a born prince of the Church. One has only to hear how he speaks, to see how he eats, I thought. And how he dresses. He is not one of those churchmen of humble stock who haul themselves naively up the ecclesiastical ladder but, as I have said, a born prince of the Church, and as I sat in the chair, I repeated these words several times, half aloud: a born prince of the Church. His influence in the Vatican is immense, though his relations with the popes have been somewhat distant, too distant, as he himself has said more than once, and this has so far cost him his cardinal’s hat. Spadolini, the man of the world! I thought. It may be, I told myself, that Mother’s death will give me a chance to renew my friendship with him, even to consolidate it and establish a permanent claim to it. My move to Rome was due in no small measure to Spadolini. He introduced me to Zacchi, who found me the apartment in the Piazza Minerva. It was Spadolini who acquainted me with Rome, introduced me into Roman society, and first decoded the city for me, as it were. For at first I had no one in Rome but Spadolini and was entirely reliant on him. Uncle Georg too had a high opinion of Spadolini, although he knew that he consorted with my mother in what Uncle Georg called a somewhat curious fashion. Spadolini often visited Cannes, and he and Uncle Georg once spent several weeks together in Senegal, mounting an exhibition of southern French painters and at the same time conducting what Uncle Georg called philosophical conversations. Spadolini is also an artist, I thought as I sat in the chair, a highly artistic person, even if he doesn’t paint or play an instrument. I often went for walks with him in Rome, where he rescued me from black moods of despair, especially during my early days in Rome, when I did not know what to do with myself and fell prey to brooding, insomnia, and thoughts of suicide — until Spadolini made me rouse myself and engage in intellectual activity. And finally it was Spadolini who put me in contact with Gambetti, whose family he had known for decades. Spadolini often took me for walks on the Pincio for the sole purpose of wrenching me out of my despair through what he called intellectual exercises. He reminded me of my abilities, my intellectual capital, as it were, which I had forgotten. For my intellectual passions had atrophied and almost died. It was Spadolini who revived them, Spadolini and no other. We did intellectual exercises together and had many a good meal in Trastevere, I thought. Good eating on the one hand, good thinking on the other—this is a phrase that Spadolini often used, a principle that he dinned into me. And it was undoubtedly my salvation. He often took the trouble to drive out into the country with me, along the Appian Way and into the infinite, simply and solely to save me, and I must say that Spadolini is the only person who has ever acknowledged me. He tried to explain to my mother what kind of person I was, what cast of mind I had, so to speak, but on this topic she never listened to him. The child of nature let him talk but didn’t listen, I thought, sitting in the chair and contemplating the Parisian toilet set. How could Spadolini be so taken with my mother as to be more or less in love with her, how could he so obviously understand her and understand me, when she did not understand me at all? She never wanted to understand me, I told myself as I sat in the chair. Spadolini understood me, and he understood my mother, I thought, but my mother was always against me, even though Spadolini was for me. Spadolini could not persuade her to take any interest in me. He once said to me, She can’t relate to you; you’re completely alien to her. But considering that my mother was so much influenced by Spadolini, it is incomprehensible that she was not influenced by what he told her about me. She did not hear it because she did not want to hear it. I like you and I like your mother, but your mother doesn’t understand you, Spadolini said. In fact she hates you, but conversely you don’t like your mother either — you hate her. Spadolini has never shied away from stating the facts and telling the truth. This license he can allow himself as a prince of the Church, and he has his own view of the Church too, I thought. The Spadolinis are all independent spirits, I thought. And Spadolini the prince of the Church is no exception. The Spadolinian element, like the monarchic element, can assert itself in its own way within the Catholic Church, I thought. Even today. The smell of my father still lingered in his room. I got up and opened the closet. I counted twelve suits, all made by Knize, his Viennese tailor. As my father’s much smaller — or rather was much smaller — than I am, I won’t be able to wear these suits, I thought, and I wondered whom to give them to. To give them to the gardeners would be stupid, and I won’t give them to the huntsmen or any of my relatives, I thought, shutting the closet. My father always had about thirty pairs of shoes in his shoe cupboard. I opened the cupboard. Size forty-two won’t fit anyone here, I thought, and closed the shoe cupboard. But I’ll keep the better-quality shirts. They’re well cut and will fit me. They’ve cleared one closet for Spadolini, I thought. My father had photographs of his family on his table, one of each of us, on which we all make the same bland, harmless impression. The photographs were reassuring, not alarming, and the only question they raised was how all these likenesses could possibly be so bland. Father used to get up at five o’clock, and at half past five he sat down to work at his desk, running the estate, as he put it. At about half past seven he had breakfast with Mother in what she called the large sitting room, formerly known as the green drawing room. If the weather was fine the balcony windows would be wide open. Over breakfast they would plan the day’s events, and this led to the first quarrels and misunderstandings. In recent years breakfast was usually taken in silence, broken only by the clink of china and cutlery. Father was a man of few words, but Mother was extremely loquacious and loved talking, though in recent years she had ceased to be loquacious and talkative, at any rate with Father. Father was sick, and she expected him to die soon. She had expected it for years and believed she could read it in his face. If he was subjected to any unpleasantness she would say, Leave him alone. He’s a sick man and hasn’t long to live. She became so used to saying this that she even said it in his presence. She repeatedly said, Leave your father alone, he’s a sick man, though she refrained from adding and hasn’t long to live. Yet although she did not say it, the thought was always present. When he was away or working late she would say, Leave your father alone. He’s a sick man and hasn’t long to live. When he was present she said, Leave your father alone, he’s a sick man. Whenever she could she went to meet Spadolini, the illustrious Spadolini, as my father once called him. Not a bad description, I now reflected. Every few weeks her sick, dying, lusterless husband became too much for her and she would take up with her illustrious admirer, but when the illustrious admirer no longer had time for her she would return to the sick, dying, lusterless husband, usually at night, by stealth, so that the servants would not notice, though they always noticed, as I know — servants notice everything. People think servants notice nothing, but they notice everything, even the most trivial things, things one would not expect them to notice. They know everything. We always imagine that the servants are not in the picture, that we have hoodwinked them, pulled the wool over their eyes, when in fact they have noticed everything. The illustrious Spadolini was the perpetual object of Mother’s longing, I thought. In the end Father paid no attention to this longing and no longer asked her where she had been when she came home in the middle of the night, for she would only reply mockingly,