Law, Morals and the Parthenon Marbles

Treachery, subterfuge and "a steady flow of bribes." Writer Bruce Clark unpicks the dubious legality of Lord Elgin's removal of the Parthenon sculptures.

When Melina Mercouri went to London in 1983, she put the point in her own inimitable way: “This is a moral issue more than a legal issue.” Kyriakos Mitsotakis took a similar line in November when he visited his counterpart Boris Johnson and declared that the sculptures were stolen – a view which Johnson himself, in his student days, had espoused.

The British Museum’s position is diametrically opposed. Its website argues that Elgin acted with the full knowledge and permission of the legal authorities of the day in both Athens and London. Lord Elgin’s activities were thoroughly investigated by a Parliamentary Select Committee in 1816 and found to be entirely legal.

Provocative as it sounds to most Greek ears, the case for the legality of the marbles’ transfer is worth studying. It rests mainly on a document that was apparently issued by an Ottoman official, the kaymakam, at the request of the British embassy to the High Porte, around the beginning of July 1801. It emerged at a high point in Anglo-Ottoman relations, when the two powers were acting in lockstep to expel Napoleon’s forces from Egypt. It was not, strictly speaking, a firman – a term which refers to a decree issued by the sultan himself. But the kaymakam was a high-ranking figure.

Its terms had virtually been dictated by Elgin’s assistant, a shrewd Anglican cleric, Philip Hunt. It allowed a team of mainly Italian artists employed by Elgin to visit the Acropolis, which was also the Ottoman garrison, make drawings and moulds of the antiquities, and specified that …“When they wish to take away some pieces of stone with old inscriptions, and figures, no opposition be made…”

Historians agree that when that text was issued it was understood to refer to picking up objects from or below the ground. (Ever since the explosion of 1687, when a Venetian mortar bomb ignited an Ottoman powder-keg and blew the roof off the Parthenon, plenty of valuable debris had been scattered around on the citadel).

In the course of July 1801, Anglo-Ottoman relations became closer still as fears grew that Napoleon might invade Greece. Hunt was sent back to Athens – on a mission to stiffen the backs of the Ottoman commanders. As he boasted afterwards, this provided an opportunity to “stretch” the meaning of the permit and remove sculptures that were still attached to the temples. In the careful words of historian William St Clair, “Lord Elgin’s agents, by a mixture of cajolery, bribes and threats, persuaded and bullied the Ottoman authorities in Athens to exceed the terms” of the kaymakam’s decree.

As Elgin would later explain, such a document was in any case not the last word – it was a basis for negotiation with local officials, and it did not preclude the need to keep up a steady flow of bribes to ensure that the stripping of the Acropolis continued unimpeded.

Conveniently for Elgin, the post of disdar, or head of the Acropolis garrison, changed hands in mid-1801, as an elderly incumbent, who’d made a steady income in bribes, passed away and the job was taken over by his son. The new disdar felt trapped in the middle of a high-stakes transaction, and he feared dire punishment if he miscalculated. Elgin and his associates made sure that he remained frightened. In May 1802, the disdar became anxious that he might get into trouble with his Ottoman masters because he had been slightly too zealous in accommodating Elgin’s project. But as Lady Elgin smugly reported, one of her husband’s agents “whistled in his lug (ear)” that he had nothing to fear. Or to put it another way, “You have nothing to fear but us…”

Even then, the Ottoman attitude to the legality of the project was never a settled matter. In autumn of 1802, both the disdar and the voivode (governor) of Athens became worried that they might get in trouble with the Porte, because the existing text did not justify the mass stripping which was in progress. Elgin duly procured a fresh document which retroactively legalized the actions of the two officials.

But then fast-forward to 1808, by which time the kaleidoscope had shifted: the Ottomans were at peace with France and spasmodically at war with the British. Many of the sculptures collected by Elgin were still in Greece.

A new British envoy to the Porte tried to get the sculptures released, and was bluntly told that Elgin’s entire operation had been illegal. Only after January of 1809, with the signature of a new Anglo-Ottoman treaty, did the atmosphere change, leading to a fresh document that enabled the export of the sculptures to resume.

During the parliamentary investigation which the British Museum mentions, Elgin was questioned hard as to whether he had abused his position as ambassador to pursue a personal transaction; he replied, absurdly, that, in his antiquarian activities, he was no different from any private archaeologist. But many legislators were unconvinced.

It seemed obvious that the objects for which Elgin was about to be paid £35,000 had been obtained by careful exploitation of diplomatic privilege and of the sweet state of Anglo-Ottoman relations. Elgin got his money, but that does not mean he was believed.

