Posted on Saturday, 29 March 2003
Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they lov'd ;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defac'd, thy mouldering shrines remov'd
By British hands, which it had best behov'd
To guard those relics ne'er to be restor'd.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they rov'd,
And once again thy hopeless bosom gor'd,
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd.
"Childe Harold's Pilgrimmage" ~Byron
The Acropolis, Athens, 448BC
It was the age of Classical Greece. It was the most influential period for their civilization as they developed ideas for religion, government, and science. It was the time of the philosophers Plato and Socrates, and the playwrights Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes. It was when Athens was the centre of modern culture and arts. It was the zenith of the Olympiads, the ancient Olympic games.
It was the time of the Greeks conquering the Persians and reclaiming Athens. And, in honour of Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom, a temple was to be built. It was to be a monument to show gratitude to her, for she had helped in defeating their foe.
Pericles stood high on a hilltop in the centre of Athens, on the site of an old temple in the Acropolis that had been destroyed, burnt by the Persians. He had just finished discussions with the architects for a new temple to be built upon the ruins. It was to show dominance and strength and display majestic form and stature. Designed in a style new to the era, only the most outstanding of material was to be used in its construction. It was to be built entirely of solid white Pentelic marble, twenty-two thousand tons of it would be brought down from Mount Pendeli during the sixteen years it would take for the construction.
It was to be called the Parthenon.
The Greeks tirelessly toiled to create perfection in the design and construction of the Parthenon. The Metopes, rectangular slabs with mythological scenes in high relief, circumnavigated the temple, The East and West Pediments with life-sized painted figures of gods and goddesses and the frieze that went around the entire building all were examples of the excellence of the craftsmen and their work. The temple was of the masculine Doric style, which demonstrated the Athenian desire to be perfect god-like beings. Perfection was important to the Greeks, who saw themselves as rising to the level of the gods and nearing perfection.
Sixteen years later, Pericles began his walk up the Panathenaic Way and tipped his head back to gaze at the soaring columns of the Parthenon, newly finished and replete with statues, metopes and friezes each one finer than the one before it. Of all the exquisite artwork within the temple, he knew that none was more spectacular than the statue of the goddess Athena. It was a fantastic figure made of wood and decorated in gold and ivory, which supported ivory pieces on the top of the statue. Standing over 12 metres high, it dominated the very centre of the building. It was fitting that Athena's likeness was the focal point, for it was a reminder to all of the glory due her.
Quickening his steps to reach the summit of the Acropolis, Pericles glanced up again and saw the sun flash off the bronze shield in Athena's hand. He took it as a sign from the gods that the Parthenon would stand in all its present glory for eternity.
The Parthenon, Athens, The Ottoman Empire, 1801
Thomas Bruce, the seventh Earl of Elgin, wiped his brow. A heavy layer of perspiration, mixed with ancient dust, had formed across it under the intense Grecian sun, beating down upon him through the gap where once there had been a roof. In another century, the Venetians had managed to blow it to pieces, along with a good portion of the temple. In the process, sections of columns collapsed and many of the sculptures displayed on the pediments were destroyed. There were piles of broken marble, once glorious works of art, shattered by the Venetians in a disastrous attempt to try remove some of the surviving sculptures and metopes to Venice.
Still, there was artwork left for the taking. As he watched the last of the sections of the 5th century BC frieze being removed from the Parthenon, Lord Elgin cringed; another piece had just been damaged, broken into pieces by the hurried and careless nature of the workmen. Before he could react, a dark-skinned Turkish overseer, colourfully festooned in balloon-like trousers and turban, rushed up and unleashed a tirade of abuse upon the labourer. When he looked to his Lordship, the Englishman waved his hand, indicating the broken sections of sculpture should be packed and sealed. Elgin philosophized that amongst the 200 crates that were to be sent back to his new mansion, Broome Hall, there was bound to be some damage. There was so much being sent that it really was unavoidable for the odd piece here or there to be broken beyond use. As he looked about him and saw crate after crate of ancient Greek art bound for England before him, he grew melancholy. The main feature of the Parthenon had been the giant statue of Athena, long since disappeared. Its beauty was legendary; by today's standards it would be a priceless piece to obtain. Lord Elgin reckoned it would have fitted in nicely in his sunroom.
He originally planned to collect only copies of Greek art, but his employees discovered that the actual sculptures could be bought. As the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, his Lordship sought and was given authority, or firman, to remove works of Greek antiquity from the Parthenon. The Turks, who controlled Athens, held little regard for Greek art, preferring to burn the marble to produce lime for use as a building material. It was a much more resourceful use for Greek sculptures by their way of thinking.
