The Love Ring

by Max Howell

“What was he like? He was highly intelligent, with an encyclopaedic memory. You realise he had virtually committed to memory Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, don’t you, in ancient Greek, if you could imagine? With his family he was a wonderful father, extremely interested in his children and their aims and aspirations, and he worshipped my mother, Sophia, absolutely worshipped her. She was the constancy, the rod, the absolute love of his life. When they saw each other their eyes would light up.”

  “Yet in reflection there were at least three Heinrich Schliemanns, perhaps even more. There was Schliemann the family man, who I have tried to describe from a child’s perspective. Then there was Schliemann of the sensitive nature, who would be deeply hurt at periods of his life when he was doubted, at times ridiculed, by the mythical academic community, many of whom criticised him from afar but had never been part of an archaeological dig in their lives. The barbs at times would deeply wound him. There was also the intuitive Schliemann, who could identify where he wanted to dig next, and was invariably right in his judgment. This Schliemann could be obsessed, and he was more motivated and single-minded than anyone I have known. So those are the real Schliemanns, as I analyse them reflectively over the passing of the years.

  Joanne was the first to speak. “That is fascinating, Mr. Schliemann, absolutely fascinating!”

  “Agamemnon”, he interrupted, smiling.

  “Yes, Agamemnon, how can I forget?” She laughed as she said it.

  Then Henry spoke. “I agree that you have given us a great summary of your father’s life. How did he get to what he became? What were the pivotal points of his life?”

  Agamemnon went on. “I will try to answer that, but one of the reasons I saw you today, and few know of it, but he admired America, and in some ways your country was pivotal in his life.”

  “How?” asked Henry. “I simply had no idea.”

  “Well, my father was an amateur archaeologist, he had no formal training. Mind you, there was little such training as such in those days anywhere, even in the Universities. But one thing an amateur needs to work at the magnitude of my father is money, lots of it. Father made his fortune in two places, Russia and America.”

  “America?”

  “Yes, America. My father went to America in 1851, the height of the gold rush in California, and opened a bank there. He bought the gold dust from the miners. Believe it or not, my father became an American citizen and for that matter, he almost remained in America, as he contracted typhus and his life was in peril for quite a time.”

  Henry said: “I doubt if anyone in America realises this.”

  “Perhaps”, answered Agamemnon, “but it is a fact, though I have never seen it mentioned in accounts of his life and excavations.”

  Agamemnon went on. “I will try to be brief with respect to his early life. My father was born, in 1822, in a small north German town. His father was a Protestant parson, and hence there was little money in the family. Worse than that, his father was a drunkard, forever squandering the little money he had.

  “My father, as I have noted, loved Christmas, and would often tell us that when he was a mere seven years of age he was once given a voluminous work at Christmas, Jerrer’s Universal History. He was fascinated with it, and more particularly with its fanciful descriptions and lithographs of ancient Troy.”

  “Because of the impecunious family circumstances, and the fact that there were six children, my father was required at the age of fourteen to work in a grocer’s shop. From 5 a.m. to 11 p.m. each day, I might add.

  “An imaginative child, his life changed when a drunken miller came into his shop, by the name of Niederhoffer. He also had been a Protestant clergyman, like his own father, and he would recite Homer, in Greek. The young boy would listen entranced, the sounds of Greek appearing as a melody to him. From that point on he knew he had to learn Greek, so he could read the works of Homer and know more about ancient Troy.

  “My father fell in love with a village girl, Minna Meincke. An idealist, and a passionate one at that, he informed Minna that he had to leave his job as a grocer’s assistant to make his fortune elsewhere. He said that when his fortune was made, he would return and marry her. She pledged eternal love.

  “I am getting somewhat ahead of myself, but love stories are so interesting, don’t you think? Twelve years later father went back, and was horrified to find that a no longer svelte Minna had married a local farmer and had a number of children. It was a great shock to him. Farewell Minna in his life! My God, she might have been my mother!”

