Merinder's House

In the opening years of the 19th century, Lord Elgin removed, stone by stone, an extraordinary quantity of Greece’s history and shipped it to Britain, where it still resides and where it has been the victim of a series of attempts at cleaning with whichever corrosive solutions were fashionable at the time. Despite contemporary protest against Elgin, we are still, remarkably, debating whether or not he was right.

The most fascinating part about this story is the plethora of arguments for and against, as they reveal a great deal about how the world views the ownership of history and sadly, the debate is more about ownership than simply enjoying the art.

Justification for Elgin’s actions continues to be quite remarkable in its inventiveness, and generally revolves around how much better equipped Britain is to take care of the marbles than Athens might have been. On the other hand, I am sure that the same people who side with Elgin today would no doubt be horrified if a decision were made to remove Big Ben to New York on the grounds that it stands a better chance of being preserved in the United States.

I confess I am a huge fan of the British Museum, and have spent many an hour wandering its halls full of artefacts from somewhere else. I reserve my greatest admiration and awe, however, for a view I once had from a long glass window in the Musei Capitolini in Rome one weekend. If you are lucky enough to find your way to this window after the Foro Romano has closed for the day, you can watch the winter sun set on the glory of ancient Rome with no distractions. Best of all, it is where it always was, in the middle of Rome, sitting in a sea of the world’s most prolific traffic and the latest attempts to extend the Metro. I rest my case.

Jane Coutts, who recently wrote Merinder’s House, Scottish fiction with a European flavour.