immortal person

"So," said Lorenzo, "how are you doing?"

"I'm fine," replied Giovanni.

They walked slowly along the garden path.Ivy and winter jasmine meander weave the green corridors and pergola on both sides, and a kind of sweet-smelling shrubs are symmetrically planted below, with fine white flowers hidden in the leaves, as round as pearls.Giovanni could not recognize their species, but guessed that they were rare and exotic species from distant continents.Near noon, the wind blows away the coolness of early spring, and the sun presses down warmly, printing their shadows on the cobblestone road.The distance between the two figures was about one cubit, a discreet enough distance, just suitable for the monarch and his subjects reunited after a long absence.

The gardener who was trimming the branches in the distance heard their voices, saluted the Duke from a distance, and then raised his flower hoe to Giovanni.

"Boy," he said loudly, "Long time no see, finally back!"

"Look who this is?" echoed the woman with the basket under the fruit tree, waving her arms at him. "What did I say? I said he'd come back!—When did you go to town, Jo?" ?”

Giovanni smiled back at them.His former workshop was on the side of the colonnade facing the garden, and he used to help the old gardener tend the flowers and trees during his break.From a distance, he saw the lush boxwood forest behind the fountain, some of which were planted by him in the past, and now they are more than ten inches taller.

He noticed many small changes.The crimson heather arranged in the family name replaced the original white camellia beside the bronze statue of Bacchus; two rows of Turkish oaks were planted next to the fig tree, which he guessed was also a gift from the fleet; there was only one in the main fountain. Neptune, now surrounded by his daughters, water leaps from their raised clay pots, shining like silver in the sun.Who made these new statues for Lorenzo? —Have they, like him, been admired by the duke?

Secretly and cautiously, he shifted his gaze to Lorenzo's side face again: the Duke is not always the same.He observes him as carefully as a painter observes his copy.This time he noticed more details. Lorenzo no longer tied his hair, and his dark golden curly hair fell naturally on his shoulders; his once plump cheeks were slightly sunken downwards, making his face a bit more solemn and dignified. discreet.He also smiled at the gardener and the maid, and then he noticed Giovanni's gaze, which softened from the tension and fell on the young man's cheek.

"Tell me about you," said Lorenzo.

"What do you mean?"

"All," said Lorenzo. "Where did you go, what did you do, who did you meet?—I'm curious. Please don't feel restrained."

Giovanni took a deep breath.His experience in the past five years is not lacking, and is even rich enough to be compiled into a travel songbook.He chose the starting point of the story carefully, knowing that this must be the part that interested Lorenzo.In the first year, he traveled east along the city-states large and small, passing through Bologna, Ferrara, and Ravenna.After raising enough travel expenses, he boarded a Venetian merchant ship and traveled across the ocean to Greece.The golden age of Hesiod has long since ceased to exist. What he witnessed with his own eyes were the decaying ruins of temples and acropolis in the Iron Age. Only the mountains, rivers and seas remained as before, thick, silent and serene.He traveled all over most of Greece, stroked the original names of Pallas and Minerva, and searched for the places where they appeared in mythology.In the huge shadow of the pillar, he drew a whole box of sketches for the ancient gods from thousands of years ago. Even though the drawing papers were scattered everywhere in the end, the ancient images have been melted into his eyes.

"Is the Aegean Sea really that beautiful?"

"It is indeed magnificent, Your Highness."

"I have only seen the sea of ​​Venice. The turbid blue waves and the dragging gondolas make the waterway look like the Arno River," Lorenzo said. "The Aegean Sea—the sea that gave birth and buried heroes , I really want to see it with my own eyes.”

Giovanni smiled. "Someday, you will," he said.

"Maybe. It's too difficult." Lorenzo shook his head. "Florence is my Bethlehem, and it will also be my Calvary. I'm not a free man like you. It's really enviable."

During the interval of the conversation, Lorenzo also watched Giovanni quietly.The young man has completely grown-up features, with melancholy and resolute temperament mixed on his body.Once upon a time—it seemed like a long time ago—a boy was as silent as a clam in a fish market, and it took a lot of effort to pry his shell open.But he also became talkative when he talked about certain subjects, and his gray eyes were startlingly bright, like stars or diamonds or something brilliant.But now he can talk to people gracefully and freely, if he puts on a brocade robe, he is a most qualified courtier.

What - who polished him?he thinks.

"I heard that you have never withdrawn money from the bank," Lorenzo looked ahead. "So, what kind of life do you live?"

The badge from when we parted was still at the bottom of the Arno River, and now it is probably a piece of scrap iron.Giovanni was silent for a moment, then said, "Most of the time, it's fine."

"Other times?"

"Difficulties are inevitable," he replied.

Lorenzo looked at him sideways, with a trace of warmth in his eyes.

"You know I'd love to hear it."

When Medici was no longer his patron, Giovanni Buonarroti was known to the world as a young sculptor with a little fame.After leaving this layer of armor, he discovered the true face of the world in which he lived.Vulgar, greedy, and evil century, a priest once criticized this era in this way, and he witnessed the scars of Italy with his own eyes.In the first year, when he was lucky, he was able to take on small orders, making lovely statues of Cupids or cherubs; Rich people read poetry for pay, and his knowledge of Latin and Greek was enough to make him a scholar by the rare.However, in those city-states where wars are frequent, knowledge and art are despised as much. People remove famous paintings and oak frames from the wall and throw them into the fireplace to burn for warmth; send bronze colossi into the furnace and cast them into cannons on the city wall. cylinder.Occasionally, well-wishers allowed him to sleep under their dripping porches, warming himself with old blankets and iron braziers and eating food fit only for a hangman.

