The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [49]
We stopped at Luxor. The craving to hurry and open our find was powerful but not as powerful as our discipline. We wrapped the papyrus in damp cloth and talked constantly through an excruciating and sleepless night. When we agreed it was safe, we examined the scroll’s first panel and knew at once, within a single line, what we had: three fragments of Atum-hadu’s Admonitions had now been found in Deir el Bahari. A day later we returned to base early, only to learn that I had orders to prepare to leave Egypt (for Gallipoli, though I did not know it yet). And so, of necessity, we agreed to leave our treasure in Marlowe’s care, to tell no one, and to wait. I think, in both our hearts, we thought we were waiting for my death in battle.
I next saw Fragment C more than three years later, in December 1918, after my unexpected and lucky return from Turkey, alone, practically on foot. I reached our diminished base in Egypt a month after the Armistice, only to learn that my great friend had vanished before my return and was likely dead. Heartbroken, I vowed that I would devote my life to our shared work and discovery. I entered his tent, secured Fragment C, and took it with me when I was demobilised not long after.
That Marlowe died while I survived Gallipoli can hardly be credited to a wise guardian angel. It cannot be accepted at all, except perhaps as the bumblings of a dizzy Destiny who chose me to fulfil a crucial task, a task perhaps even Marlowe would not have been qualified to perform. This is the only condolence I can draw from his tragic end.
And in my mingled sorrow and ambition, I decided to wander somewhere new, change everything, cut myself off from all the easy help waiting for me in England. Knowing the reputation of Harvard University, I went to the United States, hoping to put my painful Wartime memories behind me in a strange land. To build a new life. To honour my fallen friend. To continue our joint work where I had only my own talents to support me.
Saturday, 14 October, 1922
An introduction to the Atum-haduan Admonitions: The author of the Admonitions may have been a king, he may have been posing as a king, he may merely have been imagining a king. Hero, fraud, or artist? I have found one’s own tendencies dictate one’s answer to that question.
Another question: how should one translate poetry written in ancient Egyptian, which has not been used for more than 2000 years, and which we do not entirely know how to pronounce, as in common with Hebrew and Arabic, its vowels were not written? Did its poetry rhyme? Did it move in rhythm? Any answer is unverifiable.
Now, observe: Comparative Translations: Quatrain 73, the same sequence of hieroglyphs purporting to be written by Atum-hadu (purporting to be the king of Egypt) and translated by three different Westerners, two of whom are illegitimately purporting to know what they are doing:
1. (Translated by F. Wright Harriman, 1858): “Perils of Love”
A beauty’s gaze and touch
Can rain down joy or sorrow
In equal measure.
2. (Translated into French by Jean-Michel Vassal, 1899, and from French into English by Marie-Claude Wilson, 1903): “Her Dual Nature”
When my Queen examines me
Her gaze is as potent as her touch,
Exciting here the most delicious frissons
There the most excruciating torments.
3. (Finally, translated correctly and published as Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt, Collins Amorous Literature, 1920): “Pleasure Through Pain”
Atum-hadu’s sweet lover
Strokes the royal member first with her eyes
Then with her claws, until they tear
And make bleed the rigid sceptre of his power, and he sighs.
Observe: Harriman bowdlerised, as the preceding extract should make quite clear. Typical of the Victorian moralist, he deemed nothing worth finding that did not bear