by Max Howell
“Well, let me write you a note. It is a British archeological site now, the British School we call it. I have a villa there, it was my old home, which I built in 1912. It is called the Villa Ariadne. You may stay there. This short letter is for the Curator. Just let him know a week or so beforehand, if you would.”
“But, sir, we could not impose!” said Henry.
“It is no imposition, let me just say it is to improve British-US relations.” He smiled.
“We are indebted sir, and thank you. If I may be so bold to enquire, you mentioned you were trying to solve a problem”
“A puzzle, a conundrum, a mystery… if only I could unravel it, it would be a superb climax to my life. You see the Minoans wrote, and I have evidence of such writings. The earlier form of their language I have called Linear A, which is clearly seen in the Phaestos Disk. Then there is another language, a later one, which I have called Linear B. I have had many experts pour over this script, but like myself they have been unable to decipher it. But I will never give up.”
He got up, shook hands with them and said: “You will excuse me, I hope. My chauffeur picks me up at this time and drives me to my country home. Your plans sound most excellent, and I wish you the very best. Do not forget my invitation to stay at the Villa Ariadne.”
“Our thanks, Sir Arthur, and it has been a great honour meeting you.”
He nodded, picked up his walking stick, and slowly walked out of the museum.
They left soon thereafter. As they walked down the museum steps, the cold Oxford air embracing them, Joanne turned to Henry, kissed him and said: “Henry, that was one of the most memorable moments in my life. I am overwhelmed, and thank you from deep down in my heart.”
Arm in arm, they strolled down the historic, cobbled streets of Oxford back to their hotel.
The only other trip outside of London they took was to Stratford-upon-Avon, and they were captivated there by the restoration of fifteenth and sixteenth century homes, such as Anne Hathaway’s Cottage. They revelled in the world of William Shakespeare, and went to see Julius Caesar at the theatre. In 1930, Stratford-upon-Avon was uncluttered, and tastefully presented a perfect insight into another century for the tourist, as it was so well preserved.
Back in London, they rounded off their visit with excursions to St. Paul’s Cathedral, Dr. Samuel Johnson’s and Charles Dickens’ houses, the Tower of London, the Royal Naval College and National Maritime Museum and the Old Royal Observatory at Greenwich, Westminster Abbey, number 10 Downing Street, Trafalgar Square, Kew Gardens, Windsor Castle and Hampton Court Palace. Every time they turned a corner they seemed to turn over another page in history. Hampton Court Palace was perhaps special as Henry arranged to play royal tennis there with the resident professional. He had played a few times in Boston. The game, a forerunner of modern-day tennis, was played by King Henry VIII on this same court. The racquets and balls differed from those in the modern game of tennis, the serving was into a wall and the ball came down into the court. Joanne was completely intrigued, and tried a serve or two, but that was enough for her.
Time just seemed to go by so quickly, and before they knew it they were on the Athena, a Greek ship, headed towards Athens. There was one stop, at Rome for four days, so they did the normal tourist things. They were becoming experts at sight-seeing. They went to the Vatican and saw the Sistine Chapel, to St. Peter’s Cathedral for Michaelangelo’s Pieta and took in the Forum, the Colosseum and the Circus Maximus.
“It’s amazing”, Joanne said, “just think that nearly two thousand years ago the Colosseum was built to hold about 60,000 people, who were assigned particular seats. It was the first covered stadium in history. In inclement weather, the Roman navy had the duty of pulling gigantic tarpaulins over the stadium, and to think that underneath the stadium lions, tigers, and even ostriches were held to be released and satisfy the blood lust of the populace. An underground series of lifts could suddenly pull up lions and release them on the surface of the Colosseum.”
“Yes”, said Henry, “and what about the gladiators, who were trained at gladiator training schools, and would face death daily, and depend on a fickle crowd for their survival?”
“I would love to see Pompeii as well, I know they are still excavating there”, said Joanne.
