anner.bloodandgold(v2)-第55部分

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tle　Satan　worshipers　whom　I　so　desperately　deplored。
　　　But　these　things　didn't　really　matter。
　　　I　had　time　in　Florence　and　I　knew　it。　There　were　no　Satan　worshipers　here　and　that　was　a　good　thing。　I　had　time　to　suffer　as　much　as　I　chose。
　　　And　I　was　mad　for　this　mortal；　Botticelli；　this　painter；　this　genius；　and　I　could　scarce　think　of　anything　else。
　　　Meantime；　there　came　from　Botticelli's　brilliance　yet　another　immense　pagan　masterpiece　which　I　beheld　in　the　palazzo　to　which　it　was　sent　upon　being　finished…a　place　into　which　I　crept　in　the　early　hours　of　the　morning　to　see　the　painting　while　the　owners　of　the　building　slept。
　　　Once　again；　Botticelli　had　used　Roman　mythology；　or　perhaps　the　Greek　mythology　that　lay　behind　it　to　create　a　garden…yes；　of　all　things；　a　garden…a　garden　of　eternal　springtime　in　which　mythical　figures　made　their　sublime　progress　with　harmonious　gestures　and　dreamy　expressions；　their　attitudes　exquisitely　gentle　in　the　extreme。
　　　On　one　side　of　the　verdant　garden　danced　the　youthful　and　inevitably　beautiful　Three　Graces　in　transparent　and　billowing　garments　while　on　the　other　side　came　the　goddess　Flora；　magnificently　clothed　and　strewing　flowers　from　her　dress。　The　goddess　Venus　once　more　appeared　in　the　center；　dressed　as　a　rich　Florentine　woman；　her　hand　up　in　a　gesture　of　wele；　her　head　tilted　slightly　to　one　side。
　　　The　figure　of　Mercury　in　the　far　left　corner；　and　several　other　mythic　beings　pleted　the　gathering　which　entranced　me　so　that　I　stood　before　the　masterpiece　for　hours；　perusing　all　the　details；　sometimes　smiling；　sometimes　weeping；　wiping　at　my　face；　and　eyen　now　and　then　covering　my　eyes　and　then　uncovering　them　again　to　see　the　vivid　colors　and　the　delicate　gestures　and　attitudes　of　these　creatures…　the　whole　so　reminiscent　of　the　lost　glory　of　Rome；　and　yet　so　utterly　new　and　different　from　it　that　I　thought；　for　loving　all　this；　I　will　lose　my　mind。
　　　Any　and　all　gardens　which　I　had　ever　painted　or　imagined　were　obliterated　by　this　painting。　HOW　would　I　ever　rival；　even　in　my　dreams；　such　a　work　as　this？
　　　How　exquisite　here　to　die　of　happiness　after　being　so　long　miserable　and　alone。　How　exquisite　to　see　this　triumph　of　form　and　color　after　having　studied　with　bitter　sacrifice　so　many　forms　I　could　not　understand。
　　　There　is　no　despair　in　me　anymore。　There　is　only　joy；　continuous　restless　joy。
　　　Is　that　possible？
　　　Only　reluctantly　did　I　leave　this　painting　of　the　springtime　garden。　Only　reluctantly　did　I　leave　behind　its　dark　flower…rich　grass　and　overhanging　orange　trees。　Only　reluctantly　did　I　move　on　to　find　more　of　Botticelli　where　I　could。
　　　I　might　have　staggered　around　Florence　for　nights　on　end；　drunk　on　what　I'd　seen　in　this　painting。　But　there　was　more；　much　more；　for　me　to　see。
　　　Mark；　all　this　time；　as　I　slipped　into　churches　to　see　more　works　by　the　Master；　as　I　crept　into　a　palazzo　to　see　a　famed　painting　by　the　Master　of　the　irresistible　god　Mars　sleeping　helplessly　on　the　grass　beside　a　patient　and　watchful　Venus；　as　I　went　about　clasping　my　hands　to　my　lips　so　as　not　to　cry　out　crazily；　I　did　not　return　to　the　workshop　of　the　genius。　I　held　myself　back。
