Schliemann 1- 30   Schliemann 30-60   Schliemann 60-90   Schliemann 90-120   Schliemann 120-150  Schliemann 150-180   Schliemann 180 – 210   Schliemann 210 – 240   Schliemann 240 – 270  Schliemann 270 – End 

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Burnouf made maps of the Plain of Troy, and at Hissariik, sketched scale drawings of Trojan walls, of building- and floor-plans of exposed sections.

Alone, Virchow rambled across the plain, studying the wildlife and cataloguing botanical specimens. As doctor, he attracted patients to an informal clinic, similar to the one that had previously taken up so much of Schliemann’s time. Virchow treated the workmen and prescribed for peasant patients who reached Hissarlik on foot and on horseback, in carts and on litters; he even made house calls in distant villages. He soon discovered that there was not one qualified physician or apothecary in the entire Troad; quacks treated patients with mumbo jumbo, and village priests sought to effect cures of all diseases by bloodletting. He decried the narrow-mindedness of priests who insisted that the hard-working people fast during Lent. Virchow found that by Easter, at the conclusion of the holy season, the entire population was debilitated and many people were dangerously ill, the lack of food having made their bodies breeding places for disease.

Schliemann willingly paid for medical supplies sent from the Dardanelles to Virchow. Gathering peasants in small groups, Virchow identified for them the camomile and jumper that grew wild, showing how those plants could be prepared for use as palliatives and cures for certain ailments. Virchow had with him a large supply of vaseline, efficacious in the treatment of sunburn and of the chafing from riding; for the latter, vaseline “proved to be highly beneficial/’

Through an interpreter Virchow questioned his patients about their daily habits, and observed their living conditions when he visited their homes, many as far as 50 miles from Hissarlik. As a result of his medical practice he became, by chance, an expert on residential architecture of the Troad. Virchow’s study of malaria, a disease rampant in the region, was immeasurably important to doctors elsewhere. Although the peasants suffered from fever and other diseases, Virchow was tremendously impressed by their general good health. He compared the tall, well-built men, virile and rosy-cheeked, with males in “what we call civilized cities,” and the Troad’s women, pure of complexion and healthy, with the pale, bloated, anemic women in Constantinople and the “barely better women on the continent.”

Schliemann was preparing material for his book IKo$ f City and

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Country of the Trojans, which was to be a monumental work when published in 1880. The dedication was to William Ewart Glad stone, M.P., D.C.L. ; the scholarly Preface was by Virchow, who also contributed a treatise on Troy and Hissarlik, a treatise on medicine of the Troad, and the catalogue of its flora. The book con tained an article by Professor J. P. Mahaffy on the relationship of Novum Ilium to the Ilios of Homer, an appendix by Professor A. H. Sayce on inscriptions found at Hissarlik, an article on Thymbria and Hanal Tepeh by Frank Calvert, and maps and drawings by Burnouf.

While working on the final preparation of the book, Schliemann heard that Virchow intended to publish an article about his own work at the excavations. Unreasonably angry, Schliemann fired off an arrogant and demanding telegram, reminding Virchow that he had been a guest at Hissarlik, with all expenses paid. Schliemann stated that publication rights were his alone because he had put up his hard-earned cash to carry on the work no one else dared attempt, all others lacking the vision to invest. He demanded that Virchow cancel whatever plans for publication he had. Fortunately, Virchow ultimately wrote and published various treatises on the causes and cures of pathological problems of inhabitants of the Troad.

But on receipt of Schliemann’s rude telegram, Virchow graciously withdrew the archaeological article intended for publication. He had a major design that required the total cooperation of Schliemann, and did not want to jeopardize that project by alienating him. Virchow had laid the groundwork for it in January 1879, two months before he joined Schliemann at Troy. A master at diplomacy, he had written to Schliemann: “It is tragic that you, although understandably, feel yourself estranged from the country of your birth, and that because of this we [in Germany] must be content if only a few little crumbs of your collection fall on us.” He ended the letter with the information that Schliemann had been elected to membership in the Frankfurt Academy of Arts and Sciences, but did not add that the election was the result of Virchow’s machinations.

Virchow coveteii the Trojan collection for Germany. While in the Troad, he frequently mentioned to Schliemann his birthplace, his fatherland, always choosing moments when Schliemann was content and in good humon Virchow made it his business to know the status of governments in regard to the collection. He knew that Greek ministers had rebuffed Schliemann, refusing to accept his offer to give them not only the Trojan collection but funds for the construction of a museum to house it. Virchow was aware of eager attempts by some countries to obtain the collection, and of Heinrich’s tentative offers, with stipulations he had every right to make. There was no denying that Schliemann had spent a small fortune in the excavation of Troy; that because of it, his family had suffered physical and emotional strain; and that he personally had faced danger, from man and nature, in acquiring the collection, only a small percentage of which was gold treasure. Virchow completely understood Schliemann and knew to what psychological pressures he would respond.

The Trojan collection was still in England on the spring day, in 1879 when Virchow and Schliemann started to climb Mount Ida, tramping through beautiful forests of oak and pine interspersed with chestnut, plane and lime trees, and firs. A sudden thunderstorm drove the two men into a sheltering cave, where they talked of many things. After the storm, they began a leisurely descent to the Plain. Along the way, Virchow, bending down, picked a flowering twig from a blackthorn bush and handed it to Schliemann, saying, “A nosegay from Ankershagen.” Virchow’s subtlety and his deep understanding of his friend were implicit in those four words. They touched the sentimental Schliemann. Ankershagen was the village where, at age seven, he had first vowed to excavate Troy and prove to the world that Homer’s writings were not fiction but fact. At Ankershagen, with emotion far from juvenile, he had explored secret caves, searched for ghosts and buried treasure, and believed in local legends and myths.

By the end of the day’s outing on Mount Ida, Schliemann was casually discussing the possibility of having his Trojan collection shipped from London to Berlin for temporary exhibition. Virchow had planted a seed that, for months after, he assiduously tended.

Sophia, who also knew Heinrich the sentimentalist and romantic, was frantic when she heard that the Trojan exhibit might be sent to Germany for a showing. Had she worked and suffered only to have the greatest single archaeological collection in the world go to a country other than her beloved Greece?

TWENTY-THREE

Heinrich and Sophia moved into their palatial home in Athens exactly one decade after the day of their honeymoon when Heinrich had promised to build such a house for his wife. Late in 1878, while Heinrich was digging to find ancient houses, excavators were scooping out a massive hole for the foundation of his modern home on University Street.

