memoirs, 1933–77 ❧ 31
airports in the world. As it was the Anno Santo,^14 we often stopped our bicy-
cles in front of S. Pietro to watch auto cars disgorging the pilgrims who had
fl ocked from all parts of the world. Canonizations and beatifi cations occurred
with more than usual frequency and no reforms in clerical vestments had yet
marred their splendor.
One Friday afternoon, notifi cation arrived from the Vatican that the classi-
cal scholars of the American Academy would be received in audience the fol-
lowing day. Since nearly all of them had already departed for the weekend,
there was nothing to do but ask all the houseguests of the Villa Aurelia to
impersonate as convincingly as possible the absent students of the classics. As
an infi del and unbeliever, I had never thought of being presented to a Pope,
and least of all in the thick Boston Unitarian accent of a Harvard professor of
the classics.
On Saturday morning our troupe of both real and impersonated schol-
ars was conducted past the Swiss guards and up Bernini’s magnifi cent Scala
Regia^15 into the papal apartments. There, other small groups were awaiting
the passage of His Holiness. Amid much scurrying back and forth of papal
chamberlains, with shoes that squeaked on the polished marble fl oors, the
dramatic tension mounted, exactly as it was supposed to. Finally, accompanied
by a chamberlain carrying a basketful of medals, the Pope entered the room
dressed in white from head to delicately slippered foot. As he stopped to chat
for a minute or two with each of us, he gave the impression not only of an
ability but also of a desire to establish a direct human communication. His
eyes were brilliant and dark, probably myopic like those of Toscanini, to which
the photographs likewise never did justice. Infi del and unbeliever though I
may have been, I was overcome. By now the masquerade had been discarded
and I was presented in terms of my principal profession. I doubt whether His
Holiness knew or cared what a harpsichord was, but, after he had graciously
and noncommittally replied, “I do congratulate you,” I bent with all the awk-
wardness of inexperience to kiss his papal ring, whereupon my upper teeth
sank themselves deep in the back of his hand. His Holiness winced visibly but,
as if nothing had happened, continued to chat while bestowing on me a small
medal with his blessing. Remorseful and exhilarated, I fl oated back down to
the Piazza S. Pietro, feeling that His Holiness must have been perfectly capable
of offering me the other hand to bite.
By the spring of 1951, the text of the Scarlatti book was complete in its
fi nal version and ready to be sent to the publisher, except for the footnotes
and appendices which had not yet been typed up from my notes. In order to
insure accuracy at all stages, I felt that I must prepare them myself and that it
- Holy Year.
- Flight of steps at the entrance of the Vatican.
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