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  GERTRUDE BELL

  GERTRUDE BELL

  QUEEN OF THE DESERT,

  SHAPER OF NATIONS

  Georgina Howell

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  19 Union Square West, New York 10003

  Copyright © 2006 by Manoir La Roche Ltd.

  Maps copyright © 2006 by Raymond Turvey

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  Originally published in 2006 by Macmillan, Great Britain, as Daughter of the Desert

  Published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  First American edition, 2007

  Many of Gertrude Bell’s letters, diaries, and papers are reproduced here by kind permission of the Robinson Library, University of Newcastle upon Tyne. Her letters to Valentine Chirol; letters from Sir Gilbert Clayton, Lord Cromer, and F.C.C. Balfour about her; and the letter from Sir Louis Mallet to Sir Edward Grey concerning her journey to Hayyil are reproduced by kind permission of Durham University Library.

  Dick Doughty-Wylie’s last letter to Mrs. Jean Coe is reproduced by kind permission of the executor of the will of the late Mrs. M. Inaund; and thanks to Tyne Tees Television for providing the tape Gertrude Bell: The Uncrowned Queen of Iraq, programme 2, “Mysteries” series.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Howell, Georgina, 1942–

  [Daughter of the desert]

  Gertrude Bell : queen of the desert, shaper of nations / Georgina Howell.

  p. cm.

  “Originally published as: Daughter of the desert. London : Macmillan, 2006.”

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-374-16162-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-374-16162-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  1. Bell, Gertrude Lowthian, 1868–1926. 2. Women travelers—Middle East—Biography. 3. Women archaeologists—Great Britain—Biography. 4. Women Asianists—Biography. 5. Colonial administrators—Great Britain—Biography. 6. Colonial administrators—Middle East—Biography. I. Title.

  DA566.9.B39H69 2007

  956'.02092—dc22

  [B]

  2006029994

  Designed by Jonathan D. Lippincott

  www.fsgbooks.com

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For, with, and also by Christopher Bailey

  We are all the more one because we are many

  For we have made ample room for love in the gap where we are sundered.

  Our unlikeness reveals its breath of beauty radiant with one common life,

  Like mountain peaks in the morning sun.

  —Rabindranath Tagore

  CONTENTS

  Maps

  Preface

  1. GERTRUDE AND FLORENCE

  2. EDUCATION

  3. THE CIVILIZED WOMAN

  4. BECOMING A PERSON

  5. MOUNTAINEERING

  6. DESERT TRAVEL

  7. DICK DOUGHTY-WYLIE

  8. LIMIT OF ENDURANCE

  9. ESCAPE

  10. WAR WORK

  11. CAIRO, DELHI, BASRA

  12. GOVERNMENT THROUGH GERTRUDE

  13. ANGER

  14. FAISAL

  15. CORONATION

  16. STAYING AND LEAVING

  Chronology

  Note on Money Values

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  PREFACE

  It was summer, 1997. As contract writers for The Sunday Times Magazine, we had collected for dinner in a London restaurant at the invitation of the editor Robin Morgan, to hear his thoughts for the new winter features. Philip Norman, whose award-winning interviews have captured the magic and madness of rock ’n’ roll; Vatican expert John Cornwell of Jesus College, Cambridge; Bryan Appleyard, who can explain advanced science and make it gloriously readable; and others were tucking into our duck en croûte when each of us was invited to write a feature for a series to be entitled “My Hero.” I returned home excited: I knew who “My Heroine” would be, and I thought a reminder of her glorious life was overdue. The feature, published that October, provoked the biggest mailbag I’d had in thirty-six years of journalism.

  At one time more famous than Lawrence of Arabia, Gertrude Bell chose to compete on male terms in a masculine world. She avoided all publicity. She would not have cared that in an opening sequence of the popular 1997 film The English Patient, her name was taken in vain by British soldiers poring over a map spread out on a folding table in a camouflage tent:

  “But can we get through those mountains?”

  “The Bell maps show a way.”

  Then: “Let’s hope he was right.”

  He!

