Amanda Adams

by Ladies of the Field: Early Women Archaeologists

  As Jane and Marcel waited for permission to continue their archaeological exploration of Susa, a man named Jacques de Morgan landed on the soil they loved so much. He traveled through the country from 1889 to 1891 and began to overshadow the Dieulafoys. Ultimately, he became director of the French Archaeological Delegation in Persia as the Dieulafoys sat wringing their hands in Paris. Susa became his. It was a stinging loss.

  Persia was thus relegated to a dream and shared memories. As the years passed and they became further removed from the part of the world they loved best, Susa morphed into a phantom of inspiration. Dieulafoy wrote her first novel, Parysatis, with the ancient site as its backdrop. The book was filled with reconstructions of the ancient city—the palace walls and courts, monuments, and people were returned to vibrant life through her careful reconstructions of time and place. It later became a famous opera. Dieulafoy began to shine as a woman of literary stature and just as she had once seized the pickaxe in service of archaeology, she now took up the pen and made writing her cause. She fought alongside other prominent women authors of the day to open the gates of France’s Académie and let the ladies in.

  The work of highly regarded female authors was consistently denied recognition by French literary awards. In response, Dieulafoy and several other women, including Juliette Adam, Julia Daudet, Lucie Félix-Faure Goyau, Arvède Barine, and Pierre de Coulevain (many women writers used pseudonyms to publish at the time) came together in 1904 and helped to establish the Prix Femina. This new award helped to transform the face of French literature. The prize could go to either a man or a woman, but the jury was—and is to this day—exclusively female. Dieulafoy sat on the first jury. Even without Susa in reach, she was a celebrity in Paris.

  Archaeology was still in the Dieulafoys’ blood, however, and having lost Susa, the two set their sights elsewhere. Marcel’s knack for archaeology revolved around making connections. Just as he had once sought the origin of medieval Western architecture in Asia, he now opened his research to include Spain and Portugal. The couple traveled extensively, much as they had on their first expedition through Persia, photographing the old buildings and churches.

  Circumstances of war and serendipity also brought them to Morocco, where they hoped to actively excavate again and fuse their theories about how the Orient’s architecture mingled with the West’s. They embarked on excavations of a local mosque, and because Marcel was busy working for the engineering corps (part of what brought them there in the first place), Jane directed the work by herself.31 Soon they were invited to excavate in other areas and were busy once again in the field.

  All of that changed when Dieulafoy contracted amoebic dysentery through the unsanitary food and water on site. She was too weak to work, so the couple returned to France in hopes of renewing her health. She recovered quickly, and they rushed back to Morocco. But sickness struck again. Whatever strength she had regained back home withered away. She and Marcel left for France again and settled in their hometown of Toulouse, ready to see her heal for good. She made it through the following autumn and winter, but died in the spring. She was wrapped in Marcel’s arms when she took her last breath at age sixty-five.32

  A NEWSPAPER ARTICLE written when Dieulafoy was still alive reflected on the couple’s marriage. Unlike other accounts, which poked fun at their unusual dress, this one celebrated it, noting in almost historic terms how “our time can showcase, for the generations to come, unique examples of great and beautiful households, like those of . . . the Dieulafoys. The wife becomes a collaborator with her husband, sharing the excitement of his work, his moments of enthusiasm and his moments of discouragement . . . What a beautiful sight, indeed.”33

  Most of the women chronicled in this book overcame odds and obstacles to succeed alone in a man’s world. Dieulafoy shows us something different. The partnership between her and Marcel is a shift from feminist narratives that subtly (or stridently) exclude men from the trajectory of a woman’s success. Dieulafoy was in lockstep with her husband, and he with her, and surely someone as trendsetting and smart as Dieulafoy could have achieved much in life with or without a man. Granted, her challenges would have been precipitously steeper if she had been solo, and gaining permission to excavate would have been nearly impossible. Nonetheless, the wives who excavated with their husbands were collaborators in the truest sense, and Dieulafoy received more recognition than most.

