Page 8 (1/2)

8

THE MASTER’S PRIVATE SALONS: a string of rooms in which he had covered the walls with flawless copies of the works of those elico, Bellini

We stood in the rooreat work, froi

In the middle of the century, Gozzoli had created this vision, wrapping it around three walls of that small sacred chamber

But my Master, with his supernaturalthe whole flat froallery

Perfect as Gozzoli’s original it loo Florentines, each pale face a study in thoughtful innocence, astride a cavalry of gorgeous horses following the exquisite figure of the young Lorenzo de’ Medici hi brownish-blond hair to his shoulders, and a carnal blush in his white cheeks With a tranquil expression he appeared to gaze indifferently at the viewer of the painting as he sat, regal in his fur-tri slashed sleeves, on a beautifully caparisoned white horse No detail of the painting was unworthy of another Even the horse’s bridle and fittings were of beautifully worked gold and velvet, a ht sleeves of Lorenzo’s tunic and his red velvet knee-high boots

But the enchant arose most powerfully from the faces of the youths, as well as the few old men who made up the immense crowded procession, all with s to the sides as if a forward glance would have broken the spell

On and on they ca their way to Bethlehem

To illu candelabra had been lighted up and down both sides of the rooave off a luxurious illulorious wilderness of painted clouds surrounded an oval of floating saints who touched each other’s outstretched hands as they looked down benevolently and contentedly upon us

No furniture covered the rosy Carraraborder pattern of green leafy vine reat squares these tiles, but the floor was otherwise plain and deeply lustrous, and silken s with the fascination of a feverish brain into this hall of glorious surfaces The Procession of the Magi, rising as it did to fill the entire wall to the right of ive off a soft plethora of real soundsthesteps of those alked beside the of the red-flowered shrubbery beyond them and even the distant cries of the hunters ith their lean hounds, streaked along the mountain paths beyond

My Master stood in the very center of the hall He had taken off his faold tissue, with long bell sleeves down to his wrists, his he his bare white feet

His hair see softly to his shoulders

I wore a gown of the same sheerness and simplicity

"Co for water, barely able to stand He knew this however, and no excuse see steps one after another until I reached his outstretched arms

His hands slid about the back of my head

He bent his lips A sense of dreadful awesome finality swept over me

"You will die now to be with me in life eternal," he whispered in my ear "Never for a moment must you really fear I will hold your heart safe in my hands"

His teeth cut into ers, and I heard my heart thud in my ears My very bowels contracted, and e pleasure swept through all my veins, a pleasure which coursed towards the wounds in my neck I could feel my blood rush towards my Master, towards his thirst and my inevitable death

Even my hands were transfixed with vibrant sensation Indeed, I seelow, as with a low, obvious and deliberate sound, my Master drank my life’s blood The sound of his heart, slow, steady, a deep reverberating pounding, filled my ears

The pain in my intestines was alcheht, all knowledge of itself in space The throb of his heart ithinsatin locks of his hair, but I did not hold to them I floated, supported only by the insistent heartbeat and thrilling current of allblood

"I die now," I whispered This ecstasy could not endure

Abruptly the world died

I stood alone on the desolate and windy shore of the sea

It was the land to which I’d journeyed before, but how different it was now, devoid of its shining sun and abundant flowers The priests were there, but their robes were dusty and dark and reeked of the earth I knew these priests, I knew them well I knew their nareasy hair and the black felt hats that they wore I knew the dirt in their fingernails, and I knew the hungry hollow of their sunken glea eyes

They beckoned for ed We clilass city, and it lay to the far left of us, and how forlorn and ehted its one, turned off at the source Nothing re colors except a deep dull residue of tints beneath the featureless span of hopeless gray sky Oh, sad, sad, to see the glass city without its ic fire

A chorus of sounds rose frolass There was no music in it There was only a bleary luminous despair

"Walk on, Andrei," said one of the priests to me His soiled hand with its thin bits of caked ers I looked down to see that ers were thin and luridly white My knuckles shone as though the flesh had already been stripped away, but it had not

All ry and loose as their skin

Before us careat tangles of blackened driftwood, covering the flatlands with a h it, and its coldness hurt us Yet on ent, the four of us, the three priest guides and olden do still after the horrid ols who had laid waste our city and all her riches and all her wicked and worldly women and men

"Come, Andrei"

I knew this doorway It was to the Monastery of the Caves Only candles illuminated these catacombs, and the smell of the earth overpowered all, even the stench of dried sweat on soiled and diseased flesh

In h wooden handle of a s into the heap of earth I opened up the soft wall of rubble, untilas the dirt covered his face

"Still alive, Brother?" I whispered, to this soul buried up to his neck

"Still alive, Brother Andrei, give me only ill sustain me," said the cracked lips The white eyelids were never lifted "Give me only that much, so that our Lord and Savior, Christ Himself, will choose the time that I aeous you are," I said I put a jug of water to his lips The mud streaked them as he drank His head rested back in soft rubble

"And you, child," he said with labored breaths, turning ever so slightly froth to choose your earthen cell arave, and wait for Christ to come?"