  When I started to write about Gertrude Bell I revered her as one of those heroines of the Wilder Shores who followed their romantic notions here and there about the world. I loved the way she dressed and the way she lived—so stylishly, a pistol strapped to her calf under silk petticoats and dresses of lace and tucked muslin, her desert table laid with crisp linen and silver, her cartridges wrapped in white stockings and pushed into the toes of her Yapp canvas boots. She was not a feminist; she had no need or wish for special treatment. Like Mrs. Thatcher—admire her or despise her—she took on the world exactly as she found it. Only this was in the 1880s, when women were hardly educated or allowed to prove themselves outside the home.

  The Bells were very rich: but it was not money that got Gertrude a First at Oxford, or helped her survive encounters with murderous tribes in the desert, or made her a spy or a major in the British army, or qualified her as poet, scholar, historian, mountaineer, photographer, archaeologist, gardener, cartographer, linguist, and distinguished servant of the state. In each of these fields she excelled, even pioneered. She was many-faceted—in this respect comparable with those giants among mankind, Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great of Russia. T. E. Lawrence wrote that Gertrude was “born too gifted.” But rigour was the real legacy that she was born with, and she was intensely proud of her family’s pragmatism—their grasp of economics, the good management of their mighty steel business, and their public and private works of charity. When called upon, she dedicated herself to grinding, unglamorous office work: to the structuring and filing that transformed the wartime Wounded and Missing Office of the Red Cross from chaos to an efficiently functioning system; to the minutiae of administration and map-drawing; to the taking of hundreds of precise measurements at archaeological sites; and to the writing of reams of position papers in Basra and Baghdad.

  Rising in three generations from artisan to high middle class, the Bells were beginning to marry into the aristocracy. They remained outside the great social networks of English life, those exclusive clubs that conferred inherited privilege and power and determined your prejudices, associates, and affiliations. Gertrude enjoyed a rare freedom from the traps that imprison us in the grooves of social life. She met the great and the good on equal terms, but she knew something of what it meant to be working class, and of how those families stood on a knife-edge between survival and precipitation into the street and the workhouse. Her clear, unequivocal vision cut straight through political correctness, self-importance, status, and fame. She gave no quarter to an opinionated bishop, a pompous statesman, or a self-satisfied professor. At fifteen she decided that the unprovable did not exist, and told her scripture teacher so without prevarication. She would meet people head on—whether a patronizing don, a knife-waving dervish, a corrupt Turkish official, or an effete English aristocrat. Her friends came from diverse walks of life, ranging from an Iraqi gardener to the Viceroy of India, from a Times correspondent to a battle-scarred tribal warrior, from a mutjahid to a servant from Aleppo.
Once they had been admitted to her trust, she was the most loving, the most attentive and faithful of friends.

  Of course she made enemies. She snubbed the modestly gifted wives of British officers—“The devil take all inane women!” she once said; she was liable to attack anyone who menaced her, confronted villains and murderers and would denounce them face-to-face over the dinner table. It seemed to me at one point during my research that she might have been murdered by one of the latter, and there are students of her work and at least one recent member of the British Council who believe this to be the case. As if aware of constant threat, she always slept with her gun under her pillow, even at her family home in Yorkshire, where she preferred to spend her nights in a summer-house in the garden rather than in her own comfortable bedroom amongst her beloved family. Was she trying to protect them? While there were undoubtedly people who wished her dead, I found no evidence of murder, though facts are hard to come by. I do believe that, just as, full of curiosity and excitement, she had always courageously ventured out into the unknown on her expeditions, so she ventured out one last time.

  She yearned to be married and to have a family of her own, but time and again, tragedy intervened to put an end to those hopes. She was, however, much loved, not least by that great family to whom she finally dedicated her life and work: the people of Arabia. And they have not forgotten her. Recently, her name and her work for Iraq were reinstated in the nationwide school syllabus. Lawrence kick-started the Arab Revolt, but it was Gertrude who gave the Arabs a route to nationhood. She cajoled and intruded, guided and engineered, and finally delivered the often promised and so nearly betrayed prize of independence. While she remained dedicated to this mission through thick and thin, Lawrence agonized, faltered, and finally abandoned the Arab issue and tried to escape from his own tortured personality, to reappear in the nondescript persona of one Aircraftsman Shaw.