“Well, we still have a few days, let us see if we can organize it.” They were able to arrange it, and it was an amazing sight when they got there to see the archaeological cut through the ancient larva or pumice, up to seventy feet in depth in sections, that had poured down from Vesuvius in AD 79, covering the town. Between the gasses and the heat every living thing in its path was killed. They were taken to see the fossilised remains of men, women, dogs and even cats, curled up before death, hoping somehow to escape. It was a very moving experience for both of them. They were witness to silent images of an ancient life. Indeed, the excavations had yielded streets, shops, theatres, a colosseum and a gladiatorial training school, paintings and statues. Life almost 2000 years ago was revealed at Pompeii.
They were now coming to the conclusion that they did not have enough time to see everything they wished but they felt they had done reasonably well. The Athena left on time for Athens, their principal destination.
It was a debate as to where they would reside in Athens, but they decided they would stay in the leading hotel of the time, the Grande Bretagne, which was located at Constitution Square.
They went for a walk the first day, and quite unexpectedly came across a beautiful marble stadium, and hired a tourist guide to tell them about it. What he told them they knew absolutely nothing about.
“This stadium” the young man related, “was built for the 1896 Olympics, which was the first Olympics in modern times. You, of course, will host the Olympics in Los Angeles in 1932. They are held every four years, but were in absolute fact interrupted by the two Great Wars. It was more sensible in ancient times, as all wars ceased during the period of those ancient Games.”
“The Games of 1896 were the idea of a Frenchman, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, who felt that sport taught elements of character, like courage, determination, fair play and such, and he also believed that sport could bring the nations of the world together, could break down national prejudices. He was very idealistic. The Greek government went bankrupt during the planning stages, and the Games would not have been held, but for a Greek millionaire, businessman George Averoff, who agreed to finance the Games himself. That is his bronze statue over there, near the entrance to the stadium. He was a philanthropist, and saved the day for Greece.
“No-one had the concept in those days of a circular athletics stadium, so the organisers chose the ancient model, with straightaways, as you see, roughly 200 metres long. Let me take you to the four marble turning posts. There is a male head, as you can see on these two, but no sexual organs, if you will pardon me madam, on the torso.” They walked the 200m to the other turning post. “There”, the guide went on, “we have the same head, but the sexual organs are prominent. The artist’s concept was that before the Games the athletes had to be abstemious, but after competition, after they finished their race, the athletes could live normal lives. We actually have no idea whether the athletes lived up to these ideals in 1896.”
“There are two marble seats over there, not too far from the finish line. Why don’t you go over there and sit on them?” Henry and Joanne walked over and did just that. “One of those seats was for Baron Pierre de Coubertin, and the other the presiding official at the games, or even the King if he came along.”
“You will be pleased to know that an American won the first event, the 100 metres, and in fact American athletes dominated in the Games. As Greeks, we were very disappointed as the days went on, as we had not won an athletic event. The very last event was the marathon, which began at the town of Marathon, the scene of the epic struggle between the Persians and the Greeks, and ended up here at the Stadium. The crowd, 100,000 strong, was delirious as a Greek peasant, Spiridion Loues, r
an into the stadium a clear winner. The King, overjoyed, ran with him to the finish line. Flags and handkerchiefs were waved, there was a caucophony of cheers. It was an unbelievable occasion. Proposals of marriage were made to him, and he received countless gifts. He was revered for the remainder of his life, as you might imagine.”
Joanne interrupted: “And were there other events than track and field, as we call them in the US?”
“It may be hard to believe”, the guide went on, “but gymnastics and wrestling were performed in this very stadium. You probably passed a building on the way here, and that was used for fencing.”
“And swimming?” asked Henry.
“If you came by ship, you probably landed in Pireaus Harbour. Swimming was actually held in the harbour. There were no swimming pools in Greece at the time. It must have been very awkward. A Hungarian swimmer dominated, as I recall.”
