anner.vittoriothevampire-第3部分

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I　can　say。　I　can　envisage　with　no　difficulty　the　spectacle　of　the　Feast　of　St。　John；　when　every　single　solitary　shop　in　Florence　had　to　put　out　front　all　of　its　costly　wares；　and　monks　and　friars　sang　the　sweetest　hymns　on　their　way　to　the　Cathedral　to　give　thanks　to　God　for　the　blessed　prosperity　of　the　city。
　I　could　go　on。　There　is　no　end　to　the　praise　one　can　heap　upon　the　Florence　of　those　times；　for　she　was　a　city　of　men　who　worked　at　trades　and　business　yet　made　the　greatest　art；　of　sharp　politicians　and　true　raving　saints；　of　deep…souled　poets　and　the　most　audacious　scoundrels。　I　think　Florence　knew　many　things　by　that　time　that　would　only　much　later　be　learnt　in　France　and　England；　and　which　are　not　known　in　some　countries　to　this　day。　Two　things　were　true。　Cosimo　was　the　most　powerful　man　in　all　the　world。　And　the　people；　and　only　the　people；　ruled　Florence　then　and　forever。
　But　back　to　the　castle。　I　kept　up　my　reading　and　studies　at　home；　switching　from　knight　to　scholar　in　a　twinkling。　If　there　was　any　shadow　on　my　life；　it　was　that　at　sixteen　I　was　old　enough　to　go　to　a　real　university；　and　I　knew　it；　and　I　sort　of　wanted　to　do　it；　but　then　again；　I　was　raising　new　hawks；　training　them　myself　and　hunting　with　them；　and　the　country　round　was　irresistible。
　By　this　age　of　sixteen；　I　was　considered　bookish　by　the　clan　of　elder　kinsmen　who　gathered　at　the　table　every　night；　my　parents'　uncles　mostly；　and　all　very　much　of　a　former　time　when　〃bankers　had　not　run　the　world；〃　who　had　marvelous　tales　to　tell　of　the　Crusades；　to　which　they　had　gone　when　they　were　young；　and　of　what　they　had　seen　at　the　fierce　battle　of　Acre；　or　fighting　on　the　island　of　Cyprus　or　Rhodes；　and　what　life　had　been　like　at　sea；　and　in　many　exotic　ports　where　they　had　been　the　terror　of　the　taverns　and　the　women。
　My　mother　was　spirited　and　beautiful；　with　brown　hair　and　very　green　eyes；　and　she　adored　country　life；　but　she'd　never　known　Florence　except　from　the　inside　of　a　convent。　She　thought　there　was　something　seriously　wrong　with　me　that　I　wanted　to　read　Dante's　poetry　and　write　so　much　of　my　own。
　She　lived　for　nothing　but　receiving　guests　in　gracious　style；　seeing　to　it　that　the　floors　were　strewn　with　lavender　and　sweet…smelling　herbs；　and　that　the　wine　was　properly　spiced；　and　she　led　the　dance　herself　with　a　great…uncle　who　was　very　good　at　it；　because　my　father　would　have　nothing　to　do　with　dancing。
　All　this　to　me；　after　Florence；　was　rather　tame　and　slow。　Bring　on　the　war　stories。
　She　must　have　been　very　young　when　she　was　married　off　to　my　father；　because　she　was　with　child　on　the　night　she　died。　And　the　child　died　with　her。　I'll　e　to　that　quickly。　Well；　as　quickly　as　I　can。　I'm　not　so　good　at　being　quick。
　My　brother；　Matteo；　was　four　years　younger　than　me；　and　an　excellent　student；　though　he　had　not　been　sent　off　anywhere　as　yet　（would　that　he　had）；　and　my　sister；　Bartola；　was　born　less　than　a　year　after　me；　so　close　in　fact　that　I　think　my　father　was　rather　ashamed　of　it。
