小说园

第41部分（第5页）

who　　made　　the　　frame　　or　　the　　gilded　　illuminations；　　who　　painted　　this　　man　　or

that　horse—and　like　all　skillful　artisans；　we’ll　go　back　to　painting；　ever　hopeful

that　one　day　a　miracle　of　acknowledgment　will　find　us。”

186

We　were　silent　for　a　while；　as　if　patiently　waiting　for　something。

“When　will　that　miracle　happen？”　he　asked。　“When　will　all　those　paintings

we’ve　worked　on　until　we　could　no　longer　see　straight　truly　be　appreciated？

When　will　they　give　me；　give　us；　the　respect　we　deserve？”

“Never！”

“How　so？”

“They’ll　never　give　you　what　you　want；”　I　said。　“In　the　future；　you’ll　be　even

less　appreciated。”

“Books　last　for　centuries；”　he　said　proudly　but　without　confidence。

“Believe　me；　none　of　the　Veian　masters　have　your　poetic　sensibility；　your

conviction；　your　sensitivity；　the　purity　and　brightness　of　your　colors；　yet　their

paintings　　are　　more　　pelling　　because　　they　　more　　closely　　resemble　　life　　itself。

They　　don’t　　paint　　the　　world　　as　　seen　　from　　the　　balcony　　of　　a　　minaret；　　ignoring

what　they　call　perspective；　they　depict　what’s　seen　at　street　level；　or　from　the

inside　of　a　prince’s　room；　taking　in　his　bed；　quilt；　desk；　mirror；　his　tiger；　his

daughter　and　his　coins。　They　include　it　all；　as　you　know。　I’m　not　persuaded　by

everything　they　do。　Attempting　to　imitate　the　world　directly　through　painting

seems　dishonorable　to　me。　I　resent　it。　But　there’s　an　undeniable　allure　to　the

paintings　they　make　by　those　new　methods。　They　depict　what　the　eye　sees　just

as　the　eye　sees　it。　Indeed；　they　paint　what　they　see；　whereas　we　paint　what　we

look　at。　Beholding　their　work；　one　es　to　realize　that　the　only　way　to　have

one’s　　face　　immortalized　　is　　through　　the　　Frankish　　style。　　And　　it’s　　not　　only　　the

inhabitants　　of　　Venice　　who　　are　　captured　　by　　this　　notion；　　but　　all　　the　　tailors；

butchers；　soldiers；　priests　and　grocers　in　all　the　Frankish　lands…They　all　have

their　　por