He talked about the past briefly and sparingly, avoiding any unnecessary sympathy.Lorenzo stopped immediately and looked back at him: "It's like this in the city—and when it's worse? When it's in the wild?"

He even looked a little angry: "Like St. John in the wasteland, eating locusts and wild honey?"

"It's not that bad."

"is it?"

During the somewhat abrupt time, Giovanni did not speak.

"It's over," he said.

"A friend of the Medici family shouldn't have to suffer like this," Lorenzo said. "This is not the life you deserve."

For an instant he seemed to want to take a step closer to Giovanni.Giovanni watched his curled fingers, and Lorenzo looked as if he was about to grab his collar.He stared closely at the young man in front of him, their gazes collided in the air—even so, are you unwilling to accept my gift?Why not write back?However, there is no need to ask these questions, the reasons for his self-imposed exile are equally clear to both of them.

This is not a time for rehashing old stories.When the bell suddenly rang at noon, they were startled like pigeons in the square, and they looked away suddenly.Lorenzo shook his head silently.

"and you?"

He turned around.Giovanni watched him intently, his eyes still gentle: "What did you do?"

Subtly, Lorenzo breathed a sigh of relief.He smiled: "It's right in front of you."

He pushed aside the branches and leaves of boxwood in front of him.

A massive marble arch loomed before them.Behind the green trees are several domed buildings and auditoriums built in the style of the Pantheon.Giovanni raised his head slightly and saw the Greek inscription on the top of the stone door: Virtue is knowledge.

This is Socrates' maxim, of course he knows it.Immediately, he immediately understood what this place was——

The ancient academy was revived in front of him at this moment.

They took a step forward.Several young students with books in their arms appeared in front of them and greeted Lorenzo in unison.An old man with a thick white beard came afterward, and Lorenzo smiled and called out his name, "Valence", and Giovanni realized that he was the Byzantine university student with the same name as the emperor.They watched the teachers and students sit down on the other side of the green space together, spreading the scrolls on their knees.The air was mild and pleasant, smelling of apple blossoms, and Giovanni heard them begin to read the Phaedo.Rooks and sparrows flew down from the treetops and stalked beside them with their heads held high.

Scattered string music came from a distance, from which he could distinguish the timbre of harp and lyre, which were as clear and bright as running water.Lorenzo signaled him to move forward, and followed him through the colonnade with jagged green shadows, to the place where the music came from.The students were wearing white robes, sitting cross-legged on the mirror-like marble floor, playing chords following the instruction of the instructor.From the shape of the brow and cheekbones, the elder teacher was clearly Greek.This is the school where he teaches, and his skills are not limited to music - the room above is painted with lifelike star maps, and in the corner is an instrument for astrology, a silver orb resting on a copper ring. It turns continuously for a moment.

When they saw the man coming, they smiled at the Duke.Lorenzo raised his hand to indicate that they did not need to salute, and turned to Giovanni: "Our first students."

"When did it start?"

"Two years ago."

Giovanni nodded.In the year he left, the foundation of the Academy in Florence had just been laid, and it took only three years to build the building to its current scale and attract scholars from all over the world. This is a remarkable achievement.Plato once tried to train Dionysus to be a "philosopher king", but he was in vain, but Lorenzo had at least half done it--the appearance of Lorenzo pointing at the wasteland on the roof appeared in front of his eyes, and The dream of yesteryear is now a reality, even better than the dream.

He looked at Lorenzo, and the Duke was looking back at him with a smile on his lips.

"Come with me," he said, "there's a place I want you to see."

They came to the facade of the building.The attendant pushed open the heavy bronze door, and with a muffled "squeak", the sunlight instantly leaked into the main hall unreservedly.Giovanni recognized the familiar architectural style here at a glance—it undoubtedly belonged to Bertoldo, and only he could combine majesty and elegance so naturally.Huge and magnificent murals are painted on the walls, depicting the prosperous scene of the academy thousands of years ago. Plato and Aristotle stand in the center of the picture, holding scrolls in their hands, looking at the people coming from a distance; Stretch up, like an archangel spreading its wings.In the middle of them is a trapezoidal high platform made of blue marble, which is empty, as if waiting to be crowned.

Geometric lines were engraved in his eyes for a long time.Giovanni stood in the middle of the hall, his soul trembling with the breeze.He reached out and stroked the marble platform lightly.

"... Your Highness," he said with a sigh.

He tried his best to suppress the enthusiasm in his voice, and suddenly turned around, staring at Lorenzo intently.Behind him, the sun covered the ground where Lorenzo was standing like gold leaf.As if unsurprised by his reaction, the Duke just smiled.The gaze she looked at him was the same as it was seven years ago.

"Signor Giovanni Buonarroti," he said softly, "I have an order for you."

In a trance, he seemed to have returned to a moment ago.He heard Valens recite the chapters of the book in a Socratic tone: "If you tried to describe my mood, what words would you use?"

"—happy." His students answered in unison.

The author has something to say:

Fixed a low-level error.The last passage is quoted from Plato's Phaedo.