Davis had funded excavations for the thrill of the chase, and to give him something to occupy his time during his winter sojourns in Egypt. But, as a friend observed: ‘His interest in archaeology was that of a hobbyist; therefore, at the first test, it was quick to go.’87 Once he had determined that there were no more discoveries to be made in the Valley of the Kings, he briefly turned his attention to the mortuary temple of Ramesses III at Medinet Habu, a few miles to the south, leaving his workmen to finish up in the valley. They put down their picks and shovels in February 1914. Returning to Cairo that spring, Davis informed Maspero that his years of digging in Egypt had come to an end. In June, Maspero granted the concession for the Valley of the Kings to Lord Carnarvon. It was Maspero’s last act as director of the Antiquities Service, for he resigned the following month and returned to France, as Europe went to war. Davis sold his beloved Beduin to Newberry and left Egypt, never to return. Without the excitement of excavations to keep him going, his health began to fail and he died in Florida on 23 February 1915. The same day, Turkish troops crossed the Sinai to attack the Suez Canal.
During his years in Egypt, Davis had amassed an impressive collection of antiquities, which he called ‘the child of my mind’.88 On his death, he bequeathed it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Although no archaeologist, he demonstrated the efficacy of the long-term, systematic study of a single site. Though no scholar, he published his results promptly, supported Howard Carter during his years as an impecunious artist, and also partially funded Breasted’s work. Altogether, Davis discovered eighteen tombs in the Valley of the Kings and cleared another four. He was, for a few years in the mid-1900s, the most famous Egyptologist in the world. Yet today, few people recognize the name of Theodore Davis. A discovery seven years after his death, and just six feet from where his workmen stopped digging, would erase his achievements from popular memory.
TEN
Imperial ambitions
Ludwig Borchardt inspecting the bust of Nefertiti shortly after its discovery in the ruins of Amarna.
A constant struggle to maintain a balance between the various interests, keeping the English happy while not upsetting the French or the Egyptians.1
GASTON MASPERO, 1910
In the six decades following Lepsius’s expedition, whilst Egyptology thrived in Germany and scholars such as Erman added immeasurably to the development of the discipline, only a very few Germans were active in Egypt itself. Other than the Brugsch brothers, Heinrich and Emile, the history of Egyptian archaeology in the second half of the nineteenth century is almost devoid of notable German figures. Partly, this was down to the very success of Lepsius’s endeavours: the collection of antiquities he brought back from Egypt, and the extraordinary accomplishment of the Denkmäler, could not easily be replicated, still less surpassed; by contrast, a focus on developing outstanding museum collections and establishing Egyptology at the major universities gave Germany the opportunity to assert cultural and academic leadership over its European rivals. Moreover, North Africa in general and Egypt in particular had little importance in German foreign policy, which was predominantly focussed on geopolitics closer to home. Partly, though, the lack of German archaeological activity in Egypt in the decades after Lepsius was a simple matter of political influence. Mariette’s establishment and subsequent leadership of the Antiquities Service and Egyptian Museum ensured that, from the late 1850s onwards, the key posts in Egyptian archaeology were reserved for Frenchmen, and guaranteed French excavators the support of their government, always keen to preserve cultural hegemony in North Africa. The British occupation of Egypt from 1882 onwards likewise meant that British excavators could count on some measure of official assistance, even if Cromer regarded archaeology as a diplomatic irritant.
Not everyone in Germany, however, was willing to accept this state of affairs. In November 1881, nine months before the British invasion, the professor of Egyptology at Heidelberg, Eisenlohr, had petitioned the German emperor, Wilhelm I (r.1871–88), to set up an Institute for Egyptian Archaeology in Cairo to support field research and publication, and provide assistance to German scholars active in the Nile Valley. The government in Berlin turned to the Royal Academy for an expert opinion: its conclusion was that there were too few German scholars active in Egypt, or likely to be so, to warrant the expense of creating a dedicated institute. But, by the mid-1890s, the situation had changed. In a letter to Maspero of 18 April 1893, Heinrich Brugsch bemoaned the fact that ‘German Egyptology, since the death of Lepsius, has lost its importance in the eyes of the public and even of scholars’.2 The new generation of German Egyptologists – pupils of Erman like Schäfer and Steindorff – were quick to add their voices, and began to question the status quo. When, in 1895, Erman mooted the idea of the Wörterbuch in his inaugural address to the academy, the idea of German scholars becoming active throughout Egypt, gathering material for the dictionary and even excavating new sites, no longer seemed out of the question.
