anner.vittoriothevampire-第1章

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　This　novel　is　dedicated　to　Stan；　Christopher；　Michele　and　Howard；　to　Rosario　and　Patrice；　to　Pamela　and　Elaine；　and　to　Niccolo。
　This　novel　is　dedicated　by　Vittorio　to　the　people　of　Florence；　Italy。
　
　
　1
　WHO　I　AM；　WHY　I　WRITE；　WHAT　IS　TO　E
　
　WHEN　I　was　a　small　boy　I　had　a　terrible　dream。　I　dreamt　I　held　in　my　arms　the　severed　heads　of　my　younger　brother　I　and　sister。　They　were　quick　still；　and　mute；　with　big　fluttering　eyes；　and　reddened　cheeks；　and　so　horrified　was　I　that　I　could　make　no　more　of　a　sound　than　they　could。　The　dream　came　true。
　But　no　one　will　weep　for　me　or　for　them。　They　have　been　buried；　nameless；　beneath　five　centuries　of　time。　I　am　a　vampire。
　My　name　is　Vittorio；　and　I　write　this　now　in　the　tallest　tower　of　the　ruined　mountaintop　castle　in　which　I　was　born；　in　the　northernmost　part　of　Tuscany；　that　most　beautiful　of　lands　in　the　very　center　of　Italy。
　By　anyone's　standards；　I　am　a　remarkable　vampire；　most　powerful；　having　lived　five　hundred　years　from　the　great　days　of　Cosimo　de'　Medici；　and　even　the　angels　will　attest　to　my　powers；　if　you　can　get　them　to　speak　to　you。　Be　cautious　on　that　point。
　I　have；　however；　nothing　whatsoever　to　do　with　the　〃Coven　of　the　Articulate〃；　that　band　of　strange　romantic　vampires　in　and　from　the　Southern　New　World　city　of　New　Orleans　who　have　regaled　you　already　with　so　many　chronicles　and　tales。
　I　know　nothing　of　those　heroes　of　macabre　fact　masquerading　as　fiction。　I　know　nothing　of　their　enticing　paradise　in　the　swamplands　of　Louisiana。　You　will　find　no　new　knowledge　of　them　in　these　pages；　not　even；　hereafter；　a　mention。
　I　have　been　challenged　by　them；　nevertheless；　to　write　the　story　of　my　own　beginnings　…　the　fable　of　my　making　…　and　to　cast　this　fragment　of　my　life　in　book　form　into　the　wide　world；　so　to　speak；　where　it　may　e　into　some　random　or　destined　contact　with　their　well…published　volumes。
　I　have　spent　my　centuries　of　vampiric　existence　in　clever；　observant　roaming　and　study；　never　provoking　the　slightest　danger　from　my　own　kind；　and　never　arousing　their　knowledge　or　suspicions。
　But　this　is　not　to　be　the　unfolding　of　my　adventures。
　It　is；　as　I　have　said；　to　be　the　tale　of　my　beginnings。　For　I　believe　I　have　revelations　within　me　which　will　be　wholly　original　to　you。　Perhaps　when　my　book　is　finished　and　gone　from　my　hands；　I　may　take　steps　to　bee　somehow　a　character　in　that　grand　roman…fleuve　begun　by　other　vampires　in　San　Francisco　or　New　Orleans。　For　now；　I　cannot　know　or　care　about　it。
　　As　I　spend　my　tranquil　nights；　here；　among　the　overgrown　stones　of　the　place　where　I　was　so　happy　as　a　child；　our　walls　now　broken　and　misshapen　among　the　thorny　blackberry　vines　and　fragrant　smothering　forests　of　oak　and　chestnut　trees；　I　am　pelled　to　record　what　befell　me；　for　it　seems　that　I　may　have　suffered　a　fate　very　unlike　that　of　any　other　vampire。　I　do　not　always　hang　about　this　place。
　On　the　contrary；　I　spend　most　of　my　time　in　that　city　which　for　me　is　the　queen　of　all　cities　…　Florence　…　which　I　loved　from　the　very　first　moment　I　saw　it　with　a　child's　eyes　in　the　years　when　Cosimo　the　Elder　ran　his　powerful　Medici　bank　with　his　own　hand；　even　though　he　was　the　richest　man　in　Europe。
　In　the　house　of　Cosimo　de'　Medici　lived　the　great　sculptor　Donatello　making　sculptures　of　marble　and　bronze；　as　well　as　painters　and　poets　galore；　writers　on　magic　and　makers　of　music。　The　great　Brunelleschi；　who　had　made　the　very　dome　of　Florence's　greatest　church；　was　building　yet　another　Cathedral　for　Cosimo　in　those　days；　and　Michelozzo　was　rebuilding　not　only　the　monastery　of　San　Marco　but　mencing　the　palazzo　for　Cosimo　which　would　one　day　be　known　to　all　the　world　as　the　Palazzo　Vecchio。　For　Cosimo；　men　went　all　over　Europe　seeking　in　dusty　libraries　long　forgotten　the　classics　of　Greek　and　Rome；　which　Cosimo's　scholars　would　translate　into　our　native　Italian；　the　language　which　Dante　had　boldly　chosen　many　years　before　for　his　Divine　edy。