Plans for the huge three-story building were drawn up by the German architect Tsiller after many conferences with Heinridi, who knew precisely what he wanted down to the smallest detail. As his own contractor, he made arrangements for the quarrying of marble and other stone, selected what little lumber was needed, consulted with foundries about metalwork, engaged artists and artisans, and while traveling in Europe chose bathroom fixtures and kitchen equipment*

Heinrich in the roles of master builder, interior decorator, and landscape architect advised the experts and consulted Sophia only about minor details. She wrote to him in 1879, “Please do buy the necessary you describe. Its price is good, too.” But the tenor of their correspondence about the house and its furnishings was better typified by his “Today I purchased a chair for your boudoir. It is functional and will serve many purposes.” Sophia’s palace, built to Heinrich’s specifications, was furnished with what he thought was suitable, not with what she might have liked. Except in the matter of furniture, Heinrich’s judgment was sound and his taste impeccable.

He placed no budgetary limits on the construction and decoration of the residence, a square building with well-proportioned rooms. The ground floor contained two exhibition halls for the display of ancient objects, the kitchen, the servant’s quarters, and areas essential to the upkeep of a large household. From the street, marble stairways curved up to an exterior landing, with French doors that opened into a vestibule; here, inside steps led up and down. There was an inner vestibule, the Great Hall, the

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dining room, salons for entertaining, and three bathrooms. The family sleeping quarters, dressing rooms, the library and Heinrich’s study were on the second floor.

Curious Athenians gathered daily to watch the construction of the largest private residence in their city and to stare at the procession of workmen, many of them foreigners, going to and from work at the building. Shouts in German, Italian and Greek could be heard above the sound of hammers.

All three stories had mosaic floors in colorful patterns and interesting designs; even the servants* quarters and kitchen had floors in mosaic. A corps of Italian artisans, experienced at tessellation, stayed for more than a year completing the intricate flooring of the palace.

When the basic structure was finished, Bavarian artists began the murals on walls and ceilings, painting in detail the designs roughly sketched by Schliemann. There was one ceiling mural showing the marble metope of the sun god found at Troy ; other objects unearthed at Troy and scenes of Schliemann’s excavations at Troy and Mycenae were depicted in stylized forms. Additional murals were added after Schliemann dug at Orchomenus and Tiryns. The exquisite ceiling murals, flowing and rhythmic, were in pastel tones ; inscriptions and murals over doorways and above staircases were vibrant in color. There were even murals in soft shades on the exterior arcades off the first and second floors on the street side of the house.

Elaborate metalwork, bronze, in classical designs, formed the railings of the two arcades and of balconies and fences closing in the grounds. The sauvastika and swastika, were prominent in the design of the fences and the two double gates, one opening into the formal garden, the other into the entranceway to the house. On the two pairs of gates the sauvastika was on the right wing, the svastika on the left.

The spacious gardens were landscaped by Italian gardeners with whom Schliemann worked untiringly. Some shade trees already on the property were left standing ; more leafy trees, citrus and other fruit trees, and flowering shrubs were planted. Sod and seed provided the sweeping green lawn where the children played.

Schliemann called his palace IAIOU MEAAOPON, the House of Ilium, and had the words cut into marble at the center of the front of the building between the first and second floors.

A great ball given on February 14, 1880, was the Schliemanns’ first formal entertainment in their new home. A steady procession of carriages rolled up to Iliou Melathron, and fashionables of Athens and the Continent passed through the entrance gates, at tended by the gateman Belepheron, who was proud of the ancient name given him by Heinrich. Telamon, another faithful servant, stood at the French doors at the top of the sweeping outer stair cases. In the entrance vestibule maids took wraps of the guests, who stepped into the large vestibule, where they were welcomed by Heinrich and Sophia. Eagerly the guests entered the Great Hall and wandered through the house, admiring its splendors. Men who normally walked erect and proud ambled with heads down, marveling at the mosaics underfoot. Elegantly gowned ladies, who usually coquetted with eyes cast down in mock demurity, gaped at the murals overhead. Even the most sophisticated, in wonderment, inspected the house that was indeed a palace.

Nothing marred the grand opening of Iliou Melathron. Contented hosts, the Schliemanns bade goodbye to their last guest and retired. But before Heinrich dropped off to sleep, he puzzled briefly about one little incident. Late in the evening, he had surprised four ministers of the government in deep discussion. At his approach, three of them, obviously embarrassed, moved away; the remaining minister, in confusion, stuttered inanities to Heinrich.

Before noon the next day Schliemann completely understood the discomfit of the ministers whose impromptu conference he had interrupted. A government messenger delivered to Heinrich a document closed by the official seal of the Council of Ministers. Inside was a demand for Schliemann to either remove or cover the naked statues on the rooftop balustrade of Iliou Melathron, lest the sensibilities of Athenian citizens be offended by the repugnant display of nudity. Heinrich was absolutely furious and at once toe* the letter to Sophia, who burst into almost hysterical laughter. At first puzzled by her reaction, he then recovered his sense of humor and laughed along with her.

They held their own brief conference and dispatched every available household servant to fetch as many seamstresses as possible. Throughout the evening and late into the night five rooms of Iliou Melathron were bright with light needed by dress makers, working steadily. There was a hum of animated talk in the rooms, and giggles, chuckles, and laughter rose from the busy women. Like all Greeks the seamstresses enjoyed a good joke, and all the more if on the government.

The next morning Athenians en route to work along University Street looked up at the statues atop Iliou Melathron with an amazement that turned to delight and laughter. Heinrich mingled with the throng, and in strictest confidence, told here one man and there another that the Council of Ministers had ordered him to clothe the nude figures. The secret spread rapidly through the city as Heinrich hoped, and soon the sidewalks were jammed with hundreds of people mocking the ministers. Shopkeepers, bankers, clerks, errand boys, domestics, waiters, fishmongers,fruit vendors, and sponge sellers rubbed elbows in front of Iliou Melathron. On its roof the marble statues, standing two to a plinth, were dressed in flowing garments of gaudy cloth, the most unattractive and garish Heinrich and Sophia could find.

The Greek ministers, after meeting in Cabinet session, dispatched a messenger to Schliemann shortly before noon. Their official communication literally begged Schliemann to remove the mirth-provoking garments from the statues in order that business in Athens might return to normal. With great glee, Heinrich mounted to the roof, and in full sight of the crowd below, ostentatiously and dramatically removed each garment, waving it triumphantly before going on to the next statue.

Not long after, Heinrich himself attracted a crowd on University Street. Sophia, noticing that the servants were laughing to them selves and pointing toward the garden, looked out and saw Heinrich walking up and down, shading his head with a large Japanese paper parasol of brightly colored design, and carrying a red hand kerchief with which he continually mopped his brow. She went right out to him and said that he was making himself a laughing stock and should not be seen in publk with that red handkerchief and gay umbrella. She should have known better than to chide Heinrich about even so trivial a matter. He turned on his heel and walked through the bronze gates into University Street, where he paraded for some minutes, accumulating in his wake and at curbside a sizable group of gawkers. If Sophia sighed with relief when he returned to Iliou Melathron, her feeling was premature. Heinrich mounted to the roof and paced up and down along the front balustrade, clearly visible to all who passed below. Sophia and Heinrieh engaged in a real battle of wits when he decided that her stomach upsets would be improved by a daily glass of wine, a beverage she did not enjoy. He promised that he would place a gold coin under her wineglass every day at lunch, and she might have the coin whenever the glass was drained. At table she would lift her wineglass and say, “Henry, look at that tree outside; I think it needs some attention,” When he looked where she pointed, she would pour the wine into a pottery bowl she always had close beside her. As soon as he turned back, she put the empty glass on the table and continued to talk about the tree or whatever she used as ruse to distract him. After about four months of her feinting, he said to her, “Sophithion, do you not know that I am on to your little trick? I am certain that in your room you have a storehouse of gold coins and that some servant in the kitchen has~a treasurehouse of a healthy stomach. Perhaps it is better that I just place the wine there without the gold coin.”

