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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。
I knew he meant to show me the work of the artist called Fra Angelico； long dead； who had labored all his life in this very Monastery； a painter monk； as I perhaps had been destined to be； far away in the lightless Monastery of the Caves。
Within seconds； we set down soundlessly on the moist grass of the square cloister of San Marco； the serene garden enclosed by Michelozzo's loggias； secure within its walls。
At once I heard many prayers reach my inner vampiric hearing； desperate agitated prayers of the brothers who had been loyal or sympathetic to Savonarola。 I put my hands to my head as if this foolish human gesture could signal to the Divine that I had had more than I could bear。
My Master broke the current of thought reception with his soothing voice。
〃e；〃 he said； grasping my hand。 〃We'll slip into the cells one by one。 There is enough light for you to see the works of this monk。〃
〃You mean that Fra Angelico painted the very cells where monks go to sleep？〃 I had thought his works would be in the chapel； and in the other public or munal rooms。
〃That's why I want you to see this；〃 said my Master。 He led me up a stairs and into a wide stone corridor。 He made the first door spring open； and gently we moved inside； fleet and silent； not disturbing the monk who lay curled on his hard bed； his head sweating against the pillow。
〃Don't look at his face；〃 said my Master gently。 〃If you do you'll see the troubled dreams he suffers。 I want you to look at the wall。 What do you see； now； look！〃
I understood at once。 This art of Fra Giovanni； called Angelico in honor of his sublime talent； was a strange mixture of the sensuous art of our time with the pious and forswearing art of the past。
I gazed on the bright； elegant rendering of the arrest of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane。 The slender flattened figures resembled very much the elongated and elastic images of the Russian ikon； and yet the faces were softened and plastic with genuine and touching emotion。 It seemed a kindness infused all beings here； not merely Our Lord Himself； condemned to be betrayed by one of His own； but the Apostles； who looked on； and even the unfortunate soldier； in his tunic of mail； who reached out to take the Lord away； and the soldiers watched。
I was transfixed by this unmistakable kindness； this seeming innocence that infected everyone； this sublime passion on the part of the artist for all players in this tragic drama which had prefaced the salvation of the world。
Into another cell I was taken immediately。 Once again the door gave way at Marius's mand； and the sleeping occupant of the cell never knew that we were there。
This painting showed again the Garden of Agony； and Christ； before the arrest； alone among His sleeping Apostles； left to beg His Heavenly Father for strength。 Once again I saw the parison to the old styles in which I； as a Russian boy； had felt so sure。 The folds in the cloth； the use of arches； the halo for each head； the discipline of the whole…all was connected to the past； and yet there shone again the new Italian warmth； the undeniable Italian love of the humanity of all included； even Our Lord Himself。
We went from cell to cell。 Backwards and forwards through the Life of Christ we traveled； visiting the scene of the First Holy munion； in which； so touchingly； Christ gave out the bread containing His Body and Blood as if it were the Host at Mass； and then the Sermon on the Mount； in which the smooth pleated rocks around Our Lord and His listeners seemed made of cloth as surely as his graceful gown。
When we came to the Crucifixion； in which Our Lord gave over to St。 John His Blessed Mother； I was heart…struck by the anguish in the Lord's face。 How thoughtful in her distress was the face of the Virgin； and how resigned was the saint beside her； with his soft fair Florentine face； so like that of a thousand other painted figures in this city； barely fringed with a light brown beard。
Just when I thought I understood my Master's lessons perfectly； we happened upon another painting； and I would feel yet a stronger connection with the long…ago treasures of my boyhood and the quiet incandescent splendor of the Dominican monk who had graced these walls。 Finally we left this clean； lovely place of tears and whispered prayers。
We went out into the night and back to Venice； traveling in cold and noisy darkness； and arriving at home in time to sit a while in the warm light of the sumptuous bedchamber and talk。
〃Do you see？〃 Marius pressed me。 He was at his desk with his pen in hand。 He dipped it and wrote even as he talked； turning back the large vellum page of his diary。 〃In far off Kiev； the cells were the earth itself； moist and pure； but dark and omnivorous； the mouth that eats all life finally； that would bring to ruin all art。〃
I shivered。 I sat rubbing the backs of my arms； looking at him。
〃But there in Florence； what did this subtle teacher Fra Angelico bequeath to his brothers？ Magnificent pictures to put them in mind of the Suffering of Our Lord？〃
He wrote several lines before he resumed。
〃Fra Angelico never scorned to delight your eye； to fill your vision with all the colors God has given you the power to see； for you were given by him two eyes； Amadeo； and not to be 。。。 not to be shut up in the dark earth。〃
I reflected for a long time。 To know these things theoretically had been one thing。 To have passed through the hushed and sleeping rooms of the Monastery； to have seen my Master's principles there emblazoned by a monk himself…this was something else。
〃It is a glorious time； this；〃 Marius said softly。 〃That which was good among the ancients is now rediscovered； and given a new form。 You ask me； is Christ the Lord？ I say； Amadeo； that He can be； for He never taught anything Himself but love； or so His Apostles； whether they know it or not； have led us to believe 。。。〃
I waited on him； as I knew he wasn't finished。 The room was so sweetly warm and clean and bright。 I have near my heart forever a picture of him at this moment； the tall fair…haired Marius； his red cloak thrown back to free his arm for the pen he held； his face smooth and reflecting； his blue eyes looking； beyond that time and any other in which he had lived； for the truth。 The heavy book was propped on a low portable lectern for him； to give it a fortable angle。 The little ink pot was set inside a richly embellished silver holder。 And the heavy candelabra behind him； with its eight thick melting candles； was made up of numberless engraved cherubs half…embedded in the deeply worked silver； with wings struggling； perhaps； to fly loose； and tiny round…cheeked faces turned this way and that with large contented eyes beneath loose serpentine curls。
It seemed an audience of little angels to watch and listen as Marius spoke； so many； many tiny faces peering indifferently forth from the silver； quite immune to the falling rivulets