annr.pandora-第56部分

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　You　have　made　me　ashamed　of　the　wasted　years。　You　have　made　me　acknowledge　that　no　darkness　has　been　ever　deep　enough　to　extinguish　my　personal　knowledge　of　love；　love　from　mortals　who　brought　me　into　the　world；　love　for　goddesses　of　stone；　love　for　Marius；
　Above　all；　I　cannot　deny　the　resurgence　of　this　love　for　Marius。
　And　all　around　me　in　this　world　I　see　evidence　of　love；　Behind　the　image　of　the　Blessed　Virgin　and　her　Infant　Jesus；　behind　the　image　of　the　Crucified　Christ；　behind　the　remembered　basalt　image　of　Isis。　I　see　love。　I　see　it　in　the　human　struggle。　I　see　its　undeniable　penetration　in　all　that　humans　have　acplished　in　their　poetry；　their　painting；　their　music；　their　love　of　one　another　and　refusal　to　accept　suffering　as　their　lot。
　Above　all；　however；　I　see　it　in　the　very　fashioning　of　the　world　which　outshines　all　art；　and　cannot　by　sheer　randomness　have　accumulated　such　beauty。
　Love。　But　whence　es　this　love？　Why　is　it　so　secretive　about　its　source；　this　love　that　makes　ram　and　trees　and　has　scattered　the　stars　over　us　as　the　gods　and　goddesses　once　claimed　to　do？
　So　Lestat；　the　brat　Prince；　woke　the　Queen；　and　we　survived　her　destruction。　So　Lestat；　the　brat　Prince；　had　gone　to　Heaven　and　Hell　and　brought　back　disbelief；　horror　and　the　Veil　of　Veronica！　Veronica；　an　invented　Christian　name　which　means　vera　ikon；　or　true　icon。　He　found　himself　plunged　into　Palestine　during　the　very　years　that　I　lived；　and　there　saw　something　that　has　shattered　the　faculties　in　humans　which　we　cherish　so　much：　faith；　reason。
　I　have　to　go　to　Lestat；　look　into　his　eyes。　I　have　to　see　what　he　saw！
　Let　the　young　sing　songs　of　death。　They　are　stupid。
　The　finest　thing　under　the　sun　and　the　moon　is　the　human　soul。　I　marvel　at　the　small　miracles　of　kindness　that　pass　between　humans；　I　marvel　at　the　growth　of　conscience；　at　the　persistence　of　reason　in　the　face　of　all　superstition　or　despair。　I　marvel　at　human　endurance。
　I　have　one　more　story　to　tell　you。　I　don't　know　why　I　want　to　record　it　here。　But　I　do。　Perhaps　it's　because　I　feel　you　…　a　vampire　who　sees　spirits　…　will　understand　this；　and　understand　perhaps　why　I　remained　so　unmoved　by　it。
　Once　in　the　Sixth　Century　…　that　is；　five　hundred　years　after　the　birth　of　Christ　and　three　hundred　years　since　I　had　left　Marius　…　I　went　wandering　in　barbarian　Italy。　The　Ostrogoths　had　long　ago　overrun　the　peninsula。
　Then　other　tribes　swept　down　on　them；　looting；　burning；　carrying　off　stones　from　old　Temples。
　It　was　like　walking　on　burning　coals　for　me　to　go　there。
　But　Rome　did　struggle　with　some　conception　of　itself；　its　principles；　trying　to　blend　the　pagan　with　the　Christian；　and　find　some　respite　from　the　barbarian　raids。
　The　Roman　Senate　still　existed。　Of　all　institutions　it　had　survived
　And　a　scholar；　sprung　from　the　same　stock　as　myself；　Boethius；　a　very　learned　man　who　studied　the　ancients　and　the　saints；　had　recently　been　put　to　death；　but　not　before　he　had　given　us　a　great　book。　You　can　find　it　in　any　library　today。　It　is；　of　course；　The　Consolation　of　Philosophy。
　I　had　to　see　the　ruined　Forum　for　myself；　the　burnt　and　barren　hills　of　Rome；　the　pigs　and　goats　roaming　where　once　Cicero　had　spoken　to　the　crowds。　I　had　to　see　the　forsaken　poor　living　desperately　along　the　banks　of　the　Tiber。
　I　had　to　see　the　fallen　classical　world。　I　had　to　see　the　Christian　churches　and　shrines。
　I　had　to　see　one　scholar　in　particular。　Like　Boethius　he　had　e　from　old　Roman　stock；　and　like　Boethius　he　had　read　the　classics　and　the　saints。　He　was　a　man　who　wrote　letters　that　went　all　over　the　world；　even　as　far　as　to　the　scholar　Bede　in　England。
　And　he　had　built　a　monastery　there；　some　great　flare　of　creativity　and　optimism；　in　spite　of　ruin　and　war。
　This　man　was　of　course　the　scholar　Cassiodorus；　and　his　monastery　lay　at　the　very　tip　of　the　boot　of　Italy；　in　the　paradisal　land　of　green　Calabria。
　I　came　upon　it　in　early　evening；　as　I　planned；　when　it　looked　like　a　great　and　splendid　lighted　little　city。
　Its　monks　were　copying　away　ferociously　in　the　Scriptorium。
