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.