The intent here is not to exclude (that has happened often enough to women’s work throughout history) but rather to sharpen focus on seven lives that reveal much about early archaeology and what it took for women, in general, to become a part of it. The women presented here may have not been the very first to kick a shovel into the ground, but they were the first pioneering and fearless women who set upon archaeological research forcefully, unconventionally, and most of all, on their own terms. They worked in the field, excavating by themselves or in the company of hired teams and other female colleagues. They supervised ground-breaking excavations and made lasting contributions to archaeology as a growing science. Jane Dieulafoy and Agatha Christie worked alongside their husbands, but both enjoyed an uncommon degree of latitude in pursuing their own scholarly interests and were given credit for their expertise. Instead of “assistants,” Dieulafoy and Christie were viewed by their spouses as true and equal partners.
Edwards, Bell, Christie, and Garrod were British; Dieulafoy, French; and Nuttall and Boyd Hawes, American. It’s a Western team. Not one of the women presented here heralds from Asia or India, Africa or South America. That is because archaeology was born of Western science. It moved with spreading colonialism, was a tool of the British Empire, and fascinated the Western mind with its growing toolkit of physical evidence, theories, documentation, accurate measurements, hypothesizing, and overall propensity for logical explanation. This was a new way to interpret the past. The founders of archaeology were all of a Western European, and by extension, American mindset. It would be some time before other parts of the world began to systematically excavate their own backyards for history’s buried remains.
In addition, the women chronicled here have all left handsome paper trails. Their journals, field notebooks, photographs, letters, diary entries, and publications allow a researcher to immerse herself in each woman’s own historical context and tap into her spirit. It’s the women who wrote enough to reveal themselves— their ambitions, frustrations, inspirations, and doubts—who made their way into this book. Based on the artifacts each woman left behind, could a pioneer and her legacy be brought into clear and compelling focus? Seven could, and these are the trendsetters who rode out into wide-open spaces, on horseback, donkey, or camel’s hump, without precedent and against all odds to find what they were looking for.
THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL FIELD—DESERT dunes, riverbanks, crumbling ruins, and buried tombs—still exudes magnetism today. The romance of archaeology persists, and one has only to hum the tune of Raiders of the Lost Ark (duh-duh-duh-DUH! da-da-da!) and a scene of sweaty, dangerous adventure and jungle glory is unleashed. Yet aside from popular caricatures of archaeology, the passion for understanding human history—and more to the point, the story of what makes us human—is a quest that continually fascinates.
Sunken ships littered with skeletons and chandeliers, the fossilized footprints of an ancient ancestor in Africa, a bone amulet—these are the kinds of things archaeologists may find. Drawn to the tantalizing possibility that an ancient city, a site, or an artifact might be discovered that could change everything we thought we knew, we wait to see what comes next. Could there be a lost library containing thousands of books in a language never seen before? Perhaps a new link in the evolutionary chain of our species, a link with a wing nub instead of a shoulder blade? What if we find a buried wooden boat preserved in a bog that dates so far back that all the theories of human migration to the New World will need to be rewritten? Archaeology is uniquely, and consistently, able to renew and sometimes redefine our understanding of ourselves.
As Amelia Edwards remarked in 1842, archaeology is that subject where “the interest never flags—the subject never stales—the mine is never exhausted.”8 Archaeology never stales because it keeps reinventing the big story of us.
The archaeological field is a centerpiece to each pioneer’s story. Each woman found her way to some very out of the way places, circa 1900, in the name of her research and study: Iraq, Iran, Crete, Morocco, Palestine, Syria, Gibraltar, Mexico. Often the field called to her with its own type of siren’s song, a tune mingling mysteries of earth and history on a breeze. Today the field continues to beckon adventurous souls curious about where we’ve been and where we’re going. The study of the past is nearly universal, and although each culture has a unique way of embracing and explaining its own history, archaeologists are a self-selecting crowd. They have their own particular, even peculiar toolkit and a strong desire to dig for history’s precious leftovers.