"Soon, I pray, Brother," I answered I stepped back I lifted the shovel

I dug into the next cell, and soon a dreadful unmistakable stench assailed me The priest beside me stayed my hand

"Our Good Brother Joseph is finally with the Lord," he said "That’s it, uncover his face so that we may see for ourselves that he died at peace"

The stench grew thicker Only dead huly It’s the s froue is at its worst I feared I would be sick But I continued to dig, until at last we uncovered the dead man’s head Bald, a skull encased in shrunken skin

Prayers rose from the brothers behind me "Close it up, Andrei"

"When will you have the courage, Brother? Only God can tell you when-"

"The courage to what!" I know this boo-shoulderedhis auburn hair and beard, his leather jerkin and his weapons hung on his leather belt

"This is what you do with rabbed me by the shoulder, as he’d done a thousand tie paw of a hand that had beaten o of norant ox," I whispered "We’re in the house of God"

He dragged , black cloth ripping

"Father, stop it and go away," I said

"Deep in these pits to bury a boy who can paint with the skill of the angels!"

"Brother Ivan, stop your shouting It’s for God to decide what each of us will do"

The priests ran behindfro e heavy table He lifted the iron candlestick with its fluttering, protesting candle to light all the tapers around

The illu from his thick eyebrows, combed upwards, diabolical

"You behave like the village idiot, Father," I whispered "It’s a wonder I’ar ht you any h You need me to beat you"

He slammed his fist into the side of ht I’d beaten you enough before I brought you here, but not so," he said He sain

"Desecration!" cried the priest, loo above me "The boy’s consecrated to God"

"Consecrated to a pack of lunatics," said s, Brothers!" he said with contempt

He lay back the soft leather and re "Paint, Andrei Paint to reift from God Himself"

"And God Himself it is who paints the picture," cried the priest, the eldest of theray hair was so soiled in time with oil that it was near black He pushed his way between my chair andLeaning over a s, carefully gathering the yoke in one side, and letting all the rest spill into his leather cloth "There, there, pure yoke, Andrei" He sighed, and then threw the broken shell on the floor

He picked up the small pitcher and poured the water into the yoke

"You mix it, mix your colors and work Remind these-"

"He works when God calls him to work," declared the Elder, "and when God calls him to bury himself within the Earth, to live the life of the reclusive, the hermit, then will he do that"

"Like Hell," said my Father "Prince Michael hiin Andrei, paint! Paint three for ive the Prince the Ikon for which he asks, and take the others to the distant castle of his cousin, Prince Feodor, as he has asked"

"That castle’s destroyed, Father," I said contemptuously "Feodor and all hisout there in the wild lands, nothing but stones Father, you know this as well as I do We’ve ridden plenty far enough to see for ourselves"

"We’ll go if the Prince wants us to go," said my Father, "and we’ll leave the ikon in the branches of the nearest tree to where his brother died"

"Vanity and madness," said the Elder Other priests ca

"Speak clearly to me and stop the poetry!" cried my Father "Let my boy paint Andrei, in"

"Father, you humiliate me I despise you I’m ashamed that I’m your son I’m not your son I won’t be your son Shut your filthy "

"Ah, that’s ue, and the bees that left it there left their sting too"

Again, he struck me This time I became dizzy, but I refused to lift my hands to my head My ear throbbed

"Proud of yourself, Ivan the Idiot!" I said "How can I paint when I can’t see or even sit in the chair?"

The priests shouted They argued ast one another

I tried to focus on the small row of earthen jars ready for the yoke and the water Finally I began to mix the yoke and the water Best to work and shut theh with satisfaction

"Now, show them, show them what they mean to wall up alive in a lot of mud"

"For the love of God," said the Elder

"For the love of stupid idiots," said reat painter You have to have a saint"

"You do not knohat your son is It was God who guided you to bring him here"

"It was money," said my Father Gasps rose from the priests

"Don’t lie to theood and well it was pride"

"Yes, pride," said my Father, "that my son could paint the Face of Christ or His Blessed Mother like a Master! And you, to whonorant to see it"

I began to grind the pigments I needed, the soft brownish-red powder, and then to mix it over and over with the yoke and water until every tiny fragment was broken up and the paint was smooth and perfectly thin and clear On to the yellow, and then to the red

They fought over me My Father lifted his fist to the Elder, but I didn’t bother to look up He wouldn’t dare He kicked hthe paint

One of the priests had come round to my left, and he slipped a clean ashed panel of wood in front of e

At last I was ready I bowedht shoulder first, not ive e which only your love can give!" At once I had the brush with no consciousness of having picked it up, and the brush began to race, tracing out the oval of the Virgin’s face, and then the sloping lines of her shoulders and then the outline of her folded hands

Nohen their gasps caloating satisfaction

"Ah, rateful little genius of God"

"Thank you, Father," I whispered bitingly, right from the middle of my trancelike concentration, as I myself watched the work of the brush in awe There her hair, cleaving close to the scalp and parted in the middle I needed no instrument to make the outline of her halo perfectly round

The priests held the clean brushes forin his hands I snatched up a brush for the red color which I then mixed hite paste, until it was the appropriate color of flesh

"Isn’t that a miracle!"