　　　〃You　cannot　interfere　in　his　life；〃　I　told　myself。　〃You　cannot　e　in　with　gold　and　draw　him　from　his　paintings。　His　is　a　mortal　destiny。　Already　the　entire　city　knows　of　him。　Rome　knows　of　him。　His　paintings　will　endure。　He　is　not　someone　you　need　save　from　a　gutter。　He　is　the　talk　of　Florence。　He　is　the　talk　of　the　Pope's　Palace　in　Rome。　Leave　him　alone。〃
　　　And　so　I　did　not　go　back；　though　I　was　starving　just　to　look　at　him；　just　to　talk　to　him；　just　to　tell　him　that　the　marvelous　painting　of　the　Three　Graces　and　the　other　goddesses　in　the　springtime　garden　was　as　glorious　as　anything　that　he　had　done。
　　　I　would　have　paid　him　just　to　allow　me　to　sit　in　his　shop　in　the　evening；　and　to　watch　him　at　his　work。　But　this　was　wrong；　all　of　it。
　　　I　went　back　to　the　Church　of　San　Paolino；　and　I　stayed　for　a　long　time；　staring　at　The　Lamentation。
　　　It　was　far　more　stiff　than　his　〃pagan〃　paintings。　Indeed；　he　had　seldom　done　something　quite　this　severe。　And　there　was　much　darkness　to　the　painting；　in　the　deeply　colored　robes　of　the　various　figures；　and　in　the　shadowy　recesses　of　the　open　tomb。　But　even　in　this　severity　there　was　a　tenderness；　a　loveliness。　And　the　two　faces…that　of　Mary　and　Christ…which　were　pressed　together…drew　me　and　would　not　let　me　look　away。
　　　Ah；　Botticelli。　How　does　one　explain　his　gift？　His　figures　though　perfect　were　always　slightly　elongated；　even　the　faces　were　elongated；　and　the　expressions　on　the　faces　were　sleepy　and　perhaps　even　ever　so　slightly　unhappy；　it　is　so　difficult　to　say。　All　the　figures　of　any　one　painting　seemed　lost　in　a　munal　dream。
　　　As　for　the　paint　he　used…the　paint　used　by　so　many　in　Florence…it　was　far　superior　to　anything　we　had　had　in　the　ancient　days　of　Rome；　in　that　it　mixed　simple　egg　yolk　and　ground　pigment　to　achieve　the　colors　and　the　glazes　and　the　varnishes　to　make　an　application　of　unsurpassed　brilliance　and　endurance。　In　other　words；　the　works　had　a　gloss　that　seemed　miraculous　to　my　eyes。
　　　So　fascinated　was　I　by　this　paint　that　I　sent　my　mortal　servant　to　procure　all　the　available　pigments　for　me；　and　the　eggs；　and　to　bring　me　by　night　an　old　apprentice　who　might　mix　up　the　colors　for　me；　exactly　to　the　right　thickness；　so　I　might　paint　a　bit　of　work　in　my　rented　rooms。
　　　It　was　only　an　idle　experiment；　but　I　found　myself　working　furiously　and　soon　covering　every　bit　of　prepared　wood　and　canvas　which　my　apprentice　and　my　servant　had　bought。
　　　They　were；　of　course；　shocked　by　my　speed；　which　gave　me　pause。　I　had　to　be　clever；　not　fantastical。　Hadn't　I　learnt　that　long　years　ago　when　I'd　painted　my　banquet　room　as　my　guests　cheered　me　on？
