anner.bloodandgold(v2)-第50部分

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　　　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；　I　thought。　You　will　not　take　someone　so　vital　out　of　the　world。　You　will　not　disturb　the　destiny　of　one　who　has　given　others　so　much　to　love　and　enjoy。
　　　It　was　Sandro's　brother　who　came　to　the　door；　but　this　time　he　was　courteous　to　me　and　he　showed　me　into　the　shop　where　Botticelli　was　alone　and　at　work。
　　　He　turned　to　greet　me　as　soon　as　I　entered　the　spacious　room。
　　　There　loomed　behind　him　a　large　panel；　with　a　shockingly　different　aspect　to　it　from　any　of　his　other　work。　I　let　my　eyes　drift　over　it　for　I　thought　this　was　what　he　wanted　me　to　do；　and　I　don't　think　I　could　hide　from　him　my　disapproval　or　fear。
　　　The　blood　hunger　surged　in　me；　but　I　put　it　away　and　stared　only　at　the　painting；　thinking　of　nothing；　not　of　Sandro；　not　of　his　death　and　rebirth　through　me；　no；　of　nothing　but　the　painting　as　I　pretended　to　be　human　for　him。
　　　It　was　a　grim　and　chilling　painting　of　the　Trinity；　with　Christ　on　his　Cross；　the　full　figure　of　God　the　Father　behind　him；　and　a　dove　representing　the　Holy　Spirit；　just　above　the　head　of　the　Christ。　On　one　side　stood　St。　John　the　Baptist　opening　the　scarlet　robe　of　God　the　Father；　and　on　the　other；　the　penitent　Magdalene；　her　long　hair　her　only　clothing　as　she　stared　grieving　at　the　crucified　Lord。
　　　It　seemed　a　cruel　use　of　Botticelli's　talent！　It　seemed　a　ghastly　thing。　Oh；　it　was　expertly　done；　yes；　but　how　merciless　it　seemed。
　　　Only　now　did　I　know　that　in　The　Lamentation　I　had　seen　a　perfect　balance　of　light　and　dark　forces。　For　I　did　riot　see　that　balance　here。　On　the　contrary；　it　was　astonishing　that　Botticelli　could　have　done　something　as　wholly　dark　as　this。　It　was　a　harsh　thing。　Had　I　seen　it　elsewhere　I　would　not　have　thought　it　was　his　work。
　　　And　it　seemed　a　profound　judgment　on　me　that　I　had　thought　for　one　moment　of　giving　Botticelli　the　Dark　Blood！　Did　the　Christian　God　really　live？　Could　he　deter　me？　Could　he　judge　me？　Is　that　why　I　had　e　face　to　face　with　this　painting　with　Botticelli　standing　beside　it　looking　into　my　eyes？
　　　Botticelli　was　waiting　for　me　to　speak　to　him　on　account　of　this　painting。　He　was　waiting　patiently　to　be　wounded　by　what　I　meant　to　say。　And　deep　inside　me　there　was　a　love　of　Botticelli's　talent　which　had　nothing　to　do　with　God　or　the　Devil　or　my　own　evil　or　power。　That　love　of　Botticelli's　talent　respected　Botticelli　and　nothing　mattered　just　now　but　that。
　　　
　　　
　　　I　looked　up　again　at　the　painting。
　　　〃Where　is　the　innocence；　Sandro？〃　I　asked　him；　making　my　tone　as　kind　as　I　could。
　　　Again　I　fought　the　blood　hunger。　Look　how　old　he　is。　If　you　don't　do　it　Sandro　Botticelli　will　die。
　　　〃Where　is　the　tenderness　in　the　painting？〃　I　asked。　〃Where　is　the　sublime　sweetness　that　makes　us　forget　everything？　I　see　it　only　a　little　perhaps　in　the　face　of　God　the　Father；　but　the　rest…it's　dark；　Sandro。　It's　so　unlike　you；　this　darkness。　I　don't　understand　why　you　do　it　when　you　can　do　so　much　else。〃
　　　The　blood　hunger　was　raging　but　I　had　control　of　it。　I　was　pushing　it　deep　inside　me。　I　loved　him　too　much　to　do　it。　I　could　not　do　it。　I　could　not　endure　the　result　if　it　were　to　be　done。
　　　As　for　my　remarks；　he　nodded。　He　was　miserable。　A　man　divided　wanting　to　paint　his　goddesses　on　the　one　hand；　and　the　sacred　paintings　as　well。
　　　〃Marius；〃　he　said。　〃I　don't　want　to　do　what's　sinful。　I　don't　want　to　do　what's　evil；　or　what　will　make　another　person；　simply　by　looking　at　a　painting；　mit　a　sin。〃
　　　〃You're　very　far　from　ever　doing　that；　Sandro；〃　I　said。　〃That's　my　view　of　it…that　your　goddesses　are　glorious　as　are　your　gods。　In　Rome；　your　frescoes　of　Christ　were　filled　with　light　and　beauty。　Why　journey　into　the　darkness　as　you　have　done　here？〃
　　　I　took　out　the　purse　and　put　it　on　the　table。　I　would　leave　now；　and　he　would　never　know　what　true　evil　had　e　close　to　him。　He　would　never　dream　of　what　I　was　and　what　I　had　meant；　perhaps；　perhaps　to　do。
　　　He　came　to　me　and　picked　up　the　purse　and　tried　to　give　it　back。
　　　〃No；　you　keep　it；〃　I　said。　〃You　deserve　it。　You　do　what　you　believe　you　should　do。〃
　　　〃Marius；　I　have　to　do　what　is　right；〃　he　said　simply。　〃Now　look　at　this；　I　want　to　show　you。〃　He　took　me　to　another　part　of　the　workshop　away　from　the　large　paintings。
　　　Here　was　a　table　and　on　it　were　several　pages　of　parchment　covered　with　tiny　drawings。
　　　〃These　are　illustrations　for　Dante's　Inferno〃　he　told　me。　〃Surely　you've　read　it。　I　want　to　do　an　illustrated　version　of　the　entire　book。〃
　　　My　heart　sank　when　I　heard　this；　but　what　could　I　say？　I　looked　down　at　the　drawings　of　the　twisted　and　suffering　bodies！　How　could　one　defend　such　an　enterprise　on　the　part　of　the　painter　who　had　rendered　Venus　and　the　Virgin　with　miraculous　skill？
　　　Dante's　Inferno。　How　I　had　despised　the　work　while　recognizing　its　brilliance。
　　　〃Sandro；　how　can　you　want　to　do　this？〃　I　asked。　I　was　shaking。　I　didn't　want　him　to　see　my　face。　〃I　find　glory；〃　I　said；　〃in　those　paintings　that　are　filled　with　the　light　of　paradise；　whether　it　is　Christian　or　pagan。　I　find　no　delight　in　the　illustr