anner.bloodandgold(v2)-第65节

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　　　Ah；　such　radiant　sweetness。　Gazing　into　her　oval　eyes；　I　stepped　into　the　paintings　of　Botticelli。　I　held　in　my　hands；　for　reasons　I　could　never　know；　the　dark　perfumed　tresses　of　Zenobia；　gathered　up　in　memory　from　the　floor　of　a　house　on　the　other　side　of　the　world。
　　　〃Bianca；　my　darling；〃　I　said　to　her。　〃I'm　ready　to　open　my　house　if　you　will　receive　for　me。〃　What　a　shock　it　was　to　hear　these　words　e　from　my　own　lips。　I　had　not　known　what　I　meant　to　say。　Yet　on　I　pressed　with　my　dream。　〃I　have　neither　wife　nor　daughter。　e；　open　my　house　to　the　world。〃
　　　The　look　of　triumph　in　her　face　confirmed　it。　I　would　do　it。
　　　〃I　shall　tell　everyone；〃　she　said　immediately。　〃Yes；　I'll　receive　for　you；　I　shall　do　it　proudly；　I　shall　do　it　gladly；　but　surely　you'll　be　there　yourself。〃
　　　〃May　we　open　the　doors　in　the　evening？〃　I　asked　her。　〃It's　my　custom　to　e　in　the　evening。　The　light　of　candles　suits　me　better　than　the　light　of　day。　You　set　the　night　for　it；　Bianca；　and　I　shall　have　my　servants　make　everything　ready。　The　paintings　are　everywhere　now。　You　do　understand　I　offer　nothing　to　anyone。　I　paint　for　my　pleasure。　And　for　my　guests　I'll　have　food　and　drink　as　you　say。〃
　　　How　happy　she　looked。　Off　to　one　side　I　saw　Amadeo　gazing　at　her；　loving　her　somewhat　and　loving　the　sight　of　us　together　though　it　gave　him　pain。
　　　Riccardo　was　being　drawn　into　conversation　by　men　who　were　older　than　he　and　flattered　him　and　loved　his　handsome　face。
　　　〃Tell　me　what　to　lay　out　on　my　tables；〃　I　said　to　Bianca。　〃Tell　me　what　wines　to　serve。　My　servants　shall　be　your　servants。　I　shall　do　everything　as　you　say。〃
　　　〃It's　too　lovely；〃　she　answered。　〃All　of　Venice　will　be　there；　I　promise　you；　you'll　discover　the　most　wonderful　pany。　People　are　so　curious　about　you。　Oh；　how　they　whisper。　You　can't　imagine　what　a　supreme　delight　this　will　be。〃
　　　It　came　about　as　she　described。
　　　Within　the　month　I　opened　the　palazzo　to　the　whole　city。　But　how　different　it　was　from　those　drunken　nights　in　old　Rome　when　people　laid　about　on　my　couches　and　vomited　in　my　gardens　and　I　painted　madly　away　on　the　walls。
　　　Oh；　yes；　when　I　arrived；　how　proper　were　my　finely　clad　Venetian　guests。　Of　course　I　was　asked　a　thousand　questions。　I　let　my　eyes　mist　over。　I　heard　the　mortal　voices　around　me　as　if　they　were　kisses。　I　thought；　You　are　among　them；　it　is　truly　as　if　you　were　one　of　them。　It　is　truly　as　if　you　are　alive。
　　　　　
　　　What　did　it　matter　their　little　criticisms　of　the　paintings？　I　would　strive　to　make　my　work　the　finest；　yes；　truly；　but　what　counted　was　the　vitality；　the　momentum！
　　　And　here　amid　my　best　work　stood　my　lovely　fair…haired　Bianca；　free　for　the　moment　from　those　who　put　her　up　to　her　wrongdoings；　recognized　by　all　as　the　Mistress　of　my　house。
　　　Amadeo　watched　this　with　silent　grudging　eyes。　The　memories　inside　him　tormented　him　like　a　cancer；　yet　he　could　not　see　them　and　know　them　for　what　they　were。
