anner.bloodandgold(v2)-第85部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　　It　was　more　than　Amadeo　could　bear。
　　　〃I　live　in　the　city　of　Venice；　Father；〃　he　said。　〃It's　what　I　know　now　I　have　to　go。〃
　　　He　was　out　of　the　tavern　so　quickly　his　father　could　not　see　it；　and　I；　once　seeing　what　he　meant　to　do；　had　preceded　him；　and　we　stood　in　the　snow…covered　muddy　street　together。
　　　〃It's　time　for　us　to　leave　this　place；　Master；〃　he　said　to　me。　His　gloves　were　gone；　and　the　cold　was　fierce。　〃Oh；　but　that　I　had　never　e　here　and　never　seen　him　and　never　known　that　he　suffered　that　I　had　been　lost。〃
　　　〃But　look；〃　I　said；　〃your　mother　es。　I'm　sure　of　it。　She　knew　you　and　there；　she　es；〃　I　pointed　at　the　small　figure　approaching　who　held　a　bundle　in　her　arms。
　　　〃Andrei；〃　she　said　as　she　drew　closer。　〃It's　the　last　one　you　ever　painted。　Andrei；　I　knew　it　was　you。　Who　else　would　have　e？　Andrei；　this　is　the　ikon　your　father　brought　back　on　the　day　you　were　lost。〃
　　　Why　didn't　he　take　it　from　her　hands？
　　　〃You　must　keep　it；　Mother；〃　he　said　of　this　ikon　which　he　had　once　linked　to　his　destiny。　He　was　weeping。　〃Keep　it　for　the　little　ones。　I　won't　take　it；　no。〃
　　　Patiently；　she　accepted　this。
　　　And　then　another　small　present　she　entrusted　to　him；　a　painted　egg…one　of　those　treasures　of　Kiev　which　mean　so　much　to　the　people　who　decorate　them　with　intricate　designs。
　　　Quickly；　gently；　he　took　it　from　her；　and　then　he　embraced　her；　and　in　a　fervent　whisper　assured　her　that　he　had　done　nothing　wicked　to　acquire　his　wealth　and　that　he　might　some　night　be　able　to　e　again。　Oh；　what　lovely　lies。
　　　
　　　
　　　But　I　could　see　that　this　woman；　though　he　loved　her；　did　not　matter　to　him。　Yes；　he　would　give　her　gold；　for　that　meant　nothing。　But　it　was　the　man　who　had　mattered。　The　man　mattered　as　the　monks　had　mattered。　It　was　the　man　who　had　wrung　the　strong　emotions　from　him。　The　man　had　brought　from　him　bold　words。
　　　I　was　stunned　by　all。　But　wasn't　Amadeo　stunned　by　it　himself？　He　had　thought　the　man　dead；　and　so　had　I。
　　　But　finding　him　alive；　Amadeo　had　revealed　the　obsession…the　man　had　fought　the　monks　for　Amadeo's　very　soul。
　　　And　as　we　made　our　journey　back　to　Venice；　I　knew　that　Amadeo's　love　for　his　father　was　far　greater　than　any　love　he　had　ever　felt　for　me。
　　　We　did　not　speak　of　it；　you　understand；　but　I　knew　that　it　was　the　figure　of　his　father　who　reigned　in　Amadeo's　heart。　It　was　the　figure　of　that　powerful　bearded　man　who　had　so　vigorously　fought　for　life　rather　than　death　within　the　monastery　who　held　supremacy　over　all　conflicts　that　Amadeo　was　ever　to　know。
　　　I　had　seen　it　with　my　own　eyes；　this　obsession。　I　had　seen　it　in　a　matter　of　moments　in　a　riverfront　tavern；　but　I　had　known　it　for　what　it　was。
　　　Always　before　this　journey　to　Russia　I　had　thought　the　split　in　Amadeo's　mind　was　between　the　rich　and　varied　art　of　Venice　and　the　strict　and　stylized　art　of　old　Russia。
　　　But　now　I　knew　that　was　not　so。
　　　The　split　in　him　was　between　the　monastery　with　its　ikons　and　its　penance　on　the　one　hand；　and　his　father；　the　robust　hunter　who　had　dragged　him　away　from　the　monastery　on　that　fateful　day。
　　　Never　again　did　Amadeo　speak　of　his　father　and　mother。　Never　again　did　he　speak　of　Kiev。　The　beautiful　painted　egg　he　placed　within　his　sarcophagus　without　ever　explaining　its　significance　to　me。
　　　And　on　certain　nights　when　I　painted　in　my　studio；　working　fiercely　on　this　or　that　canvas；　he　would　e　to　keep　me　pany；　and　it　seemed　he　perused　my　work　with　new　eyes。
　　　When　would　he　finally　pick　up　the　brushes　and　paint？　I　didn't　know；　but　such　a　question　didn't　matter　anymore。　He　was　mine　and　mine　forever。　He　could　do　what　he　pleased。
　　　Yet　silently　in　my　secret　soul；　I　suspected　that　Amadeo　held　me　in　contempt。　All　I　taught　of　art；　of　history；　of　beauty；　of　civilization…all　this　was　meaningless　to　him。
　　　When　the　Tatars　captured　him；　when　the　ikon　fell　from　his　arms　into　the　grass；　it　was　not　his　fate　that　was　sealed；　it　was　his　mind。
　　　
　　　
　　　Yes；　I　could　dress　him　in　finery　and　teach　him　different　languages；　and　he　could　love　Bianca；　and　dance　with　her　exquisitely　to　slow　and　rhythmic　music；　and　he　could　learn　to　talk　philosophy；　and　write　poetry　as　well。
