The Portland Vase

Robin Brooks

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061857515
• Topic: Kunst
• Subtopic: Europäische Kunst

For thousands of years an enigmatic and astonishingly beautiful piece of Roman art has captivated those who have come in contact with it.Made before the birth of Christ, the Portland Vase, as it is called, is renowned for both its beauty and its mystery.

In The Portland Vase, Robin Brooks takes us on a vivid journey across Europe and through the centuries, as this delicate piece of glass, less than ten inches in height, passes through the hands of a stunning cast of characters, including the first Roman emperor, Augustus; a notorious tomb raider; a reckless cardinal; a princess with a nasty gambling habit; the ceramics genius Josiah Wedgwood; the secretive Duchess of Portland; and a host of politicians, dilettantes, and scam artists.

Rich with passion, inspiration, jealousy, and endless speculation, the story of The Portland Vase spans more than two thousand years and remains one of the art world's greatest enigmas.

THE BODY

FIRST FRAGMENT

BREAKING

FEBRUARY 7, 1845, could not be described as a quiet day at the British Museum. The museum was halfway through a painful process of total transformation from its original home in the outmoded and outgrown Montague House to the large new building designed by Robert Smirke, which was going up piecemeal in its place. The museum was a building site; Montague House was being slowly demolished, and beside it the new wing, known as the Lycian Gallery, intended to hold treasures from excavations in Anatolia, was rising apace. The site was covered with laborers, great wooden beams of scaffolding, draft animals, and even soldiers to guard the works. Iron wall ties were being forged in situ, a rather rickety-looking contraption called a “traveler” conveyed massive blocks of Portland stone (no relation) about the site, and top-hatted supervisors stalked through the confusion. The Keeper of Manuscripts, Frederic Madden, was still living with his family (including a very pregnant wife) in what was left of the old buildings. He complained of the “insufferable dirt and noise.” His water supply had been cut off. Rats and bugs, fleeing the demolition, infested his apartments. The western wall of the building was leaning at an angle that left him “in continual dread of its falling down” and burying him and his family in its ruins.

The new structures were no safer than the old. A contemporary artist recorded an accident during the building of the Lycian Gallery during which a five-ton girder that was being hoisted up to the roof—a process that took four hours—broke loose and crashed to the ground, breaking into fragments but mercifully missing the workmen.

In all this chaos, the business of the museum went on as best it could. The vase sat under its glass cover in Gallery 9, and at the end of a freezing winter afternoon a handful of visitors strolled about, enjoying the last look ever taken of the vase in its pristine state. A young man had entered the room, with “something strange in his looks and manner.” He waited until the guard had walked out into the larger, adjoining gallery—Gallery 10—then he picked up a large fragment of sculpture from the ancient city of Persepolis that was lying at hand and heaved it at the vase. Had he hit it fair and square, he would have reduced the vase to an irreparable cloud of splinters and dust, but his hand was shaky, his aim was off, and the greater part of the missile hit the floor, leaving a hefty dent in the flagstone. Nevertheless, the solid glass cover was broken through, and the vase itself smashed into more than two hundred pieces. Something that was born under the Caesars and had survived countless generations perished in an instant.

The noise brought the public and the guards running. It brought “officers of the department” from an adjoining room, and they acted with commendable speed, immediately ordering the attendants to close the doors to Galleries 9 and 10. The five members of the public still in Gallery 9 were asked to walk next door, where they were questioned by the Keeper of Antiquites, Edward Hawkins. Four of them, understandably worried that they might be falsely accused of complicity in the outrage, answered promptly. The fifth hung back until directly confronted. “A stout young man, in a kind of pilot coat, with both hands in his pockets before him, replied, when questioned, in a dogged and determined tone, ‘I did it.’” He was handed over to a police officer. The attendants began gingerly to clear up the mess. Frederic Madden, summoned by a messenger, appeared to look over what was left of the vase:

On proceeding up to the room where it was exhibited, I found it strewed on the ground in a thousand pieces, and was informed that a short time before a young man who had watched his opportunity when the room was clear, had taken up one of the large sculptured Babylonian stones, and dashed the Vase, together with the glass cover over it, to atoms! The man, apparently, is quite sane, and sober.

