“Be as good as you like, but let’s not havernany more of this saints stuff’), referring tornthe well-documented story that Pope Urbanrnmade the family foot the bill for historicalrnresearch into the life and miraclesrnof their beatified ancestor, an idler,rndrunkard, wencher, and gambler whornbecame a Carmelite monk and laterrnbishop of Fiesole. Which is already prettyrnmiraculous, if you ask me.rnOn the other hand, Urban VIII belongedrnto the Barberini, who, thoughrnoriginally Sienese, enjoyed an equallyrnwell-documented association with theirrnFlorentine fellow clansmen that eventuallyrnresulted in intermarriage. So maybernthe young cynic is not so much off thernmark, her flippancy buoyed by the realizationrnthat, in a single century culminatingrnin their pope’s prelacy, whammorn(which may be translated from the languagernof the epoch as mirabile dictu), nornfewer than three boys in the family grewrnup to be cardinals. It’s who you know,rnbasically.rnBut I seem to have strayed. These lettersrnof mine, after all, are not so muchrnabout the past as about the present. Andrnthe daily question I ask myself is why Irnam taking such personal interest in allrnthis, and why all the back-and-forth betweenrnmother and daughter, and all thernfamily crests and relics and lemon treesrnand paintings and personalities andrnfaces, should be giving me such a thrill.rnWhy should I, a Russian who has spentrnhalf of his adult life in England, be suddenlyrnfeeling like an American touristrnwho accidentally got his snout into somernfabulous trough of Yurrupeen eulcha? Isrnnot my England a nation whose aristocracyrnis still legally a vital agent of thernbody politic? It is, unlike republicanrnItaly. Is not my friend Harry descendedrnfrom the Henrys of Shakespearean history?rnHis country estate is every inch as encyclopedic.rnAnd what of my Londonrnneighbor, Katarina? Queen Victoria isrnher ancestor on both her mother’s and father’srnside. Do I preen like an UpperrnEast Side matron, blab nonsense like arnYale student, and chuckle sycophanticallyrnlike a homosexual decorator when Irntalk to them, too?rnBecause on the face of it, as I say, thisrnway of life is no different from what onerncan easily find in any number of Englishrncountry houses—of equal, if not greater,rnantiquity and distincfion—and occasionallyrneven in London. The last time I sawrnHarry, he was buying ice creams for thernchildren from a vendor in the middle ofrna trailer park. The first time I saw Katarina,rnshe was cleaning our communalrndrain dressed in a nightgown and rubberrnboots. Wliile here, the prince, I have therndistinct impression, has grown a beardrnbecause there is not enough hot water tornshave with in the mornings. Here, thernprincess is a whirling dervish, fightingrnwool-eating moths, social-climbing suitors,rntax-gouging authorities, and otherrnforms of systemic entropy that threatenrnthe next generation with destitution.rnHere, old retainers shuffle aimlesslyrnthrough corridors, ostensibly on theirrnway to mend a curtain or to adjust a firernscreen. Here, doors squeak, roofs leak,rnand letters from Sotheby’s lie unopened.rnThe young prince runs a country estaternthat produces an excellent Chiantirnand olive oil: In England, it would bernturnips and rapeseed, unless the placernmade more money as a conference center.rnOne daughter has married andrnmoved to Rome: This would be London,rnrmless it was New York, Paris, or Rome.rnThe other two daughters, who li’e here,rnare painters: just what they would be ifrnthey were called Somerset, unless theyrnbecame sculptors or writers. One is marriedrnto a Venetian: She would be marriedrnto a Venefian if she were English, ofrncourse, unless he happened to be Florentine.rnIn short, what is the difference?rnWhy do I chuckle and blab and preen?rnThe answer comes to me one morningrnas Lucia, one of the old retainers whornhas been doing the washing in the familyrnsince the merry days of Pius XI, shufflesrnup to say that we are out of soap.rnSince the ensuing conversation is revelatory,rnI record it in its entirety.rnLUCIA knocks on the outer door ofrnthe study. ‘Tes?” LUCIA knocks oncernmore on the inner door. “Enter!” EnterrnLUCIA. She stands by the door, arms byrnher sides, head slightly bowed.rnI; Cood morning, Lucia. What is it?rnLUCIA (approaching): Good morning,rnsir. I have spoken to the princess,rnwho has directed me to speak to the ladyrnof your house . . . With whom I alreadyrnspoke yesterday, but. . . She is not hererntoday, and . . . Will vou permit me tornspeak with you of this matter?rnI: Yes, of course. W/ia^ is the matter?rnLUCIA: As you certainly do not know,rnsir, because you cannot possibly know,rnalthough perhaps you do know becausernit pleases you to acquire knowledge ofrnsuch matters, I do your family’s laundry.rnThis is done by immersing differentrnthings, which we call c/of/zes—although,rnon occasion, these may be bedclothes,rnsuch as sheets, or simpl)’ towels, such asrnyou would find in the bathrooms herernand there, in short, everything made ofrnfabric that is used, and becomes soiledrnfrom one day to the next—into a quantity’rnof boiling water with soap.rnI: Very well, I understand perfectly.rnAnd?rnLUCIA (nerx’ously): I have been doingrnmy job for almost two weeks now….rnI trust to your satisfaction.rnI: Of course, of course. But what is thernmatter?rnLUCIA: The soap is finished.rnI: All right then, let’s buy some! We’llrnget some more this afternoon. It’s thernstuff in big square boxes, right? Powder?rnLUCIA: Bravo, sir! May I say, sir, wellrndone! How astonishingly well you understandrnpractical issues! And may I addrnthat the lady of vour house, divinelyrnbeautiful as she is, understands themrnequally well. And your child is perfectlyrnbeautiful also, and of course sharp as arnblade . . . That’s what we say in the countryrnwhen we want to describe someone asrnvery, ver’ clever.rnI: Thank you very much. It’s becausernwe don’t own a television and don’t sendrnhim to school.rnLUCIA (gasps): Ah, sir. How true it isrnwhat you say! WTien I was a young girl, Irndid the washing for the Counts N— andrnit was the same, always private tutors forrnthe young ones. How courageous yournare, and what a pleasure it is for me to bernworking for a master who is so good.rnI: Thank you, Lucia, I promise yournwe’ll get the soap!rnLUCIA (retreating); Thank you, sir!rnAnd please give my sincerest thanks tornthe lady of your house when she returns!rnI invite readers who may have somerndoubt as to what makes this exchange sorndamn revelatory to compare it with a diar)’rnentry made ten years ago in The JournalsrnofWoodrow Wyatt, just published inrnEngland to much scandalous recrimination.rnThe late Lord Wyatt, a vizier tornboth Mrs. Thatcher and the Queen, recountsrnan anecdote about the tenthrnDuke of Marlborough, next to whoserngranddaughter he finds himself seated atrndinner. The thing to listen for here isrnWyatt’s tone of proletarian incredulity,rnworthy of Pravda in my own grandfather’srnday:rnThat was when Bert Marlboroughrnstayed with his daughter in Americarnand came down to breakfast andrn38/CHRONlCLESrnrnrn