CHAPTER I

CONSULAR AND OTHER SECULAR DIPTYCHS

From the earliest dawn of the human race until our time, Ivory has held a first place as a material for making the pleasing little luxuries of life, religious or civil. Cave-Man has left behind him incised sketches of animals, the product of his leisure moments; all literature tells of the use of it, and the digger’s spade turns up a series of charming objects, from the ornamental hair combs of a prehistoric princess, who dazzled the Egyptian court some 7000 years B.C., to the ivory-handled walking-stick of some gouty old Greek who lived at the outset of this most prosaic era.

To this passion for carved ivory we owe our knowledge of the continuity of art for many centuries after the break up of the Roman Empire, and the almost complete cessation of monumental sculpture. In fact, no such continuous chain has survived in any other artistic production; and this alone makes the study of the craft of such intense interest, illustrating as it does the early quickening of art in a period of great obscurity between the old order and the new.

There is no real break between Classical art and that of the Middle Ages; the early Christian was the last phase of Roman art, and the Church handed on with the Christian religion a mass of Judaic and Latin culture which the barbarian races, having none of their own, accepted, but through their different nature and requirements, modified and debased. Thence we see the continuity, and also the two main causes of the deterioration of Classical art: first, by the rise of Christianity, which was in its early days antagonistic to the plastic arts, owing to a haunting horror of images, inherited from Judaism, and a fear of falling back under the pagan spell of sensuous beauty: and though later and for a long period the Church became by far the most munificent and inspiring patron, the final tendency in the Eastern Empire was to stifle the true spirit of art by subjecting it to as dogmatic a rigour in design as in doctrine. Secondly the near presence of the powerful and rapidly assimilating barbarian, who imitating all things, often ignorant of their meaning, and incapable of good workmanship, reduced art in the Western Empire to the lowest ebb.

In Constantinople there lingered a fading shadow of the old Greek spirit, which, at least, inspired the craftsman to finished workmanship and a love of elegant form.

In spite of the paralysis caused by the enforcement of a fixed canon of iconography there were long periods of high artistic excellence (Figs. 17 and 18). We have an exaggerated idea of the rigidity of Byzantine art owing to the numerous repetitions by inferior craftsmen which are found in our museums, and by confusing the Golden Age, with the period of real deadness which commenced in the twelfth century, and has lasted to this very day in the art of the Greek Church. Byzantine art became the technical school of the younger nations, teaching them craftsmanship and design, thus enabling them to express their more impulsive religious emotions and leading them on till they found the full expression of their genius in the aspiring beauty of Gothic art.

The best period for commencing the study of mediæval ivory-carving is with the fourth century, A.D., and the great series of Consular Diptychs which form the backbone of the early history of the craft and created a type which lasted through the whole mediæval era.

Theodosius the Great (✝395), divided the Roman Empire between his two sons. Arcadius ruled the Eastern Empire, his capital continuing at Constantinople. Honorius, then only eleven years old, nominally governed the Western. He did not make the Eternal City his seat of government, in fact the Imperial Court had rarely returned there since it was deserted by Diocletian. Milan was considered too exposed to the attacks of the barbarians, so the city of Ravenna, almost impregnable owing to the surrounding marshes, was chosen, and remained the capital of the varying rulers of Italy until the eighth century.

Two Consuls were chosen for the East and West, their names continuing to give the legal date to the year, according to the ancient custom. And though every vestige of political power was gone, the post was the object of much ambition, it being a personal favour of the Emperor, and conferring on the holder the highest rank. It also brought great popularity with the people, who still honoured the name of Consul, full of memories of the great republic, and still more passionately appreciated the Games in the Circus, which it was the expensive privilege of the Consul to inaugurate on his accession.

These Games were an occasion for great ostentation, and were carried out with lavish expenditure. First there was a procession of all the dignitaries of the city, in which the Consul was the most important figure; this was greeted on its arrival at the amphitheatre by the tens of thousands of spectators starting up and clapping their hands; then all were breathlessly still while the Consul, cynosure of every eye, flung down into the arena the small white napkin, or _Mappa Circensis_, with which he, and he alone, might signal the commencement of the games.

This was the psychic moment, and the scene has been preserved for all time on the carved ivory diptychs which were presented by the Consul to the Senators and other high officials in commemoration of his office.

The word diptych is derived from the Greek δίπτυχον or “double folded,” and the diptychs given by the Consuls were an elaborate form of the ordinary writing-tablets or _pugillares_, “a thing held in the fist.” They consisted of two pieces of ivory joined together like a book by hinges, decorated on the outside and grooved inside to hold the wax, which was written on by a sharp style. The most important leaf is the right hand one, or that which comes uppermost when the book is closed, on it, with a few early exceptions, the Consul’s name was always inscribed, the second leaf bearing his titles.

These consular diptychs probably contained the _Fasti Consulares_ or List of Consuls up to the year of the donor.