　　　Not　a　month　after；　at　sunset；　I　found　him　sick　in　the　grand　church　on　the　nearby　island　of　Torcello　to　which　he　had　wandered；　apparently　on　his　own。　I　picked　him　up　from　the　cold　damp　floor　and　took　him　home。
　　　Of　course　I　understood　the　reason。　There　he　had　found　ikons　of　the　very　style　he　had　once　painted。　There　he　had　found　old　mosaics　from　centuries　past；　similar　to　those　he　had　seen　in　Russian　churches　as　a　child。　He　had　not　remembered。　He　had　merely　e　upon　some　old　truth　in　his　wanderings…the　brittle；　stark　Byzantine　paintings…and　now　the　heat　of　the　place　had　left　him　with　a　fever；　and　I　could　taste　it　on　his　lips　and　see　it　in　his　eyes。
　　　He　was　no　better　at　sunrise　when；　half　mad；　I　left　him　in　the　care　of　Vincenzo；　only　to　rise　again　at　sunset　and　hurry　back　to　the　side　of　his　bed。
　　　It　was　his　mind　that　stoked　the　fever。　Bundling　him　like　a　child　I　took　him　into　a　Venetian　church　to　see　the　wondrous　paintings　of　robust　and　natural　figures　that　had　been　done　in　these　last　few　years。
　　　But　I　could　see　now　it　was　hopeless。　His　mind　would　never　be　opened；　never　truly　changed。　I　brought　him　home；　and　laid　him　down　on　the　pillows　once　more。
　　　I　sought　to　better　understand　what　I　could。
　　　His　had　been　a　punitive　world　of　austere　devotion。　Painting　for　him　had　been　joyless。　And　indeed　all　of　life　itself　in　far…away　Russia　had　been　so　rigorous　that　he　could　not　give　himself　over　to　the　pleasure　that　awaited　him　now　at　every　turn。
　　　Beset　by　the　memories；　yet　not　understanding　them；　he　was　moving　slowly　towards　death。
　　　I　would　not　have　it。　I　paced　the　floor；　I　turned　to　those　who　attended　him。　I　walked　about；　whispering　to　myself　in　my　anger。　I　would　not　have　it。　I　would　not　let　him　die。
　　　Sternly；　I　banished　others　from　the　bedchamber。
　　　I　bent　over　him；　and　biting　into　my　tongue　I　filled　my　mouth　with　blood　and　then　I　loosed　a　thin　stream　of　it　into　his　mouth。
　　　He　quickened；　and　licked　his　lips　after　it；　and　then　he　breathed　more　easily　and　the　flush　came　to　his　cheeks。　I　felt　of　his　forehead。　It　was　cooler。　He　opened　his　eyes　and　he　looked　at　me；　and　he　said　as　he　did　so　often；　〃Master；〃　and　then　gently；　without　memories；　without　terrible　dreams；　he　slept。
　　　It　was　enough。　I　left　the　bed。　I　wrote　in　my　thick　diary；　the　quill　scratching　as　I　quickly　inscribed　the　words：
　　　〃He　is　irresistible；　but　what　am　I　to　do？　I　claimed　him　once；　declaring　him　my　very　own；　and　now　I　treat　his　misery　with　the　blood　I　wish　that　I　could　give　him。　Yet　in　treating　his　misery；　I　hope　to　cure　him　not　for　me　but　for　the　wide　world。〃
　　　I　closed　the　book；　in　disgust　with　myself　for　the　blood　I'd　given　him。　But　it　had　healed　him。　I　knew　it。　And　were　he　ill；　I　would　give　him　blood　again。
　　　Time　was　moving　too　swiftly。
　　　Things　were　happening　too　fast。　My　earlier　judgments　were　shaken；　and　the　beauty　of　Amadeo　increased　with　every　passing　night。
　　　The　teachers　took　the　boys　to　Florence　that　they　might　see　the　paintings　there。　And　all　came　home　more　truly　inspired　to　study　than　before。