Another consideration was the recent upsurge in collecting by the agents of European museums (led by Budge for the British Museum). The Berlin Museum, propelled by Lepsius’s expedition to the first rank, had started to lose its lustre. Indeed, there had been no major additions to the collection since the early 1840s. The German government’s immediate response, in 1898, was to establish the Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft to conduct research in the field of ‘oriental antiquity’. After a lengthy period when the conservative Christian views of the German establishment, combined with the dominance of the Catholic Church, had effectively suppressed the study of non-Christian cultures (ancient Egypt, with its biblical resonances, was spared), a relaxing of censorship and a lessening of clerical influence under Wilhelm II (r.1888–1918) gave the green light to orientalists.3 However, the Orient-Gesellschaft was no mere learned society. It also had the explicit task of acquiring oriental antiquities, works of art, and other cultural artefacts for the Royal Museums of Berlin and other public collections across Germany. From the very outset, it was thus conceived as an instrument of German cultural imperialism.4
All these changes combined to give German Egyptology in the late 1890s a renewed confidence and ambition. The zeitgeist was captured in a speech to the Prussian parliament in March 1898 by the founder of the Progressive Party, the physician and anthropologist Rudolf Virchow. In front of the assembled representatives, he lamented the state of Egyptian archaeology in the Vaterland, and made a powerful declaration of intent:
Germany, which for a while – especially under Lepsius – made so significant a contribution to this field, has gradually been left entirely behind . . . If one wants to study ancient Egypt, one cannot do so in Berlin but has to go elsewhere. Our wish, therefore, is that Germany might establish itself more actively in these new developments; and we are confident that we have the men to undertake such work on a completely equal footing to the foreigners.5
The premise won broad support, but Germany still had to tread carefully in the face of Anglo-French control over Egypt’s affairs. Rather than establish a German institute in Cairo in direct competition with the Institut Français, the government decided instead to appoint a scientific attaché to the German consulate-general in the Egyptian capital. It was a permanent establishment, albeit not in bricks and mortar. The aim was that the attaché would be able to visit excavations and archaeological sites, but would be seen as relatively independent of political control. On 9 October 1899, the Berlin Academy named its choice. There was really only one candidate.
Ludwig Borchardt was an architect by training, but had also studied Egyptology in Berlin under Erman. Combining his two interests, he had carried out research on the construction of the pyramids, proving Lepsius’s theories correct. Furthermore, he had the great advantage of already being on the ground in Egypt. The academy had sent him there in 1895 to investigate the effects of periodic submergence on the temples of Philae, and he had subsequently been hired by the Antiquities Service to develop the plans for the catalogue général. In the summer of 1899, the Berlin Academy’s Commission on the Publication of the Dictionary of the Egyptian Language – the body overseeing the Wörterbuch project – pre-empted the German government’s decision by giving Borchardt instructions to report on all archaeological developments in Egypt – in effect, to be Germany’s eyes and ears on the ground – and to assist German scholars and German museums with the acquisition of Egyptian antiquities.
Borchardt’s appointment coincided with a renewed interest in the Middle East in the context of Germany’s foreign policy. Since the mid-1880s, the country had set about competing with the other European powers by actively acquiring colonies in Africa (South West Africa and Tanganyika), the Pacific (Samoa and the Caroline Islands) and even China (the trading colony of Kiaochow, on the shore of the Yellow Sea). Wilhelm II sought to extend German influence further, targeting in particular the Ottoman lands, as a counterweight to British, French and Russian interests and to position Germany for the expected demise of the Ottoman Empire.6 In 1898–9, the kaiser gave the clearest signal yet of Germany’s interests and intentions by touring the Middle East as the guest of the Ottoman sultan. Wilhelm II’s Orientreise, which included visits to Constantinople, Haifa, Jerusalem and Bethlehem, Jaffa, Beirut and Damascus, underscored the importance of Borchardt’s role as scientific attaché and paved the way for its future expansion.
Directly following Borchardt’s appointment, German orientalists began to make the most of their new-found political support. The professor of Egyptology at Leipzig, Ebers, had died the year before, leaving an important collection of books, which had been purchased by a fellow professor, Friedrich Wilhelm von Bissing. No sooner had Borchardt taken up his role at the German consulate-general than von Bissing (who had dug with Borchardt a decade earlier), sent the entire library to his friend in Cairo. Borchardt found room for it in his own house, but this was no personal acquisition. Bit by bit, the foundations were being laid for a full-scale German institute.
