Behind me (and the Wehrmacht exactly 60 years before) is the Acropolis, its buildings the legacy of Pericles' decision to use League funds, contributed for the war against Persia, for the rebuilding of Athens which heralded the most important programme of state patronage to have been seen in Greece, only to be rivalled later in the capitals of the Hellenistic kings. Work was not completed until the end of the century, the last phase being undertaken despite the distractions of a crippling and unsuccessful war. But even these latest additions can be seen as necessary parts of the overall programme. The Acropolis was to have a new, or rather redesigned, temple to replace the incomplete one overthrown by the Persians. The Parthenon was less a cult place than a war memorial, dedicated as much to the glory of Athens and Athenians as to the city goddess Athena. Whilst it was building other temples were planned and under construction in Athens and in the Attic countryside, some not to be completed until later in the century, when also the Acropolis received its new monumental gateway (Propylaea, in the 430s) and the Erechtheum (mainly 421-406 BCE), to house its oldest cults.
|In front of the Parthenon and how it appears in reconstructed form in Nashville|
Germans raising the German war ensign above the Acropolis on April 27, 1941
Members of Britain's elite Special Boat Squadron (SBS) after the liberation of Greece
The Arch of Hadrian, a monumental gateway resembling – in some respects – a Roman triumphal arch. It spanned an ancient road from the centre of Athens, Greece, to the complex of structures on the eastern side of the city that included the Temple of Olympian Zeus. It has been proposed that the arch was built to celebrate the adventus (arrival) of the Roman Emperor Hadrian and to honour him for his many benefactions to the city, on the occasion of the dedication of the nearby temple complex in 131 or 132 AD. It is not certain who commissioned the arch, although it is probable that the citizens of Athens or another Greek group were responsible for its construction and design. There were two inscriptions on the arch, facing in opposite directions, naming both Theseus and Hadrian as founders of Athens. Whilst it is clear that the inscriptions honour Hadrian, it is uncertain whether they refer to the city as a whole or to the city in two parts: one old and one new. The early idea, however, that the arch marked the line of the ancient city wall, and thus the division between the old and the new regions of the city, has been shown to be false by further excavation. The arch is located 325m southeast of the Acropolis.
The Erechtheum On The Acropolis At Athens.An unusual, asymmetrical building of the Ionic order, which housed the cults which were once served in the Archaic Temple of Athena. This had been burned by the Persians in 480 B.C.: its foundations lie in the foreground and were perhaps left exposed as a memorial to the Persian attack. The Caryatid porch, with statues of girls supporting the roof, overlaps these foundations; the porch itself is accessible only from within the building. The Erechtheum was built just after the Parthenon, and completed in the last years of the Peloponnesian War. It is the most sophisticated application of the Ionic order to any Classical building and elements of it - the Caryatid porch and the columns of the north porch - were often copied in antiquity and in nineteenth-century Europe.
The Nazi propaganda picture shows soldiers of the German Wehrmacht on the Acropolis of Athens after the conquest of the city. The photo was taken in April 1941. On the right are the British liberators of Greece at the same site three years later as Sergeant R Gregory and Driver A Hardman admire the Caryatids during a tour of the Acropolis in Athens in October 1944.
In the Odyssey (viii, 80 and 81) the Goddess " Athene came to Marathon and entered the stoutly- built house of Erechtheus." This building " Where first Athene brought to light The shoot of the grey olive A heavenly crown And ornament to brilliant Athens," has undergone a good deal of restoration. The work has doubtlessly preserved from ruin the famous North Porch which has served as a model for so many doorways. The Porch of the "Caryatides is more beautiful than photographs might lead us to expect, and we recall the pretty modern saying that " These maidens in their mournful dignity are thinking of their sister in distant London."
|The occupying Germans in front of the Erechtheum and my Dad decades later|
Then-and-now of my first visit to the site and a later visit by my parents
According to legend, here on Cape Sounion was the spot where Aegeus, king of Athens, leapt to his death off the cliff, thus giving his name to the Aegean Sea. The story goes that Aegeus, anxiously looking out from Sounion, despaired when he saw a black sail on his son Theseus's ship, returning from Crete. This led him to believe that his son had been killed in his contest with the dreaded Minotaur, a monster that was half man and half bull. The Minotaur was confined by its owner, King Minos of Crete, in a specially designed labyrinth. Every year, the Athenians were forced to send seven men and seven women to Minos as tribute. These youths were placed in the labyrinth to be devoured by the Minotaur. Theseus had volunteered to go with the third tribute and attempt to slay the beast. He had agreed with his father that if he survived the contest, he would hoist a white sail. In fact, Theseus had overcome and slain the Minotaur, but tragically had simply forgotten about the white sail. The earliest literary reference to Sounion is in Homer's poem the Odyssey, probably composed in the 8th century BCE. This recounts the mythical tribulations suffered by Greek hero Odysseus in a gruelling 10-year sea-voyage to return to his native island, Ithaca, in the Ionian sea, from the sack of Troy. This ordeal was supposedly inflicted upon him by Poseidon, to whom the temple at Sounion was dedicated. We are told that, as the various Greek commanders sailed back from Troy, the helmsman of the ship of King Menelaus of Sparta died at his post while rounding "holy Sounion, cape of Athens". Menelaus landed at Sounion to give his companion full funeral honours (i.e., cremation on a funeral pyre on the beach). The Greek ships were then caught by a storm off Cape Malea and scattered in all directions.
Menelaus and I were on our way home from Troy, on good terms with one another. When we got to Sunium, which is the point of Athens, Apollo with his painless shafts killed Phrontis the steersman of Menelaus' ship (and never man knew better how to handle a vessel in rough weather) so that he died then and there with the helm in his hand, and Menelaus, though very anxious to press forward, had to wait in order to bury his comrade and give him his due funeral rites. Presently, when he too could put to sea again, and had sailed on as far as the Malean heads, Jove counselled evil against him and made it it blow hard till the waves ran mountains high. Here he divided his fleet and took the one half towards Crete where the Cydonians dwell round about the waters of the river Iardanus. There is a high headland hereabouts stretching out into the sea from a place called Gortyn, and all along this part of the coast as far as Phaestus the sea runs high when there is a south wind blowing, but arter Phaestus the coast is more protected, for a small headland can make a great shelter. Here this part of the fleet was driven on to the rocks and wrecked; but the crews just managed to save themselves. As for the other five ships, they were taken by winds and seas to Egypt, where Menelaus gathered much gold and substance among people of an alien speech. Meanwhile Aegisthus here at home plotted his evil deed. For seven years after he had killed Agamemnon he ruled in Mycene, and the people were obedient under him, but in the eighth year Orestes came back from Athens to be his bane, and killed the murderer of his father. Then he celebrated the funeral rites of his mother and of false Aegisthus by a banquet to the people of Argos, and on that very day Menelaus came home, with as much treasure as his ships could carry.
The first version of the temple was built in the archaic period but it was destroyed by the Persians in 480 B.C, in the second Greco-Persian War. Pericles, the famous Athenian leader, rebuilt the temple of Poseidon probably around 440 B.C. but only some columns of it stand till today. A 5m tall statue of Poseidon used to stand inside the temple, but today only a part of it survives and it is displayed in the Archaeological Museum of Athens. The frieze of the temple was made of marble from Paros island and it depicted the legends of Theseus. On one column, you can see the word "Byron" on it, engraved by the famous poet Lord Byron during a visit in 1810.
The Corinth Canal under construction, during the war, and me today. Periander had envisioned the canal but, lacking the technology, settled for the marble tramway. At the time, it was also thought that Poseidon, god of the sea, opposed joining the Aegean and the Adriatic. Others dreamed of constructing the canal, including Julius Caesar, because it saved 200 miles of sailing around the Peloponnesus, but it was Nero who actually attempted it in 66 CE. Included in his workforce were 6,000 young Jewish slaves recently captured by Vespasian in Galilee, where the Jewish war had begun. His attempt was soon abandoned based on the belief that if the seas were connected, the more northerly Adriatic, mistakenly thought to be higher, would flood the more southern Aegean. Eventually work recommenced in 1881 where Nero's crew had stopped, completing the canal in 1893.
The Bema (Judgement seat) at Corinth, where Paul was claimed to have been brought before Lucius Junius Gallio Annaeanus, (Acts xviii.14), although the idea of an obscure wandering rabbi called Paul being given an hearing from the Roman consul of all Greece, a Roman senator and brother of Seneca is frankly ludicrous.
The temple of Apollo in Corinth. The city site is in the foreground, dominated by the remains of the sixth-century B.C. Temple of Apollo, one of the few survivors of the town's destruction by the Romans. Our only evidence that this is dedicated to Apollo is the brief reference in Pausanias's Description of Greece [2.iii.6]: As you go along another road from the market-place, which leads to Sicyon, you can see on the right of the road a temple and bronze image of Apollo, and a little farther on a well called the Well of Glauce. Into this they say she threw herself in the belief that the water would be a cure for the drugs of Medea. Above this well has been built what is called the Odeum (Music Hall), beside which is the tomb of Medea's children. Their names were Mermerus and Pheres, and they are said to have been stoned to death by the Corinthians owing to the gifts which legend says they brought to Glauce.In the distance to the south rises the citadel, Acrocorinth, linked by long walls to the city in the fourth century BCE. It is the most impressive of the acropoleis of mainland Greece:
The Acrocorinthus, a lofty mountain, growing up from the midst of Greece, when it is garrisoned, . . . renders its master supreme ... so that the younger Philip, not in joke but truly, called the citadel of the Corinthians 'the Chains of Greece.' . . . Now the place had always been an object of contention to princes and potentates; and the eagerness of Antigonus for it fell short in no respect of the maddest of passions.Plutarch tells how Antigonus obtained the fortress by fraud, and prefaces his account of the recapture by reflections concerning the glory of the deed of Aratus as having been done in behalf of all Greece against a Macedonian foe, whereas the exploits of Pelopidas and Thrasybulus to which he compares it were done against Greeks on behalf of other Greeks.
At the Temple of Zeus. Pindar speaks of "deep-soiled Nemea", but the character of the country has indeed changed with soil having been washed away by the storms of the ages. There is scarcely a human habitation to be seen. Here and there a patch of green offers scant pasture to a herd of goats. The Nemean Games took place at a spot some twelve miles to the west of this temple.
It was here that Heracles was required to bring the skin of this beast to Eurystheus; at Nemea he cut himself a club with which he killed the monster. This is the early tradition of the story; later authors (of whom Theocritus gives the fullest account in his twenty-fifth idyll)made the lion invulnerable, so that Heracles was obliged to strangle it with his hands after clubbing it, and then to flay it by using its claws to cut the invulnerable hide. At any rate, the club and lion's skin henceforth were Heracles' weapon and clothing par excellence; in art as in literature, they are invariably associated with him.
The Lion Gate At Mycenae. This monumental gateway to the citadel at Mycenae was built in the mid thirteenth century B.C. and was never lost to view. It, and the massive walls, thought by classical Greeks to have been built by giants, were a reminder to them of the achievements of their Age of Heroes, the period about which Homer sang.Herakles, after the Nemean lion had bitten off one of his fingers had only nine and that there exists a tomb erected for this detached finger.Ptolemy Hephaestion, New History Book 2"Not in Nemea or ancient Argos shall I [Herakles the god] more often dwellStatius, Silvae 3. 1. 1
When Solon had provoked him by saying that the affairs of Tellus were so fortunate, Croesus asked who he thought was next, fully expecting to win second prize. Solon answered, “Cleobis and Biton. They were of Argive stock, had enough to live on, and on top of this had great bodily strength. Both had won prizes in the athletic contests, and this story is told about them: there was a festival of Hera in Argos, and their mother absolutely had to be conveyed to the temple by a team of oxen. But their oxen had not come back from the fields in time, so the youths took the yoke upon their own shoulders under constraint of time. They drew the wagon, with their mother riding atop it, travelling five miles until they arrived at the temple. When they had done this and had been seen by the entire gathering, their lives came to an excellent end, and in their case the god made clear that for human beings it is a better thing to die than to live. The Argive men stood around the youths and congratulated them on their strength; the Argive women congratulated their mother for having borne such children. She was overjoyed at the feat and at the praise, so she stood before the image and prayed that the goddess might grant the best thing for man to her children Cleobis and Biton, who had given great honour to the goddess. After this prayer they sacrificed and feasted. The youths then lay down in the temple and went to sleep and never rose again; death held them there. The Argives made and dedicated at Delphi statues of them as being the best of men.The Heraeum was the scene of the well known tale of the philosopher Pythagoras and the shield of Euphorbus. Menelaus,after his return from Troy, dedicated in this temple the captured shield of Euphorbus, whom he had killed. In later years, Pythagoras entered the temple and selected this shield at once from the many votive shields hung on the walls. It proved to have the name of Euphorbus upon it. Now Pythagoras in teaching the doctrine of metempsychosis had always claimed to be a reincarnation of Euphorbus, and he announced that he had established the claim by his success in picking out the right shield.
The tumulus or burial mound at Marathon of the 192 Athenian dead, also called the "Soros," which was erected near the battlefield, in 1937 and with me in front.
The theatre at Delphi showing the foundations and restored columns and looking south-east over the lower sanctuary terrace (Marmaria), with a Temple of Athena, and to the pass leading east to Boeotia. The other approach led up from the Gulf of Corinth, at Itea, from the south west. The dramatic sanctuary site is built on a steep slope beneath the gleaming cliffs (Phaedriades) on the flanks of Mount Parnassus. At the left is the gully with the sacred spring of Castalia.Under the slope of Dirphys we fell. This mound in our honourHard by Euripus stands, raised by our countrymen here.Just was the tribute. We lost the early prime of our manhood,We who holding our ground, met the rude cloud of the war."Simonides, 89 Bergk.
The Temple Of Apollo Its ruins date from the 4th century BCE, and are of a peripteral Doric building. It was erected on the remains of an earlier temple, dated to the 6th century BC which itself was erected on the site of a 7th-century BCE construction attributed to the architects Trophonios and Agamedes. The 6th-century BCE temple was named the "Temple of Alcmonidae" in tribute to the Athenian family who funded its reconstruction following a fire, which had destroyed the original structure. The new building was a Doric hexastyle temple of 6 by 15 columns. This temple was destroyed in 375 BCE by an earthquake. The pediment sculptures are a tribute to Praxias and Androsthenes of Athens. Of a similar proportion to the second temple it retained the 6 by 15 column pattern around the stylobate. Inside was the adyton, the centre of the Delphic oracle and seat of Pythia. The temple had the statement "Know thyself", one of the Delphic maxims, carved into it (and some modern Greek writers say the rest were carved into it), and the maxims were attributed to Apollo and given through the oracle and/or the Seven Sages of Greece ("know thyself" perhaps also being attributed to other famous philosophers). The temple survived until 390 CE, when the Roman emperor Theodosius I silenced the oracle by destroying the temple and most of the statues and works of art in the name of Christianity. The site was completely destroyed by Christian fanatics in a savage attempt to remove all traces of Paganism
At the theatre, shown beside a 1923 photograph taken by Dorothy Burr Thompson, built further up the hill from the Temple of Apollo giving spectators a view of the entire sanctuary and the valley below. It was originally built in the 4th century BC but was remodelled on several occasions since. Its 35 rows can seat 5,000 spectators.
[R]egarding the Arcadians as very much their inferiors, they sent to consult the oracle about conquering the whole of Arcadia. The Pythoness thus answered them:The Temple of Athena Alea burned in 394 BCE and was magnificently rebuilt, to designs by Scopas of Paros, with reliefs of the Calydonian boar hunt in the main pediment. The city retained civic life under the Roman Empire; Tegea survived being sacked by the Goths in 395–396 and flourished under Byzantine and Frankish rule. Pausanias visited the city in the 2nd century CE. The "tombs" he saw there were shrines to the chthonic founding daemones: "There are also tombs of Tegeates, the son of Lycaon, and of Maira (or Maera), his wife." They say Maira was a daughter of Atlas, and Homer makes mention of her in the passage where Odysseus tells to Alkinous his journey to Hades, and of those whose ghosts he beheld there."
Cravest thou Arcady? Bold is thy craving. I shall not content it.When the Lacedaemonians received this reply, leaving the rest of Arcadia untouched, they marched against the Tegeans, carrying with them fetters, so confident had this oracle (which was, in truth, but of base metal) made them that they would enslave the Tegeans. The battle, however, went against them, and many fell into the enemy's hands. Then these persons, wearing the fetters which they had themselves brought, and fastened together in a string, measured the Tegean plain as they executed their labours. The fetters in which they worked were still, in my day, preserved at Tegea where they hung round the walls of the temple of Minerva Alea.
Many the men that in Arcady dwell, whose food is the acorn-
They will never allow thee. It is not I that am niggard.
I will give thee to dance in Tegea, with noisy foot-fall,
And with the measuring line mete out the glorious champaign.
Nafplio, an important seaport held under a succession of royal houses in the Middle Ages as part of the lordship of Argos and Nauplia, held initially by the de la Roche following the Fourth Crusade before coming under the Republic of Venice and, lastly, the Ottoman Empire. The town was the capital of the First Hellenic Republic and of the Kingdom of Greece, from the start of the Greek Revolution in 1821 until 1834. Nafplio is now the capital of the regional unit of Argolis.
My father sprinting from the ancient starting blocks
The temple of Zeus was the largest temple in the sanctuary of Zeus at Olympia, where the Olympic Games were held. The sculptures in the pediments show racing and wrestling, but in mythological contexts. Here the subject is a battle between Lapiths and Centaurs, mythical tribes of northern Greece, which took place at a wedding feast. The Centaurs, half horse half man, had been invited to the wedding but drank too much wine and attempted to abduct the Lapith women. In the fight which followed, Apollo stands calmly at the centre while Peirithoös, the Lapith king and bridegroom, leads the attack on the Centaurs. Lapith women watch anxiously from the corners of the pediment. The sculptures contrast with the much more peaceful scene shown in the pediment on the other end of the temple.
Standing in front of the Apollon of Olympia, part of the group of sculptures found in the west pediment of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia. Its original location also provides it with another name: the Apollon from the west pediment. It is one of the most important statues of the Severe style or early Classical style, dating from ca. 460 BCE. The statue is currently in the archaeological museum in Olympia. The sculptures of the west pediment depicted the battle of the Lapiths against the Centaurs, following the wedding feast of Peirithous and Hippodamia. The battle of the Lapiths - legendary inhabitants of Thessaly - against the Centaurs - wild forest inhabitants with a human upper half and the body of a horse - frequently acted as a mythological metaphor for the conflicts between the Greeks and the Barbarians. Most of the figures in this turbulent battle scene were discovered during the German excavations of 1875, led by the archaeologist Georg Treu. The juvenile Apollo stood in the centre of the pediment, directing his gaze toward the Lapiths. With his outstretched right arm, he seemed to order an end to the iniquity: the Centaurs had betrayed the Lapiths' hospitality, drunk to excess, and kidnapped their women. Nevertheless, his inclusion appears to be merely figurative; the combatants seem ignorant of his presence, with no other figure in the pediment referring, either in their motion or gesture, to the appearance of the god. The back of the sculpture, which had not been visible to viewers, is notable for being more roughly worked than the front. This difference has provided modern scholars with information on the methods used by Ancient Greek sculptors, and contributed to the debate regarding whether the later Hermes of Olympia is an original Greek sculpture, or a Roman copy.
Still the grandest complex of Doric temples outside Athens, Paestum had been a 6th century B.C. Greek colony, famed in antiquity for roses and violets.
American ambulances parking by the temples of Neptune and Ceres as U.S. infantrymen push past the centre of the American sector during the landings around Salerno Bay.On September 9, 1943, Paestum was the location of the landing beaches of the U.S. 36th Infantry Division during the Allied invasion of Italy. German forces resisted the landings from the outset, causing heavy fighting within and around the town. Combat persisted around the town for nine days before the Germans withdrew to the north. The Allied forces set up their Red Cross first aid tents in and around the temples since the Temples were "off limits" to bombing by both sides.
The first Temple of Hera, built around 600 BC by Greek colonists, is the oldest surviving temple in Paestum. Eighteenth-century archaeologists named it "The Basilica" because they mistakenly believed it to be a Roman building. A basilica in Roman times was a civil building, not a religious one. Inscriptions revealed that the goddess worshipped here was Hera. Later, an altar was unearthed in front of the temple, in the open-air site usual for a Greek altar; the faithful could attend rites and sacrifices without entering the cella.
On the highest point of the town, some way from the other temples, is the Temple of Athena. It was built around 500 BC, and was for some time incorrectly thought to have been dedicated to Ceres. The architecture is transitional, being partly in the Ionic style and partly early Doric.
On the sacred way between the Justice Gate and Golden Gate to the north which had been destroyed in 1828 the road was built through the excavations.
The so-called hypogean (underground) shrine found in 1954. Appearing as a small inaccessible underground room with a roof made of plain tiles and an altar on the steps at the front, inside was found eight bronze vases containing honey, a black-figure amphora depicting the apotheosis of Heracles, and five iron skewers on two stone blocks. The small monument located at the western end of the agora, was originally placed under a mound making it not visible. It was later bordered by a quadrangular enclosure in blocks and dated to 520-510 BCE to represent an heroon- a cenotaph in honour of the hero-founder of the city. It was assumed that it commemorated Is, the mythical founder of Sybaris, led to Paestum by sybaritic refugees. The assumption that it is an underground chapel for worship of the nymphs - a result of the discovery of a ceramic fragment with its graffiti - is now discredited.
Beside Greek houses- that on the left with its large area of tessellated pavement which has been preserved and that on that on the right which had a swimming pool forming part of the peristyle; the temple of Athena can be seen in the background.
Paestum is also renowned for its painted tombs, mainly belonging to the period of the Lucanian rule, while only one of them dates to the Greek period. It was found, on 3 June 1968, in a small necropolis some 1.5 km south of the ancient walls. The burial monument was named Tomb of the Diver after the enigmatic scene, depicted on the covering slab directly behind me, of a lonely young man diving into a stream of water. It was dated to about 470 BCE, the Golden Age of the Greek town. The tomb is painted with the true fresco technique and its importance lies in being "the only example of Greek painting with figured scenes dating from the Orientalising, Archaic, or Classical periods to survive in its entirety. Among the thousands of Greek tombs known from roughly 700–400 BCE, this is the only one to have been decorated with frescoes of human subjects." The symposium on the north wall. The remaining four walls of the tombs are occupied by symposium related scenes, an iconography far more familiar from the Greek pottery than the diving scene. All the five frescoes are visible in the local National Museum, together with the cycle of Lucanian painted tombs.
The National Archaeological Museum in Naples in 1895 and todayInside then and now; the exhibits in markedly third-class surroundings today. This marble statue of Athena Promachos ("Athena who fights in the front line") was found at the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum.
Other books in this series by the same author The Crusades Ancient Greece MIKE PAINE POCKET ESSENTIALS This edition published in 2007 by Pocket Essentials P.O.Box 394, Harpenden, Herts, AL5 1XJ www.pocketessentials.com Series Editor: Nick Rennison Index & Proofs: Richard Howard © Mike Paine 2002, 2007 The right of Mike Paine to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publishers. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 10: 1-84243-245-1 ISBN 13: 978-1-84243-245-7 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1 Typeset by Avocet Typeset, Chilton, Aylesbury, Bucks Printed and bound in Great Britain by J H Haynes & Co Ltd, Sparkford, Somerset Acknowledgements Thanks are due particularly to my editor, Nick Rennison, and my publisher, Ion Mills, for their support, particularly during the latter stages of the writing of this book. Contents Introduction: The Geography of Greece 11 1. Minoan and Mycenaean Greece 15 2. Archaic Greece 33 Religion, Myth and Ceremony; Politics and Identity 3. Classical Greece 53 The Persian Wars; Athens; Art, Literature and Thought in Classical Greece; Spar ta; The Peloponnesian War; The Late Classical Age; Alexander the Great •7• CONTENTS 4. The Hellenistic Age and Afterwards 121 The Early Hellenistic World; Ptolemaic Egypt; The Library at Alexandria; The Seven Wonders of the World; The Seleucid Kingdom; Macedonia; Rome and Greece Recommended Reading and Further Resources 143 Drama; History; Oratory; Poetry; Philosophy; Miscellaneous; Secondary Texts; Multimedia and Internet Index 155 •8• Introduction: The Geography of Greece •9• Introduction: The Geography of Greece Today the country of Greece consists of the mainly mountainous land that forms the end of the Balkan peninsula and the numerous islands that lie in the Aegean Sea to its east, the Ionian Sea to the west, and the Mediterranean Sea to the south. Roughly comparable in size to England its glories simi- larly lie in the past. Civilisation reached it first from the south, before radiating north- wards – and thus the great cultures and civil- isations that dominate its past follow roughly this same path north. It borders Albania, Bulgaria and Macedonia to the north – the latter representing part of the ancient Greek kingdom of Macedonia, an entity divided between Greece, Bulgaria and Serbia at the • 11 • ANCIENT GREECE end of the Balkan Wars (1912–13). From Macedonian Greece, the Balkan peninsula narrows, heading southeast, until we come across many of the famous classical settle- ments, from Thebes to Athens. To the south- west, connected to the mainland by a thin strip of land called the Isthmus of Corinth (named after the city at its southern end) is the Peloponnese, with Arcadia at its centre and Sparta to the south. Beyond this are the many islands, over 2,000 of them, that make up nearly 20% of the country. The Ionian Islands to the west include Ithaca, famed in antiquity as the home of Odysseus. In the southern Aegean are the Cyclades, some thirty islands, among them Delos and Naxos, whose prehistory saw a culture characterised today by mysterious sculptures of elegant, folded-arm nudes. Beyond them, towards the Turkish coast, are the Dodecanese whose largest isle, Rhodes, was famed for one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World – the Colossus. Further north along the Turkish • 12 • INTRODUCTION coast are Samos, Chios and Lesbos – the latter home to the most famous female poet of classical times, Sappho. At the very southern end of the Aegean lies the largest of the Greek islands, Crete, home to the first true Greek civilisation in the second millen- nium before the birth of Christ. Ancient Greece, however, extended further than this. First to be colonised at some point in prehistory was the western coast of Turkey. During the eighth century BC, colonies were founded along the southern Turkish coast and the Levant, and also in Sicily. The seventh and sixth centuries saw the time of greatest expansion. The Black Sea was ringed by Greek settlements; towns sprung up scattered across the Southern Italian littoral. Southern France, Corsica, Egypt, Libya, even Southern Spain close to the Straits of Gibraltar saw settlement by the Greeks. The history of Ancient Greece at it simplest breaks down into three periods. In • 13 • ANCIENT GREECE the first period, the story is of the great and mysterious civilisations that preceded Classical Greek society, the Minoans and the Mycenaeans. After their collapse and the subsequent Dark Age that followed comes the second period in which Greece follows a path that eventually leadITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 105 be thankful for what he was able to accomplish. Not only was much in- formation preserved in his many notes, now in the Vatican, but more was published in such scholarly works as Forma urbis Romae, an archaeo- logical map of the city at a 1:240 scale that recorded all past and recent finds, and in Storia degli scavi di Roma (History of Roman excavations), which documented earlier archaeological discoveries. Lanciani further encouraged scholarly publication by starting in 1872 the Bullettino della commissione archeologica comunale di Roma. From 1882 to 1927 he was professor of Roman topography at the University of Rome. Lanciani also did much to publicize the new Roman archaeological discoveries to a wider international audience. A dapper, urbane man, fluent in English and equally at home in Italian, British, and American society, he contributed regularly to British publications and wrote a number of popular books, such as Rome in the Light of Recent Discover- ies (1894) and The Ruins and Excavations of Ancient Rome (1897), that brought the latest discoveries to an English-speaking audience.61 His career in archaeological education and propaganda culminated with the 1911 International Exhibition, for which he organized the section on Roman art and archaeology. Another figure closely associated with the archaeology of the new Rome was Augusto Castellani (1829–1914).62 He came from a family of goldsmiths, collectors, and antiquities dealers. His father, Fortunato Pio (1794–1865), had pioneered in the production of gold jewelry in an antique style. His brother Alessandro (1823–83), whose political activi- ties had sent him into exile under the papal regime, had developed the family antiquities business, operating out of Paris and later Naples. In that endeavor he was a close associate of the omnipresent German Wolf- gang Helbig.63 Augusto operated in many antiquarian and archaeological circles in both the old and the new Rome.64 By 1870 he was already a collector; he had done some selling abroad and given a substantial body of material to the Capitoline Museum. He benefited personally from discoveries in the massive building projects in and around the city, creating his own large collection, which ultimately made its way into the new Villa Giulia museum. However, he was also active in the public arena of ar- chaeology in Rome. In 1873 he was appointed honorary director of the Capitoline Museum, where he worked hard to defend its prerogatives against the national government. Finally, he worked vigorously to provide 106 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR the Comune with its own archaeological institutions and services. He was a driving force behind the foundation of both the Commissione archeologica comunale (for which Lanciani served as secretary) and its official publication, the Bullettino. The late-nineteenth-century archaeological community in Rome was overwhelmed by this mass of new material. Most of the finds that were saved for the state went into inaccessible storage areas, where they remained hidden until recently. Public archaeological attention was fo- cused on the excavation of major monuments in areas like the Forum and the Palatine. The new secular Italian government was interested in using classical archaeology to counter the overwhelming Christian pres- ence in Rome. Much of the new excavation effort was concentrated in the Forum, where the clearing projects started under the papal govern- ment were massively expanded. By the 1870s Pietro Rosa was excavating around the Basilica Julia, while from 1878 to 1883 Lanciani was clearing the House of the Vestals. By the end of the century much of the heart of the Roman Forum had been cleared down to the late republican to early imperial levels. Linked with the excavations on the Palatine started by Napoleon III, these discoveries provided visitors to Rome with a sense of both the classical presence in the city and the energy of modern Ital- ian archaeology. Fortunately, the excavations during some of these key periods were directed by one of the pioneers of modern archaeological field technique. Giacomo Boni (1859–1925) was a Venetian with a background in resto- ration architecture. His persona was a complex blend of scientist and romantic shaped by the writings of William Morris and John Ruskin.65 A strong nationalist who later turned to fascism, Boni aroused contro- versy among his contemporaries, and he still arouses it today. For some he was a man ahead of his time who, because he was not trained in the classical academic tradition, could pursue field archaeology in new, creative ways. Others have seen him as a romantic who liked vegetation growing on ruins and a nationalist who helped lay the foundations for fascist archaeology.66 Boni arrived in Rome in 1888, and in 1898 he began work in the Forum. By that time much of the Forum had been cleared down to the early imperial levels. Boni’s excavations shifted to the earlier levels, where he distinguished himself as a sensitive observer of stratigraphy and a meticulous recorder who used the full range of contemporary NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 107 technologies, including photography, to preserve information on his dis- coveries.67 His excavations uncovered a series of prehistoric monuments that have become key to our understanding of early Rome. For the regal period of Rome his most important find was the Lapis Niger, a bound- ary marker of the mid-sixth century b.c. that inscribes the designation king. Boni also illuminated even earlier epochs, finding a cemetery in a patch of land adjoining the Temple of Antoninus and Faustinus that took Roman history back to the early first millennium b.c. and documented the simple settlement that was the community of Romulus. Boni’s ef- forts in the Forum culminated in his creation of a “didactic” museum where finds were displayed in context, accompanied by a full range of documentation.68 One important competing archaeological community in late- nineteenth-century Rome was that of the Christian archaeologists. Pope Pius IX had demonstrated an interest in early Christian archaeology well before 1870 and his break with the new secular state. While Christian archaeologists were often seen as tools of the Vatican and advocates for a Catholic view of the classical past, the community also included dis- tinguished archaeological scholars, and none was more respected than Giovanni Battista de Rossi, the epigrapher who worked with Mommsen on the Corpus inscriptionum latinarum and at the same time became the most serious catacomb archaeologist since Antonio Bosio and the Counter Reformation antiquarians of the early seventeenth century. De Rossi’s Roma sottoteranea (Subterranean Rome), which first appeared in 1864, became one of the classics of Christian archaeology, and in 1863 he founded the Bullettino di archeologia cristiana (Journal of Chris- tian archaeology). In his thirty years as the journal’s editor, de Rossi demonstrated his determination to raise a branch of archaeology often associated with ideological antiquarianism to the status of a serious discipline.69 We cannot leave the archaeological culture of late-nineteenth-century Rome without considering the world of the great salons. In a city divided by religious rivalries, national competitions, and social, political, and economic tensions, they served as neutral meeting grounds where gos- sip, information on the latest discoveries, and hints on hot antiquities were exchanged. Hosts ranged from the Anglo-American reporter and amateur archaeologist, photographer, and journalist William J. Stillman to the antiquities agent Wolfgang Helbig.70 One of the most prestigious 108 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR of those Roman cultural salons was sponsored by the most important female archaeologist of the era, Ersilia Caetani Lovatelli (1840–1925), the daughter of an enlightened noble Roman family that had encouraged her obvious talents and intellectual interests.71 Lovatelli was befriended by de Rossi, who involved her in his researches in early Christian archaeol- ogy. She was also a serious ancient historian and classical archaeologist who drew figures like Theodor Mommsen to her famous salons, which were major cultural gathering places.72 Another great salon of the epoch was that of Wolfgang Helbig. The controversial German archaeologist had married a Russian princess, who provided him with the income that allowed an elegant lifestyle. The couple acquired the beautiful suburban Villa Lante on the crest of the Gianicolo Hill overlooking the city. Frau Helbig had strong musical interests and drew in famous artists. Her husband, in spite of his con- nections with the antiquities dealers, retained the respect of the Ger- man classical community, and Mommsen, among others, was a regular at their soirees.73 It would be a mistake to look at the archaeology of Italy in the later nineteenth century only through the perspective of Rome. The forced unification of Italy did not end local traditions of historical and ar- chaeological research. Florence had long been the center for Etruscan research and had benefited from its brief status as capital of Italy in the 1860s. The Florence Archaeological Museum was inaugurated in 1881, created from the Medici and other collections in Florence.74 Other northern cities, such as Bologna, also developed important archaeologi- cal museums and became centers for archaeological research.75 However, the number of professors and professionals throughout Italy was small, and archaeology remained largely in the hands of local inspectors, who were doctors, priests, schoolmasters, and other educated amateurs. They possessed both great local pride and considerable knowledge of local history and archaeology. Many were consumed with parochial antiquar- ian controversies. Others had a broader perspective and a great sense of professionalism and made contributions on the national as well as local scene. Such a figure was Isidoro Falchi (1838–1914), a medical doctor in a small town in Tuscany, who identified the site of the Etruscan city of Vetulonia and carried out important excavations in its necropolis.76 Especially complicated were archaeological relations with the former territories of Bourbon South Italy and Sicily. The elites of those areas had NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 109 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] William Helbig (seated at left), archaeologist and antiquities consultant, with family and colleagues in Rome, 1884–85 (German Archaeological Institute, Rome) little love for the Piedmontese bureaucrats who came to dominate the new Roman government. The representatives of the national government regarded the south of Italy as feudal and backward, much in need of the rational bureaucracy they were attempting to provide. The proud aris- tocrats of the South, however, conscious of their long history, resented any state interference in activities on their vast estates. Their antiquar- ians already had a distinguished tradition of archaeological research in territories with deep Greek and Roman histories. The situation was complicated by the fact that in many areas the Bourbon power structure and even the laws related to antiquities remained in place.77 Ironically, it was a functionary from the north who became one of the great students of the south of Italy’s cultural heritage and one of the most important archaeologists of the early national period. Paolo Orsi (1859–1935) was born in Rovereto and learned archaeology from the epigrapher Federico Halbherr in Crete.78 He arrived in Syracuse in 1888 and spent the rest of his career in Sicily and South Italy. A tireless excavator, museum organizer, and publisher, Orsi devoted his life to archaeological scholarship. He fought hard against the looting of antiqui- ties in Sicily. However, limited resources and the demands of a vast, rich 110 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR territory forced him to work with the educated nobility of the region, the archaeological equivalents of the learned amateur astronomer in Giuseppe Lampedusa’s The Leopard. These relations were sometimes fruitful and sometimes tense, as Orsi found himself forced to make severe compromises to save a minimum of the archaeological record.79 The long, complex history of Sicily and Magna Graecia compelled Orsi to become more than just a classical archaeologist. Today he is best known for his discoveries in Sicilian prehistory, especially in the rich countryside around Syracuse. However, his work at early Greek colonial sites was of equal importance. Orsi had a competency as a field archaeologist that rivaled Boni’s, and his record of publication was much better. He preserved large quantities of archaeological material that now form the core of the collections of the great museum at Syracuse that bears his name. Italian classical archaeologists naturally wanted to extend their re- search outside the peninsula, for they saw themselves as the heirs of the Roman Empire. Like any nation with a great classical past and imperial ambitions, Italy was drawn into the wider Mediterranean. By the 1870s and 1880s major powers were expected to host foreign schools and foreign excavations. But in the immediate postunification period the Italian government had to move cautiously. Resources for archaeological research were few and internal demands great.80 Moreover, the Italians had to operate in the interstices of the power domains created by the French and the British in the Mediterranean. The key figure in advancing an Italian imperial archaeological vision was Federico Halbherr (1857–1930), a student of the learned Florentine linguist and epigrapher Domenico Comparetti. In 1884 Comparetti had dispatched him on an epigraphical expedition to Crete that led to the dis- covery of the famous Gortyn Law Code, one of the earliest extant Greek legal documents,81 and started a long Italian archaeological association with that island.82 Halbherr returned to the island a number of times, sometimes with the support of the Archaeological Institute of America, and in 1899 he established the first Italian archaeological mission on Crete.83 As elsewhere, the Italian involvement in Crete was not just archaeological. In 1899 Italy became one of the four powers adminis- tering Crete after the expulsion of the Ottomans, and the archaeologi- cal activities served to enhance the country’s position on the island.84 Halbherr also played a major role in the founding in 1909 of the Italian NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 111 School of Archaeology at Athens.85 He became a leading patron for the next generation of classical archaeologists, placing protégés like Luigi Pernier and Amadeo Maiuri in key positions in the emerging Italian archaeological empire. Halbherr’s activities were not limited to Greece, nor were they purely archaeological. Italy had economic and political imperialistic interests in different parts of the Mediterranean, and archaeology could serve as a cover for other types of ventures. Significantly, Halbherr did much of his work for the Foreign Ministry, and both archaeological and imperi- alistic agendas involved him in Cyrene and Tripolitania.86 These were the last North African territories still under the control of the weakening Ottoman Empire, and they were ripe for picking by an ambitious new imperial power like Italy. Halbherr was dispatched on a prospecting expedition, and Italian consuls in the area were alerted to the potential of Italian economic and political involvement. The Libyan scene was suddenly complicated by the arrival of an American archaeological expedition at Cyrene led by Richard Norton and sponsored by the Archaeological Institute of America. This was an innocent enterprise, the last effort of the AIA to launch an independent excavation. Halbherr, who had earlier enjoyed AIA patronage, saw the expedition as the forerunner of wider American imperialism. The situ- ation became further charged in 1911 when an American staff member, Herbert Fletcher De Cou, was murdered by local Arabs.87 While a variety of motives were advanced for the crime, Norton was convinced that the Italians were behind it. The murder was followed closely by the Italian invasion of North Africa. In the wake of that invasion Halbherr took steps to ensure that the Italian prohibition against foreign excavations on national soil was extended to the colonies. The Americans were not able to return to Cyrene until after World War II.88 The somewhat hapless American efforts to establish a major excava- tion in classical lands were an expression of one of the most important changes taking place in classical and especially Greek archaeology in the forty years leading up to World War I. This was the increasing association of archaeology with the excavation of major urban or religious centers. These excavations were generally sponsored by national governments and were long-term commitments that involved increasingly diverse staffs and large budgets. The emphasis was on the recovery of architectural re- mains, and the directors were often architectural archaeologists. Scientific 112 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR was the word increasingly applied to those enterprises, as greater care was taken to refine the techniques of both excavation and artifact study. Excavations became strongly hierarchical operations, in which the mav- ericks who had played so important a role in early archaeology had much less of a presence. These national excavations have remained the dominant field enterprise for classical archaeology down to the present. Their conservative operational structures have not always worked in the best interests of the discipline, especially as the intellectual, social, and economic worlds of archaeology have changed. While Ernst Curtius established the big dig paradigm in classical archaeology at Olympia, the Austrians also made major contributions in the decades before World War I. The Austro-Hungarian Empire was still an important power, and its capital, Vienna, remained one of the major intellectual and cultural centers of Europe. Classical art historical studies owed much to the fertile interaction between the classicists and the vibrant art community in fin-de-siècle Vienna,89 and it was natural that the Austrians would become involved in these large, well-organized Mediterranean excavations, which could enhance their cultural prestige and enrich their museum collections. The first name associated with this new Austrian archaeology was that of Alexander Conze (1831–1914),90 who came from Hanover and completed his classical archaeological education under Gerhard in Ber- lin. This was still the world of the Reisejahren (travel years), in which promising students received travel stipends to visit classical lands. In 1856–57 Conze traveled extensively in Greece and the Greek islands. He was especially attracted by the archaeological potential of the sanctuary site of Samothrace. The discovery by Charles Champoiseau in 1863 of the famous Winged Victory there (ultimately acquired by the Louvre) further focused attention on the island.91 Conze was appointed profes- sor of archaeology at Vienna in 1869 and along with the epigrapher Otto Hirschfeld founded the archaeological and epigraphical seminar at the university. He used his new position to launch further excavations at Samothrace, the first northern European excavations in the Mediterra- nean. From 1873 to 1875 he cleared and studied a number of the major Hellenistic architectural monuments at the site.92 The quality of his detailed studies and publications from that excavation, including the use of photographs to illustrate the text, was impressive by the standards of the time. The excavation was also an “export” dig: finds were divided NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 113 between the Ottomans and the Austrians, and important architectural and sculptural pieces found their way to the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna.93 And it was at Samothrace that the great German archaeo- logical architect Georg Niemann (1841–1912) got his start.94 Conze’s Austrian sojourn was relatively short; in 1877 he returned to Berlin and began his career as an archaeological administrator for the Reich.95 More important to the long-term development of Austrian classical archaeol- ogy was Otto Benndorf (1838–1907).96 Benndorf too had received his archaeological education in Germany, and before succeeding Conze at Vienna he had held a variety of posts in Germany, Zurich, and Prague. Unlike Conze, who returned relatively quickly to Germany, Benndorf spent the rest of his career in Vienna. He trained a cadre of young ar- chaeological professionals who staffed the Austrian museums and con- ducted research both in the Mediterranean and in various provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. His early archaeological activity focused on topographical survey and was centered in Asia Minor. At the same time, however, the Germans were making headlines with their produc- tive excavations at Pergamon, and the French were involved at Delos and Delphi. The Austrians felt that as a major power they too needed a highly visible excavation. Benndorf decided to take on Ephesus, one of the great cities of the early Greek, Hellenistic, and Roman worlds.97 The Temple of Diana at Ephesus, first constructed in the sixth century b.c., was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. (The Englishman Robert Wood had located the temple site in the 1860s and sent some of its sculptured columns back to the British Museum.)98 Saint Paul had also spent time in the city, an association bound to please potential patrons in Roman Catholic Austria. The work of Wood and other earlier explorers had demonstrated that the site would yield impressive architectural and epi- graphical remains. Carl Humann, the excavator of Pergamon, endorsed Benndorf ’s proposal to dig there, and in 1895 he started his excavation, an Austrian archaeological commitment to Ephesus that, with some interruptions, has continued to the present day.99 In the almost twenty years between Benndorf ’s first season and the outbreak of World War I, the Austrians uncovered many public build- ings in the center of Ephesus. The excavation emphasized the recovery of ground plans and enough architectural elements to allow architects like Georg Niemann and Wilhelm Wilberg (1839–1907) to produce plans 114 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR and reconstructions.100 As was to be the case with most of the great Asia Minor sites, most of the buildings discovered were Hellenistic and Ro- man, something of a disappointment to archaeologists living in an era still fixated on classical architecture. Benndorf stressed prompt, detailed publication. Preliminary reports appeared in the annual publication of the Austrian Archaeological Institute, an organization that Benndorf had founded in 1898, and in 1906 the first volume of Forschungen in Ephesus (Investigations in Ephesus), the final excavation reports, was published. The Austrians also benefited from a generous Ottoman export policy, fueled in part by the desire of the Ottomans to cultivate Austrian diplomatic support. A number of important finds from Ephesus came to grace the museums of Vienna.101 While Austrian scholars through excavations like Ephesus affirmed the Hellenic and Hellenistic in classical archaeology, two Viennese art historians reasserted the creative importance of Rome in the develop- ment of ancient art. In 1895 Franz Wickhoff (1853–1909), a student of Conze’s and a professor at the university, published with Wilhelm Ritter von Hartel Die Wiener Genesis. In the preface he highlighted the impor- tance of the Romans in developing such stylistic approaches to picto- rial art as illusionism and continuous narrative. In this claim Wickhoff and Hartel offered a challenge to Winckelmann, who had denied the creative contributions of Rome. Wickhoff ’s introduction was translated into English by the British architect Eugenie Sellers Strong in 1900 and helped launch a limited, but still important, reappraisal of the worth of Roman art.102 Alois Riegl (1858–1905) came to Roman culture from the arts and crafts of late antiquity. He had a keen interest in the Arts and Crafts movement and was for a long time textile curator at the Osterreichischen Museum für angewandte Kunst (Austrian Imperial Museum for Ap- plied Art), Vienna’s equivalent of London’s Victoria and Albert Museum. His focus on folk art led him to seek underlying processes that shaped the art of the era. He advanced the concept of Kunstwollen (cultural identification), the notion that the artistic expressions of an age were closely interrelated with other cultural manifestations and combined to form its characteristic expression.103 The idea represented a major move away from nineteenth-century emphasis on artistic individuality toward a concentration on the Volk, a development that would have mixed consequences in the next generation. NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 115 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Austrian excavations at the early Christian basilica of Saint John at Ephesus, 1928 (Austrian Archaeological Institute) As important as the Austrian contribution was, pride of place in this new world of major excavations still lay with the Germans. The work at Olympia in 1875 started the process, but that dig was followed by other important projects that ensured German domination of field archaeol- ogy until the outbreak of war in 1914. First in importance after Olympia was Pergamon. The initial discoveries of Hellenistic sculptures from the Great Altar by the engineer Carl Humann and the export of the marbles to Berlin will be considered in the next chapter. But the German archaeo- logical involvement at Pergamon moved from the extraction and export of sculpture to the systematic exploration of the great Hellenistic urban complex, a focus that continues to the present day. Humann excavated there from 1878 to 1886 with the support of Alexander Conze and the assistance of the young architect Wilhelm Dörpfeld, who had learned his craft at the Olympia excavations. Much of the plan of that largely new Hellenistic city has been recovered, and a number of important architectural remains were unearthed and studied.104 The Pergamon project was also important for the promptness and de- tail of its publications. Its great monographs set the format and standard for successive generations of final archaeological reports. The first volume 116 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR of Die Altertümer von Pergamon (The antiquities of Pergamon) (1885) focused on the temple of Athena Polias and included high-quality helio- graphic photographs. It was followed in 1895 by the study of the Temple of the Divine Trajan and in 1896 by two volumes on the theater complex. The first volume of inscriptions appeared in 1890. The sculptures found there were not published until 1908. Emphasis in the early volumes was on detailed architectural description with little consideration of other types of material culture found in the same contexts. Such a separation suited the typological mentality of the period, where the architect was king and archaeologists would study the evolution of specific categories of objects rather than consider the intersection of evidence from differ- ent types of objects in a specific archaeological context. The other great urban excavation undertaken by the Germans was at Miletus. The excavations were started in 1899 under the direction of Theo- dor Wiegand. Wiegand (1864–1936) had studied at such major German universities as Munich and Berlin, and mastered classical architecture under Dörpfeld in Athens.105 He had married well and could work as a field archaeologist freed from many of the constraints of a university career. From 1899 to 1911 he was based in Turkey, excavating at Miletus and serving as director of the Royal Prussian Museum in Constantinople. Miletus was a city whose history stretched from the Minoan era, and it was of special interest to students of urban planning, for it had been the home of Hippodamos, the father of ancient Greek city planning. It was the creations of the Hellenistic and Roman era that dominated the architectural remains recovered by the German archaeologists, however. In 1899 Wiegand had helped negotiate an especially generous agreement with the Ottomans on the export of antiquities to Germany. As a result some of the most impressive of the finds, such as the Market Gate, made their way back to Berlin. Wiegand had also excavated at the small Greek city of Priene from 1895 to 1898.106 Located south of Ephesus, Priene had been founded as a planned city in the mid-fourth century b.c., and thus provided a pristine example of classic Greek urban design. Its public and private architecture mainly dated to the fourth to second centuries b.c., and its most famous architectural monument was the Temple of Athena, an important example of the later-fourth-century Ionic style. This was the monument that had attracted the attention of the Society of Dilettanti when they sponsored their Ionian mission from 1764 to 1765 headed by NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 117 Richard Chandler and including Nicholas Revett. The first volume of Antiquities of Ionia (1769) featured the temple and because of the in- formation it provided on the Ionic order and the interest of architects like Revett, it helped launch the Ionian craze in British neoclassical architecture.107 In 1868 the Dilettanti sent Richard Popplewell Pullan, a protégé of Charles Newton’s, back to the site to clear and study the remains of the Athena temple.108 Pullan was the first to apply a grid system so that he could record the location of finds at the site; he was also an early propo- nent of photography, whose importance he had learned from Newton. He recovered much information on the architecture and decoration of the temple, and with Newton’s assistance shipped considerable quantities of sculpture and architectural fragments back to the British Museum. Our knowledge of the rest of the site is mostly due to the excavations conducted by Wiegand.109 He unearthed large sections of the planned city and many intact houses. The information on Greek domestic archi- tecture was especially important, for until that time most of the infor- mation on Greek houses came from literary sources. The 1904 volume Priene by Wiegand and Hans Schrader was exceptional not only in the precision of its description but also in its early use of geology and geog- raphy and its efforts to set the site in its settlement context. The French naturally wanted to match the Germans in this new in- ternational archaeological competition, especially now that their school in Athens had become a more serious scholarly enterprise. They began to seek a major site whose finds would fit into the triad of major late- nineteenth-century archaeological interests: architecture, sculpture, and inscriptions. While the Germans and Austrians had turned increasingly to excavation in the Ottoman Empire, where more liberal export rules allowed them to enrich their museums, the French chose to remain in Greece, where their efforts would yield monuments of a purer classi- cism. In the end they focused on two famous Hellenic sanctuary sites: Delos and Delphi. Delos was famous in Greek myth as the birthplace of Apollo and Ar- temis, an association that had stimulated the growth of one of the most famous shrines in the Hellenic world. Delos was a small, barren island, lacking even an adequate water supply, but its ruins and their associa- tions had attracted antiquarians since the fifteenth century. The French decided that the potential finds would justify the logistical problems of 118 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR conducting archaeological excavations there. The island had been partly explored as early as 1864 by Léon Terrier, and in 1873 the French School in Athens started excavations under Albert Lebeque (1845–94).110 In 1876 Lebeque was replaced by Théophile Homolle (1848–1925). He was one of the new breed of more formally educated French archae- ologists, a product of the Ecole normale supérieure who had studied in both Rome and Athens,111 and during his career was associated with both the major French excavations in Greece. His early years at Delos had mixed archaeological results: quantities of inscriptions and architec- tural remains were recovered, but the quality of recording, especially of the architectural remains, was not up to the standards being set by the Germans and the Austrians. Significantly, the excavation did not have its own architect until 1880; it was not until 1902, when the distinguished epigrapher Maurice Holleaux (1861–1932) assumed the directorship of the excavations, that the techniques of excavating and recording became comparable to those long employed by the Germans.112 While the Delos site did provide many rewards for the archaeologists looking for Greek remains, some of the most interesting discoveries related to Roman history. In the later second century b.c., Delos had become a major Roman commercial center, containing one of the biggest slave markets in the Mediterranean. A symbol of Roman commercial im- perialism, it was assaulted and sacked by King Mithridates of Pontus in the early first century b.c. The French unearthed substantial evidence for this late republican commercial phase, and the architectural, sculptural, and epigraphical remains provided insight into the social and economic life of a Roman-Italic community during the late Roman republic.113 One small French excavation of this period deserves mention both for its association with two of the most important French archaeologists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century and for the informa- tion it provided on a type of artifact that would figure increasingly in the antiquities market and the forgery business. In 1880 Salomon Reinach (1858–1932) and Edmond Pottier (1855–1934), two young students from the Athens school, undertook excavations at the small eastern Greek city of Myrina, work that continued into 1882. Their focus was on the necropolis, and their major discovery was large numbers of small terra- cotta figurines. Dated mainly to the fourth and third centuries b.c., these charming works of the ancient choroplasts depicted figures from daily life and resembled figurines excavated at Tanagra in Boeotia that NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 119 had appeared on the Athenian antiquities market in the early 1870s. The Tanagra figures had mainly been clandestinely excavated, though official excavations were undertaken in 1874–79 by the Archaeological Society of Athens to provide objects for its Athens museum. The Tanagra figurines, with their representations of ordinary men and especially women as well as actors and divinities, had immediately attracted the attention of antiquarians and connoisseurs and sold handily on the antiquities market. Major museums like the Louvre, the British Museum, and the Staatliches Museum in Berlin as well as prominent private collectors all began purchasing Tanagras. The British Museum acquired most of its figurines through the services of another of Great Britain’s archaeologically oriented diplomats, C. L. W. Merlin, the Brit- ish consul at Piraeus.114 The figurines also appealed to artists attempting to reproduce with archaeological accuracy the world of classical antiquity. Jean-Léon Gérôme’s 1893 painting Atelier of Tanagra shows a shop in Tanagra with a young woman decorating the molded figurines. And their rela- tive abundance and relatively modest selling prices also made the figu- rines accessible to the growing Hellenophile middle class of Europe and America—so much so that the finds of genuine objects could not satisfy the market, and by 1876 forgeries as well as heavily restored pieces began to appear.115 Soon these flooded the market, often tricking the experts and regularly deceiving the gullible. Some were detected by the standard techniques of connoisseurship, but most could only definitively be identified as fakes after the advent of scientific dating techniques like thermoluminescence. Meanwhile, a secondary market for both originals and fakes grew up in Smyrna, drawing on Athenian sources but also on Asia Minor sites including Myrina, where Reinach and Pottier were excavating.116 The terra-cottas excavated at Myrina under relatively controlled conditions thus assumed special importance, and care was taken that the French obtain a significant share of the figures, which for the most part ulti- mately made their way to the Louvre.117 Of all the sites excavated by the French at this period, the most visible expression of French archaeological involvement in Greece has become Delphi. Although the French had undertaken preliminary explorations there in the early 1860s, the expulsion of King Otto by the Greeks in 1862, and the defeat of France in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870, had placed 120 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR plans for a more ambitious project on hold.118 In the 1880s the French government again expressed interest in the site, but now diplomatic and commercial factors came to the fore. Although France was the leading candidate for the excavation permit, Greece and France were caught up in an imbroglio related to trade policy, centering on the importation of Greek currants into France. The Greeks let it be known that they would welcome applications from archaeologists of other nations, encouraging the Americans, in particular, to apply. The possibility of working at such a famous site stirred up great enthusiasm in the emerging American archaeological community;119 funds for the excavations were raised, and diplomatic support was sought. But in the end the Greeks were more interested in cultivating France than the United States, and the French were granted the permit to excavate at Delphi. In 1891 Théophile Homolle of the French School in Athens negoti- ated a ten-year concession from the Greek government. Hence began one of the most important—if often criticized—excavations in the history of classical archaeology.120 The site from the start posed massive techni- cal problems. The modern village of Kastri had grown up over the ancient sanctuary, although a recent earthquake had damaged it and thus facili- tated the task of moving the community to a new location. Landslides had deeply buried much of ancient Delphi, requiring a major operation in earthmoving before the classical remains were even reached. The French had substantial financial support, however, which al- lowed them to undertake this complicated