iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第1部分

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tern　printing。　Fewer　copies　of　it　survive　today　than　do　copies　of　the　Gutenberg　Bible。　Scholars　continue　to　debate　the　identity　and　intent　of　the　Hypnerotomachia's　mysterious　author；　Francesco　Colonna。　Only　in　December　of　1999；　five　hundred　years　after　the　original　text　was　printed；　and　months　after　the　events　depicted　in　The　Rule　of　Four；　did　the　first　plete　English　translation　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　appear　in　print。
　
　Gentle　reader；　hear　Poliphilo　tell　of　his　dreams；
　Dreams　sent　by　the　highest　heaven。
　You　will　not　waste　your　labour；　nor　will　listening　irk　you；
　For　this　wonderful　work　abounds　in　so　many　things。
　If；　grave　and　dour；　you　despise　love…stories；
　Know；　I　pray；　that　things　are　well　ordered　herein。
　You　refuse？　But　at　least　the　style；　with　its　novel　language；
　Grave　discourse　and　wisdom；　mands　attention。
　If　you　refuse　this；　too；　note　the　geometry；
　The　many　ancient　things　expressed　in　Nilotic　signs　。　。　。
　Here　you　will　see　the　perfect　palaces　of　kings；
　The　worship　of　nymphs；　fountains　and　rich　banquets。
　The　guards　dance；　dressed　in　motley；　and　the　whole
　Of　human　life　is　expressed　in　dark　labyrinths。
　
　…Anonymous　Elegy　to　the　Reader；
　Hypnerotomachia　Poliphili
　
　Prologue
　
　Like　many　of　us；　I　think；　my　father　spent　the　measure　of　his　life　piecing　together　a　story　he　would　never　understand。　That　story　began　almost　five　centuries　before　I　left　for　college；　and　ended　long　after　he　died。　On　a　night　in　November　of　1497；　two　messengers　rode　on　horseback　from　the　shadows　of　the　Vatican　to　a　church　named　San　Lorenzo；　outside　the　city　walls　of　Rome。　What　happened　that　night　changed　their　fortunes；　and　my　father　believed　it　might　change　his　own。
　I　never　made　much　of　his　beliefs。　A　son　is　the　promise　that　time　makes　to　a　man；　the　guarantee　every　father　receives　that　whatever　he　holds　dear　will　someday　be　considered　foolish；　and　that　the　person　he　loves　best　in　the　world　will　misunderstand　him。　But　my　father；　a　Renaissance　scholar；　was　never　shy　about　the　possibility　of　rebirth。　He　told　the　story　of　the　two　messengers　so　often　that　I　could　never　forget　it；　try　as　I　might。　He　sensed；　I　see　now；　that　there　was　a　lesson　in　it；　a　truth　that　would　finally　bind　us。
　The　messengers　had　been　sent　to　San　Lorenzo　to　deliver　a　nobleman's　letter；　which　they　were　warned　under　pain　of　death　not　to　open。　The　letter　was　sealed　four　times　in　dark　wax；　and　purported　to　contain　a　secret　my　father　would　later　spend　three　decades　trying　to　discover。　But　darkness　had　fallen　on　Rome　in　those　days；　her　honor　had　e　and　gone；　and　not　yet　e　again。　A　starry　sky　was　still　painted　on　the　ceiling　of　the　Sistine　Chapel；　and　apocalyptic　rains　had　flooded　the　Tiber　River；　on　whose　shores　had　appeared；　old　widows　claimed；　a　monster　with　the　body　of　a　woman　and　the　head　of　an　ass。　The　two　greedy　horsemen；　Rodrigo　and　Donato；　did　not　heed　their　master's　warning。　They　heated　the　wax　seals　with　a　candle；　then　opened　the　letter　to　learn　its　contents。　Before　leaving　for　San　Lorenzo；　they　resealed　the　letter　perfectly；　copying　the　nobleman's　stamp　with　such　care　that　the　tampering　must　have　been　impossible　to　see。　Had　their　master　not　been　a　much　wiser　man；　the　two　couriers　would　surely　have　survived。