LEFT: Necklace, bracelets, and fragment of decorated pottery
RIGHT: Earthenware vessel and stone artifacts
Before the skies were filled with airplanes that could get you there and back, archaeology meant going off into strange places with only what a team could carry. Archaeologists would leave in search of something that might lie hidden beneath piles of dirt. Shovel in hand, they would chase that dream of discovery, becoming crazed and toilsome if it wasn’t found, brilliant and celebrated if it was. Despite its glamorous image, archaeology is hard work: dirty, muddy, sand-in-your-eyes, exhausting, inconvenient, and on occasion boring work. Not everyone’s cup of tea, especially in the days of Victorian England when sipping tea was exactly what a lady was supposed to be doing.
Yet when they returned from the field, it was beyond dispute that the first women archaeologists had held their own physically and intellectually in what was then a man’s world. They had traveled, dug, scrutinized sites, managed, and made it. Impressive. So impressive that these women are sometimes in danger of being transformed into myth. Although I have boundless admiration for each of the women chronicled here, I try to avoid giving in to pure romanticism. The greatest honor is in keeping it honest. When you are working in the field you want your notes to be as accurate as possible, your maps as precise as can be, so that your reconstructions and interpretations are reliable. I aim for the same here. Legends can become the stuff of make-believe, overshadowing the realities and nuances of a true life.
These early archaeologists were never camelback saints (and they would be dull if they were). They were products of their time and made choices that by today’s standards would elicit criticism and might even be judged as politically incorrect. In some cases they chose to play very much in a man’s world and occasionally viewed other women, in popular patriarchal fashion, as dithering inferiors instead of comrades. They present sometimes frustrating contradictions that both support and undermine a feminist view. Complex individuals, they challenge us, as they once challenged their own peers and colleagues, to take them as they are.
With that in mind I ceremoniously opened an old archaeological field-journal of mine one breezy bayside day in northern California and invited the ladies in. Come on down, drink coffee with me, spread your old maps out on my desk, and let’s make a book together. I asked them into my small studio, encouraged them to kick their dusty boots up onto the kitchen table. Remind me of your crazy lives and courage. I asked each of them to look over my shoulder as I wrote their respective chapters, and if that didn’t make the writing any better, it did make my own journey through their stories richer.
Archaeology’s essence is to uncover the origins of things, the epicenters of change, the evolution of style, technology, and everything else that makes us human. It makes sense that these pioneering women would take such a field of study as their own. As they challenged ideas about what a woman could accomplish, transformed styles of clothing through cross-dressing, cut their hair boyishly short, and broke into a scientific field previously denied them, little did the ladies know to what extent they were making history themselves.
ABOVE : Amelia Edwards, the revered godmother of Egyptology
1831–1892
AMELIA EDWARDS
THE NILE#8217;S
Grand Dame
Sailing on the Nile, Amelia Edwards described her travels in a rented dahabeeyah (boathouse) as a “Noah’s Ark life.” It was a journey where the
“sacred hawk” circling overhead uttered the “same sweet, piercing, melancholy note that the Pharaohs listened to of old,” and it was to this accompaniment that her thoughts were swept up by the grandeur of bygone times. Other dahabeeyahs passed by hers, garlanded with crocodile skins and tourists, but Edwards remained aloof to other travelers and kept to her boat and crew, a team that exhibited “every shade of complexion from fair to dark, from tawny to copper-colour, from deepest bronze to bluest black.”1
Her journeys through Egypt were mingled with history’s ghosts and crowded with ancient ruins and temples, with the hieroglyphics inscribed on crushed potsherds and a quality of light that made the pyramids look like “piles of massy gold” at sunset. Drifting along the Nile, Edwards was in search of travel’s pleasure as well as historical understanding. Yet what she ultimately found was to become her life’s consuming passion: archaeology. This is the woman who would one day be heralded as the godmother of Egyptology.