enterprise. The results of the excavations conducted from 1892 to 1903 justified the investment, for Delphi proved to be a classical site that had remained relatively un- changed in the Hellenistic and Roman periods.121 Major monuments of late Archaic and Classical architecture were recovered relatively intact. The good preservation of many buildings eventually allowed the partial reconstruction of the sacred way, which in antiquity had led to the great oracular shrine of Apollo. The most famous sculpture found was the early-fifth-century b.c. bronze charioteer, but other important examples of architectural sculpture were also unearthed. French epigraphers were rewarded by a mass of new inscriptions. Théophile Homolle had learned from the mistakes of Delos. He had from the start employed an engineer and an architect, who ensured the smooth functioning of the enterprise and the proper recording of structural remains. He made excellent use of photography. A museum NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 121 was built on the site similar to the German site museum at Olympia. Homolle’s interest focused on the inscriptions, however; and he proved ineffective at post-excavation analysis and publication. It was not until the 1920s that Charles Picard developed an effective program of analysis and publication of the Delphi finds.122 The late nineteenth century was also the period in which Americans embraced classical archaeology. By the 1870s the United States had recovered from the Civil War, and a new energy and prosperity made ambitious scholarly projects feasible. The classics had deep roots in American education, and even in the late nineteenth century Greek and Latin dominated the curricula in secondary schools and colleges. A substantial number of Americans had studied in Germany and learned to appreciate the new scholarship practiced there.123 While their scholarly interests were still mainly literary and historical, some Americans had learned the value of direct contact with the classical landscapes and monuments and the usefulness of material culture, especially inscrip- tions. Enthusiasm for ancient Greece replaced the interest in Rome in nineteenth-century America, and the first research enterprises were focused on Hellas.124 The central inspiration for this American engagement with classical archaeology and the man largely responsible for guiding Americans in the direction of Greece was the Boston Brahmin Charles Eliot Norton. Norton was a strong Hellenophile. Unlike many of his American con- temporaries, Norton had not studied in Germany, and he approached the study of art more in the manner of a John Ruskin than of a Teutonic academic. But he did appreciate the importance of the new institutions of classical learning that the Germans were developing. In 1874 Norton was appointed professor of fine arts at Harvard University. (Although he spent long periods in Europe and taught classical archaeology for decades at Harvard he never visited Greece.)125 His teaching was an odd mixture of Ruskinian aesthetics and laments on the state of the arts in the contemporary world. Nonetheless, his lectures became extremely popular, and through his teaching at America’s premier university Nor- ton inspired generations of students with his vision of the centrality of the Greek artistic experience. His protégés included art historians like Bernard Berenson and art collectors like E. P. Warren.126 Norton was also a vigorous organizer in the typical late-nineteenth- century manner. In 1879 he was the driving force behind the founding of 122 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Charles Eliot Norton, professor of fine arts at Harvard and a major founding figure in American classical archaeology, c. 1880 (photo courtesy of the Harvard University Archives) the Archaeological Institute of America, which developed from a Boston savant society into a national organization that combined elements of the European local antiquarian societies with the French Congrès ar- chéologique.127 Its base became a network of local societies composed of both academics and interested amateurs that were linked to the national organization by annual meetings and a program of traveling lecturers. The promotion of archaeological research, especially in the Mediter- ranean, was one of the key goals of this new organization. Practicing ar- chitects were among the strongest supporters of the AIA, so its emphasis was on Greek architecture. In 1881 the AIA dispatched an expedition to NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 123 the Greek urban site of Assos in western Turkey not far from Troy, led by two young disciples of Norton’s, Joseph Thacher Clarke and Francis Bacon.128 Assos was a small city that had flourished during the classical period, and it seemed to have relatively little in the way of Hellenistic or Roman overlays. The AIA hoped that excavations at such a relatively pristine Hellenic site would not only produce information on the forma- tive periods of Greek architecture but also provide antiquities for the new art museum being created in Boston. But the undertaking was rather naive, and the inexperienced staff achieved mixed results. The final publications were much delayed, and American museums received little material. Nonetheless, the expedition started the tradition of American excavation in the eastern Mediterranean. Soon after the creation of the AIA, Norton began work on the es- tablishment of an American teaching and research center in Athens, the third foreign research center in that city. The Greeks, especially the reformist minister Charilaos Trikoupis, looked favorably on these schools, for they helped cultivate philohellenic policies in Europe and America without any loss of Greek cultural heritage.129 The American School of Classical Studies at Athens (ASCSA), which opened in 1881, was a small, fragile organization with support derived largely from mem- ber colleges and a rotating faculty drawn from supporting institutions.130 Nonetheless, it provided a venue where American students and profes- sors could learn firsthand about Greece and its archaeology. The school slowly gathered strength from the patronage of the cultured elite of the Gilded Age, and by World War I it gave American archaeologists a strong presence in the Mediterranean. Excavations proved more of a problem for the Americans. The AIA undertook a variety of abortive operations culminating in the 1911 fiasco at Cyrene in which Herbert Fletcher De Cou was murdered. Gradually the ASCSA took over the excavation functions of its parent organization. Several projects were attempted, including a major dig at the Argive Heraeum under the direction of Charles Waldstein, an American of German Jewish origins who was on the faculty at Cambridge.131 Finally the ASCSA settled on the ancient city of Corinth as its major excava- tion site. Corinth had many attractions: it had a long history and had been one of the most famous cities of classical Greece. After the clas- sical city was destroyed by the Romans in 146 b.c., it had been rebuilt by Julius Caesar and had flourished under the empire. Like Ephesus it 124 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR had connections with Saint Paul, a positive association for the religious culture of late-nineteenth-century America. Only a small village survived at the site, so the Americans did not face the costly process of relocat- ing a major modern community or removing large quantities of material from later occupation. The excavations started in 1896 under the direction of Rufus Rich- ardson of Dartmouth College,132 and the first series of seasons contin- ued until 1916. It was not an expensive enterprise: costs from 1896 to 1916 were estimated at $35,000. Corinth has, with a few interruptions, remained an active American site to the present day, and the list of young archaeologists who got their start there reads like a who’s who of American classical archaeology in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. At the same time, the Corinth experience helped inculcate some rather conservative traditions among American fieldworkers that have left a mixed legacy. Like a number of other major classical sites excavated at that time, Corinth was a multiperiod urban center whose classical and preclassical remains were largely buried under Hellenistic and Roman rebuilding. In keeping with contemporary interests, the Americans focused on the pub- lic buildings, especially those in the Agora, where they found evidence of a blending of Greek and Roman architectural styles mainly dating to the period of the Roman Empire. Such architectural complexities were not totally appreciated by American archaeologists looking for a purer classicism. Although prehistoric remains were respected, less attention was paid to the late Roman and Byzantine periods at Corinth. Only since the 1990s has archaeological research at Corinth embraced the full complexity and richness of this major commercial and cultural center, whose history extended from the Neolithic to the late Byzantine period.133 If little mention has been made of Britain in this discussion of the emergence of the “big dig” in classical archaeology, it is because British classical archaeologists played a relatively small role. Although Britain was at that time at the height of its imperial glory, arguably the most powerful country in the world and a place where classics had a strong hold among the elite, classical studies were still focused on the philologi- cal examination of literary texts. David Hogarth (1862–1927), who later became an important Mediterranean archaeologist, noted that while at Oxford, he never went into the Ashmolean Museum.134 Indeed, if he had he would have found it a rather moribund place, NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 125 an expression of the neglect of archaeology at one of England’s two great university centers.135 The diverse Ashmole collection that had been pre- sented to Oxford in 1683 was neglected, and the archaeological holdings of the university were divided among a number of repositories. When Hogarth was at Oxford the keeper of the Ashmolean was John Henry Parker, a savant more interested in his archaeological photographs than in modernizing the museum. Hogarth largely missed the era of Arthur Evans, who was appointed keeper in 1884 and brought a new vitality to the Ashmolean operations.136 The ancient universities of Oxford and Cambridge were reluctant to introduce classical archaeology into their academic programs, and their dons, who emphasized undergraduate education, were on the whole highly suspicious of the German research universities.137 It is worth noting that the two most important British archaeologists who studied in Germany and Austria at that time were Eugenie Sellers Strong, a woman, and Duncan Mackenzie, a Scot from Edinburgh.138 The Disney Professorship of Archaeology at Cambridge had been established in 1852, and the first chair holder, the Reverend John Howard Marsden, had tried to slant it toward classical archaeology, remarking of Athens that “the scantiest gleanings of her soil are superior to that which con- stitutes the pride and boast of others.” But the classical association did not stick, and the Disney professors played little role in the development of classical archaeology at Cambridge.139 The Lawrence Professorship of Classical Archaeology at Cambridge was not established until 1930, and the Oxford Chair of the Archaeology of the Roman Empire did not come along until 1956. Classical scholars with a more international outlook, such as Richard Jebb and Charles Newton, pushed hard for the institutionalization of classical archaeology at the universities, but they met with stiff resis- tance.140 Slowly, examination topics in classical archaeology were ad- mitted at Oxford and Cambridge, but the archaeology faculty remained small and the support facilities limited. The problems of the classical archaeologists were compounded by the fact that the British government did not provide the support for educational and cultural institutions that was found in Germany and France, and private philanthropy was not well developed. In 1886 a British School was finally established in Athens, across the street from the American School. The first director was Francis Cranmer 126 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR Penrose (1817–1903), an aged architect whose aesthetic values harked back to the neoclassical architectural world of John Soane and C. R. Cockerell.141 Penrose’s tenure as director was short-lived, and he was not in a position to pursue much field archaeology at the British School. He was succeeded by the young Ernest Gardner (1862–1939), who managed to scrape together a few pounds to undertake excavations in the theater at Megalopolis.142 Late-nineteenth-century scholars were much inter- ested in the history of Greek theater architecture, and Americans and Germans as well as the British were engaged in theater archaeology.143 The Megalopolis excavation brought Gardner into controversy with the formidable Wilhelm Dörpfeld over the archaeological evidence for the development of the Greek theater. However, this was a minor affair compared with contemporary French and German efforts.144 The other face of classical archaeology in England was the study of Roman Britain. It seems appropriate at this point to leave the Mediter- ranean and consider briefly what was happening archaeologically at what had been one of the major western provinces of the Roman Empire. Like most fields of classical archaeology, Romano-British studies had their roots in the Renaissance, in the work of great antiquarian scholars like William Camden. A strong antiquarian tradition continued in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries with scholars such as William Horsley and William Stukeley.145 Antiquarianism was still strong in the nineteenth century. As in France antiquarian pursuits were centered in the local societies that combined archaeological with historical, natural historical, and even agricultural improvement goals. The period 1840–60 was a golden age for such organizations in England; some eighteen new societies were founded and their total membership reached more than fourteen thousand.146 By 1886 there were forty-nine county and local societies in Britain. Their regular meetings, which often involved a high level of alcohol-fueled sociability, helped break down the image of the antiquarian as an isolated, somewhat misanthropic character,147 but the movement did not lead to the foundation of local museums and lapidaria, as had been the case in France. It also did not initially involve a high level of interregional cooperation. The first Congress of Archaeological Societies in England, the equivalent of the French Congrès archéologique, did not take place until 1888.148 The spirit of the men who belonged to these local societies is captured in the obitu- ary of Robert Blair (1845–1923) of the Newcastle Society of Antiquaries: NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 127 “The outstanding feature of Mr. Blair’s career was the enthusiasm and energy he threw into his pursuit of antiquarian lore. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that no task was too onerous for him to undertake, no sacrifice of worldly advantage too great for him to make if the study of antiquaries were thereby assisted, or the prosperity of the Newcastle Society of Antiquaries enhanced.”149 England was changing rapidly in the nineteenth century. Towns were expanding, with taller buildings that had deeper foundations. In the countryside changes in agricultural technology and the construction of roads, railroads, and canals were tearing up the land and disturbing archaeological sites. Antiquities of all periods were being unearthed and destroyed. It was usually the amateurs who noted these discoveries, publishing an account in their local proceedings or leaving watercolors of a lost Roman villa mosaic in the archives of their county society. Long-term excavations in Roman Britain were relatively rare at the time, and given the excavation standards of the day this was probably a good thing. One exception was the program of digging at Silchester that went on from 1890 to 1909. Silchester was a Roman town site with relatively little later occupation. It was possible to clear nearly the entire site and reveal the plan of the Romano-British town and its construction in the manner of a Mediterranean urban excavation. The extended exca- vations, conducted mainly by W. H. St. John Hope (1854–1919), provided a comprehensive picture of a Roman town that was rare for the time, allowing generalization about Roman provincial life that had not been possible from more sporadic and limited operations.150 The excavators also did pioneering work in areas like the recovery and identification of faunal and floral remains.151 No city was expanding faster in nineteenth-century Britain than London, which had been the largest and richest city of both Roman and medieval Britain. The pace of archaeological destruction was ac- celerating, and no formal effort was made to record and recover the archaeological information. We owe much of what we know about Ro- man London before the advent of modern archaeological research to Charles Roach Smith (1807–90). Beginning in the 1830s, this patient Londoner, a pharmacist who was initially blackballed for admission to the Society of Antiquaries because he was in trade, explored construc- tion sites, noted finds, and collected artifacts for his private Museum of London Antiquities, anticipating the work of Rodolfo Lanciani in 128 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR post-1870 Rome.152 Smith helped found the British Archaeological As- sociation and fought doggedly—if generally futilely—with the London authorities to preserve more of the city’s historical heritage. He finally sold his collection to the British Museum, taking a reduced price on the provision that it be kept intact. While London was being transformed, and many of its archaeological remains destroyed, Hadrian’s Wall brooded in rural solitude, much as it had since the Roman legions left Britain in the fifth century a.d. Its remoteness in wild and often insecure country not far from the Scottish border had protected the wall from systematic destruction, and in the nineteenth century it remained one of the most impressive monuments of the Roman Empire. Because of that remoteness antiquarian interest developed slowly and sporadically; it was only in 1840 that the antiquar- ian John Hodgson demonstrated definitively that the wall was really the work of Hadrian and not of the later emperor Septimius Severus, as had been generally believed since the days of William Camden.153 Eleven years later, in 1851, J. Collingwood Bruce, a clergyman from Newcastle- on-Tyne, published his guide The Roman Wall, a work that remained the standard reference work on Hadrian’s Wall through many revised editions.154 Bruce also organized the first “pilgrimages,” hikes across the length of the wall that continue today, if in more sedentary form. The first took place in 1848, when revolution on the continent had prevented Bruce from taking the customary Italian tour and he turned to the wall instead.155 As accessibility to the wall improved so did archaeological research about it. Locals banded together to form excavation commit- tees, conduct digs at forts and mile castles, and publish the results in the Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmoreland Archaeological Society and other north of England periodicals. Among the “amateur” archaeologists who worked in Britain during the nineteenth century one man stands out: the retired British army general Augustus Henry Lane-Fox Pitt-Rivers (1827–1900).156 For much of his life Pitt-Rivers combined his military duties with interests in anthropology and prehistoric archaeology. In middle age he inherited an estate in southwest England called Cranborne Chase and became a country gentleman. At the same time he turned Cranborne Chase into a testing ground for improving archaeological fieldwork at both prehistoric and Roman sites. Pitt-Rivers set a standard of excavation and recording that was not well appreciated in his day. But his work was rediscovered NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 129 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The Roman commander’s bathhouse at Chesters on Hadrian’s Wall in the mid-nineteenth century (Museum of Antiquities of the University and Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle-upon-Tyne) in the interwar period and helped inspire archaeologists like Mortimer Wheeler to bring a new rigor to British fieldwork.157 The man who almost single-handedly began the process of bringing Romano-British studies into the historical and archaeological main- stream was Francis Haverfield (1860–1919).158 The Oxford-trained classi- cist was a disciple of Theodor Mommsen, who impressed on him the importance of epigraphy, but also stressed Roman provincial studies. Haverfield’s exposure to the more scientific archaeology of the Limes school made him appreciate the potential of archaeological material for studying an otherwise poorly documented part of the Roman world. At the same time he had a broad perspective on classical archaeology and knew the Mediterranean. He did pioneering work on Pompeii and on Greek urban development, the latter inspired by contemporary theoreti- cal work on urban planning. In 1891, when Haverfield began teaching ancient history at Oxford, his interests were already focused on Roman Britain. The time was ripe. In 1886 Mommsen’s Provinces of the Roman Empire had been published in English translation, giving the endorsement of the greatest living 130 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Francis Haverfield, professor of ancient history at Oxford and a major figure in early Roman British archaeology (Richard Hingley) Roman historian to the study of the remote regions of the empire. Britain was at the height of its imperial age, and parallels were constantly being made between Roman Britain and the frontiers and civilizing mission of Victorian Britain.159 Haverfield stressed the need for a new professionalism in the study of Roman Britain, but he realized that he could succeed in his syn- thetic studies only if he maintained close contacts with the local ama- teurs, addressing their societies and corresponding with them about their finds. He was not very interested in the details of fieldwork. The archaeologist Leonard Woolley, who worked for Haverfield at Corbridge, NATIONAL TRADITIONS BEFORE THE GREAT WAR 131 remembered that he looked in at the excavation only once a week and then only to see what had been found.160 But he was the patron and supporter of many archaeological projects throughout the country. He published extensively, especially in the Victoria County Histories series, that monumental project of the late nineteenth century that became the focus for summaries of Roman finds in particular areas of the country. Emphasis on the various national traditions in classical archaeology and the rivalries that developed before World War I should not obscure the growing international sense of community among scholars in fin- de-siècle Europe. Professional interdependence was fostered by col- laborative projects like the Corpus inscriptionum latinarum and by the increased international circulation of publications, photographs, casts, and other research and teaching materials. National and international meetings became more common. The French had long held their Con- grès archéologique, but these gatherings had focused on medieval and postmedieval antiquities. The first congress of archaeological societies was held in Britain in 1888. In 1899 the young Archaeological Institute of America organized a national meeting for classical archaeologists in New Haven, Connecticut. In 1905 the first International Congress of Classical Archaeology was held in Athens. More than 850 scholars and interested amateurs attended. The selection of Athens rather than Rome was an expression of the triumph of Hellas in classical archaeology. Appropriately, the inaugu- ral session was held in the Parthenon, with speeches by the prince of the Hellenes, the Greek minister of instruction, and the director general of antiquities as well as the directors of the five foreign schools in Athens. Sessions were devoted to prehistoric, classical, and Byzantine archaeol- ogy, as well as to excavations, museums, the conservation of monuments, and the teaching of archaeology at both the secondary and college level. Calls were made for the more systematic circulation of reproductions, both photographic and physical (casts and electrotypes). The 1905 International Congress in Athens marks a good stopping place for a study of the creation of a new world of classical archaeology in the forty years leading up to World War I. Much progress had been made in turning classical archaeology into a professional discipline suit- able for the serious intellectual goals of the late nineteenth century. The archaeological structures created then are still in many ways those that dominate classical archaeology today. 132 NATIONALTRADITIONSBEFORETHEGREATWAR This new professionalism had its drawbacks. The creation of the professionals was to lead inexorably to the marginalization of the ama- teurs who had done so much to develop the field from the Renaissance to the nineteenth century. The change came about gradually, as the survival of powerful amateur societies and honorary inspectors until well after World War II would demonstrate. But the foundation of the AIA, whose members listened to the lectures of the professionals and helped finance their work rather than dig, talk, and write themselves, anticipated that future. Another long-term concern was the loss of connection between clas- sical archaeology and the vital world of contemporary creative art. From the Renaissance to the early nineteenth century a complex dialogue had gone on between the artist and the archaeologist. Now this was largely over. It is significant that the shift of archaeological interest from Italy to Greece was not accompanied by similar shifts in the arts. No major art school was founded in later-nineteenth-century Athens, unlike what took place in Rome from the seventeenth through the nineteenth cen- turies. Even the art institutions in Rome became bastions of cultural conservatism, as the history of the arts, especially architecture, at the American Academy in Rome between the wars demonstrated.161 Clas- sical, especially Hellenic, cultural myths have done much to sustain classical archaeology down to the present day. But they had less and less to do with artistic creativity. As all the arts rebelled against academic traditions and constraints, their practitioners found too restrictive the long-standing cultural identity with Greece and Rome. CHAPTER 5 The Emergence of the Great Museums in Europe and America By the end of the eighteenth century many of the great classical art museums had come into exis- tence, and the foundations of a museum tradi- tion had been laid. Most of the major art muse- ums traced their real or spiritual origins to the collecting impulses of the Renaissance; the oldest were the Capitoline and the Vatican Museums in Rome, the products of papal patronage. These had been followed by numerous royal and noble collections, one of the newest of which had been the museum of the king of Sweden in Stockholm. With the start of the nineteenth century new types of museums began to be created. As he did in so many things, Napoleon led the way, with the founda- tion of his Napoleon Museum, in which he attempted to bring the art treasures of Europe together in one place, Paris, and to create a new, universal art museum designed to educate the public and glorify the new French empire. As we have seen, the most affected by this new policy of centralization were the papal galleries of Rome, which had to yield up some of their greatest treasures. The Napoleon Museum was short-lived, however, and with Napoleon’s defeat his international museum was dissolved and most of the works of art returned to their home museums. Ironically, Antonio Canova, a key figure in the transfer of the works home, had been one of Napoleon’s favorite artists; but now he represented the pope and cultivated the friendship of the British as he pushed for the return of the art to Rome. Until the early years of the nineteenth century, museums added to their collections mainly by purchasing works from established collections or by obtaining pieces recently excavated in Italy. Almost all these works were Roman, mainly presumed copies of Greek originals. Now two major acquisitions of classical art by European museums, the Aegina marbles 133 134 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS acquired by the Munich Glyptothek and the Elgin marbles purchased for the British Museum, opened up the world of genuine Greek art, highlighted the emergence of new stars in the museum world, and called attention to the potential of excavation in the eastern Mediterranean for providing new treasures of Greek art. Although neither of these acquisi- tions was the result of the looting of conquered territory in the manner of Napoleon, they both reflected the growing, indirect power exercised by the Europeans over the decaying Ottoman Empire. The history of the acquisition, treatment, and “afterlife” of the two sets of marbles says a great deal about collecting, museums, and archaeological ideology in the early nineteenth century. The Aegina marbles had decorated the pediments of the Temple of Athena Aphaia on the small island of Aegina not far from Athens. The history of their discovery, export, sale, restoration, and display is extremely complex. In 1811 an international party of young antiquarians, including the Englishmen C. R. Cockerell and John Foster and the Ger- mans Carl Haller von Hallerstein and Jacob Linckh, went to the island to study the remains of a temple that was then identified with the cult of Zeus Panhellenius. They soon turned from architectural observations and sketching to excavation and unearthed a substantial collection of original, if fragmentary, Greek sculptures. Export of the sculptures to Athens and then to Zakinthos and Malta proved surprisingly easy, but the ultimate disposition of the pieces was not. French, German, and British antiquities collectors all wanted to bid on them. In the end King Ludwig of Bavaria’s agent, the German painter and antiquarian Johann Martin von Wagner (1777–1858), purchased the sculptures for the Munich col- lection of that ambitious neoclassical monarch. They were shipped to Rome for restoration under the direction of Bertel Thorvaldsen and by 1828 were on display in the Munich Glyptothek.1 The history of the restoration of the Aegina marbles has raised its own controversies. In the era when they were excavated it was standard practice to restore damaged ancient sculptures. In Thorvaldsen, Ludwig had selected the leading neoclassical sculptor of his day. But tastes and practices were changing, and the Aegina marbles were one of the last examples of major archaeological materials that were subjected to such radical restoration. To modern tastes the restorations appear artificial, due in part to the fact that Thorvaldsen and his fellow artists and anti- quarians had only a limited sense of the stylistic development of early EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 135 Greek sculpture.2 The restorations remained in place until the 1970s, when the decision was made to remove them. This was partly due to changes in taste that now favored battered, incomplete originals over sleek neoclassical restorations, but it was also due to the association with Nazi archaeological ideology that the Munich museum and its exhibits had acquired during the 1930s.3 Even so, the removal of the restorations raised its own objections among art historians, who stressed that such work, especially by so famous an artist as Thorvaldsen, is part of the cultural history of the object and should be respected. The export of the Aegina marbles from Greece did not produce any- thing like the controversy associated with removal of the Elgin marbles, even though Aegina was for a short time to be the capital of Greece and was the site of Greece’s first archaeological museum. In part this is be- cause Bavaria was never an imperial power on the scale of Britain, and the episode did not carry the same historical burden as the Elgin remov- als. In addition, the Aegina marbles were earlier in date, came from a small island, and did not have the same associations with the golden age of Periclean Athens. Indeed, the initial aesthetic reaction to them was mixed, for, restorations aside, they represented a phase of development in Greek sculpture between the Archaic and the Classical periods that at the time was little understood or appreciated by connoisseurs raised in a tradition of Roman copies or who had seen the Elgin originals. The museum where the Aegina marbles ultimately found their home was the brainchild of Ludwig, whose love of classical art had been stimu- lated by the Grand Tour. One of the great collectors of Europe, Lud- wig commissioned his favorite architect, Leo von Klenze, to design a museum worthy of his collection.4 Both the museum and its holdings were shrines to neoclassical taste. The Munich Glyptothek was also the first public classical archaeology museum. The Aegina marbles were its centerpiece, but agents of Ludwig like Wagner and Friedrich Thiersch purchased widely on the international art market, and in 1841 Ludwig laid the foundations there of what became one of the great European vase collections by acquiring choice examples of Greek vases from Lu- cien Bonaparte, the prince of Canino, who owned the site of Etruscan Vulci and was actively mining it for artifacts.5 The story of the Elgin marbles has often been told, and it need not be repeated in detail here.6 Briefly, Thomas Bruce, Lord Elgin (1766–1841), used his position as British ambassador to Constantinople to first study 136 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS and then remove sculptures from the Parthenon. After various adventures, including the wreck of one of the transport vessels, the marbles made it safely to London. Elgin himself fell into French hands on his way home and was detained for three years. His plan to sell the marbles to the British government was delayed owing to both financial concerns and aesthetic debates, but the government finally purchased the pieces in 1816, when they became part of the collection of the British Museum. There they remain today, a continuing source of controversy between the British and the Greek government, which seeks their return. Some key issues are, however, worth emphasizing. First, the Elgin marbles did not undergo restoration in the manner of the Aegina sculptures. Elgin had wanted to have this done, but he was dissuaded by influential artists like Canova. The romantic worship of ruins and the cult of the genuine entered into this new attitude toward Greek sculpture. As a result of that restraint, artists, archaeologists, and the general public could now study a large and important body of classical Greek art in its original form. The process was begun by which the restored Roman copies would lose their primacy in the study of classical art. The acquisition of the Elgin marbles also changed the history of the relatively new British Museum, which had opened in 1759 as the first public museum in Europe with collections of “curiosities” willed to the nation by Sir Hans Sloane.7 In 1772 the British Museum made a major classical acquisition, Lord Hamilton’s first collection of Greek vases.8 In 1805 the so-called Townley marbles were purchased.9 These were a classic Grand Tour assemblage. Charles Townley (1737–1805) was an English Roman Catholic with Stuart sympathies who found it conve- nient to spend long stretches in Rome during the troubles between the Stuart royal claimants and the British monarchy. There, with the assis- tance of Gavin Hamilton, he assembled a large antiquities collection,10 later supplementing his Italian marbles with pieces acquired from older British collections. The Townley acquisition gave the British Museum a significant position in the world of traditional “Roman copy of Greek originals” collections. So important was the purchase considered that a special wing was designed to house it. The arrival of the Townley collec- tion also stimulated the British Museum to establish its own antiquities department.11 The acquisition of the massive Elgin collection in 1816 helped change the direction of museum archaeology not only in Britain but also in Eu- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 137 rope generally. Roman copies gradually lost favor and more emphasis was placed on the acquisition of Greek originals. Even the Townley collection was marginalized over time, largely disappearing from public view until a revived interest in the history of collecting led to its recent reinstallation in its own room in the museum.12 The Elgin marbles became part of the largest collection of original Greek sculpture assembled since the fall of the Roman Empire. Even before the Elgin marbles were put on display the British Museum had acquired the frieze and metope sculptures from the Temple of Apollo at Bassae. This beautifully preserved temple in remote Arcadia was the work of Ictinus, one of the architects of the Parthenon. The sculptures had been excavated by a party of young archaeological explorers led by Cockerell and Haller von Hallerstein (the explorers of Aegina), had made their way out of Greece through bribery and sleight of hand, and were in 1814 acquired for the British Museum.13 The Greek Wars of Independence and the foundation of the Greek state ended the large-scale exports of antiquities from the Greek main- land. Now the hunt switched to mainland Turkey, where rich Greek-period sites were abundant. The Ottoman government was only marginally interested in classical antiquities and was increasingly limited in its ability to defend its imperial interests and antiquities against the Euro- pean powers. The British were represented by effective ambassadors like Stratford Canning, men with classical educations and archaeological interests, who could combine diplomatic pressure with the support of the Royal Navy to bring home important collections of ancient marbles.14 No person was more important in advancing British collecting in the Ottoman Empire than Charles Newton (1816–94), who formed a key link between the romantics and the new scientific archaeologists.15 He had become a friend of John Ruskin at Oxford and later married the daughter of John Keats’s close companion John Severn. Newton joined the staff of the British Museum in 1840 with a good education in Greek and Latin philology but no training in archaeology. He learned on the job, mainly through cataloging the museum’s extensive coin collection. Then in 1846 a large new collection of Greek sculpture from Otto- man Turkey arrived at the British Museum. It was the gift of the British ambassador to the Sublime Port, Stratford Canning, who had extracted the marbles from the walls of the castle of the Knights of Saint John in Bodrum. They had once been part of the decoration of the tomb of the 138 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Edward Lear, The Temple of Apollo at Bassae, 1854–55 (photo © Fitzwilliam Museum, University of Cambridge) fourth-century b.c. satrap Mausolos and his wife. The sculptures on the tomb, which was designated one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, had been executed by some of the greatest artists of mid-fourth- century b.c. Greece. More marbles remained at Bodrum, and other sites in the area of- fered the possibility of major finds of Greek art. What was needed was an ambitious British agent with archaeological expertise in the area. In 1852 Newton left the British Museum to become British consul on the island of Mytilene, just off the coast of Turkey.16 His appointment had been supported by Canning and was clearly a cover for antiquities ex- ploration. Newton went to Bodrum, identified the mausoleum site, and recovered more sculptures from the walls of the castle, including the great portrait statues of Mausolos and his wife. He also worked at the Apollo shrine at Didyma near Miletus (where in the ruins of the sacred way he excavated statues of the priestesses known as the Branchidae) and at the island of Knidos, whence came the statue of Aphrodite now also in the British Museum. However, Newton was more than just an archaeological adventurer.17 While his major goal was the recovery of artifacts for export, and his methods were often crude, he was open to new research techniques and EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 139 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Joseph Edgar Boehm, Portrait bust of Charles Newton, keeper of Greek and Roman antiquities at the British Museum, 1863 (National Portrait Gallery, London) to the concept of scientific archaeology. At Halicarnassus he was one of the first to use photography for archaeological purposes.18 He was more open to the scholars of the continent than most of his British contem- poraries and kept abreast of the archaeological professionalism that was developing there. He visited the German excavations at Olympia during the first (1874–75) season, and praised the new scientific archaeology that they embodied. He was also an early advocate of the importance of Heinrich Schliemann’s discoveries at Troy. As a mature scholar he 140 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS concentrated on epigraphy, which he felt embodied a scientific rigor not always found in art historical analysis.19 He pushed hard for the formali- zation of the teaching of classical archaeology at Oxford and Cambridge. He provided important support for the foundation of such institutions as the cast museum at Cambridge and the British School in Athens. Newton was first of all a curator, serving in the position of Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum from 1861 to 1888. His aim was to make the British Museum’s classical collection one of the greatest in the world, and he was regularly able to obtain sizable grants from Parliament at a time when the British government was not overly generous toward cultural ventures. By the time he retired he had been granted impressive sums, totaling £100,000, that were used in part to assist the research of scholars like John Turtle Wood (1821–90), who from 1869 to 1874 excavated at the Temple of Diana at Ephesus (another of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World) and brought back sculp- tures to the British Museum.20 Newton also purchased in the antiquities market, availing himself of items from important collections like those of the Blacas and Castellani families.21 By the time Newton retired the British Museum had the largest and most representative collection of original Greek sculpture in the world. The fundamental changes in the understanding of ancient art that had started with the display of the Elgin marbles had now moved forward in a major way. Newton himself articulated that revolution in taste in a paper that he presented in 1849 to the Oxford Art Society, in which he stressed the centrality of the Parthenon marbles to this new under- standing, arguing that when students had mastered the aesthetics of the Elgin sculptures all ancient art would be placed in a new perspective. With increased knowledge of Greek originals from sites like Athens, Aegina, and Halicarnassus, the great Italian collections of Roman copies would have to be relegated to secondary status, for they could provide only a defective vision of the development of ancient sculpture. Al- though research by a new generation of German scholars like Adolf Furt- wängler was about to render this obituary for Roman copies premature, Newton did capture the long-term trajectory of the study of classical sculpture. Not all the new acquisitions at the British Museum fitted easily into Newton’s Athens-centered view of the evolution of Greek art. One major addition to the corpus of Greek works receiving new attention was the EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 141 large body of sculptural and architectural fragments from Lycia, espe- cially Xanthus, collected in the 1840s by Charles Fellows.22 The Fellows expedition was another instance in which an antiquarian adventurer employed British diplomatic pressure and the services of the Royal Navy to bring home large quantities of archaeological material from the Ot- toman Empire. Like the Halicarnassus sculptures, these were works that had been commissioned from Greek artisans by non-Greek elites in the Persian Empire. The Lycian sculptures raised interesting questions about the role of such “liminal” areas in the development of Greek civilization and in the canonical reconstruction of the evolution of Greek sculpture. They provided important insight into the interactions of Greek culture with in- digenous cultures in Asia Minor and further highlighted the importance of that region to the intersection of these cultures. Such interconnec- tions also interested continental scholars like Ludwig Ross and George Perrot, who saw in Asia Minor the ancient passageway between the civilizations of East and West.23 But at the same time this was a period when many European scholars were seeking to deny the Near Eastern roots of Greek civilization, arguing for Hellenic autochthony or even its Aryan connections with northern Europe. Those who embraced the theory we would call today orientalism portrayed the Near East as an exotic but corrupted world, one with Semitic associations, not fit to be associated with pure Hellenism.24 Their view would triumph, narrowing the cultural and historical perspectives on the study of Greek art well into the twentieth century. As the British Museum filled its rooms with incomparable collections of classical originals and still-valued Roman copies, finding display space became an urgent priority. The museum had been as much a home of natural history and anthropology as a temple of classical art, and the El- gin marbles had to compete with stuffed giraffes. The same imperialism that had enhanced the classical collections also expanded the zoological and ethnographic holdings, heightening the competition for space. In 1852 a new museum building, designed by the neoclassical ar- chitect Robert Smirke, was completed.25 Questions immediately arose over the organization of the classical displays and the priorities to be given to particular parts of the collections. The Elgin marbles naturally received their own dedicated space. Other important groups, such as the Xanthus marbles, did not. Disputes about the approach to the displays 142 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS also developed. Traditionalists wanted “aesthetic” displays in keeping with eighteenth-century classicism, presentations that would address eternal values present in the ancient works of art. Others were more contemporary in their thinking and argued for the historical and evolu- tionary approaches that were being taken in the German museums. The disjointed nature of the British Museum’s collections and the limits of its physical structure led to compromises that achieved neither goal.26 While the British Museum was expanding during the nineteenth century, acquiring the greatest collection of Greek art in the world, the Greek collection at the Louvre was languishing. In the aftermath of Waterloo most of the antiquities seized by Napoleon were returned to Italy, and the corridors of the once grand Napoleon Museum looked bare. In such circumstances a few sporadic acquisitions acquired greater significance than perhaps they deserved. In 1821 the Venus de Milo ar- rived, spirited out of Ottoman territory by French diplomatic and mili- tary personnel.27 In spite of its somewhat battered condition the statue was immediately proclaimed a masterpiece. Since classical sculpture was more highly valued than Hellenistic works, desperate efforts were made to place it in the fifth to fourth century b.c. Unfortunately for the purists, improved knowledge of the stylistic development of Greek art forced most experts to date the piece to the second century b.c., a period that had been since Winckelmann associated with Hellenic decadence. The same scenario was acted out in 1843, when the Louvre acquired large sections of an Amazon frieze from the temple of Artemis on the Magnesia in Thessaly. The reliefs were first praised as classical and then downgraded as their date was moved into the Hellenistic period.28 The most spectacular of these “export” pieces acquired by the Louvre during this period was the Winged Victory of Samothrace. It came to the museum because of the activities of another of the “archaeological” consuls in the Mediterranean, Charles Champoiseau (1830–1909), who in 1863 excavated the famous statue and exported it to France.29 A great debate immediately developed about both the restoration and the proper mode of display of the statue. Although the era had long passed when statues were extensively restored, some traditionalists wanted the Victory to be made whole. Fortunately their arguments were rejected. Questions of the proper display of the statue were less easy to resolve, since the rather clandestine circumstances of its excavation and export meant that little was known about its original setting. Excavations by Alexan- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 143 der Conze and the Austrians at Samothrace and a second expedition by Champoiseau in 1879 uncovered remains of the structure in which the statue had been set, including the fragment of the ship’s prow on which it had originally been placed. Its current placement on the stairway at the Louvre captures something of the drama of its original setting. In the meantime new problems had arisen for the museum at the Louvre, when a new art and archaeological museum opened in 1862. Conceived by the emperor Napoleon III to resurrect the museologi- cal legacy of his famous uncle,30 the Napoleon III Museum displayed archaeological materials from recent French expeditions in Phoenicia, Macedonia, and Asia Minor, as well as such other collections as the emperor saw fit to acquire and give to his new creation. The Napoleon III Museum had been conceived as a response to London’s Great Exhibition of 1851 and the establishment of the South Kensington Museum (later the Victoria and Albert). Both stressed the necessity of drawing upon arts and crafts traditions to improve product designs in the industrial age. The South Kensington Museum aimed at a broader audience than traditional museums did, and it displayed items like casts as well as original objects in its educational efforts. The Napoleon III Museum followed the British example and used many of the same devices. The emperor gave the museum a special boost when he decided to house there the Campana antiquities from Rome, recently purchased for the large sum of 4.8 million francs. The decision was a logical one, since the Campana collection had extensive holdings in ceramics and metalwork and would provide examples for contemporary craft producers. The Napoleon III Museum opened to large crowds and a generally favorable reception, but it turned out to be short-lived. The new mu- seum aroused the fears of the Louvre administrators and their powerful political supporters, and its administration was soon embroiled in court politics as well as salon politics. In the same year that the new museum opened the decree was promulgated that led to its dissolution. In the end most of the Campana collection was given to the Louvre, with less valuable pieces distributed among various provincial museums.31 The Louvre, like many other French cultural institutions, was forced to rethink its role in the aftermath of Sedan, when resources were more limited and comparisons with German museums became inevitable. The Germans spent twice what the French did on museums and saw their 144 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS museums’ role in a very different light. As one contemporary noted, for Parisians, “a museum is a palace designed to offer persons of taste from time to time an agreeable stroll in a setting of beautiful things” while for Germans, it was “above all a great establishment of learning.”32 Again the French savant was pitted against the German professional. Steps were taken to bring the Louvre into line with Teutonic ideas without losing its appealing French qualities. One of the favorite projects of the new conservator of antiquities, Félix Ravaisson-Mollient (1813– 1900), appointed in 1870 after the abdication of Napoleon III, was the cre- ation of a major cast collection, now the standard German scientific in- strument for the study of classical sculpture.33 Another result of the push toward museum professionalism was the establishment in 1882 of the Ecole du Louvre, whose aim was to train professional museum curators; the study of archaeology was central to the new institution. Part of the curriculum was a course offered by Alexandre Bertrand on “archéologie nationale” that demonstrated the importance of archaeology for uncover- ing the history of France in the period before extensive written records.34 The German museums that the French now sought to emulate were the products of the rise of the Prussian state and the creation of the consolidated Reich. Frederick II had laid the foundation for Berlin’s archaeological preeminence by acquiring several foreign collections, and these holdings continued to expand in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Wilhelm von Humboldt’s new university provided scholarly support for the growing collections, while Eduard Gerhard’s ar- rival in Berlin from Rome in 1834 helped make Berlin one of the centers for archaeological teaching and research. Both the prestige of being the Prussian capital and the pressures generated by the growing collections meant that the city needed a new museum complex, and Karl Friedrich Schinkel, the architect responsible for so many of the monuments of the new Berlin, received the commission. The so-called Altes Museum opened in 1830. It was one of the great neoclassical buildings of nineteenth-century Berlin, yet also one of the last expressions of the museum as a temple of the Muses. The center and focal point of the structure was a great circular hall modeled on the Pantheon in Rome. Here on two levels were displayed the major pieces of classical sculpture, framed between columns on the lower floor and placed in niches on the upper.35 The ultimate reference of the architec- ture is to the Belvedere courtyard and rotunda in the Vatican. EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 145 Next the king of Prussia in 1841 acquired what was later known as Museum Island in the middle of the Spey River. There in 1859 the Neues Museum opened; it housed more of the state’s increasing archaeology holdings, including major vase collections and the expanding cast collec- tion. But by the end of the nineteenth century even these facilities were becoming inadequate. Starting in 1876 Carl Humann began excavating a large collection of Hellenistic masterpieces at Pergamon, which he and the German government shipped back to Berlin. Other German excavations in Turkey also yielded prizes for the museum, such as the massive second-century a.d. Miletus market gate. The classical collec- tions were not the only ones that were expanding, and plans had to be made for yet another museum building. The museum director, Richard Schone (1840–1922), one of the most prestigious figures in the museum world, wanted to make his museums as popular as possible. By means of extended hours, museum tours, and accessible labeling and free admissions, he was able to increase attendance to 20,000 by 1902.36 Central to these ambitious development plans was the Pergamon Museum. The first Pergamon Museum structure opened on Museum Island in 1906. The centerpiece of its collection was the reconstructed Great Altar.37 After only six years the museum was razed to prepare the ground for a new, grander Pergamon Museum. World War I and the economic and political chaos that followed delayed the opening of that new museum until 1930; it was not completed until 1936. This museum housed the sculpture and architecture from the great excavations in Asia Minor, as well as the Near Eastern and other collections. But bit- ter disputes developed over the allocation of display space, especially as the powerful Theodor Wiegand pushed successfully for such expensive projects as the full-scale reconstruction of the Miletus gate—a tribute to architectural classicism that seemed somewhat anachronistic in the Weimar world of the Bauhaus.38 Ironically, this architectural nostalgia for Hellenism was to have one more dubious manifestation in the Hellenic- inspired architecture of the Third Reich. The new classical museum culture of the nineteenth century was al- most totally based on the export of classical antiquities from the Ottoman Empire. The Ottomans viewed these Western antiquities “raids” with mixed feelings. On one level classical representational art had little mean- ing for an Islamic society. At the same time the Ottoman administration 146 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS was trying to learn from the West and identify with Western values. An appreciation of Greek and Roman art came with changes in dress, the construction of railroads, and the purchase of steam warships. But there were also issues of status and pride, as the once mighty Ottoman Empire had to yield again and again to Western demands in both political and cultural matters. The loss of so many of its antiquities to Anglo-American imperial powers was bound to be galling.39 As early as 1846 Fethi Ahmet Pasa had begun gathering antiqui- ties from all over the empire. This collection in 1868 became the basis of the Ottoman Imperial Museum.40 In 1869 an Englishman, Edward Goold, was appointed the museum’s first director and commissioned to prepare its first catalogue. In 1872 Goold was replaced by Philip Anton Dethier (1803–81), a Frenchman who had received his archaeological education in Germany. But Heinrich Schliemann’s blatant export of the Troy treasure in 1873 aroused great anger in Istanbul.41 Even so, Dethier continued to preside over his archaeological empire with a staff made up entirely of foreigners. In 1880 a new archaeological museum opened in Istanbul to house new finds. A new era started with the appointment of Osman Hamdi (1842–1910) to the directorship of the museum.42 Hamdi was one of the new Turkish intellectuals who identified with Europe and the West. He had been educated abroad, spent time in Vienna and Paris, and had artistic as well as archaeological interests. Indeed his devotion to Western styles in painting (he had studied under the French artists Gérôme and Bou- langer) partly explained his interest in classical art. Hamdi’s mission for the museum was twofold. He wanted to pro- tect Ottoman antiquities and at the same time to be more proactive in archaeological research and museum development. When Hamdi began his appointment the antiquities law passed in 1874 in the wake of Schliemann’s export of the Troy treasure was already in effect; it allowed the division of antiquities between the excavator, the landowner, and the Ottoman government and had done little to stop the flow of antiquities into the museums of Western Europe and America. In 1884 he helped draft a much stiffer law, which did much to halt the large-scale export of antiquities. It remained in effect until 1972. Hamdi also began his own excavations to enlarge the museum col- lections at Istanbul. The most important of those were at the Sidon cemetery in modern Lebanon that yielded the so-called Alexander sar- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 147 cophagus: a coffin of a Hellenistic client-ruler decorated with scenes of Alexander the Great hunting. Its discovery and shipment to the Istanbul Museum served as a reminder that while Hamdi had developed his ar- chaeology program as a reaction to European archaeological imperialism, he himself was also an archaeological imperialist, gathering to the capital objects from diverse areas of what was still an extended, multicultural empire. The arrival of the Alexander sarcophagus also increased pressure for the construction of a new museum, which opened in 1891 and was expanded in 1902 and 1908, becoming one of the largest archaeological museum complexes in the world.43 Osman Hamdi’s successor as director of the Istanbul Museum was his brother Halil Edhem Eldem, who remained in the director’s post until his own death in 1931. Halil Edhem Eldem’s tenure coincided with a difficult period in Turkish history, one that very much affected archaeology and antiquities. The defeat of the Ottomans in World War I increased the pressure on the authorities to allow archaeologists of the Western powers to remove antiquities from Turkish soil, pressures that were on the whole successfully resisted. Meanwhile, Kemal Atatürk’s rise to power and the symbolic move of the capital from Istanbul to Ankara led to increased emphasis on the archaeology of the Anatolian heartland. Atatürk appreciated the role archaeology could play in shaping national identity, but he was more interested in the native Hittites and questions of Turkish origins than in the study of colonialist Greeks and Romans.44 Turkish archaeology, however, remained closely linked to Germany, and during the 1930s Atatürk recruited distinguished German archaeologists to his universities who were fleeing Hitler’s regime.45 As the countries of Western Europe and Asia Minor developed their museums during the nineteenth century, they relied on a number of sources for their collections. Major acquisitions like the Pergamon altar or the Miletus gate were impressive and captured headlines, but they did not represent the norm for museum collection development. Most museums built their collections on the old standbys of Roman copies, Greek vases, and the occasional original Greek sculpture that appeared in a dealer’s shop. The stiffened antiquities laws of Greece, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire limited the export of large sculptural and architec- tural complexes but did little to stem the flow of illegally excavated and exported statues and vases. The smuggled objects were complemented by works put on the market through the sale of established collections, 148 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS as well as by an increasing number of fakes and forgeries. All of these came together to create an antiquities market that recalled the days of the Grand Tour. One of the ironies of postunification Italy was that the country that worked so hard to restrict archaeological access to foreigners became once again the center of a network of dealers, collectors, and forgers who supplied the growing collections of museums and private owners in Europe and America. German scholarship, Anglo-American money and connoisseurship, and Italian craftsmanship all united in Rome. Two other factors helped center the world antiquities market on Rome. The expansion of the new city, especially into the villa properties, had led to the discovery of many art pieces. Some were impounded for the museum collections of the Comune and the state. But many found their way into the hands of dealers and hence into the antiquities market. In addition, the period between 1870 and World War I was one of great social and economic stress, and the nobility suffered along with the rest of Italy.46 Financial pressures forced many aristocrats to sell their collections, both antiquities and works of art. Some struck deals with the state. Others looked to the international antiquities market, think- ing that the rewards would be greater and that the powerful foreigners would be able to get the works exported from Italy. The market prospered on a complex network of suppliers, dealers, restorer-forgers, and “experts.” Central scholarly figures in this new antiquities commerce were Wolfgang Helbig, Paul Hartwig (1859–1919), and Friedrich Hauser (1859–1917). Wolfgang Helbig we have already met. He was one of the most complex and ambiguous, but also the most important, Roman archaeological figures of the period.47 In addition to his work as a private scholar and to the salon he hosted with his wife, Helbig was active as an adviser to collectors. His most important Ro- man connection was Baron Giovanni Barracco (1829–1914). Barracco came from Magna Graecia, and throughout his life he cultivated a seri- ous scholarly interest in ancient art, especially sculpture. He benefited both from the general art market and from the many finds of antiquities unearthed during the development of late-nineteenth-century Rome, creating one of the finest antiquities collections in the city, a collection that he gave to the Comune of Rome in 1902.48 In addition, he built a delightful neoclassical museum designed by Gaetano Koch for the collection on the corso Vittorio Emauele. The museum was torn down EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 149 when the road was widened during the fascist era, but the collection was relocated nearby. Helbig’s most important international collaboration was with the Danish beer brewer Carl Jacobsen (1842–1914), a partnership that led to the formation of the superb classical collection at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptothek in Copenhagen. Jacobsen was especially interested in clas- sical portraits, and Helbig helped him acquire both individual pieces and entire collections, like that of the Polish count Michel Tyszkiewicz in Rome. Jacobsen’s classical materials were added to the Glyptothek in 1906.49 Helbig did not work alone, for he was an adviser, not a dealer or re- storer. His main Roman collaborator was the Italian restorer and dealer Francesco Martinetti (1833–95).50 Martinetti had opened his first antiq- uities shop in 1853 and by the 1880s he was one of the richest and most successful dealers in Rome. He was involved in every aspect of the trade from excavations to cleaning, restoring, and appraising. Here enters one of the most controversial aspects of Helbig’s career, for the Italian scholar Margueritta Guarducci has argued that Helbig and Martinetti were involved in a long history of forgery, creating among other things the Praenestine fibula, a gold pin found in a tomb at Prae- neste near Rome and long considered to have one of the oldest Latin inscriptions. Guarducci (1902–2000), one of the pioneering women in Italian classical archaeology, had an excellent reputation as an epigra- pher, and though German scholars have vigorously defended Helbig’s reputation, she backed up her charges with solid research, and they have considerable plausibility.51 Helbig remains an ambiguous figure.52 Paul Hartwig and Friedrich Hauser were also trained archaeologists involved in the antiquities trade. Both were private scholars with excel- lent archaeological educations and sufficient personal means to live for long periods in Rome without other obvious sources of support. The two were for a time close friends, members of the homosexual society that was part of the elite expatriate life in pre–World War I Rome. Later they became bitter personal enemies. Hartwig was especially interested in Attic vases and did pioneering research on the subject, stressing the importance of stylistic analysis of individual objects.53 Hauser combined solid scholarship with a good eye and had an impressive knowledge of both Greek sculpture and Greek vases; Ludwig Curtius praised his aesthetic sensibilities.54 Both moved in collecting circles and knew the 150 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS world of dealers and forgers well. Scandal eventually forced Hartwig to flee Rome in 1915.55 The new players in the antiquities market who appeared on the scene in the last years of the nineteenth century were the Americans. Their museums were still small and poorly furnished, but increasingly boasted rich patrons, many of whom had learned the new classical aesthetic from Charles Eliot Norton at Harvard.56 They now moved to expand their col- lections through purchases on the antiquities market. Some operated through agents in England, others through connections in Rome. As was to be expected in America in the late nineteenth century, Boston led the way, as the cultural elite of America’s Athens sought to enrich the city’s new Museum of Fine Arts (MFA).57 The museum’s classical collections benefited especially from the patronage and exper- tise of E. P. Warren (1860–1928), the scion of a New England industrial family with considerable private means and a protégé of Norton’s.58 By the end of the nineteenth century Warren had established a homosexual commune near Oxford as his base of operations, though many of his most significant purchases were made in Rome. Friedrich Hauser was his agent for a while, but the person most influential in advising Warren was John Marshall, an Englishman who was a close personal friend of Warren’s and a member of his Lewes House circle. By the turn of the nineteenth century, however, American financial power had shifted decisively from Boston to New York, a move that was reflected in museum collecting. While the fortunes of the Museum of Fine Arts waned, those of New York’s Metropolitan Museum waxed.59 Expressive of the change was the move in 1905 of Edward Robinson (1858–1931), probably the best classical archaeologist in an American museum, from the MFA to the Metropolitan.60 When Robinson arrived in New York, the core of the Met’s classical holdings was the collection of Cypriote sculptures and vases that Baron Luigi Palma di Cesnola (1832–1904), Italian expatriate, civil war general, and later director of the Metropolitan, had brought into the museum. The collection was the product of the years of excavations he conducted when he was American consul in Cyprus.61 Such material, coming from the margins of the Greek world and executed in styles that reflected contacts with the Orient, was becoming less and less appealing to museum curators seeking the pure Greek and Roman in ancient art. Robinson had the mandate and the means to build up the Metropoli- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 151 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Luigi Palma di Cesnola, collector of Cypriote antiquities and the first director of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, c. 1880 (All rights reserved, The Metropolitan Museum of Art) tan’s classical collection, and he employed Warren’s friend and associate John Marshall as his Roman agent. Marshall operated out of an elegant apartment near the Spanish Steps that was for years a major focus of the collecting scene in Rome. During the first decades of the twentieth century classical art flowed out of Italy to New York. Much of it was standard statuary and vases, but the Met was even able to arrange the export of the villa wall paintings from Boscoreale near Pompeii.62 In 1906 Robinson brought onto the staff of the classical department a young Englishwoman named Gisela Richter (1882–1972), the daughter of the distinguished art historian Jean-Paul Richter, a classicist educated 152 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Gisela Richter, classical curator at The Metropolitan Museum of Art and one of the few women of her generation to make a career in classical archaeology, in 1952 (All rights reserved, The Metropolitan Museum of Art) at Girton College, Cambridge, and a disciple of the Roman art historian Eugenie Sellers Strong.63 From 1925 to 1948 she was curator of Greek and Roman art at the Met. Between the wars she guided the vigorous acquisition policy of the Metropolitan and was a regular presence on the Roman antiquities scene. She was also an assiduous publisher, whose catalogues and guidebooks in particular provided excellent introductions to the ordered world of the museum classical archaeologist. The career of Gisela Richter provides an appropriate opportunity to look at the place of women in classical archaeology in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Most countries strong in classical archae- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 153 ology, like France, Germany, and Italy, made little or no provision for the higher education of women. A woman like Ersilia Caetani Lovatelli could rise to the rank of respected archaeological scholar only through private tutelage and the connections that came from being a member of the Roman aristocracy. In contrast, advanced educational programs for women were being established in England and the United States. Places like Girton and Newnham Colleges at Cambridge by the 1870s were turning out female archaeologists such as Jane Harrison and Eugenie Sellers Strong.64 In the United States both the public universities of the Midwest and such private women’s colleges as Mount Holyoke, Wellesley, and Bryn Mawr provided strong classical educations. Both the American School of Clas- sical Studies at Athens and the British School at Athens accepted a number of women in their early decades.65 The greatest problems for aspiring female classical archaeologists were getting first excavation experience and then employment. Almost all the early Anglo-American excavations barred women from any mean- ingful participation. J. P. Droop, a former student at the British School in Athens, warned in his 1915 Archaeological Excavation against the participation of women on mixed-sex digs. His reasons ranged from the potential of offending local proprieties to the harmful effect a female presence had on the special male bonding that took place during an excavation.66 Someone like Harriet Boyd Hawes could strike out on her own in the more marginal world of Minoan archaeology in Crete, but she was a rare success in the story of female archaeologists at this time.67 The women’s colleges in England and America did provide careers for female classicists, some of whom had solid archaeological backgrounds. However, even at such a bastion of women’s education as Bryn Mawr, the teaching of archaeology remained largely a male preserve until after World War II.68 The post held by Gisela Richter at the Met was also rare for a woman. Museums were willing to use the services and skills of women in volunteer, secretarial, and honorary curatorial capacities, but they were less willing to give them significant paid positions. The women who became prominent in classical archaeology in the early decades of the twentieth century like Strong and Esther Van Deman (1862–1937) survived and even succeeded in part because they occupied special niches. Strong was from 1909 to 1925 assistant director of the Brit- ish School at Rome, while special funding allowed Van Deman to remain [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Harriet Boyd Hawes, pioneering archaeologist in Crete and the first American woman excavator in Greece, at Herakleion in 1902 (Smith College Archives) EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 155 at the American Academy in Rome for several years.69 For most of the rest of the promising young female classical archaeologists the realities were marriage, teaching school, or low-level administrative work. At the Met, Gisela Richter successfully continued the work of Rob- inson and Marshall. She also faced the problems and perils of operat- ing in a marginally legitimate world, where objects suddenly appeared and were purchased with few questions asked or answered. Indeed the world of the dealer still partook of that of the restorer and even the forger. While “restorers” did not play the same central role they had in the days of the Grand Tour, their services were still important if objects were to be made acceptable to the museum trade. The development of scientific connoisseurship had made the task of the forger more diffi- cult. However, as prices for choice pieces increased and greed clouded scholarly judgment, a new breed of expert forger prospered. Two famous pieces associated with American museums show the complexities and ambiguities of this changing world. The first of these was the so-called Boston Throne that was acquired by E. P. Warren in 1896 and added to the MFA’s collection in 1908. It con- sisted of three sculpted reliefs, a central section that depicted a winged male figure and two side pieces with seated figures, one of whom plays the lyre.70 It was regarded as a companion piece to another sculptural set known as the Ludovisi Throne that had been unearthed in 1887 on the grounds of the Ludovisi Villa near the present-day via Veneto and was later acquired by the National Archaeological Museum of Rome.71 The Boston reliefs appeared on the Roman art market in the mid-1890s under the sponsorship of Hartwig and Martinetti. Helbig and Rodolfo Lanciani were also involved in the sale. The pieces were supposed to have come from the same general area as the Ludovisi Throne. Indeed, the two groups came to be regarded as companion pieces: important Greek originals of the mid-fifth century b.c. While the authenticity of the Ludovisi Throne has generally been accepted, the experts have long been divided on the Boston Throne. Margueritta Guarducci, who tended to suspect any object associated with Helbig and Martinetti, declared it a fake, while other, equally distinguished archaeologists such as Bernard Ashmole regarded it as genuine.72 Naturally, the curators of the Museum of Fine Arts would like it to be a genuine treasure. However, scientific tests to demonstrate the authenticity of marble sculptures are unreliable, and the jury must remain out on the Boston Throne. 