  “Anyhow, father worked first at Hamburg, but found the physical work too arduous, for he was ever a slight person. He then got work on a Dutch ship, the Dorothea, which was ship-wrecked near Amsterdam. He survived nine hours in an open boat, which was ultimately thrown ashore near that city.”

  “Hospitalised, he wrote to a ship-broker friend in Hamburg asking for help, and feeling sorry for this strange young man, the ship-broker raised money and sent it to Heinrich. A position was found for him with a merchant, and later on he went to the office of another leading merchant.

  “In both these positions, he lived frugally, meticulously putting aside half his earnings to learn languages. By the time he was twenty-two years of age he had mastered seven languages. Greek strangely was not one of them. He felt he should leave that until last, for fear he would be so entranced by it he would not learn other languages more necessary for his immediate work. By the age of twenty-four he had mastered Russian, so the company sent him to St. Petersburg. This was another pivotal moment in his life, and he never looked back from that moment.

  “He was soon a merchant on his own, travelling to the various capitals, and in the process amassed a huge fortune. Women had never interested him too much, he was an innocent, and yet was forever imagining himself in love after a first meeting. He was eventually to marry a Russian woman, Katherina. It was a disaster, and within a year or so they both realised it. She bore him a son and two daughters, however, and they were together, remarkably, for some fifteen years before they divorced, which as you might imagine was unusual at the time. During this so-called union he went to America, amassing in the second process an additional fortune that I mentioned previously.

  “By the age of thirty-three he had in his command fifteen languages, adding Polish, Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Latin, Slovenian and modern and ancient Greek. Later he learned Arabic.

  “He travelled a fair bit at this time, but it was when he arrived in Greece that his life’s goals became clear, the ambitions of his childhood now seemingly possible.

  “After his divorce, he wrote the Archbishop of Athens, who he had known years previously in St. Petersburg. Now forty-six, he asked the Archbishop to find him a young Greek wife, poor but well educated, beautiful, with black hair, who was enthusiastic about Homer and ancient Greece.

  “Following a handsome donation to the church, the Archbishop sent my father a photograph of a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl, Sophia Engastromenos, my mother. Believe it or not, at their initial meeting he virtually interviewed her, asking such questions as to what passages of Homer she could recite. She must have done all right, as they were married, and it was one of the great love stories of all time. As I said, whenever they looked at one another it was with deep respect and love. By the way, I notice the same look that you two have.”

  They were both astounded at what Agamemnon said. It was what they both felt, however.

  Agamemnon went on. “My mother and father went everywhere together, working side by side, to Troy, then Mycenae and then Tiryns. That is history, and it would spoil your visit if I told you too much. So there it is, the Schliemann story.” He got up, the interview was over, though it was all concluded in a very delicate way. They thanked him profusely, and left to go back to Constitution Square.

  They sat down in the Square and ordered a Greek salad, tomato, lettuce, olives and olive oil, as well as a cup of tea, and discussed their plans. They both agreed that they would go to
Mycenae as soon as they could, to follow the trail of Heinrich Schliemann.

  The next morning they discussed their plans with a travel agent, and he said they could go to Mycenae by local bus, or by train. In both cases there was no direct way of getting there, changes having to be made on the way. The agent suggested instead that they rent a car, which was rarely done by tourists in those days, particularly as they might want to go further in the Pelopponese to see Sparta and Olympia, and cross over the mainland to visit Delphi. They agreed, and by the late afternoon they were in possession of a Mercedes.

  The following day they were on their way, and immediately fell in love with the Greek countryside. The land was barren by the standards of the east coast of America, it was dotted with olive trees, the sea on one side of them and hills and mountains on the other as they drove. Joanne noted that someone had described Greece as hill and donkey country, and she could see why. The peasants, men and women, were toiling in the fields, the predominant colour of their clothes, particularly the women, being black. When they saw them up close, they were impressed by their gnarled and classic appearance, with an abundance of wrinkles, and all were bronzed, by continual exposure to the sun.