Edwards was independent and financially secure from her career as a journalist and novelist. In her thirties, she packed her bags, left her English home, and let her sails fill with the breath of wandering. When she departed there was no one left in her life to advise against it; her parents had both recently died, and her only constant companion was a woman she referred to merely as “L.”
By her own account, her later arrival in Egypt was almost by accident: “. . . without definite plans, outfit or any kind of Oriental experience, behold us arrive in Cairo on the 29th of November 1873, literally and most prosaically in search of fine weather.”2 Whether this is pure truth or a stylized start to her tale of discovery, the Egyptian Delta made its way firmly into her heart.
In all of her expeditions, Amelia was there to write. Tiptoeing on slopes “strewn with . . . fragments of mummy, shreds of mummy cloth, and human bones all whitening and withering in the sun,”3 she recorded what she found and sketched the people she met. She was a travel writer, a tourist, a grand dame of the Nile, and she longed to make her own archaeological discovery.
One baking-hot afternoon a servant ran in with a penciled note, interrupting her lunch. It read: “Pray come immediately—I have found the entrance to a tomb.” Breathless, Edwards ran to the scene of action. Dropping to her hands and knees, pushing her big skirts over her knees, shoveling sand with her bare hands, “heedless of possible sunstroke, unconscious of fatigue,” she worked to excavate her first archaeological find. Pausing in her fast digging for just a moment, the Victorian lady pushed her hat back, sat on her heels, and turning to her companions asked, “If those at home could see us, what would they say!”4
BORN IN LONDON ON JUNE 7, 1831, Amelia Edwards—Amy to family and friends—was the only child in a family with modest means. Her mother, Alicia, was a “brilliant-complexioned, bright-eyed, large featured little Irish woman”5 who home-schooled her daughter until the age of six and deliberately taught her nothing of domestic duty. Her mother must have thought lace patterns and buttons were a bore, and so she raised a daughter more comfortable in the library than near her mother’s skirts. Edwards was one of the few girls in her day busy reading a book instead of learning to thread a needle. Mother and daughter were an active duo, as Alicia took her little girl out to cultural events and on boat trips. They spent a summer abroad in Ireland when Edwards was ten (Dad stayed home). It was during that trip that young Edwards first became fascinated with finding some “old round tower or ruined castle” and writing stories from the old-fashioned days when all was “love & fighting.”6
Her father, Thomas Edwards, was a retired army officer and later a bank employee who, by the accounts available, seems to have been a little gloomy. A mildly depressed or absent figure— a slumpy silhouette reading in his study—he was quiet and removed in contrast to his vivacious wife and his daughter, who was already in possession of a fantastic imagination. Edwards’s cousin Matilda described Mr. Edwards as a man whose “fireside influence was not inspiring” and a creature of “quiet, almost pensive habits.”7 As for Edwards, she only made a note when recalling childhood memories that her father’s health was indifferent.8
As she grew up, Edwards made comic strips and books, combining her sketching skills with storytelling, and shared her work with family and friends, who encouraged her. Her first poem, “The Knights of Old,” was composed when she was only seven and published in a local paper. By twelve she had a full story to her name. She continued writing stories and poems, later noting that “I was always writing or drawing, when other children were playing with dolls or dolls’ houses.” She thought herself a little lonely but was nevertheless content and absorbed by the world of words and history on which she thrived. As she entered her teens she began achieving recognition as both an accomplished artist (pencil sketching and watercolor were her fortés) and a performing musician who composed organ music. By the time she was in her mid-teens she was already determined to find and pursue her career, which she thought would be music.