They were often gilded, the inscriptions being painted in red; and some were of great size, as the Byzantine Angel in the British Museum (frontispiece), which measures 16¼ by 5½ in., and is so large that no known tusk would suffice to cut it. It has been thought that the ancients possessed some secret for rolling out ivory or joining it invisibly; but it is more likely that elephants had not been so much killed down for the sake of their ivory, so larger tusks were obtainable.

These tablets were so costly that Theodosius decreed in 384 that they should only be given away by the _Consules Ordinarii_, or the Consuls admitted on the 1st of January and who named the year, and not by those who replaced them or by any other officials; but this law was soon disregarded, and nine years later we read in a letter of the noble Roman Symmachus that, in honour of his son’s elevation to the quæstorship he is sending to the very same Emperor a diptych set in gold.

This series of diptychs spreads over a period of about 150 years, from the end of the fourth to the middle of the sixth century. The sculpture steadily decreasing in value, the earliest examples show freedom of design and good work, but the last were nothing but indifferent repetitions of the same subjects, in bad proportion and worse relief till it became possible to produce a figure such as that of Orestes (Fig. 4). Soon after Orestes the Emperor Justinian abolished this ancient office, and, really, he must be held justified if all the consuls could do was to give bloodthirsty shows to the citizens, and still more corrupt the standard of art by distributing such despicable types of art among the provincials.

It is noticeable that all the fifth century diptychs, the earliest and the best, both consular and otherwise are from the West. By the end of the century there was a complete collapse, following the further invasions of the Huns and other barbarians, and the Western Empire flickered out with the suppression, by Odoacer the Goth, of the last emperor, grotesquely named Romulus Augustulus, a sort of satire on his unworthy following of such mighty predecessors.

Orestes, Consul at Rome, 530 (Fig. 4), No. 34,[1] is the only Western Consul of the sixth century whose diptych has been preserved; the style is so like that of Constantinople, that it gives weight to Graeven’s theory that the medallions on it represent Amalasuntha, daughter of Theodoric the Ostro-Goth, who was then ruling in the name of her young son Athalric, and who carried on that short renaissance of the Arts, so artificially introduced from Constantinople by her father. The busts cannot represent the reigning Emperor Justinian and his wife Theodora, because at that time he was forty-eight years of age, and they never had a son.

Before passing to the real consular diptychs, it is impossible to leave unmentioned the splendid tablets of Probianus at Berlin (Fig. 2), No. 50.

We know no more than what the well-cut inscription tells us, that he was VICARIUS URBIS ROMÆ, or Vice-Prefect of the city of Rome. But, judging from the style, the good proportions (admitting the convention which made the person of highest rank the largest), the dignified faces, and the natural arrangement of the drapery, it must be of early date, probably towards the end of the fourth century, about the time of the beautiful tablets of the Nicomachi and the Symmachi (No. 58), to which it is closely allied by the well-hung drapery and the surrounding border of delicately cut honeysuckle pattern.

The top has a slight gable, as in the early diptych of Probus (Fig. 3), No. 2. Probianus is depicted in the Tribunal, sitting on his high-backed throne, surrounded by his clerks, who bear piles of writing tablets, and below, probably outside the _cancelli_ or barrier, which is to be found in all Roman basilicas, stand the litigants, who appear to be congratulating him. Outstretched fingers, in early art, meant the act of speech, and then, as now, congratulatory addresses were inscribed and presented. On the second leaf we see the address on his knee, and by a curious convention he is writing with his own hand the words they acclaim him with, “PROBIANE FLOREAS.”

In the first leaf he is delivering judgment, and the two lower figures wear the toga, showing they are of high rank, and on the other both he and the litigants are arrayed in the chlamys of ordinary folk. Below, between the litigants is seen a mysterious object on a tripod stand, which some say is the _clepsydra_ or water-clock, and others declare to be the official inkpot. On the right of the Vice-Prefect is a curious standard-like erection called the _vexilla regalia_, on which was painted the portraits of the Emperor and Empress, and which was never absent from any important ceremonial.

The diptych first on Molinier’s list covers an antiphonary in the Treasury of the Basilica at Monza, which contains so many other interesting antiquities.

Legend tells us that this ivory was sent about the year 600 to the Lombard queen, Theodolinda, by Pope Gregory the Great in acknowledgment of her efforts to convert her very barbaric subjects from the Arian heresy to Catholicism.

Three figures are represented, a bearded soldier and a stately lady, who has with her a little boy. It is evidently a portrait group, and has given rise to many questionings; and among the names of the numerous historical personages connected with it are those of the general Constantius, his wife, the famous Galla Placidia, daughter of Theodosius I., and their little son, afterwards Valentinian III. This would place it towards the end of the first twenty-five years of the fifth century. This theory is quite possible, historically; but, judging from the style, the attribution of Molinier is more likely. He considers that the figures represent another trio who lived a quarter of a century earlier. The decadence in art was so exceedingly rapid that it is very doubtful if such good craftsmanship and originality of design were possible at the later period. Molinier suggests that the carving represents the great general Stilicho, who though of Vandal origin, raised himself to a position of great power. He faithfully served Theodosius I., and the Emperor on his deathbed intrusted to him the care of his two young sons.