Lord Elgin took full advantage of the permission he had been granted by the Turks and interpreted the firman as a carte blanche authorization to loot what was left of the once-glorious Parthenon. As he lazily went before the last of the carts trailing a plume of dust down the Panathenaic Way, he glanced back more than once at their heaving progress, laden with his precious crates of antiquities. He smugly surmised that he had done the world a favour by rescuing the artworks from certain destruction due to the acute housing shortage in Athens.
It took several ships to transport the loads of crates to England. One of the ships carrying seventeen crates, including some of the finest sections from the Parthenon frieze, sank in a storm at the entrance to the harbour of Kythera, an unfathomable loss. There was no transport for fifty cases still in Piraeus and it seemed like half of Elgin's treasure would have to be left behind until a final ship was found to secure the precious cargo. Eventually all the crates were rescued one way or another and arrived in England.
But fate would not bestow much kindness on his lordship. On his way back home, the French captured him, for the two eternal enemies were at war again. When his release was secured, the state of affairs to which he returned had him almost preferring to remain in the French prison.
It began with his health, which had always been poor; the man was afflicted with asthma, rheumatism and syphilis, which was the reputed cause of his nose falling off, or if the stories were to be believed, the entire disintegration of his face. As a result of his facial disfigurement, his wife's partiality was displaced to another gentleman, resulting in the most sordid sex scandal of the time. Another consequence that befell his Lordship, due to his appearance, was the withholding of any further diplomatic assignments in foreign lands. His career was over.
Abandoned at his lowest point in life, everything had been lost to him save one. He still had his precious Greek antiquities. But not for long. They had to be sold to recoup the financial outlay he incurred bringing them to England, for His Majesty's government balked at reimbursing his costs and the man was now destitute.
In 1804, while he had been in the French prison, some of the priceless works had been placed in a dirty, damp shed on the grounds of Elgin's Park Lane house. They remained there for years decaying, even after his Lordship returned, while he searched for a buyer.
In London in the summer of 1808, Lord Elgin set up a temporary museum near Piccadilly, in the hope of earning even some small amount of money from exhibiting some of his artwork. He hired a famous prizefighter to strike poses beside the ancient Greek statues and have his naked body compared to the sculptures in the collection. Shielding the delicate sensibilities of women from such vulgarities, artists and gentlemen paid five shillings each to view the display. The unveiling of the Greek sculptures was a famous and scandalous event. Artists found them soul shaking while the public found them eye popping, for the human body had never before been so easily scrutinized in Central London.
The British government would not pay the high price that Lord Elgin originally demanded to sell them the Greek treasures. In a letter written by Elgin in 1815, he admitted the marbles still lay decaying in his shed. Finally in 1816, at a much lower price, they did come into the possession of the British Government and with it began nearly two centuries of quandary about the great works of art and historical relics, and who rightfully owned the Elgin Marbles.
When Lord Elgin's life came to a close, he left the world with a reputation that would survive centuries as a plunderer of precious antiquities, who looted the heritage of Greece by manipulating the authority granted to him by the Ottoman Empire.
The British Museum, London, 1832
Sir Robert Smirke paced back and forth across the well-trodden path as the last of the debris from the front of the building was moved away from the general area. It was a final clean up of the remnants from the construction around the exterior of the newest addition to the museum. The renowned architect glanced up now and again, impatiently checking on the progress of the labourers. The Greek Revival building was to be declared officially open next month and it was the intent of the museum to begin moving the Elgin Marbles into the gallery, created solely to display them, without any further delays starting today. The schedule was tight and there was much to be done to prepare the display for public exhibit.
Regardless of his other demands, both with the ongoing work at the museum and other projects from his busy London practice, Sir Robert was too interested in the completed gallery to keep from going inside and watching the placement of the ancient art within the neoclassical museum gallery.
As an assistant repeatedly called to Sir Robert,---the man had been recently knighted and not being used to his title, tended to ignore it---he took one last look at the antiquities being brought in to the new gallery before he was swept up in another aspect of the museum's construction. As he spied the Elgin Room slowly being filled with the treasures, he thought only of the pleasures that generations of visitors would have in this room viewing the artwork.
He did not for a moment consider that a few feet from where he stood there would be a murder.
The British Museum, London 1874
Thomas Jordon-Beckworth was an opportunist. He always had been. In a roundabout way that was how he came to be employed at the British Museum, for his qualifications weighed more upon his exploits than his academic prowess.