Looking him straight in the eye, she answered, “My darling Henry, I think you should do whatever you wish to do.” The next day the wineglass had no gold coin under it. Sophia did not drink the wine, and Heinrich made no comment. The second day and the third, the glass of wine was placed beside her without the coin. Heinrich observed, “You seem not to be as interested in the garden or fixing household matters, Sophithion.” Unruffled, she answered, “Your attention to these things is so much greater during your stay at home that I have no comment to make.” On the fourth day, no wine was served to Sophia.

Four months was about the longest continuous time that Heinrich was at home in any one year, and during such stays he devoted a great deal of time to the children. Like many another self-made man, he wanted the best for his children, and was a taskmaster about their education. He had a fetish about the waste of spoken words, which was peculiar for a man whose writing was so verbose. If the children called, “Please come upstairs,” he would correct them, saying that “please come” would suffice.

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He held that when one person was below or upstairs, the other would know which way to go without the extra word down or up.

At the completion of Heinrich’s digs at Hissarlik in 1882 he had found a tiny kitten, straggly and wobbly, that was too small to feed from any utensil at the house on the Hill. Heinrich made containers for food and water from an orange that he cut in half, nailing each scooped-out half to a board; one half he filled with water, the other with gruel. Stroking the matted, filthy fur of the kitten, Schlietnann held it down to the gruel and dipping his finger into the liquid, put the finger into the kitten’s mouth. A little tongue flicked around the finger and very soon was lapping up gruel and water from the orange halves. Growing stronger by the day, Djindjinata followed Schliemann everywhere; and when he sat at his desk, she settled on one corner of it, preening her fur until it shone pure white.

When Schliemann left for home he took Djindjinata along, and aboard ship decided it was time for his “little white cotton ball” to change her eating habits. The first night out, Schliemann put her food in a metal saucer instead of in the orange halves to which she was accustomed. She refused to eat, and plaintively mewing, rubbed against Schliemann’s shoes. He walked to his cabin, shutting her out ; but she cried so pitifully that he opened the door, and picking her up, took her back to the saucer. Talking to her gently, he pushed her face into the food, repeating the mo tion three times; “. . . my cotton ball looked at me first with an expression of disbelief, the second time glared balefully and the third, resignedly.” Smug with his small success, Schliemann returned to his cabin, leaving the door open for Djindjinata; but she showed how irritated she was by sleeping just outside the open door, not inside the room with him as she had done at Hissarlik.

Heinrich was usually the center of attention at his homecomings, but on that one Djindjinata stole the show. Sophia, the servants and Andro, his adored little daughter Andromache, made a great fuss about the beautiful white kitten, the family’s only pet for the next three years.

One morning Agamemnon called Memeko by the family who had repeatedly asked if he might have a dog, saw a small black one on the road from Phafcron. Heinrich, oa horseback, was

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returning from his morning swim, and Memeko, seated behind, had his arms curved around his father’s waist. Seeing the dog, Memeko asked Heinrich to stop and pick it up; but he refused, explaining that the dog probably belonged to some family living near by. The horse trotted on and the dog followed. Finally Heinrich agreed that he would take the dog if it trailed them for five more minutes. At the end of that time, which must have seemed like hours to the little boy, Heinrich swung Memeko to the ground. He touched the dog; it whimpered, wagged its tail, and licked Memeko’s hand.

At home, everyone was excited about the coal-black puppy. But the pure-white Djindjinata recognized him as an enemy on several counts and sprang at him with claws out. Memeko, grabbing up his new pet, just did manage to keep him from being scratched. At breakfast Andro held the cat; Memeko, the dog. Schliemann had once told the children the story of Nero, called the black Emperor because he fiddled while Rome was burned to charred black ash ; and remembering that thrilling tale, Memeko pleased his father by asking if the dog might be called Nero.

Not long after, Nero, struck by a carriage, suffered a broken left front leg, which Heinrich expertly set, using two pieces of wood for splints. Nero, hobbling while the bone knit, was much pampered and spoiled by the family. When Heinrich removed the splints from the leg that he knew was quite healed, Nero limped about, whimpering. Some hours later, Schliemann went out to the garden where Memeko was laughing at the antics of Nero, racing back and forth to retrieve a thrown stick. The dog slowed down and limped as soon as Schliemann appeared. Suspicious, he went back into the house, and peeking out, saw Nero playing again. Concealed from view, Schliemann called to Me meko; and Nero, hearing the voke, went into his lame act.

At lunch, Heinrich explained to the children that “animals, like people, must learn not to take advantage of those who protect and care for them. Together we shall teach him [Nero] a lesson in gratitude.”

After their naps, Andro and Memeko went into the garden with their parents. Nero started to run to Memeko and then, seeing SchKeraann, limped toward the group. Heinrich put new splints on Nero, but instead of placing them correctly, extended them a

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couple of inches below Nero’s paw, making the left front leg longer than the other three. After tottering uncertainly for a few minutes, Nero slunk under some bushes, refusing to leave even when Memeko called. The little boy wanted his father to remove the splints after supper, but Heinrich said that they should wait for 24 hours. He deliberately spent most of the next day in the garden, reading, and in midafternoon Nero staggered up to him and raised the left paw. When Heinrich removed the splints, Nero bounded across the lawn, raced back, and looked up at Schliemann, who stared down at the dog.

One day when strolling with Andromache in the garden, he saw her break a full-blown flower from a plant. He sat down with her on a marble bench and said gently, “Andro, my little love, would you like to have someone cut off the fingers from your dear brother Memeko? Don’t you know that when you cut a flower, it and the plant have the same kind of pain your brother would have if someone cut off his fingers?” This was the same Heinrich who once, in the Troad, had uprooted a poppy plant that he presented root, stem and bloom to Sophia. But unaware of his inconsistency, he continued to discuss what he termed the “biology of botany” with Andro, reiterating that flora have a sense of feel and, therefore, must experience pain. He never allowed Sophia to take cut flowers into the house, and barely tolerated any sent to her as a gift. Iliou Melathron was beautified by flowers that were in profusion for every party, but the blooms burst from the stems of plants or the branches of flower bushes set in pots.