Stilicho, however, finding his influence in the Eastern Court was checked by Rufinus, concentrated his energies in the West, and practically ruled the Western Empire, and his weak young son-in-law, the Emperor Honorius. He kept the invading hordes at bay by conquest and treaty till his fall in 408, in which year the three persons depicted on these tablets—Stilicho, his wife Serena, adopted daughter and niece of Theodosius I., and their young son, Eucherius, were all cruelly murdered. This attribution would date it about 400, and an examination of the style supports the idea. The proportions are good, and the drapery well rendered, especially Serena’s girdled tunic. The whole design shows originality, and the figures being portraits, the craftsman was thrown on his own resources and could not copy from classical sculpture.

The pose of the figures is somewhat uneasy, and contrasts unfavourably with the grace of the Bacchantes on the beautiful private diptych, part in the Musée de Cluny, and part in the Victoria and Albert Museum (No. 58), which probably formed the cover of a marriage contract between the families of the Nicomachi and the Symmachi. These tablets, though nearly of the same date, adhere closely to some Greek model, and though gaining much in beauty, lose in originality.

Camille Jullian in an interesting article[2] points out how in the midst of thoroughly Roman surroundings, it is only the energetic face of Stilicho which is not Roman in type and betrays his barbarian origin.

The short tunic worn by Stilicho is embroidered all over with pictures of his wife and son, his long chlamys having only portraits of the boy. It was a popular custom at this period to have the portraits of near relations embroidered on State garments, especially pictures of children. The poet Claudian in his panegyric on Stilicho, alludes to scenes from the lives of Eucherius and his little sisters being embroidered on the robe of their father. More often the portrait was on a square of stuff, or segment, which was let into the front of the garment (see Fig. 5).

The first diptych of certain date is that of Probus, Consul at Rome, 406, No. 2 (Fig. 3), and probably intended as a gift for the Emperor Honorius, who is depicted thereon as a figure of heavy proportions, borrowed from the common type of imperial statue. The head is evidently a portrait, as even at the most decadent period there was always a striving, even if an unsuccessful one, after portraiture and naturalism.

It is interesting to note the nimbus round the head of Honorius. In heathen times the nimbus was given to the immortals[3] and to images of the deified emperors. Christian art adopted it, but not invariably, and it appears to have been regarded more as an attribute of power than saintliness. Though Christ and his disciples and the Old Testament[4] heroes received it, it also encircled the heads of the great people of this world. We find it on the celebrated Justinian mosaics at S. Vitale in Ravenna, and on the medals of Justinian, and as late as the eleventh century on the plaque of the Emperor and Empress, Romanus and Eudoxia, in the Bibliothèque nationale at Paris (Fig. 20).

Next in date and infinitely coarser in execution is that of Felix, 428 (No. 3); the head is of a rugged type, and the Consul is represented standing alone at the door of his house. Asturias, 449 (No. 4), on the contrary, is throned high in front of a colonnade and accompanied by two attendants. In the tablet, however, of the Consul Boethius, 487 (No. 5), we see for the first time the Consul seated, _mappa_ in hand, signalling the commencement of the games; but the design on the two leaves still has some variation, and on the second leaf he stands without the _mappa_. The diptych of Sividius, 488 (No. 6), furnishes the earliest example of the tablets of simpler type, which were probably given to people of lower degree. It is decorated by an inscribed medallion surrounded by foliated scrolls and four rosettes. All these are from the Western Empire.

With the commencement of the sixth century and the diptych of Areobindus, Consul at Constantinople, 506, we change to the Eastern Empire and find the formal type already fixed (see Fig. 4).

The Consul is seen sitting on the _sella curulis_, or consular chair. This has no back, and is usually made of ivory, with elaborately carved masks and claws of lions, and sometimes has small figures of Victory on the arms. On it is a richly embroidered cushion, rather ostentatiously showing; for to sit on a cushion in the Circus was only allowed to certain privileged classes. His feet rest on the _scabellum_, or stool, and he is clad in his gorgeous festival robe, which is a development of the purple triumphal garb of the victorious generals in earlier days.

The component parts of this dress are still under discussion, but according to Meyer[5] they consist of four parts:

1st. The _paenula_. A long plain under-robe with long narrow sleeves; 2nd. The _colobium_. A shorter embroidered over-tunic, with half length wide sleeves; 3rd. An embroidered strip, which is laid over one shoulder and hangs down before and behind; 4th. A nameless wrap of lighter material, embroidered or woven in a pattern.

