anner.vittoriothevampire-第4部分

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ve　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　unlike　the　stiffer　work　of　Giotto　or　Cimabue；　that　my　elderly　uncles　and　aunts　objected。　As　for　the　villagers；　I　don't　think　they　exactly　understood　it　all　either；　except　they　were　so　overawed　in　the　main　by　the　chapel　at　a　wedding　or　baptism　that　it　didn't　matter。
　I　myself　of　course　was　terrifically　happy　to　see　these　paintings　made；　and　to　spend　time　with　the　artists；　who　were　all　gone　by　the　time　that　my　life　was　brought　to　a　halt　by　demonic　slaughter。
　I'd　seen　plenty　of　the　greatest　painting　in　Florence　and　had　a　weakness　for　drifting　about；　looking　at　splendid　visions　of　angels　and　saints　in　the　rich　dedicated　chapels　of　the　Cathedrals；　and　had　even　…　on　one　of　my　trips　to　Florence　with　my　father　…　in　Cosimo's　house；　glimpsed　the　tempestuous　painter　Filippo　Lippi；　who　was　at　that　time　actually　under　lock　and　key　there　to　make　him　finish　a　painting。
　I　was　much　taken　with　the　plain　yet　pelling　man；　the　way　that　he　argued　and　schemed　and　did　everything　but　throw　a　tantrum　to　get　permission　to　leave　the　palazzo　while　lean；　solemn　and　low…voiced　Cosimo　just　smiled　and　talked　him　down　more　or　less　out　of　his　hysteria；　telling　him　to　get　back　to　work　and　that　he　would　be　happy　when　he　was　finished。
　Filippo　Lippi　was　a　monk；　but　he　was　mad　for　women　and　everybody　knew　it。　You　could　say　that　he　was　a　favorite　bad　guy。　It　was　for　women　that　he　wanted　out　of　the　palazzo；　and　it　was　even　suggested　later　at　the　supper　table　of　our　hosts　in　Florence　on　that　visit　that　Cosimo　ought　to　lock　a　few　women　in　the　room　with　Filippo；　and　that　maybe　that　would　keep　Filippo　happy。　I　don't　think　Cosimo　did　any　such　thing。　If　he　had；　his　enemies　would　have　made　it　the　grand　news　of　Florence。
　Let　me　make　note；　for　it　is　very　important。　I　never　forgot　that　glimpse　of　the　genius　Filippo；　for　that　is　what　he　was　…　and　is　…　to　me。
　〃So　what　did　you　so　like　about　him？〃　my　father　asked　me。
　〃He's　bad　and　good；〃　I　said；　〃not　just　one　or　the　other。　I　see　a　war　going　on　inside　of　him！　And　I　saw　some　of　his　work　once；　work　he　di