　　　But　his　soul　held　nothing　sacred　but　that　old　art　and　that　man　who　lay　drinking　out　his　nights　and　days　by　the　Dnieper　in　Kiev。　And　I；　with　all　my　power；　and　all　my　blandishments；　could　not　replace　Amadeo's　father　in　Amadeo's　mind。
　　　Why　was　I　so　jealous？　Why　did　this　knowledge　sting　me　so　much？
　　　I　loved　Amadeo　as　I　had　loved　Pandora。　I　loved　him　as　I　had　loved　Botticelli。　Amadeo　was　among　these；　the　great　loves　of　my　long　life。
　　　I　tried　to　forget　my　jealousy　or　ignore　it。　After　all；　what　was　to　be　done　about　it？　Should　I　remind　him　of　this　journey　and　torment　him　with　questions？　I　could　not　do　such　a　thing。
　　　But　I　sensed　that　these　concerns　were　dangerous　to　me　as　an　immortal；　and　that　never　before　had　anything　of　this　nature　so　tortured　me　or　made　me　weak。　I　had　expected　Amadeo；　the　blood　drinker；　to　look　upon　his　family　with　detachment　and　no　such　thing　had　taken　place！
　　　I　had　to　admit　that　my　love　for　Amadeo　was　all　caught　up　with　my　involvement　with　mortals；　that　I　had　plunged　myself　into　their　pany；　and　he　himself　was　still　so　very　hopelessly　close　to　them　that　it　would　take　him　centuries　to　gain　the　distance　from　mortals　which　I　had　experienced　on　the　very　night　when　I　was　first　given　the　Blood。
　　　There　had　been　no　Druid　grove　for　Amadeo。　There　had　been　no　treacherous　journey　to　Egypt；　there　had　been　no　rescue　of　the　King　and　Queen。
　　　Indeed；　as　I　mulled　this　over　quickly　I　resolved　I　would　not　entrust　him　with　the　mystery　of　Those　Who　Must　Be　Kept　even　though　the　words　had　once　or　twice　passed　my　lips。
　　　Perhaps　before　the　making　of　him；　I　had　thought　idly　that　I　would　take　him　to　the　shrine　at　once。　I　would　beg　Akasha　to　receive　him；　as　she　had　once　received　Pandora。
　　　But　now　I　thought　otherwise。　Let　him　be　more　advanced；　let　him　be　more　nearly　perfected。　Let　him　bee　more　wise。
　　　And　was　he　not　pany　and　consolation　for　me　now　more　than　I　ever　dreamt？　Even　if　a　bad　mood　overtook　him　he　remained　with　me。　Even　if　his　eyes　were　dull　as　though　the　dazzling　colors　of　my　paintings　did　not　matter　to　him；　was　he　not　near　at　hand？
　　　
　　　Yes；　he　was　quiet　for　a　time　after　the　journey　to　Russia。　But　I　knew　his　frame　of　mind　would　pass。　And　indeed　it　did。
　　　Within　a　few　short　months；　he　was　no　longer　aloof　and　moody　but　had　e　back　to　be　my　panion；　and　was　once　again　visiting　the　various　feasts　and　balls　of　the　great　citizens　which　I　attended　regularly；　and　writing　short　poems　for　Bianca；　and　arguing　with　her　about　various　paintings　which　I　had　done。
　　　Ah；　Bianca；　how　we　loved　her。　And　how　often　did　I　search　her　mind　to　make　certain　that　she　had　no　inkling　even　now　that　we　were　not　human　beings。
　　　Bianca　was　the　only　mortal　I　admitted　to　my　studio；　but　naturally　I　could　not　work　with　my　full　speed　and　force　when　she　was　there。　I　had　to　lift　a　mortal　arm　to　hold　the　paintbrush　but　it　was　more　than　worth　it　to　hear　her　pleasant　mentary　with　Amadeo　who　also　perceived　in　my　works　some　grand　design　which　was　not　there。
　　　All　was　going　well　when；　one　night　as　I　came　down　upon　the　roof　of　the　palazzo；　quite　alone；　for　I　had　left　Amadeo　in　the　pany　of　Bianca；　I　sensed　that　a　very　young　mortal　was　watching　me　from　the　roof　of　the　palazzo　across　the　canal。
　　　Now　I　had　e　down　so　swiftly　that　not　even　Amadeo　could　have　seen　it　had　he　been　watching；　yet　this　distant　mortal　marked　my　presence　and　when　I　realized　it；　I　realized　quite　a　deal　more　as　well。
　　　　Here　was　a　mortal　spy　who　suspected　me　to　be　other　than　human。　Here　was　a　mortal　spy　who　had　been　observing　me　for　some　time。
　　　Never　in　all　my　years　had　I　known　any　such　a　threat　to　my　secrecy。　And　naturally　I　was　tempted　to　immediately　conclude　that　my　life　in　Venice　had　failed。　Just　when　I　thought　I　had　fooled　an　entire　city；　I　was　to　be　caught　for　what　I　was。
　　　But　this　young　mortal　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　grand　society　in　which　I　moved。　I　knew　it　the　moment　I　penetrated　his　mind。　He　was　no　great　Venetian；　no　painter；　no　cleric；　no　poet；　no　alchemist；　and　certainly　no　member　of　th