156 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS More provable turned out to be the forgery of the Met’s Etruscan terra-cotta warriors. During the 1910s Gisela Richter made what she regarded as a major coup in the Roman art market when she acquired through John Marshall a terra-cotta warrior, a larger than life-size statue of Mars and an even bigger helmeted head done in terra-cotta. These had purportedly been found at a site near Orvieto, north of Rome, and were classified as Etruscan works of the late sixth century b.c. As examples of terra-cotta work the warriors were more impressive than such famous Etruscan pieces as the recumbent couples on sarcophagus lids now in the Villa Giulia and the Louvre. Richter triumphantly brought them back to New York, where they assumed pride of place in the Metropolitan Museum’s burgeoning classical collection.73 Suspicions about their authenticity circulated from the start, but the impressive authority of Gisela Richter long silenced the doubters. Nonetheless, questions about the style and the lack of parallels in au- thenticated Etruscan sculpture continued to be raised, especially as more genuine Etruscan terra-cotta sculptures became known and the understanding of Etruscan art improved. Finally, in 1960, science was brought into play. Laboratory tests demonstrated that some of the mate- rial used in the glazes was postclassical. Some sleuthing in Rome actu- ally turned up the identity of the forger, and in 1961 the Metropolitan conceded that the Etruscan warriors were fakes. They were assigned to an oblivion so deep that it is almost impossible to see them today.74 The years from the mid-nineteenth century to World War I saw a massive reshaping of European and American museum collections. In addition, great changes were made in museum archaeology, and fierce debates arose over the nature and purpose of museums of classical ar- chaeology. Museums went from being displays of neoclassical aesthetics in the tradition of Wincklemann to being laboratories for the scientific study of classical art and archaeology to being institutions for public education to being shrines to Hellenic purity. Indeed over less than a century more changes occurred in the nature and function of classical museums than at any other time. During the course of the mid- to late nineteenth century German scholars gave new life and purpose to the Roman copies of Greek sculp- ture that the worship of Greek originals had threatened to marginalize. These copies were no longer regarded as objects of aesthetic contempla- tion but rather as artifacts that the new, empirical archaeologists could EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 157 study in combination with literary texts to reconstruct a more credible history of the development of Greek sculpture. It was to be the last great scholarly period in what the Germans call Kopienkritik until the late twentieth century brought revived interest in the place of Roman copies in the history of collecting from the Renaissance through the eighteenth century. In 1853 the German scholar Heinrich von Brunn (1822–94) recon- structed from several Roman copies the prototype of the famous statue of the satyr Marsyas created by the Greek sculptor Myron in the middle years of the fifth century b.c. In the same year he published the first volume of his highly influential Geschichte der griechischen Künstler. What Brunn launched was a systematic effort to unite the two types of art historical evidence from antiquity and write a new history of ancient art.75 He collected and analyzed the great body of references to art and artists in the Greek and Roman authors. At the same time he sought to classify and order the masses of copies in such a way that specific works could be associated with the sculptures of specific Greek artists. For the later study he built up large cast collections that served as the archaeological equivalent of the body of printed texts used for his liter- ary studies. Combining those two types of evidence both the oeuvre and the artistic personality of an ancient artist like Myron could be recon- structed. Brunn’s method met both the requirements of an ever more scientific discipline as well as the sentiments of the postromantic world, for which the history of art was the history of artistic personalities. In 1865 Brunn moved to Munich, where he taught for thirty years and trained some of the greatest archaeologists of the next generation. Of these the most impressive was Adolf Furtwängler (1853–1907), who in 1894 succeeded him in the chair of classical archaeology at Munich.76 Furtwängler was a charismatic scholar of vast energy and erudition, who ranged over the entire spectrum of classical archaeology. He had excavated with the pioneers at Olympia, catalogued in the museums of Berlin and Munich, and written on topics ranging from humble terra- cottas to the great works of Greek sculpture. His Meisterwerke griechischer Plastik, published in 1893, was one of the most successful and influential efforts to apply the Brunn method to the history of Greek sculpture. It was translated into English in 1895 by the young Eugenie Sellers Strong and had a considerable impact on the Anglo- American scholarly world.77 Furtwängler appreciated the importance [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Adolf Furtwängler, shown here with his daughter, c. 1895, was the leading German classical archaeologist of the late nineteenth century and a pioneer in the efforts to attribute the originals of Roman copies to specific Greek sculptors (Girton College Archives, Cambridge University) EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 159 of the great cast collections such as that developed by Brunn. He also saw the potential of photography for precise stylistic research. The kind of detailed comparison that the Brunn school sought to employ was al- most impossible if the scholar had to rely on the impressionistic world of drawings and watercolors and the imprecise information stored in the brains of individual scholars. The photographer created a much more “real” image than the artist. Moreover, photographs of individual objects could be collected, stored, and arranged and rearranged much more eas- ily than the bulky casts. File cabinets filled with large black-and-white photographs became part of the equipment of individual scholars much as the cast gallery was part of the research facilities of universities and museums. In fact, it was the efficiency and compactness of photograph collections that helped lead to the demise of the cast gallery. Photographs were not the only new instruments that Furtwängler had in his library as he pursued his research. The printed monographs, excavation reports, and catalogues had also changed dramatically in format and content. Perhaps most important for the archaeologists were the improvements in printing technology that allowed reproductions of photographs. Originally the publications had relied on etchings based di- rectly on photographs. Then they found ways to reproduce photographs separately and insert them into the text. Finally printing technology allowed the reproduction of text and photograph together. Another significant change was the appearance of more professional journals sponsored by the new foreign schools or professional societies that not only printed scholarly articles but also reported and even illus- trated recent finds. In 1876 the Bulletin de correspondence héllènique was founded; and the Athenische Mitteilungen followed shortly thereafter. The British began producing The Journal of Hellenic Studies in 1880, and in 1885 the Americans got into the act with the American Journal of Archaeology. Classical sculpture had stood at the center of museum and private collections since the Renaissance. For much of that period the collection of antique vases played only a secondary role. In the mid-eighteenth cen- tury this began to change. Classical collecting interests were extending beyond the aristocracy, and the acquisition of vases was economically more feasible for that expanding world of potential collectors. These col- lectors did not just acquire originals. As entrepreneurs like Josiah Wedg- wood sought to combine new ceramic production techniques with the 160 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS stylistic identification with classical artistic values, Britain became the greatest producer of ceramics in the world. It is significant that Wedg- wood named his production center Etruria at a time when the painted vases that we now know to be Greek were regarded as Etruscan.78 A very different collector was Lord William Hamilton, another forma- tive figure in the study of Greek vases. Hamilton was British ambassador to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies from 1764 to 1800, a time when Britain was engaged in deadly struggle for the control of the Mediterranean. To most Hamilton is best known as the tolerant husband whose young wife was the mistress of Lord Nelson. But Hamilton was also an eighteenth- century man of science, much interested in volcanoes, and a formidable collector, who during his period as ambassador had access to the rich sites of Campania.79 Hamilton’s collecting interests focused on classical vases, which fre- quently appeared in the tombs that were the principal objects of Nea- politan excavations during that period. He built up two substantial collections of vases as well as other objects during the course of his life- time. The first he sold to the British Museum in 1772, one of the major early additions to that museum. He soon started gathering a second collection, much of which was lost in a shipwreck in 1798. He also pub- lished catalogues of the two collections. The first appeared in 1767–68 with much aesthetic commentary by the antiquarian, adventurer, and pornographer Count d’Hancarville.80 The first volume of the second collection appeared in 1791 with illustrations by the neoclassical artist Wilhelm Tischbein. Two important archaeological issues are associated with Hamilton’s collections and publications. The first is the Greekness of what we know today as Greek vases. Since many of the early finds had been made in Tuscany, the antiquarian world had tended to see the vases as Etruscan artistic productions. Now large numbers of finds were being made in Magna Graecia, far away from the Etruscan lands. Even before signifi- cant evidence emerged from Greece itself, scholars came to see that they were dealing with Hellenic work that had been exported to Etruria. The second issue was the place of Greek vase studies in understand- ing Greek art. The ancient authors had identified painting, sculpture, and architecture as the three great art forms developed in ancient Greece. However, in the eighteenth century ancient painting was known only through examples from Rome and the Roman centers of Campania. EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 161 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] C. H. Kniep, Lord and Lady Hamilton Observe the Excavations at Nola, 1790 (German Archaeological Institute, Rome) These were much later works, copies done by artisans rather than works by original artists. Antiquarians like d’Hancarville argued that the vases provided the missing link into the world of ancient painting. They were to be seen not as artisan products but as works of art, the product of the best Greek design. That position has been attacked since the 1990s on two fronts. The first is that the vases were not actually products for elite consumption but rather items made available to people who could not afford the true luxury of metalwork.81 The other objection is that d’Hancarville and 162 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS Hamilton glorified the Greek vases in their publications as part of a scheme to enhance the market value of Hamilton’s first vase collection before it went on sale.82 It is certainly the case that a long, elite tradi- tion of Greek vase studies has made the works into cult objects. The basic arguments made by the aesthete-antiquarians about the aesthetic value of the vases for the ancient Greeks have been accepted by a wider cultural community whose attitudes toward antiquity hovered between classicism and romanticism. That view received its best articulation in John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” However, there is no doubt that the vases provide us with invaluable insight into the innovative devel- opment of the Greek graphic arts as well as important information on many aspects of Greek life and culture. The next major phase in Greek vase studies takes us back to Etruria, specifically to the site of Vulci. The excavations that the prince of Canino conducted there starting in the late 1820s flooded the antiquities markets with Greek pottery. The material attracted the attention of Gerhard, who published much of it in the reports of his fledgling Instituto di corrispon- denza archeologica. It was he who finally demonstrated definitively that the vessels were of Attic production. European museums like the one in Munich began to buy vases in quantity, and they came to rival sculpture in the holdings of the great classical collections. In the nineteenth century those expanding collections became the object of more systematic scholarly study. In 1853 Otto Jahn published his great pioneering catalogue of the Munich collection. Gradually schol- arship moved forward from the cataloging phase to the consideration of a variety of issues that would dominate vase studies until the age of John Beazley. The first of these involved the identification of ceramic production centers. Athens was identified as the major source for most of the vases found in Etruria. But other workshop centers were clearly providing vases to the Etruscan markets. Gradually scholars realized that places like Corinth had been in the pottery business before Athens, while various South Italian communities and even Etruria had their own workshops. A chronological scheme of vase evolution had also to be recon- structed, and the vases related to broader questions of Greek historical and cultural developments. Some vases bore personal names accompa- nied by the Greek word kalos, “beautiful.” Clearly these reflected the man-youth erotic relationships that were common among the elite of clas- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 163 sical Athens. Some of the “beautiful” youths could be identified as known Athenian political figures. By dating the vases back to the early years of those politicians, it was possible to assign them a relatively secure date.83 Other vases bore personal names accompanied by words like epoiesen or egrapsen. These identified artisans who had formed or painted the pot, although the precise meaning, especially of the word epoiesen, remained uncertain. The names offered the possibility of identifying Greek artists in vase painting in the same way that archaeologists like Furtwängler were attempting to do for sculpture. In 1879 Wilhelm Klein (1850–1924), who had published some of the first collections of signatures on Greek vases, produced a study of the Attic potter Euphronios that attempted to consider him as an artistic personality.84 Another approach stressed iconography, as archaeologists used the scenes and images depicted on the vases to illuminate a variety of top- ics from dress to religion. The visual repertoire of the sculptors was limited, circumscribed by religious and funerary custom. Compared to sculpture, the pictorial world of the vase painters seemed almost infinite. Much of the vase scholarship of the late nineteenth century focused on questions of images and iconography. Sidelined by Beazley and his followers in the twentieth century, this approach has been revived in recent years by scholars like Herbert Hoffman, Claude Bérard, and Fran- çois Lissarrague.85 By the late nineteenth century the holdings of Greek ceramics in private and public collections were enormous. Making sense of that vast body of material became more and more difficult. The increased availability of photographic images helped, but many collections had been neither photographed nor published. The late-nineteenth-century scholarly response to the problem of synthesizing a huge body of ma- terial was to publish catalogues that would bring the information to- gether in published form, like the famous corpora of Greek and Latin inscriptions. Undertaking such a project for Greek vases was much more complicated, for their proper study required detailed descriptions and many high-quality photographic images. It required a major international undertaking led by a person of energy and vision. Such a scholar was Edmond Pottier, who was on the curatorial staff of the Louvre from 1884 to 1924.86 He was an energetic, wide-ranging archaeologist who wanted to demonstrate that French classical scholarship was as good as that of Germany. He was also an excellent organizer. Much of his own 164 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS scholarship had focused on ceramics, with an emphasis on broad stylistic developments and interconnection rather than the artistic personalities of specific potters.87 Gradually Pottier conceived the idea of a great international project that would produce a catalogue of all known ancient ceramic vessels. World War I delayed its organization, but in 1919 the Corpus vasorum antiquorum (CVA) came into existence as a research undertaking of the Union académique internationale.88 Reflecting the international tensions after World War I, scholars from Germany and Austria were initially excluded from the project, in spite of their distinguished traditions of vase research. The first fascicle of the Louvre collection appeared in 1922. An originally more comprehensive ceramics program that would have included much of ancient pottery soon narrowed to a concentration on Greek vases. Still the organizers aimed to publish all the collections of all the museums of the world. Every serious archaeology library to- day has shelves groaning under the weight of CVA fascicles. They now number some three hundred from fifty countries. New additions are regularly made as old museums complete the publication of their collec- tions, and new museums advertise their recently acquired archaeological treasures. The CVA volumes, with their standard format and generous photographic illustrations, have become the central reference tool for ceramics studies. If the CVA provided the systematic presentation of the evidence, one English scholar, John Beazley (1885–1970), provided the ordering principles and methodologies that still shape this field of archaeological scholarship.89 Beazley was the son of a late-nineteenth-century Arts and Crafts artisan, and in his early years he was something of an aesthete in the Walter Pater–Aubrey Beardsley mode. Attic vases were enjoying a vogue in those artistic circles, where their linear style enhanced by the drawings used in many archaeological publications appealed to artists like Beardsley and Walter Crane.90 Beazley studied classical philology at Oxford and as a youth explored his vocation as a poet. Lawrence of Arabia, who moved in his circle, re- marked, “Beazley is a very wonderful fellow, who has written almost the best poems that ever came out of Oxford: but his shell was always hard, and with time he seems to curl himself tighter and tighter into it.”91 However, what Lawrence described as “that accursed Greek art” came to dominate Beazley’s life.92 He studied Greek sculpture with the [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Sir John Beazley, the leading twentieth-century scholar of Greek vases, c. 1960 (Beazley Archive, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford University) 166 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS classical archaeologist Percy Gardner (1846–1937), but most of his clas- sical archaeology was self-taught, the result of his exploration of col- lections in England and on the Continent. He became fascinated with the Attic vases of the Archaic and Classical periods and the rich insight they provided into ancient artistic and cultural life. He also began seek- ing a methodology that would bring order to the field and explain the artistic interconnections within this vast and still rather inchoate body of material. He found it in the “scientific” connoisseurship represented particularly by the Italian scholar Giovanni Morelli, who attributed un- signed Renaissance paintings to individual artists and schools on the basis of minor, idiosyncratic stylistic quirks expressed, for example, in the rendering of ears and eyes.93 The American Bernard Berenson was just beginning to make his name using the Morellian method to distinguish the real from the fraudulent in Renaissance painting. Beazley decided to apply the approach to the study of Greek vases.94 Beazley spent the rest of his life of scholarly semi-monasticism bring- ing order to the world of Athenian red-and-black-figure vases. Using his own acute visual memory and his ever growing collection of photographs (he had over 100,000 at his death), books, and reprints, as well as making regular pilgrimages to the museums of Europe and America, he created a framework for understanding the vast world of Attic vases, organizing the material into schools and identifying individual artistic personalities.95 Some of the artists were named on the basis of painted inscriptions on the vases. Others became known by conventional names like the “Berlin Painter” or the “Stippled Nipple Painter.” By now some one thousand of these painters have been identified.96 We should not underestimate the monumental achievement of Beaz- ley.97 He gave order and coherence to a vast body of important classi- cal material. But he has been turned into a cult figure, complete with acolytes and a pilgrimage shrine, the Beazley Archive at Oxford.98 One obvious question is whether his followers have kept his approach to vase scholarship going too long after its most important possibilities have been exhausted. Critics of the Beazley method also ask whether this concentration on archaeological style and syntax has not operated to the exclusion of other approaches to Greek studies. The late-twentieth- century revival of interest in iconographical studies and the use of that material for a range of cultural studies indicate that a better balance is being sought. EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 167 Critics of the Beazley legacy have raised a more fundamental ques- tion about the position vases held in ancient culture. Did the aesthete tradition that ran from Hamilton and d’Hancarville to Beazley overvalue the Greek vase as an expression of Hellenic high culture? Does identify- ing vases as works of art and displaying them along with sculpture in the high culture shrines that are modern museums distort their place in ancient society? Shouldn’t we rather look at them as artisan prod- ucts and objects of trade, more important for the study of trade and consumer culture, than as high art? Many of these questions relate not only to the historical development of classical art museums but also to the changing role and self-definition of the classical collections within them. The classical art museum had its origins in the Renaissance as an elite temple of the Muses, and it maintained that role well into the nineteenth century. The continuity in this attitude can be seen by com- paring the design of the Belvedere courtyard with the central rotunda of Schinkel’s Altes Museum in Berlin.99 Both spaces were intended as elegant displays for ancient sculptures that would express the eternal values of classical art. The ghost of Winckelmann could haunt each place equally comfortably. However, both the world of archaeological scholarship and the so- ciety of cultured collectors were changing, and the museums slowly responded to these changes. Collections expanded; but more than that, scholars came to view and use them in different ways. Pure aesthetic displays became less fashionable. Objects were increasingly arranged typologically or in a manner that reflected the current understanding of the historical development of Greek and Roman art. The nature of the visitors was also changing. An educated and increasingly affluent middle class was expanding in both Europe and America, and its members were increasingly shaping the local and international tourist market. Earnest women who desired education and information made up an increasing share of the museum audience. Guidebooks needed to be improved, tours made more serious, and exhibitions made more comprehensible and educational.100 By the mid-nineteenth century traditional art museums faced compe- tition from international exhibitions and from the new types of museums like the South Kensington with their arts-and-crafts emphasis and more popular appeal that were founded in their wake. No longer was the issue one of improving the taste of the elite, the concern of an Elgin or a Lord 168 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS Hamilton. Nations within the internationalized industrial society were highly competitive, and design was increasingly part of that competi- tion. Good design involved not just old elites and the captains of the new industry but also the artisans and craftsmen who helped design the products that competed in the world economy. Art education for a broad sector of society became one of the major goals of museums. These changes in the mission of the museums were reflected in the treatment of the cast collections. Today only a few museums have preserved any part of their cast galleries. Most of those plaster images have been relegated to the storerooms or ground into dust. But in the nineteenth century all major museums in Europe and America gave central billing to their cast collections. We have already seen how the German scholars used their cast collections as large, three-dimensional laboratories. Curators like Welcker and Jahn in Bonn or later Brunn in Munich could arrange and rearrange their extensive cast collections to reflect their changing views on the historical development of clas- sical sculpture.101 They could experiment with different hypothetical reconstructions of statues, including the use of paint, without damaging originals.102 For the major museums the cast gallery had a strong educational function. The 1928 guide to the Greek and Roman antiquities of the British Museum describes the separate cast gallery, which had three hundred pieces.103 Casts were also used in the regular galleries to fill lacunae and to make the wider cultural and artistic context of the frag- mentary originals clearer. In the 1920s some 40 percent of the material on display in the Elgin marble gallery consisted of plaster casts, many of them gathered by Charles Newton in his quest to provide the British Museum with a complete set of copies of those Parthenon marbles that were not part of the original Elgin collection.104 The use of casts extended beyond the great museums and research departments to smaller archaeological worlds. Even for small local mu- seums and university archaeology departments casts were vital teaching and learning tools. The patenting in 1844 of a process whereby casts could be produced at a reduced scale allowed even wider diffusion of these images. Three examples, one from Italy, one from England, and one from America, show the pervasive and diverse universe of casts. When Emanuel Löwy was brought from Vienna to Rome to teach classi- cal archaeology at the University of Rome, he was coming to a city with EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 169 the greatest collection of classical art museums in the world. However, that richness was not sufficient for a nineteenth-century German pro- fessor. He needed a cast gallery at the university so that he could teach directly from the great works, add the latest discoveries, and play visually with objects in three dimensions. Because of his demands the university created a cast gallery that has miraculously survived the destruction visited on many other cast collections and after a period in storage has been reinstalled.105 The second illustration of the world of nineteenth-century casts comes from Cambridge. In the 1880s Sidney Colvin, the director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, was pushing to institutionalize classical archae- ology at the university. The Fitzwilliam had opened in 1848, but it had expanded slowly in a university where classical archaeology played only a limited role.106 But by the 1880s papers on classical archaeology were being included in the tripos exams, and courses of lectures were offered on the subject. In 1880 Charles Waldstein was brought to Cambridge to teach classical archaeology. He demanded a standard archaeological lab- oratory, and Colvin provided it. The Cambridge cast gallery opened with great ceremony in 1884 in the presence of such dignitaries as the Prince of Wales and the American ambassador James Russell Lowell.107 Four years later a similar ceremony took place in a small mill town in eastern Connecticut. The Slater Museum in Norwich was opening its own cast gallery. The Norwich gallery was inspired by the example of the London Exhibition of 1851 and the South Kensington Museum. The diverse display of copies of great works of art in plaster assembled in the small museum was intended not only to inspire the small local elite but also to improve the taste of the factory designers who created the new manufactured products that Norwich sent into the international markets. As at Cambridge a great gathering of notables assembled to honor the new cultural institution. They included the founder of Ameri- can classical archaeology, Charles Eliot Norton; Edward Robinson, the rising classical curator of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts; and Daniel Gilman, the president of Johns Hopkins, the first research university in America. The cast gallery of the Slater Museum escaped later changes in museum taste and survives today as one of the best examples of that nineteenth-century genre.108 The great demand for casts generated a reproduction industry. It was possible by the late nineteenth century to build a cast collection that 170 EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS included copies of most of the major surviving works of Greek and Ro- man art. Commercial production and distribution of casts was centered in Germany, but important firms were located in other centers. For years the British Museum maintained its own cast production facilities,109 while by the 1870s Napoleon Martinelli was operating an important cast shop in Athens.110 Not only standard works could be acquired but also new discoveries, which were rapidly added to the list of casts available. Museums published catalogues of their cast collections much in the same way they catalogued their collections of originals. However, changes in European American aesthetic values and in the museum world gradually doomed the pseudo-marble world of the cast collection. Museums acquired more original ancient works, especially in America, and vicious competitions for control of space broke out between the advocates of the casts and those interested in the exclu- sive display of real archaeological objects. Museums like the MFA had veritable battles of the casts, in which the plaster reproductions were generally the losers.111 In many cases the casts were becoming damaged and dirty, requiring a level of curation and restoration that the museums were unwilling to undertake. Elitist attitudes were also reasserting themselves in museum cul- ture, especially in the classical galleries. The educational role of the museum was relegated to back corridors and special school programs, while the main galleries were devoted to the display of genuine works of art.112 Restorations were often removed from sculptures, and label- ing was kept to a minimum. To paraphrase the director of one major American gallery, if you needed a label you shouldn’t be in the museum. Within the classical galleries, the hierarchy of values that had come to shape the profession in general came to dominate acquisition and dis- play. Greek marbles and Greek vases received pride of place. Battered hunks of Greek marble were honored because they exuded the Hellenic spirit. Roman portraits retained some status because at least they were genuine, but they were lower down in the hierarchy because they were Roman. The ancient copies that had played such an important role in the rediscovery of classical art were relegated to the margins, and the casts were removed entirely. This changing scenario was acted out at the British Museum when the famous art dealer Lord Duveen agreed to finance a new gallery for the Elgin marbles.113 In the design of the new display the advisory com- EMERGENCE OF THE GREAT MUSEUMS 171 mittee of three distinguished classical art historians—Bernard Ashmole, Donald Robertson, and John Beazley—pushed for an exhibit in which only the original pieces would be featured. Casts were banished, as were models and other “instructional” material that would distract from the appreciation of the “pure beauty” of the battered but legendary marbles. In another, more anachronistic gesture toward classical purity, the Elgin marbles were harshly cleaned to remove the golden patina that Lord Duveen among others found displeasing and to restore their “classic” whiteness, an ironical outcome since in their original setting the sculp- tures would have been brightly colored.114 By the 1930s the classical art museum had come full circle and was once again a temple of the Muses, where the elite could contemplate eternal aesthetic values. But a significant difference divided the past from the present. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries com- mon neoclassical values unified the aesthetics of the objects inside the museum and the art being created outside. Canova and Thorvaldsen could move comfortably from contemplation of the classical art in the Roman galleries to creation of it in their own studios. This was not the case in 1930s Paris, London, or New York. The classical aesthetic had little hold on the creative artists. Classical art collections had more to do with elitism and cultural exclusion than with creativity, a problem that to a certain degree has persisted down to the present day. CHAPTER 6 Political Ideology and Colonial Opportunism During the Interwar Period The guns of August 1914 quickly destroyed the late-nineteenth-century international order on which the foundations of modern classical ar- chaeology had been laid. Soon Britain, France, Italy, Austria, and Germany were locked in a death struggle. Violence spread from Europe to the eastern Mediterranean. As war engulfed the collapsing Ottoman Empire, archaeologists were called on to put their knowledge of Arab and Turkish lands at the service of different pow- ers. Theodor Wiegand combined intelligence and archaeological activi- ties as a liaison with the Ottoman army.1 David Hogarth, archaeologist and former director of the British School at Athens and keeper at the Ashmolean Museum, directed British naval intelligence out of Cairo. His most famous protégé was Lawrence of Arabia, who had been an active archaeologist in the Near East in the years immediately before the war.2 Most of the major archaeological sites came through the war rela- tively intact, but several promising young classical archaeologists from all nations, as well as some who were not so young, like Joseph Déchelette, fell in the slaughter. The French School in Athens alone listed seven dead on its roll of honor.3 The European powers emerged exhausted from the struggle; Germany, which had been the greatest contributor to classical archaeology, the most so. In contrast the United States survived largely unscathed and was soon to become a major archaeological power. The creation of colonial mandates, especially out of fragments of the Ottoman Empire like Syria, provided new archaeological opportunities, and archaeology became increasingly harnessed to nationalist ideology. Fascist Italy provided the prime example of the trend, but other nations used the material past for their own political ends. 172 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 173 The war did produce acts of vengeance in the archaeological world, especially in Italy, where professors of Germanic origins like Emanuel Löwy, who had served the country faithfully for decades, were removed from their academic posts. Löwy returned to Vienna, and the venerable headquarters of the German Archaeological Institute on the Capitoline was seized by the Italian government.4 France made certain territorial gains in the aftermath of the Treaty of Versailles that were to have an important impact on archaeology. Alsace and Lorraine were recovered and with them the city of Strasbourg and the university that the Germans had tried to make into a showplace of Teutonic scholarship. To help reassert a sense of French identity in that disputed territory a new chair in the archaeology of Roman Gaul and the Rhine area was created at the University of Strasbourg with Albert Grenier (1878–1946), a disciple of Camille Jullian, as the first holder.5 The end of the Ottoman Empire also provided France with opportuni- ties in the Near East. After complex military and diplomatic maneuver- ing France was granted mandate control over the archaeologically rich territory of Syria. In 1920 a French-dominated Antiquities Service was created there on the model of those established in North Africa and in British-dominated Egypt. New museums were established in Beirut and Damascus.6 The French also used the interwar period to advance both their colonial and their archaeological agenda in North Africa. Ideological connections between ancient Rome and the new “Latin” society that was being fostered in North Africa were reinforced by pro-imperial intel- lectuals like the novelist and historian Louis Bertrand.7 The archaeo- logical administrative structure was improved and the laws protecting antiquities strengthened, actions that were necessary because the ex- pansion of French colonial settlement, especially in the countryside, was threatening archaeological sites.8 Indeed, it was his experience in North Africa that inspired Jérôme Carcopino (1881–1970) to strengthen the national government’s involvement in antiquities protection in the homeland after 1940.9 The program of excavation that had started just before the war at Roman urban sites like Timgad, Dougga, and Thuburbo Majus in the interior was now accelerated, and amateur savants were still very much involved. A local physician named Dolcemascolo conducted the excava- tions that cleared large sections of Ammaedara between 1925 and 1940.10 174 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM When Morocco became a protectorate of France in 1912, the governor, General Hubert Lyautey, began applying the lessons learned in Algeria and Tunisia on the use of Roman archaeology as an instrument of colo- nialist policy. One result was the start in 1916 of excavations at Volubilis.11 The remains of impoverished villages built over the Roman ruins were swept away. Large areas of the ancient urban cores were cleared, and key structures such as triumphal arches were restored. The archaeolo- gists also explored the farms and smaller villages of the Roman period as well as traces of water control projects. Parallels were noted between the efforts of the Romans and those of the contemporary French to make a desolate countryside bloom. What one writer described as “le témoignage d’une volonté di romanisation” (the witness of an impulse toward Romanization) was made visible in the land, especially in the interior, where the French sought to assert not only their physical and economic domination but also their ideological control.12 In the aftermath of technical developments in World War I the French began applying aerial photography to their study of the countryside. They were especially interested in detecting evidence of centuriation, the land division system that best expressed the Roman sense of rural organization and control. Centuriation was much discussed in the Latin land survey literature but very difficult to detect on the ground. A few antiquarians, such as the Danish consul at Tunis, Christian Kalbe, had discovered traces of the divisions, but only the perspective provided by aerial photography allowed full-scale reconstruction.13 By 1931 extensive areas of centuriation had been detected by aerial studies in the areas around El Djem, and the utility of the method for investigating Roman land use patterns had been demonstrated.14 The foundations were laid for one of the major French contributions to classical archaeology. French involvement in North Africa had previously stimulated an interest in frontier studies, especially as French army officers tended to identify with their Roman predecessors. Now, in Syria, the French found themselves in another situation where ancient and modern frontiers were overlaid. But the geographic realities of the Roman frontiers in both Syria and North Africa were very different from those of the Rhine, the Danube, and north Britain and did not lend themselves to investigation by hearty walkers or weekend excavators. Here the airplane came to play a key role. Between 1924 and 1928 the flying priest Antoine Poidebard (1878–1955) applied to Syrian archaeological sites the technical knowl- POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 175 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Aerial view of the Roman site of Timgad in Algeria. The massive clearing of the site was part of the French policy of making the Roman remains highly visible in the landscape of North Africa. (CNRS-Centre Camille Jullian) edge of air reconnaissance he had learned as an aviator in World War I. He undertook numerous overflights along the Syrian frontier, discovering new sites and making important contributions to the understanding of the eastern Roman frontier system.15 In North Africa, Jérôme Carcopino and Louis Leschi (1893–1954), director of antiquities in Algeria, mobi- lized military resources to investigate Roman border areas.16 It was Air Force colonel Jean Baradez (1895–1969) who made the most systematic aerial explorations of the North African frontier, research summarized in his 1949 book Fossatum Africae.17 His aerial reconnaissance revealed a range of sites and features of the Roman period in the rough country of the interior, archaeological remains that would have been almost impossible to detect by traditional surface exploration. Italy emerged a battered victor from World War I. Political, social, and economic turmoil followed, until in 1922 the fascists under Benito Mussolini seized power. Fascism was a complex movement, part revolu- tionary, part conservative. Important to the fascist ideological message were the identification with ancient Rome and the use of ancient Ro- man examples to create a new sense of discipline, militarism, and order. This identification was achieved in part by the pervasive manipulation 176 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Benito Mussolini visits excavations near the Colosseum in Rome, 1930s (Daniele Manacorda) of the visual environment, through new construction, urban renewal, the physical isolation of ideologically important monuments, and ar- chaeological excavation.18 Most of these ideas were not new to the fascists. Napoleon had begun the process known later as sventramento, whereby a monument of his- torical and ideological importance such as the Column of Trajan or the Arch of Titus was cleared of surrounding structures to enhance its visual prominence.19 The intellectual and political shapers of the Risorgimento drew heavily on ancient Rome, while the post-1870 archaeological exca- vations in areas like the Forum were driven by a strong desire to make the city more Roman and less papal. Monumental restoration had long been shaped by ideological considerations; both Roman monuments and POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 177 early Christian churches were restored to a “pristine” shape. Architects like Antonio Muñoz had sought to return the early Christian churches of Rome to their original form, removing baroque features associated with Counterreformation decadence.20 It is not surprising therefore that conservative, nationalistic scholars like Muñoz and Giacomo Boni made an easy transition to the fascist ideology with regard to architecture. What was different in the fascist use of classical archaeology was the scale of the use of ancient monuments and archaeology for propaganda in both Italy and the colonies.21 What Mussolini referred to as “la parola al piccono” (the discourse of the pickax) was heard throughout Rome, and the effects of the program were widespread. There were many rea- sons for this. First, Mussolini’s government was a dictatorship, and in spite of its inefficiency and corruption it could make changes that would have been more difficult for a more democratic administration. The fascists were also in power for a long time. (One of the projects that was in the planning stage when World War II broke out was the Esposizione universale romana, a universal exposition slated for 1942 to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the fascist seizure of power.) Finally and perhaps most important, using archaeology as propaganda stood at the top of the fascist agenda, and especially in Rome archaeological-propagandistic projects received top political and financial support. Rome was the showpiece of a multifaceted program of ideologi- cal archaeology that involved the clearing, isolation, and restoration of certain key monuments such as the Mausoleum of Augustus and the Ara Pacis. It also included projects that coordinated archaeology with new construction, such as the creation of the parade route of the via dell’Impero (now the via dei Fori Imperiali) through the fora of the Cae- sars.22 The government financed exhibitions and the creation of muse- ums that highlighted the new discoveries and strengthened the connec- tion between romanità and fascist policy. Finally, the ambitious fascist construction and urban renewal program led to chance archaeological discoveries, such as the republican temples of the Largo Argentina in central Rome, that the regime was flexible enough to preserve and fit into its propaganda program. Mussolini had stated that “I monumenti millenari della nostra sto- ria devono giganteggiare nella necessaria solitudine [The thousands-of- years-old monuments of our history must grow more magnificent in their required isolation].”23 Important Roman structures were thus cleaned 178 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The area of the Ara Pacis and the Mausoleum of Augustus as reconstructed under Mussolini during the 1930s. The fascist pavilion for the Ara Pacis was demolished in 2002. (Photo courtesy of the author.) of later “accretions” as part of the notorious sventramento that is now criticized by urban historians for its destruction of the later historical context of the Roman monuments. The most ambitious of these projects was the clearing of the Mausoleum of Augustus near the Tiber. All post- Roman remains were removed from the tomb itself, and the postclas- sical buildings that surrounded it were leveled to create a new piazza framed by buildings replete with fascist visual and verbal propaganda. The importance of the tomb was enhanced by the reconstruction of the Augustan Ara Pacis at a new location between the mausoleum and the Tiber. Mussolini closely identified with Augustus, and the dedication of the complex in 1938 became one of the great propaganda events in the history of his regime. The excavations that expressed most clearly the aims and deficiencies of fascist archaeology were those in the imperial fora. Mussolini decided to construct a parade route between his residence in the Palazzo Venezia and the Colosseum. It would pass by the ruins of the fora erected by Julius Caesar, Augustus, and Trajan, monuments that had been buried under centuries of debris and obscured by later building additions. These ancient structures were rapidly cleared down to their imperial levels and POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 179 restored in such a way as to provide an appropriate backdrop to fascist martial displays. In the process more than five thousand housing units were destroyed, and 214,000 cubic feet of earth were removed.24 The excavations were conducted in great haste, few records were kept, and in most cases no publications of the finds ever appeared. Some of the remains were reburied as the parade way and surrounding parks—com- plete with statues of “good” emperors—were built over them. The ex- ample of the imperial fora would return as a major source of controversy in the postwar years. Outside Rome, fascist archaeological theories were applied most comprehensively at the site of Ostia, the seaport of ancient Rome. Ostia as a port had declined during the late empire, and the site was largely abandoned in the early Middle Ages. A few excavations had been con- ducted there since the Renaissance, especially in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The papal archaeologist Pietro Ercole Visconti (1802–90) had done important research in the mid-nineteenth century, although his work was largely driven by a desire to find art objects for the papal collections.25 Dante Vaglieri (1865–1913) of the National Mu- seum in Rome started a new era of systematic exploration at Ostia in 1907. After his death his assistant Guido Calza (1888–1946) took over the Ostia excavations. Working closely with the architect Italo Gismondi (1887–1974), Calza slowly continued the clearing of the city. Nonetheless, in 1938 much of Ostia still remained undisturbed.26 The fascist archaeologists undertook a massive clearing operation to make as much of the city as possible visible as a tourist attraction. The stimulus was again the planned 1942 universal exposition. Mussolini wanted it to showcase an evocative, visually comprehensible archaeologi- cal site like Pompeii but one that was closer to Rome and more easily accessible to visitors to the exposition. Ostia filled the bill. Teams of workmen were turned loose on the site, and within five years the exca- vated area had been doubled. Emphasis was placed on the clearing and superficial restoration of as many buildings as possible. Only artifacts of artistic value were saved, and large quantities of pottery were dumped into the Tiber. The outbreak of the war stopped the excavations, but it also limited even minimal study, conservation, and publication. In addition to archaeological restorations and excavations, the fascists sponsored special archaeological exhibitions and new archaeological museums. In 1938 Mussolini opened the Mostra Augustea della romanità 180 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM (Augustan Exhibition of Roman Civilization), a massive exhibition that celebrated the bimillennium of the birth of the emperor whom the Duce saw as his great historical model. It replicated many aspects of Lanciani’s 1911 exhibition, which had aimed through the use of models and repro- ductions rather than original works to highlight the glories of Roman achievements. The exhibit stretched over eighty-one rooms and attracted 700,000 people.27 This approach was repeated with the foundation of the Museum of the Empire, which drew some of its inspiration from its French predeces- sor, the short-lived Napoleon III Museum.28 However, rather than look- ing to antiquity as an inspiration for the arts, this museum used the rep- ertoire of Roman monuments represented in casts as an inspiration for Italian imperialism. As war broke out preparations were being made for the greatest of these exhibitions, to be held in connection with the 1942 celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the fascist seizure of power. The centerpiece of this exhibition was going to be a model of imperial Rome at a scale of 1:250, realized by the meticulous efforts of Italo Gis- mondi.29 Both the model and the didactic exhibitions finally found their place in the Museum of Roman Civilization, which opened in the early 1950s in one of the buildings planned for Mussolini’s aborted celebration of fascism.30 A second museum founded during this period, the Mussolini Museum, was devoted to recent archaeological finds made in Rome.31 The archaeologist most closely associated with these fascist projects was Giulio Giglioli (1886–1957), whose career linked the earlier national period with the fascist era and the quietism of the immediate postwar years. Giglioli had been a pupil of Löwy and a protégé of Lanciani and served as the chief assistant for the 1911 archaeological exhibition. He became involved with the fascists soon after they came to power in 1922 and became Mussolini’s chief archaeological spokesman in Rome. It was Giglioli who organized the massive Mostra Augustea. He was sufficiently tainted by his association with the fascist regime to be interned briefly after the fall of Mussolini. But he soon returned to his professorship at the University of Rome, where he quietly completed his career.32 Three other important figures in this fascist archaeological remak- ing of Rome were Antonio Muñoz, Corrado Ricci, and Antonio Maria Colini. Muñoz (1884–1960) had a strong background in art history, ironi- cally with a special interest in the baroque architecture he did much to destroy in Rome.33 For Muñoz these clearings and restorations repre- POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 181 sented a continuation of his own “improvement” activities, going back to the beginning of the century, that had focused on restoring Roman churches to their early Christian form. When he was put directly in charge of Mussolini’s urban renewal program in Rome, he pursued with a vengeance the destruction of old Rome. Corrado Ricci (1858–1934) is the person most closely associated with the via dell’Impero excavations.34 He came from an art historical back- ground and for much of his early career had been more involved with li- braries and galleries than with archaeology. Much of his early restoration work took place in his native Ravenna. Indeed, his background in the practice of archaeology was very limited, which in part explains his lack of care for the archaeological record. One would have expected a greater respect for historic Rome from a man of his education and sensibilities, but he like Muñoz was eager to have the great classical monuments available for study and much caught up in fascist notions of progress. Colini (1900–1990) was a student and protégé of Giglioli, with whom he had worked on several museum projects. He was in charge of major restorations in the city, such as the Mausoleum of Augustus, and he did his best under the circumstances to follow some sort of program of scientific excavation and keep new excavations like the one at Saint Omobono from being covered by concrete. Although he was a fascist and an enthusiast for many of the fascist cultural programs, Colini also was the most serious scholar of the three regime archaeologists;35 he was criticized by Muñoz for devoting too much time to his own research.36 To do these individuals justice, they were not totally insensitive to the prob- lems of clearing and restoration in a complex urban environment like Rome.37 However, they did have their historical priorities in which the classical monuments came first; they got caught up in the enthusiasms of the moment; and they worked under tremendous political pressure. The archaeological work of Mussolini, in spite of its attendant de- struction, was received with enthusiasm by most non-Italian as well as Italian archaeologists. The English archaeologist Eugenie Sellers Strong is often cited as one of its supporters, but she was joined by the German Ludwig Curtius, who saw much to praise in Mussolini’s identification with Roman imperial history.38 Many European and American archaeolo- gists were generally sympathetic to Mussolini and his social and political goals.39 As classical archaeologists they could not help but be excited by the many new discoveries and the better understanding of the ancient 182 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM monuments made possible by the sventramento. The loss of so much of picturesque Rome was a small price to pay for such progress. The fascists extended this use of archaeology as propaganda to their North African colonies. There they learned from the French about how to employ classical archaeology as a tool for justifying modern colonial- ism.40 The Italians had seized Libya, with its rich Greek, Punic, and Roman sites, from the Ottomans in 1911. In 1912 Salvatore Aurigemma (1885–1969), a Halbherr protégé, was sent out to Tripoli as inspector of antiquities.41 One of his first acts was to restore the triumphal arch of Marcus Aurelius at Cyrene. He also began collecting materials for a museum at Tripoli; it opened in 1919. However, native resistance and the outbreak of World War I limited the exploitation of Libyan archaeological resources. While the Italian archaeologists often faced a losing battle in trying to protect archaeological sites from the military, some important discoveries—such as the statue of Diana of Ephesus at Leptis and the villa at Zliten, with its impressive mosaics—were preserved. A year after the annexation of Libya, Italy moved into the Aegean and seized the Dodecanese Islands, including Rhodes, from the Turks. These two new colonial acquisitions required basically similar but also subtly different archaeological policies. In both, an antiquities ad- ministration modeled on that of Italy was imposed.42 Foreign archae- ologists were allowed no place in either colony. The Americans were forced out of Libya, and the Danes had to abandon their excavations at Lindos on Rhodes. Italian excavations were conducted, Italian museums founded, and Italian journals created. However, history and specific colonial policy made different de- mands. Libya was divided into two parts. To the east Cyrenaica, which had the former Greek colony of Cyrene at its center, had striking Greek and Roman remains, such as the Temple of Apollo, that were worth excavating and restoring. There archaeologists like the Cretan expert Luigi Pernier (1874–1937) did important work.43 Tripolitania to the west had a Punic origin, but that phase of its history was of relatively little interest to the Italians, especially as political anti-Semitism became more pervasive.44 It was the romanità, and especially the great Roman cities of Tripolitania, that interested the Italians. Starting in the twenties and expanding into the thirties Italian archaeologists like Pietro Romanelli, Renato Bartoccini, and Giacomo Guido excavated intensely at sites like Leptis Magna and Sabratha.45 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 183 The archaeologists in different ways and to different degrees ac- cepted the fascist ideology. Pietro Romanelli (1889–1981) bridged the transition from prefascist to fascist administration and like many of the older generation of nationalists adjusted easily to the Roman-centered rhetoric. He also accepted the increasing anti-Semitism as war ap- proached, as well as the comparisons between the mercantile English and the Semites of Carthage.46 He worked with Giglioli on the Mostra Augustea and transferred many of the ideas and ideological concepts to the postwar Museum of Roman Civilization.47 Renato Bartoccini (1893–1963), superintendent of excavations in Tripolitania from 1923 to 1929 and excavator at Leptis Magna, was one of the most enthusiastic followers of Mussolini, even serving the ultra- right-wing Salo Republic in the last days of fascist Italy. After the war he received amnesty for his fascist activities and returned in 1952 to excavate at Leptis and Sabratha.48 Giacomo Caputo (1901–94) was a Sicilian who studied with Biagio Pace, Paolo Orsi, and Alessandro della Seta. By the time he became superintendent in Libya, the fascist rhetoric had become embedded in North African archaeological policy, and he followed the line. Stress was placed on spectacular projects that cleared major sites like Leptis and Sabratha for archaeological tourism. However, along with his assistant Gennaro Pesce, Caputo performed impressive service in protecting the archaeological monuments, staying at his post after the outbreak of hostilities and returning after the war to aid the British administration.49 In the course of the Italian North African excavations, entire cities, with their theaters, baths, fora, and elegant houses were unearthed. Museums were created and guidebooks published. During the 1930s the governor of Libya, Italo Balbo, created a tourist infrastructure that brought European and American travelers to the North African archaeo- logical sites.50 The civilizing accomplishments of the Romans were made visible, both to the new Italian colonists transplanted to Cyrene and to the nationalists at home. While the archaeological emphasis was on the great urban sites, the rural areas were not ignored. The authorities sought to learn from the Roman use of land and water as they established new settlements. The Italians sent into Libya could find inspiration in the Roman ruins as they worked to create a new imperium romanum on the North African shores. The situation on Rhodes was very different.51 A small, well-populated 184 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM island, Rhodes offered few possibilities for new colonial foundations. Its great classical heritage was Greek, not Roman. The Italian archaeolo- gists found sites for important work, but Rhodes did not offer the op- portunities for pro-Roman propaganda that North Africa did. However, during the Middle Ages, the Knights of Rhodes and others had turned the island into a Christian bastion against the march of Islam, and the Italian colonialists sought to emphasize this Western phase of the island’s history. To do so they applied their skills at historical restoration learned on the buildings of Rome. Structures like the former headquarters of the Knights of Rhodes were restored to their medieval form and used as museums and administrative headquarters. The archaeologist most closely associated with Rhodes was Amadeo Maiuri (1886–1963), who was even better than Giglioli at surviving in prefascist, fascist, and postfascist Italy.52 He attended the University of Rome and became a protégé of Federico Halbherr, working with him on Crete. In 1914 he was sent to Rhodes, where he found a chaotic ar- chaeological scene with poor administration and a lively trade in antiqui- ties. He remained for ten years, excavating, working with the architect Giuseppe Gerola to restore buildings, and founding the archaeological museum at Rhodes.53 He was succeeded by the strongly profascist ar- chaeologist Giulio Jacopi.54 Maiuri’s reward for his successful operations in Rhodes was appoint- ment as superintendent of excavations for Campania, the richest archaeo- logical plum outside of Rome,55 a post he held until 1961. He arrived at Pompeii at a controversial moment in its archaeological history. When Giuseppe Fiorelli had departed for Rome in 1875, he had been succeeded by Michele Ruggiero (1811–1900), who remained as superintendent un- til 1893. It was Ruggiero who initiated a major program of restoration designed to preserve structures and works of art that had been exposed to the elements for centuries.56 He was succeeded by Giulio DePetra (1841–1925), who was forced out of office because of the controversies that arose over the export of the Boscoreale silver to the Louvre and paintings to France (they ultimately ended up in the United States).57 Maiuri’s immediate predecessor was Vittorio Spinazzola (1863–1943), a well-connected archaeologist who enjoyed solid political support in pre–World War I Rome.58 Spinazzola did important work at Pompeii, especially in the excavations along the via dell’Abbondanza, where he elected to leave paintings and objects in place rather than transfer them POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 185 to the Naples Museum.59 But he was dismissed following an investigation of alleged administrative misbehavior in 1923, shortly after the fascists came to power. Scholars are divided on whether the charges were true, some arguing that minor lapses were blown out of proportion—that the fascists made him one of their first victims because they considered him to be too closely associated with the previous, liberal regime.60 At that time the Campanian archaeological district was one of the largest and richest in Italy, embracing Naples and its surrounding terri- tories, with sites like Pompeii, Herculaneum, Paestum, and much of the interior of south central Italy.61 Upon his arrival Maiuri launched a vigorous excavation policy, which he continued until his retirement. For the first time since the 1870s digging was resumed in 1927 at the technically challenging site of Herculaneum. The bimillennium of the birth of Vergil inspired fascist-oriented historical nostalgia excavations at places with Vergilian associations such as Cumae.62 However, Maiuri’s major archaeological legacy was at Pompeii, where he undertook one of the most ambitious programs in the history of the site. He continued Spinazzola’s excavations on the via dell’Abbondanza, moving beyond street and facade excavation to the clearing of entire houses. The dig- gers found important new residences, including the House of Menander, which contained a treasure of silver plate. Maiuri also resumed and largely completed the excavations of the Villa of the Mysteries on the outskirts of the city. He took many sounding digs in different parts of the city to recover information on the earlier history of Pompeii and pursued a vigorous program of displaying art and objects in situ. His productivity as a publishing scholar was equally impressive. Maiuri was committed to the fascist regime, but as a realistic Nea- politan he understood that no political order lasts forever, and he kept lines of communication open to colleagues who were less enthusiastic about Mussolini. His continuing friendship with Benedetto Croce, the Neapolitan intellectual who symbolized cultural resistance to the fas- cists, proved useful after the war, when Maiuri faced sanctions for his association with the fallen political order.63 As superintendent he was involved in one of the most illuminating examples of both the oppressiveness and the flexibility of the fascist regime. It was the policy of the government to send political opponents into house arrest in remote areas of South Italy. (The most famous of these was Carlo Levi, author of Christ Stopped at Eboli.) One of the 186 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM exiles dispatched to the malarial areas of the South was Umberto Zanotti Bianchi (1889–1963), an aristocratic intellectual with a strong interest in the social, cultural, and political problems of South Italy.64 He was also an archaeologist who in 1920 had founded the Society for Magna Graecia to promote research in the region. It was he who identified the ancient site of Sybaris. In the mid-1930s he began collaborating with another antifascist exile, the young archaeologist Paola Zancani Mon- tuoro (1901–87), a student of Paolo Orsi.65 Together they discovered and excavated an important Archaic sanctuary at the mouth of the Sele River near Paestum. Since Zanotti Bianchi was willing to use his own funds for archaeology, Maiuri helped arrange for him to excavate even though he was technically under house arrest.66 While nationalists and fascists were pursuing their imperial archaeo- logical dreams in Italy and the colonies, the Greeks were using archae- ology in pursuit of their megali idea (grand vision), the long-standing vision of a greater Greece that would reproduce elements of classical Hellas and the Byzantine Empire. As we have seen, archaeology had played an important role in the shaping of Greek national identity in the nineteenth century. Archaeology also was used for political pur- poses as the Greeks expanded beyond their original borders to the north and east. In 1912, fifteen days after the occupation of Thessaloníki, the Greek government began archaeological research in order to affirm the “Greekness” of that part of Macedonia.67 Similar uses were made of archaeology in disputed regions of Albania in an effort to demonstrate Hellenic and Byzantine cultural identity and reinforce arguments for political control.68 Short-lived but ambitious were the similar cultural efforts made in western Turkey in the aftermath of World War I. Greek control of con- siderable areas of western Anatolia centered on Smyrna was confirmed by the 1920 Treaty of Sèvres, and a Greek antiquities administration was established in the territory. A museum was established at Smyrna, and Greek excavations were begun at Ephesus and Klazomenai.69 The Greek occupation led to an American excavation at the Greek city of Colophon that makes an interesting comparison with the work being done at Cyrene. The project received support from the American School of Classical Studies at Athens (some of whose directors were sympathetic to the goals of the megali idea) and the Fogg Art Museum of Harvard University, which had already sponsored excavations at Sardis POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 187 and wanted to profit from the legal liminal status of the occupied terri- tories to export antiquities back to the United States.70 Hetty Goldman, one of the few female archaeologists of her generation, was placed in charge of the Colophon excavations. However, the Greek dreams of a new Byzantine Empire withered under the assault of Atatürk’s forces, Smyrna was burned, and its Greek population fled to the mainland. Hopes of extending the American classical archaeological empire to the shores of Anatolia died in the same way that they had in Libya in 1911. Hetty Goldman (1881–1972) represented in many ways the pinnacle of American female involvement in field archaeology. She had degrees from Bryn Mawr and Radcliffe Colleges, two of the institutions that had done much to foster intellectual self-identity in American women after the Civil War. She had studied at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, a center that had been relatively open to women in the late nineteenth century, and spent most of her academic career at the Insti- tute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. Goldman followed in the footsteps of the Minoan archaeologist Harriet Boyd Hawes in doing fieldwork; in 1911 she and Alice Walker (1885–1954) became two of the first women to excavate at Corinth. Her later excavation career included Eutresis, Starcevo, and Tarsus. All her projects operated geographically or chronologically at margins of the core areas of classical archaeology, which were still elite male domains.71 Most women of the interwar generation were not as successful as Goldman, although they continued to receive good educations and win fellowships at the British and American foreign schools. Piet de Joong’s collection of portraits of scholars associated with the American and Brit- ish Schools in Athens between the wars included seven women out of twenty-three students at the British School and nine out of fourteen at the American.72 Many found positions at the women’s colleges in Britain and America. A good example of the kind of careers open to these aca- demic women is that of Hilda Lorimer (1873–1954), a graduate of Girton College who studied at the British School in 1901–2.73 She returned to Greece in 1911 to excavate with Richard Dawkins at Phylakopi, then became a fellow of Somerville College at Oxford, where she remained until 1939; from 1929 she was also university lecturer. Lorimer became an expert on Protogeometric pottery and Homeric archaeology and ex- cavated at Mycenae, Ithaca, and Zakynthos. Her 1950 Homer and the Monuments was in its day a classic on Homeric archaeology. 