sort of golden patterned onea€“they were all of a much later period than that in which Max was interested, but he was indulgent of my fancies, and we collected a large bag of them. After we arrived in Baghdad, and I had been returned to my hotel, I spread out my mackintosh, dipped all the sherds in water, and arranged them in glistening iridescent patterns of colour. Max, kindly falling in with my whim, supplied his own mackintosh and added four sherds to the display. I caught him looking at me with the air of an indulgent scholar looking kindly at a foolish but not unlikeable childa€“and, really, I believe at that time that was his attitude towards me. I have always loved things like seashells or little bits of coloured rocka€“all the odd treasures one picks up as a child. A bright birda€?s feather, a variegated leafa€“these things, I sometimes feel, are the true treasures of life, and one enjoys them better than topazes, emeralds, or expensive little boxes by Faberge. Katharine and Len Woolley had already arrived in Baghdad, and were not at all pleased with us for having arrived twenty-four hours latea€“this owing to our detour to Ukhaidir. I was exonerated from blame since I had been merely a parcel carried about and taken to places with no knowledge of where I was going.
a€?Max might have known that we should be worried,a€Katharine said. a€?We might have sent out a search party or done something silly.a€Max repeated patiently that he was sorry; it had not occurred to him that they would be alarmed. A couple of days later we left Baghdad by train for Kirkuk and Mosul, on the first leg of our journey home. My friend Colonel Dwyer came to Baghdad North Station to see us off. a€?Youa€?ll have to stand up for yourself, you know,a€he remarked to me, confidentially.
a€?Stand up for myselfWhat do you mean?a€?
a€?With Her Ladyship there.a€He nodded to where Katharine Woolley was talking to a friend.
a€?But shea€?s been so nice to me.a€?
a€?Oh yes, I can see you feel the charm. All of us have felt it from time to time. To be honest, I feel it still. That woman could get me where she wants me any time, but, as I say, youa€?ve got to stand up for yourself. She could charm the birds off a tree and make them feel it was only natural.a€The train was making those peculiar banshee-like wails which I soon learnt were characteristic of the Iraqi railways. It was a piercing, eerie noisea€“in fact, a woman wailing for her demon lover would have expressed it exactly. However, it was nothing so romantic: merely a locomotive raring to go. We climbed aboarda€“Katharine and I shared one sleeping compartment, Max and Len the othera€“and we were off. We reached Kirkuk the following morning, had breakfast in the rest-house, and motored to Mosul. It was at that time a six to eight-hour run, most of it on a very rutted road, and included the crossing of the river Zab by ferry. The ferry-boat was so primitive that one felt almost Biblical embarking upon it. At Mosul, too, we stayed at the rest-house, which had a charming garden. Mosul was to be the centre of my life for many years in the future, but it did not impress me then, mainly because we did little sightseeing. Here I met Dr and Mrs MacLeod, who ran the hospital, and were to be great friends. They were both doctors, and whilst Peter MacLeod was in charge of the hospital his wife Peggy would occasionally assist him with certain operations. These had to be performed in a peculiar fashion owing to the fact that he was not allowed to see or touch the patient. It was impossible for a Muslim woman to be operated on by a man, even though he was a doctor. Screens, I gather, had to be rigged up; Dr MacLeod would stand outside the screen with his wife inside; he would direct her how to proceed, and she, in turn, would describe to him the conditions of the organs as she arrived at them, and all the various details. After two or three days in Mosul we started on our travels proper. We spent one night at a rest-house at Tell Afar, which was two hours or so from Mosul, then at five the following morning motored off in a trek across country. We visited some sites on the Euphrates, and departed to the north, in search of Lena€?s old friend Basrawi, who was Sheikh of one of the tribes there. After a good many crossings of wadis, losing and finding our way again, we finally arrived towards the evening, and were given a great welcome, a terrific meal, and at last retired for the night. There were two tumble-down rooms in a mud-brick house which were apportioned to us, with two small iron beds diagonally in the corners of each. A slight difficulty arose here. One room had a corner bed with an excellent ceiling above ita€“that is to say no water actually dripped through or fell on the bed: a phenomenon we were able to observe because it had started to rain. The other bed, however, was in a draughty corner with a good deal of water dripping on to it. We had a look at the second room. This one had an equally doubtful roof, and was smaller; the beds were narrower and there was less air and light.
a€?I think, Katharine,a€said Len, a€?that you and Agatha had better have the smaller room with the two dry beds, and wea€?ll have the other.a€?
a€?I think,a€said Katharine, a€?that I really must have the larger room and the good bed. I wona€?t sleep a wink if there is water dripping on my face.a€?