Is this really the kind of behaviour on which British officials should be basing their case? By stressing the very dubious argument for the legality of Elgin’s actions, they risk drawing further attention to the fundamental moral issues.

* Bruce Clark writes for The Economist on history, culture and ideas. He is author of his latest book “Athens: City of Wisdom.”

This article was previously published in Greek at kathimerini.gr, 18 February 2022

Bruce Clark also contributed his article 'Stealing Beauty' to BCRPM's articles section of this website. 

Ta Nea, 12 March 2019 

Greece’s daily newspaper, Ta Nea, has seen, studied and photographed the controversial ‘firman’, the Ottoman document used by Lord Elgin to remove the Parthenon Sculptures and bring them to London. It is the Italian version of the ‘firman’ which was acquired by the British Museum 13 years ago and has since been kept in its Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities.

Ioannis Andritsopoulos,Ta Nea's UK Correspondant

The original ‘firman’ allegedly written in the Ottoman language has been lost, with several experts questioning both if it ever existed and the authenticity of the document currently held in London. The so-called firman played a key role in the House of Commons’ decision to buy the Sculptures from Elgin in 1816.

To read Yannis Andritsopulos' article in Ta Nea, follow the link here.

Several historians and lawyers cast doubt on whether Elgin legitimately removed the Marbles from the Acropolis site.

“Concerning the precise wording of the two 'firmans' (legally binding official royal permits) that the Ottoman Sultanate is said to have granted to His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador to the Sublime Porte (Thomas Bruce, the 7th Lord Elgin), all or almost all is smoke and mirrors. For no literal transcripts of the original Turkish documents exist - or are known to exist - today. One thing, however, all sane commentators agree on: no firman can possibly have granted Elgin explicit permission to do what he and his agents in fact did, namely destroy rather than remove to safekeeping significant portions of the original Parthenon marbles.”, said Paul Cartledge, A.G. Leventis Professor of Greek Culture emeritus, University of Cambridge, and Vice Chairman of the British Committee for the Reunification of the Parthenon Marbles.

Professor Paul Cartlege

“The so-called 'firman' was an official communication from the Grand Vizier or in his absence his deputy to the Governor and Judge of Athens. It was not, as has been claimed by staff of the British Museum 'permission given to Lord Elgin'. Plentiful contemporary historical sources confirm that the local Ottoman officials exceed the terms of the document, as the Ottoman Government itself acknowledged. It was their understanding that the pieces had been removed 'without remonstrance' that persuaded a Parliamentary Select Committee in 1816 to recommend the purchase of the Elgin collection. They had, of course, no authority to pronounce on Ottoman law, nor did their decision to waive doubts about legality, on which they did not make a recommendation, amount to asserting legal ownership. What some may take from Dr Fischer's remark is that he is claiming that an act of the British Parliament could somehow give legitimacy to a messy business of what in modern terms would be described as bribes, threats, and political pressures” commented renowned William St. Clair, senior research fellow at the Institute of English Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London.

William St Clair

In the British Museum’s statement on the Parthenon Marbles, we come across the familiar claim of the legality of Elgin’s acquisition. ‘Lord Elgin’s activities,’ we read, ‘were thoroughly investigated by a Parliamentary Select Committee in 1816 and found to be entirely legal.’ Simple, succinct, almost convincing, this is the only legal argument in the Museum’s arsenal against repatriation. But is it true?

In early 1816, shortly after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo and the return of his European loot, a parliamentary select committee was formed in London to evaluate Elgin’s request for the British government to buy his collection of marbles and other antiquities. The committee was assigned two tasks: to determine whether the government should acquire the collection, and to assess its monetary value.

Not being a court of justice, the select committee did not have the authority to decide questions of legality – not in the sense that those of us in the legal profession understand ‘legality’. Its official mandate did not explicitly include investigating the lawfulness of Elgin’s actions, although, ultimately, the committee did raise the question as an incidental concern. Did Elgin have permission to remove the Marbles?

The ‘firman’ that was not

Elgin claimed that he had obtained authorisation to carry out the removals. No original proof has ever been produced of that authorisation, the famous ‘firman’ that, if it existed, was not a firman at all (both Dr Philip Hunt, Elgin’s right-hand man, and its presumed Italian translation described the document as a ‘letter’).

