Letters From Baghdad

by Bell, Gertrude

  That's not the only party I've been to, but the other was improvised. Mr. Bullard and I were riding last Sunday through the exquisite fruit gardens S. of the town and I insisted on paying a call on their owner. We found him in his orchards, a hale old man who owns 2 square miles, or thereabouts, of the richest gardens near Bagdad and plants his seedling potatoes with his own hands. He led us through his fruit trees, showed us where he was laying out a new orange grove and where transplanting spring onions. Apricot and peach, apple and greengage are all in white and pink flower, and the thick grass lines the water channels, as it does only in exceptionally good years. Therewith he took us to his house and gave us an excellent tea of fresh bread and butter — the latter a rare luxury — and preserved fruits. We sat on a wide wooden bench in his mud-built guest room and listened to his shrewd talk. As a sequel to the visit he sent me to-day a present of eggs and fresh beans, wrapped up in a red cotton handkerchief.

  With Sir Percy away, I have even more visitors than before and most of my morning is taken up with interviews. The Naqib's water pipe has been the question of the hour. I may say it has devastated my prospect as well as swamping the Naqib's quarter, for nothing in this world will keep it in repair. Yet you can't treat it like an ordinary pipe, for it is a religious bequest and must therefore be approached with the utmost circumspection. At length the Naqib, after much heart searching, has agreed to let the Municipality be responsible for its upkeep and a load is slipping from my shoulders.

  Yet it's because matters like this one have been so tactfully handled by Sir Percy that all the notables come to tea at the Civil Dispensary...

  [In March she again leaves Bagdad to motor among the Sheikhs and —]

  "got a lot of tribal stuff."

  [I include here some extracts from letters written by Gertrude at this time to Mildred Lowther (daughter of Lord Ullswater) with whom her friendship had become very close during 19 15 when Mildred helped in the work for tracing the wounded and missing.]

  To Hon. Mildred Lowther. March 6th, 1918.

  I want to see you so very much, beloved Milly. I feel as if I had jumped into old age during the last two years. You would scarcely believe from outside I am the same person, but inside I am not changed.

  To the same.

  BAGDAD, March 18, 1918.

  My Father eagerly desires me to leave this summer but I can't settle myself to making plans while the fate of the world swings in the balance.

  To the same.

  July 6th, 1918.

  No, I'm not coming back yet, darling. Do not forget me. When I come back I shall want your help and understanding so much. It will be so difficult to pick up life in England I dread it. You must give me a hand as you did before.

  It is too hot to write more. I shall go up on the roof and lie on a hot sheet while the sandflies drift through the meshes of the mosquito net — that's the Arabian night if the truth were known.

  To H. B.

  SAMAWAH, March 17th, 1918.

  At kufah while I was standing on the high point aforesaid I saw some black tents and camels in a hollow to the S. and presently the owners crept up to us and laid their difficulties before me. They were men of the Ghazzi, a semi-nomadic tribe near Nasiriyeh, and they had been out in the desert since October. Now they wanted to go back to their own people by the river for the summer, but when they got to Shinafiyah where they meant to cross the river, behold there were soldiers and people riding about and the devil's own puzzlement. And they wanted to know whether there was permission for their crossing or what was to happen to them if they might not come down to the river. I said their Sheikh was a friend of the Govt. and bade them go in peace where they liked, but they were not happy till I wrote them an order to say they might cross and continue on their way. With that they kissed my shoulder and departed reassured, I hope, but think what bewilderment all these strange happenings must cause to camel folk who don't know what the intention of the soldiers and the Govt. may be. Next day was disgusting, a high wind and terrific rain. Fortunately my tent stood - (by a miracle) and my roof didn't leak much. There was nothing to be done but to continue sitting under it. I wrote up my tribal notes, and in the afternoon was visited by various sheikhs and saiyids and had some interesting talk, the net result of which was that they too were a little bewildered and anxious like the camel people. We have only been in effective occupation in these parts for the last three months; we are new and strange to them, and they to us. I've had in masses of sheikhs to see me and I think I've made a pretty good tribal register...

  It's immensely interesting seeing this bit of the Euphrates and making acquaintance with its inhabitants. No doubt I've only got the vaguest outline of what there is to know, but at any rate it is an outline of a very complicated bit of tribal country, concerning which we were, a few months ago, in complete ignorance...

  To F.B.

  BAGDAD, March 28th, 1918.