The alignment of German foreign policy and scholarly interests had another significant impact: for the first time since the 1840s, German archaeological missions in the Middle East could call upon state funds.7 Before Borchardt’s appointment as scientific attaché, he had taken part in excavations at Abu Ghurab, west of Cairo. In 1901, he persuaded Maspero to award him the concession in his own right. The beginning of the twentieth century was thus marked by the first official German excavation in the Nile Valley since the days of Lepsius.
Lepsius’s star pupil, the torch-bearer for his achievements, and Germany’s pre-eminent living Egyptologist, Erman, was politically astute enough to sense a golden opportunity. In a speech to the Ministry of Culture in Berlin, he noted how German scholars had lacked confidence in the 1860s, but approved of the recent change in their fortunes, linking it to German scientific rigour. This blatant appeal to German national sentiment was merely a warm-up act for Erman’s coup de grâce: the publication of a memorandum entitled ‘Bericht über die Lage der deutschen Ägyptologie in Kairo’. His hope was that the German government might build upon Borchardt’s recent appointment, go a step further, and give its backing to ending the Anglo-French dominance of excavations in Egypt.8 His call did not go unheeded. In 1902, a personal donation from the Kaiser enabled the construction of a ‘German House’ on the west bank at Thebes, a permanent base for future archaeological missions; it opened in 1904.
Erman’s success spurred him on to press for his ultimate goal. In July 1907, he asked the German Ministry of Religious, Educational and Medical Affairs to propose a motion to establish Borchardt, his assistant staff, the Ebers Library, scientific equipment and the German House as the constituent elements of a new institution, to be called the ‘Wissenschaftliche Station für Ägyptische Altertumskunde’ (‘Scientific Station for Egyptian Archaeology’) and to confirm Borchardt as its director with professorial standing. In other words, Erman was asking the German government to formally recognize something that already existed.9
Aware, no doubt, that the proposal would prove controversial, Erman had been busy building his coalition of support. He had persuaded his fellow members of the academy that it would not be possible to complete the Wörterbuch without a permanent base for German scholars in Cairo. But the diplomatic sensitivities could not be brushed aside so lightly. Erman had proposed the designation ‘station’ as relatively unthreatening, but the German consul-general in Cairo wanted nothing less than a ‘German Egyptological Institute’. The foreign ministry in Berlin was wary of appearing to compete directly with French interests. Eventually, all parties rallied round a suggestion from Borchardt himself, and on 5 September 1907 he was confirmed as inaugural director of the Kaiserlich-Deutsches Institut für Ägyptische Altertumskunde, ‘the Imperial German Institute for Egyptian Archaeology’.
With a permanent base, a prestigious position, and government support, Borchardt sought to make his own mark by establishing a new branch of Egyptology. His plan was to draw on his experience and focus on the architectural history of pharaonic civilization. But Erman, who considered himself the leading voice of German Egyptology, and who had backed the creation of the institute to advance German national interest, not Borchardt’s private ambitions, was less enthusiastic. No doubt the politics of setting up the institute had left a sour taste, and he opposed the idea of Borchardt undertaking large-scale excavations on his own account.10 But while Erman’s views held sway at the Berlin Academy, Borchardt, too, was an accomplished political operator. He bypassed the academy, went straight to the Orient-Gesellschaft, and persuaded their members to finance a dig at Amarna, the city founded by the heretic pharaoh Akhenaten in the fourteenth century BC, where Petrie had excavated in the early 1890s with notable results. The Antiquities Service, overstretched and consequently open to requests from well-funded, high-status foreign teams, acquiesced and awarded Borchardt the Amarna concession.
