I had a worried childhood. In our small group, I came into contact with those poor children in Florence, businessmen, orphans in monastic institutions, and other boys did the same in my time, feudal landlords, and you had to blend in with people.
When I was a child, I used to sneak into the room, just like I slipped into the castle later. I remember clearly that the feast of Saints Day also saw the procession of Florence from the eyes of a trained child. I often went into the crowd to see the spectacular decorative floats that paid tribute to the saints and was surprised at the silence of those queues. A group of people were holding candles and slowly moving forward, intoxicated by their devout beliefs.
But I’ve always been a punk. I know I’m a gangster. I run away from the kitchen and pay bribes to servants. I have too many friends. I fight with them and then run home. We play ball in the square. Those priests always threaten to drive us away with rattan. I’m naughty when I listen, but I’m never a bad boy.
When I bid farewell to this world, I was sixteen years old, and I could never see the daytime street again. I couldn’t even see the face without Florence. I will tell you how hard it was for me to see the St. John’s feast. At that time, every single shop in Florence had to put their most expensive pottery. Monks sang the sweetest hymns on the way to the cathedral, and thanked God for the prosperity of the city.
I will continue to tell you that this is the ode to Florence at that time. People devoted themselves to commerce and created the greatest art at the same time. They were also sharp politicians, crazy saints and poets with deep souls. They were ashamed to blame Florence for belonging to their city. I think she had gone through a lot of time at that time before seeing things in Britain and France, and these things are still unknown in some countries today. Two points: Cosmo was the most powerful person in the world, and the people ruled Florence from then on until forever.
Go back to the castle. At that time, I continued to read the shadow that changed from knight to knight in my life. That is, I was sixteen years old and should go to a really big place. I knew this very well and looked forward to it. But once again, I raised new falcons, trained them and took them hunting. For me, the rural customs always had irresistible charm.
When I was sixteen years old, tribal elders thought I was good. They sat around the table every night. Most of them were my parents and uncles. Bankers couldn’t control the world times. They always told wonderful stories about the Crusades. Their youth disappeared in the cruel battle of Arik. They saw everything or fought in Cyprus or Rhodes, lived in the sea and counted exotic ports. They indulged in the horror of wine, wine and wine.
My mother is brave and beautiful, with long brown hair and green eyes. She loves country life more than I do, but she knows more about Florence than I do about reading Dante’s poems or writing something. She thinks it’s wrong.
She does everything except receive guests with a cordial ceremony, see lavender, fragrant herbs scattered all over the floor, see wine brewed or an uncle who is good at dancing leads the dance, because my father is not good at it.
And all this is more boring to me than being away from Florence. Think about those war stories.
She must have been very young when she married my father, because the night she died, her children were together, and she died together, but I will talk about it soon. I will try my best. I am not good at brevity.
My brother Mateobi is four years younger than me. He is an excellent student, although he has not been sent to school to return to my sister Bartola. She was born less than a year after I was born. I think my father will be ashamed to say this.
My heart goes out to Mateo Baltola, the two of them are the cutest and most interesting guys in the world. We are enjoying the fun in the countryside. The countryside is chasing blackberries in the forest. Before the gypsies are caught and dismissed, we will sit at the feet of storytellers. We adore each other. Because I have better eloquence than my father, he has never seen his father’s strength or his fine antiques. I guess I am Mateo’s real teacher. I taught him everything in Bartola. She is much wilder than my mother. When we run in the Woods, those mud leaves and petals are always covered with her braids. Her hair will always
However, Bartola was also forced to embroider a lot. She was familiar with her poems and prayers. She was too elegant and rich to try anything. My father loved her more than once. He asked me to look after her in a woodland. I went to kill someone who approached her.
Ah, but this is too much for me. I don’t know how difficult it is to do this. Bartola killed someone close to her. Now the nightmare is over, just like the winged elves show that it is difficult to be silent. Once the light of heaven was annihilated.
Let my thoughts come back
I never really knew my mother, maybe I misjudged because I looked at her for everything, and my father had become hysterical at that time. I was a satirist, and he was always ridiculous.
In fact, he is very cynical when he jokes about making up stories, but at the same time, he looks at the world through flattery from others. He thinks that there is no future for mankind. For him, war is ridiculous. No heroes are all clowns fooling around. He will burst out laughing in the middle of his uncle’s long lecture. I never thought he would carefully tell his mother a polite word.
He is a tall man, shaving long hair, and he has beautiful long fingers. He doesn’t deserve it because his parents have thick palms, and I have the same hands. He wears beautiful rings and comes to his mother.