The complete dress was called the _trabea_ or _toga picta_.

Wilpert,[6] however, declares that Nos. 3 and 4 are one long piece equal to the ancient toga: without which, by a decree of 382, the Senators were forbidden to appear in public, and which by more and more folding was reduced into the narrow Byzantine _lorum_. The feet were covered with red leather shoes, fastened by crossed ribbons with falling ends.

The Consul holds in his right hand the _mappa circensis_ and in his left the _scipio_ or sceptre. These sceptres are crowned by many devices—an eagle, busts of the imperial family and even two sitting figures.

As in the diptych of Orestes, there are often two female personifications of Rome and Constantinople; the former, on the Consul’s right hand, holds a tessera in her right and a spear in her left hand. Her helmet has three crests, while that of Constantinople only one. The latter holds up her right hand and bears a shield or standard in the left. These cities are sometimes represented in little medallions on the Consul’s chair (No. 17).

Very often above the head of the central figure were medallions with the portraits of imperial personages, or, perhaps, renowned ancestors. These niches were designed in imitation of those wooden shrines in which Roman households kept the waxen busts of their ancestors. Sometimes these diptychs were finished with a cross, and some have a medallion with the bust of Christ (No. 36).

The upper part was inscribed with the name and titles of the Consul, the last name always denominating the year.

Some early tablets have the name in the genitive, always a sign of antiquity, as _Nicomachorum_ and _Symmachorum_ (No. 58), _Felicis_ (No. 3), _Lampadorium_ (No. 33), and the plain tablets bearing the name _Gallieni Concessi V.C._

_V. Inl._ or _Vir Inlustris_, _V. C._ or _Vir Clarissimus_, and even _Patric._ or _Patrician_, were personal titles and not hereditary. They denoted that the bearer had held high office. We also find _Præfectus_, and _Comes domesticorum equites_, or commander of the imperial bodyguard. To be called _Vir spectabilis_, or a respectable man, was then esteemed a high honour, while in our degenerate days it is almost considered an insult. But _Cons. ordin._ or _Consul ordinarius_ was the real dignity, and with one exception always stood last.

In the lower division of the Orestes tablet, two servants pour money from sacks, doubtless commemorating the Consul’s largesse to the people. In some diptychs they scatter prizes for the Games, and often there are lively representations of the chariot races (No. 33), and the fights with wild beasts. Areobindus has left us the most varied pictures. A row of spectators look on at the struggling gladiators (No. 9), or _Bestiarii_ fighting with all sorts of wild beasts, lions and bears (No. 7), a bull-fight (No. 10), and on an anonymous diptych at Liverpool (No. 51), five magnificent elans are being attacked by hunters.

The fights do not appear to have been very dangerous for the men; the scenes are often quite comic from the numerous precautions taken, especially on the Basilewsky tablet at St. Petersburg (No. 52). The fighters, carefully packed in leather protectors, bolt through doors with peep-holes, or climb into a sort of crow’s-nest, curling up their ferocious opponents at the end of extremely long spears. In fact there was every means of escape, trap-doors, turnstile exits, and even dummy figures to divert the attention of the animals. Perhaps it was necessary, for we read of Pompey providing six hundred lions for a single show, and of Trajan celebrating his Dacian victories by the slaughter of eleven thousand beasts. If these little precautions had not been taken, the entertainment might have ended abruptly, and more in favour of the lower animals than the lords of creation.

The fights of the gladiators represented on the Besançon tablet must have been more exhibitions of skill than struggles to the death.

These gladiatorial fights ceased after the generous act of the monk Telemachus. He, after travelling to Rome from the far East with the set purpose, stept down into the arena, at the triumphal games of the Emperor Honorius (404), and tried to part the combatants. He was stoned to death by the enraged multitude; but his death was not unavailing, for his memory was respected, and these degrading exhibitions were for ever abolished.

Basilius, Consul at Constantinople, 541, was the last of the Consuls before the Emperor Justinian, impatient of the empty show of power, absorbed the office among his other titles, and from that time the Emperors always went through the form of being made Consul once on their accession. Basilius is represented on the first leaf of his diptych (No. 37) standing by the figure of Constantinople, who holds a standard on a gigantic pole. Below is a minute chariot race. On the second leaf, which has been cut, a figure of Victory holds an oval medallion portrait of the Consul. Below is an eagle with outstretched wings. These two leaves, though widely separated, were proved to be a pair by the likeness of the thin sickly face of the Consul on each leaf. This diptych varies considerably from the contemporary design, and though all idea of the real structure of the body, and of the hang of drapery from the limbs has disappeared, still it shows so much originality and clever portraiture, that Graeven, after a careful consideration of the fashion of the dress, attributes it to an earlier Consul Basilius of 480, at a time before the grouping had become so stereotyped.

