Sending Putin the Elgin Marbles is barmy, but it’s what makes Britain great

By
Boris Johnson

The other day, I
saw at close hand the bravery and professionalism of a Malaysia Airlines
cabin crew as they grappled with a passenger who was being, to say the
least, exceedingly difficult; and as I observed them – calm, patient, decent
– I could not help thinking back five months, to that other Malaysia
Airlines crew, aboard an identical airliner and flying a virtually identical
route.

The crew of MH17 had no time to show their courage, or to follow the correct
procedures. They had only a split-second of horror. You think of the
momentary fear of those 298 passengers and crew as the Russian-made Buk
missile exploded outside, shredding the fuselage of the plane. You try to
imagine what it must have been like as the machine broke up in the air and
they made their descent to the fields of wheat, thousands of feet below; and
then you recall that in all this time we have still had no word of apology
from Vladimir Putin or the Kremlin, for the actions of those Russian-funded
and Russian-armed separatists. Not a flicker of contrition has passed across
the waxy and impassive features of the Russian leader. All we have had is
the insulting suggestion that the missile was actually fired by the
Ukrainians, and, indeed, that it was an assassination attempt on Putin
himself.

In the face of such brutality and marmoreal indifference, you have to wonder
how on earth we can persuade the Russians to accept responsibility; and you
have to wonder – or at least I do – whether any of these considerations
passed through the heads of the trustees of the British Museum when
they agreed to send one of our greatest national treasures outside this
country for the first time in two centuries – and to send that priceless
artefact, of all possible destinations, to the Russia of Vladimir Putin.

As decisions go, it looks, on the face of it, utterly chaotic. It looks as
though the right hand and left hand of government are in complete ignorance
of each other’s existence. Russia has invaded and annexed part of the
territory of another sovereign European state. Britain and other EU
countries have imposed sanctions. There are bans on the export of oil and
gas technology. About 130 Russians are on a blacklist, and may not travel to
this country. Russia has responded with a ban on foodstuffs from the EU.

As so often, the sanctions are doing neither side much good: the collapse of
the oil price is hurting Russia; the collapse of the rouble is hurting some
remaining British exports to Russia, for instance luxury cars. People are
talking about a new Cold War, but it is all said to be worth it – because we
are allegedly “putting pressure” on Putin.

Well, perhaps we are; and we must all hope that there is a sensible solution
in the Ukraine. But how exactly does it constitute “putting pressure” on
Putin to send him a masterpiece of Phidian sculpture? The British Museum is
one of the very greatest in the world (if not the greatest, as I am sure its
director, Neil MacGregor, would attest). The Duveen Galleries are the holy
of holies, the innermost shrine of that cultural temple; and the river god
Ilissus is one of the most fluid and extraordinary pieces of 5th-century
Athenian sculpture.

Why send it abroad now? Why to Russia? Why Putin? The French have just decided
not to send the Russians the warships they have built for them; and here we
are, despatching a portion of the Elgin Marbles. It is hard, on the face of
it, to see why there should be one rule for oil and gas companies, which are
private businesses, and one for a museum that receives – rightly –
substantial support from the taxpayer. If you were Putin, you might feel
that this was a decidedly friendly gesture from the British Government – a
calculated thawing in relations, an olive branch.

And there, I think, Putin would be completely wrong. I don’t believe for a
minute that the Government plotted to send Ilissus to Russia. This is not an
act of state; this is not some serpentine piece of British diplomacy, a
surreptitious little bit of détente. This is what it looks like – a moderate
shambles, in which the trustees of a national museum have taken a decision,
at the urging of their flamboyant and enterprising director, which simply
does not cohere with British foreign policy. And the decision, therefore, is
all the more glorious – and all the more correct.

The idea of sending a piece of the Elgin Marbles to the Hermitage did not need
to be cleared by government. The British Museum did not obtain prior
government approval – and in that simple fact you have the difference
between Britain and so many other countries on earth, and especially Russia.
This is not a tyranny. We do not have power located in one place. We have
and we protect an idea of cultural, artistic and intellectual freedom – and
that is of immense economic value to this country.

We have more live-music venues in London than any other city on earth; we have
twice as many theatres as Paris, and we will soon produce more TV and
feature films than New York or even Los Angeles. One of the reasons for that
global success is that politicians, by and large, do not interfere – except
to encourage.

Can you imagine any other country where a national museum could take such a
politically charged decision, without government knowledge and acquiescence?
Greece? France? Russia? Don’t make me laugh. That is why good old George
Clooney is so wrong in his plan to restore the marbles to the “Pantheon”, as
he puts it (I think even M Vipsanius Agrippa would have had some trouble
with that project, since the Pantheon is the wrong temple, in the wrong
city, with the wrong architectural order).

That is why it is entirely fitting that the owl of Pallas should still haunt
the squares of Bloomsbury. It is the British Museum’s freedom to loan
Ilissus to Russia – even in this wretched period – that shows exactly why
the Elgin Marbles belong and shall remain in London.