The Day I Visited the Vivarium Novum

Note: I wrote this in June of 2023, for a website that, mysteriously, never ran it. I have decided to publish it here, although it is something of a testimony to my own poor manners - I rather overstayed my welcome.

I arrived at the Villa Falconieri that day absurdly early, having miscalculated the length of the train ride. Once the other guests began to trickle in through the looming, stone-framed gates I slipped in. With delight, I noticed a few familiar faces, including a classmate from the online classes who taught Latin in a nearby liceo classico. On that fine, warm Saturday in May the Villa was open to the public to celebrate the inaugaration of a new section of the library. There were to be lectures in Italian on Dante and Leopardi, as well as a concert performed by the school choir and a reading of selections from the Divine Comedy by a professional actor. I, admittedly, was most interested in the music and the poetry on account of being unable to follow advanced lectures in Italian. 

After the opening remarks were delivered in the atrium of the villa, I followed the rest of the guests to the music room. The students already stood in line waiting to perform, an aray of musical instruments set before them. Eusebius introduced the choir in Latin before launching into the first song - the words of which were the opening of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura - and continued on in the usual lively manner, ending with a feet-tapping rendition of the Pervigilium Veneris, set to a jolly folk tune. Then Miraglia explained in Italian that the concert would be followed by a visit to the new section of the library as well as a tour of the school itself. 

Here I feel it is worth noting that Miraglia’s genteel, old-fashioned manner seems itself to be an education in hosting with grace. He’s charming, funny when he wants to be, and a visibly attentive listener. I could see where so many of the students got their good manners. Though table manners do seem to be enforced to a degree. Once, on a subsequent visit, I was on the receiving end of one of Miraglia’s highly effective death glares for wolfing down a croissant. The intensity of his gaze compelled me to slow down, sit down, and eat like an actual human being. 

I joined the rest of the guests for this visit to the library and brief tour, before drifting off into the gardens. Here I wandered otiously for a moment, before slipping back into the music room to look at the spines of the books in the many heavy wooden cases that lined the walls. It was then that I ran into Eusebius. Instantly, he understood. 

“You don’t know Italian, do you?” he asked, in Latin. 

“Not well enough,” I admitted, in the same. 

He suggested that I go downstairs to hear Gerardus’ Greek class. 

Since the lesson had already begun, I hovered outside the door, my ear pressed against the smooth wood. Finally I worked up the courage to go in, feeling quite bad to interrupt Gerardus’ lecture like that. At least he seemed perfectly happy to see me.

“Salve, L—. Do you have the book?” 

“Not with me.” 

He arranged for me to borrow a book left behind by another student. I then sat down at the back of the classroom, next to an imposingly tall yet marvelously well-dressed student, who kindly showed me where we were in the book. Due to my extremely limited knowledge of Ancient Greek - after months of failing to teach myself, I’d begun online tutoring with the wonderful Jenny Teichmann some two weeks before - I could only pick out a few words here and there. Still, I found Gerardus’ beautiful pronunciation incredibly pleasing to the ears. He also occasionally spoke in Latin, which I fully understood, when clarifying some point or another. I did my best to be quiet and attentive, observing with interest the manner in which he spoke. I liked the kind way he interacted with the students. He seemed to me to be a skilled, encouraging teacher. He made ample use of the Smartboard, writing many words in Greek. Out of curiosity I took them all down in my notebook in the hopes of looking them up later and perhaps figuring out what, precisely, the class had been about. Lectures of his I witnessed at a later date also involved the use of clips from old Sword and Sandal movies to help the students associate words with visuals, a clever technique. 

After the class, he thanked the students, and they all applauded with enthusiasm that seemed truly genuine. I of course joined in. Once the teacher sliped out of the classroom the student I’d been sitting beside held out his hand and introduced himself as Z—. With old fashioned manners that impressed me, he introduced me to the rest of the curious boys who’d gathered ‘round. The sole American, a genial fellow from California, offered to speak English if it made me feel more at home. But I assured him that I enjoy speaking Latin. Plus I didn’t want anyone to break the rules of the immersion program on my behalf. 

