iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第27部分

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　〃Did　you　see　the　person　who　fell？〃　he　asks　quietly　once　we're　on　our　way。
　〃I　couldn't　see　anything。〃
　〃You　don't　think。　。　。〃　Gil　shifts　forward　in　his　seat。
　〃Think　what？〃
　〃Should　we　call　Paul　and　make　sure　he's　okay？〃
　Gil　hands　me　his　cell　phone；　but　there's　no　service。
　〃I'm　sure　he's　fine；〃　I　say；　fidgeting　with　the　phone。
　We　hang　in　the　silence　of　the　cabin　for　several　minutes；　trying　to　drive　the　possibility　out　of　our　minds。　Finally　Gil　forces　the　conversation　elsewhere。
　〃Tell　me　about　your　trip；〃　he　says。　I'd　flown　to　Columbus　earlier　in　the　week　to　celebrate　finishing　my　thesis。　〃How　was　home？〃
　We　manage　a　patchy　conversation；　hopping　from　topic　to　topic；　trying　to　stay　above　the　current　of　our　thoughts。　I　tell　him　the　latest　news　about　my　older　sisters；　one　a　veterinarian；　the　other　applying　for　a　business　degree；　and　Gil　asks　about　my　mother；　whose　birthday　he's　remembered。　He　tells　me　that；　despite　all　the　time　he　devoted　to　planning　the　ball；　his　thesis　still　managed　to　get　written　in　those　last　days　before　the　economics　department　deadline；　when　I　was　gone。　Gradually　we　wonder　aloud　where　Charlie　has　been　accepted　to　medical　school；　guessing　where　he　intends　to　go；　since　these　are　matters　about　which　Charlie　is　modestly　silent；　even　to　us。
　We　bear　south；　and　in　the　murky　night　the　dormitories　hunker　on　either　side。　News　of　what　happened　at　the　chapel　must　be　spreading　through　campus；　because　no　pedestrians　are　visible；　and　the　only　other　cars　sit　silently　in　lots　on　the　shoulder。　The　drive　down　to　the　parking　lot；　a　half　mile　beyond　Dod；　feels　almost　as　long　as　the　slow　walk　back　up。　Paul　is　nowhere　to　be　seen。
　
　Chapter　12
　
　There's　an　old　saw　in　Frankenstein　scholarship　that　the　monster　is　a　metaphor　for　the　novel。　Mary　Shelley；　who　was　nineteen　when　she　began　writing　the　book；　encouraged　that　interpretation　by　calling　it　her　hideous　progeny；　a　dead　thing　with　a　life　of　its　own。　Having　lost　a　child　at　seventeen；　and　having　caused　her　own　mother's　death　in　childbirth；　she　must　have　known　what　she　meant　by　it。
　For　a　time　I　thought　Mary　Shelley　was　all　my　thesis　subject　had　in　mon　with　Paul's：　she　and　the　Roman　Francesco　Colonna　（who　was　only　fourteen；　some　scholars　argued；　when　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　written）　made　a　pretty　couple；　two　teenagers　wise　beyond　their　years。　To　me；　in　those　months　before　I　met　Katie；　Mary　and　Francesco　were　time…crossed　lovers；　equally　young　in　different　ages。　To　Paul；　standing　nose　to　nose　with　the　scholars　of　my　father's　generation；　they　were　an　emblem　of　youth's　power　against　the　obstinate　momentum　of　age。
　Oddly　enough；　it　was　by　arguing　that　Francesco　Colonna　was　an　older　man；　not　a　younger　one；　that　Paul　made　his　first　headway　against　the　Hypnerotomachia。　He'd　e　to　Taft　freshman　year　as　a　bare　novice；　and　the　ogre　could　smell　my　father's　influence　on　him。　Though　he　claimed　to　have　retired　from　studying　the　ancient　book；　Taft　was　eager　to　show　Paul　the　foolishness　of　my　father's　theories。　Still　favoring　the　notion　of　a　Venetian　Colonna；　he　explained　the　strongest　piece　of　evidence　in　favor　of　the　Pretender。