For Madden, no democrat, the moral was clear, and he confided it to his journal:

This is the result of exhibiting such valuable and unique specimens of art to the mob! Had the facsimile been shewn to them, and the original kept in Mr Hawkins’s room, this irreparable mischief could not have taken place. Indeed as to the mob of visitors, I am so confident that they never regarded it, that if the stone which broke it, were put in its place, it would excite a great deal more attention. It is really monstrous to witness such wanton destruction! I am quite grieved about it. Yet what will be the punishment? Perhaps a fine of a few pounds or a month’s imprisonment and he may then come out and destroy something else!

Much has changed, of course, since Madden’s day, but there are curators here and there who still find it hard to fight the conviction that the objects in their care belong to them, and not to greasy hoi polloi who so impertinently insist on trampling through the galleries for which their taxes are paying.

A trustee of the museum happened to be on site, looking at manuscripts in Madden’s room, and it fell to him to grovel in a letter to the Duke of Portland, who had loaned his vase to the museum, with news of the “most lamentable occurrence which has happened only a few minutes ago within our walls…. I have this minute come from the room, where the attendants are occupied in sweeping up the remnants of what less than an hour ago was one of the noblest ornaments of this great National Collection, and a monument of your Grace’s liberality and of the trust you reposed in our safe-keeping.”

The duke replied, with remarkable understanding and forbearance, that the catastrophe was “a misfortune against which no vigilance could have guarded it on the part of the Officers of the Museum…. I have no doubt that that man who broke the Vase whoever he is is mad…. It is perhaps fortunate that his madness has shewed itself in the way it has done instead of injury to human life.”

But according to Frederic Madden, and many others who met the strange young man, he was not mad. Who was he, and why had he done what he did? He had been taken before the magistrate at Bow Street for a preliminary interview, but had refused to cooperate, offering no explanation for his actions, not even giving his name. He was taken down to the cells. All that could eventually be discovered about him was that he had exactly ninepence on his person; that he had been lodging at a coffeehouse in Long-acre, Covent Garden, not far from the museum; that he was living under the name of William Lloyd, but this was not his real identity; and that he was from Ireland. These details were duly recorded in the London Times the next day, and as the reporters had nothing else to go on, they resorted to speculation: “…It is therefore assumed that his only motive for committing the wanton destruction of this ancient and national relic was a morbid desire of notoriety, strengthened, no doubt, by straightened circumstances.”

Three days later William, as he could now be named, was again brought before Magistrate Jardine at Bow Street for a full hearing. The landlady of the coffeehouse was first examined. She revealed that when the defendant had first arrived at her establishment, he had given the name Lloyd, and had told her that he was a theatrical scene painter, just arrived from Dublin, and that he had lost his trunk. She also described him as “regular in his habits,” keeping to himself and avoiding the public rooms. There were more revelations: William had talked of how he left Dublin with a servant girl, and with eight hundred pounds in his pocket. Then William was brought in. Arrayed against him were Sir Henry Ellis, chief librarian of the museum, Keeper of Antiquities Edward Hawkins, two solicitors to the trustees—Messrs. Barnwell and Lutwidge—and the counsel for the prosecution, Mr. Bodkin ( “bodkin” is an archaic English word for a short, pointed instrument like a dagger or a needle, and a name for a prosecutor that surely even Dickens could not have bettered). There was no counsel for the defense; the prisoner stood alone in the dock. Everyone—Times reporters, museum officials, and learned counsel—had a chance to take a good look at him. At the time of the outrage he had been described as “stout,” but now he seemed “thin.” Perhaps the image he projected at the scene of the crime had been inflated by the emotional charge of his violent action, and certainly three penniless days in the cells would have been a deflating experience. He was in his early twenties, fair-haired, appeared “delicate,” and reinforced this impression by speaking in a low, weak voice and the soft southern Irish accent. He was respectably dressed, and in an age when social distinctions were clearly marked by appearance, this was hard evidence that he did not come from the lower orders. He was not a member of the brutish mob that Madden feared; as his speech revealed, he was educated and from a relatively well-to-do background.