　I　thought　them　both　…　Matteo　and　Bartola　…　the　most　lovely　and　interesting　people　in　the　world。　We　had　country　fun　and　country　freedom；　running　in　the　woods；　picking　blackberries；　sitting　at　the　feet　of　gypsy　storytellers　before　they　got　caught　and　sent　away。　We　loved　one　another。　Matteo　worshipped　me　too　much　because　I　could　outtalk　our　father。　He　didn't　see　our　father's　quiet　strength；　or　well…fashioned　old　manners。　I　was　Matteo's　real　teacher　in　all　things；　I　suppose。　As　for　Bartola；　she　was　far　too　wild　for　my　mother；　who　was　in　an　eternal　state　of　shock　over　the　state　of　Bartola's　long　hair；　the　hair　being　all　full　of　twigs　and　petals　and　leaves　and　dirt　from　the　woods　where　we'd　been　running。
　Bartola　was　forced　into　plenty　of　embroidering；　however；　she　knew　her　songs；　her　poetry　and　prayers。　She　was　too　exquisite　and　too　rich　to　be　rushed　into　anything　she　didn't　want。　My　father　adored　her；　and　more　than　once　in　very　few　words　assured　himself　that　I　kept　constant　watch　over　her　in　all　our　woodland　wanderings。　I　did。　I　would　have　killed　anyone　who　touched　her！　
　Ah。　This　is　too　much　for　me！　I　didn't　know　how　hard　this　was　going　to　be！　Bartola。　Kill　anyone　who　touched　her！　And　now　nightmares　descend；　as　if　they　were　winged　spirits　themselves；　and　threaten　to　shut　out　the　tiny　silent　and　ever　drifting　lights　of　Heaven。　Let　me　return　to　my　train　of　thought。
　My　mother　I　never　really　understood；　and　probably　misjudged；　because　everything　seemed　a　matter　of　style　and　manners　with　her；　and　my　father　I　found　to　be　hysterically　self…satirical　and　always　funny。
　He　was；　beneath　all　his　jokes　and　snide　stories；　actually　rather　cynical；　but　at　the　same　time　kind；　he　saw　through　the　pomp　of　others；　and　even　his　own　pretensions。　He　looked　upon　the　human　situation　as　hopeless。　War　was　ic　to　him；　devoid　of　heroes　and　full　of　buffoons；　and　he　would　burst　out　laughing　in　the　middle　of　his　uncles'　harangues；　or　even　in　the　middle　of　my　poems　when　I　went　on　too　long；　and　I　don't　think　he　ever　deliberately　spoke　a　civil　word　to　my　mother。
　He　was　a　big　man；　clean　shaven　and　longhaired；　and　he　had　beautiful　long　tapering　fingers；　very　unusual　for　his　size；　because　all　his　elders　had　thicker　hands。　I　have　the　same　hands　myself。　All　the　beautiful　rings　he　wore　had　belonged　to　his　mother。
　He　dressed　more　sumptuously　than　he　would　have　dared　to　do　in　Florence；　in　regal　velvet　stitched　with　pearls；　and　wore　massive　cloaks　lined　in　ermine。　His　gloves　were　true　gauntlets　trimmed　in　fox；　and　he　had　large　grave　eyes；　more　deep…set　than　mine；　and　full　of　mockery；　disbelief　and　sarcasm。　He　was　never　mean；　however；　to　anyone。
　His　only　modern　affectation　was　that　he　liked　to　drink　from　fine　goblets　of　glass；　rather　than　old　cups　of　hardwood　or　gold　or　silver。　And　we　had　plenty　of　sparkling　glass　always　on　our　long　supper　table。
　My　mother　always　smiled　when　she　said　such　things　to　him　as　〃My　Lord；　please　get　your　feet　off　the　table；〃　or　〃I'll　thank　you　not　to　touch　me　until　you've　washed　your　greasy　hands；〃　or　〃Are　you　really　ing　into　the　house　like　that？〃　But　beneath　her　charming　exterior；　I　think　she　hated　him。
　The　one　time　I　ever　heard　her　raise　her　voice　in　anger；　it　was　to　declare　in　no　uncertain　terms　that　half　the　children　in　our　villages　round　had　been　sired　by　him；　and　that　she　herself　had　buried　some　eight　tiny　infants　who　had　never　lived　to　see　the　light；　because　he　couldn't　restrain　himself　any　better　than　a　rampant　stallion。
　He　was　so　amazed　at　this　outburst　…　it　was　behind　closed　doors　…　that　he　emerged　from　the　bedchamber　looking　pale　and　shocked；　and　said　to　me；　〃You　know；　Vittorio；　your　mother　is　nothing　as　stupid　as　I　always　thought。　No；　not　at　all。　As　a　matter　of　fact；　she's　just　boring。〃
