anner.bloodandgold-第68部分
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on of it； and I did not seek to put an end to such talk。
But I did not admit the true citizens of Venice。 I did not lay put the banquet table as I had done in the old nights。 I did not open the doors。
Yet all the while I was longing to do it。 I wanted the fashionable world of the city to be received under my ropf。
What I did instead of extending invitations was to accept those I received。
Often in the early evening； when I didn't want to dine with my children；
and long before I needed to begin painting furiously； I went tP other palaces where feasting was in progress； and I entered； whispering my name when asked； but more often being received without question and discovering that the guests were eager to have me among them and had heard of my paintings and of my famous little school where the apprentices hardly did any work at all。
Of course I kept to the shadows； spoke in vague but gentle words； read minds well enough to make the most clever conversation and in general almost lost my wits so great was this love to me； this convivial reception of me which was nothing more than most of the noblemen of Venice took for granted every night of their lives。
I don't know how many months passed in this way。 Two of my students
went on to Padua。 I went out into the city and found four more。 Vincenzo shpwed no signs of ill health。 I hired new nid better teachers from time to time。 I painted fiercely。 So on it went。
Let me say a year or two had gone by before I was told of a very lovely and brilliant young woman who maintained a house always open to poets and playwrights and clever philosophers who could make their visits worth her while。
Understand the payment in question was not a manner of money； it was that one had to be interesting to be admitted to this woman's
pany； poems had to be lyrical and meaningful； there had to be wit in
conversation； one could play the virginal or the lute only if one knew how。
I was fiercely curious as to the identity of this creature； and the general sweetness of the reports of her。
And so passing her house； I listened； and I heard her voice threading through the voices of those around her； and I knew her to be a mere child； but one filled with anguish and secrets； all of which she concealed with immense skill behind a graceful manner and a beautiful face。
How beautiful； I had no idea； until I mounted the steps； entered her rooms boldly and saw her for myself。
When I came into the room； she had her back to me； and turned as if my arrival had made some noise which it had not。 I saw her in profile and then pletely as she rose to greet me； and I could not speak for a moment； so great was the impression on my mind of her form and face。
That Botticelli hadn't painted her was a mere accident。 Indeed he might well have done so。 She looked so very like his women that all other thoughts left my mind。 I saw her oval face； her oval eyes； and her thick wavy blond hair； interwound with long strings of tiny pearls； and the fine shape of her body with exquisitely molded arms and breasts。
〃Yes； like Botticelli；〃 she said； smiling as if I'd spoken it。
Again； I could say nothing。 I was the one who read minds； and yet this child； this woman of nineteen pr twenty years seemed tp have read mine。 But did she know how much I loved Botticelli？ That she could not know。
She went on gaily； reaching out for my hand with both of hers。
〃Everyone says it；〃 she said； 〃and I'm honored。 You plight say I dress my hair this way on account of Botticelli。 You know I was born in Florence； but that's not worth talking about here in Venice； is it？ You're Marius de Romanus。 I was wondering how long it would be before you came。〃
〃Thank you for receiving me；〃 I said。 〃I fear I e with nothing。〃 I was still shocked by her beauty； shocked by the sound of her voice。 〃What have I to offer you？〃 I asked。 〃I have no poems； nor clever stories about the state of things。 Tomorrow； I shall have my servants bring you the best wine I have in my house。 But what is that to you？〃
〃Wine？〃 she repeated。 〃I don't want gifts of wine from you； Marius。
Paint my picture。 Paint the pearls interwound in my hair； I should love it。〃
There was soft laughter all around the room。 I gazed musingly at the others。 The candlelight was dim even for me。 How rich it all seemed； these naive poets and students of the classics； this indescribably beautiful woman； and the room itself with all the usual splendid trappings； and time passing slowly as though the moments had some meaning and were not a sentence of penitence and grief。
I was in my glory。 I realized it quite suddenly and then something else struck me。
This young woman was in her glory too。
Something sordid and evil lay behind her recent fortunes here； yet she displayed nothing of the desperation she must surely feel。
I tried to read her mind and then I chose not to do it！ I didn't want anything but this moment。
I wanted to see this woman as she wanted me to see her…young； infinitely kind； yet utterly well defended…a panion for the night's cheerful gatherings； mysterious mistress of her own house。
Indeed； I saw another great drawing room adjacent to this one； and beyond it a marvelously decorated bedroom with a bed made of golden swans and gold…threaded silk。
Why this display if not to tell everyone that in that bed； this woman slept alone？ No one was ever to presume to cross that threshold； but all might see where the maiden retired of her own accord。
〃Why do you stare at me？〃 she asked me。 〃Why do you look about yourself as if this is a strange place to you when surely it's not？ 〃
〃All of Venice is lovely to me；〃 I answered； making my voice soft and confidential so that it would not be for the whole room。
〃Yes； isn't it？〃 she said； smiling exquisitely。 〃I too love it。 I'll never return to Florence。 But will you paint a picture of me？〃
〃Perhaps I will；〃 I answered。 〃I don't know your name。〃
〃You're not serious；〃 she said； smiling again。 I realized suddenly how very worldly she was。 〃You didn't e here not knowing my name。 How could you want me to believe such a thing？〃
〃Oh； but I don't know it；〃 I said； because I had never asked her name； and had learnt of her through vague images and impressions and fragments of conversation overheard by me as a blood drinker； and I stood at a loss because I wouldn't read her mind。
〃Bianca；〃 she said。 〃And my rooms are always open to you。 And if you paint my picture； I'll be in your debt。〃
There were more guests ing。 I knew that she meant to receive them。 I backed away from her and took a station； so to speak； in the shadows well away from the candles； and from there I watched her； watched her infallibly graceful movements and heard her clever； ringing voice。
Over the years； I had beheld a thousand mortals who meant nothing
to me； and now； gazing at this one creature I felt my heart tripping as it had when I had entered Botticelli's workshop； when I had seen his paintings and seen him； Botticelli； the man。 Oh； yes； the man。
I stayed in her rooms only for a short time that night。
But I returned within the week with a portrait of her。 I had painted it on a small panel and had it framed with gold and jewels。
I saw her shock when she received it。 She had not expected something so exact。 But then I feared she might see something wrong。
When she looked at me； I felt her gratitude and her affection and something greater collecting inside her； an emotion she denied in dealing with others。
〃Who are you 。。。 really？〃 she asked me in a soft； lilting whisper。
〃Who are you 。。。 really？〃 I repeated； and I smiled。
She looked at me gravely。 Then she smiled too but she didn't answer； and all her secrets folded inside her…the sordid things； things to do with blood and gold。
For a moment； I thought my powerful self…control would be lost。 I would embrace her； whether or not she would have it； and take her rapidly by force from the veiy middle of her warm and safe rooms to die cold and fatal domain of my soul。
I saw her； positively saw her as if the Christi