  ABOVE : Beloved companions Jane and Marcel Dieulafoy

  In the history of women’s contributions to archaeology, Dieulafoy took an important first step toward proving that a woman could not only accompany her husband to far-off places but could also ride alongside him on horseback for thousands of miles, oversee the workmen, contribute greatly to matters of scientific importance, and write about it all with flair. The writer who described their partnership as a “beautiful sight” was writing at a time when a woman was still viewed as a kind of asset to her husband, someone who could forward his career and enrich his place in the world. But change often comes in increments. Dieulafoy is a beautiful reminder that a wife is not destined to be a little lady in the kitchen, and was not so destined even in Victorian times. She can well be a boot-wearing, whip-carrying, brilliant mind who chooses her husband not to find comfort but to widen her world and even travel to its corners noted for being exceptionally uncomfortable.34

  To ask why Dieulafoy chose archaeology is to ask why she chose Marcel. The two choices are closely linked. Her relationship with him was the catalyst for adventure, and Dieulafoy was clever to recognize that through romantic love—as well as marriage to a man who did interesting things—she could open doors that would have otherwise remain locked (or at least very difficult to pick open). She certainly didn’t use Marcel to get into the field; whatever intellectual pursuit he dedicated himself to would have been her adopted passion as well, the effort she selflessly supported, but Dieulafoy knew what she was after. She married a man she believed in. One that didn’t conform to the common cut and who could help manifest her own dreams of important work and travel. For Dieulafoy, archaeology was something she loved as a part of, an extension of, Marcel. It stood alone as its own passion, but it was ignited by two minds that came together.

  Dieulaofoy’s legacy is often summed up in the thumbnail sketch of a curious woman who wore men’s clothes. But a visit to the Louvre today, on a normal crowded day—digital cameras flashing, tourists in packs sweeping through the galleries like currents—finds the Lion Frieze of Susa still mounted. Tourists line up to see it. The colors of the enameled bricks, so carefully recorded by Dieulafoy, remain shiny and brilliant. Dieulafoy’s own life story has the roar of a lion, and the ancient stones on display today, along with the multitude of Susa’s smaller artifacts, are tokens of more than just an ancient city in Persia. They are mementos of the woman who lifted her pick with joy to uncover them, digging until her strength gave out.

  ABOVE : Nuttall as a young woman, in traditional Mexican dress

  1857 –1933

  ZELIA NUTTALL

  MEXICO’S

  Archaeological Queen

  “She was an archaeologist, and she had studied the Aztec remains for so long, that now some of the black-grey look of the lava rock, and some experience of the Aztec idols, with sharp nose and slightly prominent eyes and an expression of tomb-like mockery, had passed into her face.”1 These were the words of D.H. Lawrence in his novel The Plumed Serpent, describing a character named Mrs. Norris, who was based on hot-blooded yet refined Zelia Maria Magdalena Nuttall.

  Lawrence continues, “She led the way in black little shawl and neat grey hair, going ahead like a Conquistador herself.”2 In her home, a Mexican estate of palatial proportions and colonial architecture, Nuttall—and in this case her literary doppelganger, Mrs. Norris—lived surrounded by dark pink bougainvillea and white roses, black obsidian knives, clay figurines, and painted potsherds. Here was a woman who “always put her visitors uncomfortably at their ease, as if they were captive
s and she the chieftainess who had captured them. She rather enjoyed it, heavily, archaeologically queening at the end of her table.”3

  D.H. Lawrence, like many important persons of the day, was a regular visitor to Nuttall’s home, called Casa Alvarado, just outside of Mexico City in the town of Coyoacán. He stayed with her as his own fascination with Mexico took hold and he began to write romanticized and sexually charged works beneath the country’s hot and “eternal sun.” At Nuttall’s house he immersed himself in her library of local mythology, history, and research. He ravaged her knowledge of Mexican culture, past and present, and it helped shape the backdrop to novels like The Plumed Serpent. In its pages, he presents Mexico as a dark place riddled with fear and evil, paganism, the relentless beating of sacrificial drums, speeding heartbeats, and phallicism. It’s all rather intense, even over the top; the man delighted in exploring savagery in the face of civilization, and vice versa. For Lawrence, Mexico possessed a “great under-drift of squalor and heavy reptile-like evil.” Whether or not Nuttall liked his work is uncertain, but Lawrence liked her. Nuttall won respect immediately, whether from scientists or artists, and as Lawrence put it, “The world is made up of a mass of people and a few individuals. Mrs. Norris [aka Nuttall] was one of the few individuals.”4