The Schliemanns’ palace was an architectural and decorative showplace, but it was sparsely furnished with utilitarian tables and chairs. Heinrich had no use for curtains or draperies, for upholstered or overstuffed pieces that might be comfortable to relax in. The house was so bare that, in Heinrkh’s absence, Sophia and the children picnicked on the floors of various rooms. They dressed for a jaunt, and picnic hampers packed in the kitchen were delivered to them at the front door. From there, the three set out for whatever destination in the house they decided on as the place where they would “be seated low where we and the food can be spread out.” The Acropolis was the second-floor gallery; the Queen’s Garden was a back bedroom with windows overlooking the real garden.

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One day Memeko, then seven, suggested that they picnic at the top of Mount Lycabettus. Sophia and Andro were puzzled. Which room could that be? With solemn face, Memeko led his mother and sister by a circuitous route to the stairway that led to the roof. Stopping at the top of the steps, Memeko, mimicking the voice of a boring friend of the family’s, read a passage from Hesiod, the Homeric poet, painted on the wall to the right. Completing his recitation, the little boy beckoned to Sophia and Andro to follow him out onto the roof. There, he turned to the right, walked a few paces, and unrolled the picnic cloth. With a sweep of his chubby arm, he said, “To you, my ladies, I give Mount Lycabettus.” The famous mountain towered beyond the roof.

Schliemann honestly thought that his family should live like ancient Greeks with the minimum of furnishings; his refusal to have luxurious furniture in his palace was a matter of principle. Had his point of view been different, he would have spent as he wished to obtain the luxuries he wanted.

He was at some times pinchpenny and at others spendthrift A letter to Sophia from the Netherlands epitomized his niggardli ness. On a visit there in 1875 he dined with Queen Sophia of Holland, who was so fascinated with his tales of adventure and excavation that she invited him to breakfast the following day, and that night gave a banquet to which dignitaries from her tiny kingdom were invited. In gratitude to Her Majesty, Schliemann offered to obtain a governess for her children, and to send her Greek statuettes. Writing to Sophia about how graciously he had been entertained, he asked that she select the statuettes, bat cautioned her to “find very nice ones at a very low price. I can’t pay much because I have to give them away.”

This was the same Heinrich who sent his shirts and under-things from Athens to a laundry in London, by fast ship. At Troy he daily changed shirts and underwear, which, being second best, he entrusted to a Turkish washerwoman. But he could find in Athens no laundress who could properly wash and iron his best linens, so he shipped them to England. In his diary for March 1877, he wrote: “If I live in this country much longer, I shall have to stop my excavations because it is costing me so much to have my laundry done. Yet, I am happy to say that because of my

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constant shipment to England, the laundry person is making me a better offer because I threatened to stop sending my laundry. I’m hoping that my 218 shirts will be enough to last me through out the year.”

In his introduction to Ilios, City and Country of the Trojans, he gave an explicit financial statement in answer to critics who asserted he was squandering his entire fortune on excavations. “As on my last journey to England and Germany I have heard it repeatedly stated that, carried away by ambition, I am ruining my self in my archaeological explorations, to the prejudice of my children, who will be penniless after my death, I find it necessary to assure the reader that, although on account of my present scientific pursuits I am bound to keep aloof from all sorts of speculation and am compelled to content myself with a small interest on my capital, I still have a yearly income of 4,000 pounds as the net proceeds of the rents of my four houses in Paris, and 6,000 pounds interest on my funded property, making in all 10,000 pounds; whilst, inclusive of the large cost of my excavations, I do not spend more than 5,000 pounds a year, and am thus able to add 5,000 pounds annually to my capital. I trust, there fore, that on my death I shall leave each of my children a fortune large enough to enable them to continue their father’s scientific exploration without ever touching their capital.”

After Heinrich and Sophia had lived at Iliou Melathron for seven years, he told her one day that he was pleased to have just purchased the most beautiful piece of land with a splendid view of Athens, Phaleron, and the Ilisis River. He explained that the land was so situated that the magnificent view could never be obstructed. When Sophia, probably shaken, asked when he was going to start to build their next new home, he answered that Tsiller would at once begin to work on the plans, adding, “I do not intend to build a house there, but to build our grave on this spot where always we shall lie together and know that the beautiful view of Athens is all around us/’

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TWENTY FOUR

Archaeologists who studied the results of Schliemann’s excavations at Troy and Mycenae arbitrarily gave the name Mycenaean to the ancient civilization that linked the great cities of Asia Minor, the Greek islands, and the Greek mainland. Schliemann, after searching the literature and history of ancient eras, thought that the Mycenaean civilization was widespread in Greece. To find confirming evidence in northern Greece, he went to Livadia, 28 miles west of the ancient city of Thebes on the Boeotian Plain, north of Athens.

He began his investigation of the historic terrain at the deep gorge of Hercyna, a steep V-shaped formation of impregnable rocks with a small river flowing under them. Niches for votive offerings were hewn from the stone, and high on one side of the gorge was the ancient Oracle of Trophonius, a legendary divinity. Pausanias wrote of two springs that flowed from the rocks into the river of the gorge : one spring was called Lethe (forgetf illness) and the other, Mnemosyne (remembrance). Both springs were symbolic of the Trophonian rites, the bad of the past forgotten and only happiness remembered. The cool gorge was used, during the four-hundred-year occupation of Greece by the Turks, as a retreat from the heat by governors of Livadia, who went into the small niches to smoke their narghiles, water pipes, in comfort, Sophia, worried that Heinrich would not be well fed in that remote area, offered to send fruits from their garden and food from their kitchen. Assuring her that the fare was excellent, Heinrich asked if Sophia would join him there, She and the children, with their nursemaid, met him at Skripa, near Orchomenus, which in prehistoric times was the capital of the Minyas, power ful leaders of the Boeotian Plain. From that rich farmland the sons of Ares, Ascalaphos, and lalmenos departed to join the Greek forces sailing to do battle at Troy. The Minyas were rich, fabled, and famous; and Heinrich, certain that their capital was

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another link in the great chain of Mycenaean cities, hoped to find evidence to support his theory.

He and Sophia, in the fall of 1880, tramped the countryside looking for suitable sites for digging. No major excavations had been made there, but extensive sections of the citadel’s fortress walls were still standing. Nearby there was a ruined beehive tomb.

Schliemann had a number of shafts sunk around the tomb, and Sophia supervised a crew at one location. Heinrich excavated without success. Sophia, depending on techniques learned from him, reaped the reward of long experience. News of her discovery, printed first in the Athenian paper Ephemeris and then in the London Builder, appeared on January 16, 1881, in the New York Times:

Dr. Schliemann and his wife have been staying in Skripa energetically searching for prehistoric sites at Orchomenus. Several shafts Dr. Schliemann sunk afforded little result. His wife, who has been conducting researches in another portion of the ground, has been fortunate enough to find what is believed to be the remains of the Treasury of the Minyas. On November 23, according to the newspaper Epheineris, Frau Schliemann came upon a door and passage lying to the right of the Treasury, leading apparently to a tomb or chamber and barred with a stone tablet covered with beautiful reliefs. The Government Commissioner who is attached to the excavating party, writing of Frau Schliemann’s discovery, stated, “The door opens into a fine passageway running in a northerly direction from the Treasury. At a distance of three meters, however, lies a large stone, which had fallen down from the roof and completely blocked the passageway. This stone is adorned with sculptured flowers, which may be taken as indicating that the decorated portion of the interior commenced here.” The remains of the Treasury of the Minyas lie at the footof Mount Acontion ….