They asked the young guide whether he would take them to the Acropolis, and he agreed, so they set off in a horse and carriage and were there in thirty minutes. When they dismounted they stood back and admired it, the marble columns and pediments glistening in the sun.
“Oh, Henry”, Joanne said, “I have read so much about the Acropolis, and it is much more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.”
The guide nodded: “Yes, it is beautiful, but the Greeks have deep feelings about the British and the Turks as they look up there.”
“Why is that?” asked Joanne.
“In some ways it is our own fault, but we will never admit to that. The Acropolis, which is the large area encompassing the base and all the temples, has an unparalleled view of all Athens and for that matter the harbour of Piraeus. We used it as a fort when we were at war with the Turks, and they bombarded it with their cannon, which understandably did great damage. Then there was Lord Elgin, the British aristocrat, who simply loaded much of what was left there on to his ships and eventually deposited them in the British Museum. It was a dastardly theft, but again in those days there was little interest in the remains and no-one seemed to care!”
Joanne said: “We have seen the Elgin marbles in the British Museum.”
“Ah”, went the guide, “then you know what I am talking about. Look at the marble here in the sun. It is a special marble, and it has a certain translucent quality. The marble in the British Museum is situated in rooms with artificial light, and it looks lustreless, and lacks the majesty that you can see now. We say that it does not shine because it is sad, far away from its home. We have appealed to the British to return our heritage to us, but it falls on deaf ears. Can you imagine what would happen if a wealthy Greek went to England and took Stonehenge to Athens to display it? What a reaction that would get!”
“But let us see what is on the Acropolis. The piece-de-resistance, of course, is the Parthenon, with its massive Doric columns and pedestals.” They walked over it, staring upwards every now and then, wondering how the ancients, with their primitive equipment, could have lifted the stones to such heights. They were also surprised that they could stand at one end of the Parthenon and see the columns at the other end, thus reinforcing the fact that straight lines were not a necessary part of Greek architecture.
They wandered to one side of the Acropolis, and as they looked down they saw an ancient theatre that had been excavated. Next they looked at the Temple of Athena Nike and then the Erechtheum. While standing at the Erechtheum, the guide pointed out that there were six columns, sculpted in the shape of women, the so-called six virgins.
The guide said: “That accursed Elgin took three of the virgins back to London with him. You know, when it rains in Greece the water runs down the face of the original virgin, and it appears as if she is crying. The Greeks say she is crying because of the loss of her sisters.”
It was a memorable visit, and after it they sat at one of the many outdoor cafes in Constitution Square, and had tea. They had little taste for the strong Turkish coffee they had been served on arrival. They sat there, and spoke of their future plans. Basking in the late afternoon sun, Henry turned to Joanne, reached for her hand and said, “Joanne, words cannot adequately describe how I feel. The magic of the Mauretania, London, Rome and now Greece. A new world has opened up for me, and I delight in learning so many new things and seeing so many new places. I had no idea that there was such a world and, Joanne, you are the perfect travelling companion, you never complain, you are always positive and happy. There is nothing more I enjoy than being with you.”
“And I with you, my dear Henry. These things I had read about, but I never in my lifetime expected to see such wonders. And as I told you, I have always liked the stories related to discoveries. Who would have thought we would actually meet Sir Arthur Evans, the King and Queen of England, and to know of people like Lord Elgin and Heinrich Schliemann? This is the librarian’s dream, and it is all done with my best friend.”
That night, after a wonderful dinner at a small restaurant, they strolled through the flea market, and the Agora or ancient market-place. Woollen products, vases of all description, jewellery and countless souvenirs were in the shops, and they delighted, hand in hand, at wandering through them, eying the products and occasionally buying something to send home.
Back in their hotel, they lay in their single beds, their bodies yearning for each other. They both knew that in the future they would not be able to prevent consummating their relationship, but each now held back from making the initial move. Henry reached out and touched Joanne, and they held hands. “Good-night, my darling”, he said.