  Nuttall brought her own brand of fire, even sass, to her work. When people crossed her, they paid dearly. When people impressed her, they would find a kind and benevolent touch in her oversight. Above all else Nuttall was, as one scholar explained, “a woman anthropologist . . . the zest she brought to her studies and her squabbles with her colleagues are unmistakably feminine. One is reminded of a prima ballerina or first soprano.” Whether or not femininity has anything to do with a propensity for “squabbles,” Nuttall was attracted to controversy and could act the part of diva. The author goes on to note that it “is a mark of anthropology having come of age that a woman entering the field could be an esteemed scholar and remembered as attractive or exasperating as a woman.”5

  Attractive she was, not just in physique, but in mind and style. Nuttall was the archaeological queen who carried herself through Mexican libraries and landscapes with sincerity and grace. Exasperating because she was sure of herself, highly and at times hotly opinionated, full of wit and candor. She had a pinch of salt to her, a streak of chili heat. If she was challenged, and if she believed that challenge to be without merit, she had a knack for tearing a man down. Publicly and permanently. Nuttall did not appreciate being told she wasn’t right about something because, well, she usually was.

  ZELIA NUTTALL WAS born in San Francisco on September 6, 1857, just after the heyday of California’s gold rush. It was almost a century before the Golden Gate Bridge would cross the bay, and the young city was characterized by rolling grass hills and sand dunes rather than the parks, piers, and skyscrapers of today. Zelia was the second of Dr. Robert Kennedy Nuttall and Magdalena Parrott’s six children. The passion Nuttall would develop for Mexican archaeology was inherited from her Mexican-born mother, daughter of a wealthy San Francisco banker. When Nuttall was a little girl, Magdalena presented her with a copy of Lord Kingsborough’s volume of Antiquities of Mexico, which contained lavish, hand-painted illustrations of Mesoamerican codices. While other children read fairy tales, Nuttall studied the exotic symbols painted in red and black inks, the strange creatures and pre-Columbian gods rendered in greens and black, headdresses topped by yellow feathers, ceramic pots lifted to the heavens and clearly filled with smoke, frothed chocolate (food of gods), and other rich imagery. One scholar notes that Kingsborough’s work “immediately awakened her interest, and this interest developed into a life-long quest for information on Mexico, its archaeology and its early history.”6 If knowing what you want from life is truly half the battle, Nuttall was on destiny’s path before the age of eight. She wanted the world of Mexican archaeology.

  Nuttall’s father was a native of Ireland who had arrived in San Francisco via Australia. He had a medical practice in California, but his own health was delicate, and, in hopes of improving it, they left the foggy coastline and moved to Europe. The Nuttall family traipsed around for the next eleven years, living in France, England, Germany, and Italy. Nuttall was educated along the way, becoming fluent in at least four languages and attending Bedford College, a school exclusively for women, in London. When she and the family returned to San Francisco in 1876, Nuttall was nineteen years old and already had significant knowledge of the world. She was worldly. She was wealthy. She was also probably looking for a husband, one who could continue to provide her with a life of travel.

  ABOVE : View of San Francisco, 1847

  She met her match in a Frenchman named Alphonse Louis Pinart. An explorer, anthropologist, and linguist, Pinart spent his own fortune pursuing scholarly interests and participating in expeditions, most recently (at the time he and Zelia met) in the Pacific. During his career he traveled through the Aleutian Islands and Alaska and to the coast of South America collecting artifacts and “ethnological specimens.” He also came to possess a legendary crystal skull that he bought off a shady French antiquarian named Eugène Boban.7

  Pinart and Nuttall were married when the latter was twenty-three years old, and the two embarked on a honeymoon worthy of a pair of adventurous hearts: through the West Indies, France, and Spain. When they returned to San Francisco, Nuttall was pregnant and their daughter, Nadine, was born in 1882.