The articles in all three newspapers stated that it was Sophia who made the major discovery of the inner tomb. But Heinrich, in his subsequent articles and books, was not as generous to his wife as he had previously been. Instead of crediting her with the discovery of the buried chambers of the Treasury of the Minyas, he gave the impression that it was he who had made the find at Orchomenus.

Portions of the beehive tomb had been destroyed in 1867 on instructions from the local governor, who wanted the stones for

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the construction of a chapel There was enough of the original structure left to prove it had been a dromos, and Sophia’s crew unearthed the entrance to the previously unknown second room that created great interest in archaeological circles. The unique chamber, cut from native rock, had been sunk from above like a shaft, its walls rising vertically, not curved. The ceiling had fallen in, probably shaken loose by a severe earthquake that had rocked the region in 1870. The Schliemanns had the ceiling slabs pieced together, restoring exquisite sculptured patterns of rosettes and spirals. The patterns were typically Mycenaean. The rosettes were like those on alabaster friezes at Troy and Mycenae; the interlacing spirals were almost identical with those on wall-paintings at Tiryns, which was subsequently excavated. Like the Treasury of Atreus, that of the Minyas consisted of a dromos, or vaulted chamber, with a square tomb adjacent to it.

While Sophia and Heinrich were occupied at the digs, the children were cared for by the nursemaid. Nine-year-old Andromache, accustomed to city life, was amazed by the simple play of the local children and upset by the primitive conditions in which they lived. She gathered a group of new friends, and taught them games and recited stories about Trojan heroes whose names were household words to her. Children from nearby villages first gawked at Andromache and Agamemnon, then became friends with the two youngsters from Athens whose parents were famous the world over. Sophia was amused when she overheard one child say to another, “The father of Andro knows people on the other side of Athens.”

Sophia did not think it was funny, however, when Andromache told her little friends that the tomb her father was excavating was that of an ancient ancestor of her two-year-old brother, Agamem non. According to the nursemaid, Andro embellished her story by recounting the history of Mycenae where her father had uncovered the grave of another of her brother’s ancient ancestors, that one having fought in the Trojan War.

Andro, sternly reprimanded by her parents, was ordered to set the record straight At the end of the next day she said, “I have done as you demanded.” Apparently she managed to save face and to remain the leader of the playmates who joined her and Memeko at their games.

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Throughout 1880, Schliemann and Virchow were in constant touch by letters containing expressions of their friendship ; it was Embistos philos, which expresses the love, faith, and mutual trust of two superior people. There is no doubt that their friend ship was of that caliber, but there is no question, either, that Virchow was concentrating on the acquisition of the Trojan collection for Germany.

Sophia talked often with Heinrich about the collection, and when he was away, wrote letters that indicated her agitation about the matter. She reminded him of the goodwill of the citizens of Greece, so unlike the attitude of the Greek officials. “You may think me selfish if you wish, my friend and husband. But is my love, my labor and devotion for nothing?” she asked. “Do foreigners who praise you, give you honors and fawn on you count for more than do I and the land of Homer and Greece, the country you freely chose to adopt as your own?”

Heinrich ‘s vacillation caused her feelings to fluctuate. She wrote in one note : “Please assure me again, my beloved Henry, that the treasure will come to Athens”; and in another: “I received your cable from Brindisi which gave me great joy. I am wondering why you did not cable Virchow’s answer. I think that the museum did not accept your offer [of the collection] and I am very happy about it … .” Sophia steadfastly tried to persuade Heinrich to give the collection to Greece, but when doubts about his decision nagged, she said, “I write no more on this matter, I fear I am talking in vain.” As indeed she was.

She was no match for Virchow, who had on his side shrewdly planned emotional arguments, political power in Germany, and access to Prussians of high rank. Influence was essential because Schliemann was asking for many concessions in return for the gift of the Trojan collection to the German people. He wanted, in addition to personal honors such as membership in the Berlin Academy, the assurance that the Trojan collection would be cared for in perpetuity in a building constructed for the Schliemann Collection.

While Virchow schemed to obtain what Schliemann wanted, others accused him of making excessive demands. Ernst Boetti-cher, for one, stated publicly that the demands should not be met, dismissing as trivial the great collection by saying, “Why should

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these items be given space in our state museum?” Virchow immediately suggested to Schliemann that by giving the Trojan collection to Germany, he could forever silence his malicious adversary Boetticher.

Although a political opponent of Prince von Bismarck, Virchow willingly waited outside the Chancellor’s office for an interview about the collection. In time, Virchpw won Bismarck’s approval of acceptance of the collection, as well as the Kaiser’s. Other backers were Puttmacher, Minister of Public Education, and the director of the Staatliche Museum, a complex of exhibition buildings, a new one of which was to be named for Schliemann.

When the Kaiser issued a public letter accepting the Trojan collection, Sophia wept in her boudoir, but bravely smiled as she helped Heinrich pack the Trojan objects that were still in Athens. Large cases filled with finds from the last expedition to , Troy were sent from a warehouse at the Dardanelles to Berlin. Going to London where the major part of the Trojan collection was on exhibit at the South Kensington Museum, Schliemann supervised the crating of the objects for shipment to Berlin.

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TWENTY FIVE

Heralded by royalty and hailed by the populace, the triumphant Schliemann arrived in Berlin to receive the greatest honor he was ever to know. It was headlined in the July 2, 1881, issue of the Leipsiger Illustrierte Zeitung, which reported on a meeting of the Berlin Town Council: “The town-councillors of Berlin have approved with enthusiastic applause the motion of the municipal council to name Dr. Heinrich Schliemann honorary citizen of the capital city of the German Empire.” That distinction had previously been accorded to only two men, both former opponents of Schliemann. One was Bismarck, who had refused Schliemann safe-conduct during the Franco-Prussian War; the other was the amateur archaeologist and German military hero, Field Marshal Helmuth Karl Bernhard von Moltke, who had championed Bunarbashi over Hissarlik as the probable site of Troy. The achievement of equal rank with Bismarck and von Moltke was a victory sweet to Schliemann who made no secret of his feelings.

Virchow obtained for Schliemann all but one of the honors he demanded in return for the gift of the Trojan collection to the German people. Only membership in the Berlin Academy was denied him, because the Academy’s roster was limited to scholars of professorial rank in Berlin universities. Even Virchow, as he reminded Schliemann, was not a member of the Berlin Academy.