　The　Hypnerotomachia　was　published　in　1499；　Taft　said；　when　the　Roman　Colonna　was　forty…five　years　old；　that　much　was　unproblematic。　But　the　final　page　of　the　actual　story；　which　Colonna　posed　himself；　states　that　the　book　was　written　in　1467…when　my　father's　Francesco　would　only　have　been　fourteen。　However　unlikely　it　was　that　a　criminal　monk　had　written　the　Hypnerotomachia；　then；　it　was　outright　impossible　for　a　teenager　to　have　done　it。
　And　so；　like　the　curmudgeonly　king　inventing　new　labors　for　young　Hercules；　Taft　left　it　to　Paul　to　shoulder　the　burden　of　proof。　Until　his　new　protégé　could　shrug　off　the　problem　of　Colonna's　age；　Taft　refused　to　assist　any　research　premised　on　a　Roman　author。
　It　nearly　defies　explanation；　the　way　Paul　refused　to　buckle　under　the　logic　of　those　facts。　He　found　inspiration　not　only　in　Taft's　challenge；　but　in　Taft　himself：　though　he　rejected　the　man's　rigid　interpretation　of　the　Hypnerotomachia；　he　brought　the　same　relentlessness　to　his　sources。　Whereas　my　father　had　let　inspiration　and　intuition　guide　him；　searching　mainly　in　exotic　locales　like　monasteries　and　papal　libraries；　Paul　adopted　Taft's　more　thorough　approach。　No　book　was　too　humble；　no　location　too　dull。　From　top　to　bottom；　he　began　to　scour　the　Princeton　library　system。　And　slowly　his　early　conception　of　books；　like　a　boy's　conception　of　water　who　has　lived　his　whole　life　by　a　pond；　was　dethroned　by　this　sudden　exposure　to　the　ocean。　Paul's　book　collection；　the　day　he　left　for　college；　numbered　slightly　under　six　hundred。　Princeton's　book　collection；　including　more　than　fifty　miles　of　shelves　in　Firestone　Library　alone；　numbered　well　over　six　million。
　The　experience　daunted　Paul　at　first。　The　quaint　picture　my　father　had　painted；　of　happening　across　key　documents　sheerly　by　accident；　was　instantly　exploded。　More　painful；　I　think；　was　the　questioning　it　forced　onto　Paul；　the　introspection　and　self…doubt　that　made　him　wonder　if　his　genius　was　simply　a　provincial　talent；　a　dull　star　in　a　dark　corner　of　the　sky。　That　upperclassmen　in　his　courses　admitted　he　was　far　beyond　them；　and　that　his　professors　held　him　in　almost　messianic　esteem；　was　nothing　to　Paul　if　he　couldn't　make　headway　on　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Then；　during　his　summer　in　Italy；　all　that　changed。　Paul　discovered　the　work　of　Italian　scholars；　whose　texts　he　was　able　to　wade　through　thanks　to　four　years　of　Latin。　Digging　into　the　definitive　Italian　biography　of　the　Venetian　Pretender；　he　learned　that　some　elements　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　were　indebted　to　a　book　called　Cornucopiae；　published　in　1489。　As　a　detail　in　the　Pretender's　life；　it　seemed　unimportant…but　Paul；　ing　at　the　problem　with　the　Roman　Francesco　in　mind；　saw　much　more　in　it。　No　matter　when　Colonna　claimed　to　have　written　the　book；　there　was　now　proof　that　it　was　posed　after　1489。　By　then；　the　Roman　Francesco　would've　been　at　least　thirty…six；　not　fourteen。　And　while　Paul　couldn't　imagine　why　Colonna　might　lie　about　the　year　he　wrote　the　Hypnerotomachia；　he　realized　that　he'd　answered　Taft's　challenge。　For　better　or　worse；　he　had　entered　my　father's　world。