  Gertrude Bell stuck to her ambition for the Arabs with a wonderful consistency. She showed her clever but floundering colleagues of the Cairo Intelligence Bureau how to win their bit of the Great War; she guided the fledgling British administration of Mesopotamia to a thriving future, hand in hand with the Arabs and to their mutual advantage. And she stuck to her guns when her colonialist chief tried to have her sacked, when Churchill wanted to pull the British out of Iraq altogether, when political machinations in Europe brought all her achievements to the brink of disaster, and when, playing her last card, she kept King Faisal from throwing it all away in the name of Arab supremacy.

  She established the public library and the Iraq Museum in Baghdad, of which the principal wing was dedicated in 1930 to her memory. The museum still guards the remaining treasures of a country whose origins were those of the first civilizations. While Iraq’s future is desperately uncertain, one fact remains indisputable. Dying in 1926, Gertrude Bell left behind a benevolent and effective Iraq government, functioning without institutionalized corruption and intent on equality and peace. In days when “Empire” and “colonialism” are dirty words, Britain has little to be ashamed of in the establishment of Iraq, in which the promise of Arab independence was finally honoured. I have come to agree with her old friend from Oxford, Janet Hogarth, who wrote of her: “She was, I think, the greatest woman of our time, perhaps amongst the greatest of all time.”

  As long as Faisal lived, Iraq was a place where all its people could carry on their daily lives without fear and suffering. His son Prince Ghazi—the little boy for whom Gertrude had bought toys at Harrods—inherited the crown in 1933 and continued to rule the country strongly, perhaps too strongly: in suppressing an Assyrian uprising for independence, he allowed the massacre of 1933. After Gertrude’s death, the dynasty she had put in place continued for thirty-two more years, while Europe plunged into war again after only thirteen, dragging the rest of the world with it. What would America and Britain not give today for the promise of a peaceful and well governed Iraq for even four years?

  Her prolific letters, diaries, and intelligence position papers, no less than her eight books and her magnum opus, Review of the Civil Administration of Mesopotamia, make Gertrude Bell one of the best-documented women of all time. Her voice as it comes through in her writing, so personal, so visionary, so humorous and crystal-clear in its purpose, has guided me as to how to write this book. Although she lacked the narrative strain needed to set all she had to say in the context of her story, her voice ought to be heard and appreciated, it seemed to me—which is why I decided to use many more of her own words than would appear in a conventional biography. In parallel with her story, they give the immediacy and the sparkle of her ardent mind, vividly revealing her wit and character.

  GERTRUDE BELL

  One

  GERTRUDE AND FLORENCE

  It is 22 March 1921, the last day of the Cairo Conference and the final opportunity for the British to determine the postwar future of the Middle East. Like any tourists, the delegation make the routine tour of the pyramids and have themselves photographed on camels in front of the Sphinx. Standing beneath its half-effaced head, two of the most famous Englishmen of the twentieth century confront the camera in some disarray: Colonial Secretary Winston Churchill, who has just, to the amusement of all, fallen off his camel, and T. E. Lawrence, tightly constrained in the pin-striped suit and trilby of a senior civil servant. Between them, at her ease, rides Gertrude Bell, the sole delegate possessing knowledge indispensable to the Conference. Her face, in so far as it can be seen beneath the brim of her rose-decorated straw hat, is transfigured with happiness. Her dream of an independent Arab nation is about to come true, her choice of a king endorsed: her Iraq is about to become a country. Just before leaving the Semiramis Hotel that morning, Churchill has cabled to London the vital message “Sharif’s son Faisal offers hope of best and cheapest solution.”

  By what evolution did a female descendant of Cumbrian sheep farmers become, in her time, the most influential figure in the Middle East? She was as English as English can be, which is to say that she was bred in the wuthering heights of Yorkshire. These northern farmers have acquired a very particular character ever since the eleventh century, when, alone among the English, they refused to submit to William the Conqueror. Physically and mentally tough, they are given to few words, unvarnished and bluntly delivered.