　　　Yes；　they　had　seen　the　work　of　Botticelli；　and　how　splendid　it　was。　Was　the　Master　painting？　Indeed；　so；　but　his　work　had　bee　almost　entirely　religious。　It　was　due　to　the　preaching　of　Savonarola；　a　stringent　monk　who　condemned　the　Florentines　for　their　worldliness。　Savonarola　had　great　power　over　the　people　of　Florence。　Botticelli　believed　in　him；　and　was　thought　to　be　one　of　his　followers。
　　　This　saddened　me　greatly。　Indeed　it　damn　near　maddened　me。　But　then　I　knew　that　whatever　Botticelli　painted　it　would　be　magnificent。　And　in　Amadeo's　progress　I　was　forted；　or　rather　pleasantly　confused　as　before。
　　　Amadeo　was　now　the　most　brilliant　of　all　my　little　academy。　New　teachers　were　required　for　him　in　philosophy　and　law。　He　was　outgrowing　his　clothes　at　a　marvelous　rate；　he　had　bee　quick　and　charming　in　conversation；　and　he　was　the　beloved　of　all　the　younger　boys。
　　　Night　after　night　we　visited　Bianca。　I　became　accustomed　to　the　pany　of　refined　strangers；　the　eternal　stream　of　northern　Europeans　who　came　to　Italy　to　discover　its　ancient　and　mysterious　charms。
　　　Only　occasionally　did　I　see　Bianca　hand　the　poisoned　cup　to　one　of　her　ill…fated　guests。　Only　occasionally　did　I　feel　the　beat　of　her　dark　heart；　and　see　the　shadow　of　desperate　guilt　in　the　very　depth　of　her　eyes。　How　she　watched　the　unfortunate　victim；　how　she　saw　him　out　of　her　pany　at　last　with　a　subtle　smile。
　　　As　for　Amadeo；　our　private　sessions　within　my　bedchamber　became　ever　more　intimate。　And　more　than　once；　as　we　embraced；　I　gave　the　Blood　Kiss　to　him；　watching　his　body　shiver；　and　seeing　the　power　of　it　in　his　half…lidded　eyes。
　　　What　was　this　madness？　Was　he　for　the　world　or　for　me？
　　　How　I　lied　to　myself　about　it。　I　told　myself　the　boy　might　still　prove　himself　and　thereby　earn　his　freedom　to　leave　me；　safe　and　rich；　for　acplishments　beyond　my　house。
　　　But　I　had　given　him　so　much　of　the　Secret　Blood　that　he　pushed　me　with　questions。　What　manner　of　creature　was　I？　Why　did　I　never　e　by　day？　Why　did　I　take　no　food　or　drink？
　　　He　wrapped　his　warm　arms　around　the　mystery；　He　buried　his　face　in　the　monster's　neck。
　　　I　sent　him　off　to　the　best　brothels　to　learn　the　pleasures　of　women；　and　the　pleasures　of　boys。　He　hated　me　for　it；　and　yet　he　enjoyed　it；　and　he　came　home　to　me　eager　for　the　Blood　Kiss　and　nothing　else。
　　　He　taunted　me　when　I　painted　alone；　except　for　him；　in　my　studio；　working　furiously；　creating　some　landscape　or　gathering　of　ancient　heroes。　He　slept　beside　me　when　I　collapsed　in　my　bed　to　sleep　the　last　few　hours　before　dawn。
　　　Meantime；　we　opened　the　palazzo　again　and　yet　again。　Bianca；　ever　the　clever　and　poised　one；　had　outgrown　her　early　beauty；　and　preserving　her　delicate　face　and　manner；　had　now　the　polish　of　a　woman　rather　than　the　promise　of　a　girl。
　　　Often　I　found　myself　staring　at　her；　wondering　what　would　have　happened　if　I　had　not　turned　my　attention　to　him。　Why　after　all　had　I　done　it？　Could　I　not　have　wooed　her　and　persuaded　her；　and　then；　thinking　these　thoughts；　I　realized；　foolishly；　that　I　might　still　choose　to　do　so；　and　cast　him　off；　with　wealth　and　position；　to　mortality　with　all　the　rest　of　my　boys。
　　　No；　she　was　saved。
　　　Amadeo　was　the　one　I　wanted。　Amadeo　wa