Edwards had real talent and sang at concerts to ringing applause and flowers tossed to her feet. She wrote compositions that received flattering “testimonials” from the critics. She was even employed as an organist for a spell, and her career was seemingly launched. But she eventually realized that her musical abilities were good but not sublime. She knew that her genius lay elsewhere and suspected it might be lurking in the inkbottle. She got to writing and received her first payment, at age twenty-two, for the publication of her story “Annette” in 1853. Once she realized she could earn a living by words, her path forward was lit as if by blaze.
Writing became her life’s purpose; it was her very nature. When interviewed about how she came to writing as a profession, Edwards explained her lifelong passion for it and even went so far as to take credit for having “anticipated the typewriter.” Not for inventing it, just for having a hunch that a writing machine was coming. She had a gut feeling that technology would someday have to catch up with her prolific output.
Edwards’s childhood hobby of creating poems and little stories steadily transformed itself into a life of journalism, literary essays, romantic tales, ghost stories, magazine articles, and surprisingly, for such an atypical Victorian woman, who some said couldn’t even make a cup of tea, books on social etiquette and a ballroom guide. Her novels were widely recommended as great “railway reading,” the equivalent of today’s “good book for the plane,” and they went through numerous editions and translations. She was finding success in print and, for a woman of twenty-four years, significant financial independence to boot.
IN 1860, EDWARDS’S MOTHER AND FATHER died within a week of each other. They were hardly lovebirds, and it was odd as well as tragic that both parents should drop out of Edwards’s life at the same time. She was only thirty when they died.
Edwards was without any real attachments at that point. She had a cousin she didn’t get along with very well (also a writer, whom Edwards did not like to be confused with), and she was, technically, now a spinster. She had been briefly engaged nine years earlier but had found her suitor, Mr. Bacon, to be wanting. She noted that the engagement was not a happy one; they were ill suited and though Mr. Bacon proclaimed his love for Amelia, she could not genuinely reciprocate the feeling. She had accepted him out of esteem and a sense of duty and found these reasons insufficient to rationalize an entire life spent together. At least she was clear. She broke off their wedding plans with relief.
Being a free agent, perhaps much more so than she ever wished, Edwards went to live with old family friends, Mr. and Mrs. Braysher, in Kensington. The arrangement lasted the rest of her life until, almost ironically, thirty-two years later, Edwards and Mrs. Braysher died within weeks of each other.
After Mr. Bacon, Edwards never engaged a suitor again and never married. She didn’t want to. She never felt romantic love for a man, though she did feel love, very much, for some of her women friends. Three women occupied her heart over the years: Marianne North, the famed botanical artist;
Lucy Renshaw; and Kate Bradbury. One can only speculate whether or not Edwards was a lesbian (it does seem likely), but to be sure, she held her lady friends in very deep affection, loved them with devotion, and attributed much of her life’s happiness to their companionship. To one, she gifted a gold ring. To another, she sent sketches addressed to her dear “poo Owl” and sometimes just to “Baby.” A great sweetness in Amelia’s life, perhaps the very greatest, was the women in her life.
Her friendship with Marianne North began shortly after the death of Edwards’s parents and in mutual admiration—both women were independent, adventurous, clever, and accomplished. Yet over the course of a decade the relationship grew somewhat tortured for Edwards. The extent of her affection for North was not mutual, and it came to be seen by North as too much, too intense. Letters between the two women gathered in emotion and heat, revealing Edwards’s desire to keep her friend close and the pullback from North as she gently dodged Edwards’s reach and made plans to travel the world in search of exotic flowers to paint. Although the two did remain friends for life, stoking each other’s fame and careers (almost politely), the intimacy of their friendship was diminished and Edwards was gutted by it. A phase of deep melancholy followed, and several illnesses slowed Edwards down. She entered a depression, one where in her darkest hours she lamented, “My heart no longer beats faster at the sight of a new or kindly & beautiful face. I hope nothing from it.”9 Melancholia haunted Edwards for much of her life. The arrival of her new friend “L” was, however, about to blow a giant new gale of happiness into things.
Amanda Adams Page 2