Schliemann’s disappointment about the Academy was mini-mixed on July 7, 1881, when he and Sophia stood in distinguished company in the mammoth drawing room of their suite in Berlin’s Thiergarten Hotel. There, at 1 P.M,, the Lord Mayor of Berlin, Forckenbeck, read the proclamation making Heinrich Schliemann an honorary citizen of Berlin. Royalty, prominent citizens, diplomats, and scholars were present, and Dr. Strabmann, president of the City Council, thanked Dr. Schliemann for giving the treasures from Troy to” Berlin. Heinrich held the certificate of honorary citizenship in his hand while he briefly spoke to the assembly,

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which broke into wild cheers when he finished. Heinrich and Sophia, tightly holding hands in support of each other, smiled through happy tears and acknowledged the plaudit.

Forty-three years had elapsed since the fourteen-year-old Heinrich, leaving school, had apprenticed himself to a village grocer; thirty-six years, since he had become the corresponding clerk and bookkeeper for Messrs. B. H. Schroder and Company in Amster dam, before serving as their Russian representative; and thirty-five years since he had set himself up in business in St Peters burg, where his first great fortune was made. Eleven years before sthat momentous occasion in Berlin, he had sunk the first spade into the Hill of Hissarlik, beginning then his second career, that of archaeologist devoted to the resurrection of ancient civilizations. With a sense of destiny, Schliemann always recorded his feel ings; and he wrote, after that day, that during the ovation the years swept over him.

“Today the road I trod seems short. Yet, in another manner it appears long. My emotions are mixed. I am at this moment uncertain of fact, time and sequence, because my very soul is elevated. Yet, of one thing I am sure today is not the end, it is a beginning because the years of productive scholarship ahead of me are many and varied. Perhaps today is but a semi-colon of a paragraph in my life. Yes, I know this is true and it sustains me through the turmoil of today’s events.”

The reception for the distinguished honorary citizen and Fran Schliemann was lavish. Wine flowed freely, and toasts rangthrough the great hall. Bouquets by the dozens were presented to Sophia, and, in the continental custom, sheafs of flowers were given to Heinrich, too. Bewhiskered gentlemen with medals lined across their chests bowed low over Sophia’s hand and congratulated Schliemann. Full-blown matrons, bedecked with diamonds, were presented by their husbands to Heinrich, and made small talk with Sophia. In that brilliant company two elderly ladies were conspicuous by their f rumpishness ; they were Heinrich’s sisters. Dressed in the dowdy clothes of provincials, they watched every move made by their Greek sister-in-law and their brother, whose guests they were for the day never to be forgotten.

After the reception Heinrich and Sophia, laden with flowers, retired to their suite. There for more than an hour of silence, they held hands or embraced, alternately calm and tearful. Sophia was torn by conflicting emotions, being proud for Heinrich but still sad that her country was not to have the glorious Trojan collection. At last she spoke, and her words reflected her inner sorrow. “My devoted Henry, you did what was best in your own mind and what is best in your mind is right, for it was you who labored to make your boyhood dream come true.”

Heinrich put his fingers to her lips. “My little darling, without you this day would not be. Rejoice not for me, but for yourself because together we shall be remembered in history for centuries after our bodies lie together in death and our souls joined in what hereafter has been planned by God for mortals.”

They parted finally to get ready for the evening’s banquet, Sophia to be dressed by her little maid, and Heinrich attended by his valet. When Sophia stood before Heinrich, he admired her as he had on the night, so long before, when they had given their great ball at 6, Place St. Michel. As always, Sophia’s intelligence and beauty shone inseparably. Placing a flowing evening wrap around her shoulders, Heinrich kissed her, and they went down to the carriage waiting to take them to Berlin’s Rathaus.

The mall before the city hall was thronged with curious Berliners gathered to watch the arrival of the famous couple whose every movement was publicized in the daily papers. Loud cheers from the crowd gave Heinrich his customary bit-bumps and again made tears well in Sophia’s eyes. Rudolph Virchow and other dignitaries were the official welcomers. When he handed Sophia down from the carriage, Virchow kissed her and looked deep into her eyes, as if seeing her soul. Softly he said, “My friend and great lady, I understand. But always remember, Heinrich has done what is right.” Tears flowing, Sophia squeezed Virchow’s hand. He did understand the torment and happiness within her.

The party moved up the steps of the Rathaus, through the entrance, down a corridor to the door of the banquet hall. At nine o’clock exactly, Sophia stood at the entrance with Heinrich a few paces behind. Guests rose from their chairs and made the room vibrate with their cheers. Heinrich moved to Sophia’s side, putting his left arm around her shoulder and, with his right hand, grasping her left one extended across her bosom. They stood regally,

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surveying the hall transformed into a flower bower by myriads of blossoms that perfumed the air; the kaleidoscope of flower petals was accented by the green oak wreaths that spiraled each column of the tremendous hall.

When the cheering died away, musicians from the Royal Berlin Orchestra played the triumphal march from Tannhauser. Sophia, on the arm of Forckenbeck, the Lord Mayor of Berlin, moved into the room; Heinrich followed at the side of Dr. Strabmann, President of the City Council As the honored guests and dignitaries moved toward the head table, cheers could be heard above the music. Present as guests were the Minister of State ; Hanseatic Resident-Minister Kriiger; Chief Administrative Privy Councillor Rosing; Privy Councillor of the German Archives, Dr. Gollmert; the President of the German Geographic Society, Dr. Nachtigal; the General Manager of the Royal Museum, Dr. Schone; as well as the President of the University of Berlin and prestigious professors.

After the long and elaborate banquet, congratulatory messages were read. Gracious greetings were sent by the Kaiser; his son the Crown Prince, later to be Kaiser Wilhelm II ; and the Count von Bismarck. Schliemann must have been disappointed that those three were not present, but according to the official German archives and newspapers of the day, there were good reasons for their respective absences. The Kaiser was ill in Coblenz; Crown Prince Wilhelm was on a mission in southern Germany; and Bismarck was taking the cure in Bad Kissingen, where he had frequently encountered Heinrich and Sophia.

The major address of the evening was delivered by Virchow, and the newspaper account stated :

With spirited words of welcome to the newest honorary citizen of Berlin and his wife, Virchow praised Heinrich’s great academic accomplishments and described how Schliemann, who had been out of his native Germany for 40 years, was reawakened by a love of fatherland, and how out of this reawakened love came Schliemann’s decision to give the overly-rich results of his discoveries to the fatherland and to make Berlin the guardian of his treasures. These treasures shall reside for all time in our city as a monument to Dr. Schliemann’s devotion to fatherland and science.

Schliemann made a gracious acceptance of the honor and

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praise bestowed on him. Very briefly he described the poor conditions under which he had worked while gathering the collection, and the privations he and Frau Schliemann had suffered. He said frankly that he had been convinced by Professor Virchow to give the finds to Germany “where they shall remain forever.” He spoke eloquently of the joy of discovery and satisfaction of contributions.