188 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM The younger Winifred Lamb (1894–1963) had an even more uneven career. She studied at Newnham College, attended the British School at Athens, and excavated at Thermi and Antissa on Lesbos and Chios, establishing an excellent reputation as an Aegean prehistorian. She pub- lished widely and was highly respected as an archaeological scholar. But her only official position was as honorary keeper at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.74 In both England and America, the major pro- fessorships, the first-line museum curatorships, and the directorships of the “big digs” remained almost exclusively male preserves. The Americans’ disastrous experience at Smyrna nonetheless brought them some important benefits. The military failures of the Greeks in Tur- key led to the expulsion in the early 1930s of the large, well-established Greek community in Asia Minor, creating a massive refugee crisis in Greece. Many of the displaced persons settled in Athens. Housing de- mands led to pressure to intensify development of certain parts of the city. One of the areas threatened was the Plaka, below the Acropolis, which was thought to be the location of the ancient Athenian Agora. Archaeological investigation of the area became imperative, but the Greek government lacked the funds. This was an opportunity that the archaeologists of the American School of Classical Studies had to seize. The United States was the only country with the financial resources to undertake such a massive project. Since it was not technically a colonial power and had a long history of philhel- lenism, the presence of U.S. archaeologists at such a culturally sensitive site as the ancient Agora was palatable to the Greeks. Prominent patrons of the ASCSA like Edward Capps of Princeton had close contacts with the government, and they were able to facilitate the permit process.75 By the time that American archaeologists came to Greece in the late nineteenth century most of the major sites available for foreigners had already been taken. The finds and visibility of Corinth, the site they were assigned, did not match those of Delos, Olympia, or Knossos. Now the Americans were being given the opportunity to excavate at a major classical site in the center of Athens. Wealthy patrons like John D. Rocke- feller were tapped for support. The organization and execution of the excavations was entrusted to Theodore Leslie Shear, whose Princeton and American School connections guaranteed not only the best classical archaeological talent available in America but also long-term access to the financial and cultural elite of the United States.76 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 189 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The Athenian Agora excavations, 1931 (American School of Classical Studies at Athens—Agora Excavations) Other, political implications of that excavation came into play as well. At the same time that Mussolini’s archaeologists were glorifying the connections between the totalitarian state and ancient Rome, the world’s most dynamic modern democracy was being given the chance to explore the roots of its own political system in the heart of ancient Ath- ens. But the ideological differences between American democrats and Italian fascists should not mask the similarities of the two archaeological projects. The American excavations in Athens were also to be exercises in sventramento: here, too, large urban populations were displaced and historic neighborhoods destroyed. The American popular archaeology magazine Art and Archaeology portrayed the clearances as the necessary prelude to scientific progress and the local inhabitants who resisted displacement as obstructionists trying to preserve an unsavory section of old Athens.77 Ironically, the Plaka area had earlier been devastated during the Greek Wars of Independence (only 80 of 1,200 buildings retained intact roofs), and the urban development plans formulated in the 1830s had destined it for clearing and archaeological excavation.78 But as in 1930, the Greek government had lacked resources for the work, and during the course of the mid-nineteenth century the Plaka had returned to its position as a vibrant quarter of traditional Medi- terranean urban life. Today the importance of preserving such urban 190 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM neighborhoods is better appreciated, but that was not the attitude of the 1930s. What did distinguish the Agora excavations from those of Mussolini’s from the start was the quality of the work. While the driving forces be- hind both were the recovery of architectural remains and topographical information, the Americans were, especially for the period when the work started, conscious of the importance of recording and preserving the full archaeological record. Although less attention was paid to post- classical remains, and areas like environmental archaeology received little attention, this was the case for most archaeology of the period. What is striking is the degree to which materials like ceramics were re- corded and studied. The establishment of the journal Hesperia in 1929 ensured the prompt and full publication of the excavation results. The Agora excavations, with their ample resources and ties to the classical archaeological establishments of Princeton and the ASCSA, can be contrasted with the other major American excavation of the period, that at Olynthos (1928–38).79 That project was the brainchild of David Moore Robinson (1880–1958), longtime chair of the influential program in classical archaeology at Johns Hopkins University.80 Robinson was seeking an excavation to train his students, who included some of the most important American classical archaeologists of the next genera- tion, and he selected Olynthos, the northern Greek city destroyed by Philip of Macedon in 348 b.c. Since the small city had been sacked and had no significant later occupation, Robinson thought that it had the potential to be a Greek Pompeii. The excavation was a massive operation with large numbers of workers and a small supervisory staff. Initially recordkeeping was poor, but by the early 1930s a young Hopkins gradu- ate student, Walter Graham (1906–91), had introduced a system that allowed objects to be assigned to individual houses, even, occasionally, to individual rooms. The results have been praised for the information they provided on ancient Greek housing but criticized for the rapidity of the excavation. But in a period when the emphasis was on the archaeology of public buildings, the excavation of more than a hundred private houses provided the best understanding available of Greek domestic architecture. Robin- son was an energetic publisher, and the range of his reports, including studies of objects like lamps, that came out of Olynthos contrasts fa- vorably with the work being done at other American excavations at that POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 191 time.81 In the light of both the publications and the original field records, the archaeological finds from Olynthos can now be reread in the light of contemporary archaeological approaches.82 Unlike the Athenian Agora, Olynthos did not become the center for research or an archaeological school. The golden age of Johns Hopkins archaeology ended with the departure of Robinson for the University of Mississippi. In contrast the Agora excavations continue down to the pres- ent, tightly linked to the American School of Classical Studies at Athens and Princeton University. The power of the ASCSA was enhanced in 1932 when the Greeks passed an antiquities law that limited foreign nations to three excavations. The ASCSA made sure that it controlled American access to the permits, and American archaeology in Greece became confined to urban, classical sites with an approach and aims that were approved by the elite who directed policy at the school.83 The results have often been brilliant, but the dominant vision was a conser- vative one at a time when the United States was leading the field in classical archaeology.84 British classical archaeology in the Mediterranean, especially field archaeology, remained a small and impoverished operation in the first half of the twentieth century. The British did not have the financial resources to undertake the major excavations launched by the Italians, the Americans, or even the Germans and the French. However, through imaginative deployment of limited resources and the presence of some dynamic young scholars, the British managed to make a significant im- pact on Mediterranean archaeology. One of the most appealing figures in the history of British classi- cal archaeology was Humfry Payne (1902–36). Brilliant, handsome, and dashing, with a golden career ahead of him, he died young and left a legend, enhanced by a touching memoir written by his adoring widow. He was in many ways the Rupert Brooke of British classical archaeol- ogy.85 His art historical researches focused on the beautiful youthful images of the Archaic marbles from Persian debris on the Acropolis, reflecting his interest in Archaic Greek art stimulated by new trends in contemporary arts like the Secession movement in Vienna. These interests were shared by other contemporary archaeologists, such as the German Ernst Buschor (1886–1961), the scholar who revived the Ger- man Archaeological Institute in Athens.86 For Buschor and Payne this formative phase of Greek art captured “the youth of the world.”87 Payne 192 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM saw the Acropolis marbles as “the work, not only of individuals, but of a civilization.” For him “above all this the sculpture of the Acropolis is the expression of a purely aesthetic point of view, a point of view towards that which is the ultimate essential of all sculpture—the creation of three-dimensional form.”88 Payne collaborated with the archaeologist-photographer Gerard Mackworth-Young in a classic work of photographic archaeology, Archaic Marble Sculptures from the Acropolis (1936, 2d ed. 1950). The statues were photographed with carefully controlled light and wherever possible in the open air. The British work paralleled and probably drew inspiration from a growing interest of German archaeologists and photographers like Gerhart Rodenwaldt and Walter Hege in using art photography to capture the beauty and clarity of classical art. For Rodenwaldt, Greek art could be appreciated only in the “clear light of Attica.”89 Hege produced a series of images in which the monuments stood out crisp and clean against a filtered, dark, usually almost cloudless, sky. Payne’s focus on Greek artistic ideals and to a certain degree the myth of a pure Hellas fitted well the aesthetic and cultural vision of someone who was a student of John Beazley, recalling the days when Sir John embraced the ideals of the Shropshire Lad rather than the obscurities of the CVA. Payne was also caught up in the romantic vision of the sturdy peasants of modern Greece and echoed the idealization of ancient Greece in the tradition of Winckelmann and Goethe then being advanced by such members of the contemporary German neoclassical school of the Dritte Humanismus (third humanism) as the archaeologist Ludwig Curtius and the philologist Werner Jaeger.90 Payne was more than just another neoclassical idealist, for he was interested in field archaeology and in the widening of the horizons of Greek archaeology in both time and space. In particular, he sought to look back to the roots of Greek civilization. Ceramicists had by this time developed a reasonably reliable chronology that stretched from the My- cenaean to the Classical era, and Payne made an important contribution to the refining of the chronology with his 1931 Necrocorinthia.91 What was now needed were more excavations focused on the preclassical period that would place the various types of archaeological material in context, improve the dating, and relate it to the dynamic interactions of cultures in the Mediterranean during the early centuries of the first millennium b.c. POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 193 British archaeologists had already pioneered in the study of that formative period of Greek civilization. David Hogarth (1862–1927) had excavated the Archaic temple of Diana at Ephesus in 1904 and 1905. Us- ing relatively sophisticated field techniques he had recovered ivories and other materials from the Archaic period.92 The excavations by Richard Dawkins (1871–1955) of the shrine of Artemis Orthia at Sparta in the early years of the century produced rich deposits of ivories, bronzes, ceramics, and other votive materials that among other things demon- strated that the legend of an austere Sparta was exaggerated and that in the Archaic period it had been a center of artistic production and international contact. The international contact was made especially vivid by a large number of clay masks that seem to have their closest parallels on the Levantine coast. Dorian Sparta may even have hosted Phoenician traders.93 In 1930 Payne started excavations at Perachora, an isolated headland near Corinth. He unearthed architectural, ivory, and ceramic remains at the Sanctuary of Hera Akraia that dated to the mid-ninth century b.c.94 The site also yielded large numbers of scarabs and other objects that showed interactions between Perachora and the Levantine coast.95 It was a classic British dig, undertaken with slender resources and carried out under primitive conditions. It also reflected a flexibility and open- ness to opportunity that the more rigid structures of the better-endowed institutions would not have allowed. This extension of archaeological interests back to the formative pe- riod of Greek civilization raised new questions about the roots of that civilization, as well as about its early interconnections with the cultures of the Near East. Such debates took on ideological and even racial tones, for with the rise of the Nazis the Aryan explanation for the origins of Greek civilization was becoming more popular. Many still held to visions of Dorians coming down from the North, bringing the ordered, disci- plined mentality that expressed itself in the Geometric style and underlay later Greek art. Near Eastern influences remained suspect, since they were considered soft, decadent, and—most damning for many Teutonic scholars of the 1930s—Semitic. Still, the literary sources said much about the Greek, Phoenician, and Egyptian interactions in the formative period of Greek civilization. The Greek-Egyptian connections had been demonstrated archaeologically by one of the most important early British excavations, at Naukratis 194 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM in the Nile Delta. Naukratis was famous in the literary sources as the place where the sixth-century b.c. pharaoh Amasis allowed the Greeks to establish a trading community. Flinders Petrie had excavated the site in the 1880s, finding quantities of Greek ceramics that took trad- ing contacts back into the late seventh century b.c.96 Ernest Gardner continued the excavations in 1886; they were resumed by David Hogarth in 1899 and 1903.97 While the importance of the Naukratis excavations for certain tech- nical problems like the dating of early Greek ceramics was recognized, the larger implications of the site were not appreciated. That was due in part to the fact that Petrie was an Egyptologist and even Hogarth was out of the mainstream of British classical archaeology. The key issues concerned economic activities that did not interest idealists seeking the essence of Hellenic civilization. And the Greeks active at early Naukratis were from Ionia and the islands, regarded as “soft Greeks” by those who extolled Doric vigor. Just before the outbreak of World War II the British Mesopotamian archaeologist Leonard Woolley excavated another probable emporion (trading center) site at Al Mina on the northwest Syrian coast. Greek traders, probably from Euboea, had come there during the early eighth century b.c. and continued to trade there with the various peoples of the Near East until the fourth century b.c. The initial pottery finds were almost all Euboean Greek, but with time the number of non-Euboean and non-Greek wares increased.98 Like Naukratis, Al Mina provided an example of the complexity of Greek and Near Eastern economic and presumably cultural interaction. From the eighth to the fourth century b.c., the city-states of Greece had been in intensive contact with Sicily and South Italy, founding colonies and fighting, supporting, and reinforcing them as power re- lationships shifted. The neo-Hellenists of the late eighteenth century had begun to discover the Doric splendors of Magna Graecia and Sic- ily. Then interests had shifted to Greece, and classical archaeologists outside Italy had lost interest in the rich Greek cities of the West. If the world of the eastern Mediterranean was viewed as corrupted by orien- tal Semitism, the West was characterized as a vulgar, ancient Hellenic version of America. These attitudes began to change as archaeological attention focused on the orientalizing and Archaic periods, and the young British archae- POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 195 ologists who excavated at Perachora realized the extent of Corinthian economic power not only in mainland Greece but also in the West. Dilys Powell, Humfry Payne’s widow, described the ferocious debates between her husband and his young contemporary Alan Blakeway on the signifi- cance of Greek trade in the West.99 Blakeway (1898–1936) appreciated the importance of the ceramic evidence for understanding the complex processes of trade and colonization in the West. While his “trade before the flag” view of merchants preparing the way for imperial expansion reflected contemporary colonialist perspectives, and he was unwilling to accept the importance of the Phoenicians in the movement westward, Blakeway did make his contemporaries appreciate the complex processes that linked Greece and the West in the eighth through sixth centuries b.c., and the importance of the new evidence from both Greece and Italy for understanding these developments.100 Unfortunately Blakeway, like Payne, died young, and it was left to others to develop his ideas. Blakeway’s student Thomas Dunbabin (1911–55) picked up the chal- lenge.101 Dunbabin was an Australian who received his university educa- tion in England and studied at the British School in Athens. He became interested in mainland–western Greek connections and spent consider- able time in Italy, especially Sicily, mastering the Greek archaeological material that had been discovered there. In 1937 he completed his Ox- ford doctoral dissertation, which was published in 1948 as The Western Greeks. It highlighted the perspective of an Australian colonial who identified with the Anglo-Saxon mother country. He emphasized the con- nection of colony and mother city, downplaying the cultural initiatives of the colonies. He was reluctant to acknowledge much interaction be- tween the Greeks and the indigenous peoples (cultural and, even more, biological mingling made most colonials uncomfortable at the time), and could not come to grips with the probable importance of the role played by the Semitic Phoenicians in shaping Sicily at that period.102 Neverthe- less, the publication of his book after World War II at a time when Italy was opening up to foreign archaeologists might have stimulated some of the British archaeological work that was done in Sicily. Sadly, Dunbabin, like Payne and Blakeway, died relatively young. Like Columbus with the New World, so Blakeway and Dunbabin with the Greek West: they hardly discovered something new but merely called the attention of the Anglophones to a world that Italians like Paolo Orsi had long been exploring. Indeed, Orsi, working as both a prehistoric 196 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM and a classical archaeologist, had emphasized interpretative models that examined the developments on the island from an indigenous perspec- tive. Both Italian nationalism, especially under the fascists, and Sicilian regionalism reinforced such views of the island’s history. That can be seen in Biagio Pace’s Arte e civilità nella Sicilia antica (Art and civiliza- tion in ancient Sicily), the first volume of which appeared in 1935. Pace (1899–1955) was a Sicilian who studied at the University of Palermo and throughout his life remained devoted to his native region, though he worked with the classical archaeologist and art historian Carlo Anti (1889–1961) in Asia Minor.103 He was also an enthusiastic fascist, who was a deputy in the Italian Parliament during most of the regime.104 Pace’s intellectual approach blended the positivism of the antiquar- ian tradition with a desire to assert the distinctiveness, continuity, and creativity of Sicilian culture.105 He was reacting against the negative view of the Western Greeks embodied in the dismissal by the more tra- ditional architectural archaeologist William Dinsmoor (1886–1973): “As we proceed westward among the colonies we find even more emphasis on the tendency toward ostentation, accompanied, however, by a certain amount of provincialism or ‘cultural lag’ and also, by barbaric distortions resulting from the intermixture not only of colonists of various origins but also of native taste.”106 He was obviously also sympathetic to the currently popular Ital- ian nationalistic approach that stressed not only romanità but also the more basic Italic roots that were seen as underlying Greek and Ro- man accretions. This perspective differed sharply from that of Thomas Dunbabin. The 1920s and the 1930s proved to be a highly stressful if at times a dynamic period for German classical archaeology. The bloodbath of World War I was followed by the economic, political, and social chaos of Weimar, and then the rise and triumph of Nazism. Since classical archaeology did not have the central ideological role under the Nazis that it enjoyed in Mussolini’s Italy, the turf battles fought out in Berlin have less relevance here. What was important were the various intel- lectual and cultural debates, which ranged from the often unenlightened defense of the nineteenth-century positivistic status quo to nostalgic efforts to revive the mental world of Winckelmann and Goethe to formu- lations of classical archaeology that accepted and tried to use creatively, if at times perversely, the paradigms of race and culture that had long POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 197 underpinned German thought, but which Nazism brought to the fore. This complex world of intellect, ideology, and politics can best be seen in the German universities and in the activities of the German schools in Greece and Rome. The German Archaeological Institute at Athens resumed full opera- tions in 1920 under the brief directorship of Franz Studniczka (1860– 1929).107 He was succeeded by Ernest Buschor, the last student of Adolf Furtwängler. Buschor’s scholarship was pivotal in defining the impor- tance of the Archaic period for the development of Greek art. That archaeological interest found expression in the German excavations on Samos, a site key for understanding the early periods of Greek civiliza- tion.108 In 1930 Georg Karo (1872–1963) took over as first secretary of the Institute until 1936, when he was forced to resign because of his Jewish parentage.109 The excavations of the German School at Athens resumed in the ancient Athens cemetery of the Kerameikos. Excavation had been started there in 1863 by the Archaeological Society of Athens and had continued for many years under the direction of the German scholar Alfred Brück- ner (1861–1936).110 The digs had provided much topographical informa- tion and recovered considerable amounts of classical sculpture. The concession had been transferred to the Germans in 1913, but it was not until 1926 that German excavations could be undertaken on a regular basis.111 The Kerameikos, with its long occupation history and complex problems of both vertical stratigraphy and horizontal extension, posed many challenges for the field archaeologist. The German field director Karl Kubler met the challenge well and provided important new insight into the development of the cemetery that is vital for an understanding of classical Athens. The German excavations were especially focused on the formative period of Greek civilization known as the Geometric. The pioneering ceramic archaeologists of the 1870s had recognized a distinct class of Greek pots decorated with abstract patterns as occurring very early in the history of Greek ceramics.112 The Kerameikos yielded an impressive series of these, including the massive Dipylon grave markers, named for their find spot near one of the major gates of the ancient city. The Geometric pots with their ordered patterns were soon inter- preted as an expression of the logical Indo-European mind, signs of the northern mentality brought into Greece by the Dorians. As early as 1870 198 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM Alexander Conze had linked the geometric patterns to primitive designs brought into Greece by the Indo-Germans.113 German archaeologists in particular continued to develop this theme in spite of the increasing typological evidence linking Mycenaean to Geometric pottery and the fact that the finest examples of Geometric ceramics, such as the Dipylon style, came from Athens, a city that the ancients regarded as having been bypassed by the Dorian invasion. Needless to say, traditional Dorian invasion models were strengthened during the Nazi era.114 The Nazis saw the Dorians from the north as the true heart of Greece. Stylistic analyses were complemented by physical anthropological studies of the Kerameikos burials by Emil Breitinger. Skeletal analysis was joined to stylistic analysis to Aryanize the Greeks.115 The Nazi government provided money starting in 1936 to resume the excavations at Olympia. The project was part of the propaganda buildup leading to the Berlin Olympics, and Hitler, like the kaiser before him, provided the funds from his personal accounts.116 Excavations continued until 1943, when war conditions made fieldwork impossible. A principal in the new undertaking was Hans Schleif (1902–45), a classical archaeolo- gist who had excavated with the Ahenenerbe, the archaeological branch of the SS in Germany, before going to Olympia. Schleif committed sui- cide when the imminent defeat of the Nazis became clear.117 The German Archaeological Institute in Rome enjoyed one of its great periods between the wars. Initial conditions were hardly auspi- cious, for its headquarters on the Capitoline, the scene of so many important events in the history of classical archaeology, had been con- fiscated by the Italians during the war. German scholars had been ex- pelled from their positions in Italian universities, and even the future of the Institute’s great library was in doubt. However, both German and international support was too great to let such an important institution die. Italian intellectuals led by Benedetto Croce rallied to the Institute, a new building was found, and the German Archaeological Institute came back to life.118 The Institute was fortunate to have as directors for much of the interwar period two great scholars and friends of Rome. The first was Walter Amelung (1865–1927), a student of Heinrich von Brunn. He was a wealthy bachelor who did not need to pursue the usual German aca- demic professional path and had settled in Rome in 1895. He spent his time as an independent scholar cataloging the Vatican collection and POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 199 producing one of the most important guidebooks to the Roman muse- ums.119 Forced back to Germany at the outbreak of the war, he returned to Rome in 1921 to undertake the difficult task of reestablishing the Institute. It reopened at its new quarters in 1924 and remained the most important foreign archaeological center in Rome until the outbreak of World War II.120 Following Amelung’s death, in 1928 the post of first secretary was awarded to Ludwig Curtius (1874–1954).121 Curtius was a student of Furt- wängler and preserved the spirit more than the strict scholarly method of his Munich master. His scholarly interests were wide-ranging, with specialties in sculpture and Roman painting. He was a humanist in the grand German tradition whose love of music can be traced back to time spent at the Furtwängler household, where his mentor’s son, the great conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler, was spending his formative years. Curtius was an admirer of Goethe and helped reawaken interest in Winckelmann’s views on the inspirational qualities of Greek sculpture.122 He joined with other intellectuals like the writer Stefan George and the classicist Werner Jaeger in creating a new humanism based in part on the values of eighteenth-century classicism, but also reflecting deep, if not always savory, currents of German nationalism.123 A romanticizing neoclassicism and theories of racial determinism were part of a complex dialogue in interwar Germany that included tra- ditional positivistic/historicist scholarship and efforts to find a new art historical methodology that would be both scientific and universal in its application. An example of this was the critical method favored by certain German archaeologists during the interwar years called Strukturforschung (structural analysis).124 Through Strukturforschung archaeologists sought to define the underlying mental and visual structures that shaped the works of individual artists at different time periods. The approach had its roots in Kunstwollen (artistic volition) concepts developed by Viennese art historians like Alois Riegl in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Viennese scholars had emphasized general cultural factors that shaped both art and crafts in antiquity as a counter to the emphasis on artists and schools that had dominated much of late-nineteenth- century Germanic scholarship. Among the most talented of the advocates of Strukturforschung was the young Austrian art historian Guido von Kaschnitz-Weinberg (1890–1958).125 Kaschnitz-Weinberg was a rising star in the German 200 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM archaeological community of the interwar period. He was married to the highly respected poet Marie-Luise Kaschnitz and moved easily in humanistic circles, but his career continued under the Nazis. In the climate of the times such an approach as Strukturforschung, which in some respects anticipated structuralism, could easily take on a racist tone. In 1944 Kaschnitz-Weinberg published Mittelmeerischen Grund- lagen (Mediterranean foundations), which was concerned among other things with Rassenpsychologische Grundlagen (foundations of racial psy- chology).126 His involvement with the Nazi regime and sympathy for certain aspects of its ideology were not considered sufficiently damaging to prevent him from becoming a leader in the postwar German classical archaeological establishment, and he led the German Archaeological Institute in Rome from 1952 to 1955. The archaeologist who in many respects best represented the hopes, failures, and tragedies of German archaeology in the interwar period was Gerhart Rodenwaldt (1886–1945).127 He was a student of Carl Rob- ert (1850–1922), the professor of classical archaeology at Halle, whose research on sarcophagi he continued.128 He was a skilled administra- tor who served as president of the German Archaeological Institute in Berlin from 1922 to 1932, a post he left to become a professor at the Berlin University.129 During his years at the Institute, he used his posi- tion to reestablish ties with scholars in other countries and renew the international community of classical archaeology. His efforts culminated in the widely attended celebration of the hundredth anniversary of the Institute.130 Rodenwaldt was a distinguished art historical scholar who worked in both Greek and Roman archaeology and was selected to suc- ceed Eugenie Sellers Strong as the author of the chapters on Roman art in the Cambridge Ancient History. His research on elements of “popular art” in Roman sculpture anticipated the postwar contributions of the Italian Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli.131 He had a romantic, idealist vi- sion of Greek art that rejected the “classicism” of the Roman copies and sought the spirit of the originals, preferably under “their luminous Attic sky.” For him “the best classical art demands for its appreciation an inner harmony which must be attained before one can approach it in the right spirit,” and his vision was best captured in the texts he wrote for books of photographs by the Walter Hege.132 Rodenwaldt joined with Theodor Wiegand in organizing special ex- hibitions on athletic sculpture in Greek art for the 1936 Olympics. At POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 201 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Gerhart Rodenwaldt, historian of Roman art and archaeology and president of the German Archaeological Institute in Berlin during the interwar period (German Archaeological Institute, Berlin) the same time he republished the picture book on Olympia that he had prepared with the Hege.133 His devotion to the classical ideal persisted to the end. On January 25, 1945, he presented to the Archaeological Institute an essay on neoclassical architecture in Berlin at a time when Allied bombers were devastating the old city.134 Rodenwaldt and his wife, depressed by the loss of their son during the war and fearing what the 202 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM new regime would bring, committed suicide in 1945 just as the Soviet army was fighting its way into Berlin. The seizure of power by the Nazis in 1933 affected German classical archaeology in a variety of ways. The Nazi ideology, with its emphasis on the German Volk, naturally favored the type of Aryan racist archaeology propounded by the prehistorian Gustaf Kossinna and used these theo- ries to justify German conquests in Eastern Europe.135 However, Hitler himself had practiced as an artist and had considerable sympathy for Hellenic aesthetic values. Albert Speer, who did much to promote yet another revival of neoclassical art at the expense of Bauhaus, records in his diary Hitler’s skepticism about the archaeological claims for the German Volk made by Nazi leaders like Heinrich Himmler.136 The most immediate and dramatic result of the Nazi regime was the expulsion from academic positions of Jewish scholars, including a number of classical archaeologists. Germany’s loss was America’s gain as distinguished scholars like Margarete Bieber, Richard Krautheimer, and Karl Lehmann emigrated to America. Others, like Otto Brendel, migrated because they could not tolerate life and work under the tyran- nical regime.137 In the United States these émigrés not only revitalized the links between German and American classical archaeology that had characterized the profession in the late nineteenth century, but they provided a strong infusion of Hellenistic and Roman archaeology into a profession that had been dominated by classical Hellas. The fate of Karl Lehmann (1894–1960) captures the uncertainties of the era.138 Lehmann was a student of the Berlin archaeologist Fer- dinand Noack (1865–1931) and the Hellenist Ulrich von Wilamowitz Moellendorf (1848–1931), who was interested in both Hellenistic and Roman architecture. In 1933 he had just settled into a professorship at Munster and launched an important program of research at Pompeii, when he was ousted from his Munster position both for his Jewish an- cestry (although he was at the time a practicing Lutheran) and for his liberal political views. He passed two years of exile in Italy, completing his research at Pompeii, and then emigrated to the United States, taking up a professorship at the New York University Institute of Fine Arts. In 1938 he returned to the Mediterranean to start a long-term program of excavations at Samothrace.139 Margarete Bieber (1879–1978) also deserves a special mention for she had to overcome the twin obstacles of being Jewish and a female POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 203 to become a distinguished academic before the Nazis came to power.140 She was one of the first women to study classical archaeology at the university level and the second woman to become an associate at the German Archaeological Institute in Rome. She had to wait until the more open days of the Weimar Republic to do her advanced study, and it was under Weimar that, in 1931, she was named professor at the Uni- versity of Giessen. Expelled from her post by the Nazis, she found a new home and a successful career at Columbia University. More complicated was the fate of the Austrian German Jewish scholar Peter Kahane (1904–74). He left Germany in 1933 for Athens, where he hoped to continue his dissertation research. However, as a Jew he found himself barred from the library of the German Archaeo- logical Institute. The Austrian institute was more hospitable, but the Anschluss of 1938 forced him to flee once again. This time he went to Palestine, where he remained and had a distinguished career in the Israeli museum service.141 Institutions were also reorganized to reflect the new order. Compli- cated power struggles in the archaeological community led to changes that generally did not favor the older classical archaeology institutions or Roman studies, which were seen as being in direct competition with the glorification of “Germania libera.”142 After the Anschluss, Austria became part of Germany, and from 1938 to 1945 the Austrian Archaeologi- cal Institute was merged with the German Institute. Hitler took special care to continue important Austrian excavations like those at the Roman center of Carnuntum.143 The Nazi era in German classical archaeology culminated with the International Congress of Classical Archaeology held in late August 1939, just as war was about to break out again in Europe. Given the realities of the time, the attendees were overwhelmingly German. Only eleven British and eight Americans were scheduled to attend, and in the end several of these did not come. (While at the Congress one of the British participants, Eric Birley, received a coded message to return to London to begin his war-related intelligence work.)144 The program was on the whole conservative and apolitical, a tribute to the empirical tradition that German scholarship had created. Stress was placed on the German cultural traditions of the past, complete with performances of Handel and Schiller. However, new myths and realities intruded. The Congress was opened 204 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM with greetings from Adolf Hitler, while Giulio Giglioli spoke about the Mostra Augustea della romanità and the planned Mostra della romanità scheduled to open on April 21, 1942. An omen for the future was Spyri- don Marinatos’s paper on the protection of monuments during wartime. Marinatos was present as a representative of the Antiquities Service of the Greek dictator Ioannis Metaxos, whose authoritarian regime would soon defend Greece and, ironically, Greek democratic values, against the Axis.145 (When Marinatos returned to power under the colonels in the late 1960s, he purged the Antiquities Service of his political oppo- nents.)146 Walter Wrede of Athens and Siegfried Fuchs of Rome gave presentations, the latter on the German presence in early medieval Italy. Both speakers were closely allied with the Nazis and were to play an important role in German cultural politics in their respective centers during the war. Among the other foreign schools active in Rome in the interwar period the British deserve special mention. The British School of Ar- chaeology had been founded in the late nineteenth century and became part of a combined British School at Rome during World War I.147 It always suffered from underfunding, but it also had to deal with the Italian legal restrictions on foreign excavations. The school rose above those handicaps by defining as its special areas of research topographi- cal survey and Roman art history. The great topographer Thomas Ashby (1874–1931) concentrated on the location, mapping, and description of Roman remains in the hinterland of the city, laying the foundation for the tradition of archaeological survey that remains at the center of the school’s research program today.148 Eugenie Sellers Strong used her art historical talents to advocate the importance of Roman art to an Anglo-American world obsessed with classical Greece.149 Strong was also a brilliant hostess, whose regular salons made the British School into one of the favored cultural gathering places in post–World War I Rome. Sadly, internal politics at the school led to the dismissal of both Ashby and Strong in 1925, and left the school a marginal force in clas- sical archaeology until after World War II.150 The same was true for the American Academy in Rome during the 1920s and the 1930s.151 Roman provincial archaeology in northwest Europe did not change significantly during the interwar period. In Germany the discipline was weakened by the Nazi interest in prehistoric archaeology, but its basic structure and emphases remained intact. While Romano-Gallic studies POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 205 were given more attention in the universities, the archaeology of Ro- man France was still left mainly in the hands of amateur savants. The study of Roman Britain also remained the responsibility of a small core of professionals and a large body of avocational archaeologists. Three figures from those two worlds of Romano-British archaeology between the wars deserve more notice. When Francis Haverfield died in 1919, broken by the loss of so many promising students in the Great War, his successor as the academic doyen of Romano-British archaeology was Robin Collingwood (1889– 1943), also of Oxford, but a professor of philosophy.152 Collingwood’s father was an antiquarian and had served as John Ruskin’s secretary. For the young Collingwood, Romano-British archaeology was a secondary interest, which he pursued in part out of loyalty toward Haverfield and a desire to keep the discipline alive at Oxford. It was also a proving ground for the application of his historiographical ideas.153 He was an interpreter more than an excavator, who saw the study of Roman Britain as “a sort of live laboratory,” which, in his own words, was “necessary for the advancement of my philosophical work.”154 As a philosopher of history he argued for the need to move beyond digging sites because they were there to a Baconian approach, in which excavations aimed at resolving problems that had been articulated in advance and archaeologists tried to get into the “minds” of people in the past. Collingwood’s vision of the proper conceptual preparation for archaeology has led to a revival of interest in his work among post-processualists like Ian Hodder.155 British archaeology had never been as divided as it was in Germany by conflicts between prehistoric and Roman archaeology. Indeed, pio- neers like Pitt-Rivers moved readily between the two time periods. The fruitful potential of such links were also seen during those years in the archaeological research of Mortimer Wheeler.156 Wheeler (1890–1976) had received most of his formal archaeological education at the Univer- sity of London from Ernest Gardner, a formalist student of Greek art. However, he was drawn to fieldwork and sought to revive the rigorous methodology practiced by Pitt-Rivers in the middle years of the nine- teenth century. After World War I he started a series of excavations at Iron Age and Romano-British sites in England and Wales that were to establish his reputation as the finest field archaeologist of his generation. The sites that best represented Wheeler’s fieldwork in the immediate prewar period were the Roman city of Verulamium and the Iron Age 206 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Aerial photograph of the Iron Age hill fort of Maiden Castle in southwest England. Mortimer Wheeler developed his new, more “scientific” excavation techniques on the site. (Society of Antiquaries of London) hill fort of Maiden Castle.157 At those sites he developed the so-called Wheeler method of site work, which stresses careful excavation and the use of rigid grid systems to facilitate full and accurate recording. The Wheeler grid method dominated the best field archaeology until open- area archaeology became popular in the 1970s. Wheeler’s 1954 Archae- ology from the Earth summarized the results of his work and captured the spirit of his career as a field archaeologist. Wheeler was a force- ful personality who was not shy about castigating what he saw as the sloppy archaeology of his colleagues, especially those working in the Mediterranean and the Near East. His vision of a broader, interdisciplin- ary archaeology was realized in his Institute of Archaeology, which was founded at the University of London in 1934. The third important British figure is Frank Gerald Simpson (1882– 1955), who bridged the worlds of the amateur and professional in the still-unformed discipline of Romano-British archaeology. He came from a well-to-do family in the north of England and could devote his life to archaeology without worrying about making a living. Simpson learned ar- POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 207 chaeology not in the classroom but in that great teaching lab of Romano- British archaeology, Hadrian’s Wall. He established a reputation as a su- perb field technician, and for many years was the director of field studies at the University of Durham. He played an important role in developing a more scientific approach to Romano-British archaeology.158 Some of the most lavish and important archaeological research dur- ing this interwar period took place in territories that came under the control of the colonial powers after World War I. The major attraction of these mandate territories was the fact that a portion of the objects excavated could be exported to the institutions that sponsored the exca- vations. This appealed especially to American museums, which still had limited collections of ancient art and large purses. The 1920s through the 1930s was the greatest period of American museum archaeology in the Mediterranean, focusing particularly on Egypt and Syria. Two American excavations were launched in French-controlled Syria. The first started at ancient Antioch in 1932 and continued until 1939. It was sponsored by Princeton University and a consortium of French and American museums.159 Antioch had been one of the largest and wealthiest cities of the Hellenistic and Roman worlds, but unlike com- parable cities such as Alexandria and Rome, it did not have a history of continuous occupation. The site had long been abandoned, and the archaeologists hoped that the remains of the Classical period would be largely intact. It was anticipated that the Antioch site would enable archaeologists to study one of the major planned cities founded in the wake of Alexander the Great’s conquests. Those hopes were not fulfilled, for the ruins lay too deeply buried by the silts of the Orontes River for systematic exploration. However, sites on the urban fringe, especially in rich suburbs like Daphnae, were accessible. They yielded numerous elite residences with an impressive collection of mosaics that documented the changing visual culture of the Roman East from the early empire to late antiquity.160 These mo- saics were lifted and now grace the collections of several American museums. More successful were the excavations at Dura-Europos on the Eu- phrates.161 The site had been discovered by British soldiers just after World War I. The French started excavations in 1922 under the distin- guished scholar of ancient religions Franz Cumont (1868–1947) and were joined by American archaeologists from Yale University in 1928.162 208 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM Digging continued until 1938. The city had been founded by the Seleu- cids and had experienced Parthian and Roman periods of occupation. The Russian émigré ancient historian Michael Rostovtzeff (1870–1952), who had a broader and more complex vision of the ancient world than almost any of his contemporaries, recognized the importance of the site not only for its superb preservation but also for the insight it provided into the interaction of cultures on the eastern frontiers of the Roman Empire.163 That preservation was due both to the dry desert environment, which allowed the recovery of textiles, leather, and papyri, and to the fact that the city had been permanently abandoned after a short Sassanian Persian siege. Rostovtzeff called it the “Pompeii of the East.” The excavations produced impressive material on the multicultural world of the Roman East.164 Among the most important finds were the remains of a synagogue with painted biblical scenes and an early Chris- tian baptistery. Papyri found there provided detailed insight into military and civilian life in that garrison town. The excavation itself was per- formed in the standard Middle Eastern manner that Mortimer Wheeler castigated. Large work crews were employed, little attention was paid to stratigraphy, and key material like ceramics was rarely collected and poorly studied. Like Antioch, Dura-Europos was an excavation where key finds were exported, in this case to the Yale University Art Gallery. The outbreak of the war ended the American excavations. Rostovtzeff ’s health broke down, the field directors scattered, and few of the results of the excavation were ever published. In fact, the outbreak of war ended most archaeological activities in Europe and the Mediterranean. The archaeologists headed home, often to join the military or aid their governments in other ways. But even as the bombs fell and armies marched back and forth across Europe and the Mediterranean, some members of the archaeological community tried to maintain the visions and values of a world that was being destroyed both physically and morally. Almost pathetic was the meeting Carl Weickert organized of the Archaeology Society that was held on June 8, 1943, to celebrate the memory of Friedrich Hölderlin and Johann Winckelmann, two of the founding spirits of German classicism, on the centenary and the 175th anniversary, respectively, of their deaths.165 A few archaeologists remained in Italy and Greece to do clandestine intelligence work or aid partisans. The British Minoan archaeologist John Pendlebury (1904–41) was captured by the Germans on Crete POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 209 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The ancient historian Michael Rostovtzeff of Yale University (center) at Dura-Europos, 1934. The paintings from the Dura synagogue are visible in the background. (Yale University Art Gallery) and shot.166 Other British archaeologists, such as Nicholas Hammond (1907–2001), John Cook (1910–94), and V. R. D. Desborough (1914–78), were sent to northern Greece to coordinate resistance to the Germans.167 The war, of course, took its hecatom of young archaeologists who might have had long and brilliant careers, people like the American Erling Olsen, who fell in Normandy; the German Walter Technau, who died on the Russian front; and the Frenchman Michel Feyel, who perished in a German prison camp.168 Civilians were not spared either. Martin Schede (1883–1947), who in 1938 had become president of the German Archaeological Institute, died in Russian captivity.169 Archaeological activities did not entirely stop during the war. The Italians continued excavations in their North African colonies, even as the battle lines moved through Libya and Tripolitania.170 Greece was occupied by German forces in 1941. The Athens section of the German Archaeological Institute already had a long history of sympathy for the Nazi regime. Georg Karo, though of Jewish parentage, early lent his 210 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM support to the regime and enthusiastically greeted the prospects of re- newed excavations at Olympia.171 When Karo was forced out for racial reasons, he was succeeded as first secretary by his deputy Walter Wrede, an enthusiastic Nazi. It was Wrede who warmly welcomed the conquer- ing German army to Athens in April 1941 and gave Field Marshall von Brauchitsch and his staff a special tour of the Acropolis dressed in full Nazi uniform.172 Another archaeologist, Erich Boehringer (1897–1971), was the German cultural attaché in Greece from 1940 to 1943.173 He was a follower of the poet Stefan George and had been strongly influenced by George’s elitist Hellenic enthusiasm.174 Some of the German archaeolo- gists urged that a less oppressive policy be followed in occupied Greece, partly out of Hellenic sentiment and partly because they argued that the Greeks represented “the only people of non-Slavic stock able to fulfill the European mission against the Slavs.”175 The German Archaeological Institute in Athens under Wrede and Karl Kubler continued to operate during the war, although it had to en- gage in power struggles with the more ideologically driven Service Rosen- berg, which established an archaeological Sonderkommando Griechen- land in the country.176 Work at the Kerameikos and at remote Olympia continued. One of the most ideologically committed of the German ar- chaeologists was Otto Von Vacano (1910–97), who conducted excavations at the “Dorian” (by which he meant Aryan) site of Sparta.177 The Italians, who shared power in Greece with the Germans, also continued their archaeological projects: Luciano Laurenzi of the Italian School worked at the Roman Agora in Athens. Even Roland Martin of the French School was able to continue excavating on the Acropolis.178 In Rome the situation was much more complicated, since the fascists retained power in the city until late 1943, and some Italian archaeologi- cal activity continued during the early years of the war. The German Archaeological Institute operated under the direction of Armin von Gerkan (1884–1969), a distinguished architectural historian who spent much of his career in the administration of the German Institutes in Rome and Athens.179 Von Gerkan went to Rome as second secretary in 1924, then was appointed first secretary in Athens in 1936 as successor to Karo. But he was soon replaced by Wrede, who used his connections with Goebbels to obtain the position. When Ludwig Curtius resigned as first secretary in Rome because of his unwillingness to work any longer with the Nazis, von Gerkan replaced him.180 He remained in the POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 211 directorship until the coming of the war to the Italian mainland forced the closing of the Institute. One of his tasks during his tenure was to prepare archaeological guides for distribution to German soldiers fight- ing in North Africa.181 In 1938 anti-Semitic laws had been passed in Italy that removed a number of important classical archaeologists from their positions. The most important of those was Alessandro della Seta (1879–1944), for many years the director of the Italian School in Athens.182 Della Seta was a wide-ranging and highly respected archaeologist, whose research focused on stylistic analysis of classical art. His early years at the Villa Giulia had also stimulated an interest in the Etruscans, and at the Athens School he sponsored work on the island of Lesbos that was inspired by its Etruscan origins. These studies led, largely by chance, to important prehistoric excavations at Poliochini (1931–36), where della Seta trained some of the best younger Italian prehistorians, including the Sicilian specialist Luigi Bernabo Brea (1910–99).183 Della Seta was also a strong national- ist and imperialist who had easily accepted fascism and had done well under the regime.184 However, he was forced out after 1938 and died in obscurity during the war. Other Jewish archaeologists, like Doro Levi (1898–1991), a rising scholar who worked in both Minoan and Etruscan archaeology, fled to the United States.185 The situation for the Italian Jews became really dangerous when the fascist government collapsed in 1943, and the Germans occupied Rome. The tragedy of the new situation is captured well in the history of the young Italian Jewish epigrapher Mario Segre.186 Segre had established a promising reputation for himself as a scholar in spite of the anti-Semitic restrictions and was hoping to escape to an academic post in America. But in order to increase the number of his publications he needed the resources of the library of the German Archaeological Institute. The library was barred to Jews, but von Gerkan appears to have been flexible in his enforcement of the policy. Others, more sympathetic to the Nazi racial policy, were not so decent. One scholar, probably the hard-line Italian fascist Giulio Jacopi, threatened to denounce von Gerkan to the German authorities if Segre continued to be admitted to the library. In that threat he was supported by the Institute’s second secretary, Siegfried Fuchs, who was also an SS official.187 Segre was barred. His inability to advance his scholarly research and publication ruined his chance to find an American position. He took refuge in the Swedish Institute, a 212 POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM protected neutral oasis. In a rare foray outside of those protected walls to enjoy the Villa Borghese gardens, he was seized, and he and his family perished in the concentration camps.188 Siegfried Fuchs is, like Wrede, a good example of the “conveniently forgotten” among the German classical archaeologists of the war pe- riod.189 He was involved with the Nazi Party from his student days, and his rise to the position of second director of the German Archaeological Institute in Rome certainly was owing to his standing with the party and later with the SS. It also helped that his archaeological interests focused on “Indo-Germanic” influences in both Greece and Rome and on the early medieval migration period in Italy. During the early years of the war he was able to carry out research at various Gothic and Longobard sites in Italy. He was arrested at the end of the war but then freed and re- turned to Germany. Little was said or known about him after the war. French archaeology benefited in odd ways from that country’s mili- tary debacle at the start of the war. The distinguished ancient historian Jérôme Carcopino agreed to serve as education minister under the Vichy regime.190 Carcopino had twice been director of the French School in Rome, and through that association he had been involved with the ar- chaeology of French North Africa. He came to appreciate the efficiency of the Antiquities Service operating there, something sorely lacking in prewar France. In 1941 the French government enacted the loi Carco- pino, which put in place a system of regional amateur archaeological inspectors. The professionalization of Romano-Gallic archaeology was further advanced when in 1942 Albert Grenier founded the journal Gal- lia, a national review of Roman archaeology in France, designed to com- plement the many regional and local journals.191 However, the resources of the regional inspectors were limited, and they were expected to work closely with the amateur savants, who remained a major force in French archaeology. The continued importance of the savants is demonstrated by the fact that the only classical “training dig” in France in the 1940s, conducted at Glanum (Saint-Rémy-de-Provence), was under the direc- tion of an amateur antiquarian, Henri Rolland (1886–1970).192 The war did not spare the archaeological sites and monuments. Pom- peii and Rome were both hit, and historic cities in Britain and Germany were heavily damaged. The initial fighting in North Africa, with its rapid changes in control, produced looting and destruction at archaeological sites for which both sides were responsible.193 But increasing efforts were POLITICAL IDEOLOGY AND COLONIAL OPPORTUNISM 213 made by all parties to save the artistic and archaeological patrimony. Special military and civilian units recruited archaeologists and art histo- rians to the cause.194 As the Allies moved across North Africa, the major sites like Leptis and Sabratha passed with relatively little damage from Italian to British and American hands. The transition was due in part to the vigorous, if at times improvised, efforts of Mortimer Wheeler, who was by that time an officer in the British army.195 Mobile archaeologi- cal units attempted salvage work at threatened sites. The excavation of the Italian chalcolithic cemetery at Gaudo near Salerno, which was unearthed during the construction of an airfield, was a good example of the attention paid to such sites. One of Wheeler’s chief assistants in this archaeological rescue work was a young excavator named John Ward- Perkins, who was to become one of the most innovative and energetic archaeologists of the postwar period. CHAPTER 7 After World War II: Capitalism, Corporatism, and Marxism In May 1945 the war in Europe came to an end. Once more the continent had been ravaged, and the Euro- pean powers bled dry. Germany, the country that be- tween the wars had been the greatest center for clas- sical archaeology, was not only devastated but discredited by the crimes of the Nazis. In Italy the regime that had used classical archaeology for self-promotion was defeated and disgraced. France had been occupied and demoralized, only restored to freedom by Anglo-American forces. For England, the war had been a Pyrrhic victory. All but bankrupt, the country could play only a limited role in postwar archaeology. The two principal victors, the Soviet Union and the United States, looked very differently at the classical past. Though their land had had only limited contact with the Greco-Roman world through the Black Sea, the Russians had long been interested in classical archaeology, an expression of Russia’s desire to identify with Western European culture.1 Those interests diminished markedly under the communist state, in which antiquity was studied mainly as a precapitalist social system that relied on the slave mode of production. Moreover, the Soviet Union had suffered more war damage than any other country and had to devote all its energies to reconstruction and securing a position of dominance in the postwar world. The situation in the United States was different. In spite of con- siderable loss of life and material, America had come through the war relatively unscathed. Its economy was strong, and its spirit high. More- over, the country saw itself as the bastion of freedom and democracy, fighting first against the Axis powers and then the communists. Since freedom and democracy had their roots in the classical, especially the Greek, world, there