  Despite their apparent compatibility, the relationship was an unhappy one. In 1884 they were formally separated. In the same year, Nuttall made her first trip to Mexico. She went for five months, accompanied by her mother, brother, sister, and baby girl. While she was there she began an intensive study of small terra-cotta heads she collected from the archaeological site of Teotihuacán. This was her first real archaeological undertaking, and the results were fruitful: in 1886 she published a paper in the American Journal of Archaeology and thereafter began to gain recognition as a bona fide scholar.

  In 1888 Nuttall was finally granted her divorce from Pinart. She took full custody of their daughter and reclaimed her maiden name not just for herself but for Nadine too. From a lifetime of letters that Nuttall wrote to friends and colleagues, it’s clear that her Nadine was the love of her life.

  Zelia and Nadine Nuttall relocated to Dresden, Germany, and took trips to all the great European cities, where Nuttall buried herself in their museum archives for research. Her career took off with the speed of a blazing comet. In contrast to other female pioneers, whose success was acknowledged in fits and starts (or posthumously), Nuttall had star quality. Doors opened for her. Before she was thirty years old, Madame Nuttall had been appointed Special Assistant in Mexican Archaeology at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology at Harvard, a post she kept for the next forty-seven years. She was also elected to the American Association for the Advancement of Science. It’s reasonable to say that Nuttall had become the original single-mother superstar.

  IN DRESDEN, NUTTALL was working with the philanthropist Phoebe Hearst, mother of newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst and benefactor of the Museum of Anthropology at the University of California, Berkeley. Hearst provided scholarships to women students at the time and exerted her influence (and checkbook) wherever she could further worthy educational aims. Nuttall and Hearst were thus both women of means and far-reaching interests. They collaborated in gathering cultural artifacts from around the world to enhance Hearst’s growing collection and material core for the museum she subsequently endowed. Hearst was the financier, Nuttall the huntress.

  ABOVE : The Edison Electrical Tower at the Chicago World’s Fair, 1893

  In a letter dated September 21, 1896, Nuttall writes to Hearst from Morocco, describing herself in no uncertain terms as a “scientist.” In addition, there is mention of her work in Russia, Egypt, and Switzerland. Yet a rare moment surfaces in her correspondence with Phoebe when she admits that “my undertaking was not an easy one—I felt the responsibility heavily at tim
es and it was a great trial to be alone & so far removed from all counsel or help.”8 In spite of the hardship Nuttall faced (and, it seems, the loneliness), she played a critical role in amassing the thousands of ethnographic objects of the Hearst collection.9 And if the task was not easy, she accomplished it admirably nonetheless.

  It was also around this time that Nuttall became acquainted with Franz Boas, one of the most important figures in the history of anthropology. The two became friends at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.10 The fair opened on May 1, and Chicago’s Midway was a kaleidoscope of outlandish exhibits, flashy architecture, food of every culinary persuasion (from pumpkin pie to escargot), and everything spectacular and strange, including the very first Ferris wheel. A 22,000-pound block of Canadian cheese vied for attention with an Egyptian cigarette booth. There were aquariums filled with exotic fish, giant California redwoods on display, a fountain of red wine, and a medieval knight sculpture made entirely of prunes. Sideshows and carnies called out to the crowds, and belly dancers shocked passersby with a risque “hootchy-kootchy” routine. Tambourines rang, train whistles clamored, volcano dioramas exploded and spat orange lava, and reconstructed “native villages” showcased cultures from around the globe. There was even a Moorish palace with funhouse mirrors and wax statues that was a sensation. New technological inventions like electricity were demonstrated to the crowd’s excited ooohs and ahhhhs, and a walk through the Horticultural Building provided an explosion of color, a happy assault on the senses, a verdant paradise of flowers, and simulated environments that ranged from Mexican deserts to Japanese tea gardens.11 Amid all this chaos and showmanship, Nuttall and Boas were huddled in “Department M,” a section of the fair devoted to archaeology, physical anthropology (bones), ethnology, and history.