Today, the mother of all opportunities had been dropped into his lap. As he worked quickly to hide broken pieces from a statue underneath old straw in one of the crates, he chuckled to himself. Covering them with tiny fragments of marble, bits and pieces so small they had been abandoned years ago as unidentifiable, no one need know of their existence. Until today, when he uncovered them, they had been long forgotten. And, he decided it would stay that way. Lost pieces from a Parthenon statue would be worth their weight in gold to the right buyer. As he hammered the crate closed and left it unlabelled, he thought about where he would like to buy a new house. Perhaps Brighton, for he had always enjoyed a nice sea bath. Money would be no object, once he sold the antiquities on the black market.
With the crate sealed and hidden behind a dozen others, Thomas Jordon-Beckworth left the museum for the day. No sooner had he descended into the underground station then it began to fill with smoke and soot as the train, pulled by a steam locomotive, drew closer to the passengers waiting on the platform. Many times the inside of cars were no better, but Jordon-Beckworth only wanted to escape the burning in his eyes from the smoke. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd to be first into the car. In his haste, he tripped over the heavy booted foot of a pig farmer from Yorkshire, who was visiting London for the very first time. Tumbling over the edge of the platform, Jordon-Beckworth lay sprawled on the tracks, the soot and smoke so heavy that no one noticed him down there. With the train fast approaching, the roaring noise of the engine grew louder still and, as Jordon-Beckworth saw the light on the front of the train come through the tunnel and grow larger as it bore down upon him, his screams were drowned in the booming din that carried through the station.
The British Museum, London 1928
The great length of the pieces of the frieze, once part of a 524-foot mural around the Parthenon, made adapting them into the circumstances of museum display difficult. For the next hundred years, those at the museum were continuously repositioning and experimenting with the placement of the pieces, trying to accommodate not only their unique elements but also the many additions of newly discovered fragments. Rearrangement was also occasioned by advances in the knowledge of the proper sequence of the frieze blocks as fixed on the Parthenon itself.
It was into this never-ending cycle that Eliza Bennet and her co-workers in the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities were propelled, for funds to build a new gallery that would better house the marbles had been pledged. It was now their job to re-catalogue every section, fragment, chip and sliver of the frieze, metopes and sculpture, including all the casts that had been made over the years. This was no easy task, for besides the pieces on display; there were hundreds of containers, some still the original crates that had casts and all manner of broken pieces of antiquities inside. The labelling was suspect, if it was legible. Tags had fallen off. Writing had faded. The last complete cataloguing had been in 1874 and a good portion of the handwritten pages had been damaged in a flood, thus making it necessary for the staff to start at square one.
The directors required a full and complete accounting for every original piece, fragment or cast. And as was the case, once any resolution was declared 'resolved' at the museum, the directors wasted no time demanding what they wanted. They required a complete and accurate catalogue of the Elgin Marbles and they required it yesterday.
The London flat of Eliza and Jane Bennet, Tuesday, 27 November, 1928
In the weeks since Eliza had become engaged to Fitz Darcy, they had been separated, with her returning from Scotland to London, while he stayed on at his estate before travelling to Derbyshire, the property he called home. This separation suited neither of them, but it was necessary. Eliza was committed to her job at the British Museum and, having taking an extended holiday in the summer, was obliged to be available for work. Fitz had two estates that needed managing and even with the qualified help he employed at both properties, he was an active participant in the running of the businesses, for that is what they were. The Scottish estate, Kympton House, was a pine plantation while Pemberley, in Derbyshire, was rural farmland and vast acreage for sheep grazing.
It was however, countdown time for the couple now, for Fitz was expected in town in two days. While a date for their wedding had not been set, he was moving ahead with details regarding their future. His priority, besides seeing Eliza, was to find a suitable property for their London residence, for Fitz Darcy did not presently own a house in town.
Eliza stood at the window of her sitting room looking out at the rain, which had fallen steadily since noon. The road, the vehicles inching by and pedestrians trying to hurry along the footpath were all covered in a shiny blanket of slick rain that was reflected by the streetlights. As she stood waiting for Fitz to call, she watched the population of London hurry home. Everyone was in a rush.
Except one person. Eliza noticed a solitary figure across the road, standing close to the corner, in an unsheltered spot on the pavement. He was just far enough away from the streetlight that it did not cast any light upon him. He was a shadowy image. As people scurried by, the man made no move to get out of the way. He held his ground. While his body was facing up the road, Eliza noted that his head was discreetly turned towards her building and, if she wasn't imagining it, she would swear he was glancing up in the direction of her window.