By 1911, German colonization was proceeding apace, and African and oriental artefacts were being shipped in their hundreds to the Royal Museums in Berlin.11 Germany was also increasing its cultural, political and economic influence throughout the Ottoman Empire, including Egypt. Both developments culminated, at the end of 1912, in one of the greatest discoveries ever made in the Nile Valley: a find which not only marked a new high point of Egyptian archaeology, but also confirmed Germany’s emergence as a full-blown imperial power. On 6 December 1912, digging through the dunes in the residential quarter of Amarna, Borchardt’s workers came across the house and workshop of a sculptor named Thutmose. He had evidently abandoned his premises in a hurry, for on the shelves in his workshop – long since collapsed onto the floor and buried under sand and rubble – he had left behind a large number of plaster casts, trial pieces, and sculptor’s models. There were rough plaster busts of royalty and wealthy private clients, and unfinished stone heads destined for statues of the royal princesses. But the greatest find of all was a sculptor’s model: a beautifully painted and immaculately preserved limestone bust of Nefertiti, Akhenaten’s queen. It was without doubt one of the finest objects ever found in Egypt, an icon of female beauty as fresh as the day it had been made, thirty-five centuries before.
Borchardt had been granted the Amarna concession on the basis that any finds would be divided between the Egyptian Museum and the excavator – or, rather, his private sponsors in Berlin. Now, he contrived to have both the bust of Nefertiti and a painted limestone altarpiece awarded to Berlin. (The Egyptian authorities later alleged dishonesty, but it could just as well have been down to official laxness: the division of finds often took place on the spot, and the local inspectors at Amarna may not have realized the historic importance or cultural significance of a couple of dusty old limestone pieces with little apparent intrinsic value.) The bust of Nefertiti was sent to Berlin where it was displayed, triumphantly, in the villa of the financier James Simon, the principal supporter of Borchardt’s excavations. Simon in due course gave it to the Royal Museum on permanent loan, where it formed the centrepiece of the newly expanded Egyptian collection. (The bust was gifted to the Prussian state in 1920.) A quarter of a century earlier, Erman had outbid the British Museum to acquire the Amarna tablets. Now, Berlin had acquired the great prize of Nefertiti’s bust. The site at Amarna was transformed in German public consciousness from a remote, archaeological backwater to a source of national pride.12
Pride, however, comes before a fall and for Borchardt, Erman and the whole of the German Egyptological establishment, nemesis followed hubris with startling rapidity. Intent on European domination, the German government had started to build up its armed forces; archaeology in far-off Egypt suddenly seemed a very low priority for state resources. When Borchardt’s funds ran out in 1913, the excavations at Amarna came to an abrupt halt. Erman’s grip on the Berlin Museum also began to falter, and in 1914 he was forced to relinquish his directorship in favour of his pupil Heinrich Schäfer. His consolation prize, wrung as a concession from the state authorities, was the creation of the ‘Egyptological Seminar’ which gave Erman, along with other staff and students of Berlin University, continued access to the museum and its Egyptian collections. But in August that year, the European geopolitics that the German government had been so intent on shaping to its own advantage exploded, plunging the entire continent into a long and bloody war – a conflict from which German Egyptology would emerge weakened, with German archaeologists frozen out of Egypt for a generation.
The imperial rivalry that culminated, with such devastating consequences, on the Western front and the fields of Flanders, had also been felt in the Nile Valley, in the years leading up to the outbreak of the First World War. Archaeologists from Britain, France, Germany, Austria, Italy and America had all – consciously or unconsciously, actively or unwittingly – been pursuing national agendas.13 Anglo-French competition in Egypt dated back to the time of Napoleon. Germany saw its entry onto the Egyptological scene in similarly imperialist terms. The relatively tardy unification of Italy, together with the distraction of its colonial priorities elsewhere in Africa (Libya and Abyssinia), meant that Italian archaeologists were latecomers to the Nile Valley. The leading Italian Egyptologist of the early twentieth century, Ernesto Schiaparelli, who had studied under Maspero in Paris, first visited Egypt in 1903 and began his excavations in Thebes shortly afterwards. He was rewarded with two spectacular discoveries: the incomparably beautiful tomb of Nefertari in the Valley of the Queens, uncovered in 1904, and the intact tomb of Kha at Deir el-Medina two years later. The former may have hit the headlines, but it was the latter, with its extraordinary collection of grave goods, that was the real archaeological prize. Alongside furniture, intricate basketry and bolts of fine linen, Kha’s tomb contained loaves of bread, joints of meat, and bowls of fruit. According to Arthur Weigall, then inspector of antiquities for Upper Egypt: ‘Everything looked new and undecayed.’14 Just as remarkable was Schiaparelli’s agreement with the Antiquities Service which allowed him to take the entire tomb contents back to Turin.15 It was Maspero at his most generous; within a few years, the ceding of whole collections would be ended for good.
