In a little-known letter, Edith Durham provides autobiographical details, apparently at the request of Mid’hat Frashëri, who had asked for information to be used in an article for a contemporary newspaper. The letter, discovered years ago, is striking for Durham’s modesty—particularly her insistence that her photograph should not be published and her claim that “there is nothing interesting” in her notes.
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| Edith Durham |
Early Life and Education
“I was born in 1863, the eldest child of Arthur E. Durham, chief surgeon at Guy’s Hospital in London. At the age of eleven, I entered a small school run by Mr. and Mrs. Pretorius, two Germans. To Mrs. Pretorius, and to my mother, I owe much for the constant care they gave to the progress of the children, as they awakened in me a love of learning.
I am also greatly indebted to my teachers, especially my Latin and English instructors. At fourteen, I was sent to Bedford College in London, where I remained until the age of nineteen. I had always wished to become a painter, and so, at nineteen, I entered the School of Fine Arts at St. John’s Wood.”
Sacrifice and Illness
Her artistic ambitions, however, were abruptly interrupted:
“My poor mother’s health failed, and I was forced to give up my studies. To maintain an atelier was impossible, as I could not leave my sick mother alone. Five years of constant care so exhausted me that the doctor considered me gravely ill and said I needed two months of rest each year in order to save my health.
It was impossible always to remain confined indoors. My burning desire was to return to my art. In these circumstances, I made a journey for health reasons—to the Adriatic—and, by chance, I went to Montenegro.”
Turning Toward the Balkans
“In Montenegro I kept many notes and made many sketches. Since circumstances at home prevented me from painting, as a change from the monotonous duties of caring for an invalid, I began anthropological studies. I hoped that each year, during my periods of rest, I might penetrate deeper into the Balkans, visiting each land and carrying out comparative studies among the various peoples.
After my mother’s death, I resolved to dedicate myself entirely to these researches and to painting, thus recovering the eleven lost years. I was elected a member of the Royal Anthropological Institute of London. In the highlands of Northern Albania I began my studies—with much hope and, I may say, some success. Thus, for the second time, I was beginning life anew, with no expectation of obstacles.”
Hopes Shattered by War
“But again, for the second time, all my plans and hopes were destroyed. From that bitter moment onwards, as you well know, the history of Albania has been nothing but unceasing war—indeed, not only Albania, but all the Balkan lands. With anxiety I found myself caught between the wheels of politics.
There was no more study, no more painting. When the Balkan War ended, I believed that the recognition of Albania’s independence would also save me. In March 1914, I set out from London with renewed hopes, with my watercolors and other artistic materials, intending to begin life anew and to carry out excavations for prehistoric objects.
But when I arrived in Trieste, I learned that conditions in Albania were already very grave, and that by the time we reached Durrës, war might already have broken out.”
Durham notes that she was sent by Harry Lamb to Vlora, where she reported on the Greek offensive and the situation of refugees. Soon after, the First World War erupted, extinguishing her ambitions yet again:
“The great war had broken out, and my poor plans and aspirations, like those of millions of others, were destroyed. I no longer have the strength to begin a third time with research that demands the energy of youth. But I still hope to escape from this slavery to politics and to find time, at least, to edit my notes.”
Closing Words
Durham ends her letter with her characteristic humility:
“I never give permission for my photograph to be published, and since I have refused this to many newspapers, I cannot give it to you either.
Now I wish Albania peace.
Can you perhaps edit an article from these notes? In truth, there is nothing very interesting.
Long life to you (these words are written in Albanian).”
Edith Durham, Central State Archive of Albania, Fund 35, year 1921, file 36/5, folio 101.