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re 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 gre