was a revival of interest in the classics in the post- 214 AFTER WORLD WAR II 215 war universities, fueled both by the massive influx of students through such programs as the G.I. Bill and by the enormous outpouring of phi- lanthropy directed at university programs. America soon became the dominant archaeological power. Another movement that gradually developed momentum in the years after the war was decolonization, and this was to have a significant, if little discussed, impact on classical archaeology. The colonial powers might have thought they would return to the prewar status quo, but the world had changed. Mandate territories like Syria were the first to gain independence, and with that independence came the end of European and American archaeological administrators there. Excavations from which foreign expeditions could bring home significant quantities of their finds also stopped. This change especially affected the American museum world. Gradually decolonization spread across North Africa. After a con- fused period, the former Italian territories were in 1953 turned into a pro-Western monarchy, which allowed some British and American excavations.2 Then Muammar Qaddafi established an Islamic state in Libya in 1969 that was hostile to the West in general and to America in particular. For a long time it was almost impossible for Westerners to excavate there. Only with the turn of the millennium has that situation begun to change. The French reasserted control over their colonial territories in North Africa and soon began a vigorous program of excavation, restoration, and museum building at sites like Hippo and Thebesa. Slight changes in archaeological rhetoric could be detected as the French faced the grow- ing reality of discontent among the colonists. Albert Grenier, speaking of the archaeological work at Roman Tiddis at the border of the Berber country, could emphasize that “the two civilizations live together in an entirely typical way, like a concrete symbol of the powerful yet intelli- gent politics of Rome in Africa,”3 but the core policy of treating Roman archaeology as an instrument of French colonial policy had changed little, and indeed the French archaeological administration in Algeria was expanded and strengthened. Resistance within the colony intensi- fied, however, and after a bloody civil war, Algeria became independent in 1962. Morocco and Tunisia also became independent nations. Not only were these countries freed from colonial control, but their govern- ments were now Islamic, with different historical emphases in which 216 AFTER WORLD WAR II the cultures of Greece and Rome were no longer central.4 Twenty years were to pass before classical archaeologists returned in force. One pressing need in the aftermath of the war was for the Axis pow- ers and those that had collaborated with them to come to grips with their past and deal with officials, including archaeologists, who had been associated with the now discredited regimes. Passions ran high for justice and revenge, but there was also an appreciation of the need for administrative continuity and for putting the past behind, especially as Western Europe and America squared off against the Soviet Union. The situation in Italy was especially complicated. The fascist regime had been in power since 1922, and almost everyone in the archaeological service and the universities had at least nominal fascist associations. Even those who had not been enthusiastic fascists tended to be po- litically and intellectually conservative. After a routine investigation of their fascist pasts, most classical archaeologists were restored to their old posts in the antiquities administration or as editors of journals. The roster of Italian classical archaeologists in 1950 reads like a continuation of that of 1940.5 Most had learned to avoid mixing politics and archaeol- ogy. In the postwar world, the emphasis of Italian archaeology was on technical studies that carried no ideological baggage. Certain key personnel in the regime were picked out for more thor- ough investigation. Giulio Giglioli had been the most prominent figure in fascist archaeology, although by all accounts a decent person. Giglioli was interned briefly, but ultimately resumed his professorship at the Uni- versity of Rome.6 Giulio Jacopi represented a different case, for not only was he an enthusiastic fascist, but he had been associated with some nasty political activities against such professional opponents as Mario Segre. He had the effrontery to petition the Allied administration for an appointment at the University of Bologna. But Amadeo Maiuri, whom he had succeeded in Rhodes, refused to write a recommendation for him, and he did not get that or any other university post. Nonetheless, he remained in the state archaeological service, rising to the position of superintendent.7 One of the most complex and interesting of the postwar fascist ar- chaeologists was Nino Lamboglia (1912–77).8 Lamboglia came from the northwest of Italy near the French border, and he was enthusiastic when the Italians annexed the area around Nice at the start of World War II. His attitudes changed little after the war. As late as 1963 he was AFTER WORLD WAR II 217 advocating a program of Italian excavation in Spain. In part the idea was inspired by the desire to expose Italian archaeologists to the better field methods of Roman provincial archaeology. But he also wanted to promote a “Roman” archaeology unsullied by contacts with the Greek East in the one fascist country left in Europe.9 Lamboglia was destined to spend his career in relative isolation at his Istituto di studi Liguri at Ventimiglia next to the French border. But he proved to be an innovative field archaeologist, ahead of most Italians of his generation. He conducted pioneering stratigraphic excavations at Ro- man sites in the Ventimiglia area, characterized not only by meticulous methodology but also by attention to much-neglected material like Ro- man utilitarian pottery. He also early realized the potential of underwater archaeology and was the Italian pioneer in that field. Largely neglected during most of his career, the fascist Lamboglia became something of an archaeological hero to the rebel Marxist archaeologists of the 1970s.10 While political power in postwar Italy remained in the hands of con- servatives, the intellectual dynamic was on the left. The communists had dominated the resistance, and the Italian Communist Party continued that legacy, attracting many young intellectuals. The hierarchy was loyal to the Soviet Union, but the party’s ideology was strongly influenced by the writings of Antonio Gramsci, a young communist intellectual who had perished at the hands of the fascists. Gramsci stressed the impor- tance of controlling cultural as well as economic forces, an ideology that appealed to the Italian cultural community. The most important Italian Marxist classical archaeologist was Ra- nuccio Bianchi Bandinelli (1900–1975), a member of the Sienese nobility who had not been active politically before the war. Indeed, he was con- sidered sufficiently “safe” ideologically to serve as Hitler’s cultural guide when he visited Rome. He was intellectually a disciple of Benedetto Croce and embraced Croce’s idealistic approach to art, which stressed the creative contribution of individual artists.11 During the war he joined the communists, and his intellectual orientation became increasingly Gramscian Marxist. The influence of that approach can best be seen in his work on what he called arte plebea (proletarian art): the visual pro- ductions of the lower social and economic classes.12 Bianchi Bandinelli became one of the cultural advocates of the party at a time when the leadership was embracing intellectual social involvement. From 1957 to 1970 he directed the influential Istituto Gramsci, the center of much 218 AFTER WORLD WAR II of the debate and discussion about applying Marxism to the study of antiquity.13 While Bianchi Bandinelli was never popular with his fellow professors of classical archaeology, he was a dynamic teacher and drew to himself a cadre of young students who reshaped Italian archaeology from the 1970s onward.14 Germany faced similar dilemmas concerning its archaeological per- sonnel and was equally ambivalent about dealing with them. The Nazi racial laws had forced most Jewish and many non-Jewish scholars into exile, mostly to America. Although the Nazis, unlike the fascists, were not in power long enough to create their own generation of regime archaeologists, the German classical archaeological establishment was conservative and compliant enough to fit their ideological agenda. As in Italy, most of the archaeologists returned to positions of power and influence after the war.15 Also as in Italy, these archaeologists learned to avoid politics and pursue “safe scholarship.” The discipline remained fairly static until the 1960s, when the older generation was replaced and student rebellions sparked some change.16 The national and international scholarly infrastructure also had to be restored, even if some of the institutions had been tainted. The situation in Germany was especially complicated. The bombing and urban warfare had destroyed many cultural centers. While most of the collections had been removed to safety, the museums and libraries themselves had often been damaged or destroyed. In addition, the country had been divided by the victorious powers and a Soviet puppet regime installed in East Germany. The division also affected cultural resources. The Russians and East Germans, for instance, controlled the Berlin collections, in- cluding the Pergamon marbles. Restoration was slow and often accompanied by ideological disputes. The Munich Glyptothek provides a good example of the kinds of prob- lems faced in these years. The collection was intact, but the building badly damaged. Debates arose over whether the building should be restored to its original state, with its splendid neorococo decorations, or rebuilt in a more stark manner that reflected modernist sensibilities and the desire to highlight the original sculptures. The latter mode was selected.17 At the same time, as we have seen, the decision was made to remove the Thorvaldsen restorations from the Aegina marbles, and they now were displayed in their battered purity and simplicity. In Rome the institutes of the ultimately victorious powers had been AFTER WORLD WAR II 219 under the protection of neutrals like Sweden and Switzerland, and they were restored to activity relatively quickly and without major problems. Not so simple was the disposition of the German facilities. The fate of the German Archaeological Institute in Rome and the Art Historical In- stitute (the Herziana) and their splendid libraries created major conflict. In the last days of the war the Institute’s library had been packed up by direct orders of Hitler and shipped back to Germany and Austria. Now it was to be returned to Italy, but some administrators proposed that it be incorporated into the Italian Archaeological Institute. Concern for the fate of this splendid collection produced some of the first coopera- tive scholarly efforts in postwar Rome. The International Association of Classical Archaeology (FIAC) was formed, made up of representatives from the foreign schools and led by the new British School director John Ward-Perkins, to protect the library as an independent entity. Incipient Cold War politics led the Americans to throw their key support for the restitution of the library to the Germans. The library was eventually restored to the German Archaeological Institute when it reopened.18 Central to postwar classical archaeological work in the United States was Greece. Americans had a tradition of philohellenism stretching back to the early days of the nineteenth century. In addition, Greece’s heroic resistance during the war, first to the Italians and then the Germans, had inspired admiration, evoking comparisons to the spirit of ancient Hellas, while the suffering the civilian population endured during and immediately after the war aroused great sympathy. Finally, the outbreak of civil war between the Anglo-American–installed government and its communist-supported opponents fed the anxieties of Americans in the early years of the Cold War. Britain’s collapsing economy and its commit- ments elsewhere forced it to withdraw as the principal Allied supporter of Greece. The Americans stepped into the breach to provide economic aid and military support in the civil war. This turmoil affected the Ameri- can School of Classical Studies, which had never been totally removed from Greek politics, and which now stood as a symbol of American humanistic culture. The ASCSA reopened as soon as possible after the war to provide a base for American scholarly operations. The excavations in the Athenian Agora, the most visible American archaeological project in Greece, and the one most closely associated with Greek and American democracy, were resumed.19 Homer Thompson (1906–2000), a Canadian on the faculty 220 AFTER WORLD WAR II of the University of Toronto, was appointed the new director of the exca- vations, replacing Theodore Leslie Shear, who had died during the war.20 Thompson remained director until 1967. Not only did the reopening of the Agora excavations provide American visibility during key moments during the civil war, it also gave much-needed economic assistance to the local population. During the late 1940s and the 1950s the Agora excavations moved relentlessly onward, turning a large portion of the central city into an archaeological zone. The massive effort culminated in 1957 with the opening of the restored Stoa of Attalos as a museum and research center. The Stoa of Attalos had been built in the middle of the second century b.c. as a gesture of philhellenism on the part of a minor Hellenistic despot, and after the ruins had been cleared the decision was made to reconstruct the building.21 John Travlos, the Agora architect, oversaw the design and construction. Even though only about 5 percent of the building survived, the restorers were able to reproduce the original de- sign to make the reconstruction as accurate as possible. Some scholars have criticized the juxtaposition of Athenian ruins with a largely modern reproduction. Others have commented on the irony of an American de- mocracy restoring the gift of a monarch, especially after the Americans supported the dictatorship of the colonels that was installed by coup in 1967. But the Stoa serves an important research and tourist function and is a visual anchor in the dusty plain of the Agora. The permanent and semipermanent staff of the Agora excavations expanded, and the best-connected American graduate students passed through the ASCSA and received their formative archaeological training at the Agora. The annual reports in Hesperia and the growing series of final site reports testified to the care that the excavators took in recover- ing an impressive range of evidence and their diligence in bringing that research to publication. An appealing series of more popular publications made the results of Agora research accessible to a wider public. The Agora alone could not satisfy the expanding ambitions of Ameri- can classical archaeologists, however. By 1960 much of the area had been cleared, and even the ASCSA began looking for other projects. In 1960 the school resumed work at Corinth. By this time most of the traditional graduate departments had established their own excavations, and newer programs sought to emulate them.22 Carl Blegen at the University of Cincinnati continued his Bronze Age researches at Pylos. Oscar Broneer AFTER WORLD WAR II 221 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The Athenian Agora excavations in 1959. A major new feature is the Stoa of Attalos, restored in the 1950s to serve as museum and excavation laboratory. (American School of Classical Studies at Athens—Agora Excavations) of the University of Chicago started work at Corinth’s Isthmian sanctu- ary of Poseidon, while Robert Scranton, also of Chicago, excavated the Corinthian port of Kenchreae.23 Archaeologists from New York University returned to Samothrace, while teams from Indiana University excavated at Halieis and then at Franchthi Cave. Each new director of the ASCSA would focus on a new site, where excavations might continue after he stepped down. Work in Greece was still limited by a policy that allowed only four permits to an individual country, though by this time the diplomatic clout of the United States could facilitate a broad definition of an in- dividual permit, as it did at Corinth and its adjacent territories. As an archaeological alternative Turkey beckoned. It had splendid, important classical sites and a tradition of American excavation that went back to the nineteenth century, while its excavation costs were even lower than those of Greece. The pioneering postwar project in Turkey centered on the Phrygian-classical site of Gordion, the home of the legendary King Minos. It was sponsored by the University Museum of the University 222 AFTER WORLD WAR II of Pennsylvania, probably the most dynamic American archaeological institution in the years immediately following World War II. Froelich Rainey, the museum director, emphasized excavation and the applica- tion of new technologies to a variety of projects. He himself was closely involved in the pioneering use of remote sensing to the search for the South Italian Greek city of Sybaris.24 The field director of the project for the Gordion excavation was Rod- ney Young (1907–74). He was an Agora veteran and, ironically consider- ing the innovations of the University Museum, a conservative classical archaeologist. His excavations focused on the Phrygian period, especially the tombs of the Phrygian dynasts, for which the University Museum employed some of its latest technology.25 Harvard, the oldest and richest of the American universities, though without much of a classical archaeological field tradition, had to join this rivalry. The professor of classical archaeology at Harvard was George Hanfmann (1911–86), a distinguished German refugee but not a field person.26 Among his interests were the origins of the Etruscans and the contacts between the Greeks and contemporary Near Eastern societies. These led him to Lydia, in southwest Turkey, in particular Sardis, where the American Howard Crosby Butler (1872–1922) had excavated just be- fore World War I.27 Digging started in 1958.28 Harvard settled in for the long haul, joined by archaeologists from Cornell University. Elaborate field facilities were constructed, and the Sardis staff began a long-term operation that combined the field methodology of the Agora excavations with genteel archaeological traditions of the nineteenth century. The Harvard-Cornell archaeologists soon discovered that the Sardis they were destined to investigate was a Roman-Byzantine city. The Lyd- ian levels were buried deep below the later fill, though some Lydian re- mains were uncovered. Important architectural structures of the Roman and early Byzantine period were excavated, and Sardis became one of the first sites where physical reconstruction of major buildings became part of the excavation strategy. Reconstructive efforts focused on the gymnasium complex, which included one of the earliest synagogues in the Mediterranean world.29 The dominance of the “big digs” did little to improve the role of women in American classical archaeology. Modeled in many respects on American corporations, these digs were male-dominated enterprises in which women were largely relegated to secretarial, conservation, and AFTER WORLD WAR II 223 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The reconstructed facade of the bath-gymnasium complex at Sardis. Such reconstructions to enhance the tourist appeal of archaeological sites are becoming an increasingly important aspect of postexcavation research. (Photo courtesy of the author.) specialized study positions. The only American woman directing field- work in the Mediterranean was Machteld Mellink, and her sites were not strictly classical. More representative was Virginia Grace (1901–94), who for decades lived in Athens and carried out specialized amphora studies for the Agora excavations.30 Her knowledge and control of key material gave her a certain power in the profession, but it was a limited one. The record on women in all areas of classical archaeology in both Europe and America was mixed. There were significant breakthroughs— for example, in 1951 Jocelyn Toynbee was appointed Laurence Profes- sor of Classical Archaeology at Cambridge, the first woman to hold a post in classical archaeology in England.31 Toynbee (1897–1985) had studied with Percy Gardner at Oxford, but her real mentor and role model was Eugenie Sellers Strong. The two shared an interest in the then-unfashionable topic of Roman art, and both were devout Roman Catholics. In her research Toynbee ranged from Roman Britain to the Tomb of St. Peter. While sympathetic to the goals of field archaeology, she specialized in art history, a branch of the discipline in which women could find more scope. 224 AFTER WORLD WAR II The same year Toynbee became a professor at Cambridge, Luisa Banti (1894–1978) became professor of Etruscan studies and archaeol- ogy at the University of Florence.32 Italy had offered opportunities for advanced education for women much later than Britain or the United States, but Banti managed to study with archaeologists like Luigi Pareti and Luigi Pernier. Her early years in the field were difficult, but she distinguished herself in both Etruscan and Minoan studies and became involved in fieldwork on Crete. Only after World War II could she find permanent academic positions, yet by the time of her death she was recognized as one of the most important Italian archaeologists of her generation. In Greece the comparable example was Semni Papaspyridi Karou- zou (1898–1994). She came from an educated family that encouraged her interests in archaeology. She was a student of the Mycenaean ar- chaeologist Christos Tsountas (1857–1934) at the University of Athens, where she also met her husband, the archaeologist Christos Karouzos (1900–1967). She entered the museum branch of the antiquities service, an area that offered more possibilities for women, and won the respect of scholars like Buschor, Beazley, and Karo. During the war she and her husband were the only Greek archaeologists to resign from the German Archaeological Institute. When the colonels seized power and Spyridon Marinatos became head of the antiquities service, she became persona non grata, was barred from the National Museum, and was even forced into exile for a while.33 Women such as Toynbee, Banti, and Karouzou remained the excep- tions. Not only were almost all the major excavations run by men, but men held almost all the professorships as well. Key graduate programs like the one at Princeton were long reluctant to admit women. The American School of Classical Studies had a number of women working in the library and the laboratories, but it has never had a female director. The attitude from the late 1940s through the early 1960s was that women should marry, have children, and pursue careers on the side. Those who did not follow that path usually were consigned to the women’s colleges or second-level co-educational colleges and universities. Bryn Mawr College was again exceptional in having two women, Machteld Mellink and Brunhilde Ridgway, running their graduate archaeology program. The massive change that occurred in American big dig archaeology in the decades after the war was that it no longer received the support of AFTER WORLD WAR II 225 the art museums. The ending of the colonial mandates meant that field archaeology would not yield objects that could be brought back to the United States; for the most part, therefore, the museums pulled out of field archaeology. Established art museums like the Metropolitan did re- main dynamic and ambitious places for museum archaeologists, and new museums like the Getty in Malibu, California, also offered exciting jobs for archaeologists. All the museums desired to expand their collections, and many had the money for significant purchases. Once again they turned to antiquities markets, which were happy to meet their needs. The sources for this burgeoning market were familiar. Once again the social and economic disruptions in Europe forced families to break up their collections and offer them for sale. This “legitimate” material was welcome, but it was not enough to fill the museums. Here the il- legal market came into play. Increased urban and rural development in the Mediterranean led to the chance discovery of many antiquities suitable for museum display. The prices paid for these finds stimulated a more systematic search for objects. The network of clandestine exca- vators, facilitators, exporters, experts, restorers, and even forgers came to exceed anything that had existed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Wolfgang Helbig even returned in the person of Robert Hecht, an American who learned archaeology at the American Academy excavations at Cosa, then settled in Europe to deal in antiqui- ties.34 By 1990 it was estimated that 80 percent of all antiquities on the market had been excavated and exported illegally according to the laws of the host countries.35 Some of the American players were familiar, others new. The Boston Museum of Fine Arts no longer had the financial resources to compete with the richest museums, but its classical curator, Cornelius Vermeule, was one of the most knowledgeable, clever, and cynical museum col- lectors around. Preeminent among the established museums was the Metropolitan, whose curator of Greek and Roman art, Dietrich Von Bothmer, continued the tradition of Gisela Richter, taking a special inter- est in expanding the Met’s already impressive collection of Attic vases. The most flamboyant new player was the Getty Museum, whose vast endowment allowed it to outbid all but the richest museums. The Getty was looking to fill its proposed new building, which would resemble a Roman villa. The museum’s main curator-agent was Jiri Freil, a Czech art historian who had started out at the Met. He had superb connections 226 AFTER WORLD WAR II in the shadow world of antiquities dealing in Europe and could arrange the types of acquisitions the Getty needed.36 The expanding world of museum classical art purchases was comple- mented by a growth in private collecting. That community was highly diverse. Many made small purchases out of interest or because antiqui- ties had appeared in some interior decoration featured in Architectural Digest. Others collected in a big way, sometimes for investment but often out of love of art and antiquity. These collectors, often well educated and philanthropic, were naturally cultivated by the museums, which placed them on their boards and hoped to receive either their financial support or donations from their collections. This frenzied museum acquisition circus peaked in 1972, when The Metropolitan Museum of Art announced that it had paid a million dollars for a late-sixth-century b.c. Athenian krater painted by Euphronios.37 The vessel was beautiful, but what garnered the publicity was the price. Curiosity was piqued about its origins. The Met claimed that the ulti- mate source was a box of potsherds in an attic in Beirut. Others were skeptical, especially when Italian antiquities authorities claimed that the pot had actually been excavated at an Etruscan site north of Rome. The Italians were not able to document their case sufficiently to force the Met to return the krater. However, the controversy connected with the “mil- lion dollar pot” did focus attention on the antiquities trade and the need for professional archaeologists to respond to its abuses. Before examin- ing the changes made in the trade, a few words are needed about the post–World War II world of fakes. Another quality that this new postwar market shared with that of Helbig was the intermingling of genuine objects of dubious provenance, Roman copies posing as Greek works, and downright fakes. The eye of the connoisseur had now been reinforced by machines of the scientific laboratory. Materials analysis and physical-chemical dating sometimes allowed the absolute determination of authenticity, especially in organic and ceramic materials. The Etruscan warriors at the Met fell victim to scientific detection. Stone, on the other hand, especially marble, did not lend itself to such secure determinations. Experts could analyze style and even determine whether an ancient chisel had been used to carve a piece. However, as prices and profits rose, the experts also worked for the forgers, and the quality of the fakes improved. In some cases the jury is still out on important pieces. AFTER WORLD WAR II 227 Again it was museums like the Getty, which were desperate to ex- pand their collections with outstanding pieces, that got caught up in this gray world. Two examples will suffice. In 1979 Freil acquired from Europe a larger-than-life-size head that he claimed was a masterwork by the fourth-century b.c. Greek sculptor Skopas. The leading expert on Skopas in America confirmed Freil’s judgment. Yet less than a decade later a German scholar demonstrated to the satisfaction of most experts that the head was a nineteenth-century reproduction.38 The authenticity of the second piece is less certain. In 1983 the Getty acquired another larger-than-life-size piece, a kouros (nude male statue) purporting to be from the sixth century b.c.39 As was always the case with such objects, the provenance was hazy, but the Getty claimed it had long been in a Swiss collection. Some experts hailed the piece as genuine and an important contribution to the understanding of Archaic Greek art. Other experts said it was a fake. Some claimed that scientific tests proved it to be a genuine antiquity; others said the tests proved nothing. The Getty itself seems to be ambivalent, displaying the piece more as a problem in connoisseurship than as a major work of ancient art.40 The rapid expansion of the antiquities market in the late 1960s and early 1970s finally produced a reaction from the archaeological com- munity. The problems were manifold. Archaeological sites are a finite resource, and the looters were destroying them at a rapid rate. Nor was the issue just the abstract desire to conserve archaeological remains in a more environmentally conscious age. Modern archaeologists stress the importance of context. The artifact is a social object. To understand the cultural place of an object one has to know where it was found and how it relates to other objects. An Attic pot carries one set of meanings if it is found in a pottery dump in the Kerameikos, another if it is found in a shipwreck off the coast of Sicily or in the tomb of an Etruscan noble- man. The attitude of museum curators and private collectors, on the other hand, reflects that of the nineteenth, even the eighteenth, century, in which works of art were contemplated in isolation as expressions of the Hellenic spirit. The archaeological community has tried to stem the antiquities flow by several means. The first has been the creation of international agree- ments to bar the trade in antiquities. In 1970 the UNESCO convention for the protection of cultural property and the control of the antiquities trade was ready for ratification, although the United States did not sign 228 AFTER WORLD WAR II the key implementing legislation of the agreement until 1983.41 None- theless, the convention did provide the reference point for other actions. For instance, the Archaeological Institute of America decided, partly as a result of the controversy over the Met vase, that it would not al- low scholars to publish in their journals or report at their meetings the initial reports on objects acquired after December 30, 1970, that were not legally exported from their countries of origins. Those efforts have been reinforced by the policy of a growing number of museums not to buy objects of uncertain provenance. Italy remains one of the major centers for the antiquities market. It also has become since World War II a showplace for international archaeological excavation. One major shift in the Mediterranean has been the opening up of Italy to foreign excavation. Laws that excluded non-Italian excavations had been in effect since the creation of the Ital- ian state, but these were modified after World War II as the Italians were pressured to put their supranationalistic past behind them. The political and economic realities of the late 1940s dictated that the Americans would be among the first to take advantage of this new openness. While the American Academy in Rome had no excavation tradition, its officials seized the opportunity. In 1948 the American Acad- emy began excavations at Ansedonia, the site of the third-century b.c. Roman colony of Cosa on a headland overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea a hundred miles north of Rome. These excavations were placed under the direction of Frank E. Brown (1908–88), a veteran of the Dura-Europos excavations. Cosa was believed to have experienced an Etruscan phase before the Roman, and the Americans hoped that the site would docu- ment the little-understood Etruscan town life.42 The selection of Cosa for this first American excavation was a daring and imaginative one. It had been in antiquity a minor center with no great historical significance, and it flourished during times that were marginal to the interests of most classical archaeologists. However, Brown’s experience at Dura had taught him what could be learned from “different” sites. The Cosa dig was conceived as a problem-oriented excavation: Brown was especially interested in the origins of Roman republican architecture, and the archaeological evidence in Rome itself had long since been destroyed. Since Roman colonies like Cosa copied many political and architectural elements from Rome, and it clearly had not been extensively changed during imperial times, the American AFTER WORLD WAR II 229 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Frank Brown guiding visitors at the site of Cosa, 1950s. The American Academy was among the first to benefit from the Italians’ openness to foreign excavations after World War II. (American Academy in Rome) archaeologists hoped that it would provide architectural remains dated to key formative periods of the third and second centuries b.c. The initial phases of excavation were conducted in the late 1940s and the 1950s, suspended, and then resumed in the late 1960s and the 1970s, with some activity at the site continuing into the 1990s.43 Like most ma- jor excavations of the period, emphasis was placed on the investigation of public buildings, first the temples and then the civic and religious structures of the forum. No domestic structures were excavated until the 1960s, and it was not until the 1970s that much research was conducted in the surrounding countryside, where most of the inhabitants lived. While the site produced no evidence for an Etruscan presence, the exca- vations did yield a great deal of material about the history of the Roman colony. By the time Brown and his colleagues were finished they had cre- ated an excellent picture of the physical development of a Roman town. Brown had also learned from the mistakes and deficiencies of the Dura excavations, especially on the need to make better records and to preserve and study a greater range of artifactual material.44 The retention of deposits of humble artifacts like utilitarian pottery meant that the 230 AFTER WORLD WAR II material and its context information were available when their impor- tance was finally realized and serious research begun in this area. Still, Cosa was a dig of its time. The emphasis was on architectural history, and until quite late no effort was made to reconstruct the overall de- velopment of the town, to document the postrepublican phases, or to collect data on human remains or faunal and floral material. Two other nations moved early to take advantage of the new archaeo- logical opportunities by focusing on early urbanism in Italy. The French were anxious to make their scholarly presence felt after the dismal events of the war. The French School of Rome reopened in 1945 under the di- rection of Albert Grenier. Grenier was the best archaeologist of any of the directors up to that point, and as a student of the Roman provinces he was interested in pursuing the new excavation opportunities in Italy. In 1946 the French received a concession to excavate the Etruscan-Roman site of Bolsena. During the first years, they concentrated on the Etruscan remains, then in 1962 they turned to the systematic excavation of the Roman town.45 The Belgians in 1949 began their own excavations at the late-fourth-century b.c. Roman colonial site of Alba Fucens, located in the western Abruzzi some sixty-eight miles southeast of Rome. Like the Americans at Cosa, the Belgians focused on the colonial urban center, again providing important information about the development of town planning and public architecture in the middle republic.46 The new openness of the Italians also encouraged Europeans and Americans to investigate Greek colonial sites in Magna Graecia and Sicily. There the French led the way. They had a tradition of antiquarian research in the area; the duke of Luynes had conducted excavations at Metaponto in 1820 and François Lenormant had provided one of the first archaeological syntheses of the region in his 1881–83 Grande Grèce. The arrival of François Villard at the French School of Rome marked a new commitment to the archaeology of the western Greeks.47 He began seeking a Greek colonial site that could be paired with the excavations starting at Bolsena. In 1949 the French started excavations at the eighth- century b.c. colony of Megara Hyblaea, located on the east coast of Sicily just north of Syracuse, one of the earliest Greek settlements in the West. The original city had been destroyed by Syracuse in 483 b.c., so chances were good that a large part of the Archaic city would have been preserved beneath the settlement refounded in the fourth century b.c. The French hoped that Megara would yield architectural remains AFTER WORLD WAR II 231 that would illustrate early Greek urban development and ceramics that would document Greek trade with the West.48 The excavations at Megara were part of a new spurt of interest in a variety of aspects of the Greek colonies in the West. Some research focused on the dates and origins of the earliest colonies and their con- nections with the mainland. Thomas Dunbabin’s 1948 The Western Greeks, the most influential work in English on the Greeks in Sicily and Magna Graecia, reflected the colonialist paradigm that regarded the Greeks as the primary force bringing civilization to the western Mediterranean and paid little attention to the indigenous cultures or even the Phoenicians.49 Because the classically trained Dunbabin did not know much about the Sicilian Iron Age material, he could not appreci- ate the complexity of interaction between the native and the colonial worlds. Important new perspectives on the initial contacts between Greeks and indigenous peoples began to emerge in 1952 when Giorgio Buchner (1914–2005) started his excavations at the site of Pithekousai on the island of Ischia. What he discovered was the earliest Greek settlement in the West, a Euboean trading emporion with an extensive cemetery whose origins dated back to the eighth century b.c.50 Pithekousai was not a large planned urban center, but a small trading post built in the protective isolation of an offshore island rather like the earliest Phoeni- cian colonies in the West. Along with Al Mina, the eighth-century b.c. emporion site on the coast of Syria, it demonstrated the importance of the Euboeans in opening up the Mediterranean to Greek traders.51 Archaeologists began talking about a complex “precolonial” phase that had preceded the formal settlements for several centuries and laid the foundations for the later colonies. The discoveries on Ischia helped restore better exchanges between Italian classical archaeologists and those working in prehistory.52 The Greek colonists’ penetration into the interior was best docu- mented archaeologically by the American excavations at Morgantina. The work at this site also represents one of the American postwar “power” excavations in which a generation of graduate students was trained in a distinctive approach to field archaeology. The site is located in central Sicily not far from Piazza Armerina. It originated as a native Sikel settle- ment, but had by the fifth century b.c. become a planned Greek city. It went through an important Hellenistic phase and was then sacked by 232 AFTER WORLD WAR II the Romans in 212 b.c. Some occupation continued, but Morgantina never regained its former glory. In 1955 Princeton University decided to start excavations at the then nameless classical site. The senior director was Richard Stillwell (1899– 1982), an architectural archaeologist who had worked at both Corinth and the Athenian Agora.53 He approached Morgantina as an example of “mature” Greek colonization and urban planning, and focused the excavations on the public buildings, especially those in the agora. His codirector, Erik Sjoqvist (1903–74), was Swedish and had worked on Cyprus, which had a long history of cultural interactions among the in- digenous peoples, Greeks, and merchants from the Near East. Sjoqvist’s 1973 Sicily and the Greeks reflected his awareness of the role of interac- tion between the Greeks and various indigenous peoples, especially in the early history of Morgantina, although it is probably fair to say that even Sjoqvist’s narrative is basically colonialist.54 The excavations at Morgantina played an important role in the social history of postwar American classical archaeology.55 It was undertaken at a time when the Princeton graduate program in classical archaeology was the most prestigious in the United States, and it followed in the big dig tradition of the Athenian Agora, importing many of the methods and attitudes of the Agora excavations into Sicily. Many American classical archaeologists of the 1970s and the 1980s learned their archaeology at Morgantina, and they learned it in a very conservative tradition. Early Greek colonization in the East did not receive the same at- tention in the early postwar period. Big dig archaeology was too well established on the shores of Turkey to admit new perspectives. The Germans resumed their traditional excavations at places like Pergamon, and the Americans sought bigger sites and had other problems. Politics and research priorities kept American archaeologists from seeking out other sites like Al Mina that would further document early Greek con- tacts with the Near East. The Cold War and the Soviet domination of much of the Black Sea coast prevented Western exploration of Milesian colonization in that area. However, one modest project of the British School at Athens did pro- vide important insight into the earliest Greek settlement on the Turkish coast. In 1948 John Cook of the British School and the Turkish archae- ologist Ekrem Akurgal started excavation at Old Smyrna near modern Izmir. The site yielded evidence for long prehistoric habitation, but of AFTER WORLD WAR II 233 most interest to the archaeologists was the small peninsular settlement dating to the ninth–seventh centuries b.c. The Greeks appeared to have moved into a native settlement and as early as the late ninth century had established a walled settlement with well-built houses that recall some of the Phoenician trading emporia in the western Mediterranean.56 The Roman and the Greek colonies had created not only new cities but also new landscapes. The pioneering aerial photographers of the interwar period had begun to identify centuriation patterns that had pre- viously been known only from the literary sources, a few map notations, and the occasional surface observations. The aerial reconnaissance of World War II had provided enormous documentation of the landscape of northwest Europe and the Mediterranean. Those combat air photos from Italy and the Mediterranean were saved mainly through the efforts of the new British School director John Ward-Perkins and made available to archaeologists. They revealed a range of archaeological features from Neolithic settlements to medieval town plans, but they were especially rich in the documentation of the organization of the landscape around the Roman colonies of the Po River plain. The English archaeologist John Bradford (1918–75) did important pioneering work in this new field, and his 1957 Ancient Landscapes provides a good review of the early dis- coveries and the evidence for centuriation.57 Bradford was not the only archaeologist studying the Roman landscape. The Italian Fernandino Castagnoli identified centuriation systems at Cosa, and soon afterward the French began to focus their research on aerial landscape studies. Evidence for Greek and Roman rural planning emerged from diverse regions of the Mediterranean.58 The Romans were not the first to create an organized landscape, for the Greek colonists long before them had devised ways to define property boundaries and distribute in a rational and orderly fashion the farmland around their colonies. South Italy offered great potential for research in this area, potential that was first realized by Dinu Adames- teanu, a Romanian aviator who had remained in Italy after the war and joined the Antiquities Service. In 1964 he became director of the newly created archaeological division of Basilicata, which included important sectors of Magna Graecia, including the Greek colony of Metaponto. Adamesteanu began applying aerial photography and ground surveys to the settlement reconstruction of the hinterlands of the Greek colonies. His work at Metaponto has been continued and expanded by Americans 234 AFTER WORLD WAR II led by Joseph Carter of the University of Texas. By the combination of aerial photography, ground survey, and excavation at farm, sanctuary, and cemetery sites, the archaeologists working at Metaponto have provided us with a complex picture of the development of a Greek hinterland.59 Aerial photography was not limited to the Mediterranean. The plains of northern Europe provide an ideal environment for aerial photography, and they were extensively documented during World War II. The French archaeologist Roger Agache carried out model studies on the develop- ment of the Roman rural settlement system in the plains of Picardy.60 However, it was in England that aerial photography received some of its most imaginative and successful application. Experiments before the war by early aerial photographers like O. G. S. Crawford (1886–1957) had been promising, but tentative.61 Now the experience, improved equip- ment, and information gained during the war laid the foundation for major new advances. The most important in this new study was Ken- neth St. Joseph (1912–94), a geologist and Royal Air Force veteran.62 His interest in aerial photography had been stimulated by meetings with Crawford before the war. He started with informal support from the RAF, but by 1948 he had been appointed curator of aerial photography at Cambridge. In 1962 the university acquired a plane and appointed a pilot to its staff. The university could now begin more systematic coverage, taking advantage of optimal flying and environmental conditions. St. Joseph teamed up with Ian Richmond (1902–65), who was emerg- ing as the premier Romano-British archaeologist of his generation, and the two began coordinated research on the Roman landscape, concen- trating on the military terrain. In the period from 1945 to 1990 St. Joseph added 40 garrison forts and 185 temporary camps to the ordnance survey maps of Roman Britain. Military historians were obliged to digest a mas- sive quantity of new information and rethink the Roman military history of the island. Aerial photography only located the sites. They then had to be sur- veyed and excavated on the ground to analyze their dates and develop- ment history. Here St. Joseph’s collaboration with Richmond proved invaluable, for Richmond was the ideal man to undertake these new stud- ies. Richmond’s career captures the continuity and change in Romano- British archaeology during the postwar period.63 His interest in Roman archaeology had been stimulated during his boyhood in the north of En- gland, and he remained in many ways a “Wall” archaeologist throughout [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Aerial photograph of Roman villa remains in northern France taken by Patrick Joy. Aerial reconnaissance in both France and England has transformed our understanding of the Roman countryside. (Patrick Joy) 236 AFTER WORLD WAR II his life. But he had also dug with Mortimer Wheeler in Wales and learned the new Wheeler approach to excavation. His vision of the Ro- man world extended outside the island province: Richmond studied at the British School in Rome, where he was influenced by Thomas Ashby and did a short stint as director. His 1930 The City Wall of Imperial Rome is still a classic study of Roman military archaeology. He returned to Britain and taught for many years at the University of Durham, Newcastle, before his appointment in 1958 as the first professor of the archaeology of the Roman Empire at Oxford. Most of his digging took place at military sites, the area of Romano-British archaeology that dominated fieldwork from the 1920s into the 1990s.64 At the time of his death in 1965 he was excavating the fort at Inchtuthil in Scotland, a perfectly preserved legionary camp of the late first century a.d. that had been discovered by St. Joseph and his aerial surveying. Richmond’s death marked in many ways the end of a tradition in Romano-British archaeology. In a highly controversial review in Antiq- uity, Wheeler had criticized Richmond’s delays in publication, attribut- ing them in part to Richmond’s tendency to “spend an evening with the Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh Field Club.”65 It was true that Richmond spent a lot of time traversing the country, meeting with local excavation committees, and lecturing before local societies. However, those efforts reflected the still balkanized, largely amateur nature of archaeology in Britain. Not only was such guidance necessary to help the amateurs do effective work, but the personal contacts were essential for keeping track of recent discoveries. Britain still did not have an official Antiquities Service, and much knowledge was held by local savants and published in county journals. The situation was beginning to change in the 1960s but it was not until the 1970s that Romano-British archaeology entered a new era of professionalism.66 While the aerial photographers were opening up new frontiers in landscape archaeology, equally important contributions were being made on the ground. The British School at Rome, like the American Academy, wanted to take advantage of the new openness of the Italians toward foreign archaeological research. Director John Ward-Perkins (1912–81), a protégé of Mortimer Wheeler and an experienced field archaeologist, had excavated in Britain and France and worked in the London Mu- seum under Wheeler before the war.67 Field experience that had ranged from Iron Age to medieval sites gave him a diachronic vision that was AFTER WORLD WAR II 237 to serve him well in Italy. During the war he had worked as a military archaeologist in North Africa and Italy. When he took over the director- ship of the British School his main problem was that with the depressed postwar British economy the school had few funds for archaeological research and could not undertake a major excavation in Italy like that of the Americans at Cosa. Ward-Perkins did important postwar work in Libya, but logistics and politics made British research in that area of the Mediterranean increasingly problematic.68 Ward-Perkins saw the solution to his dilemma in a patch of country- side north of Rome.69 This was the territory of the ancient Etruscan and Roman city of Veii. Like much of the farm- and pastureland around Rome it had changed little since the Middle Ages, but any archaeologi- cal work that might be done there was now facing a major threat from deep plow cultivation and the expansion of settlement on the outskirts of Rome. Lands that had been uncultivated or plowed by oxen for cen- turies were now subject to mechanized plowing that disturbed deeply buried archaeological layers. Hundreds of new sites were suddenly made visible on the surface, but their artifactual evidence was being rapidly dispersed and destroyed. Ward-Perkins began in 1954 to dispatch teams of young archaeologists into the Veian countryside to locate and map sites and collect surface material. Their approach was shaped by a long topographical tradition best represented by the work of Ashby. However, the work also reflected a more holistic approach to the archaeology of landscape that fieldwork- ers like Cyril Fox (1882–1967) were beginning to use in Britain.70 At first the surveyors concentrated on the road system, but then they fanned out to cover the entire landscape. Such vigorous field walking was very much in the British archaeological tradition. So was the diachronic ap- proach to settlement history that did not privilege a particular period. Ward-Perkins directed his fieldworkers to gather material from early prehistoric to medieval times. Ward-Perkins’s teams documented hundreds of sites.71 For the first time the settlement history of an important region of Italy could be re- constructed. Moreover the Veii project trained generations of young Brit- ish archaeologists to appreciate systematic surveying as an important ar- chaeological tool. They have carried those lessons to other regions of Italy and to other places in the Mediterranean like Tunisia and Libya.72 While ancient historians and classical archaeologists were slow to appreciate 238 AFTER WORLD WAR II the significance of these survey data, a new generation of social and economic historians with more sophisticated training would come to see its potential. When Ward-Perkins stepped down as director of the British School in 1974 he left a legacy that would transform research and interpretation of the Roman countryside. The Americans, in particular, resisted the new survey technique. They were still wedded to the big dig tradition, as can be seen in the experience of William McDonald (1913–2000) of the University of Min- nesota.73 He was trained in the standard field traditions of American classical archaeology, but during his work at the Mycenaean site of Pylos in the southwestern Peloponnese he conceived a project for a systematic survey of the rural hinterland of the Mycenaean center. By the stan- dards of modern surveys the project, carried out in Messenia, has an old-fashioned quality, and it is sometimes criticized by contemporary ar- chaeologists enamored of overrefined survey techniques. But McDonald performed a wide-ranging, multiperiod survey that yielded interesting results.74 The American archaeologists in Greece were not impressed with the project, however, and McDonald’s efforts received little atten- tion or appreciation. Only when these archaeologists were replaced by a younger generation did Americans make survey a significant part of Greek archaeology.75 The countryside was not the only archaeological environment that was changing dramatically as a result of World War II. The bombing and ground fighting had devastated many historic cities, especially in Britain and Germany. Economic problems limited immediate development, but by the 1950s the historic core of many of these damaged cities was be- ginning to be redeveloped. And in the years immediately after the war, other cities suffered a mass influx of people from the rural areas seeking a better life. Cities like Rome and Naples spread outward, devouring the countryside and destroying the archaeological environment. The archaeologists were not prepared to meet the challenge. Until World War II most urban archaeology in Europe had been sporadic and antiquarian in its methods. Institutions like the London Museum might have skilled archaeologists on their staffs, but their budgets were small and their ability to investigate and preserve archaeological sites was limited. Urban archaeology had generally involved major clearing projects, like the work of the fascists in central Rome and to a certain degree that of the Americans in Athens, that ripped up the urban fabric AFTER WORLD WAR II 239 to highlight certain periods, largely ignoring the complex, often seamless web that makes up the urban archaeological record. Moreover, most urban archaeology had been focused on public buildings, with little at- tention to the social and economic life of the cities. A proper urban archaeology requires time, money, and large, multi- disciplinary teams with expertise in a variety of periods and a range of material objects. Few of these were available in postwar Europe, as could be seen in the archaeology of central London in the years immediately after the war. German bombing had destroyed much of London’s histori- cal core, including the Roman city. Fifty of 350 acres within the Roman- medieval walls had been leveled. This presented an excellent opportunity for extensive archaeological exploration of London’s past. In 1946 the Society of Antiquaries established the Roman and Medieval London Excavation Council to coordinate archaeological efforts. Archaeologists like W. F. Grimes (1905–88), who had succeeded Wheeler as director of the London Museum, did yeoman service trying to dig some of the most important sites and recover vital information. A few major sites, such as the Roman fort at Cripplegate and the Walbrook Mithraeum, were systematically excavated, but others were destroyed during rebuilding without adequate archaeological investigation.76 Financial constraints slowed redevelopment in London in the late 1940s and early 1950s. By the late 1950s the situation began to change. As high-rise structures went up whose basements extended deep into the soil, destroying the archaeological record, alarm began to spread within the archaeological community. In 1973 Martin Biddle, Daphne Hudson, and Carolyn Heighway published The Future of London’s Past, which used detailed maps of central London to demonstrate how much of the city’s archaeological record had been lost or was immediately threatened.77 Their call for action helped rally support for a more pro- grammatic approach to urban archaeology. The Department of Urban Archaeology was created that same year, and a new Museum of the City of London was built. Much of London’s past is still being destroyed, but more has been preserved or at least been studied before it disappears. Each historic city in Europe could tell a similar story. While Rome was not significantly damaged in the war, it did experience the massive demographic explosion that caused the suburbs to expand and devour more and more of the Roman campagna, with its rich archaeologi- cal treasures. Italian archaeologists both in the universities and in the 240 AFTER WORLD WAR II archaeological division worked valiantly to excavate or at least record archaeological sites before they disappeared. Fortunately the Italian topo- graphical tradition was still flourishing, and archaeologists like Lorenzo and Stefania Quilici continued the work of Lanciani and Ashby in docu- menting the fast-disappearing ancient remains around Rome.78 Archaeologists working within the city abandoned the mega-projects of the Mussolini era, and concentrated on either smaller rescue projects or explorations of archaeological zones like the Forum and the Palatine. It was not until the early 1980s that Rome underwent a major modern urban excavation. The opportunity came when a young archaeologist named Daniele Manacorda was granted permission to dig in a convent garden in the historical core of the city. Manacorda had been a strong critic of the fascist excavations in Rome, and he used this opportunity to do a modern urban excavation.79 The Crypta Balbi excavation (the name derived from the Roman theatrical complex that had once stood on the site) systematically cleared the area of the convent garden, investigating each level from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries down through the Middle Ages into the Roman levels.80 The full range of artifactual and environmental materials was recovered and studied. As a result visitors to the museum built on the site can experience the social and economic history of Rome reconstructed through the archaeological record. One of the most important subdisciplines of classical archaeology that emerged after the war was underwater archaeology. For decades fishermen and sponge divers had brought up illuminating but chance finds from the Mediterranean, especially of bronze sculpture. Two of the most important of those discoveries had been the Antikyhtera youth found in 1901 and the Poseidon of Artemesion, discovered in 1926. Some systematic diving had been done, but the cumbersome equipment neces- sary at the time limited its effectiveness.81 When Mussolini ordered that the Roman ships be recovered from Lake Nemi, engineers drained the lake, after which the archaeologists conducted a standard land excava- tion.82 During World War II the French naval officer Jacques Cousteau had developed the aqualung, which allowed the prolonged and mo- bile exploration of underwater archaeological sites, especially ancient shipwrecks. The emerging field was transformed from an adventure to a true sub- discipline of archaeology by George Bass.83 The story of Bass’s career, in which a traditional graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania is AFTER WORLD WAR II 241 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] The Crypta Balbi excavations, 1980s. Remains of the Roman-period theater complex are visible at the bottom. This was one of the first projects to explore the remains of all periods of urban occupation on a site. (Daniele Manacorda) sent by the imperious Rodney Young to learn scuba diving at the YMCA, has become one of the legends of archaeology. More central to his suc- cess, however, was the interest of the University Museum in technical experimentation and the availability of ample funding during that era of American affluence.84 Bass garnered the support that allowed him to apply many of the techniques of modern archaeology to the undersea 242 AFTER WORLD WAR II environment and conduct an underwater excavation that would meet even the rigorous standards of Mortimer Wheeler. The sea that linked the whole of Mediterranean culture was now opened up to systematic archaeological exploration. Much of the work was focused in more shallow waters near shore, where many ships through the ages had come to grief. The type site of this new archaeologi- cal world was the wreck, for the Mediterranean had been the graveyard of ships for millennia, and the wrecks were ideal for discovery and explo- ration. Bass himself has investigated wrecks from the Bronze Age to the Byzantine period. While special attention has always focused on the oc- casional discoveries of major art objects, and looting of underwater sites has become a problem, underwater archaeology has evolved into a seri- ous discipline with a number of important modern archaeological goals.85 Both ships and cargoes were studied. Before the advent of under- water research, information on ancient shipbuilding had mainly come from literary descriptions and artistic representations. Neither source reflected the real world of the mariners. Now the student of ancient ship design and building could work with original materials. While most wrecks had only been partially preserved because of the destructive ac- tions of the sea and marine life, they provided important new informa- tion about how the ancients made ships. Much of this material has been amassed in the long series of publications by the American student of ancient shipping Lionel Casson.86 Moreover, the seas yielded a range of ship remains, from fishing skiffs and river boats to long-haul cargo ves- sels. This variety is reflected in the boats found at the Claudian harbor of Ostia and in the 1990s discovery of a fleet of eleven Roman ships at Pisa and highlights the complexity of ancient maritime traffic.87 The artifacts recovered from the wrecks provided insight into the daily life of the ancient mariners.88 More important, they provided mas- sive quantities of new information on maritime trade in both the Greek and the Roman periods at a time when both archaeologists and ancient historians were becoming more interested in the ancient economy. Key to a reconstruction of ancient trade was the humble cargo vessel of an- tiquity, the transport amphora. Amphora studies had long been a rather specialized aspect of land excavation. German archaeologists such as Heinrich Dressel (1845–1920) had by the late nineteenth century devel- oped a classification and dating system for Roman amphorae that could be applied both to the Roman frontier and to urban sites like Monte Tes- AFTER WORLD WAR II 243 [To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.] Remains of a late Roman–period ship under the Mediterranean. Visible is the cargo of transport amphorae. Improved techniques of underwater archaeology developed after World War II revolutionized archaeological understanding of ancient ships and trade. (Institute of Nautical Archaeology, Texas A&M University) taccio in Rome.89 Virginia Grace used the vast quantities of new materi- als produced by the Athenian Agora excavations to develop new dating sequences for amphorae of the Classical and Hellenistic periods. The potential of the combination of underwater archaeology and amphora studies to provide economic information was demonstrated early by the recovery in 1955 of the Roman shipwrecks at a site dubbed Grand Congloué off the south coast of France.90 One of the wrecks was packed with transport amphorae, many stamped with the seal of a Ro- man named Sestius. The Sestius amphorae could be linked to discoveries made on land in both France and Italy and used to reconstruct the trade network of a prominent late republican wine merchant. Sestius was also associated with Cosa, where concentrations of his amphorae were found at the harbor site, and it is likely that the villas that produced his wine were located in the Ager Cosanus and that the kilns that fired his amphorae were built on the shore.91 Underwater research further stimulated studies of amphorae, and refined typologies and dating sequences were developed. The growing body of shipwrecks recorded in the Mediterranean allowed the recon- struction of evolving nautical trade patterns. Sourced and dated am- phorae from the Iberian peninsula, North Africa, and Italy were used to document shifts in wine and olive oil production. At the other end of the economic cycle, the amphorae documented consumption. Renewed studies of the great amphora mound at Monte Testaccio provided insight 244 AFTER WORLD WAR II into olive oil consumption in the capital. Greek and Roman amphorae discovered at hill fort sites in southern and central Gaul and even as far as Britain illuminated the importance of wine and wine rituals in the Iron Age societies of northwest Europe. While the amphorae are the main surviving evidence for ancient bulk transport, other commercial items were transported as supercargo, intended for secondary sale when the ship reached port. One important trade good shipped on the North Africa to Rome routes was a red-orange glazed ceramic known to the archaeologists as African red-slipped ware or terra sigillata chiara. Archaeologists had long been aware of this pot- tery as the upscale ceramic successor to the well-studied terra sigillatas of Italy and Africa, but they did not fully appreciate both the lengthy period of its use or the extent of its distribution. Important preliminary studies had been done by ceramics experts like Nino Lamboglia, but it was the Englishman John Hayes who provided the systematic research that culminated in his 1972 synthesis of the African red-slipped pot- tery.92 Much his preliminary research was based on materials from the Veii survey, but it was refined by travels to museums and excavations throughout the Mediterranean. The red-slipped pottery produced in North Africa was by the early second century a.d. penetrating Mediterranean markets, gradually re- placing the terra sigillatas. At the height of its popularity the quantities in circulation certainly exceeded those of the earlier red ware. Its distinc- tive red-orange fabric and glaze made it easily identifiable during both survey and excavation. The African red-slipped wares continued in use for a long period; they have been found at sites of the late sixth and early seventh centuries a.d. and are thus an important dating tool for the late Roman Empire and the transition to the early Middle Ages. These studies of commercial ceramics like amphorae and African red-slipped pottery were a boon to both ancient historians and classical archaeologists interested in the ancient economy. The American exile Moses Finley (1912–86) had made Cambridge a center for ancient eco- nomic studies, attracting a generation of the best classics students from Europe and America. Finley was a Marxist, who was naturally interested in the economic processes that drove ancient society, but reluctant to credit ancient societies with complex economies.93 Moreover, as an an- cient historian with limited archaeological experience, he was skeptical about the role archaeology could play in ancient historical research. AFTER WORLD WAR II 245 Some of his followers were not so reluctant to work with material cul- ture. In a field like Roman economic history, where most of the literary sources are close to worthless, the enormous data pools provided by amphorae and ceramic studies were appreciated and used. A number of these developments, both technical and theoretical, came together in the new round of excavations that started in and around Cosa during the 1960s and 1970s. Excavations in the central town had resumed in the mid-1960s after a considerable hiatus. At first the goals remained the same: excavation focused on the forum, the arx (citadel), and a small selection of residential complexes. Little interest was mani- fested in the area outside the city walls. The project soon developed a different focus. Starting in 1968 Anna Margherita McCann organized a team of land archaeologists and divers who explored the port of Roman Cosa. Ancient harbors were key to the history of both ancient engineering and ancient Mediterranean trade. When the flying priest, Antoine Poidebard, took aerial photographs of the harbor at Tyre, he tried to supplement his photographic research by diving in the cumbersome equipment available before the war.94 Now