She went firmly across to the delectable corner and placed her things on the bed.
a€?I expect I can pull my bed out a bit and avoid the worst,a€I said.
a€?I really dona€?t see,a€said Katharine, a€?why Agatha should be forced to have this bad bed with the roof dripping on it. One of you men can have it.
Either Max or Len had better go in the bad bed in this room, and the other one can go in the other room with Agatha.a€This suggestion was considered, and Katharine, sizing up Max and Len to see which she thought would be the more useful to her, finally decided on the privilege of loving Len, and sent Max to share the small room. Only our cheerful host seemed to be amused by this arrangementa€“he made several remarks of a ribald nature in Arabic to Len. a€?Please yourselves,a€he said. a€?Please yourselves! Divide up how you likea€“either way the man will be happy.a€?
However, by the morning nobody was happy. I woke at about six with rain pouring on my face. In the other corner Max was fully exposed to a deluge. He dragged my bed away from the worst leak, and pushed his own also out of the corner. Katharine had come off no better than anyone else: she, too, now had a leak. We had a meal, and took a tour round with Basrawi, surveying his domain, then went on our way once more. The weather was really bad now; some of the wadis were much swollen, and difficult to cross.
We arrived at last, wet and extremely tired, at Aleppo, to the comparative luxury of Barona€?s Hotel, where we were greeted by the son of the house, Coco Baron. He had a large round head, faintly yellow face, and mournful dark eyes.
The one thing I yearned for was a hot bath. I discovered the bathroom to be of a semi-western, semi-eastern type, and managed to turn on some hot water, which, as usual, came out in clouds of steam and frightened me to death. I tried to turn it off but did not succeed, and had to yell to Max for help. He arrived down the passage, subdued the water, then told me to go back to my room. He would call me when he had got the bath sufficiently under control for me to enjoy it. I went back to my room and waited. I waited a long time and nothing happened. Finally I sallied forth in my dressing-gown, sponge clasped under my arm. The door was locked. At that moment Max appeared.
a€?Wherea€?s my bath?a€I demanded.
a€?Oh, Katharine Woolley is in there now,a€said Max.
a€?Katharine?a€I said, a€?Did you let her have my bath that you were running for me?a€?
a€?Well, yes,a€said Max. a€?She wanted it,a€he explained.
He looked me straight in the eye with a certain firmness of manner.
I saw that I was up against something like the laws of the Medes and Persians. I said: a€?Well, I think it is very unfair. I was running that bath.
It was my bath.a€?
a€?Yes,a€said Max, a€?I know that. But Katharine wanted it.a€?
I went back to my room and reflected upon Colonel Dwyera€?s words.
I was to reflect on them again the next day. Katharinea€?s bedside lamp gave her trouble. She was not feeling well, and was staying in bed with a miserable headache. This time of my own accord, I proffered her my bedside lamp in exchange. I took it into her room, fixed it up and left her with it. It seemed there was a shortage of lamps, so I had to read as best I could the next night with only one feeble lamp in the ceiling high above me. It was only on the next day that some slight indignation arose on my part. Katharine decided to change her room for one which would have less noise from the traffic. Since there was a perfectly good bedside lamp in her new room she had not bothered to return the other lamp to me, and it was now firmly in the possession of some third party. However, Katharine was Katharine, take it or leave it.
I decided in future to do a little more to protect my own interests.
The next day, though Katharine had hardly any fever, she said she felt much worse. She was in a mood when she could not bear anyone to come near her.
a€I f only you would all go awaya€she wailed. a€?All go away and leave me.
I cannot stand people coming in and out of my bedroom all day, asking me if I want anythinga€“continually bothering me. If I could just be quite quiet, with nobody coming near me, then I might feel all right by this evening.a€I thought I knew just how she felt, because it was very much how I feel when I am ill: I want people to go away and leave me.
It is the feeling of the dog who crawls away to a quiet corner and hopes to be left undisturbed until the miracle happens and he feels himself again.
a€?I dona€?t know what to do,a€said Len helplessly. a€?Really I dona€?t know what to do for her.a€?
a€?Well,a€I said consolingly, for I was very fond of Len, a€?I expect she knows herself what she feels is best for her. I think she does want to be left alone. I should leave her until this evening, and then see if she feels better.a€?
So this was arranged. Max and I went out together on an expedition to visit a Crusadera€?s castle at Kalaat Siman. Len said he would remain at the hotel so as to be at hand if Katharine wanted anything.
Max and I set off happily. The weather had improved, and it was a lovely drive. We drove over hills with scrub and red anemones, with flocks of sheep and later, as the road went higher, black goats and kids.
Finally we arrived at Kalaat Siman, and had our picnic lunch. Sitting there and looking round, Max told me a little more about himself, his life, and the luck he had had in getting the job with Leonard Woolley, just as he was leaving the University. We picked up a few bits of pottery here and there, and finally made our way back just as the sun was setting.