The number of these carvings given away was so considerable that all were not of the same richness. There are many tablets of simpler design and rougher make, several being smaller and in camel bone (No. 43). These were, as already stated, intended for persons of lower degree.

The decoration consisted usually of a medallion, inscribed, or with the bust of the Consul, surrounded by foliated scrolls (Areobindus has left several of this latter kind among his numerous diptychs). The Barbarini leaf has a charming variation, the bust being inclosed in a garland bound with hanging ribbons (No. 41). Some are fully inscribed (No. 35), and others have only a monogram like that formed from the Greek letters of the name Areobindus (No. 12).

Justinianus, Consul at Constantinople in 541, and afterwards Emperor, has, in addition to his names, a Latin dedication framed in a circular moulding of delicate honeysuckle pattern. The diptych of Philoxenus at the Bibliothèque nationale (No. 29) is quite a new departure. Three medallions, linked by knotted cords, contain the portrait of the Consul, his name and titles in Latin, and below, a female bust, who, some think, represents his wife. She is more likely to be the personification of Constantinople, judging from the absence of the fashionable headgear, the hair being simply parted under a narrow diadem, and from the standard she grasps in her hand, which is embroidered with a garland in the same fashion as that held by Constantinople in the Basilius diptychon. The faces are well characterized and the whole workmanship is excellent, round it is an elaborate border, the spaces being filled in by a Greek verse, which runs as follows:

“I Philoxenus being Consul, offer this present to the wise Senate.”

There is a simpler diptych of this Consul at Liverpool, which bears a Greek dedication to a friend.

The most important among the anonymous consular diptychs is the fine one preserved in the Cathedral Treasury at Halberstadt (No. 38) on which the bearded Consul stands among his friends, the group being varied on each leaf. Above, in a narrow division, are two small imperial figures seated on a wide throne with the figures of Rome and Constantinople; at the back stands a Victory, as in the similar design on a coin of Theodosius I. Below, in another narrow division, are pathetic groups of captive barbarians. The inscription has been cut from the top, but the whole style points to an early date, and Meyer places it between those of Asturias and Boethius in the third quarter of the fifth century.

The tablet of Lampadius at Brescia is especially interesting for the large picture it gives of a chariot race, showing the quadrigas rushing past the _spina_ or turning post.

The Consul, clad in the _trabea_ sits with two companions behind the richly carved _cancelli_ or balustrade. The only similar representation is on the magisterial diptych at Liverpool (No. 51), but the identification is very confusing. In the Brescia tablet the central _trabea_-clad figure and the man on his left both hold the _mappa_, but on that at Liverpool there is, more reasonably, only one starter, but he is on the left of the central figure, who holds a libation cup instead of the _mappa_, and all three figures have the same un-consular dress. Meyer points out an inscription announcing the restoration of the Flavian Amphitheatre by Caecina Felix Lampadius, in the second half of the fifth century; the inscription being in the genitive is also a sign of antiquity. But the smooth and rather too minute workmanship connect it with the best diptychs of the early sixth century, and so Molinier attributes it to Lampadius, Consul at Constantinople in 530, and the same year as our old friend Orestes (Fig. 4), and the smooth finish of the Lampadius tablet can be contrasted, not altogether unfavourably, with the rougher modelling of what had become by then almost a provincial school.

The nameless consular diptych of Bourges (No. 39), divides into two equal registers. Above, the bearded Consul is seated between two guards, on one leaf these have long hair, and may have been intended for Goths, and in the corners of the arch are two eagles exactly like those on the St. Gregory diptych at Monza (No. 44). In each lower half is a _bestiarius_ transfixing lions and leopards with his spear. The treatment, if rough, is free, and the grouping of the lions is somewhat similar to that in the Adam tablet at the Bargello (Fig. 6). It is probably fifth or early sixth century.

Meyer quotes the text of Gregory of Tours, who describes the installation of Clovis the Frankish king as Consul of the West in 508, with all the pomp and honour of Roman custom, and repeats the rather problematic suggestion that this diptych commemorates the occasion.

The ivory tablet in the British Museum, called the Apotheosis of Romulus, from a very doubtful reading of the monogram, is probably also of the fifth or even sixth century, though its thoroughly heathen subject seems to necessitate an earlier date. The composition is most elaborate. Below, the Consul, clad in the toga, is seated in an architectural triumphal car drawn by four elephants, each with their driver. In the centre he is seen in miniature driving in a quadriga, which bears him upward, preceded by eagles, from the funeral pile to the heavens, where he is again represented in the hands of winged genii, who present him to the assembled gods.

This is interesting as being an example of that continuous method of composition, in which the same figure is repeated acting in sequence. This method was introduced into Roman art about the Augustan age, and was largely continued by Christian art, especially in the MSS. It gained great popularity, and for a while it seemed doubtful whether the “continuous” or the “episodic” method would be the leading feature in modern art.[7]

Several consular diptychs have been turned to Christian religious uses by slight alterations of the figures, and by the removal of inscriptions and scenes from the games.