At first, the select committee appeared to try to corroborate Elgin’s claim. Did Elgin have a document in his possession attesting permission? He didn’t. If someone had such a document, Elgin said, it would be his agent, Giovanni Battista Lusieri, who was still in Athens, or it would be the local Ottoman authorities in Athens. William Richard Hamilton, Elgin’s private secretary, had a more interesting story: when asked whether he knew anything about the permission, he admitted that he had no personal knowledge of the matter! But let us leave Hamilton aside. Elgin contended that surely the (written) permission must be in Athens. Now one expects that, to conduct a thorough investigation, the committee would need to send to Athens for Lusieri and the local authorities to look there for some proof of the ‘firman’ that was not. How else could the select committee, acting in good faith, decide the matter?

Yet, the committee showed no willingness to make the effort. In its report, it stated:

'The Turkish ministers of that day are, in fact, the only persons in the world capable (if they are still alive) of deciding the doubt; and it is probable that even they, if it were possible to consult them, might be unable to form any very distinct discrimination as to the character in consideration of which they acceded to Lord Elgin’s request.'

If they were still alive? If it were possible to consult them? The Sultan (the one with the authority to sign firmans) was still alive, and it would have been easy to consult him. The British government had an ambassador in Constantinople (Sir Robert Liston) – why not ask him? And why not call in as witness a former British ambassador to the Sublime Porte who openly affirmed that the Ottomans categorically denied Elgin’s ownership of the marbles? On 31 July 1811, Sir Robert Adair informed Elgin that ‘the Porte absolutely denied’ that he, Elgin, had ‘any property in those marbles’.

‘… the Porte absolutely denied your having any property in those marbles.’

Robert Adair’s draft letter to Elgin (31 July 1811). Collection of Theodore Theodorou. Used with permission. For a full transcript, see http://www.adairtoelgin.com.

It was not the first time that Adair shared this knowledge. In April 1811, the Speaker of the House of Commons, Charles Abbot, 1st Lord Colchester, recorded in his diary that Adair ‘was expressly informed by the Turkish Government that they entirely disavowed ever having given any authority to Lord Elgin for removing any part of his collection’. Even Elgin repeated, in an 1811 letter to the then prime minister, Spencer Perceval, that he did not lawfully own ‘his’ collection. People in government were fully aware of the fact that Elgin did not have permission to act as he did.

When the task was to persuade the Ottomans to permit the shipment of the part of Elgin’s collection that had remained in Athens, the government exerted pressure on both its ambassador (Adair at the time) and the Turkish officials. But when it came to determining whether Elgin had permission to act as he did, the select committee forgot it had a British ambassador (Liston) and appeared to hope that the Turkish officials were dead. Better let sleeping dogs lie. The committee took Elgin’s word and entirely ignored the fact that everything other than milord’s own impression pointed to the absence of permission.

The corruption

Then there was the issue of corruption. The select committee had Elgin’s admission of bribes. A list of his expenses incurred to procure the Marbles was published as an annexe to the select committee report. In it, we learn that Elgin paid 21,902 piastres (about £157,500 today) for ‘presents, found necessary for the local authorities, in Athens alone’. To grasp the significance of this sum, let us recall that, when parliament ultimately purchased the marbles, it paid Elgin a mere £35,000 (equivalent to about £4 million today). Corruption we assume just ‘happened’ in the Ottoman empire. But did it also ‘happen’ in Great Britain? Elgin was not an ordinary traveller in the Ottoman empire; he was the British ambassador, a representative of the Crown. Corruption was an offence in England and had been illegal since the time of the Magna Carta. Throughout the 18th century corruption was a crime punishable by English law. In the realm of electoral law, to bribe a voter had been an offence since the 1690s.

That bribes were a relevant legal consideration is also evident from the heated parliamentary debate on the corruption involved in obtaining the Marbles at the time. The acquisition was so inexplicable that some MPs even regarded it as a bribe to Elgin, and MP Preston remarked that, if ambassadors were allowed to get away with what Elgin had done, many would come back home as ‘merchants’. Yet the select committee did not act on the knowledge of the corruption.

The unpalatable truth is that the committee was expected to arrive at a predetermined conclusion: the Marbles should be bought for the nation. The absence of any statement in the committee’s report regarding the legality of the acquisition is significant. The committee repeated statements made by Elgin and his agents as if they reflected the truth. But never did it offer its own express conclusion that the acquisition was lawful. Nowhere in the select committee report do we find the committee’s opinion that Elgin’s actions were ‘legal’ – let alone ‘entirely legal’.

Catharine Titi

Catharine Titi is a tenured Research Associate Professor at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) and author of 'The Parthenon Marbles and International Law' (Springer 2023).