　For　it　wasn't　the　seals　that　would　undo　Rodrigo　and　Donato。　It　was　the　heavy　black　wax　in　which　those　seals　had　been　pressed。　When　they　arrived　at　San　Lorenzo；　the　messengers　were　met　by　a　mason　who　knew　what　was　in　the　wax：　an　extract　from　a　poisonous　herb　called　deadly　nightshade；　which；　when　applied　to　the　eyes；　dilates　the　pupils。　Today　the　pound　is　used　medicinally；　but　in　those　days　it　was　used　by　Italian　women　as　a　cosmetic　drug；　because　large　pupils　were　considered　a　mark　of　beauty。　It　was　this　practice　that　earned　the　plant　its　other　name：　〃beautiful　woman；〃　or　belladonna。　As　Rodrigo　and　Donato　melted　and　re…melted　each　seal；　then；　the　smoke　from　the　burning　wax　took　hold。　Upon　their　arrival　at　San　Lorenzo；　the　mason　brought　them　to　a　candelabra　near　the　altar。　When　their　pupils　failed　to　contract；　he　knew　what　they　had　done。　And　though　the　men　struggled　to　recognize　him　through　their　unfocused　eyes；　the　mason　did　as　he'd　been　told：　he　took　his　sword　and　beheaded　them。　It　was　a　test　of　trust；　his　master　said；　and　the　messengers　had　failed。
　　
　What　became　of　Rodrigo　and　Donato；　my　father　learned　in　a　document　he　discovered　just　before　he　died。　The　mason　covered　the　men's　bodies　and　drew　them　from　the　church；　sopping　up　their　blood　with　cheesecloth　and　rags。　The　heads　he　placed　in　two　saddlebags　on　either　side　of　his　mount；　the　bodies　he　slung　across　the　backs　of　Donato's　and　Rodrigo's　own　horses；　and　hitched　them　in　tow　to　his　own。　He　found　the　letter　in　Donato's　pocket；　and　burned　it；　for　it　was　a　fake；　and　there　was　no　true　recipient。　Then；　before　leaving；　he　crouched　in　penitence　before　the　church；　horrified　by　the　sin　he　had　mitted　for　his　master。　In　his　eyes；　the　six　columns　of　San　Lorenzo　formed　black　teeth　from　the　openings　in　between；　and　the　simple　mason　admitted　that　he　trembled　when　he　saw　this；　for　as　a　child　at　the　widows'　knees　he　had　learned　how　the　poet　Dante　had　seen　hell；　and　how　the　punishment　of　the　greatest　sinners　was　to　be　chewed　forever　in　the　jaws　of　lo　'mperador　del　doloroso　regno。
　Maybe　old　Saint　Lawrence　stared　up　from　his　grave　finally；　seeing　the　blood　on　the　poor　man's　hands；　and　forgave　him。　Or　maybe　there　was　no　forgiveness　to　be　had；　and　like　the　saints　and　martyrs　of　today；　Lawrence　was　inscrutably　silent。　Later　that　night　the　mason　followed　his　master's　orders　and　brought　the　bodies　of　Rodrigo　and　Donato　to　a　butcher。　The　fate　of　their　carcasses；　it's　probably　best　not　to　guess。　Their　parts　were　tossed　into　the　streets　and　collected　by　the　dustcarts；　I　hope；　or　eaten　by　dogs　before　they　could　find　themselves　baked　into　a　pie。
　But　the　butcher　found　another　use　for　the　two　men's　heads。　A　baker　in　town；　a　man　with　a　touch　of　the　devil　in　him；　bought　the　heads　from　the　butcher　and　placed　them　in　his　own　oven　as　he　left　for　the　night。　It　was　a　custom　in　those　days　for　the　local　widows　to　borrow　the　bakers'　ovens　after　dark；　while　the　day's　embers　were　still　hot；　and　when　the　women　arrived；　they　shrieked　and　nearly　fainted　at　the　sight　of　what　they　found。