The telephone rang. Eliza ran across the room and dove onto the overstuffed sofa to answer it. She picked up the heavy receiver with a dozen butterflies in her stomach.
"Hello? Fitz?" There was no disguising the longing that simmered with Eliza; her husky voice betrayed all she was feeling.
On the other end of the crackly line Fitz questioned her, "How did you know it was me?"
"The other fellow I'm stuck on called thirty minutes ago. It had to be you!"
He chuckled at that. "Is that the way it is? Well, I'd better get you to a church damn quick, my dear, before he snatches you out from under my nose."
"Not a chance of that, Fitz," she purred dreamily into the telephone.
They spoke about what they would do when he got to town. For the interim, Fitz would be staying at the gentlemen's club where he had a membership. Eliza blew a gasket when she heard he belonged to such an establishment. At first, she didn't believe him. "Are you on the up and up, Fitz? I thought those clubs all faded away with the Victorian era."
He assured her they were a dozen or more very much thriving within a five-mile radius of where she sat.
"But Fitz, they don't allow women as members!" This was a failing that she could not overlook.
"Of course not Eliza! That's why they're called gentlemen's clubs! However, women are permitted in the dining room during the lunch and dinner hours on Tuesdays, as long a member accompanies them." He said this with all the seriousness of a man who was the fourth generation in his family to hold a membership.
The indignation Eliza felt travelled through the telephone line and assaulted him in Derbyshire. "Are the women allowed to eat or must they serve the cavemen and pick at the leftovers when they're done?" Fitz didn't replied to this question as, after weighing the tone of her voice, he decided Eliza was being facetious.
The subject was changed at that point, when Eliza began to bubble over about what had happened during the last couple of days at the museum. She had been up to her elbows in dirty old straw, digging through unlabelled broken bits and pieces of ancient marble that hadn't been looked at for decades. As she worked she knew she was creating months of frustrating work for herself, for identifying just what all the pieces were was going to be an arduous job.
"I actually found several pieces, scattered about in the bottom of a decrepit crate that had to be from the Lord himself, it did not appear on any of the records that we have. They're fragments from a figure and they're in excellent condition."
"How big are the pieces, Eliza?"
"I found an arm broken into five sections, no hand of course. But the shoulder piece is quite large. We're not sure, but we think we've found parts of the neck and chest too. Of course, if this proves to be a discovery of sorts, it could be a fabulous find, really historic. We were all so excited. Dr. Entwistle couldn't keep from re-examining the pieces over and over, and Dr. Leaudais actually cracked a smile." Eliza was referring to the head of her department and the most knowledgeable of the Greek minds at the museum, respectfully. She paused to catch her breath. In her excitement, she was talking like the rat-tat-tat of a tommy gun. "They were in excellent condition down underneath a heap of rubble in one of the old crates."
"You said that already! So, what did the directors of the museum have to say about this potential earth shaking discovery?"
"No one's been told yet, Fitz. Not even the other members of the department. All the artifacts from the Parthenon are housed in their own storage room, so until we know just what's there and we can verify what we've got, everything's being kept under wraps. It's all very hush hush."
"Well, I could care less about the museum, but for your sake Eliza, I hope you are part of a discovery of lost pieces of the Elgin Marbles. My wife will be written into the history books!"
After goodbyes that included sentiments of love for each other, frustration at be separated and anticipation of a reunion, they hung up.
The idea of a gentlemen only club continued to tug at Eliza's curiosity. The more she thought about it and the more she disliked the whole idea. Most importantly, the more she wanted to get inside. It was her nature to try and usurp anything so wholly pompous and archaic. After all, it's almost 1929!
Eliza was too keyed up to sleep yet, and Jane was out with Fitz's friend Charles Bingley. On a Tuesday! No conversation was to be had this evening unless she wanted to go down the hall and talk to old Mrs. Bates. She was hard-of-hearing, and Eliza didn't feel like yelling tonight.
She took up her position at the window again. The rain was still coming down but the dark figure had abandoned his spot across the road.
The British Museum, Tuesday, 27 November, 1928
The head of the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Absently winding his wristwatch, he thought to check the time and was surprised to note the lateness of the hour. While he had foregone his evening meal and worked amongst shelves of artefacts, equipment and records in the back corner of the large warehouse-style room, which also served as offices for himself and his curators, the staff had gone home and the museum had, bit by bit, been put to bed for the night. Now, as he sat bathed in the single light from the banker's lamp on his desk, all around him loomed menacing shadows made by packing crates and rows of shelves filled with inventoried pieces and records for the department.