Not far away from Deir el-Medina, in another part of western Thebes, Anglo-German archaeological rivalry was reaching fever pitch. The underlying cause was not so much conflicting imperial interests (although those no doubt added spice) as different approaches to scholarship.16 British Egyptology had a long and distinguished tradition of attracting the gentleman amateur: men like Young and Wilkinson carried out their research to indulge a personal interest, not to advance scientific understanding – although they accomplished both. Even Budge followed a rather dilettantish path, publishing a raft of popularizing books – which earned him a great deal of money – rather than scholarly tomes. By contrast, Lepsius and Erman had taken a purist approach: scholarship for its own sake, unsullied by any thought of trying to win popular acclaim. The heirs of Wilkinson regarded the Germans as dry, stuffy and unimaginative; Erman’s pupils thought the British insufficiently academic. The difference was epitomized by two rival missions working side by side during the season of 1904–5 at the mortuary temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri. The German dig was led by Sethe, while Naville directed the British excavations for the EEF. Despite close proximity in the field, the two men were not on speaking terms, and Sethe refused to be in the same room as Naville.17 The feud was awkward in the close-knit community of European excavators; but, as Petrie’s biographer would later explain, ‘archaeology is not a science but a vendetta’.18
It was Maspero’s unenviable task, as director of the Antiquities Service, to mediate between such bitter rivalries. He described his job as ‘a constant struggle to maintain a balance between the various interests, keeping the English happy while not upsetting the French or the Egyptians’.19 On the whole, he succeeded remarkably well, managing to keep all parties happy – even when the Americans entered the fray. His approach was, above all, pragmatic. Recognizing the impossibility of putting a complete stop to the antiquities trade, he regulated it rather than trying to ban it outright, drawing up a list of authorized dealers, location by location. While happy to outsource the expensive business of excavation to foreign missions, Maspero nonetheless took pains to visit sites the length and breadth of the Nile Valley. He would spend about three months a year away from Cairo, aboard his official steamer, inspecting excavations, checking on the progress of Antiquities Service projects, meeting and entertaining his fellow Egyptologists. Friends called him ‘pharaoh’ – it was a double-edged compliment.
The reward for Maspero’s tireless diplomacy came in 1909 with a trio of significant events. First, there was the visit by Empress Eugénie, her first to Egypt since she had opened the Suez Canal four decades earlier. On her way from central Cairo to the pyramids she passed along the avenue which she had ceremonially planted on her earlier visit; it now comprised mature trees. (On arrival at Giza, she found that the royal hunting lodge where she had stayed in sumptuous luxury back in 1869 had since been converted into the Mena House Hotel to accommodate an ever-increasing number of tourists.) Second, there was the International Congress of Archaeology, which Maspero succeeded in bringing to Cairo. Concerned at the steady rise of the English language at the expense of French among the Egyptian population, he planned the congress as a triumphant display of ‘francophonie militante’ – assertive francophony. Of the 906 delegates who attended, the largest group by far (160) was from France, and the French language was given prominence in the congress proceedings. Last, but by no means least, in 1909 Maspero was made a Knight Commander of the Order of St Michael and St George – an honour reserved for eminent diplomats – by Edward VII, in recognition of his services to Egyptian archaeology but also, one suspects, to the entente cordiale.
Bolstered by such plaudits, and confident of his own position, Maspero decided to take the radical step of authorizing excavations privately financed by wealthy Egyptians. For the first time in over a century of excavation, citizens of the Nile Valley were allowed to sponsor digs in their own land. Not surprisingly, the decision met with howls of disapproval from Western interests, but Maspero stuck to his guns, appointing his Egyptian colleague, Ahmed Kamal, to direct such excavations. It was as if he saw the future coming, and was determined that his Service would be prepared.
That future, however, was being determined by the forces of imperial rivalry and colonial conflict. In 1911, Italy went to war with the Ottoman Empire over the fate of Tripolitania. Italy’s invasion of Egypt’s North African neighbour scuppered Schiaparelli’s plans for an Italian archaeological institute in Cairo, and set back Italian scientific activity in the Nile Valley for nearly half a century. A wider Balkan conflict erupted in 1912, sowing the seeds that would lead, two years later, to the assassination in Sarajevo of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the declaration of a Europe-wide war. Sensing, perhaps, that the old order and his own time in Cairo were coming to an end, Maspero’s final objective was to pass a new antiquities law.
