An Autobiography

by Agatha Christie

  In any case, I did not wish to be comforted. I was scared of marriage.

  I realised, as I suppose many women realise sooner or later, that the only person who can really hurt you in life is a husband. Nobody else is close enough. On nobody else are you so dependent for the everyday companionship, affection, and all that makes up marriage. Never again, I decided, would I put myself at anyone’s mercy.

  One of my Air Force friends in Baghdad had said something to me that disquieted me. He had been discussing his own marital difficulties, and said at the end: ‘You think you have arranged your life, and that you can carry it on in the way you mean to do, but it will come to one of two things in the end. You will have either to take a lover or to take several lovers.

  You can make a choice between those two.’ Sometimes I had an uneasy feeling that what he said was right. But better either of those alternatives, I thought, than marriage. Several lovers could not hurt you. One lover could, but not in the way a husband could. For me, husbands would be out. At the moment all men were out–but that, my Air Force friend had insisted, would not last.

  What did surprise me was the amount of passes that were made as soon as I was in the slightly equivocal position of being separated from or having divorced a husband. One young man said to me, with the air of finding me thoroughly unreasonable: ‘Well, you’re separated from your husband, and I gather probably divorcing him, so what else can you expect?’

  At first I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was pleased or annoyed by these attentions. I thought on the whole that I was pleased. One is never too old to be insulted. On the other hand it made sometimes for tiresome complications–in one case with an Italian. I brought it on myself by not understanding Italian conventions. He asked me if I found the noise of the coaling of the boat kept me awake at night, and I said no because my cabin was on the starboard side away from the quay. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought you had cabin thirty-three.’ ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘mine’s an even number: sixty-eight.’ That was surely an innocent enough conversation from my point of view? I did not realise that to ask the number of your cabin was the convention by which an Italian asked if he might visit you there. Nothing more was said, but some time after midnight my Italian appeared. A very funny scene ensued. I did not speak Italian, he spoke hardly any English, so we both argued in furious whispers in French, I expressing indignation, he also expressing indignation but of a different kind. The conversation ran something like:

  ‘How dare you come to my cabin.’

  ‘You invited me here.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘You did. You told me your cabin number was sixty-eight.’

  ‘Well, you asked me what it was.’

  ‘Of course I asked you what it was. I asked you what it was because I wanted to come to your cabin. And you told me I could.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  This proceeded for some time, every now and then rising heatedly, until I hushed him down. I was quite sure that a rather prim Embassy doctor and his wife, who were in the next cabin to me, were forming the worst possible conjectures. I urged him angrily to go away. He insisted that he should stay. In the end his indignation rose to the point when it became greater than mine, and I began apologising to him for not realising that his question had been in effect a proposition. I got rid of him at last, still injured but finally accepting that I was not the experienced woman of the world he had thought. I also explained to him, which seemed to calm him down even more, that I was English and therefore frigid by nature. He condoled with me on this, and so honour–his honour–was satisfied. The Embassy doctor’s wife gave me a cold look the next morning.

  It was not until a good deal later that I discovered that Rosalind had sized up my various admirers from the beginning in a thoroughly practical fashion. ‘Well I thought of course you’d marry again some time, and naturally I was a bit concerned as to who it would be,’ she explained.

  Max had now returned from his stay in France with his mother. He said he would be working at the British Museum, and hoped I would let him know if I was up in London. This did not seem likely just at present, as I was settled at Ashfield. But then it happened that my publishers, Collins, were throwing a large party at the Savoy to which they particularly wanted me to come to meet my American publishers and other people.

  I would have appointments pretty well all that day, so in the end I went up by the night train, and invited Max to come and have breakfast with me at the Mews house.

  I was delighted at the thought of seeing him again, but strangely enough, the moment he arrived I was stricken with shyness. After the journey we had done together and the friendly terms on which we had been, I could not imagine why I was so thoroughly paralysed. He too, I think, was shy. However, by the end of breakfast, which I cooked for him, we were getting back to our old terms. I asked him if he could stay with us in Devon, and we fixed up a weekend when he could come. I was very pleased that I was not going to lose touch with him.

  I had followed up The Murder of Roger Ackroyd with The Seven Dials Mystery. This was a sequel to my earlier book The Secret of Chimneys, and was one of what I called ‘the light-hearted thriller type’. These were always easy to write, not requiring too much plotting and planning.

  I was gaining confidence over my writing now. I felt that I would have no difficulty in producing a book every year, and possibly a few short stories as well. The nice part about writing in those days was that I directly related it to money. If I decided to write a story, I knew it would bring me in £60, or whatever it was. I could deduct income tax–at that time 4/- or 5/- in the pound–and therefore I knew that I had a good £45 which was mine. This stimulated my output enormously. I said to myself, ‘I should like to take the conservatory down and fit it up as a loggia in which we could sit. How much will that be?’ I got my estimate, I went to my typewriter, I sat, thought, planned, and within a week a story was formed in my mind. In due course I wrote it, and then I had my loggia.

