波波小说

第27部分（第1页）

painted　as　a　symbol；　a　memento　of　their　lives　and　a　sign　of　their　riches；　power

and　influence—so　they　might　always　be　there；　standing　before　us；　announcing

their　existence；　nay；　their　individuality　and　distinction。”

His　words　were　belittling；　as　if　he　were　speaking　out　of　jealousy；　ambition

or　　greed。　　Though；　　at　　times；　　as　　he　　talked　　about　　the　　portraits　　he’d　　seen　　in

Venice；　his　face　would　abruptly　light　up　like　a　child’s；　invigorated。

Portraiture　had　bee　such　a　contagion　among　affluent　men；　princes　and

great　　families　　who　　were　　patrons　　of　　art　　that　　even　　when　　they　　missioned

frescoes　of　biblical　scenes　and　religious　legends　for　church　walls；　these　infidels

would　　insist　　that　　their　　own　　images　　appear　　somewhere　　in　　the　　work。　　For

instance；　in　a　painting　of　the　burial　of　St。　Stephan；　you’d　suddenly　see；　ah　yes；

present　among　the　tearful　graveside　mourners；　the　very　prince　who　was　giving

you　the　tour—in　a　state　of　pure　enthusiasm；　exhilaration　and　conceit—of　the

paintings　　hanging　　on　　his　　palazzo　　walls。　　Next；　　in　　the　　corner　　of　　a　　fresco

depicting　St。　Peter　curing　the　sick　with　his　shadow；　you’d　realize　with　an　odd

sense　of　disillusionment　that　the　unfortunate　one　writhing　there　in　pain　was；

in　fact；　the　strong…as…an…ox　brother　of　your　polite　host。　The　following　day；　this

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time　　in　　a　　piece　　depicting　　the　　Resurrection　　of　　the　　Dead；　　you’d　　discover　　the

guest　who’d　stuffed　himself　beside　you　at　lunch。

“Some　have　gone　so　far；　just　to　be　included　in　a　painting；”　said　my　Enishte；

fearfully　　as　　though　　he　　were　　talking　　about　　the　　temptations　　of　　Satan；　　“that

they’re　willing　to　be　portrayed　as　a　servant　filling　goblets　in　the　crowd；　or　a

merciless　　man　　stoning　　an　　adulteress；　　or　　a　　murderer；　　his　　hands　　drenched　　in

blood。”

Pretending　not　to　understand；　I　said；　“Exactly　the　way　we　see　Shah　Ismail

ascending　　the　　throne　　in　　those　　illustrated　　books　　that　　recount　　ancient　　Persian

legends。　Or　when　we　e　across　a　depiction　of　Tamerlane；　who　actually　ruled

long　afterward；　in　the　story　of　Hüsrev　and　Shirin。”

Was　there　a　noise　somewhere　in　the　house？

“It’s　as　if　the　Veian　paintings　were　made　to　frighten　us；”　said　my　Enishte

later。　“And　it　isn’t　enough　that　we　be　in　awe　of　the　authority　and　money　of

these　men　who　mission　the　works；　they　also　want　us　to　know　that　simply

existing　　in　　this　　world　　is　　a　　very　　special；　　very　　mysterious　　event。　　They’re

attempting　to　terrify　us　with　their　unique　faces；　eyes；　bearing　and　with　their

clothing　whose　every　fold　is　defined　by　shadow。　They’re　attempting　to　terrify

us　by　being　creatures　of　mystery。”

He　explained　how　once　he’d　gotten　lost　in　the　exquisite　portrait　gallery　of　a

lunatic　　collector　　whose　　opulent　　estate　　was　　perched　　on　　the　　shores　　of　　Lake

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