by Joanna Scott
By 1894, Herr Brugsch had strict orders from the Egyptian government not to relinquish anything from the museum. Never mind that the plumbing in the building needed repair, the doors needed better locks, two of the display cases were cracked, and the guards were demanding higher pay. While Egyptian officials expected Brugsch and his colleagues to create a world-class museum, they provided insufficient financial support and were known to use the mummies for bribes and graft.
What did it matter, then, if Herr Brugsch occasionally sold a mummy before the officials could give it away? Early in 1894, he replied to Armand’s letter and invited him to Cairo, to come see “a double wooden coffin from the XXI Dynasty that was covered with numerous tableaux.” They met in the back room of a shop of a local dealer in Cairo. A servant offered figs and sweet coffee, interspersed with glasses of a bitter liquor Armand didn’t recognize and would have preferred to decline. But out of courtesy he drank the liquor, and a single swallow sent tendrils of warmth through his body and improved his mood. A second round was offered and accepted by all, lifting Armand’s spirits even higher, so when Herr Brugsch finally got around to removing the sailcloth and revealed a dusty sarcophagus covered completely in hieroglyphics and illustrations from the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, Armand was ready to be impressed.
He was impressed by the way the paints seemed to glow beneath the blanket of dust. He was impressed by the intricacy of the illustrations that communicated the entire story of Osiris—the journey from birth to death to rebirth and all the adventures of the afterlife. He was impressed with the snug fit of one box inside the other, the melancholy eyes in the portrait of the deceased on the lid, the delicate shape of the ears. And he was impressed with the price—the equivalent of a year’s worth of his income.
The sarcophagus may have been a compact residence, but consider that it had lasted for three thousand years. It was by far the most masterfully illustrated sarcophagus that Armand had ever seen. Mrs. Stevenson would be proud to display it in Philadelphia.
The deal was swiftly made. Whether Herr Brugsch had offered it to other foreign collectors, he didn’t reveal. He made it clear that he wanted to put it in the hands of Professor de Potter. As far as Armand was concerned, no price for such a magnificent coffin would have been too high, even if he had to sell his railway stock to pay for it.
* * *
He gave directions to have the case carefully packed in the manner of Russian dolls, one within the other, the mummy within the first case, the first case within the second, the second within a third box he ordered especially to hold it, the third box packed in a shipping crate, and he sent the sarcophagus to Mrs. Stevenson, COD, informing her in an accompanying note that it was the only one from last year’s find at Deir-el-Bahari that was sold. He emphasized that he considered himself quite fortunate to find the mummy. “Decorated cases,” he explained, “are very difficult to obtain.”
Mrs. Stevenson was pleased to accept the sarcophagus on behalf of the University of Pennsylvania. Her letter was cordial, full of compliments and gratitude. She asked after Madame de Potter and Victor and hoped that next time Armand was in Philadelphia, he would have dinner with her.
She didn’t say that a bill from the university would follow shortly, but there it was on the mail table the next week—a bill to cover all expenses associated with the sarcophagus, from full reimbursement for shipping charges to the cost for a new display case.
Armand was startled at first, then incensed. His distinct understanding was that the University Museum would cover all expenses related to his collection. He wrote back to Mrs. Stevenson, demanding an explanation. Her reply came by the end of the month—she blamed the university bursar for sending out the bill without notifying her. She apologized but did not offer to intervene, and Armand resigned himself to paying the bill in full.
He waited two months before writing to Mrs. Stevenson to implore her to compose a description of the sarcophagus for his Old World tourist guide. He hoped it wouldn’t be a bother. Also, if the De Potter Collection received any complimentary notices, could she send him the name and date of the publication? And if it wasn’t too much of an imposition, could she return the cartouches once the scarabs were taken out of the buttons?
It was no imposition at all, Mrs. Stevenson replied. She returned the cartouches, and she sent him a description of the sarcophagus she’d written for a university publication, calling it a “superb double coffin” and a “recent valuable addition” to the department. She explained that with its illustrations of the principal elements of Egyptian faith it was of special importance. She hoped that Professor de Potter would visit her in Philadelphia soon.
But the description was too lengthy to include in its entirety in Armand’s Old World Guide. He wrote to Mrs. Stevenson, inquiring whether he could extract just a few sentences—and perhaps, if it wasn’t objectionable, could he add to the sentence “Such cases are very difficult to obtain” the words “and this one is unique in this country”?
From her brief reply granting him permission, he perceived that he was trying her patience. He told himself that he mustn’t bother her and didn’t write again until March 16, 1896, when, in a letter posted from Jerusalem, he described several additional items he was sending to the University Museum—four canopic vases, fifteen strings of beads, sixteen small alabaster vases, a beautiful porcelain pectoral, and two wooden stelae. He apologized for not being able to procure finer canopic vases but said they were the best he could get. He didn’t say that these recent acquisitions had cost him nearly a thousand francs, which he’d had to draw from his reserve fund at the Société Générale. He just added that Mrs. de Potter asked him to send her kind regards.
Sara Stevenson’s reply came late but was warmer than ever. She reported that she was planning to visit Paris, where the de Potters would be living for six months, and hoped that Armand would consider giving her one of his famous tours.