　What　followed　was　a　period　of　soaring　confidence。　Armed　with　four　languages　（the　fifth；　English；　being　useless　except　for　secondary　sources）　and　with　an　extensive　knowledge　of　Colonna's　life　and　times；　Paul　leapt　into　the　text。　He　gave　more　and　more　of　each　day　to　the　project；　taking　a　stance　toward　the　Hypnerotomachia　that　I　found　unfortably　familiar：　the　pages　were　a　battleground　where　he　and　Colonna　would　match　wits；　winner　take　all。　Vincent　Taft's　influence；　dormant　in　the　months　before　his　trip；　had　returned。　As　Paul's　interest　slowly　took　the　color　of　obsession；　Taft　and　Stein　became　increasingly　prominent　in　his　life。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　the　intervention　of　one　man；　I　think　we　might've　lost　Paul　to　them　entirely。
　That　man　was　Francesco　Colonna；　and　his　book　was　hardly　the　pushover　Paul　had　hoped。　Though　Paul　flexed　his　mental　muscle；　he　found　that　the　mountain　wouldn't　move。　As　his　progress　slowed；　and　the　fall　of　junior　year　darkened　into　winter；　Paul　became　irritable；　quick　with　sharp　ments　and　rude　mannerisms　he　could　only　have　learned　from　Taft。　At　Ivy；　Gil　told　me；　members　began　to　joke　about　Paul　when　he　sat　alone　at　the　dinner　table；　surrounded　by　stacks　of　books；　talking　to　no　one。　The　more　I　watched　his　confidence　dwindle；　the　more　I　understood　something　my　father　had　said　once：　the　Hypnerotomachia　is　a　siren；　a　fetching　song　on　a　distant　shore；　all　claws　and　clutches　in　person。　You　court　her　at　your　risk。
　And　so　it　went。　Spring　came；　coeds　in　tank　tops　tossed　Frisbees　beneath　his　window；　squirrels　and　blossoms　stooped　the　tree　branches；　tennis　balls　echoed　in　play；　and　still　Paul　sat　in　his　room；　alone；　shade　drawn；　door　locked；　with　a　message　on　his　whiteboard　saying　DO　NOT　DISTURB。　All　that　I　loved　about　the　new　season；　he　called　a　distraction…the　smells　and　sounds；　the　sense　of　impatience　after　a　long　and　bookish　winter。　I　knew　that　I　myself　was　being　a　distraction　to　him。　Everything　he　told　me　started　to　sound　like　the　weather　report　from　a　foreign　land。　I　visited　him　little。
　It　took　a　summer　alone　to　change　him。　In　early　September　of　senior　year；　after　three　months　on　an　empty　campus；　he　weled　us　all　back　and　helped　us　move　in。　He　was　suddenly　open　to　interruptions；　eager　to　spend　time　among　friends；　less　fixated　on　the　past。　In　the　opening　months　of　that　semester；　he　and　I　enjoyed　a　renaissance　in　our　friendship　better　than　anything　I　could've　expected。　He　shrugged　off　the　onlookers　at　Ivy　who　hung　on　his　words；　waiting　for　something　outrageous；　he　spent　less　time　with　Taft　and　Stein；　he　savored　meals　and　enjoyed　walks　between　classes。　He　could　even　see　the　humor　in　the　way　garbage　men　emptied　the　Dumpster　beneath　our　window　each　Tuesday　morning　at　seven　o'clock。　I　thought　he　was　better。　More　than　that：　I　thought　he　was　reborn。
　It　was　only　when　Paul　came　to　me　in　October　of　senior　year；　late　one　night　after　our　last　fall　midterms；　that　I　understood　the　other　thing　our　theses　had　in　mon：　both　of　our　subjects　were　dead　thi