The most important transformed diptych is in the Cathedral Treasury at Monza (No. 44), which now represents St. Gregory and King David. The alterations have been considerable, and have given rise to many differences of opinion, but the latest writers, with the exception of Meyer, have gone back to the opinion of the earliest, Gori, who declared the consular origin of these tablets.

St. Gregory did not die till 604, so could not have been canonized before the seventh century, and the style is fully that of the consular diptychs in the first half of the preceding century. The saints are depicted in full consular robes, the right hand raised with the _mappa_ in the act of flinging it into the arena, and in the left the _scipio_.

The background has the typical decorated arch, supported by cannelated pilasters, over the capitals of which are rectangular spaces having the names of Gregory and David cut with a deep background, as if to destroy any under carving. Above the arch is a cross similar to that on Fig. 4, on each side are two eagles of the Bourges pattern (No. 39). David sits on a curule chair, his feet resting on a stool in good consular fashion. On each side of the chair, above the leg, is a square with deep cut carving. These squares might have contained the now obliterated busts of Rome and Constantinople, which decorate that part on the diptych of Anastasius (No. 17). In fact the knot and twisted stalks almost follow the outlines of a head and shoulders. There is more deep carving let in a narrow groove between the pilasters and the smooth background, all of which has a Carlovingian character.

St. Gregory has been given a tonsure and his hair has been cut at the expense of his ears, which have been cut away too. The robes are untouched, but Gregory’s sceptre has been altered to a cross. Above the head of David are faint traces of an inscription on the smooth background, and on the other leaf there is a later inscription referring to Gregory’s Antiphonary, to a copy of which the tablets formerly acted as a cover.

On a reliquary book cover at Prague is another consul changed into St. Peter (No. 45). This figure has suffered considerably, for the _trabea_ has been so much smoothed that it is hardly distinguishable. The _mappa_ has been turned into a _volumen_ or roll, the _scipio_ into a key, and the feet have been bared.

There appears to have been a class of diptychs, each leaf consisting of five pieces joined together by ivory beading or metal mountings. The four pieces were arranged like a frame round the central and most important plaque. (See the later Christian book cover, Fig. 10.) Meyer suggests they were especially intended for gifts to members of the imperial family.

Some of these five-piece panels were more probably intended as book covers, but one undoubted consular diptych in five parts still survives, though the pieces are scattered. Two horizontal strips are in the collection of the Marchese di Trivulzio at Milan. The upper one, with a bust of Constantinople borne by two winged figures, is inscribed with a dedication to an Emperor, while the lower strip, which is carved with barbarians rushing forward to present tribute (the same motive as that of the Magi), bears the Consul’s titles.

Two upright pieces of slightly varying width, on a book cover in the Munich Library, represent a consul in the act of walking to his right, and carrying what is probably a congratulatory address to the Emperor, his hands being religiously veiled. Above and behind him is an Imperial Guard, with large shield and spear, his robe embroidered on the shoulders, and his neck encircled by a collar from whence hangs a bulla, just as we see them on the mosaic in St. Vitale at Ravenna.

The narrower piece has a rigidly vertical design. Below is the full face figure of a man holding a long staff, and above, the upper portion of a figure of Victory, holding up over her head a wreath containing a bust of the Emperor, the exact enlargement of those Victories which so often stand on the arms of the curule chair (No. 17).

Meyer considers that these two unequal pieces formed the two sides, but the complete want of balance in the composition makes Molinier’s opinion that they both formed the right side the more probable. This increases the number of pieces to seven, but the Victory having no border may have been sawn off the central plaque. On the other hand, in the five-piece panel at Ravenna (Fig. 10), the central plaque is divided horizontally by a beading, if not in two separate pieces. If we consider that these two pieces formed the right side, and multiply their combined width for the left side, and then compare the total of the two sides with the width of the horizontal strips, there is still ample space for a central plaque representing the Emperor.

Meyer adds to the list of diptychs the celebrated five-piece tablet in the Barbarini Library at Rome. The upper and lower strips are of exactly the same character, and in the central plaque the Emperor (probably Constantine the Great) is seen on a rearing horse, under whose feet is a woman with her lap full of fruit, who personifies some conquered country. In the left piece is the figure of a soldier bringing a Victory, and the other side, which should have a representation like the Munich Consul, is lost.

Molinier emphatically declares this could not have been a consular diptych, as there is no trace of inscription; but suggests that it was the cover of a book intended for the Emperor.

There is one more diptych in exceedingly high relief, which may possibly be classed among the consular series, the date and subject of which is still a matter of much discussion. One leaf is in the Bargello at Florence (Fig. 5), and the other in the Vienna Museum (No. 57).

