Come, Tell Me How You Live Read online

  Come, Tell Me How Your Live

  Agatha Christie Mallowan

  With an Introduction by Jacquetta Hawkes

  Dedication

  To my husband, Max Mallowan;

  to the Colonel, Bumps, Mac and Guilford,

  this meandering chronicle

  is affectionately dedicated

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  A-Sitting on a Tell

  Introduction by Jacquetta Hawkes

  Foreword

  1 Partant pour la Syrie

  2 A Surveying Trip

  3 The Habur and the Jaghjagha

  4 First Season at Chagar Bazar

  5 Fin de Saison

  6 Journey’s End

  7 Life at Chagar Bazar

  8 Chagar and Brak

  9 Arrival of Mac

  10 The Trail to Raqqa

  11 Good-bye to Brak

  12 ’Ain el ’Arus

  Epilogue

  Photographic Insert

  About the Author

  The Agatha Christie Collection

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A-SITTING ON A TELL

  (With apologies to Lewis Carroll)

  I’ll tell you everything I can

  If you will listen well:

  I met an erudite young man

  A-sitting on a Tell.

  “Who are you, sir?” to him I said,

  “For what is it you look?”

  His answer trickled through my head

  Like bloodstains in a book.

  He said: “I look for aged pots

  Of prehistoric days,

  And then I measure them in lots

  And lots of different ways.

  And then (like you) I start to write,

  My words are twice as long

  As yours, and far more erudite.

  They prove my colleagues wrong!”

  But I was thinking of a plan

  To kill a millionaire

  And hide the body in a van

  Or some large Frigidaire.

  So, having no reply to give,

  And feeling rather shy,

  I cried: “Come, tell me how you live!

  And when, and where, and why?”

  His accents mild were full of wit:

  “Five thousand years ago

  Is really, when I think of it,

  The choicest Age I know.

  And once you learn to scorn A.D.

  And you have got the knack,

  Then you could come and dig with me

  And never wander back.”

  But I was thinking how to thrust

  Some arsenic into tea,

  And could not all at once adjust

  My mind so far B.C.

  I looked at him and softly sighed,

  His face was pleasant too…

  “Come, tell me how you live?” I cried,

  “And what it is you do?”

  He said: “I hunt for objects made

  By men where’er they roam,

  I photograph and catalogue

  And pack and send them home.

  These things we do not sell for gold

  (Nor yet, indeed, for copper!),

  But place them on Museum shelves

  As only right and proper.

  “I sometimes dig up amulets

  And figurines most lewd,

  For in those prehistoric days

  They were extremely rude!

  And that’s the way we take our fun,

  ’Tis not the way of wealth.

  But archaeologists live long

  And have the rudest health.”

  I heard him then, for I had just

  Completed a design

  To keep a body free from dust

  By boiling it in brine.

  I thanked him much for telling me

  With so much erudition,

  And said that I would go with him

  Upon an Expedition…

  And now, if e’er by chance I dip

  My fingers into acid,

  Or smash some pottery (with slip!)

  Because I am not placid,

  Or if I see a river flow

  And hear a far-off yell,

  I sigh, for it reminds me so

  Of that young man I learned to know –

  Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,

  Whose thoughts were in the long ago,

  Whose pockets sagged with potsherds so,

  Who lectured learnedly and low,

  Who used long words I didn’t know,

  Whose eyes, with fervour all a-glow,

  Upon the ground looked to and fro,

  Who sought conclusively to show

  That there were things I ought to know

  And that with him I ought to go

  And dig upon a Tell!

  INTRODUCTION

  THERE ARE BOOKS that one reads with a persistent inner smile which from time to time becomes visible and occasionally audible. Come, Tell Me How You Live is one of them, and to read it is pure pleasure.

  It was in 1930 that a happy chance had brought a young archaeologist, Max Mallowan, together with Agatha Christie, then already a well-known author. Visiting Baghdad, she had met Leonard and Katharine Woolley and accepted their invitation to stay with them at Ur where they had been digging for several seasons. Max, their assistant, was charged to escort Agatha homeward, sight-seeing on the way. Thus agreeably thrown together they were to be married before the end of the year and so to enter their long and extraordinarily creative union.

  Agatha did not see her own renown as any bar to sharing in her husband’s work. From the first she took a full part in every one of Max’s excavations in Syria and Iraq, enduring discomforts and finding comedy in all such disasters as an archaeologist is heir to. Inevitably her personal acquaintance, who knew nothing of the mysteries of digging in foreign lands, asked her what this strange life was like – and she determined to answer their questions in a light-hearted book.