  When they reached the Isthmus of Corinth, where the Pelopponnese divided itself off from the mainland of Greece, they had lunch. The restaurant they decided upon had a commanding view of the canal, and they lazed there in the sun watching the occasional ship progress slowly along its high walls. They had heard that there was an archaeological site at Corinth, and nearby Isthmia, so they decided to wander over these sites. At Corinth there was a display which pointed out the architectural differences of Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns, and from then on they would point out to each other the type of columns in different temples. Corinth was an extensive archaeological area, and it took them some hours to walk around. After that they drove to the smaller site at Isthmia, and when walking over the site heard some unmistakable American accents. They went over and introduced themselves, and were informed that they were part of an archaeological team from the University of Pennsylvania. The leader was Oscar Broneer.

  Broneer, after the normal courtesies, said: “We don’t see many Americans here, mainly Germans. In the years to come perhaps this will be a tourist area, but not thus far. Corinth, which you just visited, was a very wealthy city, and was a leader in the various arts in the Greek world, even developing a new type of column.”

  Joanne laughed and said: “The Corinthian column!”

  “Very well done”, Broneer went on, “top of the class. You surely know of Olympia, where the first ancient Games were held, at least from 776BC to 393AD. Well they were the main Games. But there were approximately one hundred other athletic games in the Greek world at its zenith. By the way, the Greeks had colonies at various times in such places as Turkey, North Africa, Rome and Britain. There were four Crown Festivals, as they were called, they were the athletic Games of highest importance. Olympia was the main one, the others were at Delphi, Nemea, and here at this little city of Isthmia. It was very important from the athletics viewpoint. We are digging here to find, if possible, at what part of the site these Games were held.”

  Broneer looked at his watch, and said: “We are calling it a day here, where are you going now?”

  Henry said: “We planned to go on to Mycenae.”

  “I would not if I were you”, Broneer said, “and the reason is that the site will be more meaningful if you drive up to it in the early morning or afternoon light. It is awe-inspiring. Believe me, to-morrow would be best. By the way, you should drop into Nemea on the way there. The University of California at Berkeley is digging there, though I don’t think they have arrived yet. My archaeological team is staying en masse at a small Greek hotel outside of Corinth. There is a lovely, quaint hotel just down the road from us. I can recommend it. I know the family who run it very well. You will probably be the only ones there. What do you say? And we can dine together at my hotel, say in roughly three hours. Time is not so important here, the days simply merge into one another.”

  Joanne and Henry conferred quickly, and agreed with Oscar Broneer’s proposition. “Sounds ideal”, said Henry.

  “Then follow me, and I will introduce you to your hosts.”

  They drove after Oscar Broneer, and in thirty minutes he stopped outside of a small pension, and an aged couple came out. Broneer spoke to them in Greek, he told Henry the price of the accommodation, which was unbelievably low, and they were taken to the largest room in the pension. They were, indeed, the only guests at this time. The bathroom and toilet were primitive and along the corridor from their room. There was only one bed in the room, but they had not the language ability or particularly the desire to object.

  The hotel fronted the sea, so they changed into their swim-wear, walked down the stairs, along the sand, and eased themselves into the water. The water was warm, and their bodies floated easily. It was a wonderful feeling. They talked, excited, exhilarated, and Henry suddenly drew Joanne to him as they stood shoulder deep in the water. He kissed her passionately, and said, with emotion: “I love you, Joanne. I have waited so long for this.” His hand felt over her body, marvelling at how tiny she was, how lithe and beautifully formed. She said: “And I love you, Henry. You are the one love of my life!”

  They went upstairs to their room, and without a word undressed and made love for the first time. Their bodies merged as one. She winced at the first penetration, as she was a virgin, but thereafter was swept away into another world, a world she had dreamt about but thought may never happen. Without fully understanding what was happening she had an orgasm, gasping in delight, and then so did he. For both of them it was the most wondrous day of their lives.