Replying to Schliemann, Dr. Schone proposed a toast to the new honorary citizen and his wife, addressing her also as honorary citizen. At that, the guests rose and let out a deafening roar that reverberated through the corridors of the Rathaus. Virchow proposed toasts and cheers to His Majesty the Emperor and King, and when the three cheers echoed into silence, the orchestra played the national anthem.

As Heinrich was leaving the Rathaus, he paused to speak to an alert and handsome young man he had only recently met, Wilhelm Dorpfeld. They shook hands and Heinrich went down to the carriage where Sophia, waiting, was animatedly chatting with admirers crowding around her. The carriage rolled toward the hotel, and Heinrieh told Sophia that he expected to return soon to Troy with Dorpfeld. She was stunned. It had not occurred to her that Heinrich would do more excavating so soon at Troy. Heinrich explained that much could be done with the aid of the competent and experienced Dorpfeld, who “I know will carry our work to unprecedented heights. He impressed me and I have faith in him.”

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TWENTY SIX

A divergent cast of characters was assembled to play out the drama at the digs of Troy in the spring of 1882. There were scholars and muscle-men ; house servants and workmen ; a traitor and a faithful ; a corps of newspaper reporters ; and, offstage, two nonsensical Turkish officials.

Schliemann had obtained a firman through the intercession of Bismarck, and the services of Dr. Wilhelm Dorpfeld through personal persuasion. Continuing with a policy of teamwork, Schliemann depended on the assistance of men with background in architecture such as Joseph Hofler of Vienna, and Dorpfeki Dorpfeld’s academic record was brilliant, and his experience included four years with the architectural division of a group excavating at Olympia, site of the ancient Olympic games.

Yannakis, the oldtimer of Troy, secure in his indispensability, chose that spring to demand a substantial pay increase. And as always, he had his keep and the informal franchise to sell tobacco, bread and brandy to the day laborers. Below him in the echelon were three overseers. One was an ineffectual nepotic appointee, Gustav Battus, the son of a former French consul at the Dardanelles. The other two were Gregorios Basilopoulos and Gregorios Paraskevopoulos, whose names Schliemann could not be bothered to remember. As usual, he gave them Homeric names, respectively Ilio and Laomedon. The latter had herculean strength and a gigantic frame with muscles that bulged beneath his tight shirt.

Brigandage, under control in Greece, was on the upswing in Asia Minor where incidents of mayhem and bloodshed were common. At Schliemann’s request, Hamid Pasha, civil governor of the Dardanelles, sent to Hissarlik eleven trustworthy gendarmes armed with rifles, pistols and daggers; the shaush, or sergeant, of the detachment was assigned to twenty-four-hour duty by Schliemann. Three of the other ten always accompanied him on his predawn ride to the Hellespont for a swim.

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The house on the Hill of Hissarlik was staffed by Heinrich’s valet, Oedipus Pyromalles, and a cook, Jocasta. Food was in good supply that year, and in addition, to edibles available from the Troad and the Dardanelles, Schliemann imported, from England, corned beef packed in Chicago ; peaches, fine cheese, ox-tongues, and 240 bottles of pale ale. “I was the sole consumer of these 240 bottles of pale ale, which lasted me for five months. I used it as medicine to cure constipation from which I had suffered for at least 30 years, and which has been aggravated by all other medicines, and particularly by the mineral waters of Carlsbad. The alecured my ailment.”

Sophia, never one to be fooled by Heinrich, commented: “My father, too, a true Athenian gagaris, had his own special kind of drink which he assured my mother was purely medicinal I seem to recall that on our last trip to take the cure at Carlsbad, my friend Henry extolled most highly the virtues of the mineral water. Perhaps Henry has some special reason for needing this ale at Troja. Who knows?”

He indeed had a reason, by name Beder Eddin Effendi, one of two men delegated by the Turkish government to watch over Schliemann “for what reason, I cannot imagine.” Beder Eddin was in constant conflict with Dorpfeld, Hofler and Schliemann, who wrote: “I have done archaeological work in Turkey for many years, but I have never had the bad fortune to have such a monster as Beder Eddin whose arrogance and conceit were equalled only by his total ignorance. He considered that his only job was to place every obstacle in my way.”

Early on, in spite of Beder Eddin, operations progressed well with ISO workmen supplied with adequate equipment: 40 iron crowbars, 2 jacks, 100 large shovels, 120 pickaxes, a windlass, 104 wheelbarrows with iron wheels, and 20 man-carts.

Full-scale work began on March 1, and crews uncovered several large complexes of buildings in Troy II, the second city above the native rock. Dorpfeld and Schliemann eventually proved, by comparison of those buildings with structures they excavated elsewhere, that they had found the main rooms of the palace of an ancient chief. Working with Hofler that spring, they made precise measurements of walls, houses and temples, finding many pieces of pottery, gold, silver and other metals. No one

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object was spectacular, but the finds helped to fit together the great puzzle of the Homeric Troy and other Trojan cities, a jig saw not completed until many years after Schliernann’s death. The study and exploration was one of Schliemann’s most important, but it did not provide the dramatic story hoped for by journalists at the Dardanelles, close enough to be on the scene if another great find was made at Hissarlik. Every few days, perspiring reporters made the trip from the Dardanelles to ol>- serve what was being done at Troy and to get a progress report from Schliemann. Their assignment was not an easy one: they suffered from boredom and the intense heat. Even Heinrich said that the heat was worse than any yet experienced at the mound. He hired an extra laborer and a small boy as water crew; the man filled kegs with spring water, and the boy poured it into smaller barrels that were taken to the trenches where men with parched throats quenched their thirst. The reporters of world wide press services splashed water over their heads before starting back to the Dardanelles, usually without a line of notes for an article.

One morning the correspondents were gathered for a press conference when Yannakis handed Schliemann a telegram from Athens:

CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES BURNED LAST NIGHT. THE ONLY DEPUTY NOT SAVED WAS VALASSOPOITLOS,

SOPHIA

Heinrich, at first shocked, suddenly smiled, and seemed to be patently pleased. Dorpfeld, Hofler, and the reporters were amazed at Heinrich’s reaction to the death of Valassopoulos, even though he had been the eagle who daily tore at Schliemann’s vitals, the adversary who had thwarted ScWienaann’s every attempt to begin excavations in Greece. Reporters, provided with a story at last, rushed for the Dardanelles to add their own anecdote to the fire story, which they assumed their press services already had in Athens. One story was much like another, commenting on Dr. Schliemaim’s reactions to the reported death of Valassopoulos as seeming quite immoral, unfeeling and inhuman. – The next morning the full complement of journalists head quartered at the Dardanelles descended on Hissarlik, loudly de-

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manding to know why Schliemann had tricked them with the story of a fire that had not happened. Schliemann, amazed, said that he knew no more than they ; then suddenly he asked, “What date is today?*’ When told, he excused himself, and rushing into his house, snatched up the telegram and dashed back to the waiting newsmen. He flourished the telegram, shouting, “Look! Look! My too-smart Sophaki has beaten me again. Yesterday was the Day of the Fools, the first day of April.” The disgruntled correspondents had to accept his explanation that he and they had fallen for an April Fools’ joke. But knowing him as serious and testy, they found it difficult to credit him with a sense of fun. His pixy sense of humor and his gay pranks were rarely revealed to any but intimates.