  Agatha began Come, Tell Me How You Live before the war, and although she was to lay it aside during four years of war-work, in both spirit and content it belongs to the thirties. Like the balanced, bien élevée bourgeoise that she was, she did not think the tragedies of human existence more significant than its comedies and delights. Nor at that time was archaeology in the Middle East weighed down with science and laborious technique. It was a world where one mounted a Pullman at Victoria in a ‘big snorting, hurrying, companionable train, with its big, puffing engine’, was waved away by crowds of relatives, at Calais caught the Orient Express to Istanbul, and so arrived at last in a Syria where good order, good food and generous permits for digging were provided by the French. Moreover, it was a world where Agatha could make fun of the Arabs, Kurds, Armenians, Turks and Yezidi devil-worshippers who worked on the excavations as freely as she could of Oxford scholars, of her husband and herself.

  The author calls her book, ‘small beer…full of everyday doings and happenings’ and an ‘inconsequent chronicle’. In fact it is most deftly knit together, making a seamless fabric of five varied seasons in the field. These began late in 1934 with a survey of the ancient city mounds, or tells, studding the banks of the Habur in northern Syria – its purpose being to select the most promising for excavation.

  Max showed his sound judgement in choosing Chagar Bazar and Tell Brak out of the fifty tells examined, for both, when excavated during the four following seasons, added vastly to our knowledge of early Mesopotamia. Agatha, on her side, showed characteristic discipline by denying herself all
archaeological particularities in her book, so preserving its lightness and consistency.

  In the primitive and culture-clashing conditions of the time and place ‘everyday doings and happenings’ were sufficiently extraordinary to occupy the reader: men and machines were equally liable to give trouble, and so, too, did mice, bats, spiders, fleas and the stealthy carriers of what was then called Gippy tummy. Not only is episode after episode most amusingly told, but there emerges from the telling some excellent characterisation. If Agatha Christie the detective writer can be said to have taken characters out of a box, here in a few pages she shows how deftly she could bring individuals to life.

  One interesting subject which the author, in her modesty, has not sufficiently emphasized is the very considerable part she played in the practical work of the expeditions. She mentions in passing her struggles to produce photographs without a darkroom and her labelling of finds, but that is not enough. When, later, I was fortunate enough to spend a week with the Mallowans at Nimrud, near Mosul, I was surprised how much she did in addition to securing domestic order and good food. At the beginning of each season she would retire to her own little room to write, but as soon as the pressure of work on the dig had mounted she shut the door on her profession and devoted herself to antiquity. She rose early to go the rounds with Max, catalogued and labelled, and on this occasion busied herself with the preliminary cleaning of the exquisite ivories which were coming from Fort Shalmaneser. I have a vivid picture of her confronting one of these carvings, with her dusting brush poised and head tilted, smiling quizzically at the results of her handiwork.

  This remembered moment adds to my conviction that although she gave so much time to it, Agatha Christie remained inwardly detached from archaeology. She relished the archaeological life in remote country and made good use of its experiences in her own work. She had a sound knowledge of the subject, yet remained outside it, a happily amused onlooker.

  That Agatha could find intense enjoyment from the wild Mesopotamian countryside and its peoples emerges from many of the pages of Come, Tell Me How You Live. There is, for one instance, her account of the picnic when she and Max sat among flowers on the lip of a little volcano. ‘The utter peace is wonderful. A great wave of happiness surges over me, and I realize how much I love this country, and how complete and satisfying this life is…’ So, in her short Epilogue looking back across the war years to recall the best memories of the Habur she declares: ‘Writing this simple record has not been a task, but a labour of love.’ This is evidently true, for some radiance lights all those everyday doings however painful or absurd. It is a quality which explains why, as I said at the beginning, this book is a pure pleasure to read.

  JACQUETTA HAWKES

  FOREWORD

  THIS BOOK is an answer. It is the answer to a question that is asked me very often.

  ‘So you dig in Syria, do you? Do tell me all about it. How do you live? In a tent?’ etc., etc.

  Most people, probably, do not want to know. It is just the small change of conversation. But there are, now and then, one or two people who are really interested.

  It is the question, too, that Archaeology asks of the Past – Come, tell me how you lived?

  And with picks and spades and baskets we find the answer.

  ‘These were our cooking pots.’ ‘In this big silo we kept our grain.’ ‘With these bone needles we sewed our clothes.’ ‘These were our houses, this our bathroom, here our system of sanitation!’ ‘Here, in this pot, are the gold earrings of my daughter’s dowry.’ ‘Here, in this little jar, is my make-up.’ ‘All these cook-pots are of a very common type. You’ll find them by the hundred. We get them from the Potter at the corner. Woolworth’s, did you say? Is that what you call him in your time?’

  Occasionally there is a Royal Palace, sometimes a Temple, much more rarely a Royal burial. These things are spectacular. They appear in newspapers in headlines, are lectured about, shown on screens, everybody hears of them! Yet I think to one engaged in digging, the real interest is in the everyday life – the life of the potter, the farmer, the tool-maker, the expert cutter of animal seals and amulets – in fact, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker.

  A final warning, so that there will be no disappointment. This is not a profound book – it will give you no interesting sidelights on archaeology, there will be no beautiful descriptions of scenery, no treating of economic problems, no racial reflections, no history.