We arrived home to trouble. Katharine was enormously incensed at the way in which we had gone off and left her.
a€?But you said you wanted to be alone,a€I said.
a€?One says things when one doesna€?t feel well. To think you and Max could go off in that heartless way. Oh well, perhaps ita€?s not so bad of you, because you dona€?t understand so well, but Maxa€“that Max, who knows me well, who knows that I might have needed anythinga€“could go off like that.a€She closed her eyes and said, a€?You had better leave me now.a€?
a€?Cana€?t we get you anything, or stay with you?a€?
a€?No, I dona€?t want you to get me anything. Really, I feel very hurt about all this. As for Len, his behaviour was absolutely disgraceful.a€?
a€?What has he done?a€I asked, with some curiosity.
a€?He left me here without a single drop to drinka€“not a drop of water not lemonade, nothing at all. Just lying here, helpless, parched with thirst.a€?
a€?But couldna€?t you have rung the bell and asked for some water?a€?
I asked. It was the wrong thing to say. Katharine gave me a withering glance: a€?I can see you dona€?t understand the first thing about it. To think that Len could be as heartless as that. Of course, if a woman had been here, it would have been different. She would have thought.a€?
We hardly dared approach Katharine in the morning, but she behaved in the most Katharine-like manner. She was in a charming mood, smiled, was pleased to see us, grateful for anything we did for her, gracious if slightly forgiving, and all was well.
She was indeed a remarkable woman. I grew to understand her a little better as the years went on, but could never predict beforehand in what mood she would be. She ought, I think, to have been a great artist of some kinda€“a singer or an actressa€“then her moods would have been accepted as natural to her temperament. As it was, she was nearly an artist: she had done a sculptured head of Queen Shubad, which was exhibited with the famous gold necklace and head-dress on it.
She did a good head of Hamoudi, of Leonard Woolley himself, and a beautiful head of a young boy, but she was diffident of her own powers, always apt to invite other people to help her, or to accept their opinions.
Leonard waited on her hand and foota€“nothing he could do was good enough. I think she despised him a little for that. Perhaps any woman would do so. No woman likes a doormat, and Len, who could be extremely autocratic on his dig, was butter in her hands.
One early Sunday morning before we left Aleppo, Max took me on a tour of assorted religions. It was quite strenuous.
We went to the Maronites, the Syrian Catholics, the Greek Orthodox, the Nestorians, the Jacobites, and more that I cana€?t remember. Some of them were what I called a€?Onion Priestsa€?a€“that is to say, having a kind of round onion-like head-dress. The Greek Orthodox I found the most alarming, since there I was firmly parted from Max and herded with the other women on one side of the church. One was pushed into something which looked like a horse-stall, with a kind of halter looped round one, and attached to the wall. It was a splendidly mysterious service, most of which took place behind an altar curtain or veil. Rich sonorous sounds came from behind this and out into the church, accompanied by clouds of incense. We all bobbed and bowed at prescribed intervals. In due course Max reclaimed me.
When I look back over my life, it seems that the things that have been most vivid, and which remain most clearly in my mind, are the places I have been to. A sudden thrill of pleasure comes into my minda€“a tree, a hill, a white house tucked away somewhere, by a canal, the shape of a distant hill. Sometimes I have to think a moment to remember where, and when. Then the picture comes clearly, and I know.
People, I have never had a good memory for. My own friends are dear to me, but people that I merely meet and like pass out of my mind again almost at once. Far from being able to say, a€?I never forget a facea€I might more truly say, a€?I never remember a face.a€But places remain firmly in my mind. Often, returning somewhere after five or six years, I remember quite well the road to take, even if I have only been there once before.
I dona€?t know why my memory for places should be good, and for people so faint. Perhaps it comes from being far-sighted. I have always been far-sighted, so that people have a rather sketchy appearance, because they are near at hand, while places I have seen with accuracy because they are further away.
I am quite capable of disliking a place just because the hills seem to me the wrong shapea€”it is very, very important that hills should be the right shape. Practically all the hills in Devonshire are the right shape. Most of the hills in Sicily are the wrong shape, so I do not care for Sicily. The hills of Corsica are sheer delight; the Welsh hills, too, are beautiful.
In Switzerland the hills and mountains stand about you too closely.
Snow mountains can be incredibly dull; they owe any excitement they have to the varying effects of light. a€?Viewsa€can be dull, too. You climb up a path to a hill topa€“and there! A panorama is spread before you.
But it is all there. There is nothing further. You have seen it. a€?Superb,a€you say. And that is that. Ita€?s all below you. You have, as it were, conquered it.