　And　there　in　his　cell；　wide　open　to　the　night；　sat　Cassiodorus　himself；　at　his　writing；　a　man　past　ninety　years　of　age。
　He　had　survived　the　barbarian　politics　that　doomed　his　friend　Boethius；　having　served　the　Aryan　Ostrogoth　Emperor　Theodoric；　having　lived　to　retire　from　Civil　Service　…　he　had　survived　to　build　this　monastery；　his　dream；　and　to　write　to　monks　all　over　the　world；　to　share　what　he　knew　with　them　of　the　ancients；　to　conserve　the　wisdom　of　the　Greeks　and　the　Romans。
　Was　he　truly　the　last　man　of　the　ancient　world；　as　some　have　said？　The　last　man　who　could　read　both　Latin　and　Greek？　The　last　man　who　could　treasure　both　Aristotle　and　the　dogma　of　the　Roman　Pope'？　Plato　and　Saint　Paul？
　I　didn't　know　then　that　he　would　be　so　well　remembered；　And　I　didn't　know　how　soon　he'd　be　forgotten！
　Vivarium；　on　its　mountain　slopes；　was　an　architectural　triumph。　It　had　its　sparkling　ponds　to　catch　and　hold　fish　…　the　characteristic　which　gave　it　its　name。　It　had　its　Christian　church　with　the　inevitable　cross；　its　dormitories；　its　rooms　for　the　weary　guest　traveler。　Its　library　was　rich　in　the　classics　of　my　time；　as　well　as　gospels　which　have　now　been　lost。　The　monastery　was　rich　in　all　the　fruits　of　the　field；　all　crops　needed　for　food；　trees　laden　with　fruit；　fields　of　wheat。
　The　monks　cared　for　all　of　this；　and　they　dedicated　themselves　to　copying　books　day　and　night　in　their　long　Scriptorium。
　There　were　beehives　there；　on　this　gentle　moon…lighted　coast；　hundreds　of　beehives　from　which　the　monks　harvested　honey　to　eat；　and　wax　for　sacred　candles；　and　royal　jelly　for　an　ointment。　The　bee…hives　covered　a　hill　as　big　as　the　orchard　or　the　farmland　of　Vivarium。
　I　spied　on　Cassiodorus。　I　walked　among　the　bee…hives；　and　marveled　as　I　always　do　at　the　inexplicable　organization　of　bees；　for　the　mysteries　of　the　bees　and　their　dance　and　their　hunting　for　pollen　and　their　breeding　was　all　known　to　my　eye　long　before　it　was　understood　by　the　human　world。
　As　I　left　the　hives；　as　I　moved　array　towards　the　distant　beacon　of　Cassiodorus's　lamp；　I　looked　back。　I　beheld　something。
　Something　collected　itself　from　the　hives；　something　immense　and　invisible　and　forceful　that　I　could　both　feel　and　hear。　I　was　not　gripped　by　fear；　merely　sparked　by　a　temporary　hope　that　some　New　Thing　had　e　into　the　world。　For　I　am　not　a　seer　of　ghosts　and　never　was。
　This　force　rose　out　of　the　very　bees　themselves；　out　of　their　intricate　knowledge　and　their　countless　sublime　patterns；　as　though　they　had　somehow　accidentally　evolved　it；　or　empowered　it　with　consciousness　through　the　means　of　their　endless　creativity；　meticulousness　and　endurance。
　It　was　like　an　old　Roman　woodland　spirit　of　the　forest。
　I　saw　this　force　fly　loosely　over　the　fields。　I　saw　it　enter　the　body　of　a　straw　man　who　stood　in　the　fields；　a　scarecrow　which　the　monks　had　made　with　a　fine　round　wooden　head；　painted　eyes；　crude　nose　and　smiling　mouth　…　a　creature　whole　and　entire　who　could　be　moved　from　time　to　time；　intact　in　his　monk's　hood　and　robe。
　I　saw　this　scarecrow；　this　man　of　straw　and　wood　hurry　whirling　and　dancing　through　the　fields　and　the　vineyards　until　he　had　reached　Cassiodorus's　cell。
　I　followed！
　Then　I　heard　a　silent　wail　rise　from　the　being。　I　heard　it　and　I　saw　the　scarecrow　in　a　bending；　bowing　dance　of　sorrow；　its　bundled　straw　hands　over　ears　it　didn't　have。　It　writhed　with　grief。
　Cassiodorus　was　dead。　He　had　died　quietly　within　his　lamp…lighted　cell；　his　door　open；　at　his　writing　table。　He　lay；　gray…haired；　ancient；　quiet　against　his　manuscript。　He　had　lived　over　ninety　years。　And　he　was　dead。
　This　creature；　this　scarecrow；　was　wild　with　suffering　and　grief；　rocking　and　moaning；　though　it　was　a　sound　no　human　could　have　heard。
　I　who　have　never　seen　spirits　stared　at　it　in　wonder。　Then　it　perceived　that　I　was　there。　It　turned。　He　…　for　so　it　seemed　in　this　ragged　attire　and　body　of　straw　…　reached　out　to　me。　He　flung　out　his　straw　arms。　The　straw　fell　from　his　sleeves。　His　wooden　head　wobbled　on　the　pole　that　was　his　spine。　He　…　It　…　implored　me：　he　begged　me　for　the　answer　to　the　g