  Gertrude Bell’s great-great-grandfather was a Carlisle blacksmith, and her great-grandfather began the first alkali factory and iron foundry at Jarrow. Her famous and powerful grandfather Sir Isaac Lowthian Bell, born in 1816, was a metallurgical chemist and perhaps the country’s foremost industrialist. Manufacturing steel on a huge scale, he produced one-third of the metal used in Britain and much of that used for railtrack and bridge construction in the rapidly developing Empire. He became a Fellow of the Royal Society, Britain’s most distinguished scientific institution. Educated first as an engineer, he studied at Edinburgh University and at the Sorbonne in Paris, then in Denmark and the south of France. Author of The Chemical Phenomena of Iron Smelting, he was looked upon as the “high priest of British Metallurgy” and he was the first to identify the value of phosphorus fertiliser as a by-product of steel-making. Referred to as “Sir Isaac” or more familiarly as “Lowthian,” in 1854 he was elected Lord Mayor of Newcastle upon Tyne, then later became Liberal Member of Parliament for Hartlepool and High Sheriff of County Durham. He was a contemporary and friend of Charles Darwin, Thomas Huxley, William Morris, and John Ruskin, men to whom can be attributed seminal advances in evolution and science, art, architecture, and social reform. Lowthian was president or vice-president of eight national engineering and chemical institutions, several of which he had founded. He was also the director of the North Eastern Railway.

  With Lowthian’s two brothers John and Tom, Bell Brothers owned collieries, quarries, and iron ore mines; factories and foundries whose furnaces, burning twenty-four hours a day, regularly reddened the night skies. His company and its associates employed more than forty-seven thousand men, and the fa
mily boast was that they would make anything “from a needle to a ship.” Besides the first iron and steel works in Newcastle, and the second at Port Clarence in Middlesbrough, he set up a chemical plant for the country’s first manufacture of aluminium—until then, a metal as valuable as gold. On the factory’s opening day, he was driven in his carriage through the streets of Newcastle in an aluminium top hat, which he doffed to the crowd. He was the first British ironmaster to own a machine for making steel rope.

  Lowthian wrote several scientific books, but his most remarkable was a comprehensive and logical assessment of Britain’s prospects for competing with the world in steel production. He invested heavily in research into the process of steel-making, and was determined to push Britain into developing new technological industries. In the hope that all of British industry would follow his example, he advocated government support for scientific research and technical development. But in this, after a lifetime’s work, he failed. As he had forecast, other countries—and particularly Germany with its Krupps armaments and Thyssen steel—grew in technical competence and productivity, outstripping Britain and building the wealth and power they were to wield in the First World War.

  A formidable giant of a man, a paterfamilias who would have almost sixty grandchildren—the number is disputed—Lowthian and his wife, Margaret Pattinson, set a pattern for the Bells of comfortable rather than lavish lifestyle. Considering the huge scale of his enterprises, and his position as the Bill Gates of his day, he did not live extravagantly. This may have had something to do with Margaret’s influence: she came from a family of shopkeepers and scientists. His first house, Washington New Hall—four miles south of Newcastle upon Tyne, a stone’s throw from the home of the ancestors of George Washington—was not quite a mansion, and the house he built at the zenith of his power, Rounton Grange, was not quite a stately home. He toyed with Gothic, but settled for William Morris’s humbler Arts and Crafts style, with its emphasis on traditional artisan skills as a panacea for the ravages wreaked by the Industrial Revolution. This would remain the characteristic style of the Bells’ private houses and public buildings. Unlike many heirs to great fortunes, Lowthian’s elder son Hugh, Gertrude’s father, also lived modestly for a captain of industry. His own first house, Red Barns, at the fishing village of Redcar on the Yorkshire coast, a short train journey from Clarence, reflected this. After Lowthian’s death, the house he owned in London was sold, the money presumably divided between Hugh and his siblings—Charles, Ada, Maisie, and Florence.