　　And　it　was　under　Cosimo's　roof　that　I　saw；　as　a　mortal　boy　of　destiny　and　promise　…　yes；　I　myself　saw　…　the　great　guests　of　the　Council　of　Trent　who　had　e　from　far　Byzantium　to　heal　the　breach　between　the　Eastern　and　Western　church：　Pope　Eugenius　IV　of　Rome；　the　Patriarch　of　Constantinople　and　the　Emperor　of　the　East　himself；　John　VIII　Paleologus。　These　great　men　I　saw　enter　the　city　in　a　terrible　storm　of　bitter　rain；　but　nevertheless　with　indescribable　glory；　and　these　men　I　saw　eat　from　Cosimo's　table。
　Enough；　you　might　say。　I　agree　with　you。　This　is　no　history　of　the　Medici。　But　let　me　only　say　that　anyone　who　tells　you　that　they　were　scoundrels；　these　great　men；　is　a　perfect　idiot。　It　was　the　descendants　of　Cosimo　who　took　care　of　Leonardo　da　Vinci；　Michelangelo　and　artists　without　count。　And　it　was　all　because　a　banker；　a　moneylender　if　you　will；　thought　it　splendid　and　good　to　give　beauty　and　magnificence　to　the　city　of　Florence。
　I'll　e　back　to　Cosimo　at　the　right　point；　and　only　for　a　few　brief　words；　though　I　must　confess　I　am　having　trouble　being　brief　here　on　any　score；　but　for　now　let　me　say　that　Cosimo　belongs　to　the　living。　I　have　been　in　bed　with　the　dead　since　1450。
　Now　to　tell　how　it　began；　but　allow　me　one　more　preface。
　Don't　look　here；　please；　for　antique　language。　You　will　not　find　a　rigid　fabricated　English　meant　to　conjure　castle　walls　by　stilted　diction　and　constricted　vocabulary。　I　shall　tell　my　tale　naturally　and　effectively；　wallowing　in　words；　for　I　love　them。　And；　being　an　immortal；　I　have　devoured　over　four　centuries　of　English；　from　the　plays　of　Christopher　Marlowe　and　Ben　Jonson　to　the　abrupt　and　harshly　evocative　words　of　a　Sylvester　Stallone　movie。
　You'll　find　me　flexible；　daring；　and　now　and　then　a　shock。　But　what　can　I　do　but　draw　upon　the　fullest　descriptive　power　I　can　mand；　and　mark　that　English　now　is　no　more　the　language　of　one　land；　or　even　two　or　three　or　four；　but　has　bee　the　language　of　all　the　modern　world　from　the　backwoods　of　Tennessee　to　the　most　remote　Celtic　isles　and　down　under　to　the　teeming　cities　of　Australia　and　New　Zealand。
　I　am　Renaissance…born。　Therefore　I　delve　in　all；　and　blend　without　prejudice；　and　that　some　higher　good　pertains　to　what　I　do；　I　cannot　doubt。
　As　for　my　native　Italian；　hear　it　softly　when　you　say　my　name；　Vittorio；　and　breathe　it　like　perfume　from　the　other　names　which　are　sprinkled　throughout　this　text。　It　is；　beneath　all；　a　language　so　sweet　as　to　make　of　the　English　word　〃stone〃　three　syllables：　pi…ea…tra。　There　has　never　been　a　gentler　language　on　earth。　I　speak　all　other　tongues　with　the　Italian　accent　you'll　hear　in　the　streets　of　Florence　today。
　And　that　my　English…speaking　victims　find　my　blandishments　so　pretty；　accented　as　they　are；　and　yield　to　my　soft　lustrous　Italian　pronunciations；　is　a　constant　source　of　bliss　for　me。　But　I　am　not　happy。　Don't　think　so。　I　wouldn't　write　a　book　to　tell　you　that　a　vampire　was　happy。
　I　have　a　brain　as　well　as　a　heart；　and　there　hovers　about　me　an　etheric　visage　of　myself；　created　most　definitely　by　some　Higher　Power；　and　entangled　pletely　within　the　intangible　weave　of　that　etheric　visage　is　what　men　call　a　soul。　I　have　such。　No　amount　of　blood　can　drown　away　its　life　and　leave　me　but　a　thriving　revenant。
　Okay。　No　problem。　Yes；　yes。　Thank　you！　…　as　everybody　in　the　entire　world　can　say　in　English。　We're　ready　to　begin。
　Except　I　want　to　give　you　a　quote　from　an　obscure　but　wonderful　writer；　Sheridan　Le　Fanu；　a　paragraph　spoken　in　extreme　angst　by　a　haunted　character　in　one　of　his　many　exquisitely　written　ghost　stories。　This　author；　a　native　of　Dublin；　died　in　1873；　but　mark　how　fresh　is　this　language；　and　how　horrifying　the　expression　of　the　character　Captain　Barton　in　the　story　called　〃The　Familiar〃：
　Whatever　may　be　my　uncertainty　as　to　the　authenticity　of　what　we　are　taught　to　call　revelation；　of　one　fact　I　am　deeply　and　horribly　convinced；　that　there　does　exist　beyond　this　a　spiritual　world　…　a　system　whose　workings　are　generally　in　mercy　hidden　from　us　…　a　system　which　may　be；　and　which　is　sometimes；　partially　and　terribly　revealed。　I　am　sure　…　I　know。。。　that　there　is　a　God　…　a　dreadful　God　…　and　that　retribution　follows　guilt；　in　ways　th