"That’s just the point," said the Elder between clenched teeth "It’s a miracle, Brother Ivan, and he will do what God wills"

"He won’t wall hi as I’ with"Father," I said sneering at him "My place is here"

"He’s the best shot in the fa with me into the wild lands," said my Father to the others, who had flown into a flurry of protests and negations all around

"Why do you give Our Blessed Mother that tear in her eye, Brother Andrei?"

"It’s God who gives her the tear," said one of the others

"It is the Mother of All Sorrows Ah, see the beautiful folds of her cloak"

"Ah, look, the Christ child!" said my Father, and even his face was reverent "Ah, poor little baby God, soon to be crucified and die!" His voice was for once subdued and alift Oh, but look, look at the child’s eyes and his little hand, at the flesh of his thumb, his little hand"

"Even you are touched with the light of Christ," said the Elder "Even such a stupid violent man as you, Brother Ivan"

The priests pressed in close around me in a circle My Father held out a pal jewels "For the halos, Andrei Work fast, Prince Michael has ordained that we go"

"Madness, I tell you!" All voices were set to babbling at once My Father turned and raised his fist

I looked up, reached for a fresh, clean panel of wood My forehead ith sweat I worked on and on

I had done three ikons

I felt such happiness, such pure happiness It eet to be so war, that my Father had made it possible,with his big shoulders and his glistening face, this man I was supposed to hate

The Sorrowful Mother with her Child, and the napkin for her tears, and the Christ Himself Weary, bleary-eyed, I sat back The place was intolerably cold Oh, if there were only a little fire And ht hand was all right because of the pace at which I had done ers of my left hand, but this would not do, not here at this athered to coo over the ikons

"Masterly The Work of God"

An awful sense of time came over me, that I had traveled far from this moment, far from this the Monastery of the Caves to which I had vowed my life, far fro, stupid Father, as in spite of his ignorance so very proud

Tears flowed from his eyes "My son," he said He clutched my shoulder proudly He was beautiful in his oay, such a fine stronghis horses and his dogs and his followers, of which I, his son, had been one

"Let me alone, you thick-skulled oaf," I said I shed He was too happy, too proud, to be provoked

"Look what my son has done" His voice had a telltale thickness to it He was going to cry And he wasn’t even drunk

"Not by human hands," said the priest

"No, naturally not!" boomed my Father’s scornful voice "Just by my son Andrei’s hands, that’s all"

A silken voice said in my ear, "Would you place the jewels into the halos yourself, Brother Andrei, or shall I perform this task?"

Behold, it was done, the paste applied, the stones set, five in the Ikon of Christ The brush was in ain to stroke the brown hair of the Lord God, which was parted in the ht back behind His ears, with only part of it to show on either side of His neck The stylus appeared in my hand to thicken and darken the black letters on the open book which Christ held in His left hand The Lord God stared, serious and severe, froht beneath the horns of His brown mustache

"Come now, the Prince is here, the Prince has come"

Outside the entrance of the Monastery, the snow fell in cruel gusts The priests helpedThey buckled ain, to breathe the fresh cold air My Father hadagainst the Teutonic Knights in lands far to the east, the jewels long ago chipped out of its handle, but a fine, fine battle sword

Through the snowy ure appeared, on horseback It was Prince Michael hireat Lord who ruled Kiev for our Roman Catholic conquerors, whose faith ould not accept but who let us keep to our own He was decked out in foreign velvet and gold, a fancy figure fit for royal Lithuanian courts, of which we heard fantastical tales How did he endure Kiev, the ruined city?

The horse reared up on its hind legs My Father ran to catch the reins, and threaten the animal as he threatened me

The Ikon for Prince Feodor rapped thickly in wool for me to carry

I placed my hand on the hilt of my sword

"Ah, you will not take him on this Godless mission," cried the Elder "Prince Michael, Your Excellency, our hty ruler, tell this Godless man that he can not take our Andrei"

I saw the face of the Prince through the snow, square and strong, with gray eyebrows and beard and huge hard blue eyes "Let hio, Father," he cried out to the priest "The boy has hunted with Ivan since he was four years old Never has anyone provided such bounty for o"

The horse danced backwards My Father pulled down on the reins Prince Michael blew the snow from off his lips

Our horses were led to the fore, racefully curved neck and the shorter gelding which had been mine before I had come to the Monastery of the Caves