the combination of new diving technology, aerial photography, and increased interest in ancient seaborne commerce stimulated a greater interest in port and harbor studies.95 The Mediterranean is not blessed with a great number of good natu- ral harbors, and many of the ones it had were not near important power and population centers. Ancient Rome itself lacked a natural harbor. The silted, artificial harbors at Ostia built by Claudius and Trajan had long attracted archaeological attention. Postwar archaeological work at Caesarea and Carthage also offered insight into the development of artificial harbors in antiquity. The Cosa harbor was small, hardly more than a roadstead. However, it was regarded as sufficiently important to Roman communications with Gaul and Spain that it had been made more secure from storms by the construction of cement breakwaters. The invention of a cement that could harden underwater was one of the major Roman technologi- cal developments of antiquity. The port of Cosa was not only a stopping place on the coastal route but also an export center for the agricultural produce of the Ager Cosanus, especially wine, and a production, pro- cessing, and export center for an active fish-farming industry. At Cosa harbor archaeologists recovered important information on Roman harbor 246 AFTER WORLD WAR II construction and were able to learn a great deal about the history of the port.96 Evidence for fish farming was recovered as well as material about amphora production associated with the family of Sestius. Since the port had served as the outlet for the products of the Cosan farmers, the harbor excavations fitted well with the growing interest in the Cosa countryside. This countryside had experienced agricultural reforms similar to those in Veii, including the introduction of mechanical agriculture. It had enormous survey potential, but it was also undergoing massive site destruction. In the 1970s two surveys, one American and one Anglo-Italian, documented hundreds of sites and provided the database for the reconstruction of the rural history of the Ager Cosanus.97 The most important project at Cosa during the 1970s was the exca- vation at the late republican–early imperial villa site of Settefinestre, an elegant rural residence with considerable evidence for agricultural production some ten miles from the city. The director was Andrea Carandini. Carandini was a student of Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, the Marxist art historian, who though not a field archaeologist him- self, encouraged such research as well as theoretical debate among his students.98 Carandini shared his mentor’s elite social background and Marxist politics. As a young archaeologist he had undertaken some of the first stratigraphic excavations at Ostia. He had also been with the Italian team at Carthage and seen how archaeologists from other countries operated. He was looking for a site where he could conduct a model operation in which the techniques of British archaeology that he had observed at Carthage could be applied. Settefinestre could provide information not only on Roman rural architecture but also on the history of production in the countryside.99 One of the most important innovations in Italian archaeology, borrowed from the British, was using students rather than hired workers, and a new generation of young Italian archaeologists was trained at Settefinestre. They went on to apply their experience to their own sites and produced a revolution in Italian field archaeology. The inspiration for the Settefinestre excavations was the UNESCO Carthage project. Europeans and Americans had long been interested in the city that had played such an important role in ancient pagan and Christian history. Early in the nineteenth century the Danish consul in Tunis, Christian Falbe (1791–1849), had collected and made archaeologi- cal observations at Carthage and in the interior of Tunisia.100 The White AFTER WORLD WAR II 247 Fathers, a group of African missionaries, had always been interested in excavation, especially at Christian sites. In the 1920s, American archae- ologists from the University of Michigan briefly joined the Fathers in the exploration of the tophet, the Carthaginian infant burial ground.101 Years of French occupation had led to many archaeological discover- ies. Yet the site of the Carthaginian and Roman city had never been systematically explored. In the 1970s a new international initiative opened an important era in both the exploration of Carthage and cooperative Mediterranean ar- chaeology. The suburbs of the modern city of Tunis were expanding onto the site of ancient Carthage. Tunisian archaeologists, led by Ab- delmajid Ennabli, appreciated the seriousness of the threat, but they realized that a major salvage project was beyond the resources of the new Tunisian Antiquities Service.102 A call went out for international assistance. UNESCO mounted an operation (Campagne internationale de sauvegarde de Carthage) that enlisted teams from the United States, Britain, France, Poland, Italy, Canada, Bulgaria, Denmark, and Tunisia. Each team was assigned one or more sectors at Carthage. While they worked individually, there was a great deal of contact among the vari- ous groups. Since each national team had its distinctive way of doing archaeology, it was possible to see the full range of approaches to clas- sical archaeology in the late twentieth century. A considerable amount of cross-fertilization resulted. The project had several important implications for classical archaeol- ogy. Since this was a salvage excavation at a long-lived urban center, all periods of the city’s history and all types of sites and structures had to be studied. The remains investigated stretched from the foundation of the Punic city in the mid-eighth century b.c. to its decline and fall in the late sixth or seventh century a.d.103 Deep cuts in certain areas provided evidence for the earliest phase of Punic occupation. Much was learned about the Punic city, especially in its last phase just before the destruc- tion by the Romans in 146 b.c. The remains of Roman Carthage, one of the largest urban centers in the empire, shaped much of the work. Masses of Roman artifacts, especially ceramics, were recovered. They reinforced the importance of Carthage as a pottery production and ex- port center that the researches of John Hayes had already highlighted. Pioneering research was done on the Roman/Byzantine city and on the decline of Carthage as an urban entity. The Carthage excavations also 248 AFTER WORLD WAR II heightened interest in the rural hinterland that provided the grain and olive oil that passed through the city on the way to Rome. American, British, and Danish teams undertook important work in the Tunisian countryside, reconstructing the complex evolution of agricultural and pastoral economies required to feed Rome. The Carthage project embodied many of the best developments in postwar classical archaeology. The archaeologists from a newly indepen- dent state and several former colonial powers worked together to salvage information on one of the great cities of antiquity. The full range of new archaeological approaches, from field survey to nautical archaeology, were applied. While some of the undertakings were massive, others, like the field surveys, showed that modest operations could bring important results. Carthage provided opportunities for a new generation of archae- ologists to learn about the best in modern archaeology, make important contacts with their peers in other countries, and, it is hoped, continue innovative classical archaeology in the new millennium. Afterword The UNESCO excavations at Carthage make a good place to end this study, for they capture many elements of the changing world of classi- cal archaeology as the discipline moved into the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. The fact that the Carthage dig was a rescue excavation is significant, for it is rescue and salvage work that has come to dominate archaeology in both northwestern Europe and the Mediterranean. The countries of Europe and the classical Mediter- ranean are undergoing massive, rapid development both in urban and rural areas. Although all the countries have laws protecting sites and antiquities and requiring rescue archaeology before sites are destroyed, these laws are variously enforced, and even minimal efforts at archaeo- logical excavation and conservation at threatened sites are coming to consume most of the financial and personnel resources of individual countries. In most countries the official Antiquities Service has now been supplemented by archaeological contract units, some private and some connected with universities. Much of the time of civil service, university, and private archaeologists is taken up with this emergency work. While a large amount of archaeological evidence is saved, the constant press of new work means that relatively little is studied and published. Both nationalism and internationalism in Europe continue to shape the archaeological-political landscape. Some of the most strident nation- alism came out of Greece when the dictatorship of the colonels was over- thrown in 1974. For the first time since the ending of the Greek civil war, the political left had a major voice in Greek politics, and it took up the causes of nationalism, anti-imperialism, and anticolonialism. The two colonialist-imperialist powers, Britain and the United States, bore the brunt of this fervor. The Elgin marbles once more became a focal point 249 250 AFTERWORD for controversy, as Melina Mercouri led a vocal, if so far unsuccessful, campaign to force Britain to return them.1 The new era of archaeological cooperation is best represented by the European Union. For the first time since the fall of the Roman Empire, most of the old classical lands are now part of a single administrative entity. This has and will have multiple implications. The European Union is working to create common regulation, which will gradually result in a unilateral archaeology policy. But the virtual ending of national customs borders will also mean that illegal antiquities can more easily flow from one country to another. The most positive development for archaeology in this European unity is not the probable series of new rules, but the interchange that the new order will foster. This is already apparent in organizations like the erasmus project, which sponsors research, conferences, and other forms of scholarly exchange.2 Other exchanges are more informal, found mainly in the constant movement of younger archaeologists among the countries of the European Union. Brits dig in Spain, Italians attend seminars in Germany, the French do postgraduate work in the Nether- lands. The fertile interchange that grew out of the Carthage project has continued and expanded. The result has been a dynamic, superior archaeology across the whole of Europe. The evolution of the European Union was accompanied by histori- cal and ideological debates that affected archaeology. A common clas- sical heritage draws many of the core nations together, something that Greece, for example, can use to its political, economic, and cultural advantage. But there are other common heritages. Celtic culture brings nonclassical lands like Ireland into the archaeological limelight. The pan-Celtic revival recalls in certain respects the romantic developments of the early nineteenth century.3 Today’s archaeological community understands the need to engage the public if it is going to continue to receive political, economic, and even social support. The bureaucratization of archaeology in Europe has marginalized the amateur savants who so long sustained the discipline throughout the continent. Many of the old archaeological societies are dying. At the same time, conscious efforts are being made to engage the public, and especially to involve the young, in the archaeological enter- prise. The success of the American popular magazine Archaeology has spawned imitations in most of the countries of Europe. Archaeological AFTERWORD 251 youth groups have been formed, and excavations still depend heavily on volunteers for their labor. Excavators try to show the public what they are doing in the form of on-site poster displays, while museums are mov- ing beyond exhibits of pots and statues arranged in decorous, discrete, and uninformative displays to exhibitions that better relate artifacts to social and cultural history. The United States is the only major classical archaeology power that is outside this new European order, and the implications for U.S. archaeology are serious. U.S. archaeologists are no longer needed and, indeed, have little to teach. The European countries have an expanded cadre of young archaeologists who generally have more field training than their American counterparts. American field archaeology in the Mediterranean remains largely limited to fewer and fewer big digs. Today the American School of Classical Studies at Athens is extremely limited in the archaeology it can do, especially in the restrictive political climate of Greece. The American Academy in Rome has almost no archaeo- logical opportunities at all. Americans no longer can even offer funding for projects since their resources have been cut, and the cost of doing archaeological work in Europe has risen dramatically. The debate over the best training for a classical archaeologist in the United States continues. The hopes raised in the 1970s by interdisciplin- ary archaeology programs like those at Boston University, the Univer- sity of Minnesota, and Indiana University have largely been dashed.4 In Europe most students are trained in archaeology programs, where they learn through both theory and practice the best contemporary ap- proaches. American classical archaeologists are generally educated in art history and classics departments. In the first they may learn new theoretical and conceptual approaches that have some relevance to the study of the material culture of antiquity. Significantly, much of the most interesting work in American classical archaeology is being done by ancient art historians. Classics departments are generally dominated by philologists, and there graduate students in archaeology receive a more limited education in an atmosphere that is often hostile to the field. The world of museum archaeology has not changed much. The col- lecting of elite material and its presentation in an elite way still seems to be the driving force for most classical art curators. Important museums like the Getty have gotten out of the undocumented antiquities trade, and there is evidence that a combination of high prices and the adverse 252 AFTERWORD publicity of “antiquities scandals” have caused other museums to press for better provenance information.5 However, many institutions still make only token gestures toward verification. Private collecting, the “farm team” system for the big classical art museums, flourishes. Some of its more egregious activities have been limited by recent court actions, but large markets like the one in illegal antiquities ultimately find ways of avoiding or shaping the law. Ironically, the best chance for museums to reenter into the main- stream of classical archaeology is through the world of ideas. As the field tradition withers, the art historians who work with the objects most often found in the museums will come to dominate classical archaeology. Although they will draw their materials from museums, they will be in a position to shake the elitist, nineteenth-century-aesthete paradigms that dominate classical museum display today. Healthy, theory-driven debates go on about the history and purpose of the museum, and it would be good to see those reflected in the way museums present the Greek and Roman past to the public. Public engagement still remains a matter of concern for classical archaeologists. Archaeology magazine continues to be popular, and ar- chaeology shows pull respectable audiences on educational television. The Archaeological Institute of America sponsors an active national lecture program, although the audiences are increasingly graying. Most Greek and Roman field archaeology takes place in distant lands at sites that are mainly visited by wealthy Americans on posh tours. The final question is what will remain for future generations to study. Archaeological sites, like crude oil reserves, are finite resources. No more ancient Greek cemeteries or Roman villas are being created. Meanwhile, the major forces of destruction, development, looting, and environmental degradation move relentlessly on. Public archaeology flourishes because in both city and countryside archaeological sites are constantly being discovered in the process of construction, road and dam development, and agricultural improvement. The archaeologists can save only a small amount of the record. Once the high-rise foundations are excavated, the highway is completed, and the land behind the dam is flooded, the archaeological environment is gone forever. Poorly monitored development projects contribute to the antiquities market, but it is even more indebted to the numerous clandestine excava- tions taking place throughout Europe. Changes in taste and fashion are AFTERWORD 253 leading to the destruction of new types of sites. Red-figure vases from the south of Italy have recently become fashionable, and thousands have appeared on the market. Almost none have known provenances, which means that they probably came from looted cemeteries.6 Objects stolen from cemeteries are joined by objects stolen from museums to feed what still appears to be an expanding market for antiquities. More vigorous enforcement by source countries like Greece, Italy, and Turkey, and greater international cooperation by receiving countries like the United States have helped stem the flow.7 Even so, new countries are constantly entering the market, while rising prices for the goods provide greater incentives for the illegal trade. This looting is not limited to individuals engaged in the antiquities trade. Interested amateurs still dig for the fun of it. This avocational ar- chaeology has recently been enhanced by the popularity of metal detec- tors in countries like Britain. On weekends the countryside is filled with amateurs seeking Roman coins and a range of other metal objects. Most professional archaeologists are outraged and have launched campaigns against the practice. Others have sought cooperation between profes- sionals and amateurs in site preservation and investigation.8 The con- troversies over metal detectors are another expression of the decline of formally organized amateur archaeology and the loss of communication between amateurs and professionals. The care that an Ian Richmond took to bond with local societies, condemned by Mortimer Wheeler, is a practice that archaeologists might seek to revive today. Environmental degradation affects archaeological sites in a variety of ways. Coastal erosion eats away at Roman seaside villas. Deforesta- tion opens up ancient settlements to the destructive forces of nature. Human beings pose the greatest threat, however, not only through de- velopment, but in the ways they change the environment. Air pollution provides a vivid example. Many of the buildings of classical Greece were constructed from stone, which is readily subject to the type of acid rain degradation that comes from automobile exhaust. As automobile usage expanded rapidly in Athens, the buildings of the Acropolis began to crumble. Works like the caryatids of the Erechtheum that managed to survive not only the Ottomans but Lord Elgin have had to be moved in- side. Even at remote Bassae in Arcadia, the beautifully preserved temple built by one of the architects of the Parthenon has had to be covered by a protective bubble. 254 AFTERWORD Ironically, our love of the past has posed a new type of menace. Archaeological tourism has expanded rapidly in recent years. On the whole this is a good thing, because it brings money to impoverished areas and provides public support for the archaeologists’ work. But the passage of tens of thousands of even well-behaved tourists (and not all are well-behaved) through an archaeological site creates its own destructive forces. At some point, probably in the not too distant future, the last Greek farmstead, the last Roman urban neighborhood, and the last Romano- Celtic shrine will have been excavated or destroyed.9 Classical archaeolo- gists will not be out of business. The quantities of unstudied material in museums and warehouses will keep generations of graduate students and professionals busy. The art and archaeology of Greece and Rome will continue to be taught, and the ever larger tour ships will disgorge their passengers at protected archaeological sites. However, a key ele- ment in classical archaeology will have been lost. The discipline that developed in the past two centuries was a result of the dialogue between the known and that which could be discovered by exploring new sites and collecting previously unknown objects. This vision of archaeology has always united the most parochial amateur antiquarian and the most sophisticated professional. Archaeology students are taught that it is never wise to excavate an entire site, because each generation develops new techniques and poses new questions. Now we face the real pos- sibility that our successors in the not too distant future will lack that laboratory in the earth that has sustained classical archaeology since the Renaissance. Notes 1. Barbanera 2000a: 59. 2. Leppmann 1970; Potts 1994; Brilliant 2000. 3. Howard 1990: 151–52, 155–56. 4. Howard 1990: 162–73. 5. Morris 1994: 16–18. 6. Butler 1958. 7. Hibbert 1987; Black 2003. 8. Belsey 1982; A. M. Clark 1985. 9. Cust 1914: 36. 10. Tinniswood 2002. 11. Bentmann and Muller 1992. 12. Arnold 1994. 13. Girouard 1978: 163–212. 14. Cust 1914: 77–78, 101–4. 15. Knight 1986; Darley 1999. 16. Honour 1968: 126. 17. Honour 1968: 126–27; Serra 1986. 18. Dyson 1998: 69. 19. Angelicoussis 2001: 48. 20. Angelicoussis 2001: 19. 21. Michaelis 1882. 22. Ernst 1992: 155–56. Another major study that examined the collections in British country houses was F. Poulsen, Greek and Roman Portraits in English Country Houses (1923). 23. Scoppola and Vordemann 1997. 24. Howard 1970: 125–26. 25. Springer 1987: 23. 26. EHCA: 562–65; Irwin 1962. 27. EHCA: 211–13; Ridgway 1989. 28. EHCA: 619–20. 29. Howard 1990: 149–50. 30. Howard 1970. 31. Honour 1968: 124–25. 32. Murray 1971. Chapter 1. The Protohistory of Classical Archaeology 255 256 NOTES TO PAGES 10–23 33. Wilton-Ely 1994: 3; Margiotta 1996; for Le Roy, see EHCA: 677. 34. Yourcenar 1985: 88–128; Wilton-Ely 1994. 35. Macaulay 1953; see esp. 191–204. 36. Labus 1818: xxvi–xxvii. 37. EHCA: 902–4. 38. Springer 1987: 21–38; Howard 1990: 142–43; Consoli 1996. 39. Johns 1998: 25. 40. EHCA: 556–57. 41. EHCA: 1176–77. 42. Howard 1990: 145–49. 43. Labus 1818. 44. St. Clair 1998: 215–19, 223–24. 45. Mozzillo 1964: 162–67. 46. Allroggen-Bedel 1993. 47. Parslow 1995. 48. Haskell and Penny 1981. 49. Clay 1979: 108. 50. Haskell and Penny 1981: 77, fig. 40. 51. Haskell and Penny 1981: 165–67, 229–32. 52. Parslow 1995. 53. This influence can be seen in the scholarship of Penelope Allison. See, e.g., Allison 2004. 54. Ramage 1992. 55. Parslow 1995: 215–32. 56. Mozzillo 1964: 165–66; Grant 1984: 165–67. 57. Allroggen-Bedel 1993: 36–37. 58. De Caro et al. 1992: 2–7, 13–18; D’Ambrosio 2002: 96–101. 59. EHCA: 207–8. Chapter 2. The Foundations of Classical Archaeology 1. EHCA: 467–68; Cassanelli et al. 2002. 2. Lee 1999: 81–95. 3. Ridley 1997. 4. Chatelain 1973: 103–214. 5. EHCA: 905. 6. Springer 1987: 86–88; Ridley 2000: 96–99, fig. 18. 7. Ridley 2000: 97, fig. 18. 8. Ridley 2000: 221–30. 9. Ridley 1992: 47–93. 10. Ridley 1992: 152–66. 11. Ridley 1992: 95–99. 12. Johns 1998: 11. 13. Roma antiqua 1992; Italia antiqua 2002. NOTES TO PAGES 23–38 257 14. Yegul 1991. 15. Angelicoussis 1992: 31–33. 16. Angelicoussis 1992. 17. Brooks 1958; Gerdts 1973. 18. Angelicoussis 1992: 25–26. 19. Johns 1998: 171–94; Eustace et al. 1997. 20. Sherman 1994; Johns 1998: 36–38, 92, 173; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 553. 21. Johns 1998: 174–77; St. Clair 1998: 5, 25–27, 223. 22. Thorvaldsen’s Museum 1961. 23. EHCA: 1210–11; Mejer 1986. 24. Ridley 2000. 25. EHCA: 803–4. 26. Sweet 1980: 14, 24–27, 53–62, 66–71; Wohlleben 1992: 194–200. 27. A. D. Momigliano 1994b: 229–36; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 487–88. 28. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 122. 29. EHCA: 601. 30. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 25–26. 31. Michaelis 1908: 57–61. 32. Schnapp 1982: 767–70. 33. EHCA: 915–16; Magi 1940. 34. Ridley 1996. The Prussian support for the Institute proved a mixed blessing. Prussian disputes with the Vatican often left Bunsen marginalized within Roman society, and the Italians stopped coming to the meetings (Bendinelli 1953: 132–33). 35. Collignon 1915: 13–14; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 80–81. 36. Penny 1982: 72; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 460–61. 37. Andreae 1993: 18. 38. Andreae 1993: 6–9. 39. For the role played by the correspondents from Perugia, see Pickert 1963. 40. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 41, 357, 736–38. 41. Rodenwaldt 1931: 67–69; Andreae 1993: p. 7, abb. 1. 42. EHCA: 33–34, 821–22. 43. EHCA: 224–25; Buranelli 1991. 44. Springer 1987: 57. 45. Springer 1987: 57–63. 46. Cubberly and Hermann 1992: 14. 47. Bendinelli 1953. 48. Bendinelli 1953: 418–23. 49. Bendinelli 1953: 260. 50. Bendinelli 1953: 136–37, 140–41. Canina succeeded the antiquarian Luigi Biondi as the director of those excavations. The initial excavations were started by Lucien Bonaparte; see Pasqualini 1992. 51. Negro 1943: 263. 52. B. F. Cook 1998: 154. 53. Borowitz and Borowitz 1991. 258 NOTES TO PAGES 39–48 54. Negro 1943: 255–58; Borowitz and Borowitz 1991: 13. 55. Nadalini 1996. 56. Negro 1943: 257; Magagnini 1994: 10. 57. Armeni et al. 2000. 58. Armeni et al. 2000; Campitelli 1997. 59. Steindl 1993. 60. Von Hulsen 1940; Gasparri and Giandoni 1994. 61. Negro 1943: 250. 62. Campanelli et al. 2003. 63. Frend 1996: 1–40. 64. Bisconti et al. 1994. 65. EHCA: 360–61; Marucchi 1921–22; Frend 1996: 77–81. 66. Negro 1943: 264; Tomei 1999. 67. Bendinelli 1953: 316–23; Tomei 1999: 1–18. 68. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 31–32. 69. Michaelis 1879; Kolbe 1984. 70. Michaelis 1879: 3–6. 71. Deichmann 1986: 1–18. 72. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 179. 73. Motte 1990: 80–232. 74. Parslow 1995. 75. De Caro 1994: 10–15. 76. For a good evaluation of the antiquarian tradition in classical archaeology, see A. D. Momigliano 1950; Ferone 1988. 77. Horicht 1987: 825–44. 78. Ferone 1988; d’Ambrosio 2002: 20–21. 79. Etienne 1992: 22–28. 80. d’Ambrosio 2002: 58–67, 76–79. 81. Reinhold 1984: 265–79. 82. Etienne 1992: 25; Goalen 1995: 186–90; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 450–51. 83. Gerdts 1973: 120–21; Dyson 1998: 24. 84. Benson 1907: 89–116; Lubbock 1983. 85. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 51–52, 78–79. 86. Falzone del Barbaro 1990: 31. 87. Horicht 1987: 856; Maffioli 1990; Cassanelli et al. 2002: 33. 88. Miraglia and Pohlmann 1993. 89. Becchetti 1978: 265; Palazzoli 1981; Kurtz 2000: 222. The Fratelli Alinari studio opened in Florence in 1852. 90. Anti 1966: 101–3 stresses the importance for teaching and research of the fact that photographic records could be made of complete collections, rather than just a selection of the best work, which tended to be the practice for casts and en- gravings. See also Beard 2000a: 159–60. 91. Dyson 2004: 42. 92. Fiorelli 1994; de Angelis 1993. NOTES TO PAGES 48–57 259 93. Barnabei 1991: 16. 94. Fiorelli 1994: 65–76. Another archaeological victim of that Bourbon repres- sion after 1848 was the Jesuit epigrapher Raffaele Garrucci: see Ferone 1988. 95. De Angelis 1993. 96. Bracco 1979: 197–200. 97. Article in Athenaeum, Feb. 25, 1871; for Brizio see Gran-Aymerich 2001: 111– 13. 98. Barbanera 2000b: 45–48. 99. Barbanera 1998: 21–34. 100. Clay 1979: 125–127. 101. Belli 1974: 26 n. 8. 102. Saint-Non 1781–86; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 607–9; Cassanelli et al. 2002: 12. 103. Belli 1974. 104. EHCA: 672. 105. A. D. Momigliano 1978. 106. Knight 1986: 54. 107. Pace 1935: 28–33; Ceserani 2000: 182–89; A. D. Momigliano 1978. 108. Cust 1914: 119–24; Funnell 1982: 50–64; Knight 1986; St. Clair 1998: 167–72. 109. Butler 1958: 31–39; Ceserani 2000: 188–89. 110. Chiusano 1988. 111. Watkin 1974: 14; Marconi 1996: 10; Ferguson 2001. 112. Marconi 1996. 113. Pace 1935: 42–44. 114. Marconi 1996: 6–7. 115. Pace 1935: 56; Barbanera 1998: 16–19. 116. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 135–36. 117. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 707–8. 118. Mejer 1986. 119. EHCA: 1189. 120. Barbanera 2000a: 60–61. The first academic cast collection had been estab- lished in Göttingen in 1767; see Kurtz 2000: 126. 121. EHCA: 616–18; Calder, Cancik, and Kytzler 1991; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 360– 61. 122. Bazant 1991. 123. Cancik 1991: 38–41. 124. Chaline 1995: 93–94. 125. Pinon 1991: 72–73; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 112–14; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 148–49. 126. Chaline 1995: 181. 127. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 133. This process of local museum development can be traced in the volumes of Espérandieu 1907–38. 128. Pavan 1977; Dietler 1994. 129. EHCA: 1128–29. 130. Mertens 1998. 131. Marchand 1996: 168–70. 260 NOTES TO PAGES 58–69 132. Schnapp 1982: 772–73. 133. Espérandieu 1907–38: 6: 261–62; Reinach 1931: 435. 134. Barnabei 1991: 129–32. 135. Pinon 1991: 84–89. 136. Simon 1989: 43–47; King 2001. 137. Pingeot 1982; Dietler 1994. 138. Le Gall 1990; Vercingétorix et Alésie 1994; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 152, 222, 445. 139. Reinach 1931: 439–41. 140. Von Hase 2000. 141. Borowitz and Borowitz 1991: 83–84, 116–20, 135–45. 142. Reinach 1931: 439–40; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 222. 143. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 16. 144. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 218–22. 145. Stead et al. n.d.: 12. 146. Berthier 1951: 178–87. 147. Frend 1996: 51–55. 148. Lorcin 1995. 149. Bertrand, quoted in Lorcin 1995: 200. 150. Dondin-Payre 1997. 151. Janon 1973: 193–96. 152. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 148–49. 153. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 327, 391. 154. Frend 1996: 57–58; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 66. 155. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 154–65; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 576–78. 156. Frend 1996: 115–18; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 315–16. 157. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 327. 158. Lorcin 1995: 177–81. 159. Frend 1996: 67–73; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 211. 160. Noel Duval, quoted in Frend 1996: 184. Chapter 3. The Opening of Greece 1. Barthélemy 1816; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 52–53. 2. Malakis 1925: 40–41; Tsigakou 1981: 20. 3. EHCA: 279–80; Malakis 1925: 35–38; Stoneman 1987: 136–40; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 174–75. 4. Tsigakou 1981: 43, 194. 5. EHCA: 433–34; Tregaskis 1979: 12–20; Stoneman 1987: 165–68; Gran- Aymerich 2001: 257–58. 6. EHCA: 433–34; Tsigakou 1981: frontispiece; Barbanera 2000a: 59. 7. EHCA: 365; Tregaskis 1979: 57–65; Stoneman 1987: 147–48. 8. EHCA: 483–84; T. Spencer 1954: 208–9; Stoneman 1987: 147–51; Plouviez 2001. 9. T. Spencer 1954: 208. NOTES TO PAGES 69–81 261 10. Clay 1976: 30; Vaughan 1998: 67–68. 11. Clay 1976: 18; Clay 1979: 14–16, 69–70, 75–76, 136–37. 12. EHCA: 289–90; Clarke 1809; Tregaskis 1979: 51–56; Stoneman 1987: 151–55. 13. T. Spencer 1954: 208. 14. DBC: 569–70; EHCA: 666; Stoneman 1987: 155–60; Wagstaff 2001a, 2001b. 15. Tregaskis 1979: 72–73; Wagstaff 2001a. 16. Ferguson 2001: 31–32. 17. Hitchens 1987: 97–120. 18. Watkin 1968: 64–69; Ferguson 2001: 20–21. 19. Ferguson 2001: 19–20. 20. EHCA: 295–96; Watkin 1974: 5–17; Ferguson 2001: 21–26. 21. Ferguson 2001: 27–30. 22. McNeal 1993; Dyson 1998: 9–10, 19–20. 23. The complex and often brutal reality of this period in Greek history was well captured by George Finlay in his 1861 History of the Greek Revolution. 24. Herzfeld 1982: 74–81. 25. Leake 1968: 271–72; McNeal 1993: 145–46. 26. Malakis 1925: 24–27; Chaconas 1942; Dimaras 1992: 216–19; Gourgouris 1996: 90–118. 27. Stoneman 1987: 248. 28. Peckham 2001: 120. 29. EHCA: 983–84; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 29–30; Stoneman 1987: 240–46; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 596. 30. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 536. 31. Pittakis, quoted in Peckham 2001: 117; Papageorgiou-Venetas 1994: 229–30. 32. EHCA: 536–37; Stoneman 1987: 249–50; Tine and Traverso 2001: 81–82. 33. Tsigakou 1981: 31, 41 pl. VII. 34. McNeal 1991. 35. Kaftanzoglou, quoted in Hamilakis and Yalouri 1999. 36. Yalouri 2001. 37. R. Carter 1979; Tsigakou 1981: 64. 38. Dickins 1912: 1–9. 39. EHCA: 796–97; Jenkins 1991: 106. 40. Stoneman 1987: 250; Jenkins 1991: 106–8. 41. EHCA: 18–19. 42. Tsigakou 1981: 68–72. 43. Ritter 1999. 44. Szegedy-Maszak 1987; Stillman 1988: 46–61. 45. EHCA: 773–74; Settis 1984; A. D. Momigliano 1994c; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 479. 46. Kurtz 2000: 221. 47. Peckham 2001: 115. 48. EHCA: 420–21. 49. EHCA: 163–64; Roma antiqua 1992: 237–49; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 85. 262 NOTES TO PAGES 81–94 50. Radet 1901: 18–99; Picard 1948. 51. Radet 1901: 4–99; Basch 1995: 49–56. 52. EHCA: 158; Basch 1995: 85, 146; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 157; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 71. 53. Marchand 1997. 54. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 39–40; Marchand 1996: 77–92; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 200–201. 55. Curtius, quoted in Rodenwaldt 1936: 9–10. 56. EHCA: 341–42. 57. EHCA: 7; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 53–54; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 25–26. 58. Whitley 2001: 34; Marchand 2002. 59. Michaelis 1908: 132–33. 60. EHCA: 1043. Chapter 4. Nationalism and National Traditions Before the Great War 1. Rodenwaldt 1929. 2. Kolbe 1984. 3. Andreae 1993: 21–23. 4. EHCA: 372. 5. EHCA: 752; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 61–62. 6. Michaelis 1882: 179–84. 7. Michaelis 1882: 181. 8. This appeared in English in 1908 as A Century of Archaeological Discoveries. 9. Michaelis 1908: 339–40. 10. Amandry 1976; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 233–35. 11. Schnapp 1996b: 57–58; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 213–14. 12. EHCA: 470–71; Ecole 1975. 13. EHCA: 304; Bruneau 1992. 14. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 147–49, 171, 177, 180, 207, 213; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 521–23. 15. EHCA: 304. 16. Collignon 1892–97. 17. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 207, fig. 90; 213; 229. 18. Wiwjorra 1996: 166–69. 19. Pavan 1977: 283–88. 20. Krämer 1979: 6–8; Marchand 1996: 172–80. 21. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 179–80; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 228–29. 22. Wells 1972: 163–70. 23. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 248–49. 24. Espérandieu 1907–38; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 385–86 n. 123. 25. Pavan 1977. 26. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 369–70. 27. Grenier 1944; Motte 1990; Pinon 1991: 99–101. NOTES TO PAGES 94–105 263 28. Daniel 1950: 228, 241; Schnapp 1996b: 59; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 354; Gran- Aymerich 2001: 206–8. 29. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 321–23, 383–85; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 312–13. 30. S. Cartocci and G. Cartocci 1977; H. James 1992; Testi 2004. 31. Abbamondi 1993. 32. Becchetti 1978: 15–28; Romano 1994: 17–22. 33. Romano 1994. 34. Keller and Breisch 1980; Cavazzi et al. 1989. 35. Barbanera 1998: 43–45, 200 n. 125. 36. Bonghi, quoted in Bruni 1991: 379. 37. EHCA: 636–38; Bruni 1991: 380–82. 38. Guzzo 1993: 55–82. 39. Arias 1995: 238–39. 40. De Angelis 1993: 11–12; Guzzo 1993: 68–69, quotes the art historian Leopold Venturi, who complained that Fiorelli had made his office into an appendage of the German Archaeological Institute. 41. Illuminati 1922; Barnabei 1991; Arias 1995: 239–43. 42. Dyson 1998: 74–75. 43. Sgubini 2000a: 38–40. 44. Bruni 1991. 45. EHCA: 1089–90; Tagliamonte 1998: 23–25. 46. Sgubini 2000b: 35–52. 47. Barbanera 1998: 65, 212 n. 77. 48. EHCA: 445–46; Capecchi 1989–90; Barbanera 1998: 14, 60; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 189–90. 49. Barnabei 1991: 197–207. 50. Barnabei 1991: 21–25. 51. Sgubini 2000b: 42–44. 52. Barnabei 1991: 177. 53. Lippolis 1983; D’Angela 2000. 54. Barbanera 1998: 59–60, 210 n. 39. 55. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 120–21; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 420–21. 56. Cassanelli et al. 2002: 39. 57. Kostof 1973. 58. Giglioli 1928–29; Barbanera 1998: 86–90; Lanciani 1988: xi–xiv. 59. EHCA: 657–58. 60. This initial charge and organization was laid out in the first issue of Bullet- tino Comunale 1872: 3–4. The original commission consisted of Lanciani, Augusto Castellani, Pietro Rosa, Giovanni Battista de Rossi, Verginio Vespignani, Carlo Ludovico Visconti, Pietro Ercole Visconti, and Nobili Vitelleschi. 61. The articles that appeared in English journals have been collected and published in Lanciani 1988. 62. EHCA: 255–56; Magagnini 1994. 63. Sgubini 2000a: 10–12. 264 NOTES TO PAGES 105–15 64. Sgubini 2000a: 12–21. 65. Tea 1932; Augenti 2000; Capodiferro and Fortini 2003. 66. Bracco 1979: 232–36; Guzzo 1993: 86–88, 92–93; Barbanera 1998: 82–86. 67. Beltrami 1926; Tea 1932: 122–67. 68. Iacopi 2003: 23–25. 69. EHCA: 360–61; Frend 1996: 77–81. 70. Dyson 2004: 54–55. 71. Rizzo 1926; Dyson 2004: 56–57. 72. Barnabei 1991: 17. 73. EHCA: 577 illustrates a group gathered for such a soirée at the Helbigs’. 74. EHCA: 445–46. 75. Govi and Vitali 1988: 1–15; Barbanera 1998: 61–62. 76. Bruni 1995. 77. D’Angela 2000: 39–40. 78. EHCA: 829–30; Leighton 1986; Guzzo 1993: 89–93. 79. Arias 1991. 80. Guzzo 1993: 84–86. 81. EHCA: 527–29; Barbanera 1998: 78–80; 216 n. 134; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 322– 23. 82. For the history of Italian archaeology in Crete, see Creta antica 1984. 83. La Rosa 1986: 53–72; Dyson 1998: 72. 84. Accame 1984: 2–3. 85. EHCA: 611–12; Petricioli 1990: 3–89. 86. Petricioli 1990: 91–126; see Ghirardini 1913 for Italian archaeological imperi- alism during this period. 87. Petricioli 1990: 126–49; Dyson 1998: 76–82. 88. Di Vita 1986: 80–85; Dyson 1998: 76–82. 89. Dyson 2004: 94–96. 90. EHCA: 324; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 59–60; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 192–93. 91. Curtis 2003. 92. EHCA: 1002–3. 93. EHCA: 653–54. 94. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 80. 95. Marchand 1996: 93–103. 96. EHCA: 150–51; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 67–68; Reinach 1907; Gran- Aymerich 2001: 60–61. 97. Koester 1995. 98. Walters 1928: 67–70. 99. Wiplinger and Wlach 1996. 100. EHCA: 805–6. 101. Wiplinger and Wlach 1996: 175–81. 102. Brendel 1979: 27–50; Bianchi Bandinelli 1995: 23; Dyson 2004: 94–96. 103. Brendel 1979: 31–37; Dyson 2004: 96–97. 104. EHCA: 873–74; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 69–70; Radt 1999: 309–23. NOTES TO PAGES 116–26 265 105. EHCA: 1193–94; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 154–55; Watzinger 1944; Marchand 1996: 202–3; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 712–13. 106. EHCA: 935–36; Watzinger 1944: 61–97. 107. J. C. Carter 1983: 1–2. 108. Cust 1914: 201; J. C. Carter 1983. 109. Michaelis 1908: 176, 181–84. 110. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 183, 233–37, 305. 111. EHCA: 596; Radet 1901: 196; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 347–48. 112. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 305; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 345–46. 113. Rauh 1993. 114. Higgins 1986: 172–76. 115. Higgins 1986: 72, 163–78. 116. Higgins 1986: 172–73; Duchêne 2002: 387–88. 117. Duchêne 2002. 118. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 182. 119. Dyson 1998: 73–74. 120. Michaelis 1908: 148–54; Bommelaer 1992. 121. EHCA: 353–57. 122. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 306. 123. Diehl 1978. 124. Dyson 1998: 1–27. 125. Dyson 1998: 33–37; J. Turner 1999. 126. Samuels 1979: 32–35. 127. Dyson 1998: 37–46; Allen 2002b; Will 2002. 128. Dyson 1998: 64–65; Allen 2002b. 129. Whitley 2001: 31. 130. Lord 1947. 131. Dyson 1998: 82–85. 132. Lord 1947: 89–108; Dyson 1998: 85–87. 133. Williams and Zervos 1996. 134. Hogarth 1910: 3. 135. Ovenell 1986. 136. Myres 1941: 329–31. 137. Engel 1983: 149–50, 231–35, 267–68. 138. Eugenie Sellers Strong studied with Adolf Furtwängler at Munich (Dyson 2004: 63–73). Mackenzie studied in Berlin and obtained a doctorate from the Uni- versity of Vienna under Otto Benndorf (N. Momigliano 1999: 16–17). 139. Levine 1986: 97. 140. Beard 1993. 141. Waterhouse 1986: 7–9. 142. DBC: 352–54; Waterhouse 1986: 9–10. 143. Dyson 1998: 82–83. 144. Dyson 2004: 53–54. 145. Daniel 1950: 16–25. 266 NOTES TO PAGES 126–40 146. Unsigned report, British Archaeological News (May 1987): 29–30. 147. Levine 1986: 1–69. 148. Levine 1986, esp. 49–54, 63–65. 149. Oxberry 1923. 150. Wheeler 1954: 127; Boon 1974; Hingley 2000: 118–19. 151. Fulford and Clarke 2002: 286–87, 300–303. 152. Smith 1854; Evans 1956: 263; MacGregor 1998: 134–36. 153. E. Birley 1961: 3–24; Breeze 2003: 3. 154. E. Birley 1961: 25–47; Breeze 2003. 155. A. Birley 2002: 1. 156. M. W. Thompson 1977; Bowden 1991. 157. Wheeler 1954: 9–14. For the relations between Pitt-River and British archaeo- logical societies, see Chapman 1989. 158. Hingley 2000: 12–14. 159. Hingley 2000. 160. Woolley 1953b: 15. 161. Yegul 1991. Chapter 5: The Emergence of the Great Museums in Europe and America 1. EHCA: 12–14; Stoneman 1987: 179–98; Barbanera 2000b: 58–59. 2. Michaelis 1908: 143–44. 3. Diebold 1995. 4. Baumstark 1999: 14–19. 5. EHCA: 231–32, 513–15. 6. St. Clair 1998. 7. Crook 1972: 39–71; Alexander 1983: 21–42; Fara 1997. 8. Rouet 2001: 14. 9. B. F. Cook 1985. 10. Townley Gallery 1836. 11. Crook 1972: 67–69. 12. Ernst 1992: 159–67. 13. EHCA: 127–29; Stoneman 1987: 187–92. 14. Poole 1888, 2: 137–59. 15. Colvin 1921: 209–23. 16. Stoneman 1987: 216–24. 17. Morris 1994: 28–29. 18. B. F. Cook 1998: 144. Cockerell also became interested in photography, helping to found the Architectural Photographic Association. Roger Fenton, who photographed the Crimean War, in 1856–57 made a series of photographs entitled Art Treasures of the British Museum. See J. C. Carter 1983: 346 n. 15. 19. Colvin 1921: 212; Dyson 2004: 33–36. 20. DBC: 1072–73; B. F. Cook 1998: 146–50. 21. Jebb 1895: 83; Stoneman 1987: 230–36. NOTES TO PAGES 141–51 267 22. Slatter 1994; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 260–61. 23. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 180; Bruneau 1992: 37–38. 24. For Orientalism, see Said 1979. For the background to the Greek–Near Eastern disjuncture, see Bernal 1987. 25. Crook 1972: 73–150. 26. Ernst 1992. 27. Curtis 2003. 28. Michaelis 1908: 179–80. 29. Hamiaux 2001. 30. Borowitz and Borowitz 1991: 71–133. 31. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 168–77; Nadalini 1998. 32. As quoted in Gran-Aymerich 1998: 218. 33. Hamiaux 2001: 191–93. 34. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 218–20. 35. Snodin 1991: 27–35, 125–31. 36. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 75–77. 37. EHCA: 874–75. 38. Marchand 1996: 288–94. 39. Shaw 2003. 40. Pasinli 2001. 41. Traill 1995: 102–35. 42. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 324–25; Shaw 2003: 98–171. 43. Shaw 2003: 157–66. 44. Shaw 2004. 45. Ozdogan 1998. 46. Bolton 1971: 123–62. 47. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 71–72; Moltesen 1987. 48. Pollak 1919; Santi and Cimino 1993; Kurtz 2000: 275. 49. EHCA: 815–16; Froehner 1898; Messineo 1992. 50. Hoving 1997: 259–63. 51. Guarducci 1980; Guarducci 1992. For arguments against those charges see Lehmann 1989. 52. EHCA: 934. 53. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 130–31. 54. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 132–33. 55. Pollak 1994: 99. 56. Dyson 1998: 122–28. 57. Whitehill 1970: 1–100, 142–71. 58. Sox 1991; Dyson 1998: 136–39. 59. Hibbard 1980: 7–26. 60. Dyson 1998: 133–34, 139–44. 61. EHCA: 267–68; Cesnola 1878; Myres 1914; Goring 1988: 7–15; Masson 1992; Dyson 1998: 130–35. 62. Dyson 1998: 142–44. 268 NOTES TO PAGES 152–66 63. EHCA: 968; Dyson 1998: 145–50; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 581–82. 64. Beard 2000b; Dyson 2004. 65. Dyson 1998: 59–60, 98–100; Gill 2002. 66. Droop 1915: 63–64. For Droop as an archaeologist and his handbook, see Hood 1998: 129–34; Lock 1990: 178. 67. Allsebrook 1992. 68. At Bryn Mawr classical archaeology was taught mainly by Rhys Carpenter from 1913 to 1955 and by Valentin Muller from 1931 to 1945. See EHCA: 245–46; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 244–45. 69. For Strong, see Dyson 2004: 111–60; for Van Deman, see Geffcken 1991; Dyson 1998: 116–19. 70. Whitehill 1970: 150–57. 71. EHCA: 700. 72. Whitehill 1970: 154–55; Ashmole 1994: 152–54; Hoving 1997: 256–78. 73. Richter 1937. 74. Von Bothmer and Noble 1961; Sox 1987: 103–13; Hoving 1997: 88–100. 75. EHCA: 202–3; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 47–48; Flasch 1902. 76. EHCA 475–76; Schuchardt 1956; Dyson 2004: 64–67. 77. Dyson 2004: 63–74. 78. EHCA: 1186–87. 79. Ramage 1990; Jenkins and Sloan 1996. For an appealing fictional account of the Neapolitan world of Lord Hamilton, see Susan Sontag’s 1992 novel The Volcano Lover. 80. EHCA: 567–68; Haskell 1984. 81. Vickers 1985; Gill and Vickers 1990; Gill 1991, 1993; Shanks 1996: 59–65; Whitley 2001: 39–41. 82. Vickers 1987. 83. R. M. Cook 1960: 258. 84. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 98–99; Rouet 2001: 25–29. 85. Hoffman 1979; Bérard 1989; Lisarrague 1990; Whitley 2001: 52–55. 86. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 543–44. 87. Rouet 2001: 2–3, 108–18, 124–28, 134–35. 88. Rouet 2001: 134–41. 89. EHCA 135–36; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 54–55; Ashmole 1970. 90. Calloway 1998: 52–53; Rouet 2001: 60–80. 91. Sherwood 1973: 146. The poetic side of Beazley was highlighted by his youthful friendship with the poet James Elroy Flecker. A number of Beazley’s poems provided the inspiration for works by Flecker. 92. Sherwood 1973: 35. 93. Anti 1966: 106–9 also notes the influence of Morelli on Furtwängler. 94. Morris 2000: 62–64. The scholarly relation between Morelli and Berenson on the one hand and Morelli and Beazley on the other is a complicated one. Beazley did not mention either Morelli or Berenson in his work, and Berenson was equally silent on Beazley. However, the use of scholarly techniques like the compilation of NOTES TO PAGES 166–75 269 lists is common to both, and it seems clear that some interconnection existed. See Cherry 1992; Rouet 2001: 70–73. 95. Kurtz 1985; Whitley 2001: 36–39; Shanks 1996: 30–41. 96. Rouet 2001: 1. 97. Morris 2000: 36–38. 98. Kurtz 1985. 99. Snodin 1991: 130–32. 100. Baker 1964: 20–45. 101. Ehrhardt 1982. 102. Barbanera 2000a: 65–69. 103. Walters 1928: 77–82. 104. Jenkins 1990: 90–101. 105. Barbanera 1993. 106. EHCA: 442–43. 107. Colvin 1921: 221–22; Beard 1993. 108. Dyson 1998: 140–41. 109. Jenkins 1991: 101–10. 110. Barbanera 1995. 111. Whitehill 1970: 210–17; Dyson 1998: 139–42. 112. Dyson 1998: 149–50. 113. St. Clair 1998: 293–302. 114. Epstein 1940: 167–71; Beard 1993: 21; Ashmole 1994: 69–71; Jenkins 1994: 203–5. Chapter 6. Political Ideology and Colonial Opportunism During the Interwar Period 1. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 713. 2. DBC: 464–66; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 344–45, 396–97. 3. Picard 1920; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 323. 4. Dyson 2004: 125, 187. 5. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 384. 6. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 387, 405–8. 7. Lorcin 1995: 198–213. 8. Lantier 1931: 462. 9. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 140–41. 10. Ecole 1975: 119–20. 11. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 394. 12. Lantier 1931: 468. 13. Misurare la terra 1989: 166–85. 14. Lantier 1931: 564–65. 15. Poidebard 1934; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 393–94, 433–34. 16. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 411–12. 17. Carcopino 1949; Gran-Aymerich 1998: 392–94; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 48. 270 NOTES TO PAGES 176–85 18. MacDonald 1982; Aicher 2000. 19. Ridley 1992. 20. See Bellanca 2003 for a balanced and sensitive discussion of Muñoz and his work. 21. Ridley 1986. 22. Longhi 1934. 23. As cited in Bellanca 2003: 146. 24. Kostoff 1973: 60–63. 25. Meiggs 1973: 106–7. 26. Meiggs 1973: 109–10; for Calza, see Becatti 1946. 27. Pallottino 1937; Giglioli 1938; Strong 1939; Visser 1992; Stone 1993; Scriba 1995. 28. For the Museum of the Empire (Museo dell’Impero), see Giglioli 1928. 29. Cianfarani 1975–76; Sartorio 1991. 30. La Rocca 1997–98: 25. 31. Mustillo 1939. 32. EHCA: 502; Maggi 1974: 48–49. 33. Martinelli 1960; Cederna 1981: xix–xx. 34. Giglioli 1935; Mazzotti 1954; Cederna 1981: xxii–xxiii. 35. Colini 1982. 36. La Rocca 1997–98: 20–23. 37. Bellanca 1997–98. This can be seen in Muñoz 1934, his obituary of Ricci. 38. Dyson 2004: 179–87. 39. Diggins 1972. 40. Calza 1921; Mattingly 1996; Munzi 2004: 73–74. 41. Calza 1925; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 40–41; Munzi 2001: 42–43. 42. Altekamp 1995. 43. Anti 1966: 59; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 520–21. 44. Munzi 2001: 66–69. 45. Squarciapino 1966: 35–36; Altekamp 2004; Munzi 2004. 46. Altekamp 2004: 62; Munzi 2004: 82. 47. Colini 1982; Munzi 2001: 42–43; Altekamp 2004: 59. 48. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 53; Munzi 2001: 44–46; Altekamp 2004: 60. 49. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 139–40; Munzi 2001: 50–51. 50. Goodchild 1976: 315–16; Munzi 2001: 79–80; Munzi 2004: 85–95. 51. Petricioli 1990: 167–84. 52. EHCA: 712; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 434–35. 53. Maggi 1974: 53–64. 54. Petricioli 1990: 200–202; Barbanera 1998: 126–28. 55. Maggi 1974: 67–195; Zevi 2001. 56. De Carolis 1990: 15–17. 57. De Carolis 1990: 17; Barbanera 1998: 59–61, 211 n. 42; Dyson 1998: 143. 58. Delphino 2001. 59. Calza 1924. NOTES TO PAGES 185–95 271 60. Maggi 1974: 106–9; Barbanera 1998: 153, 225 n. 113. 61. EHCA: 712. 62. Maggi 1974: 70–77. 63. Zevi 2001: 74. 64. Von Hase 1989; d’Agostino 1991: 55; Guzzo 1993: 95–96; Barbanera 1998: 143–44, 224 n. 85; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 738–39. 65. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 735–36. 66. Maggi 1974: 81. 67. Davis 2000: 77. 68. Davis 2000: 79–82. 69. Davis 2000: 83–87. 70. Dyson 1998: 92–93; Davis 2003. 71. EHCA: 519; Dyson 1998: 92–94; Hood 1998: 48–51. 72. Hood 1998: xxii–xxiii. 73. DBC: 590–91; Hartley 1954. 74. DBC: 556–57; Hood 1998: 71–75. 75. Dyson 1998: 179–84; Davis 2003. 76. Hood 1998: 171–76; Morris 2000: 60–62. 77. Dyson 1998: 181. 78. Papageorgiou-Venetas 1994: 8, 249. 79. EHCA: 828; Cahill 2002: 52–73. 80. Dyson 1998: 193–95. 81. Dyson 1998: 193–95. 82. Cahill 2002. 83. Davis 2003: 161–66. 84. Dyson 1998: 152–216. 85. DBC: 751–53; EHCA: 866; Powell 1943; Zarmati 1990; Hood 1998: 135–42. It is ironic that both Brooke and Payne died of blood poisoning. 86. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 124–25. 87. Basch 1995: 498. 88. Payne and Mackworth-Young 1950: xi. 89. Rodenwaldt 1936; Rodenwaldt 1957: 8–9; Marchand 1996: 338–40. 90. Marchand 1996: 302–40. 91. R. M. Cook 1960: 301–22. 92. Lock 1990. 93. Dawkins 1929; Mackridge 1990: 204; J. Carter 1987. 94. Waterhouse 1986: 31, 101–13. 95. Payne 1962. 96. EHCA: 798; Petrie 1886. 97. E. Gardner 1888; Hogarth 1898–99. 98. Woolley 1953a: 179–82; Winstone 1990: 204–13; Möller 2000: 50, 65; Board- man 2002. 99. Powell 1943: 100–101; Ridgway 1990. 100. DBC: 88–89; Blakeway 1932–33; Ridgway 1990; Snodgrass 2002. It is 272 NOTES TO PAGES 195–200 interesting to note that Blakeway in his seminal article acknowledges no Italian archaeologists. 101. DBC: 266–67. 102. De Angelis 1998; Snodgrass 2002. 103. Settis 1988: 154–55; Giuliano 2001. 104. Arias 1976: 101–2; Barbanera 1998: 138–39, 223 n. 70; Servadio 2000: 140, 155. 105. Ceserani 2000: 191. 106. Dinsmoor 1927: 75; Settis 1988: 140–44 on the prevalence of the preconcep- tions about the lack of originality in Western Greek culture and the importance of the scholarship of Pace in countering that. 107. EHCA: 1063; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 139. 108. EHCA: 210; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 234–35. 109. EHCA: 629; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 374. 110. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 144–45. 111. EHCA: 635–36; Knigge 1991. 112. R. M. Cook 1960: 301–5. 113. R. M. Cook 1960: 301–2. 114. Marchand 1996: 349. 115. Breitinger 1939; Junker 1998; Whitley 2001: 35–36. 116. Marchand 1996: 350–52; Junker 1998: 288. 117. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 285–86. 118. Deichmann 1986: 17. 119. EHCA: 40–41; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 160–61; Amelung and Holtzinger 1906; Rodenwaldt 1927. 120. Andreae 1993: 28–32. 121. EHCA: 342; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 186–87; Curtius 1950; Bieber 1955; Kaschnitz-Weinberg 1956; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 202. For a more ambivalent picture of Curtius, see Faber 1995. 122. Curtius 1927. 123. Faber 1995; Marchand 1996: 335–37, 355–56. 124. Brendel 1979: 109–20. 125. EHCA: 629–30; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 248–49; Bieber 1967. Kaschnitz- Weinberg’s unchanged support for formal analysis as an approach to art is clearly expressed in his 1956 obituary of his mentor Ludwig Curtius (Kaschnitz-Weinberg 1956). 126. Coarelli 1976: 429–32. It should not be forgotten that concepts that one would today consider racist were in common usage throughout German intellec- tual discourse. Margarete Bieber, a German Jew who had to flee Hitler, employed concepts like “Nordic” regularly in her 1967 memorial for Kaschnitz-Weinberg. 127. EHCA: 965–66; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 236–37; Marchand 1996: 337–39. 128. EHCA: 962. 129. Junker 1998: 283–84. 130. Ducati 1929; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 589–91. 131. Barbanera 2003: 114–16, 155–57. NOTES TO PAGES 200–209 273 132. Rodenwaldt 1957: 8–9. 133. Rodenwaldt 1936; Marchand 1996: 351–52. 134. Weickert 1949. 135. B. Arnold 1990; B. Arnold 1992; Hassmann 2000; Veit 2000. 136. Speer 1970: 94–97. 137. Dyson 1998: 223–28. 138. EHCA: 669–70; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 262–63; Seiler 2001. 139. Dyson 1998: 227. 140. EHCA: 159–60; Lullies and Schiering 1988: 196–97; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 75–76. 141. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 291–92. 142. Marchand 1996: 343–54. 143. The Annual Report in the Jahresberichte des Archäologisch Instituts (1939– 40): ix, describes the excavations at Carnuntum outside Vienna as being carried out under the “direction” of the Fuhrer. 144. A. Birley 2002: 2. 145. Carabott 2003. 146. “Spyridon Marinatos, a Reader of History,” New York Times, January 11, 1971; Nikolaidou and Kokkinidou 1998: 250; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 441–42; Kokkinidou and Nikolaidou 2004: 167. 147. Wallace-Hadrill 2001: 10–54. 148. Hodges 2000. 149. Dyson 2004. 150. Wallace-Hadrill 2001: 55–96. 151. Dyson 1998: 210–15. 152. Collingwood 1939: 120. 153. DBC: 192–93; Collingwood 1939: 120–46; Couse 1990; Hingley 2000: 131–38. 154. Breeze 2003: 12. 155. Hodder 1991: 95–106. 156. DBC: 1050–53; Wheeler 1956; Hawkes 1982. 157. Hawkes 1977; Hawkes 1982: 150–77. 158. Richmond 1956. 159. Kondoleon 2000: 5–8. 160. Morey 1938; Levi 1947. 161. Hopkins 1979. 162. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 198–200. 163. A. D. Momigliano 1994a; Dyson 1998: 196–99, 262–64. 164. Rostovtzeff 1938; Perkins 1973; Wharton 1995: 15–33. 165. Annual report in Archäologischer Anzeiger (1944–45): 116–17. 166. DBC: 761–63; EHCA: 872; Powell 1999: 131–48. 167. DBC: 413; Coldstream and Rodewald 1980: 442–43. 168. For Olsen, see K. Lehmann 1945; for Technau, see Lullies and Schiering 1988: 287–88; for Feyel, see Demangel 1944–45. 169. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 220–21. 274 NOTES TO PAGES 209–17 170. Goodchild 1976: 318–35; Munzi 2004: 95–97. 171. Marchand 1996: 344–46, 353–54; Hood 1998: 35–41. 172. Mazower 1993: 5–8; Marchand 1996: 345–46. 173. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 272–73. 174. Marchand 1996: 335–36. 175. Mazower 1993: 46. 176. Schnapp 1980: 22–23. 177. Schnapp 1980: 23. 178. Papageorgiou-Venetas 1994: 298–99; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 444–45. 179. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 227–27. 180. F.W.D. 1970; Jantzen 1986: 47–50. 181. Munzi 2001: 114–15. Van Gerkan created the guide for Leptis Magna, while his assistant Siegfried Fuchs prepared the one for Cyrene. 182. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 212. 183. Torelli 1986: 196; Accame 1988: 9–12; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 67–68; Tine and Traverso 2001. 184. Barbanera 1998: 112–16, 131–33, 220 n. 87. 185. EHCA: 679–80; Triantaphyllopoulos 1991; Barbanera 1998: 136–37; Gran- Aymerich 2001: 413–14. 186. Accame 1988: 9. 187. Jacopi had a long career in fascist archaeology. In 1924 he was appointed chief archaeological administrator of the Dodecanese (Petricioli 1990: 200–202). He also served as a government agent to explore archaeological opportunities in Turkey (Petricioli 1986: 24–25; Petricioli 1990: 339–60). 188. Barbanera 2003: 218–21. 189. Junker 1998: 286, 290; Maischberger 2002: 212–15. 190. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 140–41. 191. Boyance 1961–63: 34–35; Schnapp 1996b: 61–63. 192. Gran-Aymerich 1998: 329, 386, 458–62, 465; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 593. 193. Goodchild 1976: 320–35. 194. Winstone 1990: 225–39. 195. Wheeler 1956: 152–61; Hawkes 1982: 216–19. Chapter 7. After World War II 1. Shnirelman 1996. 2. Reynolds 1976: xiii–xiv; Munzi 2004: 96–103. 3. Grenier 1955: 46. 4. Mattingly 1996: 57–64. 5. Guarducci 1992: 322–25. 6. EHCA: 502. 7. Barbanera 1998: 126–27, 156–57. 8. De Angelis d’Ossat 1977: 399–400; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 388–89. 9. Torelli 1986: 190. NOTES TO PAGES 217–31 275 10. Barbanera 1998: 154, 157, 168, 172; Carandini 2000: 37, 129. 11. Bianchi Bandinelli 1943; De Sanctis 1943. 12. Arias 1976: 75–76; La Penna 1979: 240–43; La Penna 1994. 13. Ajello 1979. 14. Coarelli 1976: 437–38; Carandini 1979: 121–62. Coarelli notes that a number of emerging German scholars like Zanker and Fitchen also participated in Bianchi Bandinelli’s seminars. 15. Lullies and Schiering 1988: 256–57; Marchand 1996: 354–68. 16. Marchand 1996: 368–71; Maischberger 2000: 59. 17. Marchand 1996: 363–68. 18. Guarducci 1992: 314–27. 19. Dyson 1998: 257–59. 20. McCredie 2002. 21. EHCA: 1055–56; Papageorgiou-Venetas 1994: 239–45. 22. Dyson 1998: 231–47. 23. Gebhard 1990; H. Williams 1990. 24. Bullitt 1969. 25. Rainey 1992: 144–50; Dyson 1998: 236–42. 26. Mitten 1987; Dyson 1998: 224–26, 234–36. 27. Hanfmann 1972: 6–8. 28. Hanfmann 1972. 29. Yegul 1986. 30. Hood 1998: 201–3. 31. DBC: 981–83; Reynolds 1993. 32. Gran-Aymerich 2001: 47–48. 33. Nikolaidou and Kokkinidou 1998; Kokkinidou and Nikolaidou 2004; 166–68, 176–79. 34. Hoving 1997: 308–30. 35. Skeates 2000: 40. 36. Hoving 1997: 281–89. 37. Hess 1974: 141–51; Hoving 1993: 307–40. 38. Hoving 1997: 313–18. 39. Hoving 1997: 279–310. 40. True 1993. 41. Skeates 2000: 44–45; Coggins 2002. 42. EHCA: 330–31; Valentine and Valentine 1973: 132–41. 43. Brown 1980; Brown, Richardson, and Richardson 1960, 1983; Bruno and Scott 1993; Fentress 2003. 44. MacKendrick 1960: 98–109. 45. Ecole 1975: 117–18; Gros 1981. 46. MacKendrick 1960: 95–98; Mertens 1969. 47. Nobecourt 1991: 27. 48. EHCA: 742–43; Ecole 1975: 118–19. 49. Nobecourt 1991: 80–82; De Angelis 1998. 276 NOTES TO PAGES 231–43 50. EHCA: 899–900. 51. EHCA: 899–900. 52. Ridgway 1990; d’Agostino 1991: 58. 53. EHCA: 1054–55; Dyson 1998: 232–33. 54. Sjoqvist 1973. 55. Dyson 1998: 232–33. 56. EHCA: 1035; Boardman 1964: 49–50; Waterhouse 1986: 114–16. 57. Bradford 1957: 145–216. 58. Chouquer et al. 1987. 59. J. C. Carter 1990. 60. Agache 1978. 61. G. Clark 1958. 62. G. Clark 1989: 64–66; Wilson 1995. 63. DBC: 815–17; E. Birley 1966. 64. See Hingley 2000: 150, table 10.3, which shows that throughout this period excavations at military sites surpassed those at villa or town sites by a substantial margin; S. James 2002: 5–6. 65. Hawkes 1982: 353–56. 66. Jones 1987. 67. DBC: 1026–28; H. Thompson 1981; Wilkes 1983; Hodges 1990: 87–90; Cotton 1992; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 703–6. 68. Wallace-Hadrill 2001: 105–6. 69. Potter 1979; Wallace-Hadrill 2001: 106–11. 70. Piggott 1967. 71. Ward-Perkins et al. 1968. 72. Barker 1985. 73. Dyson 1998: 248–52. 74. N. Spencer 1998: 35–41; Whitley 2001: 47–50. 75. Keller and Rupp 1983 summarizes the results of the first generation of survey archaeology in the Mediterranean. 76. Grimes 1968; Thomas 2003: 10–13. 77. Biddle 1974; Biddle, Hudson, and Heighway 1973. 78. Quilici and Quilici Gigli 2001. 79. Manacorda and Tamassia 1985. 80. Manacorda 1982a; Mancorda et al. 2000. 81. Blot 1996: 18–35. 82. MacKendrick 1960: 178–82; Blot 1996: 38–41. 83. Bass 1966; Blot 1996: 61–65. 84. Rainey 1992: 267–69. 85. Droomgoole 2002; O’Keefe 2002. 86. Casson 1971. 87. Bruni et al. 2000. 88. Gould 2000: 170–73. 89. De Angelis d’Ossat 1977; Gran-Aymerich 2001: 229–30. NOTES TO PAGES 243–54 277 90. Blot 1996: 49–51. 91. Manacorda 1978; Will 1987. 92. Hayes 1972. 93. DBC: 320–23; Finley 1973. 94. Poidebard 1939. 95. McCann et al. 1987: 3–11. 96. McCann et al. 1987; McCann 2002. 97. Dyson 1978. 98. Carandini 1979: 121–62. 99. Carandini and Ricci 1985. 100. Lund 2000. 101. Dyson 1998: 187–88. 102. Ennabli 1992. 103. Frend 1996: 313–17. Afterword 1. Morris 1994: 38–39. 2. Hodges 1990. 3. Dietler 1994; Champion 1996: 140–42. 4. Dyson 1998: 247–54. 5. Noskov 2002. 6. Elia 2001. 7. Marthari 2001; Pastore 2002. 8. Skeates 2000: 55–56; Addyman and Brodie 2002. 9. Brodie and Tubb 2002: 3–4. Bibliography Abbreviations DBC Todd, R. B., gen. ed. 2004. The Dictionary of British Classicists. Bristol, England. EHCA de Grummond, N. T., ed. 1996. An Encyclopedia of the History of Classical Archaeology. Westport, Conn. Works Cited Abbamondi, L. 1993. “Per una storia della fotografia archeologica a Roma dalle origini agli albori del novecento.” Archeologia in posa: cento anni di fotografia del Foro Romano, xiii–xix. Rome. Accame, S. 1984. “F. Halbherr e G. De Sanctis.” Studi pubblicati dall’Istituto italiano per la storia antica 34: 1–20. ———. 1988. “Convegno di studi l’archeologia italiana nel Mediterranean fino alla Seconda Guerra Mondiale.” Miscellanea Grece e Romana 13: 1–15. Adamesteanu, D. 1985. I greci sul Basento. Como, Italy. Addyman, P., and N. Brodie. 2002. “Metal Detecting in Britain: Catastrophe or Compromise?” In Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology, ed. N. Brodie and K. W. Tubb, 179–84. London. Agache, R. 1978. La Somme pré-romaine et romaine. Amiens, France. Aicher, P. 2000. “Mussolini’s Forum and the Myth of Augustan Rome.” Classical Bulletin 76 (2): 117–39. Ajello, N. 1979. Intellettuali e PCI, 1944–1958. Bari, Italy. Alexander, E. 1983. Museum Masters. Nashville, Tenn. Alexandri, A. 2002. “Names and Emblems: Greek Archaeology, Regional Identities and National Narratives at the Turn of the Twentieth Century.” Antiquity 76: 191–99. Allen, S. H., ed. 2002a. “‘Americans in the East’: Francis Henry Bacon, Joseph Thacher Clarke and the AIA at Assos.” In Excavating Our Past: Perspectives on the History of the Archaeological Institute of America, ed. S. H. Allen, 63–92. Boston. ———, ed. 2002b. Excavating Our Past: Perspectives on the History of the Archaeo- logical Institute of America. Boston. Allison, P. 2004. Pompeian Households. Los Angeles. Allroggen-Bedel, A. 1993. “Gli scavi di Ercolano nella politica culturale dei Borboni.” In Ercolano, 1738–1988, ed. L. F. dell’Orto. Rome. 279 280 BIBLIOGRAPHY Allsebrook, M. 1992. Born to Rebel: The Life of Harriet Boyd Hawes. Oxford. Altekamp, S. 1995. “L’azione archeologica fra indirizzo scientifico e intervento po- litico: il caso dell’archeologia libica, 1911–1943.” Quaderni di Storia 41: 101–13. ———. 2004. “Italian Colonial Archaeology in Libya, 1912–1942.” In Archaeology Under Dictatorship, ed. M. L. Galaty and C. Watkinson, 55–72. New York. Amandry, P. 1976. “Albert Dumont et les transformations de l’enseignement supéri- eur au début de la troisième république.” Bulletin de correspondence hellénique 100: 1–5. Amelung, W. 1903–8. Die Skulturen des Vatikanischen Museums. Berlin. Amelung, W., and H. Holtzinger. 1906. The Museums and Ruins of Rome. London. Andreae, B. 1993. “Kurze Geschichte des deutschen archäologischen Instituts in Rom dargestellt im Wirken seiner leitenden Gelehrten.” Römische Mitteilungen 100: 5–40. Angelicoussis, E. 1992. The Woburn Abbey Collection of Classical Antiquities. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. ———. 2001. The Holkham Collection of Classical Sculpture. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Anti, C. 1966. Propedeutica archeologica: a cura di Luigi Polacco. Padua, Italy. Arias, P. 1976. Quattro archeologi del nostro secolo. Pisa, Italy. ———. 1991. “Politica e cultura nel attività di Paolo Orsi.” Annuario del Museo civico di Rovereto: sezione archeologica, studi di scienze naturale 6 (suppl): 17–28. ———. 1995. “Il mito dell’archeologia italiana: due ‘patres conscripti’ all’inizio delle leggi sulla antichità dopo il 1870.” Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei: Class di Scienze morali, storiche e filolighe 8 (6): 237–45. Armeni, C., et al. 2000. Villa Torlonia. Rome. Arnold, B. 1990. “The Past as Propaganda: Totalitarian Archaeology in Nazi Ger- many.” Antiquity 64: 464–78. ———. 1992. “The Past as Propaganda.” Archaeology July–August: 30–36. Arnold, D., ed. 1994. Belov’d by Ev’ry Muse. London. Ashmole, B. 1970. “Sir John Beazley, 1885–1970.” Proceedings of the British Academy 56: 443–61. ———. 1994. Bernard Ashmole, 1894–1988: An Autobiography. Ed. D. Kurtz. Malibu, Calif. Augenti, A. 2000. “Giacomo Boni, gli scavi di Santa Maria Antiqua e l’archeologia medievale a Roma all’inizio del novecento.” Archeologia medievale 27: 39–46. Baker, P. 1964. The Fortunate Pilgrims. Cambridge, Mass. Baradez, J. 1949. Fossatum Africae. Paris. Barbanera, M. 1993. Il Museo dell’arte classica. Rome. ———. 1995. Il Museo dell’arte classica: Gipsoteca. Vol. 1. Rome. ———. 1998. L’archeologia degli italiani: storia, metodi e orientamenti dell’archeologia classica in Italia. Rome. ———. 2000a. “Les collections de moulages au XIXe siècle: étapes d’un parcours entre idéalisme, positivisme et esthétisme.” In Les moulages de sculptures antiques et l’histoire de l’archéologie, ed. H. Lavagne and F. Queyrel, 57–73. Paris. BIBLIOGRAPHY 281 ———. 2000b. “Idee per una storia dell’archeologia classica in Italia dalla fine del settecento al dopoguerra.” In Archeologia teorica, ed. N. Terrenato, 39–56. Siena, Italy. ———, ed. 2000c. Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli e il suo mondo. Bari, Italy. ———. 2003. Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli: biografia ed epistolario di un grande archeologo. Milan. Barker, G., ed. 1985. Cyrenaica in Antiquity. Oxford. Barnabei, F. 1991. Le “memorie di un archeologo,” ed. M. Barnabei and F. Delfino. Rome. Barthélemy, J.-J. 1816. Travels of Anacharsis the Younger in Greece. London. Basch, S. 1995. Le mirage grecque. Paris. Bass, G. 1966. Archaeology Under Water. London. ———. 1975. Archaeology Beneath the Sea. New York. Baumstark, R. 1999. Das neue Hellas: Griechen und Bayern zur Zeit Ludwigs I. Munich. Bazant, J. 1991. “Otto Jahn’s ‘Griechische Kunstgeschichte’ Today.” In Otto Jahn (1813–1868), ed. W. Calder III, H. Cancik, and B. Kytzler, 11–28. Stuttgart. Beard, M. 1993. “Casts and Cast-offs: The Origins of the Museum of Classical Ar- chaeology.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 39: 1–29. ———. 2000a. “Cast: Between Art and Science.” In Les moulages de sculpture an- tiques et l’histoire de l’archéologie, ed. H. Lavagne and F. Queyrel. Paris. ———. 2000b. The Invention of Jane Harrison. Cambridge, Mass. Becatti, G. 1946. “Commemorazione di Guido Calza.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 22: 23–30. Becchetti, P. 1978. Fotografi e fotografia in Italia, 1839–1889. Rome. Bellanca, C. 1997–98. “Antonio Maria Colini, Antonio Muñoz e il Governatorato.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 70: 27–34. ———. 2003. Antonio Muñoz: la politica di tutela dei monumenti di Roma durante il Governatorato. Rome. Belli, C. 1974. “François Lenormant, archeologo avventuroso.” Atti del tredicesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, 7–41. Taranto, Italy. Belsey, H. 1982. “Cameos from the Grand Tour: The Paintings of Pompeo Batoni.” History Today, August 1982: 46–49. Beltrami, L. 1926. Giacomo Boni. Milan. Bendinelli, G. 1953. Luigi Canina (1795–1856): le opere, i tempi. Alessandria, Italy. Bennett, T. 1995. The Birth of the Museum. London. Benson, A. C. 1907. Walter Pater. London. Bentmann, R., and M. Muller. 1992. The Villa as Hegemonic Architecture. Atlantic Highlands, N.J. Bérard, C., ed. 1989. A City of Images: Iconography and Society in Ancient Greece. Princeton, N.J. Bernal, M. 1987. Black Athena. Vol. 1. New Brunswick, N.J. Berthier, A. 1951. L’Algérie et son passé. Paris. Bianchi Bandinelli, R. 1943. Storicità dell’arte classica. Florence. 282 BIBLIOGRAPHY ———. 1995. Introduzione all’archeologia classica come storia dell’arte antica. Bari, Italy. ———. 1996. Dal diario di un borghese. Rome. Biddle, M. 1974. “The Future of the Urban Past.” In Rescue Archaeology, ed. P. Rahtz, 95–111. Harmondsworth, England. Biddle, M., and D. M. Hudson, with C. M. Heighway. 1973. The Future of London’s Past: A Survey of the Archaeological Implications of Planning and Development in the Nation’s Capital. Worcester. Bieber, M. 1955. “Ludwig Curtius.” American Journal of Archaeology 59: 64–65. ———. 