Giampietro Carafa was seventy-nine when he was elected pope, but he was no senile old man. Tall, skinny, all nerves and bones, he seemed not to touch the ground when he walked. He was well read—he knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and Spanish—and possessed a remarkable memory. A temperate man at the table, he was equally moderate in his way of life; no one was ever able to attribute a scandal to him. His only indulgence was the wine he drank during his two daily meals, a wine so ‘powerful and fiery, black and thick, that you could cut it.’