　　　I　sent　them　away　with　plenty　of　gold；　telling　them　to　e　back　to　me　with　more　materials。　As　for　what　I　had　painted？　It　was　some　poor　imitation　of　Botticelli；　for　even　with　my　immortal　blood　I　could　not　capture　what　he　had　captured。　I　could　not　make　faces　like　those　he　had　rendered；　no；　not　by　a　very　long　way。　There　was　something　brittle　and　hopeless　in　what　I　painted。　I　could　not　look　at　my　own　work。　I　loathed　it。　There　was　something　flat　and　Accusatory　in　the　faces　I　had　created。　There　was　something　ominous　in　the　expressions　that　looked　back　at　me　from　the　walls。
　　　I　went　out　into　the　night；　restless；　hearing　those　other　blood　drinkers；　a　young　pair；　fearful　of　me　and　rightly　so；　yet　very　attentive　to　what　I　did；　for　what　reason　I　was　unsure。　I　sent　a　silent　message　to　all　the　immortal　trash　that　might　perturb　me：　Do　not　e　near　me　for　I　am　in　a　grand　passion　and　will　not　tolerate　being　interrupted　now。
　　　
　　　
　　　I　crept　into　the　Church　of　San　Padirio　and　knelt　down　as　I　looked　at　The　Lamentation；　I　ran　my　tongue　against　my　sharp　teeth。　I　hungered　for　blood　as　the　beauty　of　the　figures　filled　me。　I　could　have　taken　a　victim　in　the　very　church。
　　　And　then　the　most　evil　idea　came　to　me。　It　was　purely　evil　just　as　the　painting　was　purely　religious。　The　idea　came　to　me　unbidden　as　if　there　really　were　a　Satan　in　the　world　and　that　Satan　had　e　crawling　along　the　stone　floor　towards　me　and　put　the　idea　in　my　mind。
　　　〃You　love　him；　Marius；〃　said　this　Satan。　〃Well；　bring　him　over　to　you。　Give　Botticelli　the　Blood。〃
　　　I　shivered　quietly　in　the　church。　I　slipped　down；　sitting　against　the　stone　wall。　Again　I　felt　the　thirst。　I　was　horrified　that　I　had　even　thought　of　it　yet　I　saw　myself　taking　Botticelli　in　my　arms。　I　saw　myself　sinking　my　teeth　into　Botticelli's　throat。　The　blood　of　Botticelli。　I　thought　of　it。　And　my　blood；　my　Hood　given　to　him。
　　　〃Think　how　you　have　waited；　Marius；〃　said　the　evil　voice　of　Satan。　〃All　these　long　centuries　you　have　never　given　your　blood　to　anyone。　But　you　can　give　it　to　Botticelli！　You　can　take　Botticelli　now。〃
　　　He　would　go　on　painting；　he　would　have　the　Blood　and　his　painting　would　be　unparalleled。　He　would　live　forever　with　his　talent…this　humble　man　of　some　forty　years　who　was　grateful　for　a　mere　purse　of　gold…this　humble　man　who　had　done　the　exquisite　Christ　I　stared　at；　his　head　thrown　back　in　the　hand　of　Mary；　whose　eyes　were　pressed　to　his　mouth。
　　　This　was　not　something　that　would　be　done。　No；　this　must　never　be　done。　I　could　not　do　it。　I　would　not　do　it。
　　　Yet　I　rose　slowly　to　my　feet　and　I　left　the　church　and　began　walking　through　the　dark　narrow　street；　towards　Botticelli's　house。
　　　I　could　hear　my　heart　inside　me。　And　my　mind　seemed　curiously　empty；　and　my　body　light　and　predatory　and　full　of　evil；　an　evil　which　I　freely　admitted　and　totally　understood。　A　high　excitement　filled　me。　Take　Botticelli　in　your　arms。　Forever　in　your　arms。
　　　And　though　I　heard　those　other　blood　drinkers；　those　two　young　ones　who　followed　me；　I　did　not　pay　it　any　mind。　They　were　far　too　fearful　of　me　to　e　close　to　me。　On　I　went　for　what　I　would　choose　to　do。
　　　It　was　no　more　than　a　few　blocks　and　I　was　there　at　Sandro's　door　and　the　lights　were　burning　inside；　and　I　had　a　purse　of　gold。　Drifting；　dreaming；　thirsting；　I　knocked　as　I　had　the　first　time。
　　　
　　　
　　　No；　this　is　something　you　will　never　do；