  It is, in fact, small beer – a very little book, full of everyday doings and happenings.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Partant pour la Syrie

  IN A FEW WEEKS’ time we are starting for Syria!

  Shopping for a hot climate in autumn or winter presents certain difficulties. One’s last year’s summer clothes, which one has optimistically hoped will ‘do’, do not ‘do’ now the time has come. For one thing they appear to be (like the depressing annotations in furniture removers’ lists) ‘Bruised, Scratched and Marked’. (And also Shrunk, Faded and Peculiar!) For another – alas, alas that one has to say it! – they are too tight everywhere.

  So – to the shops and the stores, and:

  ‘Of course, Modom, we are not being asked for that kind of thing just now! We have some very charming little suits here – O.S. in the darker colours.’

  Oh, loathsome O.S.! How humiliating to be O.S.! How even more humiliating to be recognized at once as O.S.!

  (Although there are better days when, wrapped in a lean long black coat with a large fur collar, a saleswoman says cheeringly:

  ‘But surely Modom is only a Full Woman?’)

  I look at the little suits, with their dabs of unexpected fur and their pleated skirts. I explain sadly that what I want is a washing silk or cotton.

  ‘Modom might try Our Cruising Department.’

  Modom tries Our Cruising Department – but without any exaggerated hopes. Cruising is still enveloped in the realms of romantic fancy. It has a touch of Arcady about it. It is girls who go cruising – girls who are slim and young and wear uncrushable linen trousers, immensely wide round the feet and skintight round the hips. It is girls who sport delightfully in Play Suits. It is girls for whom Shorts of eighteen different varieties are kept!

  The lovely creature in charge of Our Cruising Department is barely sympathetic.

  ‘Oh, no, Modom, we do not keep out-sizes.’ (Faint horror! Outsizes and Cruising? Where is the romance there?)

  She adds:

  ‘It would hardly be suitable, would it?’

  I agree sadly that it would not be suitable.

  There is still one hope. There is Our Tropical Department.

  Our Tropical Department consists principally of Topees – Brown Topees, White Topees; Special Patent Topees. A little to one side, as being slightly frivolous, are Double Terais, blossoming in pinks and blues and yellows like blooms of strange tropical flowers. There is also an immense wooden horse and an assortment of jodhpurs.

  But – yes – there are other things. Here is suitable wear for the wives of Empire Builders. Shantung! Plainly cut shantung coats and skirts – no girlish nonsense here – bulk is accommodated as well as scragginess! I depart into a cubicle with various styles and sizes. A few minutes later I am transformed into a memsahib!

  I have certain qualms – but stifle them. After all, it is cool and practical and I can get into it.

  I turn my attention to the selection of the right kind of hat. The right kind of hat not existing in these days, I have to have it made for me. This is not so easy as it sounds.

  What I want, and what I mean to have, and what I shall almost certainly not get, is a felt hat of reasonable proportions that will fit on my head. It is the kind of hat that was worn some twenty years ago for taking the dogs for a walk or playing a round of golf. Now, alas, there are only the Things one attaches to one’s head – over one eye, one ear, on the nape of one’s neck – as the fashion of the moment dictates – or the Double Terai, measuring at least
a yard across.

  I explain that I want a hat with a crown like a Double Terai and about a quarter of its brim.

  ‘But they are made wide to protect fully from the sun, Modom.’

  ‘Yes, but where I am going there is nearly always a terrific wind, and a hat with a brim won’t stay on one’s head for a minute.’

  ‘We could put Modom on an elastic.’

  ‘I want a hat with a brim no larger than this that I’ve got on.’

  ‘Of course, Modom, with a shallow crown that would look quite well.’

  ‘Not a shallow crown! The hat has got To Keep On!’

  Victory! We select the colour – one of those new shades with the pretty names: Dirt, Rust, Mud, Pavement, Dust, etc.

  A few minor purchases – purchases that I know instinctively will either be useless or land me in trouble. A Zip travelling bag, for instance. Life nowadays is dominated and complicated by the remorseless Zip. Blouses zip up, skirts zip down, ski-ing suits zip everywhere. ‘Little frocks’ have perfectly unnecessary bits of zipping on them just for fun.

  Why? Is there anything more deadly than a Zip that turns nasty on you? It involves you in a far worse predicament than any ordinary button, clip, snap, buckle or hook and eye.

  In the early days of Zips, my mother, thrilled by this delicious novelty, had a pair of corsets fashioned for her which zipped up the front. The results were unfortunate in the extreme! Not only was the original zipping-up fraught with extreme agony, but the corsets then obstinately refused to de-zip! Their removal was practically a surgical operation! And owing to my mother’s delightful Victorian modesty, it seemed possible for a while that she would live in these corsets for the remainder of her life – a kind of modern Woman in the Iron Corset!