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eater truths rise out of the continued strife between teacher and pupil。 But not me！ I believe you need to let my lessons settle in quiet at least for the space of five minutes in your mind before you begin your counterattack。〃
〃You try to be angry with me but you can't。〃
〃Oh； what a muddle！〃 he said as if he were cursing。 He walked fast ahead of me。
The small Florentine street was dreary； like a passageway in a great house rather than a city street。 I longed for the breezes of Venice； or rather； my body did； out of habit。 I was quite fascinated to be here。
〃Don't be so provoked；〃 I said。 〃Why did they turn on Savonarola？〃
〃Give men enough time and they'll turn on anyone。 He claimed to have been a prophet； divinely inspired by God； and that these were the Last Days； and this is the oldest most tiresome Christian plaint in the world； believe you me。 The Last Days！ Christianity is a religion based on the notion that we are living in the Last Days！ It's a religion fueled by the ability of men to forget all the blunders of the past； and get dressed once more for the Last Days。〃
I smiled； but bitterly。 I wanted to articulate a strong presentiment； that we were always in the Last Days； and it was inscribed in our hearts； because we were mortals； when quite suddenly and totally I realized that I was no longer mortal； except insofar as the world itself was mortal。
And it seemed I understood more viscerally than ever the atmosphere of purposeful gloom which had overhung my childhood in far…off Kiev。 I saw again the muddy catabs； and the half…buried monks who had cheered me on to bee one of them。
I shook it off； and now how bright Florence seemed as we came into the broad torch…lighted Piazza del Duomo … before the great Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore。
〃Ah； my pupil does listen now and then；〃 Marius was saying to me in an ironic voice。 〃Yes； I am more than glad that Savonarola is no more。 But to rejoice at the end of something is not to approve the endless parade of cruelty that is human history。 I wish it were otherwise。 Public sacrifice bees grotesque in every respect。 It dulls the senses of the populace。 In this city； above all others； it's a spectacle。 The Florentines enjoy it； as we do our Regattas and Processions。 So Savonarola is dead。 Well； if any mortal man asked for it； it was Savonarola； predicting as he did the end of the world； damning princes from his pulpit； leading great painters to immolate their works。 The hell with him。〃
〃Master； look； the Baptistery； let's go； let's look at the doors。 The piazza's almost empty。 e on。 It's our chance to look at the bronzes。〃 I tugged on his sleeve。
He followed me； and he stopped his muttering； but he was not himself。
What I wanted so to see is work that you can see in Florence now； and in fact； almost every treasure of this city and of Venice which I've described here you can see now。 You have only to go there。 The panels in the door which were done by Lorenzo Ghiberti were my delight； but there was also older work done by Andrea Pisano； portraying the life of St。 John the Baptist； and this； I didn't intend to overlook。
So keen was the vampiric vision that as I studied these various detailed bronze pictures； I could hardly keep from sighing with pleasure。
This moment is so clear。 I think that I believed； then； that nothing ever could hurt me or make me sad again； that I had discovered the balm of salvation in the vampiric blood； and the strange thing is； that as I dictate this story now； I think the same thing once more。
Though unhappy now； and possibly forever； I believe again in the paramount importance of the flesh。 My mind wanders to the words of D。 H。 Lawrence； the twentieth…century writer； who in his writings on Italy； recalled Blake's image of the 〃Tyger； Tyger； burning bright / In the forests of the night。〃 Lawrence's words are：
This is the supremacy of the flesh； which devours all； and bees transfigured into a magnificent brindled flame； a burning bush indeed。
This is one way of transfiguration into the eternal flame； the transfiguration through ecstasy in the flesh。
But I have done a risky thing here for a storyteller。 I have left my plot； as I'm sure The Vampire Lestat （who is more skilled perhaps than I am； and so in love with the image of William Blake's tiger in the night； and who has； whether he cares to admit it or not； used the tiger in his work in the very same way） would point out to me； and I must speedily return to this moment in the Piazza del Duomo； where I left myself of long ago standing； side by side with Marius； looking at the burnished genius of Ghiberti； as he sings in bronze of Sybils and saints。
We took our time with these things。 Marius said softly that next to Venice； Florence was the city of his choice； for here so much had magnificently flowered。
〃But I can't be without the sea； not even here；〃 he confided。 〃And as you see all around you； this city hugs her treasures close with shadowy vigilance； whereas in Venice； the very facades of our palaces are offered up in gleaming stone beneath the moon to Almighty God。〃
〃Master； do we serve Him？〃 I pressed。 〃I know you condemn the monks who brought me up； you condemn the ravings of Savonarola； but do you mean to guide me by another route back to the Very Same God？〃
〃That's just it； Amadeo； I do；〃 said Marius； 〃and I don't mean as the pagan I am to admit it so easily； lest its plexity be misunderstood。 But I do。 I find God in the blood。 I find God in the flesh。 I find it no accident that the mysterious Christ should reside forever for His followers in the Flesh and Blood within the Bread of the Transubstantiation。〃
I was so moved by these words！ It seemed the very sun I had forever forsworn had e again to brighten the night。
We slipped into the side door of the darkened Cathedral called the Duomo。 I stood gazing over the long vista of its stone floor； towards the altar。
Was it possible that I could have the Christ in a new way？ Perhaps I had not after all renounced Him forever。 I tried to speak these troubled thoughts to my Master。 Christ。。。 in a new way I couldn't explain it； and said finally：
〃I stumble with my words。〃
〃Amadeo； we all stumble； and so do all those who enter history。 The concept of a Great Being stumbles down the centuries； His words and those principles attributed to Him do tumble after Him； and so the Christ is snatched up in His wandering by the preaching puritan on one side； the muddy starving hermit on the other； the gilded Lorenzo de' Medici here who would celebrate his Lord in gold and paint and mosaic stone。〃
〃But is Christ the Living Lord？〃 I whispered。
No answer。
My soul hit a pitch of agony。 Marius took my hand； and said that we go now； stealthily to the Monastery of San Marco。
〃This is the sacred house that gave up Savonarola；〃 he said。 〃We'll slip into it unbeknownst to its pious inhabitants。〃
We again traveled as if by magic。 I felt only the Master's strong arms； and did not even see the frame of the doors as we exited and made our way to this other place。