After lunch, with permission, I followed the other guys to Ignatius’ class on philosophy. 

Watching Ignatius’ lecture felt to me like reading some dense philosophical text - I could understand all of the words with ease and the grammar hardly troubled me, but I wasn’t sure what everything actually meant due to my lack of background knowledge, limiting my ability to follow exactly what was happening. It did not help that I’d not attended the more than six months of lectures leading up to this one. My notes from this class are an enigmatic mixture of question marks, words in Greek, and phrases in Latin. Of course, I understood enough that the lecture aroused a great hunger in me, a desire to understand everything he said. The class thrilled my mind in a way that none of my courses at uni do. 

Afterwards, I learnt that I wasn’t the only one who’d been struggling. Once Ignatius had left, a few of the students gathered around Z—, resident philosophy nerd, so that he could help them better comprehend what they’d heard. This appeared to be part of an overall culture of students assisting each other. 

For a moment I lingered nearby, listening, before returning to the kitchen for a glass of water. I noticed that, according to the schedule which hung there, the subsequent class would be on poetry, the subject I knew Eusebius taught. 

 This time I returned to the classroom to find two students playing with a giant plastic scythe. My attempts to discern the purpose of this object only led to a long and not uninteresting discussion of the correct Latin word for this thing. I never did discover who had gotten it out nor why, but I suspect it lives in the drawers of props and costumes next to the door to the classroom. Either way, the scythe sparked a play-tussle between the students, which I watched with amusement. They calmed down and settled into their seats once the teacher arrived. 

Of all the classes, Eusebius’ seemed the merriest. The atmosphere was far more boisterous, with pencils and jokes being slung back and forth between the guys. Upon being introduced to each new poem we sang with Eusebius leading us, our voices rising and echoing through the small classroom with a power and intensity that moved me. The release of being able to sing so loudly came as a relief after the almost contemplative quiet of the other lectures. We sped through a number of poems by Horace, yet Eusebius did a fine job of explaining the more perplexing aspects of these delicious little verses. I came away from the class realizing I’d misunderstood some of the poems I’d read before. 

After class in the kitchen, Eusebius assured me I could stay for the next class, assuming rightly that I’d been planning to ask this. So I waited with the rest of the students, sipping some water and munching on the bread which had materialized between classes along with great flasks of juice and milk. 

After a while everyone began to drift back into the classroom, settling into their chairs. This time there was less roughhousing and clamor. I knew from the schedule that the class was called Litterae Recentiores but I wasn’t sure which teacher would be lecturing. Iulianus, perhaps? He’d wandered into the classroom and begun fiddling with the Smartboard at the front. Of course I’d been under the impression he taught composition. 

As Iulianus attempted to persuade the Smartboard to behave, a familiar and formidable figure stepped into the room - Luigi Miraglia himself. He walked over to the roster, where he opened a laptop. A hush fell over the assembled students. Everyone seemed to sit up a little straighter. I couldn’t help but watch him with intense interest. My fascination only grew once he began to speak. Perfect, Ciceronian Latin flowed out of him with such beauty and ease that one might assume he’d been nursed at the very bosom of the Capitoline Wolf. He spoke engagingly about the use of motifs derived from Classical Mythology in early modern depictions of Christ and in folklore of the same period. Despite my hunger and exhaustion, my mind did not wander for even a second. Both the manner in which he delivered his oration and the content utterly enthralled me. The class went on for some hours, I know now, but the minutes appeared to slip through my fingertips all too swiftly, escaping like water. His speech ambled elegantly through centuries of literature, yet remained ever on topic. Miraglia spoke of myths, of the symbolism of numbers, of Snow White - or, as he called her, Alba Nix. I only wish I’d taken notes so that I might consult the library on a number of the topics he’d mentioned, but alas I neglected to do so. 

After the class the students erupted into applause - the most enthusiastic of the day, and certainly not without cause. I remained in a state of dazed delight as I drifted into the kitchen with the rest of the class. 

