Fiction in the reading room
The British Museum's historic dome told through the eyes of a 1960s Classics undergraduate.
Last week, I visited the British Museum’s Reading Room. It has recently been opened to the public and is an impressive (if not under-used) space.
It got me thinking about a scene I wrote in an early iteration of my novel The Athenian Murders. A lot of research about how the Reading Room would have functioned in the 1960s went into a chapter about Moira, a Classics undergraduate, being led to see the newly acquired Crouching Venus by two older academics, Vincent and Simon. Those who have read The Athenian Murders will recognise the character of Moira in the text below, and I’m publishing her unpublished backstory here for those interested.
In this post, however, I want to specifically focus on the Reading Room in the 1960s. The story is fictional, however, the artefacts and the architectural details about the Reading Room described are accurate.
Gargantuan windows arched up high to the curved roof, which domed above her head, culminating in a bright, glass oculus. She raised her hand to the circular light, thinking that neither Simon nor Vincent were the type to care what she did, and reached for the heavens. This was the work of the gods, surely? It was a room that matched her brain.
Perhaps, through this fictional account, you will experience this historic room in another time ( a time I wish I had experienced – when the room was used for research and study by those who applied for a pass).
Excerpt taking place in the Reading Room:
The museum official in the entrance hall gave Simon a courteous nod, which Moira took as a good sign. Her coat was taken from her, though she asked to keep her bag.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Simon, without removing his hat.
Instead of ascending either of the large staircases on the right or left, Moira followed her companions through a set of double, wooden doors. Vincent, who had not yet said a word, opened the left-hand panel of the door labelled ‘In’ and stood to one side to let her pass. She nodded in thanks and he returned her a toothy smile.
Through the doors was a long corridor, carpeted in blue, panelled in deep, shiny mahogany. They moved briskly, but Moira caught sight of the gold-painted writing on the doors: Reading Room, North Gallery, Official Publications Gallery, Map Library, Social Science Service. She was sure the sculptures would not be kept down here; they needed light to be viewed properly. This felt as though they were heading for the cellars.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Shhh!’ both men responded in unison.
They came to another set of double doors, again one panel labelled ‘In’ and the other ‘Out’. Filing through the narrow doorway, they spilled into an enormous room, shaped like a bee’s hive winding round and round and up and up in layers of black iron and wood. A maze of desks, covered in black leather modulated the main, circular floor space. A few people sat at the desks, typing or reading, heads bowed in concentration.
‘The stacks,’ Simon whispered.
Moira felt his breath against her neck and fought the urge to step away; it was important not to seem childish. He was looking at the mesh of books that surrounded the room. Moira nodded. The university’s library had been impressive, but this was spectacular. Gargantuan windows arched up high to the curved roof, which domed above her head, culminating in a bright, glass oculus. She raised her hand to the circular light, thinking that neither Simon nor Vincent were the type to care what she did, and reached for the heavens. This was the work of the gods, surely? It was a room that matched her brain.
A jingle of keys brought her attention back down to the reading space. Vincent was holding a set of all different sizes. He spoke, finally, his voice higher pitched than Moira had expected. In the dome, it sounded nymph-like, elusive.
‘They’ve moved her into the back room, everything’s set. As requested.’
Moira noted that Vincent was not told to keep his voice down. She was ushered along one of the aisles of desks and lamps towards a great, tall bookcase. As she approached, she realised there was a small doorway between the stacks. Vincent bent over and fiddled with the keys. One of the readers behind them sighed.
‘Apologies my good friend!’ cooed Simon. The door finally opened with a soft jolt and all three of them peered into a small, dark tunnel.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Simon whispered.
Huddling her arms close, Moira found herself wedged between the two men, pushing uncomfortably through the narrow, dim space. Thankfully, another door emerged over the shoulder of Vincent.
‘Hurrah!’ he sang. Moira laughed stiffly and they waited again as he fiddled with the lock.
Then, the sound of a bolt sliding, more shuffling and Vincent said, ‘Moira, was it? Yes, Moira…welcome to our lab.’
Moira stepped to one side and took in the new room. It was not as impressive as the last, not nearly. It had high, rectangular windows and a few, tall bookshelves, mostly half-empty. There was a high back chair on one end, facing the centre of the space. However, what stood in the middle triumphed over anything Moira had ever seen in the flesh before.
On a low-lying plinth, a marble woman, soft and smooth, crouched down, her right arm reaching across her chest, unsuccessfully covering her breasts. Her stomach relaxed in three, glorious folds of skin. But it was her face that Moira could not reconcile. Her lips were completely apathetic, there was no grimace, no hint of a smile; those lips were devoid of humanity. No mortal could achieve such disinterest. Her eyes, though, hollow as they were, colourless in their plain marble, were sad. Emotion and apathy. A contradiction. She knew her efforts to cover her naked body were not enough, Moira thought. She knew she was destined to be observed indefinitely. Created for the eyes of others.
‘You like her?’ Simon asked.
‘How could you not?’ Moira asked, unable to tear her eyes away. She began to walk around the statue, peering at the crevices of the body. ‘Aphrodite?’
‘A Roman copy, yes. Venus technically,’ Simon replied. He batted the air with his hand as if the fact were unimportant.
‘Came to us from Windsor Castle less than two years ago. We thought she would be the perfect specimen for our study,’ Vincent added.
Extra titbits:
Antonio Panizzi, the Keeper of Printed Books (what a job title!), had the idea in 1850 of constructing a round room in what was then an empty courtyard.
In May 1857, the completed room was opened for a one-off public viewing and over 62,000 visitors attended. Here’s the ticket (!):
Sylvia Pankhurst, George Orwell and Joseph Conrad all applied for readers’ tickets.
If you enjoyed the excerpt, then you might enjoy Lost Chapters, where more of Moira’s Classical academic life in 1960s London is explored.
Or, if a lighter read tickles your fancy, try Cold Secrets, my serialised murder mystery novel set in the Scottish Highlands.
All images in this post belong to The British Museum.
You note something here that seems clear but usually goes entirely unnoticed. Particularly the statue of Venus apparently not feeling so great about being objectified even if only as statue and therefore not feeling anything at all. That even Venus, as a woman, possible sensed being granted less importance than the male gods just because she was a woman. Statues breath life through the exact rendition of a state of mind, the mind of a beingness photographed in stone. I wonder if Virginia Woolf ever looked at that statue and maybe felt a kindred spirit. Their brilliance was of their own that should never be minimized into physicality. Maybe they were both having the same thoughts at different moments in time.