1967. “A Monument for Guido Kaschnitz von Weinberg.” American Journal of Archaeology 71: 361–86. Birley, A. 2002. “Fifty Years of Roman Frontier Studies.” In Limes 18: Proceedings of the Eighteenth International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies Held in Amman, Jordan (September 2000), ed. P. Freeman, J. Bennett, Z. Fiema, and B. Hoffmann, 1–11. Oxford. Birley, E. 1961. Research on Hadrian’s Wall. Kendal, England. ———. 1966. “Sir Ian Archibald Richmond, 1902–1965.” Proceedings of the British Academy 52: 292–302. Bisconti, F., et al. 1994. Giovanni Battista de Rossi e le catacombe romane. Vatican City, Rome. Black, J. 2003. Italy and the Grand Tour. New Haven, Conn. Blakeway, A. 1932–33. “Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Commerce with the West, 800–600 B.C.” Annual of the British School at Athens 33: 170–208. Blanchet, A., ed. 1931. Carte archéologique de la Gaule romaine. Paris. Blot, J.-V. 1996. Underwater Archaeology. New York. Boardman, J. 1964. The Greeks Overseas. Harmondsworth, England. ———. 1985. “One Hundred Years of Classical Archaeology in Oxford.” In Beazley and Oxford, ed. D. C. Kurtz, 43–55. Oxford. ———. 2002. “Al Mina: The Study of a Site.” Ancient West and East 1 (2): 315–31. Bolton, G. 1971. Roman Century. New York. Bommelaer, J.-F. 1992. La redécouverte de Delphes. Paris. Bonamici, M. 1980. “Sui primi scavi di Luciano Bonaparte a Vulci.” Prospettiva: 6–24. Boon, G. C. 1974. Silchester: The Roman Town of Calleva. Newton Abbot, England. Borowitz, H., and A. Borowitz. 1991. Pawnshop and Palaces: The Fall and Rise of the Campana Art Museum.Washington, D.C. Bowden, M. 1991. Pitt Rivers: The Life and Archaeological Work of Lieutenant-General Augustus Henry Lane Fox Pitt Rivers, DCL, FRS, FSA. Cambridge. Boyance, P. 1961–63. “Commémoration du membre Albert Grenier.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 34: 27–36. Bracco, V. 1979. L’archeologia classica nella cultura occidentale. Rome. Bradford, J. 1957. Ancient Landscapes. London. Brand, V., ed. 1998. The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age. Oxford. Breeze, D. J. 2003. “John Collingwood Bruce and the Study of Hadrian’s Wall.” Britannia 34: 1–18. BIBLIOGRAPHY 283 Breitinger, E. 1939. “Die Skelette aus dem submykenischen Gräbern.” In Die Nekro- polen des 12 bis 10 Jahrhunderts. Kerameikos, ed. W. Kraiker and K. Kubler, 223–61. Berlin. Brendel, O. 1979. Prolegomena to the Study of Roman Art. New Haven, Conn. Brilliant, R. 2000. “Winckelmann and Warburg.” In Antiquity and Its Interpretors, ed. A. Payne, A. Kuttner, and R. Smick, 269–75. Cambridge. Brodie, N., J. Doole, and C. Renfrew, eds. 2001. Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage. Cambridge. Brodie, N., and K. W. Tubb. 2002. Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology. London. Brooks, V. W. 1958. The Dream of Arcadia. New York. Brown, F. E. 1980. Cosa: The Making of a Roman Town. Ann Arbor, Mich. Brown, F. E., E. H. Richardson, and L. Richardson, Jr. 1960. Cosa II: The Temples of the Arx. Rome. ———. 1993. Cosa III: The Buildings of the Forum. University Park, Pa. Bruneau, P., ed. 1992. Georges Perrot, Maxime Collignon: “Etudes d’archéologie grecque”; précédé de l’archéologie grecque en Sorbonne de 1876 à 1914. Paris. Bruni, S. 1991. “I musei archeologici di Roma capitale.” Rivista dell’instituto nazionale d’archeologia e storia d’arte, ser. 3, 14–15: 379–92. ———. 1995. Isidoro Falchi, un medico al servizio dell’archeologia. Campiglia Marit- tima, Italy. Bruni, S., et al. 2000. Le navi antiche di Pisa. Florence. Bruno, V. J., and R. T. Scott. 1993. Cosa IV: The Houses. University Park, Pa. Bullitt, O. 1969. Search for Sybaris. Philadelphia. Buranelli, F. 1991. Gli scavi della società V. Campanari e Governo Pontificio (1835– 1837). Rome. Butler, E. M. 1958. The Tyranny of Greece over Germany. Boston. Cahill, N. 2002. Household and City Organization at Olynthus. New Haven, Conn. Calder, W. M. III, H. Cancik, and B. Kytzler, eds. 1991. Otto Jahn (1813–1868). Stuttgart. Calloway, S. 1998. Aubrey Beardsley. London. Calza, G. 1921. “The Memorials of Rome in the Italian Colonies.” Art and Archaeol- ogy 11 (4): 131–44. ———. 1924. “Pompeii Is Born Again.” Art and Archaeology 17: 161–68. ———. 1925. “Sabratha and Leptis: The Glories of Roman Tripolitania.” Art and Archaeology 20: 211–21. Campanelli, A., et al., eds. 2003. La collezione Torlonia di Antichità del Fucino. Pescara, Italy. Campitelli, A., ed. 1997. Villa Torlonia: l’ultima impresa del mecenatismo romano. Rome. Cancik, H. 1991. “Vorlesung ‘Grundzüge der Archäologie’ (Bonn, Sommer 1865) in den Mitschriften von Eduard Hiller.” In Otto Jahn (1813–1868), ed. W. M. Calder III, H. Cancik, and B. Kytzler. Stuttgart. Capecchi, G. 1989–90. “Un catalogo mai edito, un disegno archivato: Vittorio Poggi 284 BIBLIOGRAPHY e la nascita del museo archeologico di Firenze.” Annali della facolta di lettere e filosofia, Universita degli studi di Perugia 37: 198–230. Capodiferro, A., and P. Fortini, eds. 2003. Gli scavi di Giacomo Boni al Foro Romano. Rome. Carabott, P. 2003. “Monumental Visions: The Past in Metaxos.” In The Usable Past, ed. K. Brown and Y. Hamilakos, 23–27. Lanham, Md. Carandini, A. 1979. Archeologia e cultura materiale. Bari, Italy. ———. 2000. Giornale di scavo. Turin, Italy. Carandini, A., and F. Cambi. 2002. Paesaggi d’Etruria. Rome. Carandini, A., and A. Ricci. 1985. Settefinestre: una villa schiavistica nell’Etruria romana. Modena, Italy. Carcopino, J. 1949. “La prospection aérienne de limes de Numide.” Journal des savants: 133–53. ———. 1968. Souvenirs romains. Paris. Carter, J. 1987. “The Masks of Orthia.” American Journal of Archaeology 91: 355–84. Carter, J. C. 1983. The Sculpture of the Sanctuary of Athena Polias at Priene. London. ———. 1990. “Metapontum: Land, Wealth, Population.” In Essays in Honour of A. D. Trendall, 405–41. Canberra, ACT. Carter, R. 1979. “Karl Friedrich Schinkel’s Project for a Royal Palace on the Acropo- lis.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 9: 34–46. Cartocci, S., and G. Cartocci. 1977. Yesterday’s Rome. Rome. Cassanelli, R., et al. 2002. Ruins of Rome. Los Angeles. Casson, L. 1971. Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World. Princeton, N.J. Cavazzi, L., et al. 1989. Un inglese a Roma. Rome. Cederna, A. 1981. Mussolini urbanista. Bari, Italy. Ceserani, G. 2000. “The Charm of the Siren.” In Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus, ed. C. Smith and J. Serrati, 174–93. Edinburgh. Cesnola, L. P. di. 1878. Cyprus: Its Ancient Cities, Tombs and Temples. New York. Chaconas, S. 1942. Adamantios Korais. New York. Chaline, J.-P. 1995. Sociabilité et érudition: les sociétés savantes en France, XIXe–XXe siècles. Paris. Champion, T. 1996. “Three Nations or One? Britain and the National Use of the Past.” In Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe, ed. M. Diaz-Andreu and T. Champion, 119–45. Boulder, Colo. Chaney, E. 1984. “The Grand Tour and Beyond: British and American Travellers in Southern Italy, 1545–1960.” In Oxford, China and Italy, ed. E. Chaney and N. Ritchie, 133–60. London. ———. 1998. The Evolution of the Grand Tour. London. Chapman, W. 1989. “The Organizational Context in the History of Archaeology: Pitt-Rivers and Other British Archaeologists in the 1860s.” Antiquaries Journal 69: 23–42. Chatelain, J. 1973. Dominique Vivant Denon et le Louvre de Napoléon. Paris. Cherry, J. 1992. “Beazley in the Bronze Age? Reflections on Attributions Studies in Aegean Prehistory.” Aegaeum 8: 123–41. Chiusano, I. A. 1988. Goethe in Italia. Milan. BIBLIOGRAPHY 285 Chouquer, G., et al. 1987. Structures agraires en Italie centro-méridionale: cadastres et paysages ruraux. Rome. Cianfarani, V. 1975–76. “Italo Gismondi.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 48: 15–16. Clark, A. M. 1985. Pompeo Batoni. Oxford. Clark, G. 1958. “O. G. S. Crawford, 1886–1957.” Proceedings of the British Academy 44: 280–96. ———. 1989. Prehistory at Cambridge and Beyond. Cambridge. Clarke, E. 1809. Greek Marbles Brought from the Shores of the Euxine, Archipelago, and Mediterranean: And Deposited in the Vestibule of the Public Library of the University of Cambridge. Cambridge. Clarke, M., and N. Penny. 1982. The Arrogant Connoisseur: Richard Payne Knight, 1751–1824. Manchester, England. Clay, E., ed. 1976. Sir William Gell in Italy: Letters to the Society of Dilettanti, 1831– 1835. London. ———. 1979. Lady Blessington at Naples. London. Coarelli, F. 1976. “Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli.” Belfagor 31: 415–46. Coggins, C. 2002. “The Great Divides: The AIA and Professional Responsibility in Archaeology.” In Excavating Our Past: Perspectives on the History of the Archaeo- logical Institute of America, ed. S. H. Allen, 169–88. Boston. Coldstream, J. N., and C. A. Rodewald. 1980. “Vincent Robin D’Arba Desborough, 1914–1978.” Proceedings of the British Academy 67: 439–53. Colini, A. 1982. “Ricordo di Pietro Romanelli.” Studi romani 15: 358–65. Collignon, M. 1892–97. L’histoire de la sculpture grecque. Paris. ———. 1915. L’archéologie classique. Paris. Collingwood, R. 1939. An Autobiography. Oxford. Colonna, G. 1978. “Archeologia etrusca nell’ età romantica.” Studi etrusci 46: 81–117. Colvin, S. 1921. Memories and Notes of Persons and Places, 1852–1912. New York. Colvin, S., and L. Cust. 1914. A History of the Society of Dilettanti. London. Connor, P. 1989. “Cast-Collecting in the Nineteenth Century.” In Rediscovering Hellenism, ed. G. W. Clarke, 187–235. Cambridge. Consoli, G. P. 1996. Il museo Pio-Clementino. Modena, Italy. Conze, A., A. Hauser, and G. Niemann. 1875–80. Archäologische Untersuchungen auf Samothrake. Vienna. Cook, B. F. 1985. The Townley Marbles. London. ———. 1998. “British Archaeologists in the Aegean.” In The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age, ed. V. Brand, 139–54. Oxford. Cook, R. M. 1960. Greek Painted Pottery. London. Cotton, M. 1992. “John Bryan Ward-Perkins: An Appreciation.” In Marble in Antiq- uity: Collected Papers of J. B. Ward-Perkins, ed. H. Dodge and B. Ward-Perkins, 3–6. London. Couse, G. G. 1990. “Collingwood’s Detective Image of the Historian and the Study of Hadrian’s Wall.” In Reassessing Collingwood. Middletown, Conn. Creta antica. 1984. Creta antica: Cento anni di archeologia italiana (1884–1984). Rome. 286 BIBLIOGRAPHY Crook, J. M. 1972. The British Museum. London. Cubberly, T., and L. Hermann. 1992. Twilight of the Grand Tour. Rome. Curtis, G. 2003. Disarmed: The Story of the Venus de Milo. New York. Curtius, L. 1927. Die antike Kunst und der moderne Humanismus. Berlin. ———. 1950. Deutsche und antike Welt: Lebenserinnerungen. Stuttgart. Cust, L. 1914. History of the Society of the Dilettanti. London. d’Agostino, B. 1991. “The Italian Perspective on Theoretical Archaeology.” In Archaeo- logical Theory in Europe, ed. I. Hodder, 52–64. London. d’Ambrosio, A. 2002. Pompeii: gli scavi dal 1748 al 1860. Milan. D’Angela, C. 2000. Il museo negato (Taranto, 1878–1989). Taranto, Italy. Daniel, G. 1950. A Hundred Years of Archaeology. London. Darley, G. 1999. John Soane: An Accidental Romantic. New Haven, Conn. Davis, J., ed. 1998. Sandy Pylos. Austin, Tex. ———. 2000. “Warriors for the Fatherland: National Consciousness and Archaeol- ogy in ‘Barbarian’ Epirus and ‘Verdant’ Ionia, 1912–22.” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 13: 76–98. ———. 2003. “A Foreign School of Archaeology and the Politics of Archaeological Practice: Anatolia, 1922.” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 16: 145–72. Dawkins, R. 1929. The Sanctuary of Artemis Orthia at Sparta. London. De Angelis, F. 1993. “Giuseppe Fiorelli: la ‘vecchia’ antiquaria di fronte allo scavo.” Ricerche di storia dell’arte 50: 6–16. ———. 1998. “Ancient Past, Imperial Present: The British Empire in T. J. Dunbabin’s The Western Greeks.” Antiquity 72: 539–49. De Angelis d’Ossat, G. 1977. “Nino Lamboglia.” Studi romani 25: 399–400. De Caro, S., et al. 1992. Alla ricerca di Iside. Rome. De Caro, S. 1994. Il museo archeologico nazionale di Napoli. Naples. De Carolis, E. 1990. “Gli sviluppi dell’archeologia pompeiana, 1748–1900.” In Fotografi a Pompei nell’800 dalle collezioni del Museo Alinari. Florence. Déchelette, J. 1908–14. Manuel d’archéologie préhistorique, celtique et gallo-romaine. Paris. Deichmann, F. W. 1986. Von internationalen Privatverein zur preussischen Staats- anstalt. Mainz. Delphino, F. 2001. “Vittorio Spinazzola: tra Napoli e Pompeii, fra scandali e scavi.” In Pompeii: Scienza e società, ed. P. Guzzo, 51–61. Naples. Demangel, R. 1944–45. “Michel Feyel (8 Juin 1911–24 avril 1945).” Bulletin de cor- respondence hellénique 68–69: x–xi. De Rossi, J. B. 1861–77. Roma sotteranea. Rome. De Sanctis, G. 1943. “R. Bianchi Bandinelli: Storicità dell’ arte classica.” Rivista filologica 71: 81–84. De Witte, J. 1871. “Notes sur Edoard Gerhard.” Annuaires de l’académie royal de Belgique: 1–38. Diaz-Andreu, M., and T. Champion. 1996. Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe. Boulder, Colo. Dickins, G. 1912. Catalogue of the Acropolis Museum. Vol. 1. Cambridge. BIBLIOGRAPHY 287 Diebold, W. J. 1995. “The Politics of Derestoration.” Art Journal 54: 60–66. Diehl, C. 1978. Americans and German Scholarship, 1770–1870. New Haven, Conn. Dietler, M. 1994. “ ‘Our Ancestors the Gauls’: Archaeology, Ethnic Nationalism and the Manipulation of Celtic Identity in Modern Europe.” American Anthropologist 96: 584–605. Diggins, J. P. 1972. Mussolini and Fascism: The View from America. Princeton, N.J. Dimaras, C. 1992. “Greece, 1750–1850.” In Perceptions of the Ancient Greeks, ed. K. J. Dover, 203–24. Oxford. Dinsmoor, W. 1927. Architecture of Ancient Greece. London. Di Vita, A. 1986. “Tripolitania e Cirenaica nel carteggio Halbherr: fra politica e archeologia.” In L’archeologia italiana nel mediterraneo, ed. V. La Rosa, 73–92. Catania, Italy. Dodwell, E. 1819. A Classical and Topographical Tour Through Greece During the Years 1801, 1805, and 1806. London. Dondin-Payre, M. 1991. “L’exercitus Africae inspiratrice de l’armée française d’Afrique: ense et aratro.” Antiquités africaines 27: 141–49. ———. 1997. “Réussite et déboires d’une oeuvre archéologique unique: le colonel Carbuccia au norde de l’Aurès (1848–1850).” Antiquités africaines 32: 145–74. Droomgoole, S. 2002. “Law and Underwater Cultural Heritage: A Question of Bal- ancing Interests.” In Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology, ed. N. Brodie and K. W. Tubb, 109–36. London. Droop, J. P. 1915. Archaeological Excavation. Cambridge. Ducati, P. 1929. “Dallo ‘Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica’ all Istituto archeo- logico germanico.” Nuova antologia: 487–506. Duchêne, H. 2002. “Aventure archéologique et amitié épistolaire: Edmond Pottier, Salomon Reinach et les fouilles de Myrna.” Journal des savants: 379–440. Dunbabin, T. J. 1948. The Western Greeks. Oxford. Duncan, C. 1995. Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums. London. Dyson, S. L. 1978. “Settlement Patterns in the Ager Cosanus: The Wesleyan Uni- versity Survey.” Journal of Field Archaeology 5: 251–68. ———. 1998. Ancient Marbles to American Shores. Philadelphia. ———. 2004. Portrait of an Archaeologist: A Biography of Eugenie Sellers Strong. London. Ecole. 1975. L’école française de Rome, 1875–1975. Rome. Ehrenkranz, A., et al. 1988. William J. Stillman, Poetic Localities. New York. Ehrhardt, W. 1982. Das Akademische Kunstmuseum der Universität Bonn unter der Direktion von Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker umd Otto Jahn. Oplanden, Germany. Elia, R. 2001. “Analysis of the Looting, Selling, and Collecting of Apulian Red-Figure Vases: A Quantitative Approach.” In Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage, ed. N. Brodie, J. Doole, and C. Renfrew, 145–53. Cambridge. Engel, A. J. 1983. Oxford from Clergyman to Don: The Rise of the Academic Profession in Nineteenth-Century Oxford. Oxford. Engels, D. 1990. Roman Corinth. Chicago. 288 BIBLIOGRAPHY Ennabli, A. 1992. Pour sauver Carthage. Paris. Epstein, J. 1940. Let There Be Sculpture. New York. Ernst, W. 1992. “La transition des galeries privées au musée public et l’imagination muséale: l’exemple du British Museum.” In Anticomanie, ed. A.-F. Laurens and K. Pomian, 155–67. Paris. Espérandieu, E. 1907–38. Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaul romaine. Paris. Etienne, R. 1992. Pompeii: The Day a City Died. New York. Eustace, K., et al. 1997. Canova: Ideal Heads. Oxford. Evans, J. 1956. A History of the Society of Antiquaries. Oxford. Faber, R. 1995. “Humanistiche und faschistiche Welt über Ludwig Curtius (1874– 1954).” Hephaistos 13: 137–86. Falzone del Barbaro, M. 1990. “Guida all’iconografia fotografica di Pompei.” In Foto- grafi a Pompei nell’800 dalle collezioni del Museo Alinari, 31–32. Florence. Fara, P. 1997. “The Appliance of Science: The Georgian British Museum.” History Today 47 (8): 39–45. Fentress, L., et al. 2003. Cosa V: An Intermittent Town; Excavations, 1991–1997. Ann Arbor, Mich. Ferguson, H. 2001. “William Martin Leake and the Greek Revival.” In Travellers in the Levant: Voyagers and Visionaries, ed. S. Searight and M. Wagstaff, 17–34. Durham, England. Ferone, C. 1988. “Per lo studio della figura e dell’opera di Raffaele Garrucci (1812– 1885).” 13th Misc. Greco and Roman: 17–32. Février, P. A. 1989–90. Approches du Maghreb romain: pouvoirs, différences et conflits. Aix-en-Provence, France. Finley, M. I. 1973. The Ancient Economy. Berkeley, Calif. Fiorelli, G. 1994. Appunti autobiografici. Sorrento, Italy. Fiori, G. 1989. Vita di Antonio Gramsci. Bari, Italy. Fittschen, K. 1990. Verzeichnis der Gipsabgusse des Archäologischen Instituts der Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, 1767–1989. Göttingen, Germany. Flasch, A. 1902. Heinrich von Brunn. Munich. Fleming, J. 1962. Robert Adam and His Circle. London. Frend, W. H. C. 1996. The Archaeology of Early Christianity. London. Froehner, W. 1898. Collection d’antiquités du Comte Michel Tyszkiewicz. Paris. Fulford, M., and A. Clarke. 2002. “Victorian Excavation Methodology: The Society of Antiquaries at Silchester in 1893.” Antiquaries Journal 82: 285–306. Funnell, P. 1982. “The Symbolic Language of Antiquity.” In The Arrogant Connois- seur: Richard Payne Knight, 1751–1824, ed. M. Clarke and N. Penny, 50–64. Man- chester, England. Furtwängler, A. 1890. Die Bronzen und die ubrigen kleineren Funde von Olympia. Berlin. ———. 1895. Masterpieces of Greek Sculpture. Trans. Eugenie Sellers. London. F.W.D. 1970. “Armin von Gerkan, 1884–1969.” Römische Mitteilungen 77: vii–xvi. Galaty, M. L., and C. Watkinson, eds. 2004. Archaeology Under Dictatorship. New York. BIBLIOGRAPHY 289 Gardner, E. 1888. Naukratis. Vol. 2. London. Gardner, P. 1894–95. “Sir Charles Newton, K.C.B.” Annual of the British School at Athens 1: 67–77. ———. 1902. Classical Archaeology in Schools. Oxford. ———. 1933. Autobiographica. Oxford. Gasparri, C. 1980. Materiali per servire allo studio del Museo Torlonia di scultura antica. Rome. Gasparri, C., and O. Giandoni. 1994. Lo studio Calvaceppi e le collezione Torlonia. Rome. Gebhard, E. 1990. “Excavations at Isthmia and the Work of Oscar Broneer.” In The Ancient Eastern Mediterranean, ed. Eleanor Guralnik, 43–48. Chicago. Geffcken, K. 1991. “Esther Van Deman: A Profile.” In Esther B. Van Deman, ed. K. Einaudi, 7–13. Rome. Gell, W. 1810. The Itinerary of Greece. London. ———. 1823. Narrative of a Journal in the Morea. London. ———. 1832. Pompeiana: The Topography, Edifices, and Ornaments of Pompeii: The Results of Excavations since 1819. London. ———. 1846. The Topography of Rome and Its Vicinity. London. ———. 1975. Sir William Gell in Italy: Letters to the Society of Dilettanti, 1831–1835, ed. E. Clay with M. Fredericksen. London. Gell, W., and J. P. Gandy. 1824. Pompeiana: The Topography, Edifices, and Ornaments of Pompeii. London. Gerdts, W. 1973. American Neo-Classic Sculpture. New York. Gerhard, O. 1831. “Rapporto intorno i vasi volcenti.” Annali dell Instituto di cor- rispondenza archeologica 3: 5–21. Ghirardini, G. 1913. Speranze e conquiste dell’archeologia italiana a Crete e nell’Africa. Rome. Giglioli, G. 1928. “Origine e sviluppo del Museo dell’impero di Roma.” Capitolium 4: 303–12. ———. 1928–29. “Rodolfo Lanciani.” Bullettino Comunale 56–57: 367–84. ———. 1935. “Corrado Ricci e l’archaeologia romana.” In In Memoriam di Corrado Ricci, 247–50. Rome. ———. 1938. “La Mostra augustea della romanità.” Bullettino Comunale 66: 55–59. Gill, D. 1991. “Pots and Trade: Spacefillers or Objets d’Art.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 111: 29–47. ———. 1993. “Art and Vases vs. Craft and Pots.” Antiquity 67: 452–55. ———. 2002. “ ‘The Passion of Hazard’: Women at the British School at Athens Before the First World War.” Annual of the British School at Athens 97: 491–510. Gill, D., and M. Vickers. 1990. “Reflected Glory: Pottery and Precious Metal in Clas- sical Greece.” Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 105: 1–30. Girouard, M. 1978. Life in the English Country House. New Haven, Conn. Giuliano, A. 2001. “Ricordo di Biagio Pace.” Xenia 9: 239–42. Goalen, M. 1995. “The Idea of the City and the Excavations at Pompeii.” In Urban Society in Roman Italy, ed. T. Cornell and K. Lomas, 181–202. New York. 290 BIBLIOGRAPHY Goodchild, R. G. 1976. Libyan Studies: Select Papers of the Late R. G. Goodchild, ed. J. Reynolds. London. Goring, E. 1988. A Mischievous Pastime. Edinburgh. Gould, R. A. 2000. Archaeology and the Social History of Ships. Cambridge. Gourgouris, S. 1996. Dream Nation. Stanford, Calif. Govi, C. M., and D. Vitali, eds. 1988. Il museo civico archeologico di Bologna. Bo- logna, Italy. Gramsci, A. 1959. The Modern Prince and Other Writings. New York. Gran-Aymerich, E. 1998. Naissance de l’archéologie moderne, 1798–1945. Paris. ———. 2001. Dictionnaire biographique d’archéologie, 1798–1945. Paris. Grant, M. 1984. “Bourbon Patronage and Foreign Investment at Pompeii and Her- culaneum.” In Oxford, China, and Italy, ed. E. Chaney and N. Ritchie, 161–68. London. Grenier, A. 1931. Manuel d’archéologie gallo-romaine. Paris. ———. 1944. Camille Jullian. Paris. ———. 1955. Deuxième note sur l’ethnographie, la prehistoire, l’archéologie, l’art musalman, les beaux arts en Algérie. Algiers. Grimes, W. F. 1968. The Excavation of Roman and Medieval London. New York. Gros, P. 1981. Bolsena: guide des fouilles. Rome. Gsell, S. 1901. Les monuments antiques de l’Algérie. Paris. ———. 1911. Atlas archéologique de l’Algérie. Paris. Guarducci, M. 1980. “La cosiddetta fibula prenestina: antiquari, eruditi, falsari nella Roma dell’ottocento.” Memorie dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 24: 415–574. ———. 1992. “Per la storia dell’Istituto Archeologico Germanico.” Römische Mit- teilungen 99: 307–27. Guide. 1928. A Guide to the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities in the Brit- ish Museum. London. Guralnik, E. 1990. The Ancient Mediterranean. Chicago. Guzzo, P. G. 1993. Antico e archeologia. Bologna, Italy. Hamiaux, C. 2001. “La Victoire de Samothrace: découverte et restauration.” Journal des savants: 153–223. Hamilakis, Y., and E. Yalouri. 1999. “Sacralising the Past.” Archaeological Dialogues 6 (2): 115–35. Hanfmann, G. 1972. Letters from Sardis. Cambridge, Mass. Harcourt-Smith, C. 1932. The Society of Dilettanti. London. Harke, H. 2000. Archaeology, Ideology and Society: The German Experience. Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Hartley, M. 1954. “In Memoriam: H. L. Lorimer.” Girton Review, Easter Term: 26– 29. Haskell, F. 1984. “The Baron d’Hancarville: An Adventurer and Art Historian in Eighteenth-Century England.” In Oxford, China, and Italy, ed. E. Chaney and N. Ritchie, 177–91. London. Haskell, F., and N. Penny. 1981. Taste and the Antique. New Haven, Conn. Hassmann, H. 2000. “Archaeology in the Third Reich.” In Archaeology, Ideology BIBLIOGRAPHY 291 and Society: The German Experience, ed. H. Harke, 65–139. Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Hawkes, J. 1977. “Robert Eric Mortimer Wheeler, 1890–1976.” Proceedings of the British Academy 77: 482–507. ———. 1982. Adventurer in Archaeology: The Biography of Sir Mortimer Wheeler. New York. Hayes, J. W. 1972. Late Roman Pottery. Rome. Haynes, D. E. L. 1975. The Arundel Marbles. Oxford. Helmberger, W., and V. Kockel. 1993. Rom über die Alpen tragen. Munich. Herzfeld, M. 1982. Ours Once More. Austin, Tex. Hess, J. L. 1974. The Grand Acquisitors. Boston. Hibbard, H. 1980. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York. Hibbert, C. 1987. The Grand Tour. London. Higgins, R. 1986. Tanagra and the Figurines. London. Hingley, R. 2000. Roman Officers and English Gentlemen. London. Hitchens, C. 1987. The Elgin Marbles: Should They Be Returned to Greece. London. Hodder, I. 1991. Reading the Past. 2d ed. Cambridge. Hodges, R. 1990. “Glyn Daniel, the Great Divide, and the British Contribution to Italian Archaeology.” Journal of the Accordia Research Center 1: 83–93. ———. 2000. Visions of Rome: Thomas Ashby, Archaeologist. London. Hoffman, H. 1979. “In the Wake of Beazley: Prolegomena to an Anthropological Study of Greek Vase Painting.” Hephaistos 1: 61–70. Hogarth, D. G. 1898–99. “Excavations at Naukratis.” Annual of the British School at Athens 5: 26–97. ———. 1910. Accidents of an Antiquary’s Life. London. Honour, H. 1968. Neo-Classicism. Harmondsworth, England. Hood, R. 1998. Faces of Archaeology in Greece. Oxford. Hopkins, C. 1979. The Discovery of Dura-Europos, ed. B. Goldman. New Haven, Conn. Horicht, L. 1987. “Gli studi archeologici.” In La cultura classica a Napoli nell’ottocento, ed. M. Gigante, 815–902. Naples. Hoving, T. 1993. Making the Mummies Dance. New York. ———. 1997. False Impressions. New York. Howard, S. 1970. “Bartolomeo Cavaceppi and the Origins of Neo-Classic Sculpture.” Art Quarterly 33: 120–33. ———. 1990. Antiquity Restored. Vienna. ———. 1991. “Ancient Busts and the Cavaceppi and Albacini Casts.” Journal of the History of Collecting 3: 199–217. Iacopi, I. 2003. “Giacomo Boni.” In Gli scavi di Giacomo Boni al Foro Romano, ed. A. Capidiferro and P. Fortini, 9–29. Rome. Illuminati, L. 1922. In memoria di Felice Barnabei. Rome. Irwin, D. 1962. “Gavin Hamilton: Archaeologist, Painter, Dealer.” Art Bulletin 44: 87–102. Italia antiqua. 2002. Italia antiqua. Paris. 292 BIBLIOGRAPHY Jahn, O. 1854. Beschreibung der Vasensammlung Königs Ludwigs in der Pinakothek zu München. Munich. James, H. 1992. Italian Hours. Harmondsworth, England. James, S. 2002. “Writing the Legions: The Development and Future of Roman Military Studies in Britain.” Archaeological Journal 159: 1–58. Janon, M. 1973. “Recherches à Lambèse.” Antiquités africaines 7: 193–254. ———. 1985. “Recherches à Lambèse III: essais sur le temple d’Esculape.” Antiquités africaines 21: 35–102. Jantzen, U. 1986. Einhundert Jahre Athener Institut, 1874–1974. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Jebb, R. C. 1895. “Sir C. T. Newton.” Classical Review 9: 81–85. Jenkins, I. 1990. “Acquisition and Supply of Casts of the Parthenon Sculptures by the British Museum, 1835–1939.” Annual of the British School at Athens 85: 89–114. ———. 1991. “Casts and the Drawing School of the Royal Academy and British Museum.” Journal of the History of Collecting 3: 293–94. ———. 1992. Archaeologists and Aesthetes in the Sculpture Galleries of the British Museum. London. ———. 1994. “Bernard Ashmole and the British Museum.” In B. Ashmole, Bernard Ashmole, 1894–1988: An Autobiography, 203–9. Malibu, Calif. Jenkins, I., and K. Sloan. 1996. Vases and Volcanoes. London. Johns, C. 1998. Antonio Canova and the Politics of Patronage in Revolutionary and Napoleonic Europe. Berkeley, Calif. Jones, R. 1987. “The Archaeologists of Roman Britain.” Bulletin of Institute of Archae- ology 24: 85–98. Jullian, C. 1908–26. Histoire de la Gaule. Paris. Junker, K. 1998. “Research Under Dictatorship: The German Archaeological Insti- tute, 1929–1945.” Antiquity 72: 282–92. Kaschnitz-Weinberg, G. 1956. “Commemorazione del socio Ludwig Curtius.” Rendi- conti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 29: 155–64. Keller, D. P., and D. W. Rupp. 1983. Archaeological Survey in the Mediterranean. Oxford. Keller, J., and K. A. Breisch. 1980. A Victorian View of Ancient Rome. Ann Arbor, Mich. Kenworthy-Brown, J. 1993. “Designing Around the Statues: Matthew Brettingham’s Casts at Kedelston.” Apollo 137: 248–52. King, A. 2001. “Vercingetorix, Astérix and the Gauls: Gallic Symbols in French Politics and Culture.” In Images of Rome: Perceptions of Ancient Rome in Europe and the United States in the Modern Age, ed. R. Hingley, 113–25. Portsmouth, R.I. Knigge, U. 1991. The Athenian Kerameikos. Athens. Knight, R. P. 1986. Expedition into Sicily, ed. C. Stumpf. London. Koester, H. 1995. Ephesus: Metropolis of Asia. Valley Forge, Pa. Kokkinidou, D., and M. Nikolaidou. 2004. “On the Stage and Behind the Scenes: Greek Archaeology in Times of Dictatorship.” In Archaeology and Dictatorship, ed. M. Galaty and C. Watkinson. New York. BIBLIOGRAPHY 293 Kolbe, H.-G. 1984. Wilhelm Henzen und das Institut auf dem Kapitol. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Kondoleon, C. 2000. Antioch, the Lost City. Princeton, N.J. Kostof, S. 1973. The Third Rome, 1870–1950: Traffic and Glory. Berkeley, Calif. Krämer, W. 1979. “Fünfundsiebzig Jahre römanisch-germanisch Kommission.” In Festschrift sum 75 jahrigen der römisch-germanisch Kommission, 5–23. Frankfurt am Main. Kurtz, D., ed. 1985. Beazley and Oxford. Oxford. ———. 2000. The Reception of Classical Art in Britain. Oxford. Labus, G. 1818. “Notizie intorno la vita di Ennio Quirino Visconti.” In Il Museum Pio Clementino illustrato e descritto da Giambattista ed Ennio Quirino Visconti. Vol. 1. Milan. Lamboglia, N. 1950. Gli scavi di Albintimilium e la cronologia della ceramica romana. Bordighera, Italy. Lanciani, R. 1889. Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Boston. ———. 1988. Notes from Rome, ed. A. L. Cubberley. Rome. Lantier, R. 1931. “Les grand champs de fouilles de l’Afrique du Nord (1915–1930).” Archäologische Anzeiger 46: 461–572. La Penna, A. 1979. Fra teatro, poesia e politica romana. Turin, Italy. ———. 1994. “Dalla storicità dell’arte al Marxismo.” In Ranuccio Bianchi Bandi- nelli: archeologo curioso del futuro, ed. R. Barzanti and M. Brignali, 189–230. Siena, Italy. La Rocca, E. 1997–98. “Gli anni di Antonio Maria Colini tra governatorato e comune di Roma.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 70: 13–26. La Rosa, V., ed. 1986. L’archeologia italiana nel Mediterraneo fino alla seconda guerra mondiale. Catania, Italy. Leake, W. M. 1968. Travels in the Morea. Amsterdam. Lee, S. 1999. David. London. Le Gall, J. 1990. Alésia, archéologie et histoire. Paris. Lehmann, H. 1989. “Wolfgang Helbig (1839–1915).” Römische Mitteilungen 96: 7–65. Lehmann, K. 1945. “Erling C. Olsen.” College Art Journal 4: 107. Leighton, R. 1986. “Paolo Orsi (1859–1935) and the Prehistory of Sicily.” Antiquity 60: 15–20. Leppmann, W. 1970. Winckelmann. New York. Levi, D. 1947. Antioch Mosaic Pavements. Princeton, N.J. Levine, P. 1986. The Amateur and the Professional. Cambridge. Lewis, L. 1961. Connoisseurs and Secret Agents in Eighteenth-Century Rome. London. Lippolis, E. 1983. “Luigi Viola e le prime ricerche archeologiche.” In Il museo di Taranto: centi anni di archeologia, ed. A. Alessio et al., 9–24. Taranto, Italy. Lissarrague, F. 1990. The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet: Images of Wine and Ritual. Princeton, N.J. Lock, P. 1990. “D. G. Hogarth (1862–1927): ‘. . . A Specialist in the Science of Ar- chaeology.’” Annual of the British School at Athens 85: 175–200. Longhi, G. M. 1934. “La via dell’impero.” Capitolium 10: 53–84. 294 BIBLIOGRAPHY Lorcin, P. 1995. Imperial Identities: Stereotyping, Prejudice and Race in Colonial Algeria. London. Lord, L. 1947. A History of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1882– 1942. Cambridge, Mass. Lubbock, J. 1983. “Walter Pater’s Marius the Epicurean: The Imaginary Portrait as Cultural History.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 46: 106–90. Lugli, G. 1943–46. “Rodolfo Lanciani.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 21: 33–37. Lullies, R., and W. Schiering. 1988. Archäologenbildnisse: Porträts und Kurzbiograhien von klassischen Archäologen deutscher Sprache. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Lund, J. 1986. “The Archaeological Activities of C. T. Falbe in Carthage in 1838.” Cahiers des études anciennes 18: 8–24. ———. 2000. “Falbe’s Visit to Segermes in 1838.” In Africa Proconsularis, ed. P. Orsted et al., 35–42. Århus, Denmark. Macaulay, R. 1953. Pleasure of Ruins. New York. MacDonald, W. 1982. “Excavation, Restoration, and Italian Architecture of the 1930’s.” In In Search of Modern Architecture, ed. H. Searing, 298–320. New York. MacGregor, A. 1998. “Antiquity Inventoried: Museums and ‘National Antiquities’ in the Mid-Nineteenth Century.” In The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age, ed. V. Brand, 125–38. Oxford. MacKendrick, P. 1960. The Mute Stones Speak. New York. Mackridge, P. 1990. “ ‘Some Pamphlets on Dead Greek Dialects’: R. M. Dawkins and Modern Greek Dialectology.” Annual of the British School at Athens 85: 201–12. Maffioli, M. 1990. “Il ‘corpus’ fotografico pompeiano nel museo di storia della foto- grafia fratelli Alinari.” In Fotografi a Pompei nell’800 dalle collezioni del Museo Alinari, 33–36. Florence. Magagnini, A. 1994. I Musei Capitolini e il collezionista Augusto Castellani. Rome. Maggi, G. 1974. L’archeologia magica di Maiuri. Naples. Magi, F. 1940. “Per la storia della pontificia academia romana di archeologia.” Rendi- conti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 3 (16): 113–30. Maischberger, M. 2000. “L’archeologia classica tedesca dal 1945 ad oggi: linee gen- erali, personaggi, contesti istituzioni.” In Archeologia teorica, ed. N. Terrenato, 57–92. Siena, Italy. ———. 2002. “German Archaeology During the Third Reich, 1933–45: A Case Study Based on Archival Evidence.” Antiquity 76: 209–18. Malakis, E. 1925. French Travellers in Greece (1770–1820). Philadelphia. Manacorda, D. 1978. “The Ager Cosanus and the Production of the Amphorae of Ses- tius: New Evidence and a Reassessment.” Journal of Roman Studies 68: 121–31. ———. 1982a. Archeologia urbana: il progetto della Crypta Balbi. Florence. ———. 1982b. “Centi anni di ricerche archeologiche italiane: il dibatto sul metodo.” Quaderni di storia 16: 85–119. Manacorda, D., et al. 2000. Museo Nazionale Romano Crypta Balbi. Milan. Manacorda, D., and R. Tamassia. 1985. Il piccone del regime. Rome. Marchand, S. 1996. Down from Olympus. Princeton, N.J. BIBLIOGRAPHY 295 ———. 1997. “The Excavations at Olympia, 1868–1881: An Episode in Greco-German Cultural Relations.” In Greek Society in the Making, 1863–1913: Realities, Symbols, and Invasions, ed. P. Carabott, 73–85. London. ———. 2002. “Adolf Furtwängler in Olympia.” In Olympia, 1875–2000, ed. H. Kyrie- leis, 147–62. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Marconi, C. 1996. “Due studi sulle metope figurate dei templi ‘C’ e ‘F’ a Selinunte.” Rivista dell’Istituto Nazionale d’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte 3 (18): 5–68. Margiotta, A. 1996. “Il mito di Roma in Giovan Battista Piranesi.” Forma Urbis 1 (12): 30–35. Marthari, M. 2001. “Altering Information from the Past: Illegal Excavations in Greece and the Case of the Early Bronze Age Cyclades.” In Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage, ed. N. Brodie, J. Doole, and C. Renfrew, 161–72. Cambridge. Martinelli, V. 1960. “Antonio Muñoz.” Studi Romani 21: 195–96. Marucchi, O. 1921–22. “In memoria del nostro maestro Giovanni Battista de Rossi.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 1: 52–62. Masson, O. 1992. “Diplomates et amateurs d’antiquités à Chypre vers 1866–1878.” Journal des savants: 124–54. Mattingly, D. J. 1996. “From One Colonialism to Another: Imperialism and the Maghreb.” In Roman Imperialism: Post-Colonial Perspectives, ed. J. Webster and N. Cooper, 49–70. Leicester, England. Mazois, F. 1829. Les ruines de Pompei. Paris. Mazower, M. 1993. Inside Hitler’s Greece: The Experience of Occupation, 1941–1944. New Haven, Conn. Mazzotti, M. 1954. “Corrado Ricci.” Studi romani 15: 305–10. McCann, A. M. 2002. The Roman Port and Fishery of Cosa. Rome. McCann, A. M., et al. 1987. The Roman Port and Fishery of Cosa: A Center of Ancient Trade. Princeton, N.J. McCredie, J. 2002. “Homer Armstrong Thompson.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 146 (4): 412–14. McDonald, W. A., and C. G. Thomas. 1990. Progress into the Past: The Rediscovery of Mycenaean Civilization. 2d ed. Bloomington, Ind. McNeal, R. A. 1991. “Archaeology and the Destruction of the Later Athenian Acropo- lis.” Antiquity 65: 49–63. ———. 1993. Nicholas Biddle in Greece. University Park, Pa. Medwid, L. 2000. The Makers of Classical Archaeology. Amherst, N.Y. Meiggs, R. 1973. Roman Ostia. Oxford. Meister, K. 1989. “Un secolo di ricerca in Magna Graecia: la storiografia e la storia politica.” In Un secolo di ricerche in Magna Graecia, 33–50. Taranto, Italy. Mejer, J. 1986. “Welcker und Zoëga.” In Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker und Wirkung, ed. W. M. Calder III et al. Hermes Einzelschriften 49: 53–78. Mertens, J. 1969. Alba Fucens I: rapports et études. Brussels. ———. 1998. “Vis unita fortior: Gerhard Schneemann (1796–1864) und die Trierer Altumsforschung.” Funde und Ausgrabungen im Bezirk Trier 29: 76–88. 296 BIBLIOGRAPHY Messineo, G. 1992. “Un ultimo ‘dono’ del conte Tyszkiewicz.” Xenia 1: 187–94. Meyer, K. E. 1973. The Plundered Past. New York. Michaelis, A. 1879. Geschichte des deutsche archäoligische Instituts, 1829–1879. Berlin. ———. 1882. Ancient Marbles in Great Britain. Cambridge. ———. 1908. A Century of Archaeological Discoveries. London. Miraglia, M., and U. Pohlmann, eds. 1993. Un viaggio fra mito e realtà: Giorgio Sommer fotografo in Italia, 1875–1891. Rome. Misurare la terra. 1989. Misurare la terra: centurazione e coloni nel mondo romano. Modena, Italy. Mitten, D. G. 1987. “George Maxim Anossov Hanfmann, 1911–1986.” American Jour- nal of Archaeology 91: 259–63. Möller, A. 2000. Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece. Oxford. Moltesen, M. 1987. Wolfgang Helbig. Copenhagen. Momigliano, A. D. 1950. “Ancient History and the Antiquarian.” Journal of the War- burg and Courtauld Institutes 13: 285–313. ———. 1978. “La riscoperta della Sicilia antica da T. Fazello a P. Orsi.” In Settimo contributo alla storia degli studi clasici e del mondo antico, 115–32. Rome. ———. 1990. The Classical Foundations of Modern Historiography. Berkeley, Calif. ———. 1994a. “M. I. Rostovtzeff.” In A. D. Momigliano: Studies on Modern Scholar- ship, ed. G. W. Bowersock and T. J. Cornell, 32–43. Berkeley, Calif. ———. 1994b. “New Paths of Classicism in the Nineteenth Century.” In A. D. Momi- gliano: Studies on Modern Scholarship, ed. G. W. Bowersock and T. J. Cornell, 223–85. Berkeley, Calif. ———. 1994c. “A Return to Eighteenth Century ‘Etruscheria’: K. O. Müller.” In A. D. Momigliano: Studies on Modern Scholarship, ed. G. W. Bowersock and T. J. Cornell, 302–14. Berkeley, Calif. Momigliano, N. 1999. Duncan Mackenzie. London. Morey, C. F. 1938. The Mosaics of Antioch. New York. Morris, I. 1994. “Archaeologies of Greece.” In Classical Greece: Ancient Histories and Modern Archaeologies, ed. I. Morris, 8–47. Cambridge. ———. 2000. Archaeology as Cultural History. Oxford. Motte, O. 1990. Camille Jullian: les années de formation. Rome. Mozzillo, A. 1964. Viaggiatori stranieri nel Sud. Milan. Muñoz, A. 1934. “Ricordo di Corrado Ricci.” Capitolium 10: 326–31. Munzi, M. 2001. L’epoca del ritorno: archeologia e politica nella Tripolitania italiana. Rome. ———. 2004. “Italian Archaeology in Libya: From Colonial Romanità to Decoloni- zation of the Past.” In Archaeology Under Dictatorship, ed. M. L. Galaty and C. Watkinson, 73–108. New York. Murray, P. 1971. Piranesi and the Grandeur of Ancient Rome. London. Mustillo, D. 1939. Il museo Mussolini. Rome. Myres, J. L. 1914. Handbook of the Cesnola Collection of Antiquities from Cyprus. New York. BIBLIOGRAPHY 297 ———. 1941. “Sir Arthur Evans, 1851–1941.” Proceedings of the British Academy: 322–57. Nadalini, G. 1996. “La villa-musée du Marquis Campana à Rome au milieu du XIXe siècle.” Journal des savants: 419–54. ———. 1998. “La collection Campana au Musée Napoléon III et sa première disper- sion dans les musées francais (1862–1863).” Journal des savants: 213. Negro, S. 1943. Seconda Roma, 1850–1870. Milan. Newton, C. 1850. On the Method of the Study of Ancient Art. Oxford. Nicotra, L. 2000–2001. Archeologia al femminile: storia di archeologia della metà dell’ottocento ad oggi. Rome. Nikolaidou, M., and D. Kokkinidou. 1998. “Greek Women in Archaeology: An Untold Story.” In Excavating Women: A History of Women in European Archaeology, ed. M. Diaz-Andreu and M. L. Stig Sørensen, 235–65. London. Nobecourt, J. 1991. Un archeologo nel suo tempo: Georges Vallet. Syracuse. Noskov, V. 2002. “Greek vases for Sale: Some Statistical Evidence.” In Illicit Antiq- uities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology, ed. N. Brodie and K. W. Tubb, 23–37. London. Ohly, D. N.d. Guide to the Munich Antikensammlungen. Waldsassen, Germany. O’Keefe, P. J. 2002. “Negotiating the Future of the Underwater Cultural Heritage.” In Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology, ed. N. Brodie and K. W. Tubb, 137–61. London. Ostenberg, C. E. 1976–77. “Erik Sjoqvist.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 49: 11–16. Ovenell, R. F. 1986. The Ashmolean Museum, 1683–1894. Oxford. Oxberry, J. 1923. “Robert Blair, M.A., F.S.A.: An Obituary Notice.” Archaeologia Aeliana ser. 3, vol. 20: 187–204. Ozdogan, M. 1998. “Ideology and Archaeology in Turkey.” In Archaeology Under Fire, ed. L. Meskell, 111–23. London. Pace, B. 1935. Arte e civiltà della Sicilia Antica. Vol. 1. Milan. Packer, J. 1989. “Politics, Urbanism and Archaeology in ‘Roma capitale’: A Troubled Past and a Controversial Future.” American Journal of Archaeology 93: 137–41. Palazzoli, D. 1981. Giorgio Sommer: fotografo a Napoli. Milan. Pallottino, M. 1937. “La mostra augustea della Romanità.” Capitolium 12: 519–28. Papageorgiou-Venetas, A. 1994. Athens: The Ancient Heritage and the Historic City- scape in a Modern Metropolis. Athens. Parslow, C. 1995. Rediscovering Antiquity: Karl Weber and the Excavation of Hercu- laneum, Pompeii, and Stabiae. Cambridge. Pasinli, A. 1995. Istanbul Archaeological Museum. Istanbul. ———. 2001. “The Istanbul Archaeological Museum.” In Sculpted for Eternity, ed. R. R. R. Smith and A. Ertug, 9–15. Istanbul. Pasqualini, A. 1992. “Gli scavi di Luciano Bonaparte alla Rufinella e la scoperta dell’antica Tusculum.” Xenia 1: 163–86. Pastore, G. 2002. “The Looting of Archaeological Sites in Italy.” In Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage, ed. N. Brodie, J. Doole, and C. Renfrew, 155–60. Cambridge. 298 BIBLIOGRAPHY Pavan, M. 1977. Antichità classica e pensiero moderno. Florence. Payne, H. 1962. Perachora: The Sanctuaries of Hera Akraia and Limenia II, ed. T. J. Dunbabin. Oxford. Payne, H., and G. Mackworth-Young. 1936, 1950. Archaic Marble Sculpture from the Acropolis. London. Peckham, R. S. 2001. National Histories, Natural States. London. Penny, N. 1982. “Collecting, Interpreting, and Imitating Ancient Art.” In The Arro- gant Connoisseur: Richard Payne Knight, 1751–1824, ed. M. Clarke and N. Penny, 65–81. Manchester, England. Perkins, A. 1973. The Art of Dura Europos. Oxford. Petricioli, M. 1986. “Le missione archeologiche italiane nei paesi del Mediterraneo: uno strumento di politica internazionale.” In L’archeologia italiana nel Mediter- raneo, ed. V. La Rosa, 9–32. Catania, Italy. ———. 1990. Archeologia e Mare Nostrum. Rome. Petrie, F. 1886. Naukratis. London. Picard, C. 1920. “L’école française d’Athènes de 1914 à 1919.” Bulletin de correspon- dence hellénique 44: i–xxvi. ———. 1948. “L’oeuvre de l’école française d’Athènes.” Revue historique 199: 1–21, 189–207. Pickert, L. C. 1963. “Relazioni fra archeologi italiani e tedeschi nell’ottocento.” Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei: Classe di Scienze morali, storiche e filologische 8 (18): 5–6. Piggott, S. 1967. “Sir Cyril Fox, 1882–1967.” Proceedings of the British Academy: 399–407. Pingeot, A. 1982. “Les Gaulois sculpté (1850–1914).” In Nos ancêtres les Gaulois, ed. P. Viallaneix and J. Ehrard, 255–82. Clermont-Ferrand, France. Pinon, P. 1991. La Gaule retrouvée. Paris. Plouviez, C. 2001. “Straddling the Aegean: William Gell, 1811–1813.” In Travellers in the Levant: Voyagers and Visionaries, ed. S. Searight and M. Wagstaff, 42–56. Durham, England. Poidebard, A. 1934. La trace de Rome dans le désert de Syrie. Paris. ———. 1939. Un grand port disparu, Tyr. Paris. Pollak, L. 1919. “In memoria di Giovanni Barracco, il dono di un museo a Roma.” Capitolium 5: 334–46. ———. 1994. Römische Memoiren. Rome. Poole, S. 1888. The Life of the Right Honorable Stratford Canning. London. Potter, T. 1979. The Changing Landscape of South Etruria. New York. Pottier, E. 1896–1906. Catalogue des vases antiques de terre cuite du Louvre. Paris. Potts, A. 1994. Flesh and the Ideal. New Haven, Conn. Powell, D. 1943. The Traveller’s Journey Is Done. London. ———. 1999. The Villa Adriana. Pleasantville, N.Y. Quilici, L., and S. Quilici Gigli, eds. 2001. Urbanizzazione delle campagne nell’Italia antica. Rome. Radet, G. 1901. L’histoire et l’oeuvre de l’école français d’Athènes. Paris. BIBLIOGRAPHY 299 Radt, W. 1999. Pergamon: Geschichte und Bauten. Berlin. Rahtz, P., ed. 1974. Rescue Archaeology. Harmondsworth, England. Rainey, F. 1992. Reflections of a Digger. Philadelphia. Ramage, N. 1990. “Sir William Hamilton as Collector, Explorer and Dealer: The Acquisition and Dispersal of His Collections.” American Journal of Archaeology 94: 469–80. ———. 1992. “Goods, Graves and Scholars: Eighteenth-Century Archaeologists in Britain and Italy.” American Journal of Archaeology 96: 653–61. Rauh, N. 1993. The Sacred Bonds of Commerce. Amsterdam. Reinach, S. 1907. “Otto Bendorf.” Revue archéologique: 170–72. ———. 1931. “Esquisse d’une histoire de l’archéologie de la Gaule des origins à 1895.” Amalthea. Vol. 3: 407–44. Paris. Reinhold, M. 1984. “American Visitors to Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Paestum in the Nineteenth Century.” In M. Reinhold, Classica Americana, 265–76. Detroit. Reynolds, J., ed. 1976. Libyan Studies: Select Papers of the Late R. G. Goodchild. London. ———. 1993. “Jocelyn Mary Catherine Toynbee, 1897–1985.” Proceedings of the British Academy 80: 499–508. Richmond, I. A. 1956. “Frank Gerald Simpson.” Archaeologia Aeliana, 4th ser., vol. 34: 219–21. Richter, G. 1937. Etruscan Terracotta Warriors in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York. Ridgway, D. 1989. “James Byres and the Ancient State of Italy: Unpublished Documents in Edinburgh.” Atti del Secondo congresso internazionale etrusco: 213–29. Rome. ———. 1990. “The First Western Greeks and Their Neighbours, 1935–1985.” In Greek Colonists and Native Populations, ed. J.-P. Descoeudres, 61–72. Oxford. Ridley, R. T. 1986. “ ‘Augusti manes voltant per aures’: The Archaeology of Rome Under the Fascists.” Xenia 11: 19–46. ———. 1992. The Eagle and the Spade. Cambridge. ———. 1996. “The Founding of the German Archaeological Institute: Unpublished Documents.” Römische Mitteilungen 103: 275–87. ———. 1997. “An Unpleasant Bicentenary: The Treaty of Tolentino.” Xenia 6: 175– 94. ———. 2000. The Pope’s Archaeologist. Rome. Ritter, D. 1999. Im Lichte des Helios: Griechenland in frühen Photographien aus der Sammlung Siegert. Heidelberg, Germany. Rizzo, G. E. 1926. Ersilia Caetani Lovatelli. Rome. Rodenwaldt, G. 1927. “Walter Amelung.” Römische Mitteilungen 42: v–xix. ———. 1929. Archäologisches Institut des deutschen Reiches, 1829–1929. Berlin. ———. 1931. “The Archaeological Institute of Germany.” Art and Archaeology 31: 67–76. ———. 1936. Olympia. Photographed by W. Hege. New York. ———. 1957. The Acropolis. Photography by W. Hege. 1930; rpt.: Norman, Okla. Roma antiqua. 1992. Roma antiqua: grandi edifici pubblici. Paris. 300 BIBLIOGRAPHY Romano, S., ed. 1994. L’immagine di Roma, 1848–1895. Naples. Rossen, S., and C. Caroselli. 1981. The Golden Age of Naples. Detroit. Rostovtzeff, M. 1938. Dura Europos and Its Art. Oxford. Rothenberg, J. 1977. “Descensus ad Terram”: The Acquisition and Reception of the Elgin Marbles. New York. Rouet, P. 2001. Approaches to the Study of Attic Vases: Beazley and Pottier. Oxford. Said, E. 1979. Orientalism. New York. Saint-Non, J.-C. 1781–86. Voyage pittoresque, ou, description du Royaumes de Naples et de Sicile. Paris. Samuels, E. 1979. Bernard Berenson: The Making of a Connoisseur. Cambridge, Mass. Santi, M., and M. Cimino. 1993. Barracco Museum, Rome. Rome. Sartorio, G. P. 1991. “Le plan-relief d’Italo Gismondi.” In Rome: l’espace urbain et ses représentations, ed. F. Hinard and M Royo, 257–77. Paris. Schaer, R. 1993. Il museo, tempio della memoria. Paris. Schmidt, H. 1986. Goethe in Italien. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Schnapp, A. 1977. “Archéologie et nazisme (I).” Quaderni di storia 3: 1–26. ———. 1980. “Archéologie et nazisme (II).” Quaderni di storia 6: 19–33. ———. 1982. “Archéologie et la tradition académique en Europe aux XVIIIe et XIXe siècles.” Annales 37: 760–77. ———. 1996a. The Discovery of the Past. London. ———. 1996b. “French Archaeology: Between National Identity and Cultural Iden- tity.” In Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe, ed. M. Diaz-Andreu and T. Cham- pion, 48–67. Boulder, Colo. Schroder, S. F. 1993. Katalog der antiken Skulpturen des Museo del Prado in Madrid. Mainz am Rhein, Germany. Schuchhardt, W.-H. 1956. Adolf Furtwängler. Freiberg im Breisgau, Germany. Scoppola, F., and S. Vordemann. 1997. Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps. Milan. Scriba, F. 1995. “Il mito di Roma, l’estetica e gli intellettuali negli anni del Consenso: La Mostra Augustea dell romanità, 1937–38.” Quaderni di storia 41: 67–84. Searight, S., and M. Wagstaff, eds. 2001. Travellers in the Levant: Voyagers and Vi- sionaries. Durham, England. Seiler, F. 2001. “Karl Lehmann-Hartleben e la ‘nuova’ ricerca su Pompeii.” In Scienza e società, ed. P. Guzzo, 63–71. Naples. Serra, J., ed. 1986. Paestum and the Doric Revival, 1750–1830. Florence. Servadio, G. 2000. Motya. London. Settis, S. 1984. “Del sistema all’autopsia: l’archeologia di C. O. Müller.” Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, Classe di Lettere e Filosofia 3, no. 14: 1070–96. ———. 1988. “Idea dell’arte greca d’occidente fra otto e novecento: Germania e Italia.” In Un secolo di ricerche in Magna Grecia: Atti del ventottesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 7–12 ottobre 1988, 135–76. Taranto, Italy. Sgubini, A. M. 2000a. La collezione Augusto Castellani. Rome. ———. 2000b. Villa Giulia dalle Origine al 2000. Rome. BIBLIOGRAPHY 301 Shanks, M. 1996. Classical Archaeology of Greece. London. Shaw, W. 2003. Possessors and Possessed. Berkeley, Calif. ———. 2004. “Whose Hittites and Why? Language, Archaeology and the Quest for Original Turks.” In Archaeology Under Dictatorship, ed. M. L. Galaty and C. Watkinson, 131–54. New York. Sherman, D. J. 1994. “Quatremère/Benjamin/Marx: Art Museums, Aura, and Com- modity Fetishism.” In Museum Culture, ed. D. J. Sherman and I. Rogoff, 123–43. London. Sherwood, J. 1973. No Golden Journey. London. Shnirelman, V. 1996. “The Faces of National Archaeology in Russia.” In National- ism and Archaeology in Europe, ed. M. Diaz-Andreu and T. Champion, 218–42. Boulder, Colo. Sichterman, H. 1996. Kulturgeschichte der klassichen Archäologie. Munich. Siebert, G. 1996. “Michaelis et l’archéologie française.” Bulletin de correspondence hellénique 120: 261–71. Simon, A. 1989. Vercingetorix et l’idéologie française. Paris. Sjoqvist, E. 1973. Sicily and the Greeks. Ann Arbor, Mich. Skeates, R. 2000. Debating the Archaeological Heritage. London. Slatter, E. 1994. Xanthus: Travels of Discovery in Turkey. London. Smith, C. R. 1854. Catalogue of the Museum of London Antiquities. London. Snodgrass, A. 2002. “The History of a False Analogy.” Ancient West and East 1: 19–23. Snodin, M. 1991. Karl Friedrich Schinkel: A Universal Man. New Haven, Conn. Sox, D. 1987. Unmasking the Forger. New York. ———. 1991. Bachelors of Art. London. Speer, A. 1970. Inside the Third Reich. New York. Spencer, N. 1998. “The History of Archaeological Investigations in Messenia.” In Sandy Pylos, ed. Jack L. Davis, 35–41. Austin, Tex. Spencer, T. 1954. Fair Greece, Sad Relic. London. Springer, C. 1987. The Marble Wilderness. Cambridge. Squarciapino, M. 1966. Leptis Magna. Basel. St. Clair, W. 1998. Lord Elgin and the Marbles. Oxford. Stead, I., et al. N.d. The Gauls: Celtic Antiquities from France. London. Steindl, B. 1993. Mazenatentum in Rom des 19 Jahrhundert: Die Familie Torlonia. Heidelberg. Stillman, W. J. 1988. Poetic Localities. New York. Stone, M. 1993. “Staging Fascism.” Journal of Contemporary History 28: 215–43. Stoneman, R. 1987. Land of Lost Gods. Norman, Okla. ———. 1998. A Luminous Land. Los Angeles. Strong, E. 1939. “ ‘Romanità’ Through the Ages.” Journal of Roman Studies 29: 137– 66. Sweet, P. R. 1980. Wilhelm von Humboldt: A Biography. Columbus, Ohio. Szegedy-Maszak, A. 1987. “True Illusions: Early Photographs of Athens.” J. Paul Getty Museum Journal 15: 125–38. Tagliamonte, G. 1998. Terme di Diocleziano con le sculture dell’aulua ottagona. Milan. 302 BIBLIOGRAPHY Tea, G. 1932. Giacomo Boni. Milan. Testi, M. 2004. Un vedutista di fine ottocento a Tivoli e nel Lazio. Rome. Thomas, Chris. 2003. London’s Archaeological Secrets. New Haven, Conn. Thompson, H. 1981. “John Bryan Ward-Perkins (1912–1981).” Yearbook of the Ameri- can Philosophical Society: 523–27. Thompson, M. W. 1977. General Pitt-Rivers: Evolution and Archaeology in the Nine- teenth Century. Bradford-on-Avon, England. Thorvaldsen’s Museum. 1961. Copenhagen. Tine, S., and A. Traverso. 2001. Poliochini: The Earliest Town in Europe. Athens. Tinniswood, A. 2002. His Invention So Fertile. London. Tomei, M. A. 1999. Scavi francesi sul Palatino. Rome. Tomkins, C. 1970. Merchants and Masterpieces. New York. Torelli, M. 1986. “Archeologia italiana in patria e all’estero. Appunti per una storia della politica della ricerca.” In L’archeologia italiana nel Mediterraneo, ed. V. La Rosa, 189–202. Catania, Italy. Townley Gallery. 1836. The British Museum: The Townley Gallery. The Library of Entertaining Knowledge. London. Traill, D. A. 1995. Schliemann of Troy. New York. Tregaskis, H. 1979. Beyond the Grand Tour. London. Triantaphyllopoulos, J. 1991. “Doro Levi (Trieste 1898–Roma 1991).” Rivista di storia antica 21: 243–46. True, M. 1993. The Getty Kouros Colloquium. Athens. Tsigakou, F.-M. 1981. The Rediscovery of Greece. New Rochelle, N.Y. Turner, J. 1999. The Liberal Education of Charles Eliot Norton. Baltimore. Turner, V. 1981. The Greek Heritage in Victorian Britain. New Haven, Conn. Valentine, L., and A. Valentine. 1973. The American Academy in Rome, 1894–1969. Charlottesville, Va. Vance, W. L. 1989. America’s Rome. Vol. 1: Classical Rome. New Haven, Conn. Vaughan, W. 1998. “Picturing the Past: Art and Architecture in Victorian England.” In The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age, ed. V. Brand, 61–76. Oxford. Veit, U. 2000. “Gustaf Kossinna and His Concept of a National Archaeology.” In Archaeology, Ideology and Society: The German Experience, ed. H. Harke, 40–64. Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Vercingétorix et Alésie. 1994. Paris. Vickers, M. 1985. “Artful Crafts: The Influence of Metalwork on Athenian Painted Pottery.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 105: 108–28. ———. 1987. “Value and Simplicity: Eighteenth-Century Taste and the Study of Greek Vases.” Past and Present 116: 98–137. Visconti, E. Q. 1784–1807. Museum Pio-Clementinum. Rome. Visser, R. 1992. “Fascist Doctrine and the Cult of Romanità.” Journal of Contempo- rary History 27: 5–22. Von Bothmer, D., and J. Noble. 1961. An Inquiry into the Forgery of the Terracotta Warrior in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York. Von Hase, F.-W. 1989. “Storia delle esplorazione archeologiche nella Magna Grecia.” BIBLIOGRAPHY 303 In Un secolo di ricerche in Magna Grecia, atti del ventottesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, 53–85. Taranto, Italy. ———. 2000. “Ludwig Lindenschmidt et Napoléon III: un chapitre précoce de la coopération archéologique franco-allemande.” In Aspects de l’archéologie française au XIXème siècle: actes du colloque international tenu à la Diana à Montbrison les 14 et 15 octobre 1995, 63–85. Montbrison, France. Von Hulsen, H. 1940. Torlonia, Kroesus von Rome. Munich. Wagstaff, J. M. 2001a. “Colonel Leake: Traveller and Scholar.” In Travellers in the Levant: Voyagers and Visionaries, ed. S. Searight and M. Wagstaff, 3–16. Durham, England. ———. 2001b. “Pausanias and the Topographers: The Case of Colonel Leake.” In Pausanias: Travel and Memory in Roman Greece, ed. S. Alcock, J. Cherry, and J. Elsner, 190–206. Oxford. Wallace-Hadrill, A. 2001. The British School at Rome: One Hundred Years. Rome. Walters, H. B. 1928. A Guide to the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities in the British Museum. London. Ward-Perkins, J., et al. 1968. “The Ager Veiantanus North and East of Veii.” Papers of the British School at Rome 36: 1–218. Waterhouse, H. 1986. The British School at Athens: The First Hundred Years. London. Watkin, D. 1968. Thomas Hope, 1769–1831, and the Neo-Classical Idea. London. ———. 1974. The Life and Work of C. R. Cockerell. London. ———. 1982. Athenian Stuart: Pioneer of the Greek Revival. London. Watkin, D., and T. Mellinghoff. 1987. German Architecture and the Classical Ideal. London. Watzinger, C. 1944. Theodor Wiegand, ein deutscher Archäologe, 1864–1936. Berlin. Weickert, C. 1949. “Gerhart Rodenwaldt.” Gnomon 21: 82–87. Wells, C. 1972. The German Policy of Augustus. Oxford. Wharton, A. J. 1995. Refiguring the Post-Classical City. Cambridge. Wheeler, M. 1954. Archaeology from the Earth. Oxford. ———. 1956. Still Digging. London. Whitehill, W. M. 1970. Boston Museum of Fine Arts: A Centennial History. Cam- bridge, Mass. Whitley, J. 2001. The Archaeology of Ancient Greece. Cambridge. Wiegand, G. 1970. Halbmond im letzen Viertel. Munich. Wilkes, J. J. 1983. “John Bryan Ward-Perkins, 1912–1981.” Proceedings of the British Academy: 630–55. Will, E. 1987. “The Roman Amphoras.” In The Roman Port and Fishery of Cosa: A Center of Ancient Trade, ed. A. M. McCann et al., 171–220. Princeton, N.J. ———. 2002. “Charles Eliot Norton and the Archaeological Institute of America.” In Excavating Our Past: Perspectives on the History of the Archaeological Institute of America, ed. S. H. Allen, 49–62. Boston. Williams, C., and O. Zervos. 1996. “Franks at Corinth, 1995.” Hesperia 65: 1–55. Williams, H. 1990. “Kenchreai, Eastern Port of Corinth.” In The Ancient Eastern Mediterranean, ed. E. Guralnick, 49–54. Chicago. 304 BIBLIOGRAPHY Wilson, D. R. 1995. “John Kenneth Sinclair St. Joseph, 1912–1994.” Proceedings of the British Academy 87: 417–36. Wilton, A., and I. Bignamini. 1996. Grand Tour: The Lure of Italy in the Eighteenth Century. London. Wilton-Ely, J. 1994. Giovanni Battista Piranesi: The Complete Etchings. San Francisco. Winstone, H. V. F. 1990. Woolley of Ur. London. Winterer, C. 2002. The Culture of Classicism. Baltimore. Wiplinger, G., and G. Wlach. 1996. Ephesus: 100 Years of Austrian Research. Vienna. Wiwjorra, I. 1996. “German Archaeology and Its Relation to Nationalism and Racism.” In Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe, ed. M. Diaz-Andreu and T. Champion, 164–88. Boulder, Colo. Wohlleben, J. 1992. “Germany, 1750–1830.” In Perceptions of the Ancient Greeks, ed. K. J. Dover, 170–202. Oxford. Woolley, L. 1953a. A Forgotten Kingdom. London. ———. 1953b. Spadework in Archaeology. New York. Yalouri, E. 2001. The Acropolis: Global Fame, Local Claim. Oxford. Yegul, F. 1986. The Bath-Gymnasium Complex at Sardis. Cambridge, Mass. ———. 1991. Gentlemen of Instinct and Breeding. Oxford. Yourcenar, M. 1985. The Dark Brain of Piranesi. New York. Zarmati, L. 1990. “Mourning for Adonais.” Athenian July 1990: 22–25. Zevi, F. 2001. “Aspetti dell’archeologia pompeiana nel novecento: gli scavi del Maiuri a Pompeii.” In Pompeii: scienza e società, ed. P. Guzzo, 73–80. Naples. Index Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. Academy of Cortona, Teruria, 18 accessibility issues, 17–18, 56, 78, 84, 128, 145 Acropolis, Athens, 75, 76, 80, 252 Erechtheum, 253 excavations and clearing of, 74, 76, 81, 210 Persian debris on, 77, 191 Temple of Athena Nike, 74 Adam, James, 7 Adam, Robert, 8, 10 Adamesteanu, Dinu, 233–34 Adler, Johann Friedrich, 84 Aegina, Greece, 71, 137 marbles, 9, 27, 67, 133–35, 140, 218 Aegina Museum, 78, 135 Agache, Roger, 234 Ager Cosanus, Italy, 245, 246 Agrigento temple, 7 Akurgal, Ekrem, 232–33 Alba Fucens, Italy, 230 Albani, Cardinal Alessandro, 2, 8 Alésia, France, 58, 59, 92 Alexandria, Egypt, 207 Algerian Museum, 62 Alma-Tadema, Lawrence, 48 Al Mina, Syria, 194, 231, 232 Altes Museum, Berlin, 144, 167 amateur archaeology, 45, 48–49, 51–52, 55– 57, 61, 81, 85, 91, 93, 94, 122, 126–27, 131, 132, 173, 205–6, 212, 236, 250, 253–54 See also savants Amelung, Walter, 198–99 American Academy, Rome, 132, 204, 228, 251 American School of Classical Studies at Athens (ASCSA), 123, 153, 186, 188, 219, 221, 224, 251 Angell, Samuel, 52 Ansedonia, Italy, 228 Anti, Carlo, 196 Antioch, Syria, 207, 208 Antiquities Service, 236, 249 Antiquities Service, Greece, 204 Antiquities Service, Italy, 233 Antiquities Service, North Africa, 212 Antiquities Service, Syria, 173 Antiquities Service, Tunisia, 247 Apsley House, London, 26 Apulia, Italy, 50 Ara Pacis, 177, 178 Arcadia, 137 Archaeological Institute of America (AIA), 100, 111, 122–23, 131, 132, 228, 252 Archaeological Society of Athens, 77, 78, 91, 119, 197 Archaeology Society, 208 Arditi, Michele, 34 Argive Heraeum, Greece, 123 Art Historical Institute, Germany, 219 art market advisers and agents, 19, 25, 26, 67, 71, 107, 134, 135, 138, 148, 149, 150, 151, 225 Roman, 25 See also forgeries and fakes Ashby, Thomas, 204, 236, 237, 240 Ashmole, Bernard, 155, 171 Ashmolean Museum, Oxford University, 71, 124–25 Asia Minor, 72, 113, 114, 141, 188 excavations, 58, 143, 145 museums, 147 Assos, Turkey, 7, 123 Athens, Greece, 138, 238–39 Agora, 188, 189, 191, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 232 archaeology education, 64 art market, 119 as capital of Greece, 73, 81 excavations, 189, 190, 197–98 Frankish tower, 76 Kerameikos cemetery, 197–98, 210, 227 museums, 78 Parthenon, 26, 27, 71, 76, 81, 131, 136, 137 Persian destruction of, 77 Plaka district, 188–89 pottery, 162 305 306 INDEX Athens, Greece (continued) Roman Agora, 210 tourism, 77, 78–79 See also Acropolis Augustus, emperor of Rome, 178 Aurigemma, Salvatore, 182 Austrian Archaeological Institute, 114, 203 Avellino, Francesco, 34, 45, 49 Balbo, Italo, 183 Banti, Luisa, 224 Baracco, Baron Giovanni, 148 Barnabei, Felice, 100, 101, 102 Barthélemy, Abbé Jean-Jacques, 66 Bartoccini, Renato, 183 Bass, George, 240–41 Bassae, Greece, 31, 71, 253 Temple of Apollo, 137, 138 Batoni, Pompeo, 5 Beardsley, Aubrey, 164 Beazley, John, 162, 163, 164–67, 165, 171, 192, 224 Benedict XIV, Pope, 33 Benndorf, Otto, 113 Bérard, Claude, 163 Berbrugger, Louis Adrien, 61–62 Berenson, Bernard, 121, 166 Berlin, Germany, 29, 86, 87, 144, 196, 201, 202 museums and collections, 115, 116, 145, 157, 218 teaching and research, 89, 144 universities, 53, 83 See also specific museums Berlin Academy, 44 Berlin Olympics, 198 Berlin University, 31, 54, 200 Bertrand, Alexandre, 59–60 Beulé, Charles, 81–82 Bianchi Bandinelli, Ranuccio, 200, 217–18, 246 Biddle, Martin, 239 Biddle, Nicholas, 71–72 Bieber, Margarete, 202–3 Blair, Robert, 126–27 Blakeway, Alan, 195 Blegen, Carl, 220 Blessington, Lady, 16 Blouet, Guillaume-Abel, 81 Bodrum, Turkey, 137–38 Boeckh, August, 31, 79, 83 Boehringer, Erich, 210 Bolsena, Etruria, 94, 230 Bonaparte, Lucien, prince of Canino, 135 Bonghi, Ruggiero, 49, 98, 101 Boni, Giacomo, 106–7, 177 Borghese, Bartolomeo, 33, 43, 44 Borghese family, 9, 21, 37, 42 Borghese Gallery, Rome, 25 Boscoreale, Italy, 151, 184 Boston, Massachusetts, 150 Boston Throne, 155 Boston Museum of Fine Arts, 123, 225 Bothmer, Dietrich von, 225 Bourbons, 51, 53, 109 archaeological activity in Italy, 44–45, 48–49 Bradford, John, 233 Bramante, Donato, 12–13 Braschi, Giannangelo. See Pius VI Braun, Emil, 43 Brea, Luigi Bernabo, 211 Breitlinger, Emil, 198 Brendel, Otto, 202 Bridges, George, 47 British and American Archaeological Society, 96, 97 British Archaeological Association, 128 British Museum, 117, 128 cast production and collection, 168, 170 classical collection, 88, 113, 140 disputes over displays, 141–42 Greek sculpture at, 78, 137 new building, 141–42 Roman copies at, 141 Temple of Apollo at Bassae at, 137 vase collection, 160 See also Elgin, Lord: Elgin marbles British School at Athens, 125–26, 153, 187, 232 British School at Rome, 204, 236, 237, 238 British School of Archaeology at Rome, 204 Brizio, Edoardo, 49 Broneer, Oscar, 220–21 Brown, Frank E., 228, 229 Brückner, Alfred, 197 Brunn, Heinrich von, 43, 157, 168, 198 Buchner, Giorgio, 231 Bulla Regia, North Africa, 61 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, 19, 46 Bunsen, Christian von, 27, 30, 33 Burlington, Lord, 5–6 Buschor, Ernst, 191, 197, 224 Butler, Howard Crosby, 222 Byres, James, 9, 10, 19 Byron, Lord, 66, 69, 72 Byzantium, 72 Calabria, Italy, 50 Calza, Guido, 179 Cambridge University, 125, 140, 234, 244 Campana, Giovanni Pietro, 37, 38–39, 59, 143 Campanari, Vincenzo, 35 Campania, Italy, 17, 50, 160, 184, 185 Campbell, Colin, 6 Caneva, Giacomo, 96, 97 Canina, Luigi, 37–38, 38, 42 Canning, Stratford, 137, 138 Canova, Antonio, 2, 9, 23, 25–26, 27, 33, 45, 133, 137, 171 Capitoline Museum, Rome, 8, 21, 99, 101, 105, 133 Capodistria, John, 73 Caputo, Giacomo, 183 Carandini, Andrea, 246 Carbuccia, Jean-Luc, 61 Carcopino, Jérôme, 173, 211, 212 Carnuntum, Austria, 203 Carter, Joseph, 234 Carthage, North Africa, 61, 62–63, 63, 82, 183, 246–48, 249 UNESCO project, 245, 247–48, 249, 250 Carton, Louis, 61 Casson, Lionel, 242 cast(s), 1–2, 97, 103, 140, 159, 180 of bodies from Pompeii, 48, 49 collections, 88, 144, 145 collections in Germany, 1, 55, 59, 84, 88, 90, 144, 168, 170 collections in museums, 48, 58, 88, 145, 157, 159, 168, 169–70 displayed with originals, 7, 8, 143 as educational tool, 23–25, 54, 90, 131, 144, 168–69, 171 of Elgin marbles, 78, 168 exchanges, 59 of monuments, 67 production, 9, 10, 43, 58, 59, 170 Castagnoli, Fernandino, 233 Castellani, Alessandro, 105 Castellani, Augusto, 105–6 Castello, Gabriele Lancellotto, 51 Caumont, Arcisse de, 55–56, 94 Cavaceppi, Bartolomeo, 10, 11, 40 Cavallari, Francesco Saverio, 52–53 Central Museum of Arts, Paris, 21 Cerveteri, Etruria, 39, 102 Champoiseau, Charles, 112, 142–43 Champollion, Jean-François, 50 Chandler, Richard, 117 Charles III, king of the Bourbons, 15, 18 Charles X, king of the Bourbons, 60 Chiaramonti, Luigi Barnaba. See Pius VII Chiaramonti Library, Vatican, 26 Choiseul-Gouffier, count de, 66–67, 68 Christian archaeology, 62, 107, 108 Clarke, E. D., 68, 69–70 Claudius, emperor of Rome, 245 Clement XIV, Pope, 12 Cockerell, C. R., 37, 52, 65, 70, 71, 73, 126, 134, 137 coins, 39, 48–49, 137 Coke, Thomas, 5 Cole, Thomas, 27 Colini, Antonio Maria, 180, 181 Collingon, Léon-Maxime, 90–91, 94 Collingwood, Robin, 205 Colophon, Greece, 186–87 Colvin, Sidney, 169 Comparetti, Domenico, 102, 110 Comune of Rome, 42, 101, 104, 106, 148 Congrès archéologique, 55, 122, 126, 131 Congress of Archaeological Societies, Britain, 126 connoisseurship techniques, 119, 148 Conze, Alexander, 53, 112–13, 142–43, 198 Cook, John, 209, 232–33 copies, 4, 10, 161, 169–70 of Elgin marbles, 168 restoration of, 137 Roman, of Greek originals, 88, 133, 135, 136–37, 140, 141, 147, 156–57, 200, 226 Corinth, Greece, 123–24, 162, 187, 188, 193, 195, 220, 221 Isthmian sanctuary of Poseidon, 221 Cornu, Hortense, 59 Corpus inscriptionum graecarum, 31 Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, 41, 43, 93, 107, 131 Corpus vasorum antiquorum (CVA), 164, 192 Cosa, Italy, 228, 229, 230, 233, 237, 243, 245–46 Crane, Walter, 164 Crawford, O. G. S., 234 Cripplegate fort, England, 239 Croce, Benedetto, 185, 198, 217 Crypta Balbi, Rome, 240, 241 cult of the genuine, 135, 136 Cumae, Italy, 185 Cumont, Franz, 207 Curtius, Ernst, 53, 80, 83, 87, 112 Curtius, Ludwig, 181, 192, 199, 210 Cyrene, North Africa, 111, 123, 182, 183, 186 INDEX 307 308 INDEX Cyrene, North Africa (continued) Marcus Aurelius Arch, 182 Temple of Apollo, 182 David, Jacques-Louis, 20 Dawkins, Richard, 187, 193 De Blacas, Duke, 30, 33 Déchelette, Joseph, 94, 172 De Cou, Herbert Fletcher, 111, 123 Delattre, Father Alfred-Louis, 63, 63 della Seta, Alessandro, 183, 211 Delos, Greece, 113, 117–18, 120, 188 Delphi, Greece, 113, 117, 119–21 bronze charioteer, 120 shrine of Apollo, 120 DePetra, Giulio, 184 de Rossi, Giovanni Battista, 41, 42, 43, 107, 108 DeRuggiero, Ettore, 103 Dethier, Philip Anton, 146 d’Hancarville, Count, 160, 161–62, 167 Dinsmoor, William, 196 Dodwell, Edward, 68–69 Donaldson, Thomas L., 37, 70, 71 Dörpfeld, Wilhelm, 84, 87, 115, 116, 126 Dragendorff, Hans, 92 Dressel, Heinrich, 242 Droop, J. P., 153 Dumont, Albert, 89 Dunbabin, Thomas, 195, 196, 231 Dura-Europos, Syria, 207–8, 209, 228, 229 Duveen, Lord, 170–71 Egyptian Museum, Rome, 36 Elgin, Lord, 20, 26, 66, 67, 68, 135–36, 137, 167, 253 Elgin marbles, 9, 15, 52, 66, 71, 78, 134, 135–38, 141, 168, 170–71, 249–50 Ennabli, Abdelmajid, 247 Ephesus, Greece, 113–14, 115, 123–24, 186 Diana of Ephesus statue, 182 Temple of Diana, 113, 140, 193 Espérandieu, Emile, 92 Esposizione universale romana (planned for 1942), 177, 179 Euphronios, 163 Exekias, 36 Expédition scientifique de Morée, 80–81, 82 Fagan, Robert, 52 Falbe, Christian, 246 Falchi, Isidoro, 108 Fallmerayer, Jakob Philipp, 72 Farnese family collection, 17 Farnese Gardens, 41–42 Fauvel, Louis-François-Sébastien, 67, 74 Fea, Carlo, 27–28, 29, 31, 33, 37 Ferdinand II, king of the Bourbons, 17, 49 Feyel, Michel, 209 field archaeology, 94, 106, 126, 187, 191–92, 206, 223, 231, 252 American, 251 in Britain, 128–29 German, 115 Italian, 246 laws, 99, 225 techniques, 106 Finley, Moses, 244 Fiorelli, Giuseppe, 42, 45, 48–49, 101, 102–3, 184 as director of national archaeological service in Italy, 99–100 Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge University, 69, 169 Flaxman, John, 2, 25, 65 Florence, Italy, 21, 108 Florence Archaeological Museum, 108 Fogg Art Museum, Harvard University, 186–87 forgeries and fakes, 9, 40, 50, 118, 119, 148, 149, 155, 156, 226, 227 Foster, John, 134 Fox, Cyril, 237 Franchthi Cave, Greece, 221 Freil, Jiri, 225–26, 227 French Academy, Rome, 20, 23–25, 46, 48, 81 French Archaeological Society, 56 French School, Athens, 64, 81, 117, 118 French School of Rome, 62, 89, 212, 230 Friedrich Wilhelm IV, crown prince of Prussia, 31, 33, 83 Fuchs, Siegfried, 204, 211, 212 Furtwängler, Adolf, 84, 140, 157–59, 158, 163, 197, 199 Furtwängler, Wilhelm, 199 Fustel de Coulanges, Numa-Denis, 