The Florentine portion represents a personage clad in a robe blazing with jewels, and standing under an elaborate edifice, holding orb and sceptre. The Vienna leaf is practically the same, only the figure is seated on a throne set with precious stones, and extends the right hand in the same manner as the Empress Eudoxia on Fig. 20, whilst the left hand supports the orb. The sex of this personage was long disputed, but now it is considered by most writers to represent a woman, both from the modelling of the form and from the dress.

The robes of Emperor and Empress were very similar, but on examining the mosaics of St. Vitale at Ravenna, we find that though Justinian and Theodora both wear the _chlamys_, hers is more lavishly decorated, and she wears a large collar of pendant jewels, while Justinian has the _fibula_. But the head-dresses were always tolerably distinctive till considerably later. Ladies of high rank all wore a kind of wig-like turban, sometimes double, as in the case of Serena (No. 1). That it was a turban and not hair is evident from the striped pattern on that of Serena. This was often bound with jewels, and the imperial family wore diadems with long strings of jewels hanging over the ears, as on the Bargello tablet. These pendants were often, but not invariably, worn by the Emperor, but his diadem fitted close on to his forehead without the intervening wig, as we see on the interesting ninth century casket in the Museo Kircheriano in Rome, where both head-dresses are represented. A large segment is inserted on the front of her robe by a jewelled edging, on which we see the portrait of a chubby boy dressed in the _trabea_, and wielding _mappa_ and _scipio_, a diadem with pendants being on his head.

Having decided that the figure is intended for a lady, there remains the vexed question of who she is. Molinier thinks she is of Byzantine origin, not wrought with the delicate art of the tenth to the eleventh centuries, but earlier and coarser, and going through the various historic characters in search of a name, he attributes the portrait to the Empress Irene, widow of Leo IV., and long Regent for her ten-year-old son Constantine IV., for she alone would dare to be portrayed throned, and with all the attributes of sovereignty. It was Irene who, in the middle of the Iconoclastic period, convened a council of the Church, repealed the new laws, and encouraged the use of religious images throughout her realm.

This attribution would bring the date of the diptych down to the end of the eighth century, and later than the style would seem to warrant; and it is vigorously opposed by Graeven, who declares that after the first half of the sixth century, there were no more purely secular representations; and that the coins of Irene represent her with both diadem and sceptre surmounted by a cross.

To this may be added the affinity of the architecture with that on diptychs of the early sixth century, as the eagles on the top, which are exactly like those surmounting the Bourges (No. 39) and St. Gregory (No. 44) diptychs. Also the columns with tightly wound curtains are extremely near in design to those on the tablets of the Poet and Muse at Monza (No. 63). Curtains, however, with horizontal stripes were fairly constant all through early art, but were less used in strictly Byzantine Art than in any other.

Graeven having given good reasons for placing this ivory in the first half of the sixth century, suggests that it represents Amalasuntha, daughter of Theodoric, who, by right of conquest and the reluctant consent of the Emperor of the East, was King of Italy from 493-526; and who, by good government, had brought about some measure of order, and induced a slight renaissance of the arts. Amalasuntha governed at Pavia in the name of her young son Athalric (Fig. 5).

Graeven suggests that these two are also represented in the medallions on the diptych of Orestes (Fig. 4). Athalric is represented without a diadem, like his grandfather on the gold medal, and he wears a coat in Gothic fashion, like that on the coins of Theodatus, his successor, and his mother’s second husband. Amalasuntha attempted to control Theodatus in the same manner as her dead son, but he resented the interference and had her murdered, thus severing the last link with the enlightened _régime_ of Theodoric, and plunging the country once more in darkness and barbarism.

There still remain for attention the Private Diptychs, which were given away to celebrate a marriage, or a happy recovery to health, or some other domestic reason. The subjects were usually mythological, and the compositions, sometimes of great beauty, were chiefly borrowed from Classical Art.

First, and by far the most beautiful, is the magnificent diptych of the noble families of the Nicomachi and the Symmachi; the two leaves are, respectively, in the Musée de Cluny at Paris and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The wonderful preservation of the surface shows the soft modelling of the ivory, and though the Paris leaf has been cruelly shattered and several pieces lost, the soft flow of the drapery is still sufficiently visible.

It is rather saddening to think of the long periods which must elapse in the history of ivory carving, from this time when drapery was still a thing of beauty, showing the form it seemed to hide, on through phases in which the garments were laid on in a series of flat lumps, or covered with a multitude of meaningless lines, until, finally, it emerges in Gothic art, no longer diaphanous and clinging, it is true, but drapery, real drapery, hanging in long swaying folds and falling round the feet in delicate little heaps in a manner whose perfection was the sole prerogative of the French craftsmen.

Between the Nicomachus diptych and the famous Diptychon Quirinalis of Brescia (No. 59), there is a great abyss. On one leaf of the latter are carved Hippolytus and Phædra, a poor copy of some Greek model; on the other Diana and Endymion.