  ...A terrible cloud has fallen on our work here in the murder at Najaf of one of our Army Political Officers [this was Captain Marshall]. He was a brilliant creature — I personally was very fond of him, and spent a delightful afternoon with him three weeks ago when I was at Kufah. He had I thought a great future, and I do most bitterly regret him...

  This tragedy cast a great storm over the end of my journey, but I must tell you the remainder of my tale. I wrote to you from Samawah the day before I left. I came up the Hillah branch of the Euphrates in a motor launch from Samawah to Diwaniyeh. Capt. Goldsmith, a young Surrey officer, came with me for the first couple of hours, with a party of mounted Police — for honour you understand, not for safety. I could have done with less but in spite of them all the ride over the desert green with aromatic plants was delicious. The smell of a desert in spring is like nothing in this world. Each night I held a levy of notables after dinner. The second night when I had listened to the praises of myself, my government and my host, I was fortunately relieved by the entrance of an aged worthy whose appearance and conversation I must describe to you. His face was black with age, his beard scarlet with henna; the black and red were enfolded in a gigantic white turban. As he entered we all gave him salutations which were repeated when he had sat down. Talk then flagged until he took up his tale. "As I came in," said he. "As I entered the very door, without a pen I composed a verse." "Without a pen!" — ejaculations of surprise and admiration fell from the company and we begged to be acquainted with the production. He raised his ancient bony hand as though he would bid the world listen, and in a cracked voice recited three times running, an egregious couplet to the effect that all had learned humanity from the high Government, and that the coming of the Khatun (me) had filled the universe with joy. After the third recital I felt it my duty to write it down — seeing that he had no pen. The rest of the hearers overflowed with praise and a general hope was expressed that "Please God" and with His help the Haji would that night be able to complete the ode so felicitously begun. But whether he did or he did not I don't know, for I fled from Diwaniyah in a motor very early before the notables were awake.

  The I.G.C. has been up for a couple of days cheerful and cheering as ever. Also whom do you think I have seen? Driver Woodcock, Mrs. Taggart's grandson. I gave him some cigarettes and a book of mine, which he asked me for, and to-day I've got him some razors and things from the Red Cross.

  I must tell you, I'm a person of consequence, for Father's launch is beating all records.

  Father's letter of Jan. 15th came also with my last mail. I wish you wouldn't write me such splendidly long letters. Though I love them, Father's account of his week's work is really appalling. His billiard table groaning with his papers! I also got your wire about the Geog. Soc. Medal. It was an absurd thing to give me; they must have been hard up for travellers this year.

  To her family.

  BAGDAD, April 5th, 1918.

  Mr. Bullard and I rode miles up the Tigris and dropped in to call on a charming old gentleman who owns a large garden by the river bank. W
e were received by his servants with enthusiasm and led out into the garden where we found Faik Bey budding orange trees. He then took us through his fruit garden and cornfields, out to the edge of the desert. It was all green and wonderful with the barley in the ear and deep grass under the fruit trees. So we went back with him to tea, which consisted mainly of dates and oranges. My other gardener host, Haji Naji, came in to see me this week. He was dressed in beautiful purple cloth and looked very imposing: "Do you sit here all day and work?" said he, inscribing imaginary epistles in the air with his forefinger. "Very laborious!" and he tapped his forehead to indicate his sense of my mental effort. "You must come out again to my garden and be happy among the fruit trees."

  A raging south wind, which brought that night a wild storm of rain — rain which lasted intermittently for 3 days and that's unusual at this time of year — but very fortunate, for it keeps the world cool and fresh. On the second afternoon the rain held up a little and I, not being able to bear sitting in the office any longer, waded out through the mud and had tea with the French nuns, darling creatures, whom I found trembling with anxiety about the news of the battle — as who is not? ...

  Behind all one's doings lies the terrible sense of these days in France. The first assault seems to have spent itself — at what cost! — and we now, with deep anxiety await news of the second.

  Goodbye, my beloved family...

  To H.B.

  BAGDAD, April 10th, 1918.

  I am sending home 50 little black sheepskins in 5 parcels. My fur coat is in holes and some day they will do to make a new one, being both pretty and cheap.

  The Willingdons are here on a short excursion from Bombay, staying with the C. in C. It is very nice having them, they are so cheerful and pleasant. If the hosts enjoy a party you may be pretty sure the guests are happy too. Among the latter were two wise men from Najaf, crowned with gigantic white turbans, and it was assuredly the first time in history that Najaf Ulama [the doctors of divinity, the learned clerics of Islam] had been seen at such a gathering...