  How different from the last ten or twenty years of my life. I never know what I owe. I never know what money I have. I never know what money I shall have next year–and anyone who is looking after my income tax is always arguing over problems arising several years previously, which have not yet been ‘agreed’. What can one do in circumstances like this?

  But those were the sensible days. It was what I always call my plutocratic period. I was beginning to be serialised in America, and the money that came in from this, besides being far larger than anything I ever made from serial rights in Britain, was also at that time free of income tax.

  It was regarded as a capital payment. I was not getting the sums I was to receive later, but I could see them coming, and it seemed to me that all I had to do was to be industrious and rake in the money.

  Now I often feel that it might be as well if I never wrote another word, because if I do it will only make further complications.

  Max came down to Devon. We met at Paddington and went down by the midnight train. Things always happened when I was away. Rosalind greeted us with her usual bouncing good spirits, and immediately announced disaster. ‘Peter,’ she said, ‘has bitten Freddie Potter in the face.’

  That one’s precious resident cook-housekeeper has had her precious child bitten in the face by one’s precious dog is the last news one wishes to hear on returning to one’s household.

  Rosalind explained that it had not really been Peter’s fault: she had told Freddie Potter not to put his face near Peter and make whooping noises.

  ‘He came nearer and nearer to Peter, zooming, so of course Peter bit him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I don’t suppose Mrs Potter understands that.’

  ‘Well, she’s not been too bad about it. But of course, she’s not pleased.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t be.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Rosalind, ‘Freddie was very brave about it. He always is,’ she added, in loyal defence of her favou
rite playmate. Freddie Potter, the cook’s little boy, was junior to Rosalind by about three years, and she enormously enjoyed bossing him about, taking care of him, and acting the part of the munificent protector, as well as being a complete tyrant in arranging what games they played. ‘It’s lucky, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘that Peter didn’t bite his nose right off? If so, I suppose I should have had to look for it and stick it on some way or other–I don’t know quite how I mean, I suppose you would have to sterilise it first, or something, wouldn’t you? I don’t see quite how you would sterilise a nose. I mean you can’t boil it.’

  The day turned out to be one of those indecisive days which might be fine, but, to those experienced in Devonshire weather, was almost certain to be wet. Rosalind proposed we should go for a picnic on the moor.

  I was keen on this, and Max agreed, with an appearance of pleasure.

  Looking back, I can see that one of the things my friends had to suffer out of affection for me was my optimism about weather, and my misplaced belief that on the moor it would be finer than in Torquay. Actually the reverse was almost certain to be the case. I used to drive my faithful Morris Cowley, which was of course an open touring car, and which had an elderly hood with several gaps in its structure, so that, sitting in the back, water coursed steadily down the back of your neck. In all, going for a picnic with the Christies was a distinct endurance test.

  So we started off and the rain came on. I persisted, however, and told Max of the many beauties of the moor, which he could not quite see through the driving mist and rain. It was a fine test for my new friend from the Middle East. He certainly must have been fond of me to have endured it and preserve his air of enjoying himself.

  When we eventually got home and dried ourselves, then had got wet all over again in hot baths, we played a great many games with Rosalind.

  And next day, since it was also rather wet, we put on our mackintoshes and went for rousing walks in the rain with the unrepentant Peter, who was, however, by now on the best of terms once more with Freddie Potter.

  I was very happy being with Max again. I realised how close our companionship had been; how we seemed to understand each other almost before we spoke. Nevertheless, it was a shock to me when the next night, after Max and I had said goodnight and I had gone to bed, as I was lying there reading, there was a tap at the door and Max came.

  He had a book in his hand which I had lent him.

  ‘Thank you for lending me this,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed it.’ He put it down beside me. Then he sat down on the end of my bed, looked at me thoughtfully, and said that he wanted to marry me. No Victorian Miss exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mr Simpkins, this is so sudden!’ could have looked more completely taken aback than I did. Most females, of course, know pretty well what is in the wind–in fact they can see a proposal coming days ahead and can deal with it in one of two ways: either they can be so off-putting and disagreeable that their suitor becomes disgusted with his choice or they can let him gently come to the boil and get it over. But I know now that one can say perfectly genuinely, ‘Oh Mr Simpkins, this is so sudden!’

  It had never occurred to me that Max and I would be or ever could be on those terms. We were friends. We had become instant and closer friends, it seemed to me, than I and any friend had ever been before.

  We had a ridiculous conversation that there seems not much point in writing down here. I said immediately that I couldn’t. He asked why couldn’t I? I said for every reason. I was years older than he was–he admitted that, and said he had always wanted to marry someone older than he was. I said that was nonsense and it was a bad thing to do. I pointed out he was a Catholic, and he said he had considered that also–in fact, he said, he had considered everything. The only thing, I suppose, that I didn’t say, and which naturally I would have said if I had felt it, was that I didn’t want to marry him–because, quite suddenly, I felt that nothing in the world would be as delightful as being married to him.