Of course he would show her everything that was worth seeing. “Dear Mrs. Stevenson,” he wrote, “I am at your service.” But Mrs. Stevenson was inundated with work in Philadelphia and had to cancel her trip to Paris. She would miss the opportunity to explore the Louvre with Professor de Potter. She hoped he remained satisfied with the placement of his collection. “I want to assure you,” she wrote, “that the De Potter Collection has no equal in this country. I plan to compose a catalog as a small token of gratitude to you for the loan of your collection. I only beg you for your patience, my friend.”
Armand was pleased. A catalog of the whole De Potter Collection would be satisfying, and Sara Stevenson was the one to undertake the project. “Dear Mrs. Stevenson,” he wrote in reply, “I can think of no one I would rather entrust my collection with than you.” He offered several pages of comments about his treasures to help her with the catalog. He added that he was at her service and invited her to accompany him on his next trip up the Nile.
He waited eagerly for her reply. After three months he couldn’t restrain himself. If Mrs. Stevenson didn’t have the time to write a comprehensive catalog for him, she could at least provide him with a token of appreciation.
“My Dear Madame,” he wrote to her. “In my work it would be of considerable value to me to have received some formal acknowledgment from the University of Pennsylvania.” He wondered whether she would be willing to use her influence, and the probable usefulness of his little collection, to obtain for him an honorary degree. He provided a summary of his credentials, then advised Mrs. Stevenson to ignore his request if he was presuming upon her kindness. He finished by explaining that he hadn’t sent the arrows and bronze statuette of Osiris, since it would have made an awkward package.
He received a cursory response from her, with only a vague promise to look into the matter. He was irritated but undaunted. He told himself that he would wait a few months and repeat his request. In the meantime, he sent her a XII Dynasty funereal bark with eight sailors, rare textiles from Akhmin, a fine set of myst
ic eyes, and a small urn with the gilded cartouche of Princess Ounofris, which was especially rare and valuable. And even though she turned down his second request for an honorary degree, then failed to reply to his third request the following year, he continued to send her additional treasures for display. By the spring of 1902, he had run through nearly thirty thousand francs, yet Mrs. Stevenson gave every indication that she took his investment for granted.
He longed to find the perfect treasure, something even rarer than his wooden shabty and more beautiful than his triple sarcophagus, a find so remarkable that his loaning it to the University Museum would put Mrs. Stevenson in his debt forever. In his office in New York, on a rainy morning in late March, looking out from the second floor at the umbrellas bobbing above the sidewalk, he imagined writing the brief letter that would accompany such a treasure:
My dear Mrs. Stevenson,
The enclosed item should firmly secure your institution its place as the country’s premier location for the study of antiquities. I have the honor to remain yours faithfully,
P. L. Armand de Potter d’Elseghem
This letter, unfortunately, would have to wait. Instead, in a letter with a return address of Summit, New Jersey, Armand wrote expressing his disappointment with the University Museum. He admitted that his request to have the contents of the De Potter Collection on display together might seem an expression of vanity. “I do not pretend to be free from this universal weakness,” he confessed. He said he was thinking of withdrawing his collection from the museum. He did not mention that he would be traveling to Philadelphia the following week.
* * *
On a Tuesday morning in April 1902, a man in a buttermilk dress coat, checkered trousers, and a panama hat crossed the rotunda of the museum at the University of Pennsylvania. Near one of the doorways a painted sarcophagus was set on a glass table, and he walked a full circle around it, examining all sides, even crouching to peer from below, before continuing into the Egyptian gallery.
He was surprised to have the room to himself, since he assumed that ancient Egypt was a popular subject among the American public. Likely the crowds would show up in the afternoon. But where was the gallery’s head curator? He’d been told by the receptionist at the front desk that he would find her there. Perhaps she was still at lunch. He was willing to wait.
He walked along the center aisle, taking in the room as a whole, noting the arrangement of the artifacts on display. His walking stick clicked decisively on the wood, in concert with his footsteps. The room, full of possessions that were meant to accompany the deceased to the afterlife, was like a tomb itself. The air was stale, with dust floating in the sunlight filtered through the upper window. The walls were lined with cases displaying the smaller artifacts; square pedestals supporting stone busts, vases, and sun disks were tucked in corners. Except for two freestanding cases beneath the stairs, the main area of the room was oddly empty. Even the giant statue of a pharaoh was positioned close to the back wall, as if in an attempt to conceal it in the shadows.
The door opened, and a museum attendant appeared and observed him for a minute before leaving him alone again. The visitor continued his survey of the room. He stopped at one of the freestanding cases, counted the pieces of jewelry inside, and examined the name inscribed on the side panel. He moved on to the cabinet projecting at an angle from the left wall. He was disappointed not to find a name written on either the sides or the bottom panel of the cabinet. The only information offered by the museum were labels with approximate dates for each of the bronzes on display.
He checked his pocket watch frequently. He had been in the room for nearly an hour when a student entered and went directly to the case beneath the stairs. He’d come to take notes about one of the objects, though he must already have had some knowledge of the display, given that there was no accompanying brochure or even a curator’s note to help him out.
