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Some readers may be surprised to find a section devoted to ethics in a chapter like this, which aims principally to demystify the papyrology of Greek lyric. But some background in the history of both papyrology and papyrological research is no less important than an understanding of the technical aspects of the field. Indeed, it is precisely because ethical issues are not aired frequently enough that their discussion here is essential.

A historical example will help set the stage: in mid-November 1896, E.A. Wallis Budge, Keeper in the British Museum’s Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, began to transact the purchase of a papyrus roll from an Egyptian dealer with whom he denied a previous relationship, but who was probably Ali Farag of Giza (Sayce 1923: 334). Budge was no specialist in Greek, but knew enough to recognize that the text was early and literary, that he needed to procure it for the Museum, and that it would be eagerly sought by other European collectors as well as by the Egyptian Antiquities Service, which would claim it for the Egyptian Museum. His account of the acquisition (1920 ii: 345–355) is fascinating: with pressure being applied by officials in the Antiquities Service as well as by the British Consul-General in Egypt, Budge was forced to purchase the papyrus personally before eluding the authorities via an elaborate ruse involving a crate of oranges and a midnight rendezvous with a P&O mail steamer anchored near Suez. The papyrus (= P.Lond.Lit. 46; British Library Papyrus 733) was published the following year: it turned out to contain 39 columns of poetry by Bacchylides—a truly significant find (Figure 7.18).

Figure 7.18 An excerpt from British Library Papyrus 733 (= Bacchylides). (Image by permission of the British Library, London, UK.)

The clandestine export of the papyrus (and Budge’s candor in describing it) is shocking today, but it is both typical of him (Ismail 2011: e.g., xvii) and representative of his era, generally. In the late nineteenth century, a complex market for antiquities in Egypt operated in parallel with both formal archaeological excavations and the informal looting of ancient sites. A variety of players—private individuals and State representatives, both Egyptian and foreign—were active. In addition to the professional salesman with physical storefront, anyone who might have occasion to sell an antiquity in his possession qualified as a dealer. No less engaged in the market were consular officials of foreign governments, foreigners working in Egypt (including professional archaeologists), and even the Egyptian Antiquities Service, the State body which oversaw archaeological work and which would eventually be charged with regulating the market. The distinction between a licit and illicit acquisition is often, regrettably, somewhat blurry in this period.

Further lessons can be gleaned from the tale of Budge and Bacchylides. Compared to the Bacchylides papyrus, concerning which little contextual information is known beyond the dealer’s assertion that he found it in a tomb at Meir, we might compare the Berlin Timotheus papyrus (= P.Berol. inv. 9875, Figure 7.17), which was excavated at the Greek necropolis at Abusir by Ludwig Borchardt in 1902. Archaeological evidence indicates that the Timotheus papyrus was deposited at the site before the Ptolemaic period, at which point the Greek cemetery was not in use. The papyrus, curiously, was not found in one of the wooden sarcophagi from the Greek cemetery, but on the ground to the north of a sarcophagus from the period of the Egyptian Middle Kingdom, with which it is unlikely to have had anything other than an accidental relationship. Although it is tempting to posit a straightforwardly funereal context for the find, in other words, the history of its deposit is potentially far more complex (Hordern 2002: 62–65; cf. van Minnen 1997). The contrasting tales of the Bacchylides purchase and the excavation of the Timotheus papyrus emphasize the benefits of a richer contextual understanding, but there is also an important similarity between the two stories which underscores a crucial detail about the period, namely, the important role of foreigners, foreign money, and foreign museums. This is part of a larger trend dating back to the Napoleonic era, in which the cultural heritage of Egypt has been exported, looted, or despoiled by occupying or colonial powers.

In the twenty-first century, the landscape has shifted somewhat. After relatively unsuccessful attempts to regulate its antiquities market via legislation in 1912 and 1951, Egyptian law has since 1983 effectively outlawed the domestic trade in antiquities and has established definitively that the State owns its archaeological heritage. Internationally, the UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property came into effect on April 24, 1972, though individual countries have only gradually accepted or ratified its terms (see further Mazza 2019: n. 13). Much like the legal environment, scholarly attitudes toward the acquisition, curation, and publication of ancient objects have hardened, for a combination of academic and ethical reasons. It is a maxim of archaeological science, for example, that an object is best understood in context: responsible archaeologists therefore condemn any activity that damages, destroys, or renders irretrievable the history of an object or its archaeological context. That rationale is echoed in the Society for Classical Studies’ Statement on Professional Ethics and the American Society of Papyrologists’ Resolution Condemning the Illicit Trade in Papyri. Such public documents are important for attempting to limit and qualify the scholarly imperative to acquire, preserve, study, and publish the material culture of antiquity. Indeed, there are good reasons for such restrictions: cultural heritage continues to be destroyed instead of professionally excavated, and the material culture of antiquity continues to be looted and sold on the antiquities market rather than properly studied in context.

Such concerns are especially germane to papyrology because of its historical weakness in archaeological matters. A brief example is again illustrative: although the cartonnage from which the famous Lille Stesichorus originates was excavated by Jouget and Lefebvre in 1901, for example, the location of the find remains unclear (Meillier: 1976: 339; Turner 1971: 124). There is more we would like to know about this text that, sadly, cannot now be ascertained: such gaps in paperwork or record-keeping are all too common when dealing even with legally acquired papyri. A further consideration raised by this text involves the excavated object itself: the physical reality of mummy cartonnage is that extracting papyrus from it long came at the cost of destroying the cartonnage. Papyrologists and archaeologists are unlikely to agree on which item is more important, but the dismantling of cartonnage is no longer especially common in responsible collections.

Regardless of evolving scholarly attitudes and a more stringent legal framework, there are significant challenges in the present moment. Not only does the market for antiquities (both licit and illicit) remain lively—particularly following the turmoil of the Arab Spring—but the boundary between the two remains imperfectly defined. Just because a papyrus is consigned and purchased through a major auction house, for example, does not mean that its legal provenance has been established with any certainty (Whitesell 2016), a lesson that art historians and archaeologists are all too familiar with. The case of the most recent Sappho discoveries indicates the lengths to which an owner might go in constructing a legitimate provenance for an object with an eye to lucrative resale (Sampson 2020). The anonymity granted to collectors by the market (and, occasionally, by scholars) further impedes transparency in research. And when an object’s origins are mysterious or unknown, all sorts of problematic questions are stirred: in addition to the specter of looting or illegal exportation, papyri can be forged—even ones written in ancient languages (Sabar 2016).

Between the institutional collections whose acquisition histories are relatively transparent and the black market, therefore, lies a considerable grey area to which the various ethics statements respond. Practically the only check the academic community can place on the free market in antiquities is to be diligent in the course of conducting research in the present, by demanding proof of an object’s provenance before authenticating or publishing it, and by reporting that provenance in full after verifying it to the best of one’s abilities. No matter how exciting a new text may be for the addition it potentially makes to the corpus of lyric, it is also inherently problematic, and therefore should be presented with a high bar to clear before receiving a scholarly audience. The academic argument concerning the preservation and dissemination of knowledge must be reconciled to an ethical one that reflects an unsavory reality: one’s participation in activities that destroy data or knowledge—wittingly or unwittingly, directly or indirectly—effectively encourages them. Profit is a powerful incentive for criminals, and when a scholar identifies, authenticates, or publishes an object that was acquired in contravention of the law or outside of a controlled archaeological excavation, both the value of that object and the incentive for the perpetrator(s) to continue are thereby increased. Such practices are antithetical to the scholarly imperative to recover, study, preserve, curate, and disseminate knowledge of antiquity.