Chapter Twenty-Six
HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND
Mama and I stand on the gravel approach in front of Highclere Castle’s tall black walnut doors, each displaying a wolf’s head holding the foot of a deer.
The staff stands behind us, ready to assist our esteemed guests with their bags and guide them to their rooms. Papa, who had arranged for a private train to shuttle the guests from London to the nearby station, had greeted them with a fleet of his finest vehicles, which he personally led to our estate in his chauffeur-driven Bugatti.
This particular gathering is unlike any other we’ve hosted—because Saad Zaghloul is indeed coming to Highclere Castle.
The automobiles arrive precisely at noon.
The servants race to the doors of several Rolls-Royces, and I watch the Egyptian contingent emerge from the first two vehicles.
A phalanx of Egyptian leaders and their guards walk toward us, including Mohamed Mahmoud, Adly Yeken, and Ahmed Lufti el-Sayed.
They are followed by the great man himself, Mr. Zaghloul, wearing his ubiquitous red fez.
We were flabbergasted when Mr. Zaghloul accepted the invitation that Papa extended before he left Egypt.
The two men had indeed been friendly over the years, bonding over their shared love of horse racing and smoking, but whether he came to Highclere depended on his negotiations with Lord Milner.
The estate was no stranger to hosting luminaries.
King George V—when he was still the Prince of Wales, mind—had been a weekend guest when my parents first married.
But it had been overwhelming to think that Mr. Zaghloul would stop here while in England to confer about Egypt’s independence.
As the Egyptians approach, Mama and I straighten the dark-hued, modest silk dresses we’d chosen out of respect for the occasion.
The first man, Ahmed Lutfi el-Sayed, who’s the director of the National Library in Cairo, seems surprised when we greet him in French, the language of the Egyptian upper class.
But of course, Mama and I are both fluent in the native tongue of her mother.
Mama also welcomes Mr. Zaghloul in French. “My daughter, Lady Evelyn Herbert, and I are pleased to receive you in our home, Mr. Zaghloul.” Papa made us practice the pronunciation of Mr. Zaghloul’s name last evening, along with those of the rest of the Egyptian party members.
The black tassel of Mr. Zaghloul’s fez bobs as he gives us a courteous bow. “Your hospitality is legendary, Lady Carnarvon, and I am most honored to be the recipient of it this weekend.”
We receive the remainder of the guests, a select group of English military men, governmental officials, and a few of their wives, including Sir William Garstin; General Sir John Maxwell; Alfred Duff Cooper and his wife, Lady Diana Cooper; Sir Alexander Mountbatten, Marquess of Carisbrooke, and his wife, Lady Irene; Lords Massereene and Ferrard; as well as the Honorable Harry Lygon.
Mr. Carter brings up the rear with Papa, but there’s no need to specially greet him.
He spends so much time at Highclere Castle he’s almost like family.
Ushering the guests into the Great Hall, we announce that luncheon will be served in an hour, and leave them to be led to their rooms. Mama and I assume we will have that time alone to ensure the meal preparations are well underway.
It had been no easy feat to arrange the seating.
Many Egyptian men are unaccustomed to dining with women who aren’t family members, or so we understand. And so we had to create a special plan.
But before we remove to the Dining Room, we hear a voice. “Lady Carnarvon, Lady Evelyn? Might I trouble you for a moment?”
We turn to see Mr. Lufti, a graying gentleman with a dark mustache; soulful, close-set, eyes; and small round glasses on the tip of his nose.
Papa had warned us that, while Mr. Lufti’s role as director of the national library might suggest that he’s a passive intellectual, he is actually one of the most formidable foes of colonialism and a major organizer of nationalism in all of Egypt.
Looking at this kindly older man, it seems positively incongruous.
“Yes, sir. How might we be of assistance?” Mama asks in that solicitous voice she used to great effect in her nursing days.
“I hope it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, but I have heard tales of Lord Carnarvon’s Library.
Might you indulge a librarian and show him the collection?
We have an ambitious schedule of dining and touring the Highclere Stud and Newbury racetrack while we are here, and I don’t think there will be another opportunity. ”
“We would be honored,” Mama replies.
He claps in delight. “How marvelous! Never mind the political roles I’ve played over the years, my first love is literature. In fact, I’m currently translating Aristotle into Egyptian Arabic from the French versions.”