His ornaments are more luxurious than those he wore in Florence. Many imperial velvet pearls stitched white mink cloaks. His hands are made of real fox skin and long gloves. His eyes are bigger and dignified, darker than mine. They are full of ridicule, suspicion and irony, but he is not bad for everyone.
His only modern habit is to drink in his delicate tall glass instead of those old hardwood or gold and silver wine lamps, so a lot of sparkling glass always fills our long dining table.
My mother always smiles and tells him that my master holds your feet on the table or please don’t touch me unless you wash your greasy hands, or do you really want to come into the house like this? But in her charming appearance, I think she hates him.
Once I heard that she was angry and assured that half the children in our village were his descendants, and she had buried a baby who had never seen the light because he was no stronger than an estrus stallion.
He was very surprised at the leak. It was a secret. He came from the bedroom pale and shocked. He said to me, you know Vittorio, your mother is not really as stupid as I thought. No, the fact is that she is very interesting.
He is never scared of her at the moment.
When I tried to go in and look for her, she picked up a silver pitcher and threw it at me. Mom, it’s Vittorio. She ran into my arms and cried for fifteen minutes.
At that time, we didn’t say anything. We sat together in her small stone bedroom at the top of our oldest tower, where there were many ancient and modern gold-plated furniture. Later, she dried her tears and said to me, you know he takes care of everyone. You know he takes care of my aunt and uncle. Where would they be now without him? He never refused my request.
In her soft and obedient voice, she said slowly, look at this room full of wisdom, which is good for the children. It’s all because of your father. I guess where his money goes, but he’s too good. Vittorio doesn’t want it. I mean a girl in the village
In a strong impulse to comfort her, I almost told her that I had an illegitimate child so far, and he was not bad, but I soon realized that it was definitely a disaster for her, so I closed my mouth.
It may have been the only communication my mother had, but it wasn’t a real conversation because I didn’t say anything.
As far as she is concerned, she is to her three aunts and two uncles. We live together in our tall city walls. These old people live well, wear the latest brocade and luxury ornaments in the city and enjoy the most perfect pure country life imaginable. I finally benefited from their teaching because they always know a lot of things.
So are my fathers and uncles, but of course this is their territory, their family, and I think they are more entitled to all this because they fought bravely in the holy land. It seems that, from the taste of dinner patties to the wild modernist style of painters who decorated our chapel from Florence, their fathers are always arguing about everything.
Those painters are another fashionable thing for him. Apart from glass, this is probably the only thing that touches his modernity.
Our chapel has been around for centuries, surrounded by four towers in our castle. The most common golden rock construction in northern Tuscany is not black stone everywhere in Florence. It is always hazy and gray, and the northern rock is almost the lightest pink rose color.
When I was very young, my father brought Piero della Francesca from Florence and worked with other excellent painters. They drew murals from the wonderful stories of saints, biblical giants and decorated those chapels.
My father didn’t have a rich imagination. He imitated everything he saw in Florence church. Those people painted John the Baptist, the patron saint of the city, the Christian brother. In the last few years of my life, our chapel was surrounded by St. Elizabeth, St. John, Saint Anne, the Virgin of St. Zachary. Everyone wore the best Florentine silk twill of that era.
This is the modern painting strongly opposed by my old aunts and uncles. They are completely different from the rigid lines of Giotto or Chimabee, and I don’t think the villagers can really understand that it is an important wedding or baptism. They may be shocked by those murals.
When I spent time together, the artists watched them paint, and I was very happy. When my life ended with the slaughter of demons, they also left.
Because of my wandering preference, I have seen many of the best paintings in Florence to see the wonderful scene of the saints in the Catholic church of the rich. Once, when my father went to Florence and stayed at Cosimo’s house, I saw the fanatical painter Philip Libby 3. At that time, he finished a painting and locked himself in the house.
I was attracted by this pale man, and he argued about the way of planning. He did everything except get angry. At this time, the thin Zhuang Yan Ke Zimo smiled and talked him out of hysteria more or less and told him that he would be relieved once he finished.
Philip Libby is a monk, but everyone knows that he is obsessed with women. You will say that he is the luckiest villain. It is because of women that he left the palace. Later, it was at our host’s table in Florence. This also suggested that Cosimo should put several women Philip together. Maybe this will make him feel better, but I don’t think Cosimo would do such a thing. If he did, his political opponents would become headlines in Florence.
Let me make a mark, which is very important, because it was still there at that time and he is a genius to me now.
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