  If only he was older or I was younger.

  We argued, I think, for about two hours. He gradually wore me down–not so much with protestations as with gentle pressure.

  He departed the next morning by the early train, and as I saw him off he said: ‘I think you will marry me, you know-when you have had plenty of time to think it over.’

  It was too early in the morning to marshal my arguments again.

  Having seen him off I went back home in a state of miserable indecision.

  I asked Rosalind if she liked Max. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I like him very much. I like him better than Colonel R. and Mr B.’ One could trust Rosalind to know what was going on, but to have the good manners not to mention it openly.

  How awful those next few weeks were. I was so miserable, so uncertain, so confused. First I decided that the last thing I wanted to do was to marry again, that I must be safe, safe from ever being hurt again; that nothing could be more stupid than to marry a man many years younger than myself; that Max was far too young to know his own mind; that it wasn’t fair to him–he ought to marry a nice young girl; that I was just beginning to enjoy life on my own. Then, imperceptibly, I found my arguments changing. It was true that he was much younger than I was, but we had so much in common. He was not fond of parties, gay, a keen dancer; to keep up with a young man like that would have been very difficult for me. But surely I could walk round museums as well as anyone, and probably with more interest and intelligence than a younger woman.

  I could go round all the churches in Aleppo and enjoy it; I could listen to Max talking about the classics; could learn the Greek alphabet and read translations of the Aeneid–in fact I could take far more interest in Max’s work and his ideas than in any of Archie’s deals in the City.

  I could go round all the churches in Aleppo and enjoy it; I could listen to Max talking about the classics; could learn the Greek alphabet and read translations of the Aeneid–in fact I could take far more interest in Max’s work and his ideas than in any of Archie’s deals in the City.

  ‘But you mustn’t marry again,’ I said to myself. ‘You mustn’t be such a fool.‘

  The whole thing had happened so insidiously. If I had considered Max as a possible husband when I first met him, then I should have been on my guard. I should never have slipped into this easy, happy relationship. But I hadn’t seen this coming–and there we were, so happy, finding it all as much fun and as easy to talk to each other as if we had been married already.

  Desperately I consulted my home oracle. ‘Rosalind,’ I said, ‘would you mind if I married again?’

  ‘Well, I expect you will sometime,’ said Rosalind, with the air of one who always considers all possibilities. ‘I mean, it is the natural thing to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, perhaps.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have liked you to marry Colonel R.,’ said Rosalind thoughtfully. I found this interesting, as Colonel R. had made a great fuss of Rosalind and she had appeared delighted with the games he had played for her enjoyment.

  I mentioned the name of Max.

  ‘I think he’d be much the best,’ said Rosalind. ‘In fact I think it would be a very good thing if you did marry him.’ Then she added: ‘We might have a boat of our own, don’t you think? And he would be useful in a lot of ways. He is rather good at tennis, isn’t he? He could play with me.’ She pursued the possibilities with the utmost frankness, considering them entirely from her own utilitarian point of view. ‘And Peter likes him’ said Rosalind, in final approval.

  All the same, that summer was one of the most difficult of my life. One person after another was against the idea. Perhaps really, at bottom, that encouraged me. My sister was firmly against it. The age difference! Even my brother-in-law, James, sounded a note of prudence.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he said, ‘that you may have been rather well–influenced by the life you enjoyed so much? The archaeological life? That you enjoyed being with the Woolleys at Ur? Perhaps you have mistaken that for what isn’t quite such a warm fee
ling as you think.’

  But I knew that wasn’t so.

  ‘Of course, it’s entirely your own business,’ he added gently. Dear Punkie, of course, did not at all think it was my own business–she thought it was her own particular business to save me from making a silly mistake. Carlo, my own very dear Carlo, and her sister, were towers of strength. They supported me, though entirely through loyalty, I think. I believe they, too, probably, thought it a silly thing to do, but they would never have said so because they were not the kind of people who wanted to influence anyone in their plans. I am sure they thought it a pity that I had not the desire to marry an attractive colonel of forty-two, but as I had decided otherwise, well, they would back me up.

  I finally broke the news to the Woolleys. They seemed pleased. Certainly Len was pleased; with Katharine it was always more difficult to tell.

  ‘Only,’ she said firmly, ‘you mustn’t marry him for at least two years.’ ‘Two years?’ I said, dismayed.

  ‘No, it would be fatal.’

  ‘Well, I think,’ I said, ‘that’s very silly. I am already a great many years older than he is. What on earth is the point of waiting until I am older still? He might as well have such youth as I’ve got.’

  ‘I think it would be very bad for him,’ said Katharine. ‘Very bad for him at his age to think he can have everything he wants at once. I think it would be better to make him wait for it–a good long apprenticeship.’

  This was an idea that I could not agree with. It seemed to me to be a severe and puritanical point of view.

  To Max I said that I thought his marrying me was all wrong, and that he must think it over very carefully.