Meyer thinks it probable that in the representation of the chaste Diana, coyly saluting her lover under the chin, we may find the portrait of a Roman lady. Certainly the attitude of the lady’s left hand, firmly placed on her hip, could have been copied from no Greek original, and further, these two figures have curtains behind them and embroidery on the shoulders of their tunics, after the popular fashion of the fifth and sixth centuries.

It is interesting to note the architectural background, an arch supported by two pilasters, which is very similar to that on the St. Gregory diptych, except that here the string-course which supports the scallop shell has not been cut away as in that at Monza.

Liverpool Museum has a fine pair of tablets representing Æsculapius and Hygeia (No. 61); which undoubtedly refer to recovery from an illness. The figure of Æsculapius appears to be taken from the Farnese Hercules. Another small ivory of this subject is in a private collection in Zurich; the figures vary considerably, but are evidently of the same period—mid sixth century.

There is one more diptych in that wonderful collection in the Treasury of the Basilica at Monza; representing an elderly bald-headed man, whose heavy torso and fat puffy face are well characterized, though the pose is rather awkwardly rendered. He appears to be a poet, for writing tablets and a _volumen_ lie at his feet, and on the adjoining leaf we see a Muse playing on the lyre. But from her matronly figure and his uncompromising ugliness, we appear to be dealing with another of those portrait diptychs, like the one at Brescia, in which the noble Roman had his portrait taken in fancy dress.

There are two most interesting tablets now in the Bibliothèque nationale at Paris, originally from Sens, where they long served as a binding to the thirteenth century MS. containing “The Office of Fools,” or that read on the first day of the year, and in which was incorporated many customs derived from the Roman Saturnalia. The decoration is frankly pagan, and is somewhat similar in style to the sarcophagi of the third century, on which the various scenes are superimposed in much the same manner.

On one leaf Bacchus Helios is represented clasping a thyrsis in one hand and an empty wine-cup in the other, while he stands upright in a car drawn by a male and female centaur. Above are lively scenes of the vintage, little figures gathering grapes and gaily treading out the wine. At the bottom of the tablet a group of sea-gods are seen disporting themselves among dolphins and other fish.

In the centre of the other tablet Diana Lucifera, rises like the moon from the sea; she wears a crescent on her brow, and round her head floats a cloud of airy drapery. She carries a lighted torch, and the two bulls which draw her chariot bound rapidly upward out of the sea. Above are a satyr and nymph, some women, Cupid and the tiny figure of Venus in a shell, and below, lying on the waters, is a figure of the Sea, surrounded by fish and holding a curious crustacean in her hand.

These diptychs have passed through many vicissitudes during the lapse of time. In the Victoria and Albert Museum there is a later carving on the back of a mutilated consular diptych, from which the whole surface has been smoothed away, leaving only a deeper outline here and there. This gives an idea of the fate of a large number of carved ivories, and of our great loss; and it is entirely to the adoption of diptychs for liturgical purposes by the Church that we owe the preservation of those that remain. The bishops, being high functionaries, may have received them as gifts, and others were votive.

The Council of Mopsueste, in 550, ordered the churches to keep the diptychs, and the names of those persons to be prayed for during the celebration of mass to be inscribed in them, in the following categories, all having a more or less local connection with the particular church:

Firstly: Neophytes, or newly baptized; Secondly: Benefactors, Sovereigns and Bishops; Thirdly: Saints and Martyrs; and Lastly: The Faithful Dead “in the sleep of peace.”

People were very anxious to have their names inscribed, and fearful of being scratched out for heresy.

For the dead bishops the prayer was less for them, than to them, from which comes the word “canonize,” or to be named in the Canon of the Mass. On the inner side of the diptych of Clementinus, at Liverpool, there is in roughly written Greek letters a prayer for the clergy of a church of St. Agatha, and for “our Shepherd Hadrian the Patriarch,” who can be none other than Pope Hadrian (✝795); this diptych probably came from a church in Sicily, for Greek was still spoken, and the patron saint of Palermo is St. Agatha.

Lists of bishops were inscribed, and when the list grew too long parchment leaves were inserted. Whole services were bound in these carvings, and the covers of many of the oldest MSS. are of diptychs, set in an elaborate border of goldsmith’s work, to increase the size as well as to enhance the beauty.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The numbers to the diptychs, in all cases, refer to those in the list of diptychs at the end of the book.

[2] _Mélanges de l’Archéol. et d’Histoire_, Rome, 1882.

[3] See the figure of Circe in the Casa di Modesta, Pompeii.

[4] See the Joshua Rotulus, edited by the Directors of the Vatican Library, Rome.

[5] _Zwei Antike Elfenbeintafeln_, Munich, 1879.

[6] _L’Arte_, 1898.

[7] _Roman Art_, Wickhoff, Eng. trans. by Mrs. A. Strong.