anner.vittoriothevampire-第4节

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　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　did　with　Fra　Giovanni〃　…　this　was　the　man　later　called　Fra　Angelico　by　all　the　world　…　〃and　I　tell　you；　I　think　he　is　brilliant。　Why　else　would　Cosimo　put　up　with　such　a　scene？　Did　you　hear　him！〃　〃And　Fra　Giovanni　is　a　saint？〃　asked　my　father。
　〃Hmmmmm；　yes。　And　that's　fine；　you　know；　but　did　you　see　the　torment　in　Fra　Filippo？　Hmmm；　I　liked　it。〃　My　father　raised　his　eyebrows。
　On　our　next　and　very　last　trip　to　Florence；　he　took　me　to　see　all　of　Filippo's　paintings。　I　was　amazed　that　he　had　remembered　my　interest　in　this　man。　We　went　from　house　to　house　to　look　at　the　loveliest　works；　and　then　to　Filippo's　workshop。
　There　an　altarpiece　missioned　by　Francesco　Maringhi　for　a　Florentine　church　…　The　Coronation　of　the　Virgin　…　was　well　under　way；　and　when　I　saw　this　work；　I　nearly　fainted　dead　from　shock　and　love　of　it。　I　couldn't　leave　it　alone。　I　sighed　and　wept。
　I　had　never　seen　anything　as　beautiful　as　this　painting；　with　its　immense　crowd　of　still　attentive　faces；　its　splendid　collection　of　angels　and　saints；　its　lithe　and　graceful　feline　women　and　willowy　celestial　men。　I　went　crazy　for　it。
　My　father　took　me　to　see　two　more　of　his　works；　which　were　both　paintings　of　the　Annunciation。
　Now；　I　have　mentioned　that　as　a　child；　I　had　played　the　Angel　Gabriel　ing　to　the　Virgin　to　announce　the　Conception　of　Christ　in　her　womb；　and　the　way　we　played；　he　was　supposed　to　be　a　pretty　beguiling　and　virile　angel；　and　Joseph　would　e　in　and；　lo；　find　this　overwhelming　male　with　his　pure　ward；　the　Blessed　Mary。
　We　were　a　worldly　bunch；　but　you　know；　we　gave　the　play　a　little　spice。　I　mean　we　cooked　it　up　a　bit。　I　don't　think　it　says　anything　in　scripture　about　St。　Joseph　happening　on　a　tryst。
　But　that　had　been　my　favorite　role；　and　I　had　particularly　enjoyed　paintings　of　the　Annunciation。
　Well；　this　last　one　I　saw　before　I　left　Florence；　done　by　Filippo　sometime　in　the　1440s；　was　beyond　anything　I　had　beheld　before。
　The　angel　was　truly　unearthly　yet　physically　perfect。　Its　wings　were　made　of　peacock　feathers。　I　was　sick　with　devotion　and　covetousness。　I　wished　we　could　buy　this　thing　and　take　it　back　home。　That　wasn't　possible。　No　works　of　Filippo　were　on　the　market　then。　So　my　father　finally　dragged　me　away　from　this　painting；　and　off　we　went　home　the　next　day　or　so。
　Only　later　did　I　realize　how　quietly　he　listened　to　what　I　said　as　I　ranted　on　and　on　about　Fra　Filippo：
　〃It's　delicate；　it's　original；　and　yet　it　is　mendable　according　to　everybody's　rules；　that's　the　genius　of　it；　to　change；　but　not　so　much；　to　be　inimitable；　yet　not　beyond　the　mon　grasp；　and　that's　what　he's　done；　Father；　I　tell　you。〃　I　was　unstoppable。
　〃This　is　what　I　think　about　that　man；〃　I　said。　〃The　carnality　in　him；　the　passion　for　women；　the　near　beastly　refusal　to　keep　his　vows　is　at　war　always　with　the　priest；　for　look；　he　wears　his　robes；　he　is　Fra　Filippo。　And　out　of　that　war；　there　es　into　the　faces　he　paints　a　look　of　utter　surrender。〃　My　father　listened。
　〃That's　it；〃　I　said。　〃Those　characters　reflect　his　own　continued　promise　with　the　forces　he　cannot　reconcile；　and　they　are　sad；　and　wise；　and　never　innocent；　and　always　soft；　reflective　of　mute　torment。〃
　On　the　way　back　home；　as　we　were　riding　together　through　the　forest；　up　a　rather　steep　road；　very　casually　my　father　asked　me　if　the　painters　who　had　done　our　chapel　were　good。
　〃Father；　you're　joking；〃　I　said。　〃They　were　excellent。〃
　He　smiled。　〃I　didn't　know；　you　know；〃　he　said。　〃I　just　hired　the　best。〃　He　shrugged。　I　smiled。
　Then　he　laughed　with　good　nature。　I　never　asked　him　when　and　if　I　could　leave　home　again　to　study。　I　think　I　figured　I　could　make　both　of　us　happy。
　We　must　have　made　twenty…five　stops　on　that　last　journey　home　from　Florence。　We　were　wined　and　dined　at　one　castle　after　another；　and　wandered　in　and　out　of　the　new　villas；　lavish　and　full　of　light；　and　given　over　to　their　abundant　gardens。　I　clung　to　nothing　in　particular　because　I　thought　it　was　my　life；　all　those　arbors　covered　wi