_The following extract is taken from a memorandum Butler made of a visit
he paid to Greece and the Troad in the spring of_ 1895. _In the_ Iliad
(_xxii._ 145) _Homer mentions hot and cold springs where the Trojan women
used to wash their clothes_. _There are no such springs near Hissarlik_,
_where they ought to be_, _but the American Consul at the Dardanelles
told Butler there was something of the kind on Mount Ida_, _at the
sources of the Scamander_, _and he determined to see them after visiting
Hissarlik_. _He was provided with an interpreter_, _Yakoub_, _an
attendant_, _Ahmed_, _an escort of one soldier and a horse_. _He went
first to the Consul’s farm at Thymbra_, _about five miles from
Hissarlik_, _where he spent the night and found it_ “_all very like a
first-class New Zealand sheep-station_.” _The next day he went to
Hissarlik and saw no reason for disagreeing with the received opinion
that it is the site of Troy_. _He then proceeded to Bunarbashi and so to
Bairemitch_, _passing on the way a saw-mill where there was a Government
official with twenty soldiers under him_. _This official was much
interested in the traveller and directed his men to take carpets and a
dish of trout_, _caught that morning in the Scamander_, _and carry them
up to the hot and cold springs while he himself accompanied Butler_. _So
they set off and the official_, _Ismail_, _showed him the way and pointed
out the springs_, _and there is a long note about the hot and cold
water_.
And now let me return to Ismail Gusbashi, the excellent Turkish official
who, by the way, was with me during all my examination of the springs,
and whose assurances of their twofold temperature I should have found it
impossible to doubt, even though I had not caught one warmer cupful
myself. His men, while we were at the springs, had spread a large Turkey
carpet on the flower-bespangled grass under the trees, and there were
three smaller rugs at three of the corners. On these Ismail and Yakoub
and I took our places. The other two were cross-legged, but I reclining
anyhow. The sun shimmered through the spring foliage. I saw two hoopoes
and many beautiful birds whose names I knew not. Through the trees I
could see the snow-fields of Ida far above me, but it was hopeless to
think of reaching them. The soldiers and Ahmed cooked the trout and the
eggs all together; then we had boiled eggs, bread and cheese and, of
course, more lamb’s liver done on skewers like cats’ meat. I ate with my
pocket-knife, the others using their fingers in true Homeric fashion.
When we had put from us “the desire of meat and drink,” Ismail began to
talk to me. He said he had now for the first time in his life found
himself in familiar conversation with Wisdom from the West (that was me),
and that, as he greatly doubted whether such another opportunity would be
ever vouchsafed to him, he should wish to consult me upon a matter which
had greatly exercised him. He was now fifty years old and had never
married. Sometimes he thought he had done a wise thing, and sometimes it
seemed to him that he had been very foolish. Would I kindly tell him
which it was and advise him as to the future? I said he was addressing
one who was in much the same condition as himself, only that I was some
ten years older. We had a saying in England that if a man marries he
will regret it, and that if he does not marry he will regret it.
“Ah!” said Ismail, who was leaning towards me and trying to catch every
word I spoke, though he could not understand a syllable till Yakoub
interpreted my Italian into Turkish. “Ah!” he said, “that is a true
word.”
In my younger days, I said (may Heaven forgive me!), I had been
passionately in love with a most beautiful young lady, but—and here my
voice faltered, and I looked very sad, waiting for Yakoub to interpret
what I had said—but it had been the will of Allah that she should marry
another gentleman, and this had broken my heart for many years. After a
time, however, I concluded that these things were all settled for us by a
higher Power.
“Ah! that is a true word.”
“And so, my dear sir, in your case I should reflect that if Allah” (and I
raised my hand to Heaven) “had desired your being married, he would have
signified his will to you in some way that you could hardly mistake. As
he does not appear to have done so, I should recommend you to remain
single until you receive some distinct intimation that you are to marry.”
“Ah! that is a true word.”
“Besides,” I continued, “suppose you marry a woman with whom you think
you are in love and then find out, after you have been married to her for
three months, that you do not like her. This would be a very painful
situation.”
“Ah, yes, indeed! that is a true word.”
“And if you had children who were good and dutiful, it would be
delightful; but suppose they turned out disobedient and ungrateful—and I
have known many such cases—could anything be more distressing to a parent
in his declining years?”
“Ah! that is a true word that you have spoken.”
“We have a great Imaum,” I continued, “in England; he is called the
Archbishop of Canterbury and gives answers to people who are in any kind
of doubt or difficulty. I knew one gentleman who asked his advice upon
the very question that you have done me the honour of propounding to
myself.”
“Ah! and what was his answer?”
“He told him,” said I, “that it was cheaper to buy the milk than to keep
a cow.”
“Ah! ah! that is a most true word.”
Here I closed the conversation, and we began packing up to make a start.
When we were about to mount, I said to him, hat in hand:
“Sir, it occurs to me with great sadness that, though you will, no doubt,
often revisit this lovely spot, yet it is most certain that I shall never
do so. Promise me that when you come here you will sometimes think of
the stupid old Englishman who has had the pleasure of lunching with you
to-day, and I promise that I will often think of you when I am at home
again in London.”
He was much touched, and we started. After we had gone about a mile, I
suddenly missed my knife. I knew I should want it badly many a time
before we got to the Dardanelles, and I knew perfectly well where I
should find it: so I stopped the cavalcade and said I must ride back for
it. I did so, found it immediately and returned. Then I said to Ismail:
“Sir, I understand now why I was led to leave my knife behind me. I had
said it was certain I should never see that enchanting spot again, but I
spoke presumptuously, forgetting that if Allah” (and I raised my hand to
Heaven) “willed it I should assuredly do so. I am corrected, and with
great leniency.”
Ismail was much affected. The good fellow immediately took off his
watch-chain (happily of brass and of no intrinsic value) and gave it me,
assuring me that it was given him by a very dear friend, that he had worn
it for many years, and valued it greatly—would I keep it as a memorial of
himself? Fortunately I had with me a little silver match-box which
Alfred had given me and which had my name engraved on it. I gave it to
him, but had some difficulty in making him accept it. Then we rode on
till we came to the saw-mills. I ordered two lambs for the ten soldiers
who had accompanied us, having understood from Yakoub that this would be
an acceptable present. And so I parted from this most kind and friendly
gentleman with every warm expression of cordiality on both sides.
I sent him his photograph which I had taken, and I sent his soldiers
their groups also—one for each man—and in due course I received the
following letter of thanks. Alas! I have never written in answer. I
knew not how to do it. I knew, however, that I could not keep up a
correspondence, even though I wrote once. But few unanswered letters
more often rise up and smite me. How the Post Office people ever read
“Bueter, Ciforzin St.” into “Butler, Clifford’s Inn” I cannot tell. What
splendid emendators of a corrupt text they ought to make! But I could
almost wish that they had failed, for it has pained me not a little that
I have not replied.
Mr. Samuel Bueter,
No. 15 Ciforzin St. London, England.
Dardanelles,
August 4/95.
Mr. Samuel. England.