The clerk of the court asked the accused if he still refused to give his name and address. The prisoner replied, “Yes, sir, I do. I wish to say that my reason for refusing to give my name is simply this—that I do not wish to involve others in the disgrace which I have brought upon myself.” Having begun, he went straight on to the root of the matter: he seemed to want to unburden himself immediately. First came a confession: “I certainly broke the vase, and all I can say in extenuation of my conduct is, that I had been indulging in intemperance for a week before, and was then only partially recovered from the effects which that indulgence had produced upon my mind.” This was not an explanation, but the prisoner immediately tried to supply this, too, apparently as best he could: “I was suffering at the time from a kind of nervous excitement—a continual fear of everything I saw; and it was under this impression, strange as it may appear, that I committed the act for which I was deservedly taken into custody at the Museum. I can assure you, Sir, there was no malice prepense—no design or evil intention whatever on my part towards any person.”

The prisoner quoted legal jargon, as though to reinforce his social status and make it clear he was not just a common drunken vandal, but an ordinary, decent person suffering from an unusual affliction. He may even have been a law student, but his explanation was far too vague to satisfy the court. Psychoanalysis and psychiatry were hardly even in their infancy—Sigmund Freud was born more than a decade after the smashing of the vase—but now the twenty-first-century reader reaches automatically for diagnoses such as “nervous breakdown,” “paranoia,” and “schizophrenia.” Even for us, armed with modern knowledge, the proffered explanation still leaves much obscure. Had some sort of mental disturbance driven him to flee from Dublin, or had he just eloped with the servant girl? Was some problem in his relationship with this girl the cause of his outburst? There was no sign of her now in court, or anywhere else. Was the “eight hundred pounds” a fiction, or an exaggeration, or had he really acquired this money in some way and run through it all? Most important, what drove him into Gallery 9 that wintry afternoon? Did he just come in to escape the cold, or had he been haunting the gallery for days, peering continually at the vase, and deliberately singling it out for destruction? He cannot, as the Times had suggested, have harbored a “morbid desire of notoriety,” since he was refusing to reveal his true identity. He had told his landlady he was a “scene painter”; did he have some artistic training that might have led him, out of obsession or envy, to the vase? It is difficult to prevent the imagination from providing answers to these questions. Inexplicable acts of violence are the currency of modern novelists, and one can picture “William Lloyd” as a dysfunctional protagonist, like Raskolnikov or Stephen Daedalus, with the blank city streets, the cheap room, and the disconnected thoughts of a stifling mother or a tearful girlfriend grinding round and round. All we know for certain is that, out of all the objects in the great treasure house of the museum, William chose the vase on which to vent his destructive fury. He did not go to the National Gallery to shove his walking stick through a Titian; he did not choose to throw paint over the Elgin Marbles, or take a chisel to the Rosetta Stone. It was the vase that attracted him—its beauty and fragility calling forth the strongest response from the human heart, for good or ill, as it always had.

In any case, none of this concerned Mr. Bodkin, whose own sense of justice seems to have been more about revenge that explanation. But—unable to live up to his name—he could not at first get to the point. He was a member of Parliament, and not the sort of lawyer to use one word where twenty would do. He expatiated on the “beautiful and valuable specimen of art which the prisoner had wantonly destroyed whilst exercising that privilege which was open to the public without restriction.” He described how the medical officers had found the prisoner to be of sound mind and therefore responsible for his actions. He took for granted the prisoner’s guilt, and the rest of his speech was concerned not with whether the prisoner should be punished but with how he should be punished. Here he acknowledged an unfortunate aspect of the law, something of a loophole. The only way the offense could be dealt with was under Section 24 of the Wilful Damage Act. He read the relevant sections of tortuous legal language to the court. He debated their interpretation at length, having detected an ambiguity. Any person guilty of damage—“shall forfeit or pay such sum of money as shall appear to the justice to be a reasonable compensation for the damage, injury, or spoil so committed, not exceeding the sum of five pounds.” (It would have taken the average workingman of the time five or six weeks to earn this kind of money.) Did this sum of five pounds refer to the value of the object damaged, or the amount of the fine? If the former, then it would appear that the prisoner would escape punishment, for there was no getting over the fact that the vase was worth rather more. This vandal would get off scot-free, in other words. Bodkin himself did not welcome this conclusion. He warned the magistrate of the consequences: Open season would be declared on the treasures of the British Museum. Any member of the public would be able to wander in and smash whatever he chose with impunity. He quoted the precedent of the man who had thrust his walking stick into a painting in the National Gallery, and who had been successfully fined by Magistrate Maltby at Marlborough Street under Section 24, despite the potential loophole. He rested his case.