Following Cromer’s retirement in 1907, control of British interests in Egypt had passed to a new consul-general, Sir Eldon Gorst. He was better disposed towards ordinary Egyptians than his precedessor, and introduced reforms designed to improve the lot of the native population. (In 1908 he authorized the creation of the first university for Egyptians.) But British public sentiment was in no mood for such concessions, and Gorst was harshly judged. When he died of cancer in July 1911, the government replaced him with Lord Kitchener, veteran of the Sudan campaign and a confirmed imperialist, a man who could be counted on to take a more robust approach with Egyptian nationalists. To Maspero’s surprise and great good fortune, Kitchener turned out – unlike his two predecessors – to be keenly interested in Egyptian antiquities. Maspero lost no time in pleading his case: ‘I saw Kitchener on Saturday morning . . . He wants to pass an antiquities law that applies to natives – my 1902 project, which was at first accepted by Lord Cromer but then refused by him at Brugsch’s instigation.’20
The law was eventually passed, with Kitchener’s support, in 1912. But the British consul-general had not finished with the subject of antiquities. Indeed, he harboured visions of grandeur. Once again, Maspero recorded the discussion in his diary: ‘Cairo, 27 October 1913: I saw Kitchener and he kept me an hour and a half, during which we spoke about just two subjects, his project to bring to Cairo the two colossi of Mit Rahina, and provincial museums . . . It is an idée fixe: he wants the two [colossi] to be set up in front of the main station.’21
A colossus of Ramesses II was eventually erected in front of Cairo’s main railway station, giving its name to what would become one of the busiest locations in the capital: Ramses Square.
During the first half of 1914, the world of Egyptology was preoccupied with largely parochial concerns: Erman’s forced retirement from the Berlin Museum, and the question of who would succeed him; rivalry between French and German interests over appointments to the Egyptian Museum, following Emile Brugsch’s departure; the discovery at Lahun by Petrie’s pupil Guy Brunton of the jewellery of a twelfth-dynasty princess; and the impending publication, by the EEF, of the inaugural edition of the first English-language periodical in Egyptology, the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology (JEA). (True to form, when Petrie learned of the EEF’s plans, which did not include a position for him as editor, he launched his own journal, Ancient Egypt, in direct competition. Its first issue came out a month before the first JEA.) The most momentous event of all, however, for Egyptologists was the retirement, in July 1914, of Maspero. At the age of sixty-eight, having accomplished so much, he had decided it was time to hand over the reins of the Museum and Antiquities Service to a younger man. Erman voiced the concerns of the entire discipline when he expressed the hope that Maspero’s successors would demonstrate the same generosity of spirit. (It was not to be.) On 24 July 1914, on returning to Paris, Maspero was elected permanent secretary of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres – the position held, a century before, by Champollion’s friend and mentor, Bon-Joseph Dacier. One week later Maspero’s sons were mobilized. On 3 August, war was declared.
Cut off from his beloved Egypt and weighed down with the concerns of wartime, Maspero’s health began to fade. On 30 June 1916, during a session of the académie, he was about to rise to speak when a pain forced him to remain seated. It was his heart. He died later that day, mourned by archaeologists of all nationalities, and was laid to rest in the cemetery of Montparnasse. No one, with the possible exception of Mariette, had done more to advance the cause of Egypt’s ancient heritage.
In the years leading up to the outbreak of the First World War, the speed of change in Egypt had accelerated, and the country had undergone profound transformation, both economically and socially. The population nearly doubled from 6.8 million at the time of the British invasion to over 12 million a generation later. (By contrast, Egypt’s population under Ottoman rule had more than halved, from 7 million in Roman times to just 2.5 million at the time of Napoleon’s expedition.22) In tandem with this rapid increase in people, crime also rose steadily. Cromer blamed it on foreigners (from which he excluded British expatriates), asserting that ‘all that was least creditable to European civilization was attracted to Egypt, on whose carcase swarms of needy adventurers preyed at will’.23 It seems never to have occurred to him that the root cause might have been the desperation of Egypt’s hard-pressed citizens, for whom the country’s rapid industrialization had brought nothing but misery. Under British rule, literacy rates continued to be dire – just 8.5 per cent for men and 0.3 per cent for women by 1910 – and Cromer actively discouraged tertiary education, fearing that the growth of an Egyptian intellectual class might undermine British rule. The French, for their part, could never understand Britain’s lack of interest in Egypt’s cultural and intellectual development, regarding it as symptomatic of a general philistinism.24