93 Gardner, Ernest, 126, 194, 205 Gardner, Percy, 166, 223 Gell, William, 28, 68, 69 George, Stefan, 199, 210 Gerhard, Eduard, 30, 31, 32, 33–34, 45, 53, 83, 144, 162 article on Greek vases, 35–36 Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica and, 31–35, 42, 87 German Archaeological Institute, Athens, 173, 191, 197, 203, 209, 210, 224 German Archaeological Institute, Berlin, 200 German Archaeological Institute, Rome, 42, 100, 198, 199, 200, 203, 210–11, 212, 219 See also Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica Gerola, Giuseppe, 184 Getty Museum, Malibu, California, 16, 225, 226, 227, 251 Gibbon, Edward, 9 Giglioli, Giulio, 180, 183, 184, 204, 216 Gilman, Daniel, 169 Gismondi, Italo, 179, 180 Giustiniani collection, Rome, 8 Glanum, France, 212 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 4, 29, 30, 52, 54, 192, 196, 199 Goldman, Hetty, 187–88 Gordion, Turkey, 221–22 Gore, Charles, 52 Göttingen University, 1–2, 30 Grace, Virginia, 223, 243 Graham, Walter, 190 Gramsci, Antonio, 217 Grand Congloué, off the coast of France, 243 Grand Tour, 4–5, 6, 8, 9–10, 19, 25, 27, 45, 69, 135, 155 collecting and export of antiquities, 7, 8, 9, 14, 19, 88, 136, 148 focus on Italy, 5, 50 Great Exhibition, London (1851), 143, 169 Gregorian Etruscan Museum, Rome, 36 Gregorian Secular Museum, Lateran Palace, Rome, 36 Gregory XVI, Pope, 36–37, 39, 40 Grenier, Albert, 94, 173, 212, 215, 230 Grimes, W. F., 239 Gsell, Stéphane, 62 Guarducci, Margueritta, 149, 155 Guido, Giacomo, 182 Gustavus III, king of Sweden, 14, 15, 21 Hackert, Jakob Philipp, 52 Hadrian’s villa, Tivoli, Italy, 9 Hadrian’s Wall, 128, 129, 207 Halbherr, Federico, 110–11, 182, 184 Halicarnassus, Greece, 138, 139, 140, 141 Halieis, Greece, 221 Haller von Hallerstein, Carl, 73, 134, 137 Haltern fort, Italy, 92 Hamdi, Osman, 146–47 Hamilton, Gavin, 9, 10, 19, 25, 33, 136 Hamilton, Lord William, 20, 52, 69, 160, 161, 162, 167, 168 Hamilton, William Richard, 26 Hammond, Nicholas, 209 Hanfmann, George, 222 Harris, William, 52 Harrison, Jane, 153 Hartwig, Paul, 148, 149–50, 155 Harvard University, 121, 222 Hauser, Friedrich, 148, 149–50 Haverfield, Francis, 129–31, 130, 205 Hawes, Harriet Boyd, 153, 154, 187 Hayes, John, 244, 247 Hecht, Robert, 225 Hege, Walter, 192, 200, 201 Heighway, Carolyn, 239 Helbig, Wolfgang, 43, 100, 102, 105, 107, 109, 148–49, 155, 225, 226 salon of, 108, 148 Hellenic Society, 48 Henzen, Wilhelm, 43–44, 87 Herculaneum, Italy, 7, 15–16, 17, 44, 45, 51, 185 Himmler, Heinrich, 202 Hippo, North Africa, 215 Hitler, Adolf, 147, 198, 202, 203, 204, 217, 219 Hodder, Ian, 205 Hoffman, Herbert, 163 Hogarth, David, 124–25, 172, 193, 194 Hölderlin, Friedrich, 66, 208 Holkham Hall collection, 5, 8 Holleaux, Maurice, 118 Homolle, Théophile, 118, 120–21 Hope, W. H. St. John, 127 Hosmer, Harriet, 25 Hudson, Daphne, 239 Humann, Carl, 113, 115, 145 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 27, 28–30, 53, 144 Imperial Archaeological Institute, Berlin, 87 Inghirami, Francesco, 34 Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique, 23, 65 inscriptions/epigraphy, 18, 31, 41, 67, 79, 93, 113, 117, 118, 119, 121, 129, 140 Christian, 41 Latin and Greek, 43, 54, 62, 110, 149, 163 on vases, 166 Institute of Archaeology, University of London, 206 Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica, Rome, 30, 31–35, 37, 55, 64, 73, 75, 85 INDEX 309 310 INDEX Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica, Rome (continued) based in Berlin, 86–87, 90, 100 as branch of the German Archaeological Institute, 100 Prussian support for, 43–44 publications, 34, 43, 48, 162 studies and research, 42, 43 travel scholarships, 44 International Association of Classical Archaeology (FIAC), 219 International Congress of Classical Archae- ology, 131, 203–4 International Exhibition (1911), 101, 105 Ionia, 69 Isernia, Molise, 52 Istanbul Museum Alexander sarcophagus, 146–47 Italian Archaeological Institute, 219 Italian School of Archaeology, Athens, 110–11 Jacobsen, Carl, 149 Jacopi, Giulio, 184, 211, 216 Jaeger, Werner, 199 Jahn, Otto, 53, 54–55, 87, 88, 162, 168 James, Henry, 25, 95 Jenkins, Thomas, 9, 10, 19 Joachin de Alcubierre, Rocque, 17 Joly de Lotbinière, Pierre-Gustave, 79 Jones, Calvert, 47 Julius Caesar, 41, 59, 123, 178 Julius III, Pope, 101 Jullian, Camille, 93–94, 173 Kahane, Peter, 203 Karo, Georg, 197, 209–10, 224 Karouzos, Christos, 224 Karouzou, Semni Papspyridi, 224 Kaschnitz-Weinberg, Guido von, 199–200 Kauffmann, Angelica, 2, 29 Keats, John, 27, 162 Kelsey, Francis, 63 Kenchreae, Greece, 221 Kertch, Crimea, 34 Kestner, August, 31, 33 Kircher, Athanasius, 99 Kircher Museum, Rome, 99, 101, 103 Klazomenai, Greece, 186 Klein, Wilhelm, 163 Knidos, Turkey Aphrodite statue, 138 Knight, Richard Payne, 7–8, 51, 52 Knights of Saint John, Turkey, 137–38 Knossos, Crete, 188 Korais, Adamantios, 72–73 Kossinna, Gustaf, 202 Koumanoudis, Stephanos, 75 Krautheimer, Richard, 202 Kubler, Karl, 197, 210 Lamb, Winifred, 188 Lambaesis, Algeria, 61 Lamboglia, Nino, 216–17, 244 Lanciani, Rodolfo, 40, 103, 104–5, 106, 127– 28, 155, 180, 240 Last Days of Pompeii (Bulwer-Lytton), 19, 46 Laurenzi, Luciano, 210 Lavigerie, Allemand, 62–63 Lawrence of Arabia, 164–65, 172 Lazio (Latium), Italy, 101, 102 Leake, William Martin, 68, 70, 71, 81 Lebeque, Albert, 118 Lehmann, Karl, 202 Lenormant, Charles, 53 Lenormant, François, 50–51, 230 Leopold, count of Syracuse, 49 Leptis Magna, North Africa, 182, 183, 213 Lesbos, Greece, 211 Leschi, Louis, 175 Lessing, Gotthold Efraim, 4 Levi, Carlo, 185 Levi, Doro, 211 Lindenschmidt, Ludwig, 57, 59 Lissarrague, François, 163 London, England, 127–28, 239 London Museum, 238 looting of antiquities, 7, 22, 66, 74, 109, 134, 212, 242, 252, 253 Lorimer, Hilda, 187 Louis XIV, king of France, 20 Louvre, Paris, 8, 21, 119, 143–44, 156, 164, 184 Amazon frieze, 142 Campana collection, 143 cast collection, 144 Ecole du Louvre, 59, 93, 144 Greek collection, 142, 143 Winged Victory of Samothrace, 112, 142–43 Lovatelli, Ersilia Caetani, 108, 153 Löwy, Emanuel, 103, 168, 173 Lucien Bonaparte, prince of Canino, 35 Ludwig I, king of Bavaria, 39, 54, 67, 68, 72, 73, 76, 134, 135 Luynes, duke of, 33, 230 Lycia, Asia Minor, 141 Lydia, Anatolia, 222 Magna Graecia, Italy, 6, 45, 50, 110, 186, 230 architecture, 70, 194 Maiden Castle fort, England, 205–6, 206 Maiuri, Amadeo, 111, 184–86, 216 Major, Thomas, 7 Manacorda, Daniele, 240 Margaritis, Philippos, 79 Maria Cristina, queen of Savoy, 37 Marinatos, Spyridon, 204, 224 Marshall, John, 150, 151, 154, 156 Martin, Roland, 210 Martinetti, Francesco, 149, 155 Mau, August, 43, 47 Mazois, François, 46 McCann, Anna Margherita, 245 McDonald, William, 238 Mediterranean, 4, 122–23 archaeology, 67–68, 99 natural harbors, 245 underwater excavations, 242, 243, 243, 249 Megalopolis, Greece, 126 Megara Hyblaea, Sicily, 94, 230–31 Mellink, Machteld, 223, 224 Mercouri, Melina, 250 Messenia, Greece, 238 Metaponto, Italy, 50, 230, 233–34 Metaxos, Ioannis, 204 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 68, 150–51, 153, 154, 155 Attic vase collection, 225 cast collection, 170 Etruscan terra-cotta warriors, 156, 226 krater painted by Euphronios, 226, 228 Metternich, Prince, 33 Michaelis, Adolf, 8, 53, 87–88, 94 Milani, Luigi, 102 Miletus, Greece, 116, 145 Miletus gate, 145, 147 Millingen, James, 33 Mommsen, Theodor, 41, 43, 54, 89, 91–92, 107, 108, 128–29 Montuoro, Paola Zancani, 186 Moreau, Frédéric, 60 Morelli, Giovanni, 166 Morgantina, Sicily, 231 Mostra Augusta della romanità exhibition (1938), 179–80, 183, 204 Müller, Karl Otfried, 43, 74, 79–80, 81, 83 Munich, Germany museums, 54, 134, 135, 162 Munich Glyptothek, 134, 135, 218 Muñoz, Antonio, 177, 180–81 Museum of London Antiquities, 127 Museum of National Antiquities, Saint- Germain-en-Laye, 58–60 Museum of Roman Civilization, 180, 183 Museum of the City of London, 239 Mussolini, Benito, 23, 175, 176, 177, 179–80, 181, 185, 196, 240 archaeological work, 181–82, 189, 190 identification with Roman imperial history, 178, 181 urban renewal program in Rome, 181 Mussolini Museum, 180 Myrina, Asia Minor, 118 Myron, 157 Naples, Italy, 6, 7, 16, 44–45, 49, 160, 238 Naples Museum, 17, 44–45, 48, 49, 185 Napoleon Bonaparte, 19, 59, 65, 81 archaeological ambitions, 20–21, 22–23, 142 defeat of, 23, 27, 30, 36 statue of, 25–26 Napoleon Museum, Paris, 14–15, 21, 26, 59, 133, 142 Napoleon III, 39, 42, 81, 89 defeat of, 86, 91, 95, 144 interest in archaeology, 41, 81, 106 museums created by, 58–60, 143, 180 occupation of Rome, 41 Napoleon III Museum, Paris, 69, 143, 180 National Archaeological Museum of Rome Ludovisi Throne, 155 National Library, Rome, 98 Naukratis, Egypt, 88, 193–94 Nelson, Lord, 20 Newton, Charles, 38, 68, 88, 117, 125, 137, 138–40, 139, 168 New York City, 150, 151, 156, 171 New York University, 221 Nibby, Antonio, 28, 31, 33, 69 Niebuhr, Berthold, 27, 30, 31, 33 Niemann, Georg, 113–14 Noack, Ferdinand, 202 Normad, Alfred-Nicholas, 48 North Africa, 60, 61–62, 63, 63, 64 Italian invasion of, 111 red-slipped pottery, 244 Roman, 94 See also specific sites Norton, Charles Eliot, 121–23, 122, 150, 169 Ny Carlsberg Glyptothek, Copenhagen, 149 INDEX 311 312 INDEX Old Smyrna, Turkey, 232–33 Olsen, Erling, 209 Olympia, Greece, 75, 81, 85, 115, 188, 210 excavations, 82–84, 87, 112, 139, 198 Great Altar, 115 museum, 84–85, 121 Olynthos, Greece, 190–91 Orsi, Paolo, 50, 103, 109–10, 183, 186, 195–96 Ostia, Italy, 17, 22, 39, 104, 179, 242, 245, 246 Ostia Antica excavation, 9 Ottoman Empire, 70, 137 archaeological studies and research, 146 decay and collapse, 83, 111, 134, 172, 173 excavation in, 117, 137, 145 export and loss of antiquities, 83–84, 114, 137, 141, 142, 145–46, 147 rule in Greece, 66, 72, 76 Ottoman Imperial Museum, Istanbul, 146 Otto of Bavaria, king of Greece, 72, 73, 75, 79, 119 Overbeck, Johannes, 47 Oxford University, 125, 140 Pacca, Cardinal Bartolomeo/Pacca decree, 22, 36, 39 Pace, Biagio, 183, 196 Paestum, Italy, 6–7, 50, 185, 186 painting, ancient, 15, 16, 17, 18, 34, 37, 40, 160–61 at Pompeii, 17, 18, 34, 151, 184 portraits, 25 on vases, 35, 163 painting, modern, 20, 21, 22, 26, 48, 67, 76, 119, 138, 166 of landscapes and monuments, 27 painting, neoclassical, 39–40 painting, Renaissance, 166 Palazzo dei Vecchi Studi, Naples, 144 Palermo museum, 52 Palladio, Andrea, 5, 6 Palma di Cesnola, Baron Luigi, 68, 150, 151 Panofka, Theodor, 30 Pareti, Luigi, 224 Paris, France, 89, 143 museums, 26 See also Louvre; Napoleon Museum Paris Commune, 89, 90 Parker, John Henry, 96–97 Pater, Walter, 46–47, 164 Paterno, Ignazio, 51 Pausanias, 68, 70, 79 Payne, Humphry, 191–93, 195 Pendlebury, John, 208–9 Penrose, Francis Cranmer, 125–26 Perachora, Greece, 193, 195 Pergamon, Greece, 113, 115–16, 232 Great Altar, 115, 145, 147 marbles, 218 Pergamon Museum, Prussia, 145, 147 Pericles, 135 Pernier, Luigi, 111, 182, 224 Perrot, Georges, 90, 91 Persian Empire, 141 Petri, Flinders, 88, 194 Philomousos Hetaireia (Society of Lovers of the Muses), Athens, 73 photography/photographs, 43, 107, 117, 131, 159, 192 aerial, 174, 175, 233, 234, 245 of Athens, 79 as means of recording excavations, 120 of Pompeii, 47–48 printed, 93 in publications, 112 of Rome, 48, 95, 96–97, 97 stereopticon, 48 used to promote archaeology, 96, 139 Picardy, 234 Pio-Clementino Museum, Rome, 12–14, 21 Belvedere courtyard, 12, 25, 144, 167 Pio Cristiano Museum, Lateran Palace, Italy, 41 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista, 10–12, 13, 37 Pisa, Italy, 242 Pithekousai, Ischia, 231 Pittakis, Kyriakos, 71, 74–75, 78 Pitt-Rivers, Augustus Henry Lane-Fox, 128–29, 205 Pius VI, Pope, 12, 15, 21 Pius VII, Pope, 21–22, 26, 33 Pius IX, Pope, 40–41, 42, 107 Pliny the Elder, 16 Poidebard, Antoine, 174–75, 245 Poliochini, Italy, 211 Pompeii, Italy, 7, 15, 47, 179, 184, 185 Alexander mosaic, 35, 46 casts of bodies, 48, 49 display of antiquities in situ, 185 documentation of excavations, 17 excavations, 15, 18–19, 20, 44, 45–46, 49, 99 House of Menander, 185 House of the Faun, 46 House of the Tragic Poet, 46 monuments, 46 paintings at, 34 photography of, 47–48 proposed school of archaeology, 49–50 reconstruction of antiquities, 46 studies and research, 69 Temple of Isis, 18, 45 tourism, 18–19, 46, 47 via dell’Abbondanza, 185 Villa of the Mysteries, 185 Pontifical Roman Academy of Archaeology, 32–33 Portici, Italy, 17 museum, 15, 16–17, 44 Portus, Italy, 40 Pottier, Edmond, 94, 118, 119, 163–64 Priene, Greece, 116–17 Princeton University, 187, 188, 190, 191, 207, 224, 232 Pylos, Greece, 220, 221, 238 Qaddafi, Muammar, 215 Quatremère de Quincy, Antoine- Chrysostome, 26 Quilici, Lorenzo, 240 Quilici, Stephania, 240 Rainey, Froelich, 222 Ravaisson-Mollient, Félix, 144 Reale Accademia Ercolanese, 18 Reinach, Salomon, 118, 119 Renaissance, 1, 6, 126, 133, 167 Renier, Léon, 62 restoration, 63, 142, 170, 171 of Aegina marbles, 134, 136 Bourbon, 45 of the Colosseum, 37–38 German, 218 Grand Tour and, 9, 11 of monuments and buildings, 23, 51, 176, 177, 179, 181, 182, 184 in North Africa, 215 papal, 33 versus preference for the genuine, 23, 135, 171 of Roman copies of Greek originals, 88 Revett, Nicholas, 6, 65, 70, 76, 117 Rhodes, Greece, 183–84 Ricci, Corrado, 180, 181 Richard de Saint Non, Abbé Jean Claude, 50 Richmond, Ian, 234–35 Richter, Gisela, 151–52, 152, 153, 154, 225 Richter, Jean-Paul, 151–52 Ridgway, Brunhilde, 224 Riegel, Alois, 114, 199 Rizos-Rangabe, Alexander, 75 Robert, Carl, 200 Robertson, Donald, 171 Robinson, David Moore, 190, 191 Robinson, Edward, 150, 154, 169 Rodenwaldt, Gerhart, 192, 200–202, 201 Rogers, Randolph, 46 Rolland, Henri, 212 Roman Campagna, 42 Romanelli, Pietro, 182, 183 Roman Gaul, 56, 57, 59, 92, 93–94 Roman-German Central Museum, Mainz, Germany, 57, 58–59 Rome, Italy, 9, 19–20, 23, 27, 93, 98, 100, 207, 238, 239, 240 antiquities taken from, 14–15, 20, 21 archaeological community, 2, 27, 28, 34, 40, 87 archaeological map of, 105 archaeology education, 64, 100 Arch of Titus, 23, 24 art institutions, 132 art market and collecting, 102, 151, 155 Baths of Diocletian, 23, 101, 102, 103–4 as capital of Italy, 76, 95 Capitoline Hill, 173, 198 Casa Tarpeia, 34, 35, 87 casts of monuments, 180 Christian archaeology at, 40–41 cleaning of later accretions to antiquities, 177–79 Colosseum, 28, 37, 96, 97, 176, 178 Comune (city government), 42, 101, 104, 106, 148 conservation debates, 95 Esquiline, 35, 37, 104 Farnese Palace, 62, 90, 94 fascist identification with, 175–76, 177, 179 Forum, 28, 42, 104, 106–7, 176, 240 Forum of Trajan, 23, 178 historical dating of, 107 looting of, 22 Mausoleum of Augustus, 177, 178, 178, 180 Monte Testaccio, 242–44 museums, 27, 100, 179–80 Mussolini’s parade route, 177, 178 Odyssey frieze, 35 Palatine Hill, 41–42, 59, 101, 104, 106–7, 240 Pantheon, 28 Pomponius Hylas, columbarium of, 39 private collections, 2, 8 INDEX 313 314 INDEX Rome, Italy (continued) provincial archaeology, 62, 91 return of antiquities to, 26, 133 salons, 107–8 topographical plan of, 37 tourism, 25, 37, 179 Trajan’s Column, 23, 176 urban development and destruction of antiquities, 96, 101, 103–5, 148 via Appia, 38, 41, 42, 104 via dell’Impero, 181 Villa Giulia, 211 See also Vatican listings Rosa, Pietro, 42, 106 Rosetta Stone, 26 Ross, Ludwig, 74, 81 Rostovtzeff, Michael, 208, 209 Ruggiero, Michele, 184 Ruskin, John, 106, 121, 137, 205 Sabratha, North Africa, 182, 183, 213 Saint Omobono excavation, Rome, 181 Saint Paul, 113, 123 Salerno, Italy, 213 Salinas, Antonio, 53 Samos, Greece, 197 Samothrace, 112–13, 142–43, 202, 221 Sardis, Turkey, 222, 223 savants (amateur scholars), 1, 26, 31, 33, 34, 49, 88, 96, 205, 236 local/parochial, 17, 44, 55, 61–62, 64, 173 in Naples and Rome, 16, 18, 27, 28 role of, 55, 212, 250 Schede, Martin, 209 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich, 65, 77, 144, 167 Schlief, Hans, 198 Schliemann, Heinrich, 76, 87, 139, 146 Schneemann, Gerhard, 57 Schone, Richard, 145 Scranton, Robert, 221 Segesta temple, Sicily, 7 Segre, Mario, 211–12, 216 Selinus temple, Sicily, 7 Selinute, Sicily, 52 Serradifalco, duke of, 52 Settefinestre villa, Italy, 246 Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, 113, 138, 140 Shear, Theodore Leslie, 188, 220 Silchester, England, 127 Simonetti, Michelangelo, 12–14 Simpson, Frank Gerald, 206–7 Sjoqvist, Erik, 232 Skopas, 227 Slater Museum, Norwich, Connecticut, 169 Smirke, Robert, 141 Smirke, Sydney, 52, 65, 70, 71 Smith, Charles Roach, 127–28 Smyrna, Asia Minor, 119, 186, 187, 188 Society for Magna Graecia, 186 Society of Antiquaries, London, 239 Society of Dilettanti, 5, 6, 69, 116–17 Society of Lovers of the Muses, Athens. See Philomousos Hetaireia Sommer, Giorgio, 48 South Kensington Museum, 143, 169 Sparta, 210 Artemis Orthia shrine, 193 Speer, Albert, 202 Sperlonga Roman villa site, 85 Spinazzola, Vittorio, 184, 185 Staatliches Museum, Berlin, 119 Stackelberg, Otto von, 30–31, 73 Stillman, William J., 48, 68, 79, 107 Stillwell, Richard, 232 St. Joseph, Kenneth, 234, 236 Stoa of Attalos museum and research center, Athens, 220, 221 Stockholm, Sweden, 133 museums, 14 Storey, William Wetmore, 25 Strong, Eugenie Sellers, 114, 125, 152, 153, 157, 181, 200, 204, 223 Stuart, James, 6, 65, 70, 76 Studniczka, Franz, 197 Sybaris, Italy, 186, 222 Syracuse, Italy, 103, 109, 110, 230 Tanagra, Boeotia, figures, 118–19 Tanucci, Bernardo, 15 Taranto, Italy, 102–3 Tarquinia, Etruria, 31, 34, 39, 102 Technau, Walter, 209 Thebesa, North Africa, 215 Thessaloníki, Greece, 186 Thessaly, Greece, 142 Thompson, Homer, 219–20 Thorvaldsen, Bertel, 2, 9, 26–27, 29, 134–35, 171, 218 Tiddis, North Africa, 215 Timgad, Algeria, 175 Tindari, Sicily, 52 Tivoli, Italy, 9, 17 Topography of Athens (Leake), 70, 71 Torlonia, Giovanni, 39 Torlonia family, 39–40 Townley, Charles/Townley collection, 9, 136, 137 Toynbee, Jocelyn, 223–24 Trajan, emperor of Rome, 40, 116, 245 Travlos, John, 220 Tripoli, North Africa, 182 Tripolitania, North Africa, 111, 182, 183, 209 Troy, Asia Minor, 66, 87, 139, 146 Tsountas, Christos, 224 Tuminello, Ludovico, 96, 97 Tunis, Tunisia, 63, 174, 247 Turner, William, 27 Tuscany, Italy, 36, 102 Tusculum, Italy, 37 Tuzzi, Don Benigno, 48–49 UNESCO Carthage project, 245, 247–48, 249, 250 convention, 227–28 Union académique internationale, 164 University Museum, University of Pennsyl- vania, 221–22, 241 University of Rome, 103 University of Strasbourg, 87–88, 173 Vaglieri, Dante, 179 Valadier, Giuseppe, 23, 24, 37 Van Deman, Esther, 153–54 vases, 31, 136, 147 Attic, 68, 149, 164, 166, 225 black-figure, 166 Etruscan, 51, 160, 162 Greek painting and, 35 in museums and collections, 35, 36, 39, 53, 79, 91, 136, 150, 151, 159, 160, 162 mythological themes, 55 red-figure, 253 Vatican archaeological interests, 98 acquisition of classical antiquities, 22 Apollo Belvedere, 2, 10, 14, 21, 26 excavations made by, 22 Laocoön, 14, 21, 26 libraries, 26 museums and collections, 12–14, 21, 22, 25, 36, 38, 41, 99, 101, 133 recognition of the Instituto di corrispon- denza archeologica, 33 tourism, 12 Vatican/Papal States, 12, 75 antiquities exported from, 12 cultural policy, 12 diplomatic corps, 28 end of papal rule, 29, 95, 96 military attack on (1870), 95, 98, 107 modernization of, 40 Prussia and, 33, 42 restoration of power to, 30 return of confiscated antiquities to, 26 tomb explorations, 35 Veii, Italy, 237, 244, 246 Ventimiglia, Italy, 217 Vergil, 10, 185 Vermeule, Cornelius, 225 Verulamium, Italy, 205–6 Vescovali, Ignazio, 25 Vetulonia, Etruria, 108 Victor Emmanuel II, king of Italy, 40 Victoria and Albert Museum, London, 143 Vidal de la Blache, Paul, 93 Vienna museums, 113 Villa Giulia National Museum, Rome, 101–2, 105, 156 Villa of the Papyri, Herculaneum, 16 Villard, François, 230 Viola, Luigi, 103 Visconti, Ennio Quirino, 14, 21 Visconti, Filippo Aurelio, 14, 31 Visconti, Giovanni Battista, 14 Visconti, Pietro Ercole, 36, 103, 179 Vitruvius, 5, 6 Volubilis, Morocco, 174 von Gerkan, Armin, 210, 211 Von Vacano, Otto, 210 Vulci, Etruria, 34, 35, 36, 62, 135, 162 Wagner, Johann Martin von, 134 Walbrook Mithraeum, England, 239 Waldstein, Charles, 169 Walker, Alice, 187 Walpole, Horace, 5 Ward-Perkins, John, 213, 219, 233, 236–38 Warren, E. P., 121, 150, 155 Weber, Karl, 16, 17 Wedgwood, Josiah, 159–60 Weickert, Carl, 208 Welcker, Friedrich Gottlieb, 43, 45, 53–54, 55, 83, 168 Wheeler, Mortimer, 205–6, 208, 213, 236, 239, 242, 253 Wickhoff, Franz, 114 Wiegand, Theodor, 116, 117, 145, 172, 200 Wilamovitz Moellendorf, Ulrich von, 202 Wilberg, Wilhelm, 113–14 Wilhelm I, king of Prussia, 86 Wilkins, William, 50, 70–71 INDEX 315 316 INDEX Winckelmann, Johann, 3, 12, 18, 27, 65, 82, 114, 142 legacy and influence, 2–4, 3, 10, 32, 54, 55, 167, 192, 196, 208 and Roman archaeological scene, 2, 14 Woburn Abbey, England, 25 Wolf, Friedrich August, 30, 31 Wood, John Turtle, 140 Woolley, Leonard, 194 Wrede, Walter, 204, 210, 212 Wren, Christopher, 5 Xanthus, Lycia, 141 Yale University Art Gallery, 208 Young, Rodney, 222, 241 Zannoni, Antonio, 34 Zanotti Bianchi, Umberto, 186 Zeus Olympios temple, 84 Zeus Panhellenius cult, 134 Zoëga, Jörgen, 27, 29, 54ce the Spartans had laid • 97 • ANCIENT GREECE waste to the countryside there was nothing for them to do but go home. Unfortunately nature undid the Athenian plan. The great number of people (estimated at 300,000) crowded together in the city made a breeding ground for disease. In 430 BC the plague broke out. As Thucydides described: ‘They died like flies. The bodies of the dying were heaped one on top of the other, and half-dead creatures could be seen stag- gering about in the streets or flocking around the fountains in their desire for water. The temples... were full of the dead bodies of people who had died inside them... Many people, lacking the neces- sary means of burial because so many deaths had occurred in their households, adopted the most shameless methods. They would arrive first at a funeral pyre that had been made by others, put their own dead upon it and set it alight...’ • 98 • CLASSICAL GREECE Pericles died from this plague in 429 BC. After a brief recovery, the plague then came back in 427 BC and killed even more people. Pericles’ death left a vacuum at the heart of Athenian politics. It was filled by the infa- mous demagogue, Cleon, who showed what stuff he was made of in 427 BC. In that year a failed rebellion occurred at Mytilene on Lesbos, aimed at replacing the pro-Athenian leadership. The Athenians during assembly debated as to how they could show their displeasure at this wavering of support in an ally. Cleon argued that the most suitable response was to execute all of the adult males in the city and enslave the women and chil- dren. The assembly agreed, and sent a force to execute the punishment. This force had landed at Lesbos and was making prepara- tions when a messenger suddenly arrived with instructions to ignore the order – the Athenians had come to their senses in the end. Cleon made a very effective career out of appealing to the crowd’s worst instincts. • 99 • ANCIENT GREECE Despite the plague, the Athenian policy of attempting to avoid direct conflict except through their navy (which effectively harried Spartan shipping and coastal settlements) was paying off. Sparta managed to conquer Plataea but achieved little else. Athens upped the ante – they took the war to Sicily, attacking Syracuse, and continued with their efforts in the Peloponnese. Sparta was on the verge of suing for peace when their new leader, Brasidas, succeeded in winning victo- ries in Chalcidice to the north in 424 BC. Some reluctant Athenian allies, heartened by the Spartan success, took the opportunity to revolt. An Athenian force was sent out under Cleon to win back the town of Amphipolis. In the ensuing battle, both Cleon and Brasidas were killed. Back in Athens, the most influen- tial politician left now that Cleon was dead was Nicias, a moderate. He took advantage of the death of the most aggressive figures on each side to negotiate a peace that was named after him, the Peace of Nicias, in 421 BC. It • 100 • CLASSICAL GREECE was supposed to last 50 years but within two years, small conflicts had broken out between the two sides. By 415 BC a great Athenian army had landed on Sicily. The war had recommenced. Back in Athens, a new figure had risen in the public arena to challenge Nicias. This was the brilliant Alcibiades, a renowned warrior, associated with Pericles, as handsome as he was clever, and as brave as he was unscrupu- lous. After agitating throughout the brief period of peace, he was the main force behind the attack launched on Sicily and was sent out as one of the generals to take command. Before he left, an act of sacrilege took place one night in Athens. Roadside statues of the god Hermes (patron of travellers) were muti- lated. Alcibiades’ enemies sought to put him in the frame for this desecration. They finally managed to have him recalled from Sicily, not long after he arrived there. On the way back he slipped his captors. In his absence he was found guilty of the act and sentenced to • 101 • ANCIENT GREECE death. Alcibiades had little choice but to join the other side. With the Spartans he proved as effective a military leader as he had done with the Athenians. He wisely suggested they support Syracuse in Sicily as the Athenian force, ironi- cally led by Nicias (who had opposed the expedition), threatened to overwhelm it. A remarkable change in fortune led to the Syracusans with their allies delivering a devas- tating blow when they destroyed the Athenian fleet off Syracuse. One of the most poignant parts of the History of the Peloponnesian War is where Thucydides describes the plight of the Athenian army on land, having witnessed the destruction of the vessels they hoped would take them home. They are forced to flee inland, leaving their dead and wounded comrades behind on the beach, yet knowing that they are only fleeing deeper into enemy territory, and that an inevitable defeat and destruction awaits them there. In the end their only options were death or slavery. This • 102 • CLASSICAL GREECE was a major catastrophe for the Athenians, yet still they continued the war. Alcibiades had soon alienated his hosts (seducing the wife of one of the two Spartan kings did not help) and moved east. In Sardis he was trying to undermine the Athenian democracy by plotting to get Persian support in helping to finance a revolution by officers of the fleet. The revolution did take place in 411 BC and control of Athens passed to an oligarchy called the Four Hundred after numerous prominent democrats were murdered. The Four Hundred were over- thrown by the Five Thousand and they in turn were replaced by the restoration of democ- racy in 410 BC. Alcibiades had been aban- doned early on by the oligarchs, and hence survived their fall – helped by his involve- ment in two Athenian naval victories over the Spartans at Abydos (411 BC) and Cyzicus (410 BC). In 407 BC he returned to Athens to receive a huge welcome and the overall command of the Athenian war machine. Two • 103 • ANCIENT GREECE years later his advice before the Battle of Aegospotami was ignored, the Athenians lost to the Spartan admiral Lysander (the Athenians lost 160 of 180 ships – 4,000 of their men were captured and put to death), and effectively the war was over. Lysander moved on Athens. The Athenians were besieged on land and sea. The corn supply had been cut off and famine threatened. Their allies had deserted them. They finally surren- dered in April 404 BC. Alcibiades had fled for safety to the court of a Persian governor in Asia Minor – and was eventually murdered there, some say at the Spartans’ behest. The Spartans resisted calls for the destruc- tion of Athens. Instead they placed another oligarchy in power, the Thirty Tyrants. The democracy was restored before too long but in their brief period in charge the Thirty had executed some 1,500 political opponents. The new democracy took its revenge by executing friends and associates of the oligarchs. One of them was Socrates. • 104 • CLASSICAL GREECE The Late Classical Age The age of Athens as a great political force was over. Culturally it still shone but political leadership had passed to Sparta. The Spartans, at the instigation of their King, Agesilaos II, soon turned their attention to new enemies. One of the first of these was Persia where they tried to influence the succession by supporting the younger son of the late Emperor Darius against the newly- crowned Artaxerxes II. As is recounted in Xenophon’s Anabasis, 10,000 Greek merce- naries followed Cyrus up country to finally confront the enemy not far from Babylon. Cyrus lost and was killed, and the Greeks then faced a long journey back through hostile territory. The scene where they finally reach the sea and thus freedom is one of the most famous in Greek literature. Sparta’s failure in Persia did not dissuade them from trying to exert influence else- where. In Greece, in Sicily where they • 105 • ANCIENT GREECE supported the tyrant Dionysios I of Syracuse, and probably in Egypt too, they tried to mimic the behaviour of Athens years before. Soon they had their own enemies at home. The Corinthian War started in 395 BC. Corinth was not pleased by Sparta’s interfer- ence in its Syracusan colony, and managed to get support from Argos, Boeotia, Athens and Persia. Artaxerxes was instrumental in nego- tiating the end of this war in 386 BC (hence its description as the King’s Peace) when, in essence, Sparta agreed to keep out of Persian affairs and vice versa. Gradually antipathy built up between Sparta and Thebes. Sparta had supported a coup at Thebes. Shortly after those Thebans removed from power – with aid from Athens – took the city back. Sparta tried to exact its revenge on a number of occasions but the united front presented by Athens and Thebes held them off. Athens, anxious at the Spartan threat, tried to resurrect another Delian League in miniature: the Second Athenian • 106 • CLASSICAL GREECE League. It proved unnecessary. Thebes’ repu- tation as a military force was growing. They had created an elite fighting force, the Sacred Band, comprised of 150 pairs of male lovers, supported by the state (the theory was that by having the lovers fight side by side they would fight all the harder). The crucial battle was at Leuctra in 371 BC where, under their leader Epaminondas and with the use of cavalry and the Sacred Band, the Thebans comprehen- sively defeated the Spartans. The myth of Spartan invincibility on the battlefield was over. Thebes’ period as supreme Greek power was short. In ten years with Epaminondas leading an army in the Peloponnese to the south, and Pelopidas fighting in the north against both Thessaly and Macedonia, they won battle after battle. Most notably Messenia was freed from the Spartan yoke in 369 BC. Within a two-year period both of these inspirational leaders were killed in battle and with them went Theban • 107 • ANCIENT GREECE supremacy. For a brief time Caria in Asia Minor became the centre of attention under its cunning and wealthy leader Mausolus. Athens futilely tried to step into Thebes’ empty shoes. Mausolus’s plotting induced a number of islands, members of the Second Athenian League, to revolt. Athens sent a fleet under its general Chares, and the brief Social War (357–355 BC) began. After the Athenian defeat at Embata in 356 BC, the Persians threatened to step in. The Athenians, unable to even contemplate a war with Persia, surrendered, and then returned to Athens humiliated. The old powers of Greece were spent as major forces. The new leaders of Greece were to come from the north, Macedonia, and were considered by their sophisticated relations to the south to be little more than rustic cousins. One man was to mastermind their ascendancy in Greece – Philip II. From the start of his reign (359 BC) Philip was put to the test. In his first year he had to • 108 • CLASSICAL GREECE defeat a combined force of mercenaries and Athenians who were attempting to put a pretender on the Macedonian throne. With Athens occupied with the Social War, Philip turned his attention to his immediate east in Chalcidice, capturing first the city of Amphipolis, then Poteidaia, then Methone (354 BC). He gained control of the gold mines there, an important source of funds. At this time conflict had blown up in the south between Thebes and Phocis. Thebes had used the excuse of Phocis’s ‘cultivation of sacred land’ to try and ensure that the Delphic Amphictiony (a league of city-states who ensured the proper maintenance of and behaviour towards the sanctuary at Delphi) would fine Phocis. The fine was more than Phocis could pay. Thebes greedily grasped the opportunity of leading a ‘Sacred War’ against Phocis as punishment and then were wrong- footed when Phocis raided the temple treasury at Delphi and used the sizeable funds to hire a mercenary force large enough to • 109 • ANCIENT GREECE repel the Thebans. After Phocis sought to further bolster its position with a treaty with the Thessalian city of Pherae, another city of Thessaly, Larissa, sought to safeguard its posi- tion in turn by calling in support from Macedonia. Philip came down with his army. After one unexpected defeat he quickly availed himself of the opportunity to conquer all of Thessaly, adding its military resources to his own. Only a force of Athenians at the narrow pass of Thermopylae held him back (352 BC). He returned north and continued his campaigns there. By 346 BC Philip was back at Thermopylae, having tied the Athenians up with peace negotiations. The gains continued: while making further conquests in the north he promoted rebellion in the south, supporting Messenia and Megalopolis against Sparta and a rebel faction in Elis, among others. Thrace fell to him. By 340 BC he was attacking Byzantium which threatened the Athenian supply of grain from the regions • 110 • CLASSICAL GREECE around the Black Sea. Finally Athens and Thebes agreed to confront him. Philip marched back to central Greece where a part of his army met the Greek forces at Chaeronea. Athens was beaten, Thebes crushed. Philip was now the effective ruler of Greece. He called a conference at Corinth and formed a League of Corinth comprised of the beaten Greek states that, unsurpris- ingly, elected him leader. They had little other choice in the matter. He stationed troops in various locales throughout central Greece to guarantee the peace. And at the conference he announced his plan to conquer Persia. This final ambition was to prove beyond him. Philip had fallen out with both his wife, Olympias, and his young son and heir, Alexander: either or both of them could have been behind his subsequent assassination. Greece rejoiced at the news of his death, sensing freedom ahead. • 111 • ANCIENT GREECE Alexander the Great On becoming King, Alexander was forced to prove his mettle much as his father had years before. His eyes were on Persia but first he struck out against the nearby Illyrians. Rumours that he had been killed in this first campaign began to travel south. Thebes, still resentful at the brevity of its period of supreme glory, thought to take advantage of this ‘death’ by rising up against Macedonian oppression. Alexander was on the scene in no time with his army and made Thebes an example that none of the other Greeks were likely to forget for a while. He destroyed the city and enslaved its inhabitants. Leaving now for the east, he felt confident leaving his empire in the hands of his father’s faithful lieutenant, Antipater. In 334 BC, with an army of some 40,000 infantry and 5,000 cavalry, he crossed over the Hellespont into Asia Minor. Alexander was always aware of the importance of the • 112 • CLASSICAL GREECE symbolic – once in Asia he claimed it by thrusting his spear into the soil. He visited what were claimed to be the tombs of Ajax and Achilles at Troy, behaving as if his own expeditionary force was a later version of Agamemnon’s. The first battle was with a large force lead by various satraps (provincial governors) of the Persian emperor. They awaited Alexander’s army on the banks of the river Granicus. They were easily defeated. Alexander led the right wing of his army personally, inspiring his men by his own heroic example. But the deciding factor was probably Alexander’s secret weapon, passed on from his father. Philip had caused his men to abandon the usual Greek spear and instead adopt the sarisa, twice the size, a six-metre long pike. Organised into tight phalanxes, the front row of men thus had four rows of these vicious weapons before them. As long as the infantry’s discipline held, they were virtually unbeatable. • 113 • ANCIENT GREECE Little opposition faced him in the after- math of this battle. His army proceeded to wind its way through Asia Minor, only receiving more than token resistance at the coastal city of Halicarnassus, where the Persian fleet managed to keep the defenders well supplied and supported. At Gordion the most notable event was the story of Alexander’s solving of the riddle of the Gordian Knot. A prophecy held that whoever untangled this intricate knot on an old chariot would rule Asia. Alexander is supposed to have fulfilled the prophecy by using his sword to cut through it. Darius, Persia’s ruler, finally confronted Alexander with his army at the southeastern border of Asia Minor – at Issus. The superior numbers of the Persians became a disadvan- tage when they were lured by Alexander into the narrow plain there. Darius and his army fled. Alexander was content to let them go for now. He continued south along the Levantine coast. Alexander’s policy towards • 114 • CLASSICAL GREECE opposition was fairly straightforward: fight rather than negotiate. He made examples of each city that resisted him, and this began to have an effect. By the time he reached Egypt there was little opposition. He founded a new city there, Alexandria, on the coast (he was to found literally dozens of new cities named after himself in this way). Here again he helped in the creation of his own legend. Alexander headed out into the western desert with a few companions to the oracle at the oasis at Siwa where he was declared to be the son of the Egyptian god Amun. With Egypt made his own, it was time to head back east and finally deal with Darius. He invaded Mesopotamia and caught the Persian army at Gaugamela (331 BC). Again they were routed, again Darius fled, and again Alexander chose not to pursue. He headed deeper into Mesopotamia, taking Babylon and then Susa until he finally marched into Persepolis, the capital, capturing the vast treasury of the Persians. He stayed there for • 115 • ANCIENT GREECE five months, enjoying the sophisticated pleas- ures of Persian life and watching Darius’s great palace burn. Darius was soon dead. He fled to the edge of the empire that was once his, where one of his satraps, Bessus of Bactria, murdered him and delivered the body up to the Greeks. Alexander had exacted revenge for Persia’s invasions of Greece in the early fifth century. This would have had some political signifi- cance at home where a lonely attempt at revolution in his absence by the Spartans had been effectively and brutally put down by Antipater. The size of the conquered territories of the east, and the speed with which Alexander progressed ever onwards made it difficult to institute major organisational changes in these newly conquered provinces. Alexander kept to the satrapy system, generally appointing Greek rulers (although on occa- sions he preferred a native, or even some- times allowed the existing satrap to rule) • 116 • CLASSICAL GREECE supported by a small body of Macedonians. To the east and north rebellion stirred. Bessus claimed the succession to Darius and another satrap, Satibarzanes, attempted to revolt. Alexander had adopted Persian dress and some of their manners, a fact that went down badly with some of the Macedonian nobility who had accompanied him (at least one conspiracy had to be put down with executions). Dealing with both Alexander pushed northwards into distant territory north of the Hindu Kush. There he founded Alexandriaescharta, ‘ Alexandria the Farthest’, and as was the case elsewhere, encouraged Greeks to settle in this land thou- sands of miles away from home, intending this policy of colonisation to secure his control of such a huge empire. More revolts occurred and the strain began to tell. The Greeks had crossed into Asia six years ago and were understandably homesick. Alexander’s drinking became notorious – in one drunken argument he killed one of his oldest friends, • 117 • ANCIENT GREECE Cleitus, whom he had recently appointed Bessus’s successor as satrap of Bactria. To the Persians Alexander was a god but the Greeks found his playing up to that role sacrilegious. Ever onward they went, this time east, towards India. In 326 BC Alexander’s men reached the Indus valley on the edge of the Punjab. At the Battle of the Hydaspes he defeated the Indian King Porus, meeting elephants in battle for the first time. They pushed on as far as the Hyphasis River. By now Alexander was the only one wanting to go on. The army was near mutinous. He finally agreed to go back, choosing a southern route through the Gedrosian Deser t. The fleet, under Alexander’s admiral Nearchus, sailed back from the mouth of the Indus, across the Arabian Sea and up the length of the Persian Gulf. Nearchus was lucky: the march back led through some of the most inhospitable territory on earth, for which the Macedonians were ill-equipped. Many died. • 118 • CLASSICAL GREECE They arrived back in Persepolis in 324 BC. Alexander started building up a fleet in the Levant. Some of these ships were brought to Babylon in 323 BC and it is likely that Alexander intended to use these to expand into Arabia. It was rumoured that the rest of the fleet intended to sail west, aiming to conquer Southern Italy and Carthage. Alexander’s sudden death that year put a stop to this. He was 32 years old. Some put it down to poison but the common view was that he had simply drunk himself to death. He’d conquered an Empire the like of which the world had never seen before. He left a newborn son as heir, ensuring a fight over the succession. In the later years of his campaign Alexander had discarded much of his Greek identity, and so had his army. Many of the most senior positions were held by Macedonians but the army itself was comprised of a mixture of peoples. Many of the Macedonians and Greeks had chosen Persian wives, had stopped and settled down • 119 • ANCIENT GREECE and were raising families in the east. Alexander’s lasting legacy was this hybrid empire, Greek and Persian, that – more than anything – was to embody the period that followed his death. • 120 • The Hellenistic Age and Afterwards 4. The Hellenistic Age and Afterwards The Early Hellenistic World Hellenism can best be described as the fusion of Greek with non-Greek – an accurate description of the world Alexander left. Immediately after Alexander’s death his son was declared King Alexander IV to reign jointly with his uncle (Alexander the Great’s half-brother), Philip III Arrhidaeus. Unfortunately the former had yet to enjoy his first birthday while the latter was mentally- impaired. Antipater, though he had fallen out with Alexander before his death, was the power behind the throne in Greece. In Persia, Alexander’s generals eyed each other nerv- ously. The first to take advantage was Ptolemy who, guessing that the empire would fall • 123 • ANCIENT GREECE apart sooner or later, managed to obtain the position of Governor of Egypt. His plan was that when the Empire did split he would be in a good position to establish an independent kingdom there. In Babylon power was shared between Craterus and Perdiccas, with the latter the official regent. Antigonus Monophthalmos ( ‘one-eyed’) was still in charge of Phrygia (Asia Minor). Lysimachus was made governor of Thrace. Two other leading figures, Seleucus and Leonnatus, bided their time. Soon the game of succession started for real – the object was to be among the last survivors. First Greek settlers in Bactria tried to revolt, wanting to return home. This rebel- lion was put down. Then Athens led a rebel- lion of states against Macedonia which developed into the Lamian War (323– 322BC). Before Antipater could put this revolution down, Leonnatus leapt in osten- sibly to help out with the suppression but probably with more selfish intent at heart. He • 124 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS was killed in battle. Antipater won and crushed the rebellion, from then on keeping an even tighter control on the Greeks. (Demosthenes, the great Athenian orator, who had spent most of his adult life pushing the cause of independence finally committed suicide at this political setback.) Craterus was killed in battle. Perdiccas assassinated. Antipater took over as regent; Antigonus took overall control of the army. Seleucus had, by this point, managed to obtain the position of governor of Babylon. Antipater died in 319 BC: his successor, Polyperchon, managed to make a political mess when he tried to win Greek loyalty by loosening the Macedonian reins. The Athenians celebrated their new freedoms by using them to execute those among them who were pro- Macedonian. Eumenes, Alexander’s rich ex- secretary, allied himself with Polyperchon and together they took on Antigonus. They managed to capture Babylon, sending Seleucus running to Egypt before Eumenes • 125 • ANCIENT GREECE himself was killed and Polyperchon supplanted by Cassander, Antipater’s son. Cassander had Alexander the Great’s mother, Olympias, executed (she had already engi- neered the murder of her stepson, Philip III Arrhidaeus) and Alexander IV and his mother Roxane kept under guard. Antigonus was now viewed by the others to have become too powerful. Lysimachus, Cassander and Ptolemy made an alliance and together spent four years fighting him (315–311 BC). Neither side could finish off the other. Seleucus won back Babylon but was then pushed out of the picture when the four leaders arranged a peace. Ptolemy got Egypt and Cyprus; Lysimachus, Thrace; Antigonus, Asia; and Cassander, Macedon and Greece until Alexander IV reached maturity. Cassander then proceeded to have Alexander and his mother killed in around 308BC but succesfully kept the news of the death of the King quiet for two years. He also put the Aristotelian philosopher, Demetrius • 126 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS of Phaleron, in charge of Athens. To the east, Seleucus was losing territory to the Indian King Chandragupta Maurya. Antigonus persisted as a thorn in the others’ sides and he now had an ally who was a military genius, his son Demetrius Poliorcetes (‘the Besieger’). In 301 BC, a concerted effort by Cassander, Seleucus, Ptolemy and Lysi- machus (with the help of Indian war- elephants) finally defeated and killed Antigonus and sent his son fleeing to the Levant where he managed to successfully keep the four and their forces at bay. They all declared themselves kings now, following Antigonus’s self-declaration some years before. The four now proceeded to divide up Antigonus’s territory amongst themselves. Cassander’s death in 297 BC gave the Besieger an opportunity to make a move on Greece, most of which he’d conquered before being repelled. He tried the same approach in Asia and again nearly accomplished his aims before ill-health compelled him to give up • 127 • ANCIENT GREECE and surrender to Seleucus (who encouraged him to drink himself to death). Seleucus and Lysimachus fell out with each other and the latter was subsequently killed in battle. This conflict was partly the result of scheming by a grandson of Ptolemy’s, Ptolemy Ceraunus (the Thunderbolt), who after Lysimachus’s death managed both to convince Lysimachus’s army to support him and to assassinate Seleucus. In the early 270s, a force from outside was to provide a certain sense of unity. Migrating Celtic tribes were beginning to make their way down into Greece – some actually getting into Asia Minor. A treaty between Antigonus Gonatus, the most powerful man in Greece and the son of Demetrius Poliorcetes, and Antiochus I, son of Seleucus, led to a common and successful war against the invaders (although they were unable to prevent a certain degree of colonisation by the Celts in Thrace among other areas). Finally a state of stability began to prevail, • 128 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS based around the three powers: the Antigonids in Macedonia, the Seleucids in Syria and the Ptolemies in Egypt. Ptolemaic Egypt Egypt’s natural resources made it the richest of the three successor (a term used to refer to those who succeeded Alexander) kingdoms with a thriving, mercantile economy. It was also the last of the Hellenic kingdoms to fall under the control of the Romans. The early Ptolemies were notable patrons of the arts and sciences and at Alexandria they founded a great library that was to be the centre of Greek scholarship throughout the Hellenic world. Although Greeks initially held all the senior roles – and it was to be some while before a Ptolemaic ruler could even speak the native language – Egyptians were increasingly able to rise to positions of prominence although it is also true to say that the Egyptians in these positions were increasingly • 129 • ANCIENT GREECE Hellenised. Greek was the language of the bureaucracy, and an Egyptian could not get on without a command of it. Occasionally Egyptian nationalism raised its head. For twenty years at the end of the third century Upper Egypt enjoyed native rule, supported by the kingdom of Meroe to the south, until Ptolemy V reconquered the territory. In its last century of independence, feuding among the royals became an equal opportu- nity endeavour. The famous Cleopatria (Cleopatria VII) was not the first female royal to be as formidable as the males in the family. She was the last Ptolemaic ruler, and not the first to have to use Rome to bolster her rule. Cunning as Cleopatria was, Rome overcame her. Julius Caesar she bent to her will; after his assassination, her involvement with his fellow Roman Mark Antony was to prove fatal. Rome had accepted Egypt as an ally but, when Cleopatria and Antony appeared to be conspiring to make Egypt the ruler of an Eastern Empire, Octavian and his fleet were • 130 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS sent to deal with them. The naval battle between the two sides at Actium (31 BC) was to see Octavian (later to be known as the Emperor Augustus) and Rome triumphant. Egypt became a Roman province from that date, marking the end of the Hellenistic Age. The Library at Alexandria Alexandria became famous as the greatest of the Greek cities. It lay on a strip of land between Lake Mareotis and the Mediterranean Sea. It was divided into five parts, each name after one of the first five letters of the Greek alphabet (Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and Epsilon). Beta was the most prestigious area as it contained the Palace. In addition Alexandria had a stadium, a theatre, a racecourse, the tomb of Alexander and a zoo – but it was the Library that was prized above all in the Ancient World. The Library was part of the Alexandrian • 131 • ANCIENT GREECE Museum, an institute where state-supported scholars engaged in literary research. The Library proper is estimated to have contained something in the region of 500,000 rolled-up scrolls (the equivalent of somewhere in the region of 100,000 books). Competition between libraries, especially between Alexandria and its nearest competitor at Pergamum, was fierce. Ancient authors willed their manuscripts to Alexandria, thinking it the securest guarantee of their work’s safety. Besides the librarian, a team of assistants, slaves, restorers and copyists worked there. Visitors were allowed to consult but not remove books and the libraries generally kept regular opening hours. Scholars at Alexandria tried to estab- lish a canon of Greek poets and poetry, editing the texts, aiming to remove later additions or corruptions. Many of the librar- ians were poets as well as scholars – Callimachus probably the greatest among them. Callimachus also produced a catalogue • 132 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS of the library’s contents: known in later times in Byzantium as the great standard reference work of Greek literature, it is now lost. Alexandria also had a substantial Jewish population who lived in the Delta quarter. Jewish scholars working with Greeks at the Library were probably responsible for producing the Septuagint, the earliest Greek edition of the Old Testament. Alexandria was famous for another phenomenal building in addition. At the entrance to its two artificial harbours stood one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Pharos of Alexandria. The Seven Wonders of the World The Seven Wonders were phenomenal human constructions. The idea dates originally from the Hellenistic World of the second century BC. This celebration of what was primarily Greek greatness was possibly inspired by an earlier list of Greek genius, the Seven Sages. • 133 • ANCIENT GREECE The Sages were Greeks admired above all others for their wisdom, cleverness or poetic skill. There was often dispute about who should be on the list. While the inclusion of Thales of Miletus, the sixth century scientist, or Solon of Athens, the politician and poet, was uncontro- versial, the appearance of Periander the Corinthian tyrant was questioned by more democratically inclined Greeks. Alternate versions of the Seven Sages appeared, with Periander replaced by more politically accept- able individuals. These replacements were, in turn, questioned. One, Myson of Chen, was criticised as possessing only one outstanding quality – he was ‘famous for his obscurity.’ The Pharos – a great lighthouse – appeared on later lists of the Seven Wonders. The other wonders were: the Pyramids at Giza; the Hanging Gardens of Babylon; Phidias’s statue of Zeus at Olympia; Mausolus’s tomb, the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus; the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus; and the Colossus of Rhodes. Only the Pyramids now remain. • 134 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS The Seleucid Kingdom Little change occurred in the organisation of the Seleucid Kingdom until the reign of Antiochus III (223–187 BC). Antiochus insti- tuted reforms to what was essentially the old Persian bureaucracy. The satraps were replaced by strategoi, generals, combining military and political functions. Two cities became administrative centres: Sardis in the west and Seleucia in the east. Greek culture became increasingly important, overriding local identity to a great extent. Antiochus IV put up a statue to Zeus in the temple at Jerusalem: the revolt that happened as a result of this act led over two decades later to an independent Judea. The problem for its rulers was the size of the Seleucid kingdom – at its greatest extent it linked Greece to India – and the tremendous variety of cultures within it. Its decline had started early in the third century. First the provinces in the east gained independence – Bactria, Sogdia and Parthia. • 135 • ANCIENT GREECE In the west Pergamon gained independence, as did Cappadocia and Pontos. More and more of Asia Minor was lost. In the east Parthia grew, swallowing up more and more of Seleucia. Rome’s presence began to be felt. As the Roman Empire grew it moved further eastwards. Antiochus III briefly recaptured some of the independent territory lost in Asia Minor and then was beaten in battle again and again by Rome. Seleucia was barely holding onto Syria and the eastern part of Cilicia when Rome finally conquered it in 64 BC. Antioch, its capital, remained an important city under the Romans. A common culture still existed on both sides on what was now the border between two great empires, Rome and Parthia. Macedonia A new force emerged not long after the successor kingdoms had reached a kind of • 136 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS peace in the early third century – Epirus. Epirus’s brief moment in the sun was due to the efforts of one of its greatest kings, Pyrrhus. Pyrrhus was great, but not quite great enough. His skills were best deployed internally. He built up a powerful army and state but his actions in the wider world were often a little less than successful. His name became a byword for a too costly victory – a ‘pyrrhic’ victory. His successes against the Illyrians and Macedonians brought him to the attention of the Greeks in Southern Italy as a potential saviour in their conflict with Rome. Pyrrhus defeated the Romans at Heraclea and Ausculum with increasingly heavy losses. Syracuse then appealed to him for help in its fight against the Carthaginians, who were at that point allies of Rome. For two years he fought with little to show but the loss of many of his ships before he returned to Southern Italy to continue the fight directly against Rome. Defeated by the Romans this • 137 • ANCIENT GREECE time (at Beneventum) he returned home. Further scheming in Greece was to come to nought. Eventually, while trying to sneak his forces into Argos late one night, the alarm was raised when one of his war-elephants got stuck in the gateway into the city. Pyrrhus’s death was less than heroic: an old woman, alarmed at the invasion, hurled a roof tile at his head, killing him. The fate of the elephant is unrecorded. The third century saw Macedonia and Egypt struggle over control of mainland Greece, with Macedonia the eventual winner. The repulsion of the Celts in 279 BC had involved the growing power of the Aetolians in Greece. Conflict between these Greeks and their stronger opponents, the Macedonians, with their ambitious leader Philip V, led to the former approaching Rome for help in the middle of the First Macedonian War (214–205 BC). A Second Macedonian War (200–196 BC) saw greater Roman involvement, leading afterwards to • 138 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS conflict between the Aetolians and their allies. Rome now encircled the Adriatic Sea, having Illyria as its most easterly province. The conflict between Rome and Macedonia ended in 168 BC when the Romans finally defeated Philip’s son Perseus at Pydna. Southern Greece had looked upon this conflict with little love for either side. The only remaining force in Southern Greece was the Achaean League whose legacy of an alliance with Rome from the days of the Macedonian conflict withered as tensions rose between the two sides. The Achaean War (146–147 BC) saw the destruction of Corinth and the enslavement of its people, the eventual victory of Rome, and the effec- tive end of political independence for Greece. Rome and Greece Although Rome won the war, it is debatable as to whether it won the peace. Rome had • 139 • ANCIENT GREECE been exposed to Greek cultural influences since its early days as a result of the colonies in Italy. Conflicts between Rome and Greece saw many Greeks end up as slaves – educated enslaved Greeks were a vehicle for the trans- mission of Hellenic culture. By the later years of the Roman Republic it was common for Roman senators to be bilingual: often from childhood, taught the language by Greek slaves. Politically and commercially, even after its conquest, the Greek language was the common tongue of the east. Greek literature had an immeasurable influence on Latin literature. The man seen as the ‘father of Roman literature’, Lucius Livius Andronicus, was a Greek slave who translated the Odyssey into Latin. The major Latin comic poet, Plautus, used the form of the Greek New Comedy for his plays. With Ennius he imported forms of Greek metre to use as models in Roman verse. Early histories written by Roman senators were written in Greek. Even an important religious text like • 140 • THE HELLENISTIC AGE AND AFTERWARDS the Sibylline Books was written in Greek. Roman architecture, sculpture, painting, oratory, philosophy (particularly Epicureanism and Stoicism) – virtually every sphere of Roman life was influenced to some extent. Romans even linked their origins back to Trojans who, after the fall of Troy, had been said to have resettled in Latium. The extent to which the influence of Greek was felt can be gauged by the reactions of those like Cato, who urged resistance to the culture of this ‘most worthless and unteachable race.’ Resistance, at this point, was futile. Greek literature continued to produce important and influential works itself after the conquest. The novel in Greek is a form that does not arise until the first century AD. Its adherents, writers such as Chariton, Longus and Heliodorus became immensely popular throughout the Roman Empire. Politically Greece remained within the Empire for centuries. That great lover of Greek culture, the Emperor Nero, gave it its • 141 • ANCIENT GREECE independence back as a mark of his respect in 67 AD – a gift that was reclaimed after Nero’s death the following year. Greece was finally revenged on Rome. In 330 AD the Emperor Constantine I refounded the old Greek city of Byzantium as New Rome, Constantinople. The Roman Empire eventually split into two halves, West and East. In 476 AD the Western Empire fell as Rome was conquered by the Ostrogoths: the Eastern Empire, as much Hellenic and Middle Eastern as it was Roman, was to last nearly another thousand years until it fell to the Turks in 1453. • 142 • Recommended Reading and Further Resources Recommended Reading and Further Resources Primary Texts Many of the major Ancient Greek authors are published by Penguin or Oxford in paperback translations. A far more extensive selection is kept in print by the Loeb Library in bilingual (Original Greek with English translation on the facing page) hardcover editions – some- where in the region of 500 volumes. New translations are commissioned all the time, and arguments over which translation displays the greater fidelity are never ending. The best advice is to pick one whose style suits your tastes, and to be aware as to whether the text is abridged or not. Among the essential authors and works are: • 145 • ANCIENT GREECE Drama The great Athenian fifth century dramatists – as has already been mentioned – are the pinnacle of the Greek dramatic achievement. Of Aeschylus’s seven complete plays the three forming the Oresteia (Agamemnon, Libation- Bearers, Eumenides) are essential reading. Sophocles trilogy of Theban plays detailing the fall of Oedipus is likewise indispensable. More of Euripides’ plays have survived complete than those of his two predecessors combined – one of his most famous is the story of the tragedy of Medea, the powerful tale of the revenge of an abandoned woman. Of Aristophanes’ works, the Knights attacks the demagogue Cleon, Clouds takes on Socrates while Peace features the famous journey to heaven on the back of a giant dung beetle taken by the farmer, Trygaeus. All are recom- mended. The late fourth century sees the appearance of Menander, the master of ‘New Comedy’ where Aristophanes was the master • 146 • RECOMMENDED READING of ‘Old Comedy’. Until recently with the discovery of his Dyskolos, Menander’s plays have only come down to us as fragments – his humour is considerably more suave than Aristophanes’. History The finest Greek Historian is Thucydides – his History of the Peloponnesian War is peer- less. A fine translation by Rex Warner is published by Penguin: the translation that probably comes closest to the original is that done by Thomas Hobbes. Herodotus tackles the Persian Wars in his History written some- time before Thucydides in the middle of the fifth century. Xenophon continues Thucydides’ history in his own Hellenica but his Anabasis is a far more enjoyable read. Of the later historians, Diodorus Siculus’s attempt to write a history of the world in the first century is substantial but incomplete and more informative than gripping. Plutarch, an • 147 • ANCIENT GREECE essayist and biographer from Boeotia in the first century AD, wrote a series of Parallel Lives of Greek and Roman heroes which are both an important source of information and an entertaining read. The History of Alexander (the Great) by the second century AD Bithynian Arrian – a Greek historian who served in the Roman army – is another notable later history. Oratory The great orator is the Athenian Demo- sthenes whose surviving fourth century speeches are collected in seven volumes in the Loeb edition. He is an invaluable source on Greek life during that century, let alone the politics of the time. A balance to Demo- sthenes politically are the writings of Aeschines, who opposed him at the time. Providing similar insights are the speeches of his fellow Athenian, Isocrates, born just before the Peloponnesian War, and the legal • 148 • RECOMMENDED READING specialist Isaeus, born during that same war. Poetry Homer’s two epic poems – the Iliad and Odyssey – are essential reading and are avail- able in numerous editions. Two of the more impressive recent translators have been Richmond Lattimore and Robert Fitzgerald and their versions of both poems are highly recommended. A more idiosyncratic but highly enjoyable series of translations of certain books of the Iliad have also appeared from the poet Christopher Logue (one such being War Music). From a similar period are the important works of Hesiod, and the anonymous collection of poems called the Homeric Hymns. A sizeable number of the poems of Pindar (in comparison to many other Greek poets) have survived and represent probably the greatest collection of lyric poetry. Many, • 149 • ANCIENT GREECE many selections of Ancient Greek poetry are available: Loeb provide a series of anthologies arranged according to form: Greek Bucolic Poets; Greek Elegaic Poetry; Greek Iambic Poetry; and Greek Lyric Poetry. Many of these poems survive as fragments, as is famously the case with the great Ancient Greek woman writer, Sappho. One extraordinary collection of Greek poetry is the Palatine or Greek Anthology, a collection of thousands of short poems from the time of Homer to the tenth century AD. Philosophy The respect in which Plato and Aristotle were held can be measured by the quantity of their work that has come down to us. 12 volumes of Plato are available in Loeb; 23 volumes of Aristotle. Plato is most famous for his polit- ical work, the Republic. Other pieces examine a number of different subjects: Theaetetus being concerned with knowledge • 150 • RECOMMENDED READING for instance, the Symposium with love. Aristotle covers an extraordinary range of subjects as the following titles indicate: Metaphysics; Poetics; Physics; On the Heavens; On Colours; Virtues and Vices; Movement of Animals. The great secondary source of general philosophical knowledge however is the collection of Lives of the Eminent Philosophers by the third century AD Greek philosopher, Diogenes Laertius. Miscellaneous In the fields of science the writings of Galen and Hippocrates convey the ancient world’s medical ideas, Strabo its geography, while Ptolemy writes of its cosmology. Two volumes of Greek Mathematical Works are published by Loeb, including the writings of such as Euclid, the famed Alexandrian geometrician. One great travel writer belongs to the Roman period, Pausanias, who noted the impressive • 151 • ANCIENT GREECE ruins, art and architecture of Greece in his Description of Greece, the notes from his tour in the middle of the second century AD. Much of the literature of the Roman period tends towards the fantastic: the collection of myths that is the Library, mistakenly attributed to Apollodorus of Athens; Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica, the tale of Jason and his Argonauts; the Hellenistic Romance (exam- ples of which are Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe, and Chariton’s Callirhoe); the messianic and magical portrayals of Alexander the Great in the Alexander Romances; the fictional letters of Alciphron; the fables of Babrius; the satires of Lucian; the Dionysiaca of Nonnos. Secondary Texts Boardman, John – Athenian Black Figure Vases (Thames & Hudson) Boardman, John – Athenian Red Figure Vases: the Archaic Period (Thames & Hudson) Boardman, John – Athenian Red Figure Vases: • 152 • RECOMMENDED READING the Classical Period (Thames & Hudson) Boardman, John, Griffin, Jasper & Murray, Oswyn – The Oxford History of the Classical World (Oxford University Press) Doumas, Christos The Wall-Paintings of Thera (The Thera Foundation) Gantz, Timothy – Early Greek Myth (John Hopkins) Vols I & II Green, Peter – Alexander of Macedon (University of California Press) Green, Peter – Alexander to Actium – The Hellenistic Age (Thames & Hudson) Green, Peter – A Concise History of Ancient Greece (Thames & Hudson) Hornblower, Simon & Spawforth, Antony – The Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford University Press) Morkot, Robert – The Penguin Historical Atlas of Ancient Greece (Penguin) Papaioannou, Kostas – The Art of Greece (Abrams) Renfrew, Colin – The Cycladic Spirit (Thames & Hudson) • 153 • ANCIENT GREECE Taylour, William – The Mycenaeans (Thames & Hudson) Multimedia and Internet Perseus 2.0 – Interactive Sources and Studies on Ancient Greece (Yale University Press) The Oxford Classical Dictionary CD-Rom (Oxford University Press) Ancient Greece on the Net – http://www. zephryus.demon.co.uk/education/links/ hstgr.html • 154 • Index Achaean War, 139 Achaeans, 50 Achilles, 20, 39, 113 Acropolis, 68, 77 Aegean Sea, 11–13, 26, 52 Aeolians, 51 Aeschylus, 41, 43, 69, 83, 146 Aetolians, 138–139 Agamemnon, 20, 22–23, 43, 83, 113, 146 Agesilaos II, 105 Alcibiades, 101–104 Alexander the Great, 6, 88, 111–120, 123, 125–126, 129, 131, 148, 152 Alexandria, 115, 117, 129, 131–133 Anaximenes, 85 Andronicus, Lucius Livius, 140 Antigonus, 124–128 Antiochus IV, 135 Antipater, 112, 116, 123–126 Antony, Mark, 130 Aphrodite, 36–37 Apollo, 37, 45 Apollodorus, 42, 152 Arcadia, 12, 37, 93 Archaic, 32–33, 46, 48, 52, 80–81 Archidamian War, 97 Archidamus II, 97 Argos, 22, 36, 43, 52, 72, 80, 93, 106, 138 Aristides, 64 Aristophanes, 84, 86, 146–147 Aristotle, 87–88, 150–151 art, 26, 45–46, 78, 95, 129 Artaxerxes I, 71–72 Artaxerxes II, 105 Assyrians, 55 Athena, 35–36, 79 Atlantis, 27 • 155 • INDEX Babylon, 55–56, 105, 115, 119, 124–126, 134 Balkan Wars, 12 Balkans, 11, 12 Battle of Aegospotami, 104 Battle of the Hydaspes, 118 Bessus, 116–118 Black Sea, 13, 46, 111 Boeotia, 35, 51, 106, 148 Boeotian League, 52 Boeotians, 66 Brasidas, 88, 100 Bronze Age, 23 Byzantium, 90–91, 110, 133, 142 Caesar, Julius, 130 Callimachus, 61, 132 Calliope, 46 Cambyses, 56–57 Caria, 108 Cassander, 126–127 Cerberus, 39 ceremony, 6, 35 Cimon, 72–73, 77–78, 91 Circe, 40 Cleisthenes, 64, 74, 77 Cleitus, 118 Cleon, 99–100, 146 Cleopatria VII, 130 Clio, 46 Colossus, 12, 134 Constantine I, 142 Corinth, 12, 36, 52, 81, 96–97, 106, 111, 139 Corinthian, 96–97, 106, 134 Craterus, 124–125 Croesus, 56 Cronos, 36 Cyclops, 39–40 Cypria, 40 Cyprus, 36, 126 Cyrus, 55–56, 105 Darius, 57–62, 105, 114–117 Delian League, 72, 77, 96, 106 Delphic Amphictiony, 109 Demetrius, 126–128 Demosthenes, 125, 148 Description of Greece, 22, 152 Dionysia, 37, 85 Dionysios I, 106 Dionysus, 37, 83, 85 Dorians, 29, 50–51 ekklesia, 75, 77 Epaminondas, 107 Ephialtes, 66 Epic Cycle, 40–41