“Did I hear there was going to be a trip through the Library?” I hear the voice before I see its owner. Only when I see the red fez do I realize that Mr. Zaghloul himself has asked to join the tour.
Mama and I are momentarily frozen. Of all the eventualities we prepared for, this had not been on the list. In fact, we’d assumed that the Egyptian contingent would avoid us, as the custom of certain of their countrymen calls for separation of men and women, particularly foreign women.
Perhaps those rules only apply in Egypt.
I recover first, and answer, “It would be our honor to show you the Highclere Library, Mr. Zaghloul and Mr. Lufti.”
With Mama at my side, I lead the two men into the Library.
Gesturing for them to enter, I watch as they wander through the Small Library, past the pillars, and into the Library proper.
The men offer compliments on the sumptuous beauty of the two rooms, and Mr. Lufti adds, “I have a library in my home in Cairo, but it is nothing next to this.”
They pause to examine the spines of several leather-bound volumes, and Mr. Zaghloul asks, “Do you have a favorite, Lady Carnarvon?”
I know which book Mama is going to choose.
The volume isn’t preferred by her. In fact, I doubt she’s even read it.
But it is the most prestigious book in the entire collection, and prominence is always most critical to her.
“I would have to pick the oldest book here. A copy of Comedia Cassaria by Italian poet Ludovico Ariosto, which bears the date of 1538. It is a masterful work of poetry. In fact, it served as inspiration for Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew,” she proclaims.
“Ah, my wife adores poetry, although I do not think she would be familiar with this Ariosto. Her taste tends toward our Egyptian poet Ahmed Shawqi, who recently returned to Egypt after a long period of forced exile in Spain,” Zaghloul says.
His voice is calm and even—almost matter-of-fact—but I can see an invitation in his words.
Do we dare discuss his own exile in Malta?
Can we talk about the topics about which Ahmed Shawqi writes—freedom for Egypt?
By design or out of ignorance, Mama does not accept either invitation. Instead, she says, “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your wife, Mr. Zaghloul. She sounds like a delightful person.”
“That she is, Lady Carnarvon, and a strong one. She led the Wafd call for independence during my exile. It was an unprecedented act for an Egyptian woman.”
Even though I’ve heard rumors about Mr. Zaghloul’s wife, I’m shocked to hear him call her a leader of the revolution.
How should I reply? Papa had warned us to not step into this international minefield, and to avoid discussion of politics and archaeology if at all possible.
The question of who should own Egypt’s past has started to become a rallying cry for the nationalists, as Uncle Aubrey had predicted. So neither of us speak.
“What about you, Lady Evelyn?” Mr. Zaghloul asks, when none of us engage. “Do you have a favorite work in this great Library?”
“Without question, the section on ancient Egyptian history,” I answer without thinking, and then worry about my answer.
Still, I cannot withdraw it now, so I guide the men to the shelves in question.
“My father, of course, has a great love for your country’s past, and consequently acquired these volumes.
I have spent many happy hours here in the company of your forebears, leaving me with a great respect for your history and accomplishments. ”
Mr. Lufti nods, and bestows a pleasant smile upon me, as one might a child. Or a dilettante. “How lovely.”
I mean to show them I’m in earnest, by referencing my favorite historical figure. “I am particularly drawn to the New Kingdom. The reign of Pharaoh Hatshepsut presents so many intriguing mysteries and timely questions, don’t you think?”
The smile fades from Mr. Lufti’s face, and suddenly he and Mr. Zaghloul are staring at me. As if they are seeing me anew.
“You know about Hatshepsut?” Mr. Lufti queries, almost in disbelief. “She is not one of our better-known pharaohs. In fact, her reign had almost been lost, until hieroglyphics were decoded and the remaining references to her translated.”
“I am a student of the great Hatshepsut,” I answer. “The mystery of the attempts to erase her from the historical record preoccupies me—here and in Egypt. I hope to find answers one day.”
The men nod at me appreciatively, and Mr. Zaghloul compliments me by saying, “Perhaps Hatshepsut has been waiting all these thousands of years for you to come along and help solve her riddle, which she holds close like a very real sphinx. But if that is indeed the case, please remember that each society forms its own version of the past. And Hatshepsut’s past belongs to Egypt. Hers is our story to tell.”