  If I can concoct a suitable telegram I shall telegraph to you saying that if you want me to come home this summer you must make arrangements from your end. Women aren't allowed to cross the Medit., but I should think they'll make an exception for me. If I can't come to England I shall go on leave to Baluchistan.

  To H.B.

  BAGDAD, April 18th, 1918.

  I've just got a four weeks' mail with your letters of Jan. 27, 31, Feb. 12 and 26, and Mother's of Jan, 30, Feb. 6, 20 and 23. It's an immense comfort to have them. Three days ago I telegraphed to you about plans, saying I doubted whether coming home was advisable. I received next day a wire from you approving all my plans of Jan. 3 1 - but Lord knows what they were! However, I've left it at that, because you will certainly see Sir Percy in a day or two and I shall have your final decision. My own feeling is that it's no good attempting to make plans while everything in France hangs in the balance. While things are very critical I don't want to leave this country for, naturally, it will make people here extremely jumpy as to their future — and I, in a small way, am one of the people who can help to comfort them. If I went, I fear they might think I was deserting them, and that would make them more nervous still.

  Except for the fear of your disappointment if I can't come, I don't worry. I'm perfectly well, better than I've been for a year; and escape in the middle of the summer to high ground in Persia is always possible. Two easy days' motoring lands one 5,000 feet up, just think of it 1 So as regards health I'm all right.

  First the accounts of Springy. I'm really glad he hadn't had long months of failing health, as I had feared. I do grieve so much over the loss of s him. He did his part splendidly, none better. We've just had the Willingdons here. I saw a great deal of them and loved them both. The Chief insisted on my coming with them to Babylon. We had a delightful two days. We motored to Hillah, where we lunched...We went to Babylon; this wonderful spring had clothed the ruin mounds in flowering weeds and cast a fresh beauty over the dust of palaces. I took them on to a high place, spread out a map, and told them all the long tale, down to Nebuchadnezzar, and then down to Alexander, who died there in the palace on the northern mound. The Willingdons were the most enchanting audience, so was the Chief, and one of the staff said that though he hated ruins (i.e., the staff man hated them) he really had liked Babylon. Lady W. and I agreed that I really had slung quite a good scalp on to my belt!...

  I jumped up at 6 and walked for an hour along Euphrates bank — the beloved river — under palms and willow trees, talked with the peasants who were driving their oxen up and down the long slopes of the water lifts, heard the Mesopotamian nightingale and remembered that' these were the same sights and sounds that Nebuchadnezzar had known and even Hammurabi. Were they, I wonder, comforted and sustained by the eternal beauty of the earth and the simple country life of field and river? We motored that day to Birs Nimrud which is supposed to be the Tower of Babel, and I need not say isn't (because, partly, there wasn't one, and partly because the one there wasn't was not in that place — but I fear you'll fail to understand me!) and home to Bagdad. I motored always with Lord W. and told him all we had done — irrigation, agriculture, pacification of the tribes — with illustrations drawn from the country we passed through, and he was the most sympathetic listener. He is so delightfully full of interest and eager that I don't think he can have been bored, for if you care for administration it was a tale worth hearing.

  To H.B.

  BAGDAD, April 19, 1918.

  This evening I have a telegram from Sir P. saying that you and he in consultation had agreed that I had better not come. I feared he would warn you that the journey is now very difficult and I think the decision is a wise one but I can't help feeling a dreadful tightening at the heart at the thought of not seeing you within measurable time. I do sometimes want you so much that I can scarcely bear it. You could always get me home by making the India Office or the F.O. telegraph that they want me and asking the Admiralty to give me facilities. We'll see how things turn; it may be easier in a month or two. I've almost forgotten about France in thinking of you and Mother and Maurice...

  This is becoming a sort of diary letter — it's because you are so much in my mind that I want to talk to you. To-day it has been positively cold. I was dressed in a silk coat and skirt and shivered so much that I had to get into a white serge gown which was fortunately hanging up in my dressing-room at the office. Amazing, isn't it? Last year we were grilling at this date.

  I've brought out a work on Euphrates geography and tribes which has given satisfaction. I shall have to revise it now, for I learnt so much more when I was down the river last month, but at least it's a beginning. I must tell you that I know a great deal about the Euphrates and nothing about the Diala. That's the next task when I can get at it.