The magistrate, who had doubtless been frowning through all this, turned first to the prisoner: “You have heard the statements which have been made to the Court. I am now prepared to hear anything further that you may wish to say.” The prisoner thought it best to abase himself: “Whatever be the punishment you may feel it my duty to award me, I shall have the consolation of feeling that it has been richly deserved.” But Mr. Jardine had not made up his mind. He balked at the loophole and could not simply concede to the earlier precedent Mr. Maltby had provided. “It seems to me very doubtful whether I have any power at all to act in the charge before me, and therefore I shall take time to give that question more consideration.”

One can imagine Bodkin sighing before rising to his feet again. Fortunately, he had a cunningly prepared fallback position: in addition to the complete demolition of the Portland Vase, a glazed case, by which the vase was covered, and which belonged to the trustees of the museum, was also destroyed. The value of this case was under five pounds, and therefore, without reference to the vase, he was instructed to proceed against the prisoner for the damage caused to the less important article. So, due to the complexities of the law, the prisoner was convicted not of the destruction of the vase, but of the case in which it sat.

Mr. Jardine was now ready to pass sentence: “There could be no doubt that, in the eye of the law, the prisoner had been guilty of wilfully and maliciously destroying this property, and—”

At this point the prisoner made his only protest, interrupting the magistrate: “It was not maliciously done,” he objected.

Mr. Jardine answered him: “The law attributes malice to all such acts as these, in the absence of any other causes to which they could be ascribed…. I therefore convict you of the offence, and order you to pay three pounds; in default of which I commit you to hard labour in the House of Correction for two months.” The prisoner was escorted out of the courtroom.

William Mulcahy was sent to Tothill Fields prison, where he immediately got on the wrong side of the turnkey and was handcuffed and put in solitary confinement. Perhaps this was because he was too much a gentleman; in the early Victorian period, London’s criminal underclass was excessively brutal and base, even compared to the vilest modern gangsters, and the social divisions were far, far deeper. A well-dressed student, however impecunious, might have been singled out. Wolf Mankowitz, in his book The Portland Vase and Wedgwood Copies, suggests, “Lloyd may have harboured other and even darker impulses, for which he was glad to gain correction,” and that, disappointed with the leniency of his sentence, he took steps to exacerbate his punishment.

But if so, he was frustrated; only two days later a crudely written letter arrived for Mr. Jardine. “I take the liberty of enclosing three pounds as wich is the paultry penelty in default of paying wich you have sentenced my relation through Adam and Eve poor Mister William Lloyd the Irish gintleman to two months hard labour.”

Three freshly minted gold sovereigns accompanied the letter, together with a warning that a copy had gone to the prisoner, so that the letter could not be ignored. Who had done this, and why? The mysterious benefactor supplied only a joke against the legal profession by way of explanation—he was himself, he said “an Irish Attorney,” and having “robbed and imprisoned so many” to pay for the prisoner’s release “will afford his consence some rest.”

The prisoner was released, but the trustees of the museum were not done with him. They put him under surveillance and took steps to discover his true identity. “Lloyd” had admitted to being a pupil at Trinity College, Dublin. Now the college tentatively identified this pupil as one William Mulcahy, who had entered the college in the summer, and then disappeared. The trustees employed a priva...