It was completely silent in the high-ceilinged marble halls when I came upon him. He 
sat on the long wooden bench, his copy of Faust, now very dog-eared and full of 
bookmarks, held loosely and indifferently in his right hand.
  
  He was staring steadily at the painting, which was that of several proper Dutchmen, 
gathered at a table, dealing with the affairs of commerce, no doubt, yet staring serenely 
at the viewer from beneath the broad brims of their big black hats. This is scarcely the 
total effect of this picture. The faces are exquisitely beautiful, full of wisdom and 
gentleness and a near angelic patience. Indeed, these men more resemble angels than 
ordinary men.
  
  They seemed possessed of a great secret, and if all men were to learn that secret, 
there would be no more wars or vice or malice on earth. How did such persons ever become 
members of the Drapers' Guild of Amsterdam in the 1600s? But then I move ahead of my tale 
. . . David gave a start when I appeared, moving slowly and silently out of the shadows 
towards him. I took a place beside him on the bench.
  
  I was dressed like a tramp, for I had acquired no real lodgings in Amsterdam, and my 
hair was tangled from the wind.
  
  I sat very still for a long moment, opening my mind with an act of will that felt 
rather like a human sigh, letting him know how concerned I was for his well-being, and 
how I'd tried for his sake to leave him in peace.
  
  His heart was beating rapidly. His face, when I turned to him, was filled with 
immediate and generous warmth.
  
  He reached over with his right hand and grasped my right arm. "I'm glad to see you as 
always, so very glad."
  
  "Ah, but I've done you harm. I know I have." I didn't want to say how I'd followed him, 
how I'd overheard the conversation between him and his comrade, or dwell upon what I saw 
with my own eyes.
  
  I vowed I would not torment him with my old question. And yet I saw death when I looked 
at him, even more perhaps for his brightness and cheerfulness, and the vigor in his eyes.
  
  He gave me a long lingering thoughtful look, and then he withdrew his hand, and his 
eyes moved back to the painting.
  
  "Are there any vampires in this world who have such faces?" he asked. He gestured to 
the men staring down at us from the canvas. "I am speaking of the knowledge and 
understanding which lies behind these faces. I'm speaking of something more indicative of 
immortality than a preternatural body anatomically dependent upon the drinking of human 
blood."
  
  "Vampires with such faces?" I responded. "David, that is unfair. There are no men with 
such faces. There never were. Look at any of Rembrandt's paintings. Absurd to believe 
that such people ever existed, let alone that Amsterdam was full of them in Rembrandt's 
time, that every man or woman who ever darkened his door was an angel. No, it's Rembrandt 
you see in these faces, and Rembrandt is immortal, of course."
  
  He smiled. "It's not true what you're saying. And what a desperate loneliness emanates 
from you. Don't you see I can't accept your gift, and if I did, what would you think of 
me? Would you still crave my company? Would I crave yours?"
  
  I scarce heard these last words. I was staring at the painting, staring at these men 
who were indeed like angels. And a quiet anger had come over me, and I didn't want to 
linger there anymore. I had forsworn the assault, yet he had defended himself against me. 
No, I should not have come.
  
  Spy on him, yes, but not linger. And once again, I moved swiftly to go.
  
  He was furious with me for doing it. I heard his voice ring out in the great empty 
space.
  
  "Unfair of you to go like that! Positively rude of you to do it! Have you no honor? 
What about manners if there is no honor left?" And then he broke off, for I was nowhere 
near him, it was as if I'd vanished, and he was a man alone in the huge and cold museum 
speaking aloud to himself.
  
  I was ashamed but too angry and bruised to go back to him, though why, I didn't know. 
What had I done to this being! How Marius would scold me for this.
  
  I wandered about Amsterdam for hours, purloining some thick parchment writing paper of 
the kind I most like, and a fine-pointed pen of the automatic kind that spews black ink 
forever, and then I sought a noisy sinister little tavern in the old red-light district 
with its painted women and drugged vagabond youths, where I could work on a letter to 
David, unnoticed and undisturbed as long as I kept a mug of beer at my side.
  
  I didn't know what I meant to write, from one sentence to the next, only that I had to 
tell him hi some way that I was sorry for my behavior, and that something had snapped in 
my soul when I beheld the men in the Rembrandt portrait, and so I wrote, in a hasty and 
driven fashion, this narrative of sorts.
  
  You are right. It was despicable the way I left you. Worse, it was cowardly. I promise 
you that when we meet again, I shall let you say all you have to say.
  
  I myself have this theory about Rembrandt. I have spent many hours studying his 
paintings everywhere-in Amsterdam, Chicago, New York, or wherever I find them-and I do 
believe as I told you that so many great souls could not have existed as Rembrandt's 
paintings would have us believe.
  
  This is my theory, and please bear in mind when you read it that it accommodates all 
the elements involved. And this accommodation used to be the measure of the elegance of 
theories . . . before the word "science" came to mean what it means today.
  
  I believe that Rembrandt sold his soul to the Devil when he was a young man. It was a 
simple bargain. The Devil promised to make Rembrandt the most famous painter of his time.