　He　would　never　under　normal　circumstances　have　said　anything　so　unkind　about　her。　He　was　trembling。
　As　for　her；　when　I　tried　to　go　in　to　her；　she　threw　a　silver　pitcher　at　me。　I　said；　〃But　Mother；　it's　Vittorio！〃　and　she　threw　herself　into　my　arms。　She　cried　bitterly　for　fifteen　minutes。
　We　said　nothing　during　this　time。　We　sat　together　in　her　small　stone　bedroom；　rather　high　up　in　the　oldest　tower　of　our　house；　with　many　pieces　of　gilded　furniture；　both　ancient　and　new；　and　then　she　wiped　her　eyes　and　said；　〃He　takes　care　of　everyone；　you　know。　He　takes　care　of　my　aunts　and　my　uncles；　you　know。　And　where　would　they　be　if　it　weren't　for　him？　And　he's　never　denied　me　anything。〃
　She　went　rambling　on　in　her　smooth　convent…modulated　voice。　〃Look　at　this　house。　It's　filled　with　elders　whose　wisdom　has　been　so　good　for　you　children；　and　all　this　on　account　of　your　father；　who　is　rich　enough　to　have　gone　anywhere；　I　suppose；　but　he　is　too　kind。　Only；　Vittorio！　Vittorio；　don't。。。　I　mean　。。。　with　the　girls　in　the　village。〃
　I　almost　said；　in　a　spasm　of　desire　to　fort　her；　that　I　had　only　fathered　one　bastard　to　my　knowledge；　and　he　was　just　fine；　when　I　realized　this　would　have　been　a　perfect　disaster。　I　said　nothing。
　That　might　have　been　the　only　conversation　I　ever　had　with　my　mother。　But　it's　not　really　a　conversation　because　I　didn't　say　anything。
　She　was　right；　however。　Three　of　her　aunts　and　two　of　her　uncles　lived　with　us　in　our　great　high…walled　pound；　and　these　old　people　lived　well；　always　sumptuously　dressed　in　the　latest　fabrics　from　the　city；　and　enjoying　the　purest　courtly　life　imaginable。　I　couldn't　help　but　benefit　from　listening　to　them　all　the　time；　which　I　did；　and　they　knew　plenty　of　all　the　world。
　It　was　the　same　with　my　father's　uncles；　but　of　course　it　was　their　land；　this；　their　family's；　and　so　they　felt　more　entitled；　I　assume；　as　they　had　done　most　of　the　heroic　fighting　in　the　Holy　Land；　or　so　it　seemed；　and　they　quarreled　with　my　father　over　anything　and　everything；　from　the　taste　of　the　meat　tarts　served　at　supper　to　the　distractingly　modern　style　of　the　painters　he　hired　from　Florence　to　decorate　our　little　chapel。
　That　was　another　sort　of　modern　thing　he　did；　the　matter　of　the　painters；　maybe　the　only　modern　thing　other　than　liking　things　made　of　glass。
　Our　little　chapel　had　for　centuries　been　bare。　It　was；　like　the　four　towers　of　our　castle　and　all　the　walls　around；　built　of　a　blond　stone　which　is　mon　in　Northern　Tuscany。　This　is　not　the　dark　stone　you　see　so　much　in　Florence；　which　is　gray　and　looks　perpetually　unclean。　This　northern　stone　is　almost　the　color　of　the　palest　pink　roses。
　But　my　father　had　brought　pupils　up　from　Florence　when　I　was　very　young；　good　painters　who　had　studied　with　Piero　della　Francesca　and　other　such；　to　cover　these　chapel　walls　with　murals　taken　from　the　lovely　stories　of　saints　and　Biblical　giants　in　the　books　known　as　The　Golden　Legend。
　Not　being　himself　a　terribly　imaginative　man；　my　father　followed　what　he　had　seen　in　the　churches　of　Florence　in　his　design　and　instructed　these　men　to　tell　the　tales　of　John　the　Baptist；　patron　saint　of　the　city　and　cousin　of　Our　Lord；　and　so　it　was　that　during　the　last　years　of　my　life　on　earth；　our　chapel　was　enfolded　with　representations　of　St。　Elizabeth；　St。　John；　St。　Anne；　the　Blessed　Mother；　Zachary　and　angels　galore；　all　dressed　…　as　was　the　way　of　the　time　…　in　their　Florentine　finest。
　It　was　to　this　〃modern〃　painting；　so　unl