　At　first　it　seems　a　low　fate；　to　be　used　as　fodder　for　a　trick　on　old　crones。　But　I　imagine　a　much　greater　fame　came　to　Donato　and　Rodrigo　in　the　way　they　died　than　ever　would've　e　to　them　in　life。　For　the　widows　in　every　civilization　are　the　keepers　of　its　memory；　and　the　ones　who　found　the　heads　in　the　baker's　oven　surely　never　forgot。　Even　when　the　baker　confessed　to　what　he'd　done；　the　widows　must've　kept　telling　the　story　of　their　discovery　to　Rome's　children；　who；　for　a　generation；　remembered　the　tale　of　the　miraculous　heads　as　vividly　as　they　did　the　monster　coughed　up　by　the　Tiber　floods。
　And　though　the　story　of　the　two　messengers　would　eventually　be　forgotten；　a　single　thing　remains　beyond　doubt。　The　mason　did　his　job　well。　Whatever　his　master's　secret　was；　it　never　left　San　Lorenzo。　The　morning　after　Donato　and　Rodrigo　were　murdered；　as　the　dustcart　men　heaped　filth　and　innards　into　their　barrows；　little　notice　was　taken　that　two　men　were　dead。　The　slow　progress　of　beauty　into　decay　into　beauty　continued；　and　like　the　serpent's　teeth　that　Cadmus　sowed；　the　blood　of　evil　watered　Roman　earth　and　brought　about　rebirth。　Five　hundred　years　would　elapse　before　anyone　discovered　the　truth。　When　those　five　centuries　passed；　and　death　found　a　new　pair　of　messengers；　I　was　finishing　my　last　year　of　college　at　Princeton。
　
　Chapter　1
　
　Strange　thing；　time。　It　weighs　most　on　those　who　have　it　least。　Nothing　is　lighter　than　being　young　with　the　world　on　your　shoulders；　it　gives　you　a　feeling　of　possibility　so　seductive；　you　know　there　must　be　something　more　important　you　could　be　doing　than　studying　for　exams。
　I　can　see　myself　now；　the　night　it　all　began。　I'm　lying　back　on　the　old　red　sofa　in　our　dorm　room；　wrestling　with　Pavlov　and　his　dogs　in　my　introductory　psychology　book；　wondering　why　I　never　fulfilled　my　science　requirement　as　a　freshman　like　everyone　else。　A　pair　of　letters　sits　on　the　coffee　table　in　front　of　me；　each　containing　a　vision　of　what　I　could　be　doing　next　year。　The　night　of　Good　Friday　has　fallen；　cold　April　in　Princeton；　New　Jersey；　and　with　only　a　month　of　college　left　I'm　no　different　from　anyone　else　in　the　class　of　1999：　I'm　having　trouble　getting　my　mind　off　the　future。
　Charlie　is　sitting　on　the　floor　by　the　cube　refrigerator；　playing　with　the　Magnetic　Shakespeare　someone　left　in　our　room　last　week。　The　Fitzgerald　novel　he's　supposed　to　be　reading　for　his　final　paper　in　English　151w　is　spread　open　on　the　floor　with　its　spine　broken；　like　a　butterfly　somebody　stepped　on；　and　he's　forming　and　re…forming　sentences　from　magnets　with　Shakespearean　words　on　them。　If　you　ask　him　why　he's　not　reading　Fitzgerald；　he'll　grunt　and　say　there's　no　point。　As　far　as　he's　concerned；　literature　is　just　an　educated　man's　shell　game；　three…card　monte　for　the　college　crowd：　what　you　see　is　never　what　you　get。　For　a　science…minded　guy　like　Charlie；　that's　the　height　of　perversity。　He's　headed　for　medi