The student was still writing in his notebook when the door opened once again, and in swept a man and a woman in conversation. The visitor didn’t recognize the gentleman accompanying the woman. The woman, known for her extravagant hats, was bareheaded. It was Mrs. Stevenson, head curator of the Egyptian Section, and though the visitor hadn’t seen her since they’d met nine years earlier at the Chicago Exhibition and she’d grown stouter and grayer, he recognized her immediately. Mrs. Stevenson, however, was not prepared to recognize Armand de Potter.
“… saw in my life such intrigue,” she was saying as she came through the door. “Politics, science, personal rancor—it’s all mixed up over there. I’d sit on the terrace of Shepheard’s sipping my lemon squash and listen to Brugsch and Petrie go at each other. I truly considered bypassing them and trying bribery with the Egyptian officials, but then thought better of it.” She gave a gentle laugh.
“Isn’t this from Petrie?” her associate asked, pointing in the direction of a tablet mounted on the wall.
“Oh, that? Rosher brought that back from his visit to Dendera. Now, what is it you wanted to show me, Professor Randall-MacIver?”
The man nodded toward the student. “Mrs. Stevenson, this is one of my research assistants, Walter Morley. You’ll recall, madame, that my colleagues and I have had some difficulty verifying the information accompanying these items. I’ve asked Mr. Morley to look into the matter.”
“And what have you discovered, young man?” Mrs. Stevenson asked.
The student gestured toward the case. “The scarab ring … the given date is incorrect. The craftsmanship is more typical of the Twenty-second Dynasty. You see the design—”
“Very fine detective work,” Mrs. Stevenson said, cutting him off, probably because she was aware that the visitor standing nearby was listening. “I look forward to reading your report.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, Mrs. Stevenson, I told you so,” Professor Randall-MacIver announced triumphantly.
“You did, you did indeed,” she said with a smile that was obviously contrived to flatter. “Your attention to the matter is admirable. How may I thank you?”
The professor was set on undermining Armand’s careful work, and Mrs. Stevenson wanted to thank him for it! So the date for the ring was off by a century or two—what of it? Armand had done his best to match his treasures to their provenance. But with more than three hundred items to consider, there were bound to be mistakes. Perhaps the mistake was Mrs. Stevenson’s—maybe she transcribed the information incorrectly. Certainly she’d made a mistake splitting up the De Potter Collection between the freestanding case and the cabinet. The De Potter Collection was supposed to be displayed together. And why was the name De Potter written on the side of the case, and not on the front? Nothing at all by the items in the cabinet, or by the sarcophagus in the rotunda, indicated that they were on loan from Armand de Potter. What had happened to the plaques he’d made for the bronzes? And what about the catalog Mrs. Stevenson had promised to write?
Oh, she’d promised a lot of things. Looking at her from across the room, Armand thought she had a sneaky, feline air about her. He imagined her purring as she smiled at Professor Randall-MacIver. She clearly wanted something from the man, and she’d get it because he was too stupid to see through her. This professor was an idiot, yet Mrs. Stevenson was bothering to consult with him about the provenance of a scarab ring, all the while ignoring Armand de Potter.
Of course she couldn’t have known he was there. She must have thought him an ordinary tourist. He’d been planning to greet her, but had by then heard enough to change his mind. He left the room in a hurry and strode toward the rotunda, holding his walking stick upright, resisting the urge to knock it against the sarcophagus to show the world that it still belonged to him.
He wrote again to Mrs. Stevenson from Geneva, Switzerland, on September 20, 1902. He expressed his frustration at the way his collection was displayed without revealing that he’d been to the museum. “In all events,” he concluded, “I will leave the Collection in the Museum for the present.�
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He wrote the following year with a return address of the Villa du Grand Bois, and once more in the fall of 1904. He asked for more prominent display space for his collection. Though he avoided repeating his request for an honorary degree, he reminded her of her promise to write a comprehensive catalog of the De Potter Collection. Mrs. Stevenson wrote back with infuriating brevity to say that she did not have time to write a catalog.
She didn’t have time to write a catalog describing the significance of the collection, but she had time to accept anything he cared to send? He swore to himself that he would take his treasures elsewhere. But still he kept sending Mrs. Stevenson additional pieces. Sooner or later she would agree that the De Potter Collection had no equal in America.
He sent his last shipment on a damp February day in 1905, four months before he disappeared from the Regele Carol. He carefully arranged a group of basalt scarabaei on tissue in a small wooden box, which he set on the bottom of the shipping crate. Beside this smaller box he laid a long, rectangular box that contained miscellaneous pieces—amulets, strings of porcelain and carnelian beads, and a small lapis-lazuli frog. He padded the crate with crumpled newspaper and then laid on top of the smaller boxes a row of alabaster vases, each thickly wrapped in sailcloth. After adding another layer of newspaper, he wrapped sailcloth around the last object, a sepulchral figurine of a small faience man, with an illegible inscription. He hesitated, wondering if he should keep the faience man for himself, then decided against it. He tucked the bundle into the nest and nailed the crate shut.
PART FIVE