  For a long time they lay unclothed next to one another, admiring the other’s body. He kissed her breast, brought his hands softly and gently over her body, and then they just lay there, their bodies touching.

  They then remembered they had to go to dinner with Oscar Broneer and his team, who were mostly university students. They walked hand in hand to their hotel. It was warm, there was no breeze as if the Gods were smiling at them, there was a full moon, and the moon beams sparkled in the calm sea.

  It was a simple meal, a Greek salad, lamb chops in profusion, and the local resinated wine, which took a little getting used to. They exchanged intelligence about America, and then they were advised about the Greek world, what to do and what to see.

  They embraced their new friends when the dinner was over and walked back to the hotel. “By the way”, called Oscar, “I arranged for your breakfast at 8 a.m. Hope you like omelettes, it’s about all you’ll get in any case in the country. Have a good trip!”

  Outside their hotel, they embraced and looked out across the sea. Everything was so absolutely perfect, and they both knew it. They went upstairs and made love again, falling to sleep in one another’s arms.

  The following day they were woken up by their hosts, and after they dressed breakfasted at a table placed on the beach, the sound of the waves beguiling them. They then packed, paid, and farewelled their hosts.

  They looked back at the hotel, and embraced as they were leaving. Joanne said: “Henry, some time in my life I would like to come back here. I will never forget our night at this little pension.”

  “Nor I”, said Henry, “and I promise you we will return.”

  On the way to Mycenae they dropped in to see Nemea. There was no digging going on, as the University of California archaeologists had not arrived as yet, as Oscar Broneer had thought. In the centre of ancient Nemea was the main temple, the columns in disarray, and in the surrounding hill an area was fenced off, though nothing had been dug there, grape vines covering it. A worker pointed up towards it and said: “Stadium! Stadium!” So they presumed this was where the ancient stadium had been, but had not as yet been excavated.

  “It is hard to imagine”, said Joanne, “that here and at Isthmia were where two of the famous Crown Festivals were
held in ancient times. Both are now deserted, yet in yester-year there were thousands of people at these places, eager to watch the various events. It would have been something to see the bronzed athletes strutting around admired by the crowd, people selling food, a buzz surrounding the area.”

  “Indeed”, replied Henry, “It is also difficult to believe the place of sport in the life of the Greeks then. We see peasants, and workers now, and few seem to have an athletic bent.”

  Within an hour they had driven to the small town of Mycenae. In the distance they could see the battlements of the ancient site, an inspiring sight even from the village.

  They pulled up outside a small pension, aptly called La Belle Helénè de Menelaüs, and went inside. They were taken aback by the photographs on the wall, many of them of Sophia and Heinrich Schliemann and the Mycenaean excavations. A smiling and courteous Greek greeted them.

  “Welcome”, he said in halting English, “welcome to La Belle Helénè de Menelaüs, pension and restaurant. It is here, in this pension, that the famous Heinrich Schliemann and his wife lived during their excavation. This is my home now. My father was the host then. He was so proud of what happened here. From where do you come?”

  “America”, said Henry.

  “Ah, America. I have so many relatives there. California? New York?”

  “No, Boston, but near New York.”

  “What service, good sir, can I be to you?”

  “We would like to stay here, perhaps a week. Is that possible?”

  “It is very possible. Now there are no guests here, it is a quiet time of year. Would you like to have the very rooms where the great one and his wife lived?”

  They could not believe their luck, and were soon led to the historic room. There was a sitting room, and next to it a large bedroom with one bed. Again, there were photographs all over the walls. In no time they had agreed to a price, again ridiculously low by their standards, and unpacked.

  Joanne said: “It is difficult to believe that Heinrich and his wife walked these same floors, put their clothes away like us in these chests of drawers, and slept in that same bed.” They spoke to their host saying they wanted to visit the archaeological site as soon as possible, so he supplied them with Greek bread, tomatoes and cheese, as well as water and a bottle of Greek wine in case they got hungry or thirsty on their excursion. Henry grabbed his English translation of the Greek play Agamemnon and brought it along with him.