‘My darling!’ she thought. That is the first time he has ever said that. She felt a surge of love go through her body. “Good-night, Henry, sleep well”, she replied. They both dreamed the dreams of lovers, feeling safe and warm knowing that the other one was nearby.
They were told that Heinrich Schliemann had many years ago built a grand house not far from their hotel. They knew that Heinrich was dead, but they wondered if his child-bride, Sophia, might still be alive. They knew, in any case, that the Schliemanns had children. Would they still be living there? So they sent a hand-written note addressed to the Schliemann family, explaining who they were and respectfully asking if they might call on them two days hence. A reply came that one of Schliemann’s sons, Agamemnon, would be delighted to meet the American couple.
At the appointed time they knocked on the door. A Greek servant ushered them in, and led them to the Library. A middle-aged man rose to greet them, and shook hands.
“I am Agamemnon Schliemann”, he said in perfect English. “Father, as you probably know, was a considerable linguist, and was perfectly fluent in about fifteen languages, and he made certain that we were reasonable in the main ones. Hence I can speak to you in English. None of us, however, had our father’s dedication and motivation. As for my mother, she unfortunately passed away some years ago. But what can I do for you two? We rarely have Americans come this way. I love America and the Americans, and I have no wish to be critical, but they appear to have their prime interest in the present, and the ancient world holds little attraction for them.”
Henry laughed: “You are right, Mr. Schliemann, and I of all people, until recently, fell into such a category. We are going soon to your father’s excavations, and we wanted to know more about him, in a way to get to know the man behind the excavations, the real Heinrich Schliemann, so to speak.”
“Well, as his son I will have a biased viewpoint, so you must accept it for what it is worth. There are numerous biographies written about him, of course, but in my opinion they have not been able to get at the very core of Heinrich Schliemann. I will attempt to do so for you, and indeed I will enjoy doing it. But first, I will order some coffee or tea, whichever you prefer, and then give you a guided tour of the house.” They requested tea.
The library where they were ushered into was replete with archaeological books, Schliemann’s own notes and drawings that were done for him, and throughout his house, aesthetically displayed, were photograph
s, paintings and artefacts of his various digs at Troy, Mycenae and Tiryns. They were even allowed to see the bedroom where the great one had slept with his beloved Sophia.
“This house”, Agamemnon went on, “was the most grandiose mansion in Athens when it was built on what is now University Street. As you entered the study the words of Pythagoras greeted you: ‘All who do not study geometry, remain outside.’ There are marble gods and goddesses on the roof top, friezes depicting Greek figures on the walls, Greek inscriptions everywhere, and even a ballroom, though balls as such were rarely held. It is a magnificent house to this day. From the outside one could not guess what the interior held, it is in that sense like a house in ancient Rome or Pompeii.”
When they sat down in the Library, Agamemnon began his story. “This is very difficult for me, you know, yet in a way very pleasurable. The question you asked me has never been requested of me before. Let me think a moment, to organise my thoughts.” He paused, sipped his tea, and was temporarily engrossed in his private thoughts.
“I think I will start at the end of his life. By the way, I was his first child, and my name is indeed Agamemnon, believe it or not, who was as you doubtless know, a pivotal figure at both Troy and Mycenae, my father’s greatest discoveries. My friends at times mock me about my name, but I carry it with great pride, I can assure you. Father was only 68 years of age when he died, in Rome of all places, a virtual unknown, as he had little evidence on him when he died. He loved Christmas Day, he never missed it with his family, and he was on his way back after some business in Germany. He fell ill in Rome, but he always wanted to see Pompeii, so he journeyed there to see the excavations. On his return to Rome, he sent a telegram to my mother asking her to delay our normal Christmas celebrations. A chill that he had caught at Pompeii occasioned his complete collapse, and he died on Boxing Day, 1890. It was some days before they knew that the body was that of the world-famous Heinrich Schliemann.
