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My eyes filled with tears。
A white mist swirled around the Master as the door closed behind him。 The night was going。 But the candles still burned。
We came into a large room； and I saw that it was full of paints and pots of color and brushes standing in earthen jars ready to be used。 Great white squares of cloth…canvas…waited for the paint。
These boys didn't make their colors with the yoke of an egg in the time…honored manner。 They mixed the bright fine ground pigments directly with the amber…colored oils。 Great glossy gobs of color awaited me in little pots。 I took the brush when they gave it to me。 I looked at the stretched white cloth on which I was to paint。
〃Not from human hands；〃 I said。 But what did these words mean？ I lifted the brush and I began to paint him； this blond…haired man who had rescued me from darkness and squalor。 I threw out the hand with the brush； dipping the bristles into the jars of cream and pink and white and slapping these colors onto the curiously resilient canvas。 But I couldn't make a picture。 No picture came！
〃Not by human hands！〃 I whispered。 I dropped the brush。 I put my hands over my face。
I searched for the words in Greek。 When I said them； several of the boys nodded； but they didn't grasp the meaning。 How could I explain to them the catastrophe？ I looked at my fingers。 What had bee of…。 There all recollection burnt up and I was left suddenly with Amadeo。
〃I can't do it。〃 I stared at the canvas； at the mess of colors。 〃Maybe if it was wood； not cloth； I could do it。〃
What had it been that I could do？ They didn't understand。
He was not the Living Lord； my Master； the blond one； the blond one with the icy blue eyes。
But he was my Lord。 And I could not do this thing that was meant to be done。
To fort me； to distract me； the boys took up their brushes and quickly astonished me with pictures that ran like a stream out of their quick applications of the brush。
A boy's face； cheeks； lips； eyes； yes； and reddish…golden hair in profusion。 Good Lord； it was I。。。 it was not a canvas but a mirror。 It was this Amadeo。 Riccardo took over to refine the expression； to deepen the eyes and work a sorcery on the tongue so I seemed about to speak。 What was this rampant magic that made a boy appear out of nothing； most natural； at a casual angle； with knitted brows and streaks of unkempt hair over his ear？
It seemed both blasphemous and beautiful； this fluid； abandoned fleshly figure。
Riccardo spelled the letters out in Greek as he wrote them。 Then he threw the brush down。 He cried：
〃A very different picture is what our Master has in mind。〃 He snatched up the drawings。
They pulled me through the house； the 〃palazzo〃 as they called it； teaching me the word with relish。
The entire place was filled with such paintings…on its walls； its ceilings； on panels and canvases stacked against each other…towering pictures full of ruined buildings； broken columns； rampant greenery； distant mountains and an endless stream of busy people with flushed faces； their luxuriant hair and gorgeous clothing always rumpled and curling in a wind。
It was like the big platters of fruit and meats that they brought out and set before me。 A mad disorder； an abundance for the sake of itself； a great drench of colors and shapes。 It was like the wine； too sweet and light。
IT WAS LIKE the city below when they threw open the windows； and I saw the small black boats…gondolas； even then…in brilliant sunlight coursing through the greenish waters； when I saw the men in their sumptuous scarlet or gold cloaks hurrying along the quays。
Into our gondolas we piled； a troop of us； and suddenly we traveled in graceful darting silence among the facades； each huge house as magnificent as a Cathedral； with its narrow pointed arches； its lotus windows； its covering of gleaming white stone。
Even the older； sorrier dwellings； not too ornate but nevertheless monstrous in size； were plastered in colors； a rose so deep it seemed to e from crushed petals； a green so thick it seemed to have been mixed from the opaque water itself。
Out into the Piazza San Marco we came； amid the long fantastically regular arcades on both sides。
It seemed the very gathering place of Heaven as I stared at the hundreds milling before the distant golden domes of the church。
Golden domes。 Golden domes。
Some old tale had been told to me of golden domes； and I had seen them in a darkling picture； had I not？ Sacred domes； lost domes； domes in flames； a church violated； as I had been violated。 Ah； ruin； ruin was gone； laid waste by the sudden eruption all around me of what was vital and whole！ How had all this been born out of wintry ashes？ How had I died among snows and smoking fires and e to rise here beneath this caressing sun？
Its warm sweet light bathed beggars and tradesmen； it shone on princes passing with pages to carry their ornate velvet trains behind them； on the booksellers who spread their books beneath scarlet canopies； lute players who vied for small coins。
The wares of the wide diabolical world were displayed in the shops and market stalls…glassware such as I have never beheld； including goblets of all possible colors； not to mention little figurines of glass including animals and human beings and other filmy shining trinkets。 There were marvelously bright and beautifully turned beads for rosaries； magnificent laces in grand and graceful patterns； including even snowy white pictures of actual church towers and little houses with windows and doors； great feathery plumes from birds I couldn't name； other exotic species flapping and screeching in gilt cages； and the finest and most magnificently worked multicolored carpets only too reminiscent of the powerful Turks and their capital from which I'd e。 Nevertheless； who resists such carpets？ Forbidden by law to render human beings； Moslems rendered flowers； arabesques； labyrinthian curlicues and other such designs with bold dyes and awe…inspiring exactitude。 There were oils for lamps； tapers； candles； incense； and great displays of glistering jewels of indescribable beauty and the most delicate work of the goldsmiths and silversmiths； in plate and ornamental items both newly made and old。 There were shops that sold only spices。 There were shops that sold medicines and cures。 There were bronze statues； lion heads； lanterns and weapons。 There were cloth merchants with the silks of the East； the finest woven wools dyed in miraculous tints； cotton and linen and fine specimens of embroidery； and ribbons galore。
Men and women here appeared immensely wealthy； feasting casually on fresh meat tarts in the cookshops； drinking clear red wine and eating sweet cakes full of cream。
There were booksellers offering the new printed books； of which the other apprentices told me eagerly； explaining the marvelous invention of the printing press； which had only lately made it possible for men far and wide to acquire not only books of letters and words but books of drawn pictures as well。
Venice already had dozens of small print shops and publishe