  The nuns are making me a muslin gown — it will be a monument of love and care, for I really believe they lie awake at night thinking what new stitches they can put into it. I often go in to see them after tea; we sit on the balcony in their courtyard and talk of France and Bagdad. And then they all troop down in a body to the door to wave me farewell down their narrow, curling street — it's not 6 feet wide, nor are any streets wider in the heart of Bagdad. Yesterday I rode with the O.C. of one of the big hospitals, Col. Crossley, and think of it! he had been for 2 years at Richmond, had taught and examined many of our R. Cross detachments and been to our field day in 1912...

  Good-bye, darling Father. I think and think of you. However long I'm away from you, your love and Mother's is like the solid foundation on which all life rests. But I don't feel as if I could bear not seeing you for very much longer.

  To H.B.

  BAGDAD, May 4th, 1918.

  Received June 22nd, 1918.

  The river has been in great flood this week. We trembled for our sown fields, but it's a wonderful sight. The great wealth and bounty of water. All the little water courses flowed in spate through the field
s and gardens, things grew as you watched them and the Mespot nightingales shouted through the orchards.

  The event of the week was a tea party which I gave to the ladies of Bagdad in Sir Percy's house. I asked no one but the big People, mainly Moslems, and to my surprise they came in flocks. An Armenian family (Madame Sevian and her daughters, whom I like very much), the Mother Superior and some of the nuns came to help and it was an immense success. I've heard that the ladies said that not even in a Mohammedan house would so much care have been taken to exclude all males — it's odd isn't it, that the success of a party should depend on the absence of that element! One woman, the wife of the Director of Religious Bequests (Moslem of the Moslem), said as she went away that if only they could see one another and meet more in company life would be quite different. So now I'm concocting a scheme to hire the cinematograph for an evening and have a ladies' night. They never see anything or go anywhere, think of it!

  To F.B.

  BAGDAD, May 9th, 1918.

  I've had a charming little jaunt of 5 days. I motored to kamadi in about five hours and stayed there with General Brooking.

  Next morning I motored on to Hit over a barren desert road which not even this year's rain can bring to life. We walked about Hit which is the strangest place, unlike any other in Mesop. — set on a high steep mound, made of some 6,000 years' of former Hits... And then we went on into the edges of the desert, flower strewn, struck the Kubaisah road, where I met several dead people who were once me, riding on camels, and gave them greeting with mixed feelings — And so I came home to breakfast.

  To H.B. and F.B.

  BAGDAD, May 24th, 1918.

  Will you forgive me if I write in pencil — it's not really a bit hot, but hot enough to make a fountain pen rather a nuisance; it dries up so fast. Here we are at the end of May and the temperature rarely over 100 — it's wonderful...

  Oh dear, how much I would like to have you just for an hour to show you our office. I'm accustomed to it now, but it's a wonderful place. We occupy two big houses built round courtyards on the river. Capt. W. and I have rooms next door to one another on the first floor. Mine is all shielded with mats and blinds against the sun and is beautifully cool. It has a writing table and a big map table, a sofa and some chairs with white cotton covers and lovely bits of Persian brocade over them, 2 Or 3 very good rugs on the brick floor and a couple of exquisite old Persian glass vases on top of the black wood bookcase. The walls covered with maps. It's a nice place. On the verandah, which runs round the inside of the court, sit our kavasses — office servants in khaki uniform — to fetch and carry files and papers for us, run messages and so on. They are mostly Arabs, some Persians, with immensely high bulbous felt hats. Opposite is the room of the Financial Adviser, Major May; the peacock mostly sits with him; and in between the map room, the cypher room, the room of the P.O. Bagdad, Captain Gillan, with a crowd of people waiting always to see him. In the next house all the clerks, British N.C.O.'s, capital men, Eurasians doing the confidential work (and they are first rate too), two vernacular departments, Arab and Persian — I love them all; they are so delightful to work with. But a medley, isn't it! And though I'm accustomed to it, I never quite get over the amusement and interest of it. I spend an entertaining time every morning learning Persian, which I've almost forgotten. But it comes back quickly, and during the first week I've already begun to chatter an amazing jargon, three parts Arabic, I'm afraid. I have the complete illusion of speaking Persian, for my teacher (one of our vernacular clerks) instructs me in Arabic and understands what I'm trying to say, but I fear the natives of Persia won't. However, it's great fun.