The behind-the-scenes trickery of Beder Eddin, the Turkish overseer, and the elusory tactics to which Schliemann, Dorpfeld and Hofler resorted had cloak-and-dagger overtones. Deviously, Beder Eddin won the allegiance of the ten gendarmes and the top sergeant, secretly meeting first with one, then having an open conference with two more, and at last holding a nighttime conclave with all eleven in a deep trench. In mutiny after that clandestine meeting, members of the detachment told Schliemann that thereafter they would take orders only from Beder Eddin. He finally succeeded in cowing two of Schliemann’s overseers and subverting even Jocasta in her kitchen.

Heinrich had not even suggested that Sophia go with him to Troy for that season, and she took the children to Paris, then to Germany and Italy before returning to their home in Athens. Heinrich missed Sophia’s soothing presence but understood that her place was with the children. Had she been with Heinrich in Asia Minor, she might have spared him some of the harassment by Beder Eddin, who was by nature a troublemaker. As official delegate of the Turkish government, Beder Eddin had the telegraph facilities at his disposal, and sent off wires denouncing Schliemann, Dorpfeld, Hofler and Battus. When Dorpfeld imported a surveying instrument, Beder Eddin reported directly to Djemal Pasha, military governor of the Dardanelles, that Dorpfeld and Schliemann were using the excavations at Hissarlik as reconnaissance site for drawing plans of the military fort at Koum-Kale. Djemal Pasha, accepting the lie, passed

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it on as truth to Said Pasha, the Grand Master of the Artillery at Constantinople. He, also gullible, sent word to Hissarlik that Schliemann must neither use the surveying instrument nor draw any kind of plans on paper. He and Dorpfeld and Hofler were confounded when the smirking Beder Eddin relayed to them the message that threatened the success of their archaeological investigation.

The situation became insupportable. Not only did Eddin order guards to watch the three scholars every minute, but since he could not tell the difference between sketches of Troy and detailed designs of fortifications, he also secured permission to restrain the investigators from writing anything on paper. At first challenged by the restriction, Schliemann, Dorpfeld, and Hofler clandestinely made notes and sketches, outwitting the wily Turks right in the digs ; and at night, safe inside their house, they drew from memory the plans of walls, houses, temples and streets.

The delaying action irked Schliemann, who applied for redress to the German Embassy at Constantinople, setting off another ridiculous chain of events, which would have been hilarious had the consequences not been so serious. Ambassador Baron von Hirschfeld and his aide, Baron von Testa, sought surcease from the Grand Vizier, who refused to listen to the German diplomats because his Grand Master of Artillery had not seen fit to inform him about the situation at Hissarlik. The Grand Master of Artillery, considering himself to be ultimate authority, refused to discuss the matter with the Grand Vizier.

The stalemate strengthened the position of Beder Eddin, and the vexations at the digs continued until work was stopped at the end of July. Schliemann arranged with Dorpfeld to return in the fall for the resumption of operations, particularly for the continuance of his vital drawings of the various levels of Trojan cities. By late August, Schliemann had assurance that he would be free to work as he pleased when the digs were reopened. Bismarck again had been in touch with Turkish ministers who had agreed to a relaxation of the rules on the drawing of plans. Then the German diplomat von Radowitz, a devoted friend to Schliemann, was made Ambassador to Turkey. Going over the heads of Turkish officials in Constantinople, Ambassador von Radowitz went directly to His Majesty the Sultan to ask that Schliemann

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be accorded the consideration that was his due. The Ambassador and the Sultan were both men of intelligence and cultivation, and their meeting resulted in brief dispatches to Hissarlik that peremptorily removed the offensive Beder Eddin Effendi from his post, and gave the archaeologists permission to proceed with the operations without restrictions.

Throughout the harassments of the spring and early summer of 1882, Heinrich had written daily letters to Sophia, keeping her informed about the work and the persecution by the Turkish delegate. She laughed about Heinrich’s predicament but, aware that it was humorous only to her, far from the scene of physical suffering and mental torture, she felt pity for her husband. Atlhough he did not need food packages, she sent him fruits and little delicacies she knew he particularly enjoyed. That year her letters to him were filled with the bright and funny doings of their children; Heinrich’s letters to her were often gloomy and weighty tomes, but for a change he did not berate her or write a single sharp or unpleasant personal comment.

Schliemann wrote letters to editors of periodicals and journals, presenting new evidence about the excavations resulting from the season’s study. After spending long hours in discussions with Dorpfeld about the Trojan cities, Schliemann came to the realistic conclusion that many of his previous interpretations had been quite wrong. He admitted his mistakes in letters for publication and in the 1883 manuscript of Troja, the book written about his work at Troy with Dorpfeld. Schliemann’s detractors, who pointed to his corrections as signs of his ignorance and instability, might instead have conceded that only a great man publicly acknowledges his errors.

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TWENTY-SEVEN

On a June morning in 1883, Heinrich and Sophia sat in a carriage that pulled up in front of a rambling old house in the village of Ankershagen in Mecklenburg. Without waiting for Sophia to help their two children out of the carriage, Schliemann stepped down and walked rapidly toward the entrance, hardly pausing to greet those gathered to welcome him. With his eyes searching out every detail of the garden and building, he strode up to the door and entered the parsonage where his early childhood was spent. The elderly romantic was making a pilgrimage to the scene where his lively imagination had first envisioned the wonders of archaeological exploration.

Having achieved the goal set in childhood, Schliemann increasingly felt the urge to return to the place where his dream had taken shape. Whatever the reason that had so long delayed the sentimental journey of reunion, extensive correspondence had preceded its realization. In advance, he had made known what people from his past he wished to have call on him when he was established with his family at the parsonage.

The four of them were welcomed by the incumbent clergyman, who had willingly accepted a generous rental fee for the parsonage. The pastor and his wife, housed with parishioners for the month of the Schliemanns’ stay, made certain that Sophia and Heinrich were comfortable in their quarters, while neighborhood children shyly gathered outside to take the measure of the dark-haired girl and fair-haired boy from the distant land of Greece. Andromache and Agamemnon spoke such fluent German that they were soon friends with the local youngsters, and laughter rang out as the group played happily in the garden. Curious grownups of Ankershagen, including some who had never known Schliemann, called at the parsonage to pay their respects to the distinguished visitor and the elegant wife so many years his junior.

Sophia, relaxed and gracious, charmed the German relatives 

Schliemann 1- 30   Schliemann 30-60   Schliemann 60-90   Schliemann 90-120   Schliemann 120-150  Schliemann 150-180   Schliemann 180 – 210   Schliemann 210 – 240   Schliemann 240 – 270  Schliemann 270 – End