Satisfied that some headway had been made in updating the catalogues of the Marbles, he reminded himself to check on the cleaning of the coins that would be rotated for public display next month in the Roman display. That, in turn, led to a disjointed reminder of what had been uncovered amongst the mouldy straw in the decomposing crates. Dr. Entwistle smiled. He was a patient and methodical man, who would take this all one step at a time and make certain no mistakes were made with this potential discovery. He rummaged around in search of the notes Miss Bennet had made today when, without any warning, a 'thud' echoed through the capacious building. He swivelled his chair towards the sound as his heart lurched in reaction to the unexpectedly loud interruption. His first thought was to the antiquities in various stages of restoration that were isolated away from the traffic flow in a separate working area. Straining his neck, from what he could make out through the darkness, nothing was amiss. Chastising himself for his total lack of bravado to a mere bump in the night, he was quick to attribute the sound to a guard, assuming a door had been accidentally slammed along an evening round.
Inhaling a few deep, calming breaths through his nose, Dr. Entwistle took a moment to settle his nerves, which had unravelled quite thoroughly from the noise. He closed the heavy leather-bound journal as the search for Miss Bennet's paperwork was forgotten and fatigue from a very long day overtook him. He retrieved his overcoat and hat before he pulled the cord on his lamp, the last defence against complete darkness deserting him. Until he reached the doorway at the far side of the vast room which lead through the museum's galleries on the third level, Dr. Entwistle would have to take care where he walked, for the streetlight from Great Russell Street at the entrance to the museum filtered no further than his desk by the wall.
The staff lift and service stairs were on the far side of the floor, an oversight in planning about which he always wondered when making his long walk at the end of the workday. With everyone long since departed for their homes and, at this late hour, the single guard left on duty most certainly listening to the BBC on the valve radio, tonight his was a solitary stroll. As he reached the lift and waited for the doors to open, out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Entwistle caught a movement to his right. It was there and gone in an instant and when he scrutinized his surrounds, there was nothing to be seen. Pushing away a rising apprehension, he rode the lift downstairs and deduced he had an overactive imagination. He resolved that reading Dashiell Hammett's 'Nightmare Town' before bed each night would have to stop.
Once he reached the ground floor, Dr. Entwistle made his way through the maze of rooms that led to the vast galleries housing the ancient artefacts from his department. Keeping to his end-of-the-workday habit, he continued towards the last gallery to have a private viewing of the Parthenon exhibits. Even at this late hour, he would not consider varying his routine as he found it a comfort to see the magnificent works spread out before him.
His steps made a hollow pitch that lingered in the rooms as he passed from one to another under the minimal illumination that was used at this time of the night. As he paused in appreciation before a collection of fine Athenian vases from the 5th Century B.C., the cavernous sound of his steps could still be heard reverberating through the rooms. Odd. Returning his attention to the display, he thought of Miss Bennet, the only female curator on his staff, who had been given full responsibility for some of recent additions to it. She had done a marvellous job, despite the fact that she was a woman. No indeed, she does not seem to let that impediment affect her work at all. This led Dr. Entwistle to once again think about the rotation of the Roman coins on exhibit, as all thought of the earlier disruption that boomed through the museum was forgotten.
At last reaching the final gallery, he walked slowly around the perimeter where the segments were mounted at eye-level. The frieze from the Parthenon was believed to depict a procession in honor of the goddess Athena and as his mind wandered and his index finger tapped absently at his lips, he concentrated on comparing the knees of the naked goddess to those of his female curator. Ah, if only I were thirty years younger. And single!
Lost in contemplation of the agreeable anatomy of feminine legs, he never knew of the eminent danger that was methodically advancing upon him. But, again he heard the cavernous echoing of his footsteps. Odder still. It most certainly was, for Dr. Entwistle realized he was standing perfectly still. As the bitter taste of fear began to seep into his mouth, his attacker overpowered him and the good doctor forgot all about shapely women's body parts as an unknown weapon produced a blinding pain in his left side. His body slumped to the floor as his life pumped out of him onto the highly polished marble.
Even on the brink of death, as he was unable to fight off the fogginess that prophesied the end of his life, Dr. Entwistle experienced a moment of satisfaction, for before him, carved into the pure white marble from Mount Pendeli, was the headless statue of Aphrodite and Dione, reclining against each other. It was the last thing he ever saw.