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！
I gave the bottle of sack to Amadeo。
Then I moved along the wall so that I might better see Amadeo's face； and all I saw there was obsession。 He must make this man understand。
Patiently； he spoke until his words had penetrated the drunken haze from which the man stared at him。
〃Father； I've e to tell you。 They took me to a far…away place； to the city of Venice； and I fell into the hands of one who made me rich； Father； rich； and gave me learning。 I'm alive； sir。 I'm as you see me now。
Oh； how strange was this speech ing from one infused with the Blood。 Alive？ How so； alive； Amadeo？
But my thoughts were my own in the darkness。 I had no role in this reunion。
At last； the man； sitting up to face his son； began to understand。
Amadeo was trembling； his eyes fixed on those of his father。
〃Forget me now； please； Father；〃 he begged。 〃But remember this； for the love of God。 I shall never be buried in the muddy caves of the monastery。 No。 Other things may happen to me； but that； I won't suffer。 Because of you； that you wouldn't have it； that you came that day and demanded I ride out with you； that I be your son！〃
What on earth was Amadeo saying？ What did these words mean？
He was on the verge of crying the terrible blood tears which we can never really hide。 But as he rose from the bench where his father sat； the elder caught him tightly by his hand。
He knew his son！ Andrei； he called him。 Fie had recognized him for who he was。
〃Father； I must go；〃 said Amadeo； 〃but you must never forget that you saw me。 You must never forget what I said； that you saved me from those dark and muddy caves。 Father； you gave me life； not death。 Don't be the drunkard anymore； Father。 Be the hunter again。 Bring the Prince meat for his table。 Be the singer of songs。 Remember that I came to tell you this myself。〃
〃I want you； my son； stay with me；〃 said the man。 His drunken languor had left him； and he held tight to Amadeo's hand。 〃Who will ever believe that I saw you？〃
Amadeo's tears had risen。 Could the man see the blood？
At last Amadeo pulled back； and removing his glove； he pulled off his rings； and he placed these in his father's hands。
〃Remember me by these；〃 he said； 〃and tell my mother that I was the man who came to see her tonight。 She didn't know me。 Tell her the gold is good gold。〃
〃Stay with me； Andrei；〃 said the father。 〃This is your home。 Who is it that takes you away now？ 〃
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 cornes；〃 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 die 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 fadier and mother。 Never agajn 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 Arnadeo 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？ Wliy 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 die 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 m