D— encouraged me to sit beside him at dinner. About halfway through the meal, the lights suddenly went out. The students then began to sing a slow, sinister song that turned out to be “happy birthday” in Latin. 

According to custom, after the birthday boy blew out the candles the lights came back on so that he could give a speech. He did so, winkingly addressing the assembled students, teachers, and friends as “patres conscripti”. After that all of the students began to get out of their chairs, streaming chaotically towards the orator. Noticing my confusion, D— explained: “They’re going to throw him.” 

“What?” 

“Throw him,” he repeated, in English.

“I understand the words,” I replied, in Latin. “But why?” 

He laughed. “It is the way of the academy!"

Even D—'s warning wasn't enough to fully prepare me for the sight of a great crowd of boys throwing one of their number into the air with a jolly cry. They bounced him up and down above their heads, before he slipped back down to the ground. Overwhelmed by the sheer thrill, the students then threw somebody else. D— explained to me that this occurred with some regularity. 

After the throwing, it occurred to me that I’d been having such a marvelous time that I’d missed the last train back to Rome. D— courteously led me to the teachers, who agreed to have a bedroom made up for me. My newfound friend was supposed to show me to my room, but he accidentally took me to the wrong building, forcing us to return to the dining room to ask Gerardus for more thorough directions. By the time we returned the students had thrown their arms around each other and were swaying, singing not one of those old songs one sings in the Scouts but Catullus (Vivamus, mea Lesbia…). Their voices boomed gleefully through the room. In the center of this arguably rather chaotic scene sat Miraglia, smiling subtly yet joyfully. He seemed so proud of the little parallel universe he’d built behind the formidable walls of the Villa Falconieri. This image of him as a pleased paterfamilias shall forever remain imprinted upon my mind. 

The next morning I got up around dawn and wandered the gardens. In the stark white early morning light everything seemed strangely washed-out. Mists as thin and airy as clouds muzzled the white facade of the villa. I felt I ought to respond to their extraordinary generosity with similar kindness, but I didn’t know how. My grandfather's trusty old etiquette book, which I'd studied with great interest, may have been extensive enough to contain a section on correctly addressing letters to the Pope but it was mum on the subject of graciously thanking one's Latin-speaking hosts for a night at their villa. Perhaps, I thought, I should do some tidying or maybe fry up a batch of pancakes, but I wasn't staying with my cousins in Boston. I didn’t know where they kept the flour or sugar in the Accademia. Anyway, breakfast had already been set out.  

Since my first visit in November 2022, the Villa Falconieri has taken on a great significance in my imagination, like Brideshead Castle or Manderley. Truly, the building itself is one of the most impressive places I’ve ever been, for it overlooks such entracingly lovely countryside and contains so many extraordinary frescoes. Still, I realized after my visit in May that the actual building which houses the academy is almost irrelevant. Even if you transplanted the teachers and student body into the most dreary of office buildings, they’d still be the Accademia Vivarium Novum. The people and their culture make the school, not the villa itself. In fact, the actual complex is made more serene and pleasant by those within and their way of life. If you let Jay Gatsby throw a party there, that paradise would be rendered a hectic inferno. 

The fluency of former students had long impressed me and given me a goal to work toward, while also compelling me to apply to the academy. But actually visiting, I realized that they value politeness almost as much as the Latin language itself. The kindness, generosity, and old fashioned good manners of the students and teachers alike delighted me. Visiting, I always felt wholly safe and welcome. After a subsequent visit, when I missed my train back to Rome, Eusebius and Iulianus took the time to drive me to the next station and stayed with me until the train arrived because I was clearly frightened. I didn’t have to say a word - they knew what I needed and provided it, even though I’m not a student there or anybody important.

My overall attitude towards teachers and students of the Accademia Vivarium Novum is one of affection and admiration (not to mention gratitude for their extraordinary kindness towards me). I only wish a similarly immersive school existed